by John Gwynne
A silence fell upon the room, Nathair slumped back into his chair, for some reason staring at the palm of his hand.
At the scar from our oaths to each other.
‘Well, that could have gone better,’ Lykos said.
‘Shut up,’ Calidus replied, almost absently, eyes still fixed upon the door.
‘Your mother,’ Calidus said to Nathair.
‘Yes?’
‘She is a remarkable woman.’
‘She is,’ Nathair agreed.
‘What is going on here?’ Veradis said.
No one answered him. Nathair was still staring at the palm of his hand.
‘Nathair, Alcyon?’
The giant looked at him with sad eyes. ‘I cannot say.’
‘Nathair?’ Veradis said, anger leaking into his voice.
Calidus’ eyes rolled away from the door, fixed onto Veradis. ‘A confusion,’ he said to Veradis. ‘Fidele is confused. Her grief—’
‘She sounded lucid enough to me.’
‘She—’
‘Enough,’ Nathair said. ‘Calidus, Alcyon, all of you.’ He finally looked up from his hand. ‘Leave us.’
‘Is that wise?’ Calidus murmured.
‘I say it is,’ Nathair said. ‘You have hidden things from me. Lykos and my mother . . .’ His face twisted as if with a surge of pain and he screwed his eyes shut.
‘For the greater good,’ Calidus said quietly.
Nathair’s eyes snapped open. ‘I will talk with Veradis now. It is time.’ He locked gazes with Calidus. They stayed like that long moments. ‘I must tell him,’ Nathair said, almost pleadingly, a hand going to his temples, ‘I need to tell him, else I go insane.’ Still Calidus said nothing, then eventually nodded.
‘As you wish,’ he said and ushered everyone from the chamber, including the eagle-guard and Jehar, leaving Veradis alone with Nathair.
‘What just happened?’ Veradis asked.
Nathair stood and paced to the window, looked out of it.
‘They look like ants from here,’ he said tiredly. ‘All those men working on the road to find Drassil, no bigger than ants. Do you remember, in the forest during my father’s council?’
Veradis did. They had seen a host of ants on the march, millions of them, each as big as a thumb. Seeing them had been the seeds of Nathair’s inspiration for the shield wall.
‘I do,’ Veradis said, joining Nathair at the window.
‘Gods above and below, but it feels like a different lifetime.’
‘It does,’ Veradis agreed. He thought back. ‘Nearly four years.’
Nathair fell silent, staring.
‘Nathair, what your mother just said. About Calidus . . .’
‘Aye.’
‘Why did she say that?’
‘Perhaps because she’s grief mad.’
‘I don’t think so.’
Nathair sucked in a deep breath. ‘History is a peculiar thing, is it not? Take the giants, for example. Our histories tell us that they are the enemy. That they were wicked – evil, even – and that our ancestors’ war against them was righteous. That right was on our side. Is that not what our histories say?’
‘Aye,’ Veradis said, wondering where this was leading, ‘that is what our histories tell us.’
‘What if it was a lie?’
‘It isn’t,’ Veradis said without thinking.
‘How do you know that?’ Nathair asked him. ‘We were not there. No one whose word we value was there. We only have the ancient record, and that was written by our ancestors, the victors. The people that fought the giant clans and took their land.’
‘What of it?’ Veradis asked. He had an unpleasant feeling in his gut, part sickness, part fear.
‘I do not think that all giants are evil. Alcyon, for example. You would consider him a friend, even.’
‘I do,’ Veradis said.
‘So, perhaps those that wrote our histories were biased. Twisted the truth to suit their perspective, even.’
I’m sure Ektor would have an opinion on this but Krelis and I were always more comfortable with a blade in our hands than a book.
‘Why are we talking about this?’ Veradis asked.
‘What if those who wrote about the Scourging, about Elyon and Asroth, were equally as biased?’ Nathair looked at Veradis now, eyes bright with fervour. ‘What if the Ben-Elim were not the righteous ones, the Kadoshim not evil? What if they were just like the giants and us, two peoples fighting a war for their own ends, and the defeated were portrayed as the villains?’
‘No,’ Veradis said.
‘What if Kadoshim and Ben-Elim are just names.’
Veradis’ mind was reeling. He wanted Nathair to stop, the words feeling like a sudden flood in his mind, a river bursting its banks, changing the world as he knew it.
Or as I want to know it. What if Nathair’s right, all that we know a mixture of truth and lies. He mind was swept on by the thought, more and more truths coming into question.
‘Wait,’ he said aloud, shaking his head to try and bring some focus back. ‘What are you saying, Nathair? Are you telling me that Calidus is Kadoshim, not Ben Elim?’
Nathair turned from the window and looked at him, then nodded.
‘I am.’
‘Then all that we have done, believed, fought for . . .’ He looked into Nathair’s eyes. ‘A lie?’ He felt dizzy suddenly, his legs weak.
‘No,’ Nathair hissed. ‘Think, man. Nothing has changed. Right and wrong, they are just ideas in our heads, meaning that we give to our actions. Our friendship is still the same, our oaths to one another still stand. That is what we must cling to. Our goals and our vision are still the same. Nothing of import has changed.’
‘Nothing has changed,’ Veradis echoed.
‘Apart from the names,’ Nathair shrugged. ‘Ben-Elim, Kadoshim, Elyon, Asroth.’
‘Bright Star and Black Sun,’ Veradis said.
Nathair froze at that, his mouth a bitter twist. ‘Aye, that too.’ He shrugged. ‘We must accept the hard truth, even if it hurts at first.’
‘But what of Calidus? We saw him; he had wings. He is Ben-Elim.’
‘Oh, he has wings, but they are not made of white feathers,’ Nathair snorted. ‘What we saw in Telassar was a glamour.’
Veradis ground his palm into his forehead. This cannot be. Everything that we are has been devoted to this cause, and it is a lie.
He looked at Nathair, saw his face was a kaleidoscope of battling emotions. Scorn, shame, hope.
‘You are the Black Sun,’ Veradis said.
‘Whatever men call me, I shall rule, and rule well. You know that. I am still the same person, still your friend, and your king. Nothing but the titles we have imagined have changed.’
But that’s not true, is it?
‘Show me your hand,’ Veradis asked.
‘What?’
‘Your hand.’ Veradis held his own palm up, the scar of his oath to Nathair.
Slowly Nathair held his hand out, uncurled his fingers.
‘You have two scars now,’ Veradis observed. A seed of doubt and anger growing larger by the moment.
‘Aye. A man can make more than one oath.’
‘Who was it to?’
Nathair didn’t answer, made to pull his arm away, but Veradis gripped his wrist, held the palm open.
‘Who did you swear this oath to?’
‘Asroth,’ Nathair whispered.
Veradis threw Nathair’s arm as if it were a viper.
Betrayal, it is all betrayal. And lies upon lies. How can he not see that? What else has he hidden from me?
‘And you say nothing has changed,’ Veradis snarled, pulling away from him. ‘Everything has changed.’
‘Think on what I have said,’ Nathair pleaded, ‘on what is truth and lie. On our friendship.’
‘I need to get out, some air,’ Veradis mumbled. He was so furious he couldn’t even look at Nathair as he made for the door, slammed it open to see Calid
us striding towards him. Beside him walked a strange figure, a girl, tall, fair-haired and long-limbed. Something about her reminded Veradis of Tain, the giantling, though she appeared travel stained, half-dead, skeletally thin and shivering uncontrollably. They passed each other, Calidus’ eyes fixing Veradis as he went by.
He is Kadoshim. His skin goose-fleshed.
Calidus steered the girl into Nathair’s chamber.
A dozen paces along the corridor Veradis swayed, reached a hand out to the wall to steady himself. He heard Calidus’ voice.
‘You told him, then.’
‘Aye. It was time.’
‘He didn’t look as if he took it too well.’
‘What did you expect?’
‘Perhaps I should bring him back,’ Calidus said.
‘No, leave him. Where can he go? We are in the middle of Forn Forest. All will be well, he just needs some time to think it through, to readjust. He will be back of his own accord.’
‘We shall see.’
‘He must come back to me, our friendship is too strong. And I need him . . .’ That last was only a whisper.
‘And who is this?’ Nathair said, firmer again.
‘Answer your high king, child,’ Calidus said.
‘My name is Trigg, my lord,’ a frail voice replied.
‘And tell your King what you told me, Trigg,’ Calidus said. There was a new note in Calidus’ voice that Veradis had not heard before. Excitement.
‘I can take you to Drassil,’ the girl said. ‘I saw their secret way.’
‘And why should I trust you?’ Nathair asked her.
A silence settled, broken finally by the girl’s voice. ‘All my life I thought them my kin, my family,’ she muttered. ‘But they betrayed me, sent me away.’
‘What are you talking about, be clear, girl,’ Nathair snapped. ‘Why should I trust you?’
‘Because there are those in Drassil that I would see dead,’ the girl snarled.
Veradis pushed himself from the wall and strode away.
Traitors. It seemed the world was full of them.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
MAQUIN
Maquin sat in a cold cell with iron bars, off a corridor deep in the bowels of Brikan.
Life is strange, and cruel, he thought. It was not so long ago that I sat in the halls above, and ate, laughed and sang with Kastell and my Gadrai brothers. Orgull, Tahir . . .
The world has gone mad.
He was not alone in these cells. Earlier the giantess Raina and her bairn had been herded in and shut away at the very end. Maquin had heard them talking in giantish, like two landslides grating back and forth, and he had heard a sniffling sound which he had presumed was weeping. That had all ended some time ago, though, and since then the only sound had been the steady drip of water from walls.
A key rattled in a lock, the door at the end of the corridor swinging open and feet slapping on stone, splashing through puddles in the dank corridor, voices protesting. One of them making him stand and run to the bars.
Fidele.
She was being escorted into the corridor by eagle-guard, along with Krelis, Ektor and Peritus. At a glance it was clear that they were prisoners, their scabbards empty of swords.
The eagle-guard filed towards his cell, one of them muttering and rifling through a ring of keys. He stopped and opened the first cell, a few doors before Maquin’s, thrust Ektor into it, the young man spluttering at the indignity, moved on to the next cell, where Peritus was thrown, then the cell the other side of Maquin, placed Fidele in there, and finally the last one for Krelis.
The eagle-guard filed out without a word, looking somewhat shame-faced and confused at having locked their own Queen away.
‘Didn’t think I’d be seeing you down here,’ Maquin said, as close to Fidele’s cell as he could get.
‘As dark as things have become, my heart still skips to see you,’ her voice came back to him.
He reached a hand out through the bars and felt her fingers lace with his.
‘What happened?’ he said.
‘Nathair is a madman, that’s what happened,’ Krelis yelled, slamming his cell bars, sending a cloud of dust puffing into the corridor.
‘Something terrible,’ Fidele said, and proceeded to tell Maquin of the meeting with Nathair.
‘More like a sentencing, not even a trial,’ Krelis growled. ‘We should have fought in Tenebral, killed Lykos when we had the chance.’
I remember advising that exact course of action.
You are blinded by your thirst for revenge, Ektor had said. You’re not seeing clearly,
Not blinded. Driven.
Mind you, in light of the events in the tent, he does have a point.
‘And we should never have walked into that tent, then father would still be alive . . .’ Krelis was muttering.
‘Ifs and buts will not help us now,’ Ektor said from his cell. ‘We must think of a way out of this, else we’ll all end up in a group execution alongside Maquin.’
Comforting.
‘And Fidele, perhaps you should not have accused Calidus of being Kadoshim,’ Ektor said.
‘It is the truth.’
‘Like as not, you are right. I have suspected the same. But to stand and point a finger when you are surrounded by what, six, eight thousand men sworn to him and Nathair?’
‘Aye,’ Fidele muttered, ‘the timing could have been better, I’ll give you that.’
Kadoshim? The God-War that Orgull spoke of. Is there no escaping it? Will it suck us all into its jaws.
‘So what do we do?’ Krelis said. ‘How do we get out of here?’
‘We bide our time,’ Peritus said. ‘Hope for an opportunity, and if one presents itself, we seize it.’
If there is one.
The conversation went back and forth amongst them, daylight through a grate high in the wall slanting and fading to darkness. They spoke of Calidus, Ektor telling them of the giant scrolls and the hints they gave about the God-War, about Kadoshim and Ben-Elim, prophecies of fabled Drassil and the Seven Treasures.
‘Drassil. That is why they are here,’ Fidele said. ‘That is why they are tearing down trees and building roads through this forest. They are searching for it.’
Maquin heard something, a grunt, maybe. Then the key in the corridor’s door. It creaked open, footsteps, then Alben’s face was looking into their cells. He held the ring of keys in one hand, an array of swords under his other arm.
‘I found these in the guardroom,’ he said with a nod of his head. ‘Thought you might be needing them.’
He was greeted with a chorus of thanks.
‘We must be quick,’ Alben said, trying keys in Peritus’ door, the first not fitting, nor the second. The third did, the door opening with a click. The ageing battlechief stepped out and slid his sword into his scabbard.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Ektor asked from his cell. ‘With an apology we would most likely be forgiven in the morning. Now we will be fugitives.’
‘If that is so then why are gallows being built in the courtyard?’
There was a stunned silence at that.
‘That cannot be,’ Ektor breathed.
‘You’re welcome to stay in here and see,’ Alben said, ‘but I’d advise you to come with us.’ With another click Ektor’s door swung open.
‘I do not know what you did to fall so far from favour,’ Alben continued as he moved to Maquin’s cell, ‘but something is happening here.’ Alben tried keys in Maquin’s lock. ‘It is the middle of the night and warriors are mobilizing, thousands of them. Nathair’s warband are already beginning to march across the river.’
‘I named Calidus as being Kadoshim,’ Fidele said.
Maquin expected a shocked response from Alben.
The silver-haired healer paused with the keys and looked at Fidele. ‘Did you?’
‘I did. Please, Alben, before you call me mad, listen to—’
‘I believe you,’ Alben said.
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‘What? How?’ Fidele stuttered.
‘I am a friend to Meical,’ he said. ‘I have been waiting for this day for many years. The sides have formed, the line is drawn. The time to act is here.’
There was a thud behind him – Peritus falling to the floor. Alben spun around, the sword aimed for his head stabbing him between the shoulder and chest, blood erupting. He slid to the ground, Ektor tugging the blade free, standing over Alben, blood-spattered and breathing heavily.
‘What are you doing?’ Fidele screamed. Maquin lunged a hand through the bars, his fingers snaring around Ektor’s wrist, and heaving him into the cell bars. Ektor’s face crunched against iron, blood spurting from his nose, the sword dropping with a clang from his fingers. Maquin slipped his other arm through the gap, trying to get a grip around Ektor’s throat, but Ektor squirmed and lunged, panic fuelling him, and he tugged himself free of Maquin’s grip, staggering back, choking.
Alben reached for the sword but Ektor kicked him and snatched it up again, pointing the tip at Alben’s chest. Alben crawled backwards, away from him. He was bleeding heavily, looked to be on the verge of passing out.
‘Don’t worry, Alben, I’ll not kill you now. Calidus will be very interested in having a conversation with you, I think.’
Ektor looked at them all now, each standing at the bars of their cells, a self-satisfied smile spreading over his face.
‘I knew Meical had got to one of you,’ he breathed, wiping blood from a cut above his eye. ‘It has taken me years of patience to reach this moment. Calidus will reward me well for this.’
He stepped away from Alben and casually thrust his blade down into Peritus’ body.
Krelis screamed, ‘Ektor, you pale-faced little bastard . . .’ and hurled himself at the bars, tears running down his cheeks. ‘When I get out of here.’ He grabbed a bar and heaved, twisted, veins popping in his neck. The bar creaked in its setting, started to bend. Ektor chopped at Krelis’ fingers, the big man throwing himself backwards just in time.
‘Shut up, you oaf,’ Ektor snarled.
‘Ektor, what have you done?’ Fidele said.
‘Chosen wisely,’ Ektor sniffed, curling a lip at her. ‘You could have joined me. You still could.’
She spat at him through the bars.
‘You have sold your soul to the devil,’ Alben said from the floor.