by John Gwynne
Meical nodded to himself, as if coming to a silent decision. ‘Leave ten men here, then, but the rest of you – you should not stay. Instead of waiting for the Seren Disglair to come to you, you should go to him. He is in danger. He needs you.’
‘Go to him,’ Tukul repeated, feeling his blood surge in his veins. A grin spread across his face. ‘Hah, did you hear?’ he cried, turning a full circle to take in all those about him.
‘What think you, old friend?’ Meical said. ‘Do you agree?’
‘Agree? Yes, we agree,’ he shouted, as all around him his people drew their swords and brandished their curved blades at the sky with ululations. ‘Make ready,’ he cried, ‘for on the morrow we march to the Seren Disglair.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CYWEN
Cywen took aim, the tip of her knife blade tickling her back, then threw. With a satisfying thud the knife sank into her target, a battered post in the garden. Without taking her eyes from it, she drew another blade from the belt at her waist, aimed and threw. Then she did it again. And again.
When her belt was empty she strode to the post and started pulling the knives free, sliding them back into the pockets in her belt. Twenty in total. After the night Dun Carreg had fallen she’d vowed to never run out of knives again. These she had found in a barrel by the kitchen door, rusted and notched, part of her da’s to-do pile. All the best knives, usually kept in a drawer in her mam’s room, were gone. Taken by her mam, she supposed.
Her mam. She still could not even think of her mam without feeling her guts twist. She was not dead, of that she was certain, she’d searched the fortress from one end to another, made herself look at the face of every corpse piled within the walls. Her mam, Corban, Gar – they were not there. Rumours swept the fortress about Edana: she was in hiding, had fled west, south, north. One thing was certain. She had not died in the battle, and people had whispered of Corban being seen with her during the conflict.
They are alive, and together, I am sure of it. She leaned her head against the knife post, felt splinters of wood scratch her nose. Buddai whined, curled in the shade beneath an apple tree. She felt a tear run down her cheek, tasted salt as it reached her lips.
Four nights had passed since she had woken in the courtyard before Stonegate, each one a blur of tears and loneliness, of restless, dream-filled misery. The first night she had tried sleeping in her bed, but had woken up cuddling tight to Buddai in front of the kitchen fire. After that she had just settled there with the hound every night. Somehow it helped, just a little. Why did they leave me? They had no choice, she thought instantly, probably thought me dead. But it still hurt, the sense of abandonment lurking beneath all else, always there. Then into her pain had come a ray of hope. Yesterday she had finished scouring every hand-span of the fortress, her path taking her past the well shaft. In a rush she had remembered the tunnels – what if her kin were hiding in them, waiting for her. The thought had caused a stab of longing so intense that she physically stumbled. It could be true – there was no explanation of how so many had escaped, and Corban knew of the tunnels. Perhaps they were down there now, waiting. Just the thought had almost set her feet running, but there were red-cloaks everywhere, most with the same goal in mind as hers – finding the escapees. She had to wait for a better time to go searching for them.
Buddai growled.
She turned, saw a form standing in the doorway to her house, a deeper shadow in the gloom of the kitchen.
‘Don’t stop on my account,’ a voice said, the figure stepping out into the sunshine. Conall.
She snarled, instinctively reaching for a knife.
‘There’s no need for that, now,’ Conall said, holding a hand up. ‘The battle’s long finished.’ He smiled. ‘Besides, it did you no good last time you tried to stick me with one of your pins – won’t be any different this time.’ He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword, lightly, but Cywen had no doubt that he could have it drawn in the blink of an eye. She’d seen how fast he was.
‘How’d you get in here?’ she asked.
‘Your door was open.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’
‘I mean it wasn’t locked – same thing.’ He shrugged. ‘So, are you going to try some more target practice on me?’
‘You tried to kill me.’
‘True. In my defence, you also tried to kill me. I’m prepared to let that go.’ He brushed his cheek, where a huge bruise was fading green. ‘Me, I’m quick to forgive.’
‘Quick to anger is what I’ve heard,’ Cywen muttered.
‘Aye, that as well.’ He grinned.
I’ve heard people say the same about me, she thought.
‘What do you want?’ she said.
‘Someone wants to speak to you.’
‘Who?’
‘Someone important. Come and see.’
She thought about it. ‘No.’ She wiggled another knife free from the post and slid it into her belt.
Conall sighed. ‘See, this reminds me of something my mam used to say to me every time she wanted me to take a bath. Goes something like this: we can do this one of two ways – the easy way or the hard way – either way it’s still going to happen. Your choice.’ He took a few steps into the garden. Buddai growled and padded closer to Cywen.
Conall scowled at the hound, his grip closing around his sword hilt. ‘I’m starting to get bored with this, lass. And if that dog tries to put his teeth in me it’ll be the last thing he does. Come along now.’
‘Who wants to see me? Evnis?’
‘He’ll be there, but it’s not him as asked for you. That would be Nathair. A king, no less. You should be honoured. Now come on – I’ll not be asking again.’
Nathair. What does he want? Against her better judgement Cywen was curious. ‘All right,’ she muttered. ‘I can always kill you another time.’
‘Very kind of you,’ said Conall.
‘It’s only because I’m too tired to bury your corpse,’ she said as she strode up to him.
He took a step back and placed a hand protectively over his groin. ‘Not too close,’ he said. ‘I saw what you did to Helfach’s boy in the hall the other day. Me, I’m very fond of my stones.’
She hid a grin of her own as she walked through the kitchen and out of her front door, Buddai at her heels.
The cobbled streets were mostly in shadow as she walked through the fortress, the sun setting low, a pink glow reflecting off high clouds. As she passed the stables she scanned the paddocks, quickly finding Shield, Corban’s skewbald stallion; he whinnied at her. Over the last few days she had frequently found herself back at the stables, had immersed herself in her old chores, for a small time burying the pain of the present in unthinking habit. No one had stopped her or complained, despite the red-cloaks that now ran the stables. Workers were in high demand. And while she was there she overheard conversations, news of the outside world. She picked apart every word that she heard, desperate for some clue to her family’s whereabouts.
The gossip on everyone’s lips was that Rhin had apparently invaded Narvon, sacked Uthandun and was even now camped on the far side of the Darkwood. Preparing to invade Ardan, no doubt. Good, Cywen had thought. I hope she takes Owain’ head. Although, to be honest, she hated Rhin as much as Owain. More, if possible. Rhin had been behind all of this, had been the hand pulling the strings, guiding others towards all of this tragedy. She had a memory of the Darkwood, of Ronan slipping through her arms, of trying to stop the blood pumping from the wound in his throat, literally trying to stop his life from leaking out of him. She blinked, her eyes hot, her vision blurred.
Owain was mustering his forces against Rhin. At the moment they were spread throughout Ardan, combating a scattered resistance across the land – remnants of Dalgar’s warband that had been routed on the plains about Dun Carreg. If there is any justice in this world, Owain and Rhin will kill each other. She snorted to herself, knowing the only justice she would get would be the one she made. With a shar
p knife.
They reached the courtyard before the great hall. The mound of corpses had been reduced to a charred heap of twisted bone and ash. Nearby was a dark pile of dung, much bigger than any horse could leave. Cywen had seen the creature that had deposited it, a draig, led through the streets of Dun Carreg by Nathair. She shivered at the thought of it, not even fully grown, but still the most terrifying thing she had ever seen. Lizard-like, its torso had been low to the ground, carried on four bowed legs with curved, raking claws. A broad, flat skull and a square jaw with protruding, razored teeth, a thick tongue flickering. But it was the eyes that chilled her – no liquid, warm intelligence there, like her beloved horses. Its eyes had been small, dull, black. Merciless, a killer’s eyes. Conall picked up his pace and strode past her, entering the great hall first. He ignored the red-cloaked guards that stared at them both.
As they passed deeper into the keep, Cywen began to notice more of the same black-cloaked warriors that had stormed Stonegate. At first they appeared as shadows, merging with the walls, but as her eyes adjusted to the gloom she saw more and more of them, spread about the hallways. She could feel their eyes on her.
‘Here we are,’ Conall said to her, stopping before a door that had two more warriors standing before it. He looked down at Buddai. ‘That hound can’t come in.’
‘He’ll howl if he doesn’t. He’s no danger to anyone, unless they’re a danger to me. I’m not in danger, am I?’ She smiled sweetly.
‘No. All right then, but I will have your belt, please.’
Cywen just looked at him.
‘I’ve seen how you handle a knife,’ Conall said. ‘There is no way that you are going to take them in there.’
‘What do you think I am? Suicidal?’ Cywen snapped, eyes drawn to the silent warriors staring at her.
‘Maybe.’ Conall shrugged. ‘I’ve never understood women. The belt.’
Grumbling, Cywen undid it and held it out.
‘Any more? I’ll search you if I have to.’
Cywen scowled, bent over and pulled a knife from each boot, and another strapped to her arm.
‘Thank you,’ Conall said with a smile. Passing the knives to one of the guards, he entered the room. Cywen followed.
Three men stood inside: Nathair, Sumur his guard and Evnis. Cywen concentrated on Nathair, ignoring the other two. He was lean, muscular, with a strength about him, in his gaze. He still wore the two swords at his belt that she had seen on his arrival, one long, one short.
‘Welcome, Cywen. My thanks for coming,’ Nathair said, smiling at her. He poured her a cup of something from a jug. She refused it.
‘What do you want?’ she said.
Sumur stiffened.
‘Be polite,’ Conall muttered.
‘I want to talk to you. About your family, about you.’ Nathair’s smile lingered.
‘Why?’
Conall sighed.
‘As I told you,’ Evnis said, ‘she has no manners, is not fit to speak to such as you.’
Nathair waved a hand. ‘She has been through much tragedy, much heartache.’
At Nathair’s words Cywen felt a sudden pressure build behind her eyes, a burning sensation. Angrily she willed the blooming tears to fade. Don’t be an idiot, she scolded herself.
‘How old are you?’ Nathair asked.
‘I’ve seen eighteen namedays.’
‘And I understand you have a brother. Corban, I am told.’
‘Aye,’ Cywen said, feeling uncomfortable. ‘What of it?’
Nathair’s face hardened. ‘I saw him in your great hall, on the night the fortress fell. He interested me.’
‘Why?’
‘I will ask the questions, and you will answer. The stablemaster, Gar. I am told he is close to your family.’
‘Sounds like you’ve been told a lot,’ Cywen muttered, flickering a scowl at Evnis.
‘Answer the question. You are addressing a king,’ Evnis said. ‘Gar is close to your family, yes?’
‘Yes.’ Cywen glared at Evnis; the act made her feel better.
‘There were no others with him, with Gar?’ Sumur said, taking a step towards her. ‘Men like him?’
‘No. What do you mean, like him?’
Sumur didn’t answer, just stared at her until she looked away.
‘This Gar, tell me about him,’ Nathair said, glancing at Sumur.
‘What’s to tell?’ Cywen shrugged. ‘He is, was, stablemaster here. He’s always been part of my family, like kin, really.’
Nathair’s fingers tapped the rim of his cup. He was staring intently at her. ‘What else. Where is he from?’
‘Helveth, I think.’
‘This is a long way from Helveth. What brought him here?’
‘I don’t know.’ Cywen shrugged. ‘He never really spoke of his past. Something bad happened, I think, and Brenin gave him Sanctuary. He was a good king, renowned for his wisdom and kindness.’ She scowled at all of them now, knowing they had all played a part in Brenin’s death.
Nathair’s lips twitched in a smile, which made her angrier. Was he laughing at her?
‘So why was he so involved with your family?’
Cywen shrugged again. ‘I don’t know – he and my da were good friends . . .’ A rush of memories almost overwhelmed her, her voice cracking. She paused. She didn’t like this, but it was clear that there must be some kind of reasoning behind this questioning, and if she played along, within reason, perhaps she could discern what was going on here.
‘Your brother, he had a wolven with him,’ Sumur said, his accent thick. ‘How did that happen.’
‘Storm? Corban saved her, as a cub.’
‘What did you say?’ Nathair whispered, a frown creasing his forehead.
‘Storm – that is the wolven’s name. He could tell you more; he was there when it happened.’ Cywen nodded at Evnis.
‘During a hunt we stumbled upon a pack of wolven. We killed them, though at some loss,’ Evnis said, pausing. ‘Vonn, my son, nearly died . . .’
‘And?’ Sumur prompted.
‘There was a litter of cubs. I killed them all, except one – Corban took it, claimed King’s Justice when ordered to relinquish it. Brenin was not here – he was at your father’s council, I believe – so his wife, Alona, gave judgement. She allowed the boy to keep the wolven. Foolish of her.’
‘No, it wasn’t,’ snapped Cywen. She closed her eyes, could almost see Storm, smell her. And with her, Corban.
‘That wolven nearly ripped Rafe’s arm off, and it killed Helfach,’ Evnis hissed. ‘It should have been put to death.’
Anger swelled in Cywen. ‘You’re the one that should be put to death,’ she snarled at Evnis. ‘You’re the traitor that let Owain in. None of this would have happened if not for you. Corban, my mam, Gar would still be here, my da would still be alive . . .’ Suddenly the anger was a white, consuming rage. She snatched for a knife, actually growled as she realized nothing was there and without thinking launched herself at Evnis, fingers clutching for his throat.
Evnis threw himself backwards, eyes wide with shock, but Sumur and Conall were quicker, each grabbing one of Cywen’s arms. Buddai snarled at them both, teeth snapping, not sure whom to bite first. Sumur reached for his sword hilt.
‘Easy, girl,’ Conall hissed in her ear. ‘Your hound’s about to die on your account.’
Instantly she went limp, the anger draining, consumed by concern for Buddai.
‘No, Buddai,’ she commanded. The hound paused, looking at her.
‘Let me go,’ she said. ‘I’ll not do anything. Evnis’ life is not worth trading for Buddai’s.’
Conall released her, nodding to Sumur. The black-clad warrior held her gaze a few heartbeats, then let go.
‘I can’t stay here,’ Cywen said, ‘the smell is making me sick.’ She gave Evnis a withering look, then turned for the door. Conall held it shut.
‘Let her go,’ Nathair said, ‘though I may ask for you to return.’
/> ‘Make sure he’s not here, then,’ she said, and left.
CHAPTER TWELVE
EVNIS
Evnis glared at the closed door, wishing Cywen dead. Who does she think she is, the little brat?
‘I like her,’ Nathair said absently. He looked distracted.
‘So do I,’ said Conall, ‘even if she did try to kill me.’
‘Really . . . ?’ Nathair raised an eyebrow, focusing on Conall.
‘Aye, on Stonegate, the night of the battle. She threw a knife at me, then, when that didn’t work, she pushed me off the wall. That’s how I got this.’ He touched his bruised cheek. ‘Course, I did pull her over with me. Thought if I was finished she should be as well.’
‘I like her even more, now.’
Evnis snorted and brushed himself down. ‘Was she useful, my lord?’
‘Yes, very.’ Nathair shared a look with Sumur, something passing between them. ‘Have her watched,’ he said to Evnis. ‘I would not have her disappearing in search of her kin. I have a feeling she will be useful. Some of the things she said, they stir memories.’ He drank from his cup, then winced. ‘What is this mead? It really is quite disgusting. What I’d give for a good jug of wine.’
‘Unfortunately we have more bees than grapes in Ardan,’ Evnis said.
‘So. What news of Rhin?’ Nathair asked.
‘I am told she is camped on the banks of the Rhenus, at the northern fringe of the Darkwood.’
‘And what will she do next?’
‘I would imagine she’ll strike south, push through the forest and into Ardan before Owain can muster a force large enough to hold her there. Once she is loose in Ardan there will be no stopping her. That is what I would advise, at least.’
‘I agree,’ Nathair said, sipping at his mead. He frowned absently into the cup. ‘I need to see her. Without Owain’s knowledge.’
‘That will be difficult,’ Evnis said.
‘Yes, I know. But nevertheless, it is what must happen.’
‘Of course,’ said Evnis. ‘I will do what I can, my lord.’
It was late but he could not sleep. Did not want to sleep. Dreams were the last thing he wanted, and he knew they would come. He swirled his cup of usque and sipped it slowly, savouring the liquor’s oily warmth as it slipped down his throat, heat spreading from his gut into his chest.