by John Gwynne
Edana had stopped in a secluded grove by the stream, trees to one side, a thick bed of reeds blocking her way. She was resting a hand on her thigh, bent over the stream, looked as if she’d just vomited.
Roisin entered the glade, paused, then walked closer.
‘Edana, are you well?’ Roisin asked her.
‘No,’ Edana said. ‘I’ve just killed a man.’ She patted her sword hilt and Camlin saw the blood upon it.
‘During difficult times, difficult things must be done,’ Roisin said, walking steadily closer to Edana. Camlin noticed her hand rested upon a knife at her belt.
Edana stood straighter at that.
‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘So. I take it you have come to kill me.’ It was not a question.
‘What?’ Roisin spluttered, drawing to a halt. ‘Don’t be absurd.’
Camlin reached for one of his last arrows.
‘Absurd? Maybe. All of this war and hunting and betraying and killing – it can take its toll on trust in the end, can’t it?’
‘Aye,’ Roisin said, voice a whisper.
‘I apologize if I have insulted you,’ Edana continued. ‘Put it down to battle-fatigue.’
‘No insult,’ Roisin said. ‘Rather, a display of your intelligence. In another life we could have been friends, I think. We have much in common. But in this life you are just in my way – too popular, and that is growing daily. Even my only son adores you.’
She sighed.
‘Cian, Brogan, please.’
Her shieldmen drew their swords and advanced on Edana.
‘Roisin, you don’t need to do this,’ Edana said as she retreated before the two shieldmen.
‘I’m afraid I do. Without you around Pendathran is my man. This warband will be mine, for my son, of course.’
‘I think you are too used to killing anyone you consider a potential threat.’
Roisin nodded. ‘You’re probably right, but better a potential threat dead than a definite one still alive. That philosophy has worked well for me so far.’
Edana stumbled into the bank of reeds and stopped.
‘This gives me no pleasure,’ Cian said as he raised his sword above Edana’s head. Then Brogan stabbed him through the back, his blade bursting out of Cian’s chest, spattering Edana in a red mist.
Men stepped out from the reeds and trees. Halion, Vonn and Lorcan.
‘You are my shieldman,’ Roisin hissed at Brogan.
‘Aye,’ Brogan said sadly, pulling his blade free as Cian slipped to the ground. ‘But only because of your son. I am his man, Domhain’s man, not yours.’
Roisin screeched her rage, then looked to her son.
‘It was for you,’ she said pleadingly. ‘I was doing it for you.’
Lorcan looked at her coldly. ‘No, Mother, you were doing it because you are jealous. Because you love power. But you go too far.’
‘So,’ Roisin said, looking back to Edana, standing straight, regal again. ‘What will you do with me? Trial? Prison? Exile?’
‘Exile,’ Edana said, her mouth a straight, hard line.
Roisin’s face twitched, a bitter smile at first, then a tremble of the lips.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said.
‘Betrayal,’ Edana said, her lips twisting as if the very word made her sick. ‘I am so tired of people close to me seeking to betray me,’ she continued. ‘I have lost patience with it. Your days here are done.’
‘This is absurd,’ Roisin said, ‘a misunderstanding.’
‘All here heard you,’ Edana said.
‘Please,’ Roisin whispered.
‘Halion will take you from here, leave you where you will never find us again.’
Halion drew a cloth from his belt.
‘You would blindfold me and abandon me?’ Roisin said. Leave me all alone?’
‘Better than you would have done for me,’ Edana replied.
Roisin ran to her son, grabbed his hand. ‘Please,’ she said.
‘I love you, Mam, but I could not let you murder Edana. I love her.’
‘I’m your mother,’ Roisin hissed.
‘Aye, you are, but you should not have made me choose,’ he said.
‘Argh,’ Roisin screamed, scratching at Lorcan’s cheeks.
Lorcan turned his face away.
She staggered to Halion, grabbed his leather vest.
‘Please, help me.’
‘You murdered my mam. Gave her poison intended for me and Conall,’ he said, face cold and hard.
‘Mercy,’ Roisin said. Her eyes swept the glade in desperation, fell upon Cian’s body, his sword in the grass beside him. Before any could stop her she leaped into motion and swept it up. She held it two-handed, pointing the tip at Edana, her feet moving as if it wasn’t the first time she’d held a blade.
Halion moved towards her.
‘Hold,’ Edana shouted and Halion froze.
‘Fight me,’ Roisin said. ‘Exile in these marshes is a death sentence, you all know it.’
‘Edana doesn’t need to fight you,’ Halion said. ‘She is Queen. She commands.’
Fight me now in the court of swords,’ Roisin snarled at Edana, ‘show the backbone a queen needs; or are you a coward, happy to let others do your dirty work?’
Edana hesitated.
‘I always knew that you were just talk, a spoilt, shallow child,’ Roisin spat.
Edana drew the sword at her hip. Blood was still upon it.
‘No,’ Halion and Vonn called out, both of them moving in.
‘Step back,’ Edana snarled, eyes fixed upon Roisin. They paused, then reluctantly did so.
Roisin twirled the sword in her hand. ‘Three older brothers who used to use me for practice,’ she said, a thin smile twitching her lips. Then she rushed at Edana, who blocked, retreated, parried again, stepped to the side and punched Roisin in the mouth.
Roisin staggered back, spat blood. ‘You’ll regret that, you little bi—’
Edana lunged forwards, deflected Roisin’s hurried block and chopped her sword into Roisin’s wrist. Blood spurted and Roisin screamed, collapsed to her knees, staring at Edana in surprise.
Edana stood above her, blade raised high, tip pointed at Roisin’s heart, quivering. A long silence stretched. ‘You lose,’ Edana said, lowering her sword. ‘Halion, get her out of my sight.’
Looks like the princess has grown up.
As Halion moved forward Camlin lowered his bow and slid his arrow back into his quiver. Then he looked about the glade, realized one of their number was missing.
Where’s Vonn?
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
EVNIS
Evnis stumbled along the stream bank, pushing through tall reeds and hanging branches. The sun was sinking, a mist rising from the water, swirling lazily onto the bank. He was shivering, soaked to the skin, the clothes of his left side burned black, the skin on the back of his hand and the left side of his face prickling with pain.
But I still have my life. I will get out of this swamp, wait for the warband from Dun Carreg. He shook his head. Outwitted by that little bitch Edana, the humiliation. It must have been someone else’s plan – Pendathran, maybe. He was there, I saw him. And, let’s look on the positive side, with any luck Morcant’s dead.
He saw a movement up ahead, a flash of grey fur, disappearing amongst a reedbed.
A hound? Rafe? He’ll be able to get me out of this stinking dung hole.
He had lost everyone, his boat speeding after Edana so intent on catching her that he hadn’t seen the empty boat being pushed with poles straight into his vessel – not until it was too late, anyway. And then the flames. Jumping overboard had seemed the only sensible thing to do, particularly in light of the fact that his whole left side had been on fire.
Oh, the pain . . .
Somehow he had made it to shore, though he’d lost his sword along the way – a knife still hung from his belt.
Not that it will do me any good.
He’d lain up
on the lake shore for a while, covered in cold, sticking mud, which had eased the pain of his burns, somehow, and watched the chaos and carnage as his warband had been systematically set on fire and slaughtered.
Nothing like fire to cause a good panic. I must remember that.
Slowly a measure of strength had returned to him as he lay upon the lake shore, and the idea of running and living had grown in his mind. So that is what he had done. As the screams of his warband had rung out through the marshes, most of them already fleeing and the hunt beginning, he had dragged himself to his feet and run. The running hadn’t lasted that long, exhaustion seeming to be never more than a few paces away, but he ran long enough to take him into cover.
And he was still trudging on. Occasionally he heard a scream ring out, usually it was cut short, he didn’t know whether it had been the swamp or more human dangers that had finished it – neither thought was encouraging. He walked in the general direction that he thought he’d seen the hound, though he didn’t see it again.
There was a fluttering above. He looked up and saw a black crow circling above him.
I’m not dead yet.
He walked on, slowly the sun sinking into the west until it was just a ball of bronze melting into the horizon. He heard the flap of wings again, closer this time, and looked up. The crow was now sitting on the branch of an alder a dozen paces ahead. It was the scruffiest crow he’d ever seen, feathers poking out at angles, a patch of skin visible here and there.
‘Wait here,’ the crow said to him.
He stopped and stared at it.
Did I just imagine that?
The bird flapped into the air, seeming to take a lot of effort.
‘Don’t leave,’ it squawked down at him.
Usually this would have struck him as strange, but after the day he’d had, he just sat down.
He was starting to doze off when he heard footsteps and a man appeared – a warrior, tall, fair-haired, stern lines to his face and serious pale blue eyes.
Vonn.
‘Father,’ Vonn said.
Evnis stood, not easily, his body stiffening from his brief rest.
‘There was a time when I thought I’d never see you again,’ Evnis said.
‘I have thought of little else but this meeting,’ Vonn replied, a half-smile upon his lips. ‘Though I did not imagine it here, under these circumstances.’ He looked closer at Evnis. ‘Father, you are shivering.’
‘Yes, I am,’ Evnis said, not knowing what else to say.
Vonn unclasped his cloak and wrapped it around Evnis’ shoulders. It was Ardan’s grey.
‘I’d best not go back to Dun Carreg with this on,’ Evnis said.
‘You could,’ Vonn answered, stepping back a pace.
‘I don’t think Rhin would approve,’ Evnis snorted.
‘You could ride back to Dun Carreg with Edana, her warband at your back.’ He hesitated. ‘Your son at your side.’
‘And Rhin? The Queen of the west, conqueror of Ardan, Narvon and Domhain. What of her? What do you think she would think of that?’
‘Rhin be damned,’ Vonn snarled. ‘She is overstretched, tried to conquer more than she can rule. Ardan is ready for Edana’s return.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ Evnis said wearily. ‘Rhin has powerful allies. To go against her is to die.’
‘You’re wrong.’
‘I am not wrong.’ Evnis felt his anger stirring, memories of his last argument with Vonn. He was convinced of his own opinion then, as well.
‘I’d hoped you had changed, had grown up,’ Evnis said. ‘That life’s hardships would have disabused you of your infantile notions of honour.’ Even as he said the words he regretted the way he said them, angry, impatient, patronizing.
‘I have grown up, learned many lessons,’ Vonn said sadly. ‘The main lesson I learned is that I think I have many more lessons yet to come.’ He didn’t meet venom with venom, which in itself was a change.
‘Perhaps you have,’ Evnis mused. ‘But that doesn’t change the facts. Rhin is on the winning side. That is partly why I have chosen her. She will not lose. Any resistance will only be fleeting. And why would I want to welcome Edana back? Daughter of the man who condemned your mother to death. Why would I want Edana to rule Ardan again, when it is mine already? I sit in Brenin’s throne. I rule from Dun Carreg. Why would I give it up?’
‘For me. Because it is the right thing to do. Rhin is evil. Father, what do you know of this God-War? Of the Seven Treasures?’
‘Only a little,’ Evnis lied, shrugging.
‘I have heard things,’ Vonn said. ‘Of the cauldron, of a gathering in Drassil, within Forn Forest. Of a need to find the Seven Treasures.’
‘I know a little about it,’ Evnis said. ‘But this is not really the time or place to discuss it.’ Twilight was settling about them. A mosquito buzzed in Evnis’ ear.
‘There was a necklace in your secret room,’ Vonn said.
‘Aye. With my book, which you stole.’
‘I did. I am sorry for that. I wanted to hurt you.’
Well, at least he’s honest.
‘You did hurt me. Can I have it back?’
‘I don’t have it any more.’
‘That’s not good. It’s a powerful, dangerous book. Who does have it?’
‘Brina.’
Oh, just wonderful.
‘There was something else in there,’ Vonn said. ‘A necklace with a black stone.’
Evnis said nothing.
‘Is it still there?’ Vonn asked.
‘Why?’
‘I think it is one of the Seven Treasures. Nemain’s necklace.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Evnis said.
I had thought exactly the same thing.
‘And if it were, what does that mean to you, anyway.’
‘Corban needs it, in Drassil.’
‘Corban – that arrogant fool.’
Corban is the Bright Star.’
‘What? Where have you heard such things? Who have you been talking to?’
For the first time Vonn looked a little unsure of himself. ‘Craf,’ he said quietly.
‘Who’s Craf?’
Vonn looked up, at the crow in the branches above him.
‘A bird,’ Evnis said.
‘Craf’s very intelligent,’ Vonn said, a little defensively.
‘Craf clever,’ the bird muttered above them.
He actually is, Evnis thought, for he seems to know more about this than I do, and I’ve been studying it all of my life.
‘Vonn, this is all very interesting – more than that, important. But this is not the place to discuss it. Please, come with me. Be my son again. I am sorry for the way things happened, the night Dun Carreg fell. I am sorry for the rift between us, for arguing, sorry that Bethan died . . .’
As he said the girl’s name he saw pain flutter across Vonn’s face.
‘I ask your forgiveness for my part in it, and I hope that you can see I did not intend harm to come to her. I was acting out of what I saw to be our best interests. I betrayed our King, I know, but he betrayed me, betrayed us. Refused aid that would have saved my Fain, your mother . . .’
Words choked in his throat for a moment.
It never fails to surprise me how close the pain is.
‘I want you to come back to me. Come back with me. Share my victory, help me rule Ardan, be my battlechief, my first-sword, my son.’
Please say yes, Vonn. Please, I beg you. If you do not . . .
Vonn was looking at Evnis with tears in his eyes.
‘I cannot, Father. I would ask the same of you. Come with me, back to Dun Crin. I have hated you for that night in Dun Carreg, but I can understand the currents of your heart. Mother . . .’ He paused, swallowed. ‘I can forgive you for that night, but not for continuing on this path. Please, come back with me.’
Evnis felt such a wave of emotion, like a great hand tugging at strings attached to his heart, that he almost said yes, jus
t to make Vonn happy. But then the feeling subsided, enough for him to see clearly.
I have come too far, done too much. He looked at his palm, traced the decades-old scar there. I have made an oath, sworn my soul . . .
‘I cannot,’ he said, grave and solemn.
Vonn’s face fell.
‘Then here we must say farewell,’ Vonn said. ‘And for my part, I hope that I do not meet you upon the field of battle.’ He turned and walked away.
That is highly unlikely, Evnis thought, hardening his heart as he drew his knife from his belt, quickly following his son, a few paces behind, knife rising.
Please understand, I cannot allow my own son, my only son, to openly oppose me, to stand with Rhin’s enemies. It will bring me shame and ruin in this new life I am carving.
Then something hit him in the chest, felt like a punch, and he staggered, stopped.
Vonn spun around, seeing Evnis’ raised fist, the knife in it.
They both looked at Evnis’ chest together.
A long-shafted arrow stuck from it, blood welling about the entry point, right above Evnis’ heart. He opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn’t get his lungs and vocal cords to work together. Breath hissed out of his mouth. His legs felt weak and he stumbled forwards, felt a numb jolt, realized he had dropped to his knees.
Is this dying?
He toppled onto his face, his son’s boots filling his vision, darkness like a tunnel shrinking in upon him. He heard a voice, distant but terrifying, whispering, calling to him, remembered it from a night long ago when he had sworn an oath in a forest glade.
Asroth.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
CYWEN
‘You’re joking?’ Cywen said to Farrell, almost feeling angry with him that he would make up such a stupid thing at such a serious time.
The hospice was full to overflowing with injured warriors. Cywen, Brina and the team they’d put together numbered nearly three score and they were still hard-pushed to treat everyone who staggered in or was carried through the wide doors.
Farrell was the first person to enter the hospice without an injury that needed treating, although that wasn’t quite true. He had his fair share of cuts and scrapes and bruises, just nothing that would lead to imminent death or disablement if he wasn’t treated immediately.