by John Gwynne
Ulfilas felt a flush of pride as he looked at the road they were building and thought of both the leagues behind them and the conditions under which they’d accomplished this mammoth task.
It was Tempest Moon, the heart of winter, and they had carved their way over sixty leagues into Forn forest, following the trail left by the warband that had abandoned Gramm’s hold, following the markers left by Dag’s scouts. Felling trees, stripping them of branches, cutting them down to manageable strips, clearing thorn and underbrush, and all while hungry predators watched, prowled and occasionally ate someone stupid or unwary enough to wander too far alone.
Then Ulfilas and Dag were at the head of the column, staring up at what had caused the commotion.
‘Ah, well, at least we know what happened to your scouts, now,’ Ulfilas said to Dag. Four corpses dangled upside down from branches directly in front of the route of the new road. Dag gave him a sidelong glance.
‘They were good men,’ Dag muttered. ‘Huntsmen through and through; two of them I trained from before they were old enough to set foot in the Rowan Field.’
‘Oh. My apologies,’ Ulfilas said. He’d noticed himself making comments like that lately; insensitive, sometimes cruel. That is not the man I used to be. What is happening to me?
‘Cut them down before word of this spreads,’ he muttered to Dag. Warriors won’t like this. It’s the kind of thing that festers into fear around a campfire at night.
‘Too late to stop that,’ Dag said, looking back at a group of men supposedly working on tree-felling who were standing staring at the corpses.
Behind them Ulfilas saw a handful of riders approaching.
Jael.
‘What is all this?’ Jael called as he rode up. There were a dozen riders about him – Fram his first-sword and other warriors, the best in Isiltir. About them strode the black-clothed Jehar, Sumur close to Jael.
Jael has his own shieldmen, a bulwark between him and the Jehar. He remembered Sumur defeating Fram without breaking a sweat, and cutting down old Belo in Mikil’s feast-hall. I do not think they would protect him for long, though.
The Jehar spread to either side of the new road’s foundations, some looking up at the dangling bodies as men climbed trees to cut them down.
‘What is all this?’ Jael repeated, gesturing at the corpses.
‘My scouts,’ Dag said.
‘Ah. Confirmation that we are on the right trail, at least.’
We’ve hardly needed that so far, the path left by the warband fleeing Gramm’s hold has been wide and deep. I could have tracked them, and I’m no woodsman.
Dag didn’t answer.
‘How long have they been up there?’ Jael asked.
Now that is a sensible question. In other words, how far behind this Bright Star and his rabble are we?
Dag bent to look at the first corpse that was cut down, hitting the ground with a brittle crack.
‘They are frozen,’ Dag observed, ‘and have been feasted upon by . . .’ He waved at the forest, trees encroaching upon them. ‘So it is hard to tell with any measure of certainty, but –’ he poked and prodded strips of skin, sniffed – ‘dead four moons, is my guess.’
Jael nodded. ‘We are making good time,’ he murmured, looking pleased.
We have a head start: a trail to follow.
After Belo had been cut down at Nathair’s council they had spent the day discussing how exactly Drassil was to be discovered.
They had settled upon the plan put forward by Calidus, to build roads into Forn, each with a different starting point. Gundul’s road would begin at Brikan, the old Hunen tower that the Gadrai had occupied as their foothold in Forn. Lothar’s road would follow the course they had originally travelled to Haldis, the Hunen burial ground, and then work deeper into Forn from there. The theory Calidus had used to justify this course was that the giants had dwelt in Drassil before their Sundering into many clans, and so Haldis and Brikan most likely were linked to Drassil in some way, possibly even by giant-built roads.
Jael’s road had been given a different starting point – the logical move to follow the trail of this Corban, ‘the Black Sun’, Nathair had called him, and his warband into Forn. Ulfilas suspected that they had the easiest course, and from Jael’s expression so did he. It was not just personal satisfaction and pride in a job well done. Nathair had given an incentive that the leader of the first group that found Drassil would rule the three kingdoms of Isiltir, Carnutan and Helveth, the other two kings reduced to vassals. Looking at his Jehar warriors, no one had doubted that he could enforce the threat. Or promise, to the winner.
So the race is on.
‘Onwards then,’ Jael shouted, turning his mount to ride back down the road, the Jehar closing about him and his shieldmen like a black-gloved fist.
Ulfilas turned and stared ahead, into the gloom of the forest. A snowflake drifted down and landed on his nose, filtering through the leafless canopy high above. Trees filled his vision. And out there somewhere is this Black Sun, with giants and the warriors that cut through my men like a scythe through wheat.
And we are rushing to find them.
‘What do you mean, their trail has disappeared?’ Jael snapped.
‘There are no more signs of their passage, my King,’ Dag said. ‘No boot prints, hoof prints, excrement, dung, scuffed rocks, trampled or broken foliage. Nothing. It is as if they disappeared.’
‘Pfah,’ Jael said, clearly unable to formulate anything more complex.
It would appear that our good run has come to an end.
‘You must search harder,’ Jael said, waving a hand vaguely at the forest.
‘My King, I have over two hundred scouts scouring the surrounding area. If there is any sign to be found, they will find it.’
‘Has there been any word from Ildaer and his ilk? The Jotun dwelt in this region once, they must surely know something.’
‘No word from him, or any of the Jotun, my King,’ Dag said.
We have heard nothing from them since Gramm’s hold. What happened to Ildaer there? Does he even still live?
Jael threw a cup of wine at the fire; the flames flared.
‘What use in dealing with giants if they prove to be useless,’ he snarled.
They were sitting in Jael’s tent, a huge, sumptuous reminder of Jael’s new title, furs and tapestries draped extensively about, a richly decorated table and chairs in the centre laden with cups studded with jewels and gold platters heaped with untouched food. The pale dawn light leaked in through the entrance, the forest feeling dense and oppressive all about them.
‘We’ll keep moving forwards,’ Jael said. ‘Straight as an arrow from their last known position. And keep searching; take more men from the warband if you need them – just find that trail.’
And if it is not there to be found?
Yes, my King,’ Dag said, bowed and left the tent. Ulfilas followed him, not wishing to endure the wrath of a petulant King. He knew Jael better than any man alive. There was a crash from inside as the tent flap swung shut behind him.
Ulfilas stood with one hand upon his sword hilt, looking down at the corpses strewn about the glade. Four men. They’d been part of a scouting team that had not returned to camp last night. Each man was lacerated with scars, two had had their throats ripped out, the flesh gaping in ragged strips. One of them lay amongst his own intestines.
‘What did this?’ Ulfilas asked, his eyes sweeping the trees about the glade, shadows moving with the creak of branches.
‘Wolven pack?’ Dag shrugged, though he was frowning. He crouched to examine one of the dead more closely.
‘It happened early,’ Dag muttered, prodding the pile of intestines that were frozen solid. ‘Soon after dusk. And look.’ He pulled the dead man’s head back, the throat cut in three clear lines. Ulfilas frowned.
Those cuts look too neat for claws.
Dag looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. ‘Looks iron-made, not animal,’ he said.
<
br /> ‘Whether iron, tooth or claw, Jael’s not going to be too happy about this,’ Ulfilas muttered.
‘I know it,’ Dag agreed.
It had been a ten-night since the trail of their enemy had disappeared, the road-building slowing to a snail’s pace as more and more men were taken from work crews to scout the surrounding areas. Three nights ago men had started disappearing. These were the first that had been found. Yesterday, upon hearing of men going missing, Jael had half-throttled the messenger bringing him the tidings.
He doesn’t seem best equipped for dealing with the pressures of ruling.
A sound in the undergrowth had Ulfilas and the six men with him drawing their blades, Dag reaching for his bow and quiver. Figures appeared from amongst the gloom between the trees, Dag’s scouts.
‘Something for you to see,’ the first one said, breathing hard, then turned and disappeared.
‘More dead men?’ Ulfilas muttered.
They followed the man through thick undergrowth, finally climbing a slope and stopping beside the scout.
Dag looked around and then smiled.
‘What?’ Ulfilas asked.
‘Look,’ Dag said, pointing.
They were standing on a level area, an embankment either side. Dag nudged something with his toe, a rock. Ulfilas looked closer, saw that it had been shaped, an edge rounded.
‘It is dressed stone,’ Dag said.
Ulfilas looked further, saw more pieces of stone glinting with frost, sparkling a ragged line into the distance.
‘A road,’ he whispered.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CAMLIN
Camlin stood on the banks of the lake, watching Meg walk away from him. He’d just said goodbye to her. With a sigh he turned and stared out at the disjointed walls and towers of Dun Crin, islands of stone amidst the dark waters. Beyond them he could see the small fleet of boats that was carrying away so many of those who had started to make a new life for themselves around this lake.
Better to run and live than to stay and die. And better for the warriors that stay. They’ll fight better knowing their bairns and kin are safe.
He heard footsteps and turned to see Edana walking towards him, Halion, Baird and Vonn around her.
Vonn. Edana’s shieldman. Do I trust him so close to her?
‘Walk with me,’ she said to Camlin, and they strolled in silence away from the lakeshore, following a path that wound through tall grass and thick clumps of reeds, shadowing one of the many streams that fed into the lake.
‘You are sure of this?’ Edana said when the lake had passed from view.
‘It is the only way. Even if I’m successful, it’s still no guarantee, but it’ll give us a chance. It’ll slow them down, and bring them here from one direction. Much better knowing where they’ll be arriving.’
Edana stopped and turned to face him, took hold of his hands and stared into his eyes.
‘I will never forget this, or the countless other times you have risked your life for me. If there is ever a time when this is over, and I am Queen of Ardan . . .’ She hesitated. ‘I will not forget this.’
Camlin shrugged. ‘I’m not doing it for a reward.’
‘Why are you doing it, Camlin? A brigand from the Darkwood. You do not even come from Ardan, but from Narvon.’
He looked at Halion, Baird, then Vonn, finally back to her.
‘Because,’ he said with a shrug, ‘you make me want to be a better man. Not just you, but all of you. Marrock, Dath, Corban. Never really had friends before, just fellow thieves. Doesn’t make for a good night’s sleep.’
Edana nodded to herself, as if hearing an answer to a long-asked question.
‘Come back to us,’ she said.
‘I’ll try my very hardest t’do that.’ He grinned.
‘And I want you to take someone with you. Halion, Baird or Vonn, my most trusted shieldmen.’
‘No need,’ Camlin said with a shake of his head.
‘I think there is. And even if there isn’t – it will help me sleep better at night. Please, do it for me.’
Camlin looked between them, at Baird’s slightly wild grin – a good man to have beside me in a fight, though I think he may pick a few that don’t need fighting – Vonn, as serious as a man standing at his mother’s cairn, and Halion, calm, steadfast – keeps his head in a scrap, a strategic man, better with a blade than most, maybe better’n Braith, even.
‘I’ll take Vonn, then,’ he said.
Don’t like the thought of him left around Edana without me here to keep an eye on him.
Edana smiled and Vonn nodded, more to himself than Camlin.
‘Right, I’d better be off, ’fore I lose any more light.’
Edana stretched onto her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. She turned to walk away and they heard footsteps rustling through the grass and reeds. Everybody’s hand went to a sword hilt, including Edana’s.
A shadow appeared amongst the reeds, a figure stepping out before them.
‘Ah, I thought you were here somewhere,’ Lorcan said. His eyes sought out Edana. ‘I need to talk to you about something.’
Camlin lay on his belly upon a slight hillock, reeds a slatted screen before him, looking down upon a willow beside a twisting stream. Three arrows were stuck into the soft earth before him, his bow lying beside him. A figure sat leaning against the willow tree, wrapped tight in a cloak, head drooped forward onto his chest, seemingly asleep. Yellow hair stuck out from a pulled-up hood. A spear leaned against the willow tree, just a handspan from the figure’s fingers.
‘How long do we have to lie here?’ Vonn whispered. ‘I can’t feel my feet.’
Camlin ignored him.
He does have a point.
It was cold, the sky above was overcast with clouds heavy and silver sheened, threatening snow, the marshlands were a grey, damp, mist-filled world of mosquitoes and croaking frogs. They’d been lying on this hillock since sunrise, and the sun was now melting into the western horizon.
‘Camlin, I—’
‘Shut up,’ Camlin breathed, pointing.
Something was moving, off to the left, a shiver amongst the long grass and reeds – a movement opposed to the wind. Steadily it kept creeping forwards, then stopped, within sight of the figure sitting against the tree. A hesitation, a hundred heartbeats, two hundred, then it was moving forwards again. Two men broke from cover, stooped low, moving swiftly and silently in a loop around the figure against the tree until they had the willow’s trunk between them and the reclining warrior.
Stealthily they crept up, single file, the first drawing a knife from its sheath.
Camlin pushed himself onto his knees, tugged an arrow from the ground in front of him, slowly lifted his bow.
The first man was right behind the sleeping figure, by the spear. He raised his knife.
Camlin drew the arrow to his ear, held his breath, sighted, released. It struck the second man, piercing leather vest and linen shirt to sink deep into his back. At the same moment the first one buried his knife to the hilt in the sleeping man’s chest.
There was an explosion of straw, the man with the knife tugging his blade free, looking at the shape against the tree, then at his collapsing companion, then straight up to the hillock where Camlin was drawing his second arrow.
It punched through the knife-wielding man’s chest, hurling him onto his back. He thrashed in the grass a moment, movements weakening, then he was still.
Camlin and Vonn climbed to their feet, Camlin groaning from the stiffness in his limbs, and they hurried down the hillock.
‘That’s the third time this has worked,’ Vonn said to him, shaking his head.
‘Aye,’ Camlin agreed. They’d been hunting these scouts for four nights now, each time using the straw man to lure their enemy in and then kill them. So far it had been remarkably successful. Six men dead in three nights.
Camlin checked the two dead but knew before he saw their faces that neither one was
Braith.
Can live in hope, though.
He drew a knife, bent and cut his arrows free of the two dead men, checked them over for food and coin, then saw Vonn standing above him, frowning.
‘Old habit,’ he said with a shrug as he dragged and tipped one corpse into the stream. ‘Check our friend, eh?’
‘He’s a straw man wrapped in a cloak,’ Vonn said.
‘Aye. Check the cloak’s not ruined – can’t have a pile of straw leaking out of his belly, can we?’
‘He’s fine,’ Vonn said.
‘Good. Give me a hand with this one, then.’
Together they lifted the second dead man and carried him to the stream, slipping the corpse into the slow-moving water as quietly as they could. Camlin grabbed the spear and with the butt-end pushed the body down into a snare of reed. Then they checked the area for any evidence of their having been there, Camlin emptying one of the dead men’s water skins over a pool of blood, diluting and dispersing it. Vonn picked up the straw man and slung him over his shoulder, then they were moving off into the reeds, shadowing the stream.
Camlin froze suddenly, turned and looked back.
‘What?’ Vonn hissed, hand going to his sword hilt.
Camlin stood still as stone, head cocked to one side, eyes scanning the twilight and mist that curled languorously amongst the shadows. All he could hear was the gentle flow of the stream. Then a splash, almost nothing.
More long moments listening, then he shrugged and walked on.
‘Wish you wouldn’t do that,’ Vonn muttered.
Camlin ignored him.
‘So what now?’ Vonn asked him.
‘Do it again,’ Camlin said. ‘They’ll be strung out in a loose line, but we’ll move faster than them. We’ll set up again in half a league or so, snare us some more scouts.’ With each trap Camlin had edged his way back towards the lake and Dun Crin’s ruins, imagining that Braith and his huntsmen would be inching their way ever so carefully inwards. So far he’d been right.
‘How many of them are there?’
‘Don’t know,’ Camlin shrugged. ‘At least ten, probably closer to a score.’
‘What if they come in bigger groups?’