by John Gwynne
‘Join my alliance, as my father wished. Join me and add your strength to the mustering against Asroth and his Black Sun.’
Rhin sat there, staring at Nathair. Slowly she nodded. ‘I shall do that, gladly. From this moment my realm, or realms, are part of your alliance, Nathair. When the time comes I shall bring my armies to you, and we shall fight the Black Sun together.’ She lifted her cup and they all drank.
‘Would you ask anything else?’
‘I will be travelling north. Help or advice with the journey would be gratefully received.’
‘Yes. We spoke of this. To Murias, in Benoth. You seek the cauldron. It will be dangerous – the Benothi giants are no friends to men.’
Most of them.
‘I am aware of that. But it is what I must do.’
‘Then I will help you, grant you safe passage to the northern border, and give you scouts that know the land.’
‘And what of you, my lady? Is there more aid that I could give to you?’
‘I will be travelling to Domhain, to pay Eremon a visit. My goal is to unite the west.’
‘I would help you in that,’ Nathair said. ‘I have troop ships anchored in the bay at Dun Carreg. It would be a simple thing for them to take your warband across the seas to Cambren.’
‘That would be helpful,’ Rhin said. ‘Morcant crossed the channel on a hundred fisher-boats and lost more than a few to the sea along the way, I have heard.’
‘Then it is done,’ Nathair said. ‘And more than that – take Veradis and his warband, a thousand men.’
Evnis saw the young warrior stare with surprise at Nathair. He looks as if he wants to object but dare not, Evnis thought. Good, a soldier who takes orders without question. If only there were more blind followers such as he in our cause.
‘He is my first-sword and my battlechief, and he has proven himself many times. In Tarbesh he defeated a charge of draigs and giants, in Carnutan he defeated Mandros in battle and took his head, and in Forn he turned the battle against the Hunen. You will not regret his being in your ranks.’
Rhin studied Veradis; the young warrior quickly averted his gaze and looked into his cup.
‘Can you win Domhain for me?’ Rhin asked him.
‘I-I would not be so bold as to make that prediction, my lady. But whatever Nathair asks of me I will do or die in the trying,’ Veradis said.
‘Such loyalty and passion the young have,’ Rhin said, smiling drily. ‘You are fortunate, Nathair.’
‘A question,’ Nathair said. ‘It is already high summer. Even with my ships taking you there, it must take several moons of travel to reach Domhain.’
‘Yes, perhaps longer, with a warband on the march.’
‘So you will be undertaking a winter campaign? I hear the winters here are not as mild as those we are used to in Tenebral.’
‘There will be blood spilt in the snow,’ Rhin said with a shrug. ‘There is a road the giants made that cuts through the mountains between Cambren and Domhain, and forges a line right to Eremon’s seat, Dun Taras. As long as we have that we can wage war, no matter the weather. I have ample stores of provisions in Cambren. You may need a warmer cloak, and some woollen breeches to cover those legs of yours,’ she said to Veradis, who promptly blushed.
‘There is something else that we would ask of you,’ another voice spoke. Calidus. ‘A small thing. News.’
‘News of what?’ Rhin asked.
‘A young man, not much more than a boy. He escaped the fall of Dun Carreg in the company of Edana and some others, we think.’
‘Yes, I have had many men hunting the land for her. Who is the boy?’
‘His name is Corban. He travels with a wolven. A white wolven.’
Rhin sat up straighter.
‘What is it?’ Nathair asked her.
‘That is interesting. A messenger arrived today, bringing news from Cambren. My warriors have tracked what were thought to be Owain’s spies through most of Cambren and I have had reports that each night my men have been hunted and killed, by a wolven. Stories are growing that whoever is roaming my land is in league with Asroth and becomes a wolven at night, or commands a pack of wolven, or something. At first I put it down to superstitious warriors, but . . .’
‘It is him,’ Calidus said.
‘I am inclined to agree – it is too much of a coincidence. Edana must be fleeing to Domhain. She must have some capable people about her.’
‘Indeed,’ said Nathair.
‘Well, then, I am glad to have helped,’ Rhin replied. ‘Perhaps you can travel some of the way north with me – we will take your ships together, and try hunting this lad and his wolven before our journeys force us to part. You want him, and it sounds as if he is with Edana, and I really want to find her.’
‘Agreed,’ Nathair said.
They drank some more together, toasting their past and future victories, and in time Nathair and his retinue left.
As soon as they were gone, Rhin called in a messenger boy and whispered in his ear. He ran off.
‘There is something about that Nathair,’ Rhin said.
‘There is,’ Evnis agreed. How much does she know? We are both bound to Asroth, to bringing about the God-War, to making Asroth flesh. And we have both grown powerful, in our ways. But she far more than I, and she loves her newfound power – that is plain to see. Would she relinquish it, even for Asroth or his avatar?
‘What do you think of Nathair?’ she asked him.
Unusually blunt, thought Evnis. The question shocked him. What should I tell her? How much of what I guess? Sometimes a direct question deserves a direct answer. Roll the dice.
‘I think he is the Black Sun. I have heard the voice.’
She regarded him thoughtfully. ‘I have heard it too,’ she said eventually.
‘We should do all we can to help him,’ Evnis said, trying to prompt her. He saw thoughts spiralling in her mind.
‘He is the Black Sun, Asroth’s chosen avatar to bring about the great war. He is not Asroth himself. Remember that, Evnis.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do not serve Nathair blindly. I don’t think that Nathair realizes who his master is.’
I had not thought of that. ‘Perhaps you are right. There is a sincerity about him . . .’
‘Exactly. Be careful what you tell him. He must be steered, controlled.’ She tapped long nails upon the arm of her chair, making a clicking sound. ‘This boy and his wolven that Nathair searches for, I have heard more about him than I have told Nathair,’ Rhin said.
Evnis just looked at her, waiting.
‘I spoke with Uthas earlier; through the fire, you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘He has been sneaking around Domhain, spying and killing, stirring things up for my arrival. Well, he has encountered some misfortune: most of his company has been killed, slain, in a battle only last night. The boy Calidus asked about, he was there, with his wolven.’
‘Why did you not tell Nathair?’ He knew the answer already. Knowledge is power. And she does not want to relinquish any of it.
‘There is no rush,’ she said with a smile.
The tent flap opened and a man walked in, tall, skin weathered, a scar running down his face from forehead to chin.
Braith.
‘You sent for me, my Queen,’ Braith said, sinking to a knee.
‘I have a job for you. Someone to find.’
‘Of course.’
‘They are in the mountains between Cambren and Domhain, close to the giants’ road, or were last night. I guess that they are heading into Domhain, so you will have to move carefully through enemy country. It is Edana and her helpers, amongst them a boy with a pet wolven.’
Braith frowned at her. ‘I have met this boy before, at Dun Carreg when I rescued Camlin, and he fought in the Darkwood, when I had Alona. That wolven is no pet, I saw it tear my men to pieces,’ Braith said.
‘I want him, this Corban. Alive and in chains befor
e me. There are other parties that are very interested in him, which means that I am interested, too. Take as many as you need, whatever supplies, all the gold necessary, but it must be done now, quickly and quietly. You must leave now.’
Braith bowed and kissed Rhin’s hand, then turned to leave.
‘Braith,’ Rhin called as he reached the exit.
‘Remember, I want the boy alive, but you can kill the rest of them, including Edana. Actually, especially Edana.’
‘What about the wolven? Do you want that alive as well?’
‘Of course not. Kill it.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
MAQUIN
Maquin sat with his back to the wall of Dun Kellen’s stone bridge. His hands and ankles were shackled. The place where his ear had been was throbbing; a blood-stained bandage wrapped around his head stemmed the bleeding.
He was part of a group of defeated men, at least a hundred of them, the number being added to all the time. A dozen warriors – all men from the ships – stood guarding them. Further away, towards Dun Kellen, Jael’s warband was busy, organizing the clearing of the town, bringing order back where chaos had ruled. The newcomers who had arrived on the black-sailed ships were busy around the river, restocking supplies, it looked like.
Heads on spikes lined the bridge; Maquin was sitting beside one. He looked up and saw a crow perched on the head, tugging a strip of flesh from it. Further along he saw Gerda’s head, one eye already taken by these looters of the dead.
Orgull’s head was not on a spike. Not yet. The big man had laid down his axe to save him. In a way Maquin wished Orgull had kept fighting, that they had both died in that tunnel underground. But he hadn’t. As soon as Orgull’s axe had touched the ground they had both been bound and taken from the fortress. He had no idea where Orgull was.
He had failed.
Jael was alive – not only that, he had won. And Maquin had been so close. He put his head in his hands.
The only hope to cling to was that Tahir had escaped with Gerda’s son, or at least had not been captured yet. If they had been caught, surely their heads would be on spikes alongside Gerda’s. There was a glimmer of hope for Isiltir while Romar’s son still lived and that would surely tarnish Jael’s victory. That was something.
A noise caused him to lift his head. A group of riders had emerged from the town and gathered at the end of the bridge, laughing. One of them dismounted.
Jael.
He felt a shadow fall over him, refused to look up until his boot was kicked. ‘Someone’s angry,’ Jael said, smiling. ‘Ulfilas, protect me from the poison in this man’s gaze.’
Maquin lowered his eyes. Jael kicked his boot again and suddenly Maquin was lunging forwards. Even with the chains it was so fast and so unexpected that he had his fingers around Jael’s throat before anyone could react. As Jael’s eyes bulged, Ulfilas clubbed Maquin across the head with the hilt of his sword and Maquin’s legs turned to gruel. He slumped to his knees.
Jael kneed Maquin in the face. He fell backwards, the sound of his nose breaking was like a branch splitting. Blood sluiced from his nose and his head cracked against the stone wall of the bridge.
Maybe now I’ll die, he thought as he lay sprawled, staring up at Jael.
‘Help him up,’ Jael said, brushing himself down. Ulfilas grabbed Maquin under the arm and hoisted him back to his knees.
‘You’ve come a long way from Haldis,’ Jael said. ‘And survived Forn Forest. I am guessing that you are the reason that Gerda and Varick were not surprised to see me. And yet you lost. You must feel terrible.’
Maquin just looked at him, the words filtering through layers of dizziness and pain.
‘And, of course, I haven’t mentioned your greatest loss. Kastell.’
Maquin felt the world pull into focus, juddering; Jael’s face, his mouth, his lips moving, filling the entirety of his vision.
‘He died badly, you know, if you didn’t see. A gut wound. He screamed, a lot. Not very brave in the end, for all his words, his giant-killing – one of the Gadrai indeed.’ Jael spat on the ground, as if the words gave a bad taste.
‘So you are quite the failure. You failed Kastell. You have failed Gerda. Are you the worst shieldman in all of the Banished Lands? Ulfilas, remind me never to enlist this man in my service. The day when I do that I will surely lose whatever battle I am fighting.’ Laughter drifted about him, from dark places that Maquin could not see.
‘I call . . .’ Maquin coughed on his words, hawked and spat. ‘I call you out,’ he said, little more than a whisper. ‘I challenge you, to the Court of Swords.’
Jael threw his head back and laughed. A deep, genuine sound. He wiped his eyes. ‘I think it is a little late for that. In case you are not clear: you have already lost.’ There was more laughter at that.
‘I challenge you to the Court of Swords,’ Maquin said again, louder. ‘I do not expect you to accept. You are afraid. A coward, dung that I would scrape from my boot.’
‘Be careful,’ Jael said, his expression hardening, ‘before your jest loses its humour.’
‘A coward – as you have always been,’ Maquin continued, aware now that others were listening, people moving closer to hear. ‘I have watched you grow, seen you pick always on the weaker man. You are a coward, a traitor, you have betrayed your own kin. Kastell you stabbed in the back, too scared to face him. I saw.’
‘I did not,’ Jael roared, angry, looking about at the gathering crowd.
‘And your victories – given to you like crumbs from your better’s table. These men –’ he looked to those on the bridge that had come from the ships – ‘Nathair’s men? Of course they are. There are few warriors in Isiltir who would follow you.’
Jael backhanded him across the face. He swayed but managed to remain upright.
‘Put a sword in my hand. Face me, as a man. Look at me – beaten bloody – yet you are still too scared to face me.’
‘Unchain him and give him a blade,’ Jael snarled at Ulfilas as he stepped back and drew his sword.
Ulfilas moved hesitantly forwards and helped Maquin stand.
‘Why do you follow him?’ Maquin whispered. Ulfilas looked sharply at him, then looked away. He fumbled at the chains about Maquin’s wrists.
‘I have no key.’
‘Just put a sword in my hand,’ Maquin said. ‘I’ll still win.’ He knew that he would not, had seen Jael spar many times in the weapons court at Mikil. But at least he would die that much closer to his dream, not chained to an oar, a thousand leagues from home.
‘Do as he says,’ Jael yelled, spittle flying.
Maquin smiled. He had witnessed Jael goading Kastell many times over the years, Jael always with that maddening smile on his lips. It was not there now. It was nice that at the end he at least had this small victory.
A crowd had pulled in about them now. Even some amongst the chained warriors along the wall were standing, trying to see the confrontation. Some called out encouragements to Maquin, or jeered at Jael.
There was a pushing and shoving further back in the crowd, men moving to let someone through. It was the leader of the ship men: Lykos, Maquin had heard him called. Behind him strode a lean warrior, his face disfigured, part of his nose missing. He led a man by a chain. Orgull.
His friend was bleeding from a hundred cuts, all small wounds, his face bruised and swollen. He shuffled behind his captor, head bowed.
‘What’s happening here?’ Lykos asked Jael.
‘I am going to teach him some truths,’ Jael said, his rage adding a tremor to his voice.
‘What truths?’
‘That I am no coward, and that I am the better swordsman.’
‘He is in chains,’ Lykos said. ‘And close to collapse; look at him. You will prove nothing fighting him now. And besides, he is not yours to kill. He is my captive, remember?’
‘He has insulted me; I will not ignore that.’
Lykos frowned and stepped close to Maquin, studying
him. ‘You have the death wish upon you. You want to die – I can see it in your eyes.’
Maquin just stared back at him.
Lykos grinned. ‘He is baiting you, Jael. He wishes to die and is using you.’
‘Then I will grant him his wish,’ Jael said, stepping forwards.
‘No, you will not,’ Lykos said, a harshness in his voice. ‘He is mine, and I do not want you to kill him.’
‘I am king here,’ Jael said.
‘Not yet,’ Lykos replied. He stepped in close to Jael and whispered in his ear. Maquin strained to hear, but could catch nothing of it. But he did see Jael’s expression change – from anger to fear. Jael stepped away.
‘Have him; he is yours, a gift from me,’ Jael said.
‘Run away, coward,’ Maquin said, seeing his opportunity slipping away.
Jael smiled at him, that familiar, maddening smile. ‘But, Lykos, some advice. Kill him soon. Otherwise he is likely to bring you bad luck, as he has his previous masters.’
‘I am more than his master,’ Lykos said. ‘I am his owner. He drew a knife from his belt and stepped close to Maquin. He grabbed a handful of Maquin’s hair and cut it with his knife, then opened his palm for Maquin to see.
His warrior braid.
‘You are mine, my property, a warrior no longer.’
The warrior who was leading Orgull turned and did the same, cutting Orgull’s warrior braid from his beard. All along the line of captives the same thing happened.
‘Now let’s get these useless piles of dung onto the ships,’ Lykos yelled, pushing Maquin. ‘You’ve got a long way to row.’
Laughter ran through the ship men.
As Maquin walked away he looked back over his shoulder.
‘I’ll see you again,’ he shouted at Jael.
‘I doubt that,’ Jael said. His laughter followed Maquin as he shuffled towards the black ships.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CORBAN
Corban stared at Halion and his sister Coralen. She stared back.
Before anyone had a chance to speak, a warrior rode up. He was old, his hair a mix of grey and white flowing from beneath an iron cap. Corban remembered him, from the gathering at Badun on Midwinter’s Day. Brenin had invited the rulers of the west – Owain, Rhin and Eremon – to a council and to witness the day turn to night, as had been prophesied. This man had been the representative of King Eremon at that meeting. Rath. He slid from his saddle and gripped Halion by the shoulders. ‘It’s good to see you, little bastard.’