by John Gwynne
‘No one’s going in that way for a while,’ Bos said beside him.
Geraint appeared with more men in his wake. He sent scouts around the keep, searching out other entrances. They soon returned with more reports of ambushes and traps, barricaded corridors, more fires. Conall forged ahead anyway, leading a few score warriors into one of the entrances. Veradis settled his men in the courtyard. While he was proud to be involved in any battle, to represent Nathair and honour the alliance, he was not about to lead his men into a potential fiery death. So he waited.
The fires in the keep’s feast-hall guttered out a little before sunset. Other reports came back that pitched fighting was occurring as Geraint’s men moved deeper into the building.
‘Time to go in,’ Veradis said and marched into the keep, shield held high, his short sword drawn, his men following suit.
In the feast-hall timbers still smoked, amongst them the blackened remains of Rhin’s warriors. Veradis found an arched doorway and led his men out of the hall into a wide, high corridor. Archways branched off it, entrances to other corridors, the sounds of battle drifting out to them. Veradis kept going. Every closed doorway was tried, opened, rooms searched. Nothing. As they progressed deeper into the keep a thought hit him.
This corridor isn’t barricaded or defended because of the fire in the feast-hall. That was barrier enough. But whoever set it must have known it would burn out, eventually. Then he understood.
These are not the efforts of a last defence; they’re delaying tactics.
They came to the end of the corridor, a broad stairway before them leading up and down, one last wooden door beside it.
‘Check inside, Bos. Then we’ll split the men – half up, half down, though I’m starting to think there’s no one here to find. I think old King Eremon has flown this coop.’
Bos turned the iron ring, pushed the door open and stepped inside. There was a brief pause, then a wet thunk, a grunt and Veradis saw Bos drop to the floor.
No.
Time slowed. He saw a blade stab down into Bos’ back, between shoulder blade and neck, saw Bos’ leg twitching. Veradis heard himself shouting, felt himself slamming into the door, hurling it open as he leaped over Bos’ prostrate form and knocked Bos’ attacker stumbling back into the room. A pool of blood was growing around his friend’s head and shoulders.
Veradis lifted his shield high, felt an impact and swerved away from the door, instinctively making room for his men, knowing they would be following close behind him.
A warrior swung at his head with a sword. Veradis took the blow on his shield, flung the blade wide, slashed once across the man’s gut, his sword turning on chainmail, then stabbed high, catching the man in the throat, sending him tumbling backwards in a spray of blood.
It was a large chamber, with only a few men standing at its far end – ten, maybe twelve. One was an old man, his shoulder bandaged, holding a longsword in one hand, a knife in the other. He limped as he stepped forwards. Between him and Veradis the room was littered with furniture – tables, overturned chairs, huge chests.
‘No room for your wall of shields in here,’ the old warrior said. ‘Let’s see if you can fight like real warriors.’
‘Brave words, for so few of you,’ Veradis said.
‘I am Rath, and these are the Degad, my giant-killers. We’ve fought a lot worse than you.’
Over a score of his eagle-guard were already in the room. Soon they would be as squashed as the warriors that ended piled against his shield wall. He yelled an order, making them wait, his eyes drawn to the still form of Bos lying on the ground.
‘We’ve slain giants of our own,’ Veradis said and moved forward.
Warriors surged past Rath, howling, swords raised high. They met his eagle-guard with a savage crash.
A great longsword split Veradis’ shield. The blade stuck a handspan from his wrist; he threw the shield and stabbed the swordsman in the belly, shouldering past him as he sank to the floor, switching his short sword to his left hand and drawing his longsword at his hip. He lost himself in each moment, revelling in it, in finding a man to look in the eye, knowing that within heartbeats one of them would be the victor, the other dead. He had not fought like this for so long; there was a beauty in it, somehow, a passion that was missing from the cold ferocity of the shield wall. All about him was a chaos of movement, men yelling and screaming, swords grating and sparking, blood making the floor run slick.
Then there were only a handful of men before him, four of them, backed about a closed door. One of them was the old man, Rath, both knife and sword running red. He was breathing hard, but smiling. He knew his end was close, and had made his peace with it. Veradis looked back, saw the room littered with the dead and dying, the vast majority his eagle-guard.
A voice rang out from the back of the room.
‘Where are they?’ it called.
Veradis saw his eagle-guard part for Conall. He too carried a sword and knife in his hands, both blades red with blood. Other warriors followed him – Rhin’s men.
‘Where are they, Uncle?’ Conall said as he stood before the old man.
‘You’ll have to earn that knowledge,’ Rath said.
‘Drop your weapons, Uncle. You can’t win.’
‘Sometimes it’s not about the winning, Con. It’s about how you lose.’
‘It’s always about the winning,’ Conall said.
‘That’s always been your mistake,’ the old man said, shaking his head sadly.
‘Last chance,’ Conall said. ‘Give the old man and his brat up. Be my battlechief.’
‘He was my brother, Con; your da. How can you be doing this?’
‘Was?’ Conall frowned, then he was moving, almost too fast for Veradis to follow. There was a flurry of ringing clashes, sparks, both men chest to chest, ridged veins mapping their arms as they strained against each other. Then Rath had a foot behind Conall’s leg, was pushing him back. Conall stumbled, somehow regained his balance, used his momentum to slip out of range as Rath’s knife whistled where his throat had been.
Rath taught him, Veradis realized, and instantly it was obvious, from the preference of sword and knife to the way they held their balance, the angles of their attacks, the way they were in constant motion, defence flowing into attack after attack. Conall’s knife snaked forwards, Rath blocked, at the same time both swords whistling through the air, clashing. Rath ducked and spun in close, stabbed. There was a thud, a grunt, then the two men parted. Conall only held his sword now.
His knife hilt stood from Rath’s chest.
There was a silent moment as the two men regarded one another, then, with a rattling sigh, Rath sank to the ground.
The other defenders at the doorway leaped forwards then, but Veradis’ eagle-guard and Conall’s warriors intercepted them before they could reach Conall. There was a flurry of hard combat, and then these last defenders were overwhelmed and cut down.
Conall opened the door they had been guarding and walked into an adjoining room. Veradis followed him, saw the warrior staring at a bed. A smell hit Veradis’ throat, sweet and rotten. Decay.
King Eremon lay upon the bed, hands crossed over his chest. He was dead and, from the smell, had been for a while. Conall walked up to the bed, staring at his father – no expression in his eyes.
‘It looks as if Domhain is now yours,’ Veradis said.
‘Not until I have Lorcan’s dead body before me.’ Slowly the chamber was cleared, the injured tended to, the dead moved. Veradis felt a knot of grief swelling in his chest, but breathed deep and buried it, at least for a little longer.
Later, he told himself.
The heavy tramp of many feet sounded in the corridor and Rhin entered the room, her shieldmen about her. Another was with them, a young man, dirty and bruised. Veradis realized it was Rafe, the lad they had brought from Ardan to help them in the hunt for Corban.
Rhin gave Eremon’s corpse a disdainful glance, then approached Conall.
> ‘We have some information,’ she said, beckoning for Rafe to be brought forward.
‘I’ve been housed with other prisoners, in a building block close to the stables,’ Rafe said. ‘Last night, late, I heard some noise, looked out through a gap in the shutter. I saw Edana go into the stables. Halion was with her,’ his eyes flickered to Conall, ‘and a lot of others – warriors, another woman – dark hair, a young lad with her—’
‘Roisin and Lorcan,’ Conall breathed. ‘It must be. Which way did they go?’
‘I don’t know. They never came out,’ Rafe said.
Veradis took Bos’ body out of the fortress, laid it in a wain along with their other fallen brothers. A cairn was built over them out on the plain. The eagle-guard gathered in a half-circle about the cairn as Veradis spoke of their sword-brothers, stories about their individual honour and courage, valour and loyalty. He drew his sword and saluted the dead, his brothers-in-arms. And his friend. Behind him his warriors did the same, the sound like a wave breaking. His thoughts spiralled about Bos, a fragmented patchwork of memories – recalling the day they’d met on the weapons court in Jerolin, Bos alongside Rauca, Bos’ great appetite, his easy-going nature, his loyalty as a friend. Both of them were dead now, first Rauca and now Bos, gone from this earth. Both in aid of Nathair’s cause. He felt tears fill his eyes and looked away, to the walls of Dun Taras.
After Rafe’s revelation, Rhin and Conall had ordered the stableblock to be searched. It was not long before a hidden tunnel was discovered, a secret exit crafted by the giants. Conall had set off in pursuit, a hundred or so warriors trailing him, and Veradis searched the plains beyond Dun Taras now, looking for a glimpse of Conall’s passing, but he could only see an empty landscape rolling into the horizon.
We are strangers in a strange land, he thought. Shedding our blood, spending our lives, for what? He looked at his palm, saw the white scar of his blood-oath to Nathair. That is what for. For an oath given, a cause worth fighting for, a cause worth dying for. He looked to the north, his thoughts filled with Nathair. Then another face crept into his mind, drawing into sharp focus.
Cywen.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWO
UTHAS
Uthas strode through the dark corridors and cavernous chambers of Murias, shadow-filled places with flickering blue torchlight and the constant drip of water. Salach and Eisa walked at his heels. They passed a fire-pit with giants gathered about it. One called to him and he paused, raising his hand in greeting. It was Balur One-Eye, his white hair gleaming and his tale of thorns covering both of his arms in a dark spiral.
How many lives has he snuffed out?
‘Ethlinn said you would return soon,’ the ancient warrior said.
‘She was right,’ Uthas said. What else has she said of me? Dreamed of me?
Balor looked at Salach and Eisa. ‘I remember more of you leaving.’
‘Aye. It has not been a smooth journey.’
‘I have earned my first thorns, One-Eye,’ Eisa said, lifting her arm to show Balur.
I must watch her. They worship Balur, as if he were some god.
‘Good,’ Balur said. ‘The first of many.’
‘That is my wish,’ Eisa replied.
‘Ethlinn, how is she?’ Uthas asked.
‘She dreams more now than she wakes.’ Balur rubbed his good eye.
He worries over her like a first-time mother. She is his weakness.
‘She says that battle is close; that the Black Sun comes for the cauldron.’
‘Best keep your axe sharp, then,’ Uthas said as he walked away.
‘I always do,’ Balur called after him.
Uthas made his way deeper into the stronghold’s belly, passing more of his kin gathered in huddles about fires. Occasionally he would catch an eye, give a nod of greeting. There were enough amongst them who had committed to him, would stand with him when the time came. Not a majority, but enough. Eventually he paused at an arched doorway. Two warriors stood before it. They nodded and allowed him to pass; Salach and Eisa waited there.
The chamber was enormous, even by giant standards, the vaulted ceiling cloaked in darkness. Torches radiating their cold blue fire lined the walls, and numerous wyrms slithered around the floor, passing from light to shadow.
The cauldron stood at the centre of the chamber, a fat bloated deity of pitted iron. A light-sucking entity that, to Uthas, looked almost as if it was breathing, a shimmering about its edges, a blurring of its hard lines.
Before it stood Morc, keeper of the wyrms, his beloved reptiles surrounding him, last and most deadly guardians of the cauldron.
Morc had raised this brood of wyrms, once they had hatched, only two years or so ago. He had fed them, cared for them, and they seemed to have some measure of affection for him, as they slithered about him, great milky grey creatures of muscle and teeth. One even reared up, its head as large as Morc’s upper torso, and rubbed its scaly jaw across his chest. He patted its head.
‘Didn’t know you were back,’ Morc said. ‘Welcome home.’
Home. ‘Thank you,’ Uthas said. He’d always liked Morc. He was not the brightest of his kin, but there was a sincerity to him that was endearing.
‘Do you need to be in here?’ Morc asked. ‘Only, it’s feeding time.’ He nodded to a wain sitting in the chamber, upon it a huge cage full of hogs. At least a score of them, fat hairy things with tiny eyes. They were squealing, eyeing suspiciously the wyrms that were coiling around the wain.
‘No. I’m just . . .’ What? Why am I drawn to this thing?
‘Well, it’s still here,’ Morc said, looking over his shoulder at the cauldron.
‘So I see. I’ll be going then. It’s good to see you, Morc.’
‘Going – yes, good idea. It’s going to get messy in here.’
Uthas stood on a balcony high in one of the towers of Murias, gazing out over the land of Benoth. A featureless moorland rolled into the distance, here and there lumps of dark granite poking through the earth.
Nathair is out there. And Calidus. He shivered. How many nights before you reach these walls? Eight? Ten?
‘Are you rested?’ a voice asked from behind him.
He turned to see Nemain, Queen of the Benothi, once wife to Skald, the first king, and the first slain, first casualty in the War of Treasures. Over two thousand years had passed, yet she still wore the grief of it in her eyes, the twist of her mouth, the set of her shoulders. Dark hair framed a face of sharp angles and deep shadows. All giants were pale, but her skin appeared paper thin, almost translucent. The weight of years hangs heavy upon her. Despite that, strength radiated from her still, tempered with the weariness in her grey eyes. It was more than just the physical contours of her musculature. She is formidable yet.
At the sound of her voice ravens burst to life from their roosts in the cliff face about the balcony, a swirling, raucous host. For a moment they flew so densely about her that she was hidden from sight, covered by a diaphanous, black-winged cloak, then they cleared and spread apart, some returning to their nests, others floating on the updraughts. Nemain smiled at them.
She actually likes them. He remembered throwing his knife at Fech, putting it through the bird’s body. It had been satisfying.
‘You have had a hard journey,’ Nemain said as she walked closer. Sreng, her shield-maiden was a shadow behind her.
‘Aye. Five of the kin slain.’
‘The south is a dangerous place now.’
‘That it is.’
‘And what news?’
‘There is much,’ Uthas said. ‘Most of it confirming what we suspected, or had heard whispered. Rhin is spreading across the west, already Ardan and Narvon have fallen to her. She was invading Domhain as I began my journey home. Eremon did not march with his warband to meet her, but Rath rides at the warband’s head – he is Eremon’s battlechief once more.’
‘Perhaps they will all kill each other. Even if only Rath were to fall, some good at least would come
from this.’
‘Aye. We can hope.’
‘Yes, we can. And what of the Black Sun – Ethlinn’s dreaming, she says he is coming. Have you seen anything? Divined any sign?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
She moved closer to him then, gazing into his eyes, so close that their bodies almost touched. She lifted a hand and cupped his cheek. He returned her gaze for as long as he could bear, then he glanced away.
What does she see? The desires of my heart?
‘You saw the walls of Dun Taras. I can see the memory of it weighing heavy upon you.’
‘I did. It has been so long, but I remembered . . .’ His words faltered.
‘Memory is a double-edged sword, Uthas. It can keep you strong through dark times, but it can also cripple you, keep you locked in a moment that no longer exists.’ The focus of her eyes shifted, glazing as she remembered events from long ago.
You speak so true, my Queen. Your memories are shackles about you, stopping you from using the Treasures, snaring you in a web of fear. Not I. I will do what must be done.
She dropped her hand from his face and stepped away.
‘Recover your strength and we shall talk again soon. Ethlinn says the time of testing is almost upon us. We must be ready.’
It is already upon us.
‘Aye, we must.’
She left him then, her shield-maiden Sreng following. Soon after the door had closed behind them a figure stepped from a shadowed alcove. Salach.
‘Does she suspect?’ the giant asked.
Uthas drew in a shuddering breath. ‘No. I don’t think so.’ He shrugged. ‘The die is cast now. There is no going back.’
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THREE
TUKUL
Tukul felt the blow ripple through his arms, from wrist to shoulders, then dissolve into his chest and back. He spun on his heel, surging around his opponent, using the momentum for a backswing that would kill if it connected with flesh.
It didn’t; the blow was deflected, the power leaking from it as Tukul was momentarily forced off balance.