by John Gwynne
‘I will be back soon,’ Alben said. ‘Veradis has placed guards on your door. You are safe, from Lykos at least.’ He frowned with worry.
‘I will not die,’ Maquin growled. Three things to live for.
Alben smiled, leaned down and whispered in Maquin’s ear, then left too.
Maquin lay there, watching dawn claim the day, feeling his eyes grow heavy with sleep and the potion Alben had given him. As sleep took him he mused over the words that Alben had whispered in his ear.
Keep the faith.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CYWEN
Cywen sat at a long table in the great hall of Drassil. Corban had called a council of war, and many had come. Meical and Gar were sitting with Corban, and beside them Balur and Ethlinn, in chairs built for giants. There was Brina and Coralen, Hamil of the Jehar and Wulf from Gramm’s hold, Teca the huntswoman to represent the people of Narvon, Javed and Atilius from the oarsmen, and also the child prince, Haelan, a shieldman standing behind him.
And there’s me, Cywen the apprentice healer. Sister to, apparently, one of the most important people in the world. Madness.
And lurking off to one side, not at the table, but close, were Farrell, Dath and Kulla. Farrell had his new sword at his hip, a giant’s dagger gifted to him by Corban.
Gar shifted beside Corban and whispered in his ear.
Gar has changed, since his duel with Akar. Six nights had passed since the duel, and Gar had lost the stoop to his shoulders, the bitter twist to his mouth. He was a fine leader and already the Jehar were saying how like his da he was. How proud Tukul would have been. While it was obvious that Gar still mourned the loss of his da, he seemed to have accepted it as well.
The first step on a long road. And I know what that feels like.
Corban stood up and the room fell into silence.
‘We are finally here, in fabled Drassil,’ Corban said. ‘It feels as if we have completed a quest, just getting here. We’ve encountered our enemy, fought battles, lost friends and family.’ He looked at Cywen and Gar as he said that. ‘But now we stop running, and we make a stand. The God-War is happening, now,’ Corban continued. ‘We have been fighting it. But now that we are here we must decide not only how to fight this war, but how to win it.’ He turned to Meical, who sat straight and tall, jet-black hair, silver scars down his face.
‘Meical, you are the author behind all of this, the force that has bound us together and guided us here. Now, more than ever, your wisdom would be welcome. How do we win this war?’
Is this really my baby brother? The same brother I kicked Rafe in the stones for, because he’d bloodied Corban’s lip? When did he get so eloquent?
‘The answer is simple,’ Meical said. ‘From the outset Calidus’ plan has been to use the cauldron to breach the wall between this world of flesh and the Otherworld, the world of spirit, where the Kadoshim and Ben-Elim dwell.’
‘Hasn’t he already done that?’ Dath said. ‘Those Kadoshim in Murias seemed pretty real to me.’
‘No,’ Meical shook his head. ‘With the Seven Treasures a doorway can be opened that allows Asroth and the Kadoshim to cross over from the Otherworld in their own forms, and in doing so their forms would become flesh. What happened in Murias was akin to a possession, where some of the Kadoshim’s spirits passed into host bodies. This was because there were only two of the Treasures present, and so only a crack in the doorway could be created. What happened in Murias, and those Kadoshim, is but a shadow of what Calidus hopes to achieve: Asroth and the host of the Kadoshim made flesh. And for Calidus to do that, he needs the Seven Treasures. He has the cauldron, and will be searching for the rest. But two of the Treasures are here.’ He looked to Balur, who had the starstone axe slung across his back.
‘The starstone axe and the spear of Skald are here.’
‘What of the other Treasures?’ Brina asked.
‘Two more are in the west,’ Meical said with a shrug. ‘The cup and necklace.’ He glanced at Balur and Ethlinn.
‘That is true,’ Ethlinn said. ‘Uthas lost the cup during the retreat from Dun Taras, and the necklace was kept in one of the southern fortresses.’ She looked at Balur. ‘We do not know which one.’
‘And the others?’ Corban asked.
‘The torc and the knife,’ Balur rumbled. ‘The torc was last recorded as being in the hands of the Jotun; the knife, with the Kurgan. But that was over a thousand years ago – what has happened to them . . .’ He shrugged.
‘Whatever happened to them, Calidus will be bent on finding them. He will find them. And the knowledge that we are here will drive him. The thought of us in Drassil with two of the Treasures will consume him. He will think the longer we are here the stronger we will become – and he’s right. Besides, there are other Treasures here apart from those forged out of the starstone. He will come as soon as he can,’ Meical assured them.
‘How do you know that?’ Brina asked him.
‘Because I know Calidus.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘I have made mistakes, in the past been outwitted by him. That is because he knows me, too. He sought out the people I recruited for this war and has removed many of them from the board.’
They were people, not pieces in a game!
‘We were one kin, once, before he fell,’ Meical continued. ‘I know him, and in this I am certain. He will come for us – and as quickly as he can mobilize his forces.’
Corban nodded thoughtfully, sharing a glance with Brina.
‘And that leads us on to the next question,’ Brina said. ‘How will he come here? It is not exactly a pleasant stroll through sun-warmed glades.’
Meical frowned. ‘We have all experienced the difficulties of marching through Forn, and we had the advantage of the tunnel. He will want to bring a lot of men – he will not want to risk defeat. How he will find Drassil, and then bring with him enough warriors to ensure a victory in his reckoning, I do not know.’
‘Maybe we’ll have longer than you suspect, then,’ Atilius said.
‘Maybe,’ Meical replied. ‘But one thing I have learned to my detriment; never underestimate him. He is cunning, and he is ruthless.’
‘I have a question,’ a small voice piped up – Haelan, the childking of Isiltir. ‘What of our allies? Do we have any?’
‘Now that is a very good question,’ Brina said. ‘This warband is low in numbers, though made of exceptional warriors, granted. We total around eight hundred men and women who can wield a blade. Calidus and Nathair, I have no doubt, can rally many thousands more than that. If they do make it this far, we will be overwhelmed by sheer numbers.’
‘There is Edana,’ Corban said. ‘Though we have no idea how she fares – alive, dead, a warband behind her?’
‘Craf will know,’ Brina said.
If we ever see the old crow again.
‘Is there anyone else?’ Haelan asked, looking to Meical.
‘There are friends to our cause in various places, but none who could lead a warband, except, perhaps, the Sirak.’
‘Who are they?’ Cywen asked.
‘The horse lords of Arcona,’ Meical said.
‘If we sent messengers, would they help us?’ Brina asked.
Meical shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Politics is an unstable affair. Those who are sympathetic to our cause would certainly try – but who is to say whether they are in power, or even still alive with Calidus’ scheming?’
‘And there is one other ally who has not been mentioned,’ Corban said.
‘Who is that?’ Brina asked him.
‘The Ben-Elim,’ Corban said. ‘Meical, you read from the prophecy, a line about them gathering beneath the great tree.’ Corban gestured to the trunk that the chamber they were sitting in was built around. ‘That is why you counselled me to come here, because of the prophecy.’
‘Aye,’ Meical said. ‘Because of the prophecy.’
‘So, where are they? When will they arrive?’
Meical gave Corban a sad look. ‘
I do not know, Corban. The prophecy is not clear.’
‘But you are Ben-Elim, one of them. More than that – their captain. Surely you must know.’
‘I do not. Neither do they. All that we know is that the prophecy says it will happen. So we must believe, we must trust. And remember, we accomplish much by our very presence here.’ He glanced behind him at the spear embedded in the tree. ‘With the spear and axe in our possession we know that Calidus cannot fulfil his aim, cannot breach the wall between this world and the Otherworld, cannot bring Asroth’s destruction upon the Banished Lands.’
‘That’s all well and good,’ Brina snapped, ‘but what do we all do now?’
‘We ready ourselves for the battle to come,’ Meical said. ‘A battle that will spill a river of blood, that will see us live or die, win or lose. And it is coming, of that there is no doubt.’
A silence fell upon them all.
‘So we prepare,’ Corban said. ‘We train, we build, we organize, we use our surroundings. And we scout.’ He looked at Coralen. ‘We don’t want to be surprised by a warband appearing at our walls.’
‘We can use the tunnels,’ Coralen said. ‘There are six of them – Hamil has mapped them, and they run for leagues upon leagues, many with smaller exits along the way. If we man them, have fresh horses at each waypoint, I would be very surprised if any warband could come within fifty leagues of Drassil without us spotting them . . .’
‘A fine idea.’ Corban smiled at her. ‘I would suggest that you and Dath take responsibility for that – recruit who you need for the task.’
‘There is much to do,’ Brina said, brusque and businesslike. ‘We will need healers and a hospice ready for the wounded.’ She looked at Cywen.
Ah, that is why I am here. Wonderful.
‘We have a great store of supplies, linen for bandages, herbs and medicines; we cultivated a large garden for just such an end,’ Hamil said.
Brina nodded grimly.
The meeting descended into a discussion of all that would be needed – the logistics of feeding near a thousand people day in, day out, of clothing, of firing forges, of making weapons, training, the maintenance and strengthening of Drassil’s fortifications. Cywen found herself drifting in and out of various threads of conversation as the day wore on. She felt a weight on her foot and looked down to see Buddai had flopped upon her.
He had reappeared some days ago, following Storm. Corban had told Cywen of Coralen’s suspicion, and to Cywen’s eyes both Storm and Buddai had looked sheepishly guilty.
The chamber was darkening, someone was lighting torches, others quietly carried tables and benches into the chamber and lit fire-pits. Corban stood to signal the end of the meeting. Farrell and Dath accosted him before he could leave.
‘Yes?’ he said, raising an eyebrow.
‘Everyone seems to have a job to do,’ Dath said.
‘Aye. Most have more than one job, including you two,’ Corban said.
‘True enough,’ Dath said, ‘but we’d like one more.’ A grin slowly spread across his face.
Corban frowned. ‘What are you two up to?’
‘I’m not one for saying things, or making speeches,’ Farrell said, shuffling his feet. ‘But, you see, we want to be your shieldmen.’
‘Corban blinked at that, looking from Farrell to Dath and back again.
‘We are shield-brothers, sword-kin, all of us,’ Corban said. ‘And you two most of all, my oldest friends.’ He paused a moment, swallowed. ‘We’ve stood shoulder to shoulder, the three of us, saved each other’s lives many times over. But there is no need for shield-men amongst us. I am no king. And besides, I have Storm . . .’
‘Ah, that’s where we disagree, you see,’ Dath said. ‘And we’re not the only ones.’
The doors burst open and people poured in, a whole host filling the chamber, hundreds of them.
All of them, Cywen saw, every last person that followed Corban to Drassil. What have Dath and Farrell been up to?
It did not take long before they were all spread in a half-circle about Corban, tiered by standing on the wide steps about the chamber’s edge.
Corban just stared at them all, looking completely bewildered. Brina stepped before Corban and ushered Laith forward. She walked slowly, solemnly, holding a pillow before her, something gleaming upon it.
‘This is for you,’ Brina said, ‘made by your people for you, as a token of our esteem.’
It was a spiral of metal, dark like iron, but threaded with streaks of silver, two snarling wolven heads at each end.
‘My people?’ Corban whispered. He reached out and tentatively touched it.
‘It is an arm-ring,’ Laith said, voice like gravel. ‘We thought to make you a king’s torc, but Dath said you wear the torc your da made you, and that you would not change it. So, we made you a king’s arm-ring instead . . .’
Brina plucked it from the pillow and slid it up over Corban’s hand, until it rested about his bicep. Laith gripped it and gently squeezed, the metal moulding itself to the contours of Corban’s arm.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Corban muttered, gazing down at the arm-ring, then out at the crowd about him. ‘I have done nothing to deserve this.’
‘You freed us,’ Javed said, taking a step forward. ‘We were slaves, we would have died with collars around our necks.’
‘You came to our aid,’ said Wulf, stepping beside Javed and Atilius. ‘Our home was burning, our warriors broken; we’d have died without your help.’
‘You saved us,’ Balur rumbled. ‘We would have perished in Murias without you.’
‘And we’d have been slaughtered by the Kadoshim had you not intervened,’ Teca from Narvon said.
Cywen stepped forward. ‘You crossed realms and mountains to find me in Murias. In the middle of battle you came for me. I owe you my life.’
‘You give me hope that all is not lost,’ Brina said looking at him with a sharp smile.
Gar stepped close to Corban. ‘You give me the strength to go on,’ he said. ‘You give my life meaning.’
‘You will save all the Banished Lands,’ Coralen said as she stepped forward. ‘And I will follow you to the ends of the earth, or die trying.’
Corban was looking at all of them, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Meical stepped forward.
‘Corban, give me your sword.’
Corban slid it from its sheath and shakily offered it to Meical hilt-first.
Cywen smiled through her tears.
My da made that sword. Fashioned the wolven head as pommel, worked the iron, bound the leather. He and Mam would be so proud of Corban.
Meical took it and held it high over his head.
‘Oscailte,’ he yelled and stabbed the sword down into the flag-stoned floor. There was a concussive crack and a flash of incandescent sparks, the sword sinking half its blade into the ground. Meical released it and stepped back, leaving the sword quivering, a fading hum emanating from it.
‘Corban ben Thannon,’ Meical cried out in a voice that swept the room like the north wind, ‘our Bright Star, the Kin-Avenger, Giant-Friend, Lightbringer, Rock in the Swirling Sea, will you bind yourself to these people, be their sword and shield, the defender of their flesh, their blood, their honour, unto death?’
Cywen stared at Corban. Saw him look around the room and straighten with pride and resolve.
‘I will,’ Corban said. His voice trembled. He gripped the blade of his sword, his blood dripping down the cold iron, finding the fuller to flow into.
‘People of the Bright Star,’ Meical cried out, ‘will you bind yourselves to Corban ben Thannon, become his sword and shield, the defender of his flesh, his blood, his honour, unto your dying breath?’
‘We will,’ they cried, Cywen raising her voice with the rest of them, the sound of their voices like a clap of thunder, making the flames in the fire-pits flicker.
Gar nodded to Dath and Farrell, and one by one they stepped forward and gripped
Corban’s blade, their blood mingling with his, then stood either side of him. Gar stepped forward and did the same, all the while his eyes locked to Corban’s. He stood aside, let the next person step forward. Cywen followed, smiling at her brother as if it was Midsummer’s Day, both joyful and solemn, then Coralen, Brina, all of Corban’s captains. Then the crowd behind began to file forward, each and every one of them performing the same ritual, Corban sharing more than words with each one of them.
Eventually it was done and then food and drink was filling the tables, boar and deer turning on spits above fire-pits. Cywen finally fell into her bed exhausted, but also filled with a sense of something she’d almost forgotten.
Peace. I feel at peace, for the first time since . . . She did not know, giving the last shreds of her sleep-slipping attention to that thought.
Since Ronan was slain.
One last thought flitted through her mind before sleep took her.
We are going to win.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
ULFILAS
Ulfilas wiped sweat from his brow. It was freezing cold, there was snow beneath his boots, and the ground was as hard as iron beneath that, and yet still he was sweating.
This road-making is hard work, there’s no denying.
Behind him close to three thousand warriors laboured from sunrise to sunset, felling trees, levelling ground, laying a timber road wide enough for a dozen horsemen to ride abreast. At the rear of the column King Jael rode with his honour guard of twenty Jehar warriors, and Sumur. Ulfilas had ridden with them for the first moon, but he found those black, dead eyes of the Jehar harder to bear than the backbreaking life of a road-layer, so he chose to fill his days with hard work and his nights with exhausted, dreamless sleep.
Up ahead Ulfilas heard shouting, saw men stop what they were doing.
Better go and see what all the fuss is about.
Running feet caught him up as Dag joined him.
‘What’s that all about?’ Ulfilas asked the huntsman.
‘We’ll find out soon enough.’