by John Gwynne
‘Enough!’ Calidus yelled and Sumur froze, looked back over his shoulder, blood splattering his face. He licked a drop from his top lip.
A silence had fallen upon the chamber, kings staring in horror, Gundul’s eyes fixed on Belo’s corpse. He whimpered.
‘I was going to do this later,’ Calidus said with a sigh, ‘but perhaps it is appropriate now.’ He gestured for the feast-hall gates to be opened. Ulfilas thought about questioning him, then looked at the pile of meat and bone that had been Belo and decided to move, nodding to his men to open the great doors. Daylight streamed in, along with a bitter wind. Footsteps thudded and warriors marched in, black-clad men and women like Sumur, a hundred, two hundred, more. They stood before the council table, eyes black and empty.
‘They are a gift for my fellow kings,’ Nathair said. ‘One hundred warriors for each of you, a protection in these dark and dangerous times.’
A protection from whom? More your enforcers. Ulfilas did not like this, not one bit. He could see that the kings and their shieldmen felt the same way. The display of violence had been shocking, but the consequences of this were settling upon him now. Nathair was taking over this council of kings. If each of these warriors before him was half as capable as Sumur, then together they could carve up a warband.
This is Isiltir, not Tenebral. He looked to Jael, hoping that he would give Ulfilas the order to summon his warband and put an end to this. Jael just sat there, looking as shocked and scared as the rest of them.
‘Now,’ said Nathair, ‘let us discuss our assault on Drassil.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
UTHAS
Uthas strode along beside Rhin, Dun Carreg towering above them upon its cliff like some predatory bird. Horns blowing, Rhin’s honour guard rippled to a halt on the giantsway.
Honour guard! More like a warband – five hundred of Rhin’s shieldmen and fifty Benothi giants. Not a sight often seen in Ardan.
Uthas looked about him, drinking in the view like a half-parched man.
Ardan, they call it now, but it was only ever Benoth to me. There was a time when I thought I’d never see this land again.
Ahead of them Dun Carreg sat on its high cliff, at its foot the sprawl of a fisher-village, and all about them were rolling meadows, to the north the glitter of a pewter sea, and behind it all the cry of gulls. Uthas sucked in a deep breath, savouring the salt air and chill that filled his lungs.
‘Was this your home, once?’ Rhin asked him.
‘Home, no,’ Uthas said. ‘I dwelt in Dun Taras, governed that part of Benoth for Nemain, but I came here often. I have . . . fond memories of this place.’
‘The truth does not often live up to the memory,’ Rhin said, looking up at Dun Carreg high above. ‘Let us see what welcome Evnis has prepared for us.’ She clicked her horse on and they headed through the fisher-village, the inhabitants hustling off the streets into houses as they saw Uthas and his kin approaching. They carried on up the winding road to the fortress, hooves clattering on the stone bridge as they crossed the chasm that separated the fortress from the mainland, the wind blowing up around them in great gusts.
Warriors lined the courtyard beyond Stonegate, turned out in their finery to greet their queen. With Rhin’s warriors and fifty giants striding into the courtyard it soon became crowded.
‘Where is Evnis?’ Rhin said with a frown to the man who stepped forward to greet her, a captain named Andran.
‘He rode south, my Queen,’ Andran said. ‘He received word of the rebels in Dun Crin.’
‘How far is Dun Crin?’ Rhin asked, looking annoyed.
‘A ten-night down the giantsway,’ Uthas answered. ‘Through the Baglun and out the other side. Dun Crin is sunk in the marshes, though.’
Rhin nodded thoughtfully. ‘Well, we do not need him for what we came for, I suppose. I just would have liked to see him.’ She ordered her honour guard and mounts cared for, her warriors to be escorted to the feast-hall for a meal.
‘Your giants should accompany them,’ Rhin said.
‘They may cause unrest,’ Balur said.
Giants walking abroad in Dun Carreg – this has not happened for a thousand years. And the reaction they are likely to provoke is the reason Rhin came with us.
‘They are my guests here. Any unrest will end with heads on spikes.’ She said that loud enough for the whole courtyard to hear.
That should be enough. Rhin’s presence in the fortress, combined with her commands, should be enough to keep my people safe.
‘Eisa, you lead the kin,’ Uthas said. ‘Eat, drink, rest with our friends. And be courteous.’ He held her gaze and raised an eyebrow. ‘Salach, you will stay with me.’
‘And now I will defer to you, Uthas,’ said Rhin. ‘Let us go in search of your Treasure.’
Uthas led Rhin and Salach through the streets of Dun Carreg, a sense of wonder filling him. He gazed about at the wide flagstoned roads, the stone buildings looming over them, and remembered when his kin had gazed back at him from shuttered windows and bairns ran laughing in the streets.
Soon they passed around the keep and into a wide courtyard, a pool with fountain and steps dominating the square. Then, further on, down the steps into the tunnel that led to the great well. It was all exactly as he remembered, even the damp smell, the drip of water, the echo as they entered the circular room with the wide hole that sank deep into the bowels of the cliff that Dun Carreg was built upon.
Uthas nodded to Salach, and he squatted beside the well-shaft, reaching down along the rough stone. He nodded as he found what he was looking for, then there was a click, a hiss and the outline of a door appeared on the wall to the left of them.
Rhin nodded approvingly and the three of them walked through.
‘Lasair,’ Uthas commanded, and the torch of rushes in his hand sparked into flame. He led them on into the tunnels beneath Dun Carreg, excitement coursing through his veins.
Nemain’s necklace, one of the Seven Treasures.
Calidus had sent him to find them – necklace and cup, the Treasures he had promised to Asroth – and Rhin was to be his protector. Fifty Benothi giants wandering the west would not be much appreciated by the locals. Once he had them he was ordered to take them to Calidus, either at Mikil or somewhere closer to Forn and Drassil.
Drassil. This will bring me one large stride closer to claiming the fortress back for my kin. For all of the clans. The thought of it sent a thrill through him – sitting on Skald’s throne, the chieftains of the five clans bending their necks before him. He realized he was grinning.
They spilt into a huge chamber, iron sconces holding unlit torches hammered into the damp walls. Uthas lit a few, sending shadow and light flickering about the room.
A shape was slumped in the middle of the room, crumpled and curled. The skeleton of a wyrm, not that large compared to the ones that had dwelt in Murias, but big enough, tattered scraps of skin hanging off strips of pale bone.
Its head was gone.
‘This is a clean cut,’ Salach said, kneeling beside the skeleton and examining the point on the spine where the head had been shorn. ‘Not a bite wound, but a blade.’
So people had been down here, found a way in. And encountered a wyrm.
‘This way,’ Salach said, leading them to the left of the room, towards a mound of piled rubble, draped with thick web. Towards the tomb where Uthas had watched Nemain place the casket containing the necklace and book.
‘This is where the casket was kept,’ Uthas said as he held his torch higher.
Here and there the splintered frame of a doorway was visible, rock and boulder collapsed from the wall above to fill the entrance. Uthas exchanged a look with Salach, feeling a knot of worry growing in his belly.
How did this happen? A dead wyrm, the entrance to the tomb collapsed.
There was a gap in the rubble, high but too small for a giant to wriggle through, and Uthas could not imagine Rhin attempting to squeeze through, so he put his torch
down and began to lift rocks. Salach soon joined him.
Uthas lost himself in the rhythm of lifting. He kept glancing at Rhin, the torchlight making her face shift, rippling between shadow and light.
She is changed since Uthandun. Humbled by Calidus. Shamed by him, in front of us all. That does not sit well upon a woman as proud as Rhin. During their journey south from Uthandun, through the Darkwood and into Ardan, Uthas had seen flashes of that change: not as calm, more prone to bursts of rage and melancholy.
She feels more dangerous now, not less so. What has Calidus done?
‘That should do,’ Rhin said, breaking into his thoughts. He looked and saw a hole amidst the rubble, large enough for him to stoop through. Salach lifted his torch, shrugged his axe from his back and passed through the doorway, Uthas and Rhin close behind.
They were standing in a circular chamber, smaller by far than the one they’d come from. At the far end of the chamber was a stone tomb, the lid lying cracked and broken upon the floor. Rows of giant axes and war-hammers edged the room, all thick with dust and web.
‘These are still sharp,’ Salach commented, running his thumb along the edge of one of the axe-blades.
They approached the tomb, treading over the flat stone lid, which was broken into slabs. Uthas held the torch higher and peered into the open tomb.
Inside was the skeleton of a giant, its hands clasped upon its chest, at its feet the broken shards of wyrm shells. Uthas glanced around the room, remembering the skeleton in the chamber without. Then he looked back into the tomb, eyes searching ever more frantically. Salach leaned in, ripped out the skeleton’s chest cavity, ran his hand around the base of the tomb.
‘It is not here,’ Uthas growled, feeling his dreams of Drassil crumbing like sand within his cupped hands.
He stared at Rhin and she stared back at him, suspicion growing in her eyes.
‘Evnis,’ they both said together.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CORBAN
Corban blinked as the trapdoor opened above him. Enkara went first, holding her hands up high, and iron glittered in the torchlight above her. He rode Shield up the slope, Storm loping beside him, and squinted as he entered a room that felt as bright as the sun after spending a ten-night in that huge, endless tunnel.
Blurred figures were standing in a semi-circle before him and he reined in. As his vision started to clear he saw they were Jehar. They drew their swords, dropped to one knee before him, bowing their heads and crying out, ‘The Seren Disglair.’
‘Please, rise,’ Corban said as he slid from Shield’s back.
There were ten of them, all older, between forty and fifty summers like Enkara.
I thought this kind of behaviour was all over. I’ve accepted who I am, but Seren Disglair or Bright Star or whatever they call me, it doesn’t mean people need to get down on their knees in front of me.
‘On your feet,’ Corban said, more firmly, walking to the closest one and gently lifting him. They stood and sheathed their swords, looking at him with awe-struck eyes.
‘Well met; I am honoured to meet you,’ Corban said. ‘I have been told much about you, and value your faithfulness in guarding Drassil for this day.’ He had spoken a long time to Enkara about this, quizzing her during their journey through the tunnel of what to expect upon his arrival.
He greeted them all by name, again learned from Enkara; he thought it the least he could do, not able to imagine the dedication it had taken to spend sixteen years preparing Drassil for these times, then watch most of their comrades leave, knowing that they had to stay and guard an empty fortress.
‘And you must be Hamil,’ he said to the last one, a serious-looking man with iron grey at his temples and a hooked nose. The man dipped his head.
‘Hamil, we have ridden far and there are many of us. Would you and your kin please help get them settled?’
‘Of course, Bright Star,’ Hamil said.
‘Corban – please, my name is Corban.’
‘Of course. One question.’
‘Aye.’
‘Where is Tukul?’
For a moment Corban did not know what to say. He missed Tukul, every day. For a man whom he had not known all that long, Tukul had had an immense impact upon him.
Then Hamil looked over Corban’s shoulder and saw Gar. He stared a moment, then smiled, the expression transforming his face.
‘Gar, is that you?’ Hamil said.
Gar looked at him, blankly at first, then he smiled in return, though to Corban it looked wan. Nevertheless he slipped from his horse and embraced Hamil, who hugged him tightly and patted his back.
‘Oh, how you have grown,’ Hamil exclaimed.
‘Aye. Seventeen years,’ Gar shrugged.
‘Where is your father?’ Hamil asked him.
Gar’s smile vanished, that stricken, hollow look returning to his eyes.
‘He fell,’ Gar said.
‘What? No.’ Hamil gasped. He took a long look at Gar and hugged him again. ‘This world will not be the same without him.’
‘No, it won’t,’ Gar whispered.
Meical was waiting patiently on the slope behind. ‘There are many weary people down here,’ he said.
‘Of course, of course,’ Hamil said, and then they were all moving, Hamil taking Shield’s reins from him and allowing Corban to move deeper into the hall. People began to file out of the tunnel, an exodus squinting and blinking in the light. Buddai bounded over to Storm and they ran off together. Now that Corban’s eyes had adjusted he took a moment to look around, and saw a huge chamber, bigger even than the hall in Murias where the cauldron had been kept.
It was roughly circular in design, the flagstoned floor that Corban was standing upon sunk deep into the ground, broad pillars of light slanting down into the chamber through vellum-covered windows. Wide stone steps led up to great doors of oak and iron. The steps would have stretched the length of the keep at Dun Carreg, so wide that they looked more like the tiered seats of a theatre or a gallery. But all of that was not what took Corban’s breath away. High above, branches as thick as tree trunks in the Darkwood wound their way through the chamber, many of them breaking through the roof, or, as Corban looked closer, perhaps the roof was built around them, as there seemed to be some kind of design at work. A gentle breeze set branches and leaves rustling, as if a hidden host were whispering in the shadows up above them. He turned a half-circle, trying to take it all in, then froze, his jaw opening. At first Corban did not understand what he was seeing so he walked closer. Then he understood. At the centre of the chamber was a huge trunk, wider than Dun Kellen’s keep, rising up and up, disappearing into the shadows of the high roof. The chamber he was standing in was built around the trunk, an outer ring of stone around one of timber, sap and bark.
Something was built into it, at its base, where the stone floor met the trunk.
Corban ran a hand along the bark. It was hard as iron, though not as cold. In fact, there was a sense of warmth, a tingle in Corban’s fingertips. He walked slowly along the trunk, marvelling at it, then reached the construct he had seen.
It was a throne, partly wood, hewn into the trunk, and part stone, the arms carved in the shape of the great wyrms Corban had seen below Dun Carreg and in the cauldron’s chamber in Murias. Sitting upon it, slumped within it, was the cadaver of a giant. Stretched grey skin, here and there patches of ashen bone, a tattered strip of leather or cloth. And in its chest, through its chest, piercing the chair behind it and on, deep into the trunk, was a spear. Sap had leaked and congealed about the wounded trunk. Corban ran a hand along the spear shaft, which was thick and smooth, darker veins twisting through it, a spike of black iron at its butt. When his fingers reached the metal he snatched them away as if burned. For a moment he’d thought he heard voices, a hissing chorus inside his head.
‘It is Skald’s spear,’ a voice rumbled behind him.
Balur One-Eye.
‘With this blow our high king was slain, the
Giant Wars were begun, and the Sundering sealed.’ Melancholy dripped from his voice.
‘Who did it? Who killed Skald?’
‘I did,’ Balur said.
Corban looked up at him and saw tears running down Balur’s craggy face.
A thousand questions rushed to the tip of his tongue but his voice faltered. The grief on Balur’s face was too much to disturb.
The questions will wait.
They stood in silence a while, the warband emptying from the tunnel beneath Drassil like ants marching from a nest.
Ethlinn appeared at his other shoulder.
‘Come, Bright Star, let Balur show us Drassil, first and greatest of the giant strongholds.’
‘You have not seen it before, then?’
‘No. I was born in Benoth, and like you I have only heard of it in tales.’
‘Come then,’ Balur grunted.
Corban walked the streets and courtyards of Drassil in a state of ever-growing wonder. The stronghold was built around a tree, although a tree the size of which Corban would have claimed was an impossibility. The main trunk was thicker and taller than any construct Corban had ever seen, more like a mountain rising into the sky than a thing of bark and timber. Its upper branches seemed so high that they touched the clouds. Branches sprouted from it, stone towers and walls spiralling and twisting about them as if set by some child-god’s unbounded imagination. Here and there the ground was scarred and ruptured by roots rising out of the ground like the ancient knotted knuckles of some colossal sleeping giant.
Hamil appeared from a side street and hurried over to Corban.
‘We have worked hard to prepare Drassil for your arrival,’ Hamil said. He wore the dark chainmail of the Jehar, and black linen beneath it, but he seemed less severe than most of the Jehar Corban had met.
‘I am grateful for your commitment,’ Corban said. That seemed to make Hamil incredibly happy and he gently took over as their guide, pointing out where vine had been sheared from walls, where stonework had been repaired, explained how they had made maps of the labyrinthine catacombs that burrowed for leagues beneath the stronghold and out beneath Forn. They passed a handful of cairns.