by John Gwynne
He was tired, exhausted, trying to keep track of the plots and threads that he had become involved in.
Nathair’s patronage kept him safe, for now. With luck, long enough for Rhin to arrive and separate Owain’s head from his shoulders. But then how would she react to this most recent turn of events, his obeisance to Nathair? Not too well, was his gut reaction. Rhin is famed for her jealousy. And this situation with Nathair was perplexing, and intriguing – there was so much more going on than he could see, situations he could sense, caught from veiled glances between Nathair and his guard, Sumur.
‘What is the link between Sumur and Gar?’ he breathed. Clearly they were of the same people – he had seen them duel, saw the similarities of style and weapons. But how? Sumur is from Tarbesh, more than a thousand leagues away. How is it that Gar is – was – here. And, more importantly, why was he here?
And now he is gone. Escaped with Edana, and Vonn . . .
He was surprised by a wave of emotion, a constricting within his chest. He closed his eyes and felt a tear roll down his cheek. Almost immediately his anger stirred. You fool, tears will not help. Use your wits. They have kept you alive this long. His thoughts drifted to the tunnels beneath the fortress. That must have been how they escaped. They may be in them still. He would lead an expedition, but he would need enough warriors with him in case they were there. It would be dangerous.
He smiled to himself. He had warriors of his own, but more than that, he had the book. Found buried in the tunnels dug by the Benothi, the ancient giant clan, builders of Dun Carreg. A book of learning, a book of power. With it he had begun to learn the secrets of the earth power, magic, the ignorant called it. Even as he thought of it he felt drawn to the book. That had been happening more and more of late, as if the knowledge it held was some unseen drug, pulling him back with invisible cords.
Without even realizing, he stood and padded towards the secret door concealed within an oak-panelled wall. With a click it swung open, revealing a small space, room enough only for a small table and one chair. Only Fain and Vonn knew of its existence. He had shown it to them as a place to hide in the eventuality of Owain’s attack, something they had both scoffed at, but he had known Rhin’s plans would bear fruit one day.
He lifted the torch from the sconce, held it high, and gasped.
The book was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CAMLIN
Camlin swore quietly.
He was crouching behind a thick-trunked beech, peering through scrub and hawthorn at the line of riders, steadily growing larger. He counted seven.
‘What are we going to do?’ Dath whispered, one eye on the riders, the other on the bowstring he was fumbling.
‘Not sure yet,’ Camlin muttered. He glanced at Gar, but there was no help there – the warrior’s face was a blank wall. ‘Depends on why they’re riding into these woods.’ He stared at the approaching riders, all grim-faced and wrapped in leather and mail. ‘Doesn’t look like they’ve come dressed for flower picking.’ Looks more like they’ve come for blood.
Fight or flight? He hawked and spat, looking at the woods about them. They were hidden in the first growth of trees, a track of sorts passing by them. Only a little deeper and the track was overshadowed, pressed by looming beech and chestnut. If the riders took the track they would have to ride single file. He sighed, his decision made.
‘Corban, Gar – you two stay hidden here. Me an’ Dath, we’re going to move a little deeper into the trees, try and even the odds a little. Don’t do anything till the arrows stop coming. And don’t let any of them get back onto that meadow.’
‘Why are we doing this?’ Dath stammered. ‘They might just be passing through.’
‘Don’t think so,’ Camlin said. ‘The only place this track leads to is the beach. My guess is that our boat was seen, and these lads have been sent to see what’s what. No time to get back and warn the others, so best be getting on with what needs doing.’ He glanced at Gar again, and this time the warrior nodded.
Corban and Gar slipped into deeper cover, the wolven following, almost invisible in the gloom, the stripes in her coat blending with the shadows.
‘Dath – with me,’ Camlin snapped, not looking to see if the lad followed him. He could tell the boy’s courage was wavering, and from experience he knew that soft words would not help. They hurried deeper, stopping where banks rose either side of the track. ‘Here’s a good spot,’ Camlin said. He pulled a handful of arrows from his quiver, stuck them in a line into the black loam earth and motioned for Dath to do the same. The boy’s hands were shaking.
Camlin gripped Dath’s wrist. ‘Take a deep breath, lad. And do the same before each shot. Pick targets in the centre of their column. Aim for chests, or their horses. Bring them down.’
Dath jerked a nod, his eyes wide.
Camlin felt a wave of pity; he remembered watching his brother as he was cut down by raiders, remembered the incapacitating fear and the shame that followed. ‘They’re going to feel a whole lot worse than you once the arrows start flying, stuck in the open, not knowing where we are. And that’s before they come face to face with your friend’s wolven.’
Dath managed a small laugh.
The drum of hooves grew louder.
What am I doing here? The thought was so sudden that Camlin felt as if it had been whispered in his ear. Not much talent at choosing the winning side. Perhaps I should have stayed with Braith. I followed him for long enough in the Darkwood, and like as not he’s more than lord of a strip of woods now, with Rhin’s rise in power. I could leave now, walk away and not look back. This lot would never know, and what if they did? Who are they to me? He glanced at Dath. He trusts me to bring him through this.
Camlin peered back down the track, saw the riders had moved smoothly into single file. Branches arched above them, sunlight and shadow dappling the track. He nocked an arrow, held it loosely, saw Dath mimic him. The riders were close enough to make out individual features now. The leader had a thick beard, his warrior braid poking from beneath an iron helm. He gripped a couched spear, shield bouncing where it was strapped to the saddle.
Camlin flexed his shoulders and drew his arrow back.
Walk away, the voice whispered in his mind.
Not today. Then he released his arrow.
It struck the first rider in the throat, a spray of blood marking it. The man clutched at the shaft, choking, toppling from his saddle. He heard Dath’s arrow, saw it sink into the shoulder of a piebald stallion. The animal reared and threw its rider. He grabbed another arrow, nocked it, let fly. It skittered off a hastily raised shield.
The riders were seasoned warriors; that was clear. There was fear in their faces, but they did not panic. One of them barked an order and two warriors spurred their horses on, tried to get past the fallen horse, its rider’s leg trapped beneath it.
Camlin and Dath drew bows together, releasing only a heartbeat apart. One arrow buried into the meat of a warrior’s arm, the other thrumming in a raised shield. Camlin drew again, put an arrow in a horse’s flank. It screamed, but its rider yanked on his reins, stopped it from rearing. The warrior looked their way, scanning the bank for them.
Three of the warriors at the rear of the column had turned their horses, were kicking their mounts into a retreat. As Camlin glanced back he saw Corban step into the track, sword drawn and shield raised.
What are you doing, boy? They’ll ride you down.
Corban set his feet before the oncoming horsemen. Then Gar appeared, ran before Corban, his long curved sword raised high against the onrushing riders.
There was an explosion of leaves as a great shape burst onto the track, slamming into the first rider.
Storm.
Her long canines ripped into the horse’s neck, the wolven’s weight flipping both animal and rider to the ground. Camlin heard bones breaking, then screaming. The horsemen behind milled on the path, unable to pass the mass of horse and rider and wolven.
Camlin clutched for an arrow, drew and fired at the looming figure, so close he could almost touch the horse. His arrow hit the man in the face, snapping his head back. Teeth, blood and gore showered Camlin as the warrior hurtled backwards, one foot catching in a stirrup. His corpse hung limp as the horse lurched forwards, dragging the dead warrior through the undergrowth.
‘Are you hurt?’ Camlin asked Dath. The lad shook his head, took Camlin’s arm and staggered upright.
‘Time to finish this,’ Camlin said, slinging his bow across his shoulder, drawing his sword and stepping out of the trees. There was one warrior left here, dismounted, trying to help a comrade trapped beneath a fallen horse. Camlin slithered down loose earth on the ridge, heard Dath following. He glanced down the track and saw Storm, who had moved from the horse to its rider, her teeth clamped about his throat. The two other horsemen drove their mounts past the wolven, kicking them at Gar and Corban.
Gar moved faster than Camlin’s eyes could follow. There was the flash of iron in sunlight and then a horse was screaming, front legs collapsing as it ploughed head and chest into the ground.
Then Camlin was at the foot of the ridge, fixing his eyes on the warrior before him. The man had been unable to free his comrade from the dead horse he was trapped beneath, and by the look of it the pinned man would not be going far anyway, his leg twisted at an unnatural angle.
Camlin circled left, signalled for Dath to go right, then, in the instant that the warrior was sizing them up, Camlin surged forwards. He struck fast and hard at the warrior’s head. His first two blows were hastily blocked, the warrior retreating. Then he stumbled and Camlin hacked his blade between the man’s neck and shoulder. Bone crunched and blood spurted. He wrenched his sword free and the man slumped to the ground.
Camlin swung around, marched to the warrior trapped by his dead horse and slammed his sword into his chest. He looked up, saw Dath staring at him, wide-eyed.
‘Strike first,’ he said, ‘else you might not get a chance to strike at all. That’s a Darkwood education.’
Dath gulped.
Down the track a horse neighed.
One rider was still mounted, swinging a sword at Corban, who was ducking, trying to pull him from his mount. Gar was on the far side, moving in. Storm was circling the horse, crouched low, about to leap. The rider saw his doom approaching, kicked frantically at his mount. The horse leaped forwards, Corban diving out of the way, and then it was galloping down the track.
Camlin broke into a run, unslinging his bow. He reached the horse that Storm had fallen upon, rested a foot on its flank and drew an arrow, its feathers touching his ear. For a moment he tracked the escaping horseman, pulled in a deep breath, held it, then released the arrow. It arced high, dipped, and the rider stiffened, toppling backwards onto the soft ground. The horse ran on a dozen paces, then slowed, began cropping grass.
‘That shot was amazing,’ Dath breathed.
‘I was aiming for the horse,’ Camlin said with a rueful grin.
We’ve taken too long, Camlin thought. They were almost back to their makeshift camp.
They had dragged the corpses of the slain warriors into the trees, Camlin setting Dath to retrieving as many of their arrows as he could find.
‘Do we need to?’ Dath had asked.
‘Once you’ve made arrows of your own you’ll never leave one behind that you didn’t have to. And we may be on this road a long time – what happens if we run out?’
Dath had thought about that and nodded. Then they had rounded up the horses and hobbled them a good distance from the track. That had taken the most time, but if they hadn’t done it one of the animals at least would have wandered back to the encampment, rousing suspicion and an angry pursuit far quicker than if the horses were hidden. Without Gar it would not have happened at all; he had a way with horses.
After that they had all but run back to their camp. They needed to get back on their boat and put some distance between them and the bristling warband that would certainly be sent after them. It was just a matter of time.
Marrock stepped out from behind a tree. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked, frowning as he looked at their faces.
‘We ran into . . . some . . . company,’ Camlin breathed. ‘We need to leave.’
‘How far behind you?’ Marrock said, scanning the trees.
‘They won’t be following anyone, but can’t say how long it’ll be before they’re missed.’
Marrock raised an eyebrow, turned and led them back to camp.
Camlin gave a hasty account of the ambush; Halion and the other travellers huddled round close to listen. Dath interjected comments, most to do with Camlin’s prowess, his skill with a bow, a sword, and his strategic brilliance. Camlin felt himself frowning at the boy.
‘So what now?’ Brina said, hands on hips.
‘Back to the boat, get as far away from here as possible, as quickly as possible,’ Marrock said. He looked to Halion, who nodded.
‘But what if those ships are still out there?’ Edana said. Her voice was hoarse, dry.
‘We’ll have to cross one bridge at a time, my lady,’ Halion said. ‘And staying where we are is no option.’
Brina tutted, bent over and whispered in her crow’s ear. That thing still made Camlin uncomfortable. There was far too much intelligence in its beady eyes. With a squawk of protest it unfurled its wings and flapped into the air, disappearing over the trees.
‘Craf is a good scout,’ Brina said. ‘Don’t want any surprises, do we.’
The group broke up, checked packs, filled water skins, then Vonn and Farrell burst upon them, running hard from the beach.
‘A boat has just beached next to ours,’ Vonn blurted as he skidded to a stop, ‘full of warriors.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FIDELE
Fidele gazed out of her tower window. In the distance the snow-capped Agullas glistened in the summer sun, before them rich meadows rolling all the way down to the lake shore, where countless ships bobbed on the swell, cold and deep from the mountains’ snowmelt. And on those ships: fishermen, traders, all manner of people. Her people. She felt a rush of passion, a fierce pride in the people of this realm. I love this land.
Her gaze drifted southward, to the river that carved its way to the sea. The black ships of the Vin Thalun had long since sailed that route, disappeared into the distance; the only sign of their presence here at Jerolin was the shipbuilding yard that had risen up on the lake shore. Even that was deserted now. Lykos had told her that the shipbuilding would continue to the south, near Ripa, but he needed too many hands on his fleet as it sailed to Nathair and Ardan to keep the two shipyards going.
And good riddance. She understood the logic that underpinned Nathair’s treaty with the Vin Thalun, knew their skills would be of great value in the coming war, but the reality of keeping the peace between them and her subjects had been difficult. Too many hard years between us to wash over in a few moons. She left her chambers, Orcus her shieldman falling in at her side. Fidele marched a quick rhythm through corridors and down the great tower of Jerolin until she was breathing fresh air. Her feet took her to the north, where the city grew quieter, to the cairn ground.
‘I miss you,’ she breathed, barely a whisper on the air. She was stood before her husband’s cairn; Aquilus, King of Tenebral, High King of the Banished Lands, slain in his own chambers, stabbed by a traitor king. I wish we had had more time. She touched one of the great stones of the cairn, already moss-covered, with lichen growing in yellows and reds. Aquilus had been so f
ocused, so strong, always somehow knowing the right path and having the strength to take it, to see it through. I wish you had shared more of your certainties with me. Shared more of your plans. The knowledge of the God-War and the coming of the avatars had been a great burden, but Aquilus had borne it, though not without cost. And, because he had chosen to shoulder most of it alone, things felt so unsure now. She was scared, scared of what the future held, scared of the threat to her son. Her poor Nathair, striving, struggling to do his best, to earn his father’s notice. And now, to live up to his father’s legacy, not only to lead a nation, but to save the Banished Lands, or die in the trying. Fathers and sons – why did it have to be so complicated.
She sighed. ‘I will not let you down. I will not let Nathair down.’
Footsteps crunched on stone behind her and stopped, a respectful silence, then the scuff of an impatient foot. A cough.
‘Yes,’ Fidele said, turning, wiping all emotion from her face. It was Peritus, her husband’s battlechief. Small, wiry, unassuming, deadly.
‘There is something you must see,’ Peritus said, his expression grim.
‘Where did you find him?’ Fidele asked.
‘Was fishing about a league to the north,’ the fisherman said. ‘Pulling in our crab baskets and he was tangled in one of them.’
They were standing on the deck of a mid-sized fisher-boat, half a dozen crewmen gathered around her. Despite the sun the wind was cold, carrying with it a hint of ice from the mountains. Fidele pulled her cloak tighter. To one side, huge baskets were stacked on top of one another, crabs imprisoned within, clacking their great-claws. There was a body slumped on the deck, mottled blue, the flesh bloated and peeling, green weed clinging to the limbs, trailing like extended fingers.
‘Course, the crabs have had a nibble at him,’ the fisherman said.