by John Gwynne
Krelis unfurled a rope over the side and tied it off. It creaked as someone began to climb.
Other figures spilt from the alley, Fidele searching desperately for Maquin. One man staggered and fell to his knees, was grabbed and pulled up and on. Two men, three. A dark shadow blotted out the torch for a moment and Fidele blinked.
What was that? Then it was gone.
Hands appeared over the wall, Krelis grabbing an arm and pulling one of Alben’s warriors up. He was soaked with sweat, breathing hard, clothing torn, blood welling from many cuts, but he did not pause, instead leaned back over the wall, calling to the figure behind him.
A head appeared, a shock of jet hair upon a pale face, all sharp angles, flat planes and small black eyes. Wisps of a straggly beard grew from his chin.
It is a giant.
Men swore around her, swords grating, spearpoints lunging.
‘No!’ Alben’s warrior yelled, stepping before the emerging giant with his arms wide, protective.
‘He is our prisoner. Alben ordered that he is not to be harmed.’ He helped the giant over the wall. I recognize him. Then she remembered where from. The riverbank; Lykos’ prisoner.
‘Where is his mother?’ Fidele said into the shocked silence.
‘Down there,’ the warrior said.
Fidele stared back into the street, then she saw Maquin. He was standing with his back to her, though she recognized his form, the way he moved. He had stopped with Alben on the far side of the street, both of them trading blows with enemies in the shadows. Sparks grated, then Maquin and Alben were retreating, moving deeper into the street, Vin Thalun spilling out of the alley about them. Three, four, five of the enemy, more voices yelling beyond the torchlight. Fidele’s heart lurched in her chest.
Alben’s men were starting to reach the top of the wall, one flopping over, another close behind.
‘Spears,’ Peritus called.
Maquin and Alben were standing before the torch now, legs bent, a weapon in each hand. Vin Thalun were circling them, at least half a dozen, hanging back. Bodies littered the floor. Then Maquin did the unthinkable. He charged them. Fidele heard herself shout his name, saw him wade into the warriors, who were instinctively flinching away from him. He spun amongst them, leaving in his wake trailing arcs of black blood. For a moment Alben stood frozen, then he followed Maquin and hurled himself at the enemy.
For a few heartbeats she thought they were going to do it. Men were falling or staggering away, Maquin and Alben in constant movement, death-dealing wraiths, but then more Vin Thalun appeared from the alleys. The sound of marching feet sounded in the street, yet more running up from their fires by the main gates. Maquin took a blow on the shoulder, staggering him. Alben was hit in the back and he dropped to one knee, another blow sending him sprawling to the ground. Maquin stood over his fallen comrade, sword and knife black with blood, for a few moments holding back the enemy.
Fidele watched, praying to Elyon, her fist tight around the hilt of her knife. Peritus sighted with his spear and threw, his aim true. His spear struck a Vin Thalun through the chest, sending him crashing back. It did little good, though, more Vin Thalun crowding in upon Maquin and Alben.
Then another figure appeared from the darkness, broad and hulking.
The giantess.
She swung something in her hands, long and sinuous. A chain. It smashed into the figures crowding around Maquin and Alben, sent them flying like straw targets on the weapons court. Then the giantess was throwing Alben over her shoulder and running for the wall, Maquin retreating behind her.
Vin Thalun swarmed after them, but as soon as they were in range a hail of spears from the guards on the walls lacerated them. Those that didn’t die scurried back to the shadows. Maquin was shouting from below and then Krelis and a dozen men were tugging on the rope. The giantling loaned his strength and weight, pulling with all his might. The rope creaked, strained and moved.
Alben appeared first, still slumped across the giantess’ shoulder. Hands pulled him onto the walkway, then the giantess was over, Maquin behind her. Fidele pushed her way through the milling warriors to Maquin. He was close to Alben, shouting for help. At her voice his eyes snapped onto her. His hand reached out and squeezed her tight.
‘Told you . . . I’d come back,’ he said, still breathing hard.
More Vin Thalun were in the street, but they kept a healthy distance. Then a face appeared amongst them that she would never forget.
Lykos.
He stood there as still as stone, looking at the wall. His eyes fixed on the giantess, a combination of rage and fear twisting his features. Then he saw her.
Her blood felt as if it turned to ice as terror struck her, her freedom, the escape, all she had endured and conquered during her flight to Ripa suddenly forgotten. A hundred memories flooded back, jumbling her mind, all of Lykos, his voice, his eyes, his breath, his touch. Then a hot rage swept through her. They stood there staring at one another, then he stepped back into the shadows and was gone.
Fidele marched through the corridors of Ripa’s tower, Maquin at her side.
He had told her of Balara, of finding the Vin Thalun and giants. Of the decision to take them. And of their flight through Sarva.
‘I don’t know how the Vin Thalun found us so quickly. Perhaps someone escaped Balara, or they visited there soon after we’d left. Whatever it was, we knew we were being tracked by sunset of the next day. Alben led us deeper into the forest. We tried to lose them,’ Maquin had said.
‘How did you manage to do that with two captive giants?’
‘They cooperated,’ Maquin said, something in the tone of his voice shifting.
‘I saw that. The giantess helped you save Alben – fought beside you and carried Alben to safety.’
‘Aye.’
‘That’s unusual.’ She looked at him.
‘Aye, it is.’ He shrugged. ‘Alben spoke to them in giantish. He would not tell me what he said. Whatever it was, he must have been very convincing.’
‘Indeed. Giantish? That doesn’t sound like the Alben I know.’
‘There’s more to him than herbs and poultices.’
‘Yes, clearly. I think I’m going to pay these giant prisoners a visit.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘You should be resting,’ Fidele had said.
‘If you think I’m letting you walk alone into a room with two giants in it then you’re mistaken.’
‘I have guards,’ she had said, adding, ‘when I request them.’
He had just ignored her and finished slipping his knives into their various homes about his body.
Two guards stood outside Alben’s chamber in the belly of the tower, only a floor or two above Ektor’s rooms. They did not try to deny Fidele entry to the giants’ chamber, one of them dragging a huge deadbolt open and unlatching the door. They nodded respectfully to Maquin as he walked behind Fidele.
He is gaining a reputation amongst the warriors of Ripa.
The chamber was large, a row of shuttered windows high along one wall, chiselled through the rock to allow sunlight and fresh air in. Candles flickered in the salty breeze, the cry of gulls was loud and mournful.
Alben was there, sitting in a chair before a wide table. The two giants were with him, the giantess sitting on the far side, her son lying upon a thick-mattressed cot. They all looked at Fidele and Maquin as they entered the room.
‘I am Fidele,’ she said to the giants, ignoring Alben, ‘once Queen to Tenebral’s King, and now regent in my son Nathair’s stead.’
The giantess regarded her impassively with small dark eyes. Her face was pale with a sharp nose and high angular cheekbones. She was muscular beyond belief, wearing a mixture of leather and animal skins. Her wrist was red and scabbed, and Fidele remembered the iron chain that the giantess had wielded in the dark, bound at her wrist with an iron collar. Gone now. Tattooed thorns spiralled about her right wrist, curling around her forearm and disappearing i
nto a sleeve.
‘Can you speak the common tongue?’ Fidele asked.
‘I speak a little of your tongue. Enough.’ Her voice was like gravel sliding across granite.
‘You are mother and son?’ Fidele asked, looking at the giantling, who was still lying upon his cot, but he had propped himself up on one elbow and was watching with interest.
‘Yes.’
‘What are your names?’
The giantess’ eyes flickered to her son, then back to Fidele.
‘I am Raina. My son is Tain.’
‘And what clan are you?’
‘We are of the Kurgan.’ As she said it, something crossed her face. Longing? It was hard to read. Her son tugged at his wispy moustache. It was a surprisingly old gesture on his young features, like an infant copying his grandfather.
‘Why did Lykos hold you prisoner?’
At the mention of the Vin Thalun’s name Raina snarled, fists bunching, and for a moment she was savagely feral, more animal than human. She did not answer, just glared at Fidele.
Fidele sighed, recognizing some of that pain and rage. ‘How long have you been his prisoner?’
The fire dimmed in Raina’s eyes. She shook her head. ‘I do not know. A long time. I tried to count the moons, but they faded, blurred into one another.’
‘Eight years,’ another voice said. Tain, from his cot. His voice was flat, emotionless, a rasp to its edges.
‘Alben tells me that you are our prisoners. Yet I see no chains of iron, no collars or bonds. And last night, you seemed willingly to climb our wall and enter this fortress. You fought beside our warriors.’
‘For which I thank you,’ Maquin said, nodding to Raina. He was leaning against a wall where he could see both Raina and Tain.
‘You are welcome, little man,’ Raina said with a twitch of her lips. ‘Ones that fight so fearlessly should not be left to die in the street.’
‘I thank you for that, too,’ Fidele said. ‘But my question still stands. How is it that you are not bound? That you did not take advantage of the flight to Ripa and flee your new captors? How is it that you fought with us?’
‘Your healer is persuasive,’ Raina said.
Fidele turned her stern eyes upon Alben. ‘You speak giantish, then. How is that?’
‘I am a healer, which required that I also became scholar. There is much to learn, and more is written in the scrolls I have read than how to make a poultice or boil a herb.’ He shrugged.
‘So what did you say to them, that so convinced them to become such willing prisoners?’
Alben looked from Raina to Tain.
‘I told her that if she did not cooperate I would kill her son.’
Fidele blinked at that, then looked at him long and hard. He returned her gaze flatly, displaying no emotion.
I don’t believe you. She did not think the Alben she knew would resort to threats, but more than that, there appeared to be something between Alben and the giantess, not quite a familiarity, but they both seemed . . . comfortable with each other.
The door suddenly slammed open, Krelis bursting in, Ektor in his shadow. Raina and Tain leaped to their feet, Raina stepping in front of Tain.
Krelis looked from face to face, paused with his mouth open.
‘We’ve been looking for you,’ Ektor said to Fidele. ‘Marcellin is come.’
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
ULFILAS
The feast-hall of Dun-Kellen rang out with the clack of wooden swords. Ulfilas sat at a long table beside King Jael, who was leaning forward in his chair, head propped upon a fist. They were watching a pair of men swinging hard blows at one another. They were good: fast, strong, both veterans and evenly matched.
‘Are they better than you?’ Jael asked him.
Ulfilas shrugged. ‘Maybe. They are skilled, no doubt. Sword-crossing in practice is different from a real fight, though.’ In the sword-crossing ring not only do you have to win, but you have to make it look good. You can’t bite a nose off, or twist someone’s stones. In a real fight, though, all that counts is walking away alive.
It had been Maquin who had told him that, shieldman to Kastell, Jael’s cousin. He’d liked both of them, Maquin a little more than Kastell. They’d both been good men to share a cup of ale with. That hadn’t stopped him from standing by and doing nothing as Jael had put a sword through Kastell’s belly, though. Or made him feel bad about it.
We all choose the life we lead. We all know it’ll likely end in blood. Don’t see so many grey-haired warriors as you do smiths or tanners or fishermen.
‘Aye, that’s true. Perhaps I should take away their wooden toys and let them fight with iron.’
‘You’d end up with dead shieldmen, my King, and in these days good shieldmen that are sworn to you are better alive than dead.’
‘Huh,’ Jael grudgingly agreed. ‘I need a first-sword. Are you not tempted to enter?’
Ulfilas shrugged again. ‘If you wish me to, my King. I am happy as your shieldman and captain of your honour guard.’
‘That would not change, if you were to win this little tournament,’ Jael said. ‘You’d just be busier.’ He flashed a grin. ‘But I need the best sword in Isiltir at my side. I have enemies, and they will try to bring me down.’
‘Most of your enemies are dead, my lord.’ Ulfilas glanced out of the open doors of the feast-hall. Late summer’s heat was lingering. He could just make out the iron spikes that decorated the courtyard, a series of heads in various degrees of decomposition adorning them.
‘I wish that were so,’ Jael said. ‘My enemies fill the shadows, biding their time.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezed his eyes closed. ‘I dream of them,’ he said quietly. He shook his head. ‘Enemies are like rats, Jael: leave them alone too long and they will breed and multiply. Enemies don’t need culling, they need exterminating, to the last bairn of their bloodlines.’
A philosophy you have committed yourself to wholeheartedly.
‘Which is why I need the best sword in Isiltir at my side, not hired by my enemies and coming for me. So, if you are the best sword in the realm, I would like to know.’
‘Then I shall enter your tournament, my King.’
Jael nodded, eyes fixed on the two men duelling in front of him. One was retreating before an onslaught of looping blows. The one retreating stumbled; his opponent, sensing victory, stepped in quickly.
Too soon, Ulfilas thought.
The warrior who had stumbled dropped to one knee, straightened his arm and drove the wooden sword beneath the raised weapon of his opponent letting the man run onto his blade.
Even the most skilled can be defeated by a well-timed ruse.
‘Hah, nicely done,’ Jael cried out, clapping.
Beyond the open doors hooves clattered on the flagstones of the courtyard. A few moments later Ulfilas and Jael were approached by a messenger from King Nathair.
The rider appeared travel stained and weary, the eagle of Tenebral upon his leather cuirass dusty and faded. He presented Jael with a scroll and stood quietly by as Jael opened it and read.
‘We will have to finish my tournament in Mikil,’ Jael said. ‘Tell your King I shall be honoured to host the meeting there. A moon from this day.’
The messenger nodded.
‘Tell me, to whom else has this request gone out?’
‘Gundul of Carnutan and Lothar of Helveth, my lord.’
‘Very good. You are welcome to eat and drink with us, stay and rest.’
‘My orders are to return to King Nathair with your response, my lord, but some food and a fresh horse would be welcomed.’
‘Of course,’ Jael said with a wave of his hand and watched as the man was led away.
‘Mikil?’ Ulfilas asked.
‘It appears that our high king wishes to hold a council of war with his allies. He has asked that we meet him at Mikil.’
‘High king,’ Ulfilas grumbled. ‘There has been no high king in the Banished Lands since Sokar
and the fleet of Exiles set foot upon these shores.’
‘I must go,’ Jael snapped.
Ulfilas frowned. What hold does Nathair have over him?
‘High king is a tradition more than a reality, true,’ Jael said, calmer. ‘But Nathair is an ally. Without him I doubt that Isiltir would be mine, or in fact that I’d still be breathing. Or you, for that matter. It was a close thing, that day on the bridge. Nearly ended with our heads out there, not Gerda’s and her cronies.’
Ulfilas remembered. They had been hard pressed, close to breaking, and then he had seen the black ships on the river.
‘Aye. But still. We need him no longer. Best he keep his nose out of Isiltir’s affairs.’
Jael laughed. ‘Hah, you are a true patriot, Ulfilas. But I will not make more enemies when there are already so many of them to choose from. No, we will go to Mikil, and see what our high king has to say.’
A hand touched Ulfilas’ shoulder and he jumped, half-standing from his chair and reaching for his sword.
It was Dag, Jael’s huntsman, and rapidly becoming Jael’s spy-master, as well. He was clearly good at creeping.
‘Don’t do that,’ Ulfilas muttered.
‘You must come,’ Dag said to them both. ‘It is urgent.’
‘What is it?’ Ulfilas asked.
‘A messenger has come.’
‘It is the season for them, it would seem,’ Jael remarked. ‘What messenger?’
‘A giant. One of the Jotun. He has news.’
Jael stood without another word and followed Dag to the rear of the hall, Ulfilas following and gathering a dozen shieldmen along the way. He knew Jael’s talk of enemies was more than just paranoia.
They wound down a wide spiral staircase into a twilight world of flickering torches and damp, dripping walls. Dag led them through the bowels of Dun Kellen. Ulfilas glanced down a side corridor, recognized it as the one that led to the cell where Gramm’s grand-children were kept under guard.
Dag led them on until they stood before the thick iron-banded door that opened into the escape tunnel, the one that Haelan had fled through, leaving Maquin and Orgull to hold it. He remembered that sight, the two of them gore-spattered, a mound of the dead clogging the corridor. Dark stains still patched the cold stone.