by John Gwynne
Without thinking, Maquin snatched up the flaming torch and sidestepped as the man lunged at him. He thrust the torch out, felt a lance of pain as the knife scored along his ribs, heard a sizzle, heard the man scream as he ground the torch harder into his attacker’s face.
The man’s arms waved and Maquin grabbed the wrist holding the knife, pulled the torch back and swung it down. Flames caught in the man’s hair and he staggered back, dropping the knife. Maquin snatched it up, saw his attacker careen into another pair of men locked in combat. The three of them went down.
Something slammed into Maquin’s side and he fell, a weight on top of him. Foul breath washed over him and fingers reached for his throat, his eyes. There was a sharp pain in his shoulder as the man bit him. He stabbed with the knife, felt it turn against ribs, stabbed again, lower, punching into flesh. Blood gushed hot over his fist. His attacker gasped, tried to pull away, but Maquin held him, kept striking with the knife until the struggles faded, the man going limp, a dead weight upon him.
He pushed the body off and rolled to his feet, his shoulder throbbing, his ribs feeling on fire. Something warm and wet trickled down to his waist. His own blood. He did not have time to check how bad his wounds were.
There was one other man left alive in the pit. He recognized him – the pock-marked warrior from Dun Kellen. He too held a knife, blood dripping from it. Half of his face was blood spattered.
Live or die? a voice whispered in Maquin’s head. Drop the knife. You have lost all. Keep your honour and accept death.
The memory of a face formed in his mind, a mocking smile. Jael. Lykos’ words from the beach returned to him. You want your revenge? Then fight for it. Jael’s face merged with the man in front of him.
I am not ready to die.
Maquin raised his knife and moved forwards. Cheering erupted from the top of the pit, but Maquin barely registered it. He slipped to the side as his opponent stabbed, swept his own knife in, raking a red line along the man’s shoulder, then they were out of each other’s range, crouched, circling.
Maquin lunged, grabbing for his opponent’s wrist, stabbing at the same time. The man twisted, avoiding Maquin’s knife, trying to tug his wrist from Maquin’s grip. They staggered about the pit, pulled apart, slammed together. Maquin headbutted him in the face. Cartilage crunched, blood spurted and the man staggered, his legs wobbling. Maquin stayed close, moving with his opponent. He headbutted him again and the man dropped to the floor. Then Maquin’s knife was raking across his opponent’s throat. Blood spurted and Maquin stepped back, watched the man topple and die.
More cheers came from the pit’s edge.
Maquin staggered back a few steps, dropped the knife and sank to the ground. He put his head in his hands and wept.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
FIDELE
Fidele walked out of the shade of Ripa’s hall into the sunshine. It was autumn now, but here in the south of Tenebral summer lingered. Only a chill to the sea breeze hinted at the changing seasons. She strode down the steps and through a courtyard, beneath wide wooden gates and onto the plain beyond, her shieldman Orcus at her heels. It was here that Krelis trained his warband in the shield wall.
Men were lined up on the field, gripping their great round shields, while a small clump of men yelled orders at them. Krelis stood tall amongst them. The warriors raised their shields, interlocking them so that they became a solid wall. Other men ran and battered against the shields. A horn blast and the shield wall was moving forwards, those before it falling or giving way. Some fled to the flanks of the wall, where they renewed their assault. Another horn blast rang out and the shield wall rippled as men from the back reinforced the flanks. It worked well enough, repulsing the attackers, though something about the movement looked ragged.
She approached Krelis as horns signalled the end of the session. The rows of men in the shield wall breaking up, dissolving into individual sparring sessions.
‘My lady,’ Krelis said as she drew near. Peritus was there, talking with a white-haired man, Alben, the sword-master of Ripa. He was old, but had a sprightly energy about him. Fidele had spoken with him and found him to be humble and intelligent. He had even made her smile, something in short supply of late. Two younger men were there. One of them had a large tooth tied by a strip of leather about his neck. A draig’s tooth. She recognized him – Maris – as having served in Nathair’s warband and returned with him from his campaign to Tarbesh. These are the two Nathair sent to teach Krelis the shield wall.
‘It looks very impressive,’ she said to Krelis. ‘Well done,’ she added to the two behind him. ‘I am sure my son will be pleased with you and the work you do here.’
The two warriors bowed.
‘Their hearts are not in it,’ Krelis said, looking at the field of warriors. ‘This is the way men should fight. Looking into each other’s eyes. Skill and courage deciding the victor. It is honourable.’
Fidele sighed. ‘We’ve been over this. It is unlikely that Asroth, the Fallen One, will be concentrating on honour upon the battlefield. The priority is to win. I do not intend to discuss it again. I came to tell you I will be travelling to the Vin Thalun shipyards today. I will leave at highsun.’
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ Krelis said, a frown creasing his large head.
‘Yes, I am. I will have my own honour guard with me, obviously, but I thought you might wish to accompany me. To see and hear for yourself.’
‘Yes. Of course. I will be ready to ride by highsun.’
The road through the forest was dappled with sunshine, but it was cooler under the swaying branches, the smell of autumn, of decay, much stronger. Peritus rode one side of Fidele, Krelis the other, but there had been little conversation since they had left Ripa. She had too many warring thoughts swirling around her mind. Foremost of those were the hints and suggestions discovered in the underground library back at Ripa, with the help of Ektor. He is a rare find indeed, such a mind.
Fidele had left him in his library, determined to sift through every single one of the myriad scrolls in search of the briefest mention of Halvor’s writings. Just the memory of her time there unsettled her. One Ben-Elim, one Kadoshim walking this earth. And the reference to high king’s counsel. She felt worried, scared for Nathair, had thought of writing to him, warning him. Had even reached the point of putting quill to parchment, but the words had dried up in her mind, with any warning that she would write sounding even to her like the mad ramblings of someone struggling for their sanity.
Warning him of what? A riddle in a parchment written before our kin even set foot upon these Banished Lands. It is too unclear, the riddles bewildering. Perhaps Ektor will find more, something clearer.
Her thoughts turned to Meical – Who is he? An ally? An enemy? Part of her could not bring herself to believe that. She had never liked him, exactly, but there had been an honesty to him, even if it had been cold, sometimes even cruel. Something clean. And Aquilus trusted him. Could he have been so easily fooled? The answer to that came back quick and sharp. Of course he could be fooled. He was murdered in his own chamber by a king that he trusted. She pushed away the pain that threatened to rise in her at that thought.
I have more pressing concerns to focus upon.
The Vin Thalun.
What was she to do with them, now that their fighting pit had been discovered? Nathair had great plans for the Vin Thalun. She knew that much relied upon them, and yet Lykos had deliberately disobeyed her – worse, lied to her. Far worse than that: some of those she had found in the pits had been her own subjects, stolen in raids. And how many were dead?
They rode out of the shadow of the forest and soon turned south, following the river on its journey to the sea. It was not long before she saw the Vin Thalun’s settlement – large storehouses and barns, a ramshackle village made mostly of timber and reed; the skeletons of half-formed ships lay along a flat sandy beach, looking like a leviathans’ graveyard.
Fidele had been
here before, the day after they had raided the fighting pit at the ruins of Balara. They had come with carts full of the dead: Vin Thalun who had been killed during the raid and corpses that they had found in the labyrinth of fighting pits. Fidele had questioned the leaders here. They had been sullen and denied the existence of any other pits in Tenebral. Of course Fidele did not trust them, and that was why she was back.
She kicked her horse into a canter, wanting to give the Vin Thalun as little time to react as possible. Those with her kept pace, and she saw Krelis loosening his great sword in its scabbard.
‘No killing, unless we are attacked,’ she yelled at him.
They swept through the makeshift village and boatyards, warriors spreading out and searching the place as people poured out of buildings – men, women, children. Bony dogs chased the horses through the streets, yapping and nipping at hooves.
Fidele reined her horse in close to the beach, in the shadow of one of the ships standing upright in its timber frame. Orcus and a handful of eagle-guard stayed with her; the rest spread out to search the buildings.
A group of Vin Thalun approached them, mostly warriors by the number of rings tied in their beards. One led them, a bow-legged older man.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ he demanded.
‘I am searching,’ Fidele said.
‘For what?’
‘You’re talking to the Queen of Tenebral,’ Orcus snapped. ‘Show some manners.’
‘Tenebral has a king, but no queen, last time I heard,’ the Vin Thalun said.
He’s right, Fidele thought. ‘My son is King. I am regent in his absence,’ Fidele said coldly. ‘The result is the same. I rule here.’
The Vin Thalun glared at them. ‘Searching for what, my Queen?’ he said.
‘For evidence of your fighting pits.’
‘There was only one, and you’ve destroyed it.’
‘We shall see. What is your name?’
‘Alazon. I am chief shipwright here.’
‘Wait with us, Alazon.’
It was not long before Krelis and Peritus appeared, leading a line of ragged men. Krelis’ warriors were holding back the Vin Thalun crowd that followed them. Fidele saw that the men were chained together, their clothes threadbare. Most of them were covered in wounds of some description, from clean cuts to scratches and bite marks.
‘Will you insult me with an explanation?’ Fidele said to Alazon.
‘They are rowers. A ship came in from one of the islands last night,’ Alazon said. He spoke boldly, holding Fidele’s gaze, but she did not believe a word of it.
‘You.’ She pointed to the first in line, a young man, surely younger than her Nathair. He had a scabbed cut that ran the length of his forearm. ‘How did you get that cut on your arm?’
‘They are slaves – taken from foreign lands. They often come damaged,’ Alazon said. He stared at the captive as he spoke.
‘You have nothing to fear,’ Fidele said. ‘As of this moment you are all free men. We shall escort you to Ripa, feed you, and then your future is yours. So – tell me, with fear of no repercussions: how did you come by that wound?’
‘In the pits,’ the lad said, looking at his feet, as if a deep shame had been revealed.
‘He lies,’ Alazon said, stepping forwards. Krelis moved in front of him.
‘Find some wains for these men, then continue your search,’ Fidele said. ‘And, Krelis, make sure you have searched under every rock in this rats’ lair.’
She looked at the captives, and saw harrowed looks sweeping them, some silently weeping, others just utterly wretched. It turned her stomach and brought the sting of tears to her eyes. She turned away and rode onto the beach a little way, looking out to sea. Orcus followed her, staying a short distance behind. He had learned to read her moods.
Where are you, Lykos? In some distant land? Dead? I hope that you are, you swine, for if you ever return to my homeland I shall see your head struck from your body.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CORBAN
Corban walked in a grey world. The ground was mist wreathed, the sky boiling with dark cloud. In the distance there were flashes, veins of red pulsing through the iron grey, fading, then brighter, like a distant storm. He walked towards it, the world about him ethereal, shifting from fields of grey rock to green woodland to barren plains of ash.
He drew near to the clouds, saw darker specks moving in them, swirling in tight formations. They were up above now. One fell, growing rapidly larger. Distantly he heard screaming, the clash of weapons. The shape crashed into the earth before him, a cloud of ash rising about it, settling slowly, like black snowflakes. He walked closer, peering cautiously.
A figure lay upon the ground, its skin alabaster, dark veins set in marble. Great wings were spread about it, like a cape of leather. It was wounded, a deep gash across its chest. Something that was not blood wept from the wound. Close by lay a spear, its shaft broken.
Then it opened its eyes.
They were black, no iris, no pupil, just a black soulless well. Corban took a step back.
It tried to move. Pain swept its face, its mouth twisting, revealing jagged teeth, a thick tongue, all as black as its eyes. It reached out an arm, steadied itself, its eyes fixing on Corban.
‘Who are you?’ it said.
A sound came from above, the wind whipped to a storm. Figures were approaching, great wings of white feather speeding towards Corban. The creature before him scrabbled for its broken spear, its wings jerking feebly, then the others landed with a thunder that made the ground tremble. One stamped a foot onto the wounded creature, knocking it flat, then buried a spear in its belly, twisting as he drove it in, through the writhing, hissing form, pinning it to the ground beneath. It drew a longsword from its back and hacked the creature’s head from its body.
Others of its kind gathered around Corban, dressed as warriors in mail and leather. The air moved from their gently twitching wings.
‘Who are you?’ they asked.
‘I . . .’ Corban mumbled. He did not want to say his name, something batting at his memory like a moth against a shutter. Had he been here before? In a dream? A nightmare?
Hands reached out for him and he staggered backwards.
Corban woke with a start; his mam was standing over him. She looked worried. Gar hovered in the background.
He sat up and put his head in his hands.
‘What’s wrong?’ Gar asked him.
‘A bad dream,’ he mumbled.
‘Probably of that Coralen kicking him in the stones again,’ Dath said. ‘Come on, Ban, get up. We’re going to the feast-hall for a drink.’
‘For a meal,’ Gwenith corrected Dath.
Just then the door to their home creaked and footsteps echoed. Edana walked in, Halion and Vonn behind her. With a flap of feathers Fech flew in before the door was pushed to.
Edana sat at a long table and groaned.
‘What’s wrong?’ Brina asked her. Craf was perched on the edge of the table, pecking at a chunk of bread that Brina was feeding him. Fech landed close by, eyeing the bread.
‘Roisin,’ Edana said, shaking her head.
‘What’s she done now?’
‘She’s agreed terms for committing to the battle with Rhin,’ Halion said.
‘Terms?’ said Corban. ‘Rhin’s invading. There’s no need for terms.’
‘That’s what I said,’ Edana muttered.
She’s a sly one,’ Halion said. ‘She didn’t say it, of course, it came from my da’s mouth; but it had her influence behind it.’
‘What?’ several voices asked at the same time.
‘That the alternative to battle with Rhin was negotiation, and that Edana would make a good gift.’
‘Your da said that?’ Dath blurted.
‘Not in those words, but the meaning was clear. He offered an alternative, of course. And Edana took it. She had no choice.’
‘What alternative?’ Brina asked.
‘To agree to be handbound to Lorcan, Roisin’s son, Eremon’s heir. When the time comes and Rhin is defeated.’
But he’s only fifteen summers, thought Corban.
A silence settled over the room, then they all began talking at once.
‘You should have said no.’ Vonn’s voice rose through the crowd. ‘Rhin will attack them and then they will have no choice but to defend themselves.’
‘True enough,’ said Halion. ‘But by then Roisin would have handed Edana to Rhin on a plate. Rhin will hardly turn down that offer. After that Edana’s head would be on a spike, whatever happens in Domhain.’
More arguments rose up, but Edana slammed a hand on the table.
‘I’ve agreed,’ she said. ‘The deal is done. I’m not happy about it, but it is a sacrifice I must make. And it’s a smaller one than the many we’ve suffered already. Besides, it could have been worse. Eremon told me he’d marry me himself if it wasn’t for Roisin.’
‘That’s disgusting,’ said Vonn.
‘Roisin won’t like him saying things like that,’ Marrock said.
‘He’s said things like that all his life. It’s when she thinks he’ll act on it that you have to worry about Roisin. Edana’s safe from her now that Lorcan benefits,’ said Halion.
Corban sat in the feast-hall of Dun Taras. It was noisy, voices rising as they often did once the mead started to flow. Or the ale that he was drinking: it was dark, bitter stuff, but after a bit of getting used to it he was starting to like it. Dath at least certainly seemed to be liking it, judging by the jug in his hand and the smile on his face.
All of the company that had survived the journey from Dun Carreg were in here somewhere, most of them sitting together about a long table. Storm was curled underneath the table, though it moved every time she changed position. Corban suspected that even Craf and Fech were lurking somewhere up in the rafters of the vaulted ceiling. The rest of the room was full, pulsing with excitement and activity. Dun Taras had been like this ever since word had arrived of Owain’s death and Rhin’s march on Domhain, a ten-night ago. Warriors were drifting into the fortress, from ones and twos to warbands of a hundred or more. Halion said King Eremon’s barons would muster far greater numbers, but would most likely join the King’s warband somewhere along the journey to Domhain’s border. There was only one main route into Domhain from Cambren, and that was the giants’ road. All other routes were little more than trails through the mountains, and winter was coming, so they were unlikely to be used. Thus the plan was a simple one: stop Rhin at the giants’ road.