by John Gwynne
Nemain.
The thought of her made him sad. Once great Queen of the Benothi, but fallen so far, her fear binding her, disabling her.
She should have fought for our lands, used the cauldron. She should have bargained with Asroth and ensured the survival of our clan. Instead she had done nothing, claiming the Benothi’s sole purpose now was to keep the cauldron from being used, thinking to avoid another war.
But war is coming, no matter what she does to evade it.
Ever since he had met with Asroth, in Rhin’s cell deep within the walls of Dun Vaner, he had felt like a blind man gifted with sight, as if scales had fallen from his eyes. The way forward is so clear, but Nemain refuses to see it.
He had tried to reason with her, to advocate a more active, aggressive policy, but she had refused to see sense. He still clung to the hope that she would change her stance before it was too late, but until then he would pay her lip service and continue to work with Rhin towards their greater purpose. At least he had managed to sway others within the Benothi, and he hoped more would side with him, before the end.
He was glad Nemain had sent him on this mission, scouting into Domhain to learn Eremon’s plans. He had counted on it, even, for it kept him within Nemain’s good graces whilst allowing him to further Rhin’s plans. The journey south had told him that Eremon was paying little attention to the events in the east, to Rhin’s attacks on Narvon and Ardan. No warriors were mustering, no crops were being stored. Eremon sat idly by and sank deeper into his dotage. Rhin would be pleased. She will be here soon. Rhin. He felt a smile twitch his features at the thought of seeing her. His captor, his saviour. They had a bond he could not deny, complex and deep, its waters murky. But our goal is clear, and I will see it through or die in the trying; we are united in that. Soon the Black Sun will appear, will come for the cauldron. And I will help him claim it.
The next part in that task would be to grab Eremon’s attention and direct it north. Uthas would slaughter and burn on his way home, make such a noise as Domhain had never heard. He would lead Domhain’s strength in warriors north, fix Eremon’s attention on Benoth, then when Rhin had finished with Narvon and Ardan and finally came west she would find Domhain open and unprepared.
He rolled up his cloak and laid his head upon it. Looking at Dun Taras had stirred a melancholy within him as deep as bones. He searched for sleep to erase the ache. Besides, Fech would not be back today.
Uthas woke with a start. Salach was sitting with his back to the cold rock, running a whetstone along his axe-blade.
‘You were dreaming,’ his shieldman said.
Uthas touched his brow, his fingers coming away damp with sweat.
‘How long have I slept?’
‘A day. They are amazed at you,’ Salach said, glancing at the other giants in the cave. Some were standing, restless, others huddled in conversation.
‘How can you sleep now?’ Fray asked him. ‘When we are here, amongst our enemy, in the heart of our homeland.’
‘I’ve been here before,’ Uthas said, ‘and besides, when you have lived as long as I, sitting in a cave, no matter where it is, is not very exciting.’
Salach chuckled.
‘How long have you lived?’ Eisa asked then.
‘I forget. It has been a long time. I was a bairn, not yet grown my whiskers when the Scourging changed our world.’ He tugged at the white hair on his face, bound with thin strips of leather.
‘It is true, then. You drank from the cup.’ Kai this time.
‘I did,’ Uthas said. Since the slaying of Skald, the first king, immortality had been stripped from giants and men. But then the cup had been forged from the starstone. The cup was one of the Seven Treasures, and drinking from it gave health and long life. Not immortality, but close enough.
‘How long will the cup sustain you?’ Struan asked. They had all gathered about Uthas now, regarding him with a new emotion in their eyes. Awe.
‘I do not know,’ Uthas shrugged. ‘Nemain drank from it before I, and she is still here.’ Though she squanders her time, choosing to sit on the cauldron like some skeletal chicken.
The Benothi giants had emerged from the War of Treasures the clear victors, possessing three of the Seven Treasures. The cauldron, Nemain’s necklace and the cup. Two had been lost now, which went some way to explaining Nemain’s obsessive protection of the cauldron. The necklace had been hidden in Dun Carreg as the walls had been breached and overrun, the giants holding the stronghold had been slaughtered to the last warrior. The cup had been lost in Domhain. Somewhere out there.
Uthas hung his head in shame. He had lost the cup, or at least had been in charge of the column in possession of the cup as it had been evacuating from Dun Taras. They had been ambushed in the marshlands further north; the wain the cup had been kept in sank into the swamp. He had returned so many times, his shame driving him, sending him hunting for the lost Treasure, but never with any success.
A flapping echoed about the cave and Fech appeared through the glamour that sealed the entrance. The bird searched out Uthas and alighted before him. It walked in a small circle, then ran its beak through the feathers of one wing, regarding Uthas with its shiny eyes.
‘Well?’ Uthas said.
‘Eremon is old, he is scared of change.’
‘So what are his plans?’
‘He did not say. He is idle. He did little more than watch women.’
‘Good news, then,’ Uthas said.
‘Not all good. Rath is coming.’
‘What do you mean, coming?’
‘He found the dead, in the north. He is on your trail. He is hunting you.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CORBAN
It was still dark when Gar shook Corban awake. Without speaking, the two of them slipped into the sword dance. Dawn crept over them soon after, picking out Vonn standing on watch, the others rising and setting about the ritual of breaking camp.
Others were sparring about them with cloth-covered weapons as Corban finished the dance.
‘Where are Halion and Marrock?’ Corban asked, noticing their absence.
‘They left in the dead of night with Camlin,’ Vonn answered his question. The young warrior had been withdrawn and silent since the book had been taken from him. ‘My guess is another visit to our pursuers. Maybe just scouting, though I guess at more.’
Gar grunted an agreement.
Corban didn’t know how to feel about that. He had hated the last night attack, especially the killing from shadows. Even though he knew it was an act driven by survival, it had still felt like cowardice. But there had been a sense of camaraderie that had grown amongst them because of it, of risks taken, danger shared. Part of him felt disappointed at being left out this time.
‘Do not look so disappointed,’ Vonn said with a bitter twist to his lips. ‘I offered to go with them but they refused me. Perhaps they do not trust me.’
Being Evnis’ son will not help you, and keeping the book a secret did you no favours, either.
‘Trust has to be earned,’ Gar said.
‘Aye. As does honour,’ Vonn replied, then walked away.
Corban shared a look with Gar.
‘Corban,’ Brina called him, hovering close by with Heb.
‘It’s time we started,’ Brina said.
He saw she had the book they had taken from Vonn in her hands.
‘Learning to be an Elemental, you mean.’
‘Yes, Ban.’
He felt scared suddenly, as if he were standing at the opening of a dark tunnel. ‘Why do you want to teach me?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Because you’re expendable,’ Brina snapped. ‘If something goes wrong and you end up melted it won’t matter too much.’ She strode away.
Heb sighed. ‘It’s a compliment, Corban,’ he said.
‘Is this something to do with what Gar said – about me being chosen.’ There had been a number of silent stares at Corban since Gar’s shocking confession
. He’d even caught Dath and Farrell looking at him oddly. ‘You should pay it no mind, you know. Gar’s clearly confused . . .’ he trailed off, knowing that Gar did not seem the type to be confused about anything.
Heb regarded him silently. ‘Not for Brina’s part.’
‘Then why me?’
‘Brina likes you, Corban.’ Heb smiled, Corban snorted. ‘You must understand: there is a gateway to great power contained in that book, something that must be guarded. In the wrong hands untold damage could be done. Brina trusts you. Do you think she would want to teach just anyone – Dath, for example, or Farrell?’
‘I don’t know,’ Corban said.
‘Not even Edana or Marrock. You are the only one she will consider teaching. Brina trusts you.’
He felt strangely pleased at that thought. Honoured, even. ‘All right, then,’ he said to Heb. Together they followed Brina into the cover of the trees.
‘I’ll take the risk of being melted,’ Corban said to her, ‘though my mam may have something to say about that.’
Brina’s lips twitched.
‘We’ll start with a lesson,’ Heb said.
‘Of course you will,’ Brina muttered.
‘Once all were Elementals,’ Heb continued, ignoring her. ‘It was part of the All-Father’s design; giants and men were the overseers or guardians of creation, and so they were gifted a certain authority over that creation – specifically the elements of fire, water, earth and air.’
‘That is how we summoned the mist, during our escape from Dun Carreg,’ Brina interjected.
Corban nodded thoughtfully. ‘How did you learn these powers? Were you born with them?’
‘It is not something that just happens, like clicking your fingers,’ Brina said. ‘A bairn is not just able to wield a sword.’
‘No,’ Corban said, ‘but some take to it better than others.’
‘There may be something in what you say,’ Heb conceded, frowning. ‘This book talks of two paths to power. One is the way that Brina and I know a little of. The other . . .’
‘The other we shall not speak of,’ Brina said.
Heb regarded her a moment, then shrugged. ‘Suffice to say that blood seems to be important. There are suggestions that some bloodlines are stronger; perhaps a purer lineage from the first men. And then there is the use of actual blood; from a living body—’
‘I said we will not speak of that,’ Brina snapped.
‘As you wish. You must understand, Corban, that this is not set out plain. Brina and I have spent years putting scraps of knowledge together.’
‘We studied and learned,’ Brina said. ‘There is value in reading, as I have always told you, though it took us years, decades, to discover even a small portion of what is contained in this book.’
‘So how do I make mist rise from the ground?’ He liked the thought of that, remembering the escape from Dun Carreg – a thick mist enveloping them, hiding them from their attackers. That could be a handy trick to know. He felt a glimmer of excitement.
‘In essence, the act of elemental control can be broken down to two parts,’ Heb said in his loremaster’s voice. ‘You have to believe it, and then you have to speak it.’
‘So if I tell mist to rise from the ground, then it will? It cannot be that simple.’
‘Well, yes and no,’ Heb said with a faint smile. ‘Your words show you are defeated already – you do not believe it will happen. I do not mean that you think it might happen, and so give it a try. You have to believe it, absolutely, as you believe a chair will support your weight before you sit upon it, or that an apple will fall to the ground when you drop it.’
‘And there is common sense,’ Brina added.
‘Yes, you must be aware of your surroundings. For example, you could not command a mist to arise from a desert. Mist is moisture, water. In Dun Carreg Brina and I commanded the moisture in the ground to rise up. If it had not been there to begin with, then nothing would have happened. You understand?’
‘Yes.’ Corban nodded. It did make sense to him. This is becoming interesting.
‘So, then, I have to believe whatever it is that I want to happen, and then I just speak it.’
‘Yes,’ Heb said.
‘Though it’s still not quite that simple,’ Brina said.
Of course it isn’t.
‘You have to speak it in this language,’ Heb said, taking the book from Brina and opening it. It was full of runes, a script that Corban recognized from the inscription carved into the archway of Stonegate, back in Dun Carreg.
‘Is that giantish?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Brina said.
‘It is much more than that,’ Heb said. ‘It is the first language. The tongue of angels, giants, men. It is the language of Elyon, the Maker.’
‘So I have to learn giantish.’ Inwardly, Corban groaned.
‘Yes,’ Brina said. She smiled.
There was a rustling in the undergrowth and Storm appeared. She nudged him, making him stagger, and then she growled, looking through the trees.
‘What is it?’ Corban said, then saw three figures appearing from the underbrush. He recognized Halion. Immediately Corban knew something was wrong – the figure in the middle was being supported, half carried.
Marrock.
He was waxen pale, one arm hanging limp, blood dripping from it.
‘What happened?’ Corban called as he ran to them, to help carry the injured man into their camp.
‘Wounded during our raid,’ Halion breathed. ‘Think he was mauled by one of their hounds.’
‘It’s not that bad,’ Marrock said.
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Brina snapped. She sent Corban running for her pack as she examined Marrock’s arm.
‘Everyone be ready to ride,’ Camlin called out, marching through the camp. ‘We need t’move. Think we’ve been tracked.’
All the mounts were saddled and ready.
When Corban returned to Brina she was pouring water from a skin over the wound. Corban caught a sight of frayed flesh and white bone amidst the blood. Brina took her pack from Corban, rummaged inside it a moment, then unstoppered a jug of something, muttered, ‘This is going to sting,’ and poured it over the wound. Marrock drew in a sharp breath and Brina bandaged his forearm, placing leaves over the bite-marks.
A horn call rang out behind them, answered by the baying of hounds, much louder than Corban would have liked.
‘We must leave,’ Halion said.
‘Dath, string your bow and follow me,’ Camlin said, mounting a saddled horse. Dath looked about nervously, then followed the woodsman.
‘Can you ride?’ Brina asked Marrock, who was drenched in sweat. He nodded and was hastily assisted into a saddle, then they were all riding hard away from the sound of their pursuers.
They rode through broken woodland all day, the land changing from meadows and wide valleys to rolling hills, the trees turning to pine as they rose steadily higher. In the distance, to the north-west, Corban could see a dark smudge on the horizon: mountains. Corban kept checking over his shoulder, hoping for Dath and Camlin’s return.
At highsun they stopped briefly to rest their mounts, then set off again. The afternoon passed. As the sun dipped into the horizon they were strung in a line behind Halion, who was keeping the horses cantering, making the most of the soft pine-needles that covered the ground, allowing a good speed.
We’ve made good time, covered a lot of ground. Surely we’ve widened the gap between us, Corban thought. But where are Camlin and Dath?
Then Marrock fell from his saddle, sliding like a sack of grain onto the pine-covered ground.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
MAQUIN
As the sun rose, Maquin stared down into the streets of Dun Kellen. Bodies buzzing with flies littered the ground.
The night had been long and hard fought, Jael’s warband assaulting Dun Kellen’s walls with growing desperation. There had been a dozen moments when Maquin expected to hear
horns call the retreat to the keep, but somehow they still held the outer wall. Orgull had played no little part in that. Jael’s assaults had focused on the parts of the wall that had been rebuilt, a patchwork of timber and stone. Wherever the fighting was fiercest Orgull was there, dealing death with his giant’s axe, and Maquin had been glad to follow, his hatred of Jael fuelling his body well beyond its limits. As he snatched some rest now he felt muscles and tendons complaining, his shoulder throbbing, blood and sweat stinging his eyes. Not dead yet. His thoughts drifted to Kastell and he felt his stomach knot, his eyes drifting to the streets, searching for Jael.
Warriors were busy at work amongst the streets, chopping timber from houses, constructing makeshift ladders and battering rams. More than one of those lay discarded at the fortress’ gates, surrounded by corpses. Even as Maquin scoured the enemy lines a knot of men stepped forward, Jael emerging from amongst them. He stopped a distance from the gates, mindful of spear throws, and cupped his hands to his mouth.
‘Is there any of a rank left to speak with me?’ he called.
Muttering swept the battlements and Gerda came forward, dressed now in an ill-fitting cuirass, a short sword in her hand. Maquin smiled. She had grown in his estimation during the night, refusing to leave the wall, fierce in her exhortations to her warriors, terrifying in her cursing of Jael and his men. She had even charged forwards and swung blows at one point, when men had threatened to breach the wall. Warriors flanked her now, holding their shields ready as she approached the wall, no doubt remembering Varick’s fate.
Maquin felt a presence at his shoulder – Tahir, moving up to view the street. He had a cut on his cheek, a gash in his chainmail, but he seemed free of serious injury. He smiled at Maquin. ‘Still standing, then.’
‘Just,’ Maquin said, looking back to Jael.
‘What do you want?’ Gerda shouted down.
‘Are you all that Dun Kellen has left?’ Jael said, laughing. ‘No lord, no battlechief, just a fat old woman?’