by John Gwynne
Brina pulled her book out and thumped it onto the table.
‘A book?’ Corban muttered.
‘Ban, it’s important,’ Cywen said. The look on her face quelled the protest forming on his lips and he pulled up a chair.
‘All right then,’ he said. ‘Let’s hear it.’
Brina turned to a marked page, almost the last page, and pointed to a scrawl of old runes.
‘Cywen, read this for me; my old eyes . . .’
Cywen bent over the book.
‘Is e an coire an ghlais,’ she read.
She was always good with her letters, but now she actually sounds like a giant – the tone, inflection. If I closed my eyes she could be Laith.
‘The cauldron is the lock,’ Brina translated.
‘Is iad na se seoda eile an,’ Cywen continued.
‘The other six Treasures are the key.’ Brina spoke in a flat voice, her eyes never leaving Corban’s.
‘Na aris cheile is fiedir leo a bheith, go deo seachas nior clans aontu.’
‘Never again together can they be, forever apart did the clans agree.’
‘Uimh nios mo taobh le taobh faoi bhun an cran mor.’
‘No more side by side beneath the great tree.’
Corban sat back in his chair, a frown creasing his face, a sick feeling squirming in his belly.
‘Forever apart,’ he murmured.
Brina and Cywen stared at him, waiting.
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Corban said eventually. ‘Why would Balur bring the axe here?’
‘It has always niggled at me,’ Brina said, ‘but not as much as this. Why has Meical not ordered the starstone axe and spear taken to the far corners of the Banished Lands.’
Corban blinked, images filling his mind. Of a red-leafed maple, a high cliff, a dark tunnel . . .
Meical.
‘It is as if he is using them,’ Cywen said, ‘but for what?’
‘Bait,’ Corban muttered. He stood and strode to the door, Storm following him.
‘Where are you going?’ they both called after him.
‘To have a talk with Meical.’
Corban found Meical in the great hall, its sheer size making even the Ben-Elim appear small and insignificant. Apart from Meical and Corban the hall was empty, the silence in dawn’s gentle glow almost a physical thing, a silent beauty. Skald’s skeleton in its throne brooded close by, a malignant tumour spoiling the purity of the scene. Meical was standing beside one of the tunnel entrances, the one they had journeyed through, a smaller door within it open – all six of the tunnels were cleared now, a system of runners positioned in each one to relay news of any enemy sightings in Forn. Meical looked as if he was listening to, or for, something.
‘There were no Kadoshim,’ Corban said as he came to stand beside Meical. Storm peered into the small open door of the tunnel and cocked her head.
Meical blinked and looked at Corban, raising a questioning eyebrow.
‘In my dream. In the Otherworld. I climbed the cliff. You told me not to, because of the Kadoshim in the sky. But they were not there.’
‘Ah,’ Meical said, for a brief moment his face shifting with emotions before he stamped his cold face upon them. He turned to face Corban. ‘And what did you see?’
‘An entrance carved with runes, a torchlit corridor. A stone theatre, filled with the Ben Elim. With you.’
Meical breathed in a long, deep breath, pursed his lips, his silver scars wrinkling.
‘Soon, you said. What is it that you and your kin have waited aeons for?’
‘This time. These days. Now,’ Meical said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
‘No. It is more than that, Meical. Brina has read to me from a book – a giant’s book. About how the Treasures must be kept separate, never brought together again.’ He glanced at the spear transfixing Skald’s skeleton.
‘What is going on?’
Meical sighed, a long, sad exhalation. Something flitted across his face.
He looks ashamed. Corban felt his doubt grow, become something firmer.
‘You are hiding something from me,’ he said.
Again the long, cold stare. Eventually Meical turned away.
‘I cannot do this,’ he muttered.
Corban grabbed his wrist and pulled him back.
‘Cannot do what?’
‘Ach, this task I have been given; its cost is greater than I ever imagined.’
‘What do you mean?’ Corban asked.
Meical stared at him long, silent moments. Emotions tore at his cold face like waves against a sea wall, until finally it began to crumble, revealing something else in Meical’s eyes. A depth of sadness and regret that set a spark of fear in Corban’s gut.
‘Tell me,’ Corban whispered and Meical took a deep breath, then began to talk.
‘We are different from you, we Ben-Elim. We serve,’ he said. ‘We serve Elyon, that is our reason for existing. Duty. Honour. The joy of service to our Maker.’ He looked at Corban, a wistful smile twitching his lips. ‘He is beautiful to behold, is Elyon. To be in his presence would light a glow within your very being. Purity. Peace. And then Asroth destroyed that, took him from us.’ His face twisted in a snarl, hatred pulsing from it for a few powerful heartbeats, then the cold face was back. ‘But we continue to serve. Hoping that he sees our efforts, our devotion to him, even in his absence.’
‘It must have been very hard for you all, to be separated from him,’ Corban said.
‘Aye, it was. It still is. For a while we were lost, did not know what to do. But then we went back to what we did know, the only thing we had ever known. Serve him. So we looked to you, your race, this world. We never understood you. My kin still do not. But that did not matter, was not important. We knew that Elyon loved you, that he treasured you, valued you. Adored you. And that was enough for us. We did not need to understand you, only protect you for Elyon’s return. A gift that would symbolize our devotion to him.’ He looked at Corban and nodded hopefully, willing Corban to understand.
‘And you have done that,’ Corban said.
Meical’s face shifted again, as if every emotion that he had ever felt was finally reaching the surface of his skin, eroding and breaking through the wall he had built.
‘You understand, we did not comprehend you – mankind, I mean? My kin. Me. I am the only one of my kind to have lived amongst you. It has been . . . revealing. You are a race of great passions. So much of everything. A remarkable species. And you most of all, Corban.’ He looked at Corban, something between admiration and affection flickering across his features. ‘You have accomplished truly amazing things, and earned the love and devotion of so many.’
Corban shrugged at that, feeling uncomfortable, as he always did when he was the subject of discussion. ‘Meical, you sound as if you are making some kind of apology.’
‘I am,’ Meical said. ‘I am truly sorry.’
‘I think I know and I understand,’ Corban said. ‘You’ve taken a risk, used the Treasures as bait to lure Asroth’s Black Sun out. Rather than hiding the Treasures and taking the chance that they could be found in a moon or a year or a decade, you’ve risked all on a confrontation where you hope to defeat his champion decisively.’
Meical was staring at him now, his intensity almost unbearable.
‘Yes, well done, Corban. You are right, or at least on the right path. But that is only part of it.’
‘What do you mean?’
Meical put a hand to his face. ‘I never knew how hard this task would be. To live amongst you, to form bonds of friendship, to see your sacrifices, your deeds of love and valour. I think, out of all of my kin, that I am the only one who understands Elyon’s love for your race. And that is why I cannot deceive you any longer.’
He lowered his hand and faced Corban, his features racked with pain.
‘Forgive me, Corban.’ A single tear rolled from Meical’s eye.
Corban was confused. Felt the seed of fear in his g
ut grow.
‘Forgive you for what, exactly? Meical, you are scaring me now. You have set a trap, used us, which is a little underhand, I have to admit. But it does make sense . . .’
‘No, Corban, you do not understand. It is all a trap,’ Meical breathed. ‘Us here, the Treasures, the prophecy . . .’
‘The prophecy? How can that be a trap?’
‘It is not true.’
Corban thought he’d misheard.
‘What?’ he said.
‘The prophecy is not real. It is not of Elyon. I wrote it.’
Corban felt as if he’d been punched, the sick feeling he’d felt earlier spreading like an infection through his veins.
‘But that’s impossible.’
‘No. I know. I wrote it. I made it up. Elyon did not choose you, Corban – I did.’
‘No, it cannot be. There are things in it that you could not know . . .’ Corban’s mind was reeling; he felt dizzy, as if the ground were moving beneath his feet. He struggled to cling to something, to understand.
‘Aye, that is true,’ Meical said, his brow furrowing. ‘Which gives me hope. Perhaps Elyon is stirring at last. Is noticing. Is becoming involved . . .’ He shrugged. ‘What I do know is that I wrote it with my own hand. But not all of it. The core of it came from me, whispered to Halvor, the giant, voice of Skald, as he dream-walked the Otherworld. But it has grown, become many times what I planted in his mind. But that is common, is it not? A tale is told, it will travel a hundred holds and villages, and when you hear it next the hero who slew the giant has now slain a giant clan, and draigs as well.’ He shrugged. ‘It did not matter, as long as the core remained the same.’
‘But why? Why would you do this?’
‘Because Asroth is predictable in his evil and his scheming. We knew he would strike at you, attempt to destroy Elyon’s most beloved creation, an act of spite and malice against his Maker. But we did not know when; we did not know how. So we used the prophecy to lure him, but also to guide him. To control him. We gave him a path for his great malice to follow.’
‘I do not understand,’ Corban growled, rubbing his temples, anger beginning to boil within him. ‘Speak plainly.’
Storm raised her head to look at Meical, her top lip curling back in a silent growl.
‘Asroth hates Elyon, with a passion few could even imagine. But he also loves him, in a deep, hidden place. Despite everything, Elyon is still Asroth’s Maker. We must never forget that. And Asroth trusts Elyon. Believes him. We knew that once he saw the prophecy, if he believed it was of Elyon’s making, he would never doubt it. And he has not. He has followed it like a rule book – chosen his champion, sought out the Treasures. And now he will come here.’
Corban staggered, reached out to grip something, anything. He put his hand upon the shaft of Skald’s spear and retched, bile splashing onto the stone floor.
‘Truth and courage,’ he whispered bitterly as he cuffed bile from his chin. He stood straighter, glared at Meical. ‘What of that? How could you do this to us? Lie to us like this?’
‘You have to understand, this was a strategic decision. We are unused to emotion. Remember, we are duty, we are honour. We viewed you as a race, a collective, not as individuals. As the stakes of an age-old conflict. What matter if a few of you were sacrificed along the way, as long as the majority were saved? It seemed logical, the obvious choice. For the greater good.’
‘The greater good,’ Corban whispered. ‘My mam, da, Tukul – all died believing they were fighting for something more than this . . .’
Meical held up a hand. ‘I do not say that I condone this now. I don’t. I regret much.’ He shook his head. ‘I have never felt shame before, regret, but I do now. I have come to respect you, Corban, to feel genuine kinship for you, and your companions. Love, you would call it. That is why I am telling you now. I . . .’ He paused, mouth twisting. ‘I care for you, for your companions, feel something of Elyon’s great love for you. I cannot bear to deceive you any longer. But the path is set, too late to change it now. We must see it through.’
‘What path? There is yet more to this?’
Meical nodded, avoiding Corban’s gaze.
‘You just said you would deceive me no longer,’ Corban snapped, ‘or was that another lie?’
Meical flinched as if from a blow. ‘You remember Coralen’s straw men in Narvon? The distraction that allowed us to sink the fleet and steal the ships?’
‘Aye.’
‘This is the same.’
‘How so? In what way? You are still speaking in riddles.’
‘I cannot tell you any more. I have sworn to my kin.’
Corban turned away, took a dozen paces, wanting nothing more than to get away, to find somewhere alone where he could curl up and hold his head and wish it all away. He stopped, spun on his heel and strode to Meical.
‘I am not the Bright Star?’
‘There is no Bright Star. No Black Sun,’ Meical whispered. ‘Apart from the ones of our own making.’
‘That is why you did not want me to accept Jael’s challenge and fight the duel.’ Corban shook his head, the myriad implications and consequences staggering him. ‘What of truth and courage?’ he hissed.
‘I never said that to you,’ Meical said, looking away. ‘I could not say it to you. But in a way you are the Bright Star, as much as any man is anything. As real as any king. Because people have chosen to believe it.’
‘That does not make it so,’ Corban snarled.
You think not?’ Meical asked pleadingly. ‘We are what we choose to be. What makes a king a king? Is there something different about him? Does special, sacred blood run in his veins? No. He is chosen; he believes it, and the people believe. He rises to the task, or he fails it.’ He shrugged. ‘It is no different with you. And you have risen to the task, of that there is no doubt, surpassed it in every way. You are a testament to the power of belief. To what can be achieved through combining belief with will.’ He smiled, a faint, rueful thing. ‘What you have done is truly staggering.’
Corban was shaking with fury. ‘I have been lied to. Deceived. Danced to the tune of a prophecy that does not exist.’ He felt his hand reaching for his sword hilt, a rage such as he had never known filling him, fuelled by a bottomless despair. ‘And worse, you have made a liar out of me. I have lied to these people, fed them a deception hatched by power-mad immortal bairns.’ He yelled those last words, spittle flying, Storm rising to her feet with a growl, her hackles bristling. His fist closed around his sword hilt as Meical stood and looked down upon him, a world of sorrow scribed across his face, leaking from his eyes.
‘I am sorry,’ Meical whispered.
‘Sorry? We have armies coming to slaughter us. The only hope we had was based on a lie. My people will die – and you’re sorry?’
Corban released his sword hilt as if it had bitten him.
‘I cannot stand to look at you,’ he said and strode away, heading for the nearest exit, which happened to be the small door in the tunnel. He walked through it into the flickering torchlight and dampness of the underground passage and marched furiously on, Storm padding behind him. He glanced back before he rounded a bend and saw Meical’s blurred silhouette standing in the doorway. He turned his face from the Ben-Elim and, crying angry tears, he carried on into the darkness.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
RAFE
Rafe was exhausted. He had run, walked, staggered, crawled his way through the marshlands for over a ten-night. At one point he had collapsed, thought he was just going to lie there until he died, but Scratcher and Sniffer had licked, pawed, nibbled and dragged him back to consciousness. If spring had not arrived and brought with it milder weather he would have died. But instead he lived, and walked.
He was a good huntsman, and even in the horizon-spanning marshes he was able to find his way back, eventually one cool morning finding the river that flowed past Morcant’s Tower, as he had come to think of it.
A pale mist la
y over the land, rising up from the marshes to creep a little way up the hill that the tower was built upon. The sun was already burning it away, though.
The dogs ran ahead of him, seemingly as pleased as him to be out of the marshes, and they must have been sighted from the tower, for horns rang out, announcing his arrival.
Figures came out of the gates as he walked up the hill; all he could think about a warm meal and a soft bed. Then the dogs came running back to him, both of them with their ears flat and tails tucked.
He paused and looked at the figures coming out of the gate.
Something was very wrong there – one towered above the other, so either one was a dwarf and the other normal sized, or one was a giant . . .
Elyon’s stones, it’s Rhin. Not the person I most wanted to see. And she’s got a giant with her!
Queen Rhin stood before him, a giant with grey hair and a spear the size of an oar stood beside her.
‘I take it it’s not good news,’ Rhin said.
‘News?’ Rafe said.
‘You’re the only one back,’ Rhin said impatiently, then looked at him quizzically. ‘Has the marsh stolen your wits?’
‘Hungry, thirsty,’ Rafe mumbled.
‘Yes, of course.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Feed him, give him something to drink – not alcohol, he’ll most likely sleep for a week – then bring him to me.’
Rafe was escorted to a huge tent on the meadow beside the tower and enclosure. Tents were everywhere, hundreds of them, warriors in Rhin’s black and gold. Rafe also saw giants, at least a score of them together.
Strange days, strange days.
Scratcher and Sniffer walked with him, but they wouldn’t enter Rhin’s tent, just bounded off together as he walked in. That might have been because of the giant outside the tent entrance – not the one he’d seen earlier, but one that looked even more fierce if possible, a huge axe slung over his shoulder and a moustache that Rafe could have swung from.
It was cool inside the tent, not dark, but dim. Rhin sat at a table, behind her the grey-haired giant that had accompanied her earlier.
‘Feel better?’ Rhin asked him.
‘Aye. Thank you,’ he said, remembering his manners a little late. ‘My Queen,’ he added.