Figures emerged, taller than those spread around the glade. There were seven of them, their faces all sharp angles and piercing eyes, clothed in chainmail and leather, swords at their hips, some with spears in their fists. They moved with effortless grace, a shifting of movement upon their backs, leathery wings furled and looking like high-arched cloaks. More Vin Thalun followed behind them, at least a dozen.
‘Kadoshim,’ Corban said, and he felt a silent growl vibrating deep in the cavity of Storm’s chest.
‘Cheeky bastards,’ Farrell snarled, ‘to build a den so close to Dun Seren.’
‘It’s clever,’ Corban said. ‘Who would think to look so close to our doorstep when we have been spreading our hunt ever wider.’
‘They won’t feel so clever when my hammer starts crushing their skulls,’ Farrell said, slipping the huge weapon from his back.
‘We ready?’ Corban asked as he unstrapped a gauntlet from his belt, curved knives like talons stitched into the hardened leather at the knuckles. He strapped it to his left hand, loosened his sword in its scabbard.
Dath was stringing his bow, stabbing arrows from his quiver into the soft turf. ‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ he said. He rolled his shoulders, adjusting the curved sword strapped across his back.
‘Craf, go find Sig and Veradis, tell them to follow the noise. And not to linger.’
‘Be careful,’ Craf muttered, and with a whisper of wings, he was gone.
‘Guards?’ Corban said to Dath. He had the best eyes amongst them and a talent for finding and silencing unwanted eyes.
‘One there,’ Dath whispered, pointing. A shadow halfway down the slope to the gully, ‘and there,’ further away, on the far side of the glade amidst the trees.
‘Storm,’ Corban whispered, pointing to the guard furthest away. The wolven stood and loped into the gloom.
‘Wait for my signal,’ Corban said.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Farrell said.
Corban raised an eyebrow. ‘Might as well have brought Sig and her bear if you come down that slope with me now,’ Corban said. ‘You weren’t built for stealth.’
‘I’m your shieldman,’ Farrell protested.
‘Aye, and so’s Dath. You’ll both be at my side when it counts. I know that.’ Corban winked at his friends, and then slipped over the ridge.
‘Truth and Courage,’ he heard them whisper after him.
He picked his way down the slope, edging around the guard, taking his time with each footstep, each shift of weight.
Ten paces from the guard, a man, streaks of grey in his warrior-braid and beard, a bearskin cloak pulled tight about him. A tall spear was held loosely in one hand, leaning propped against his shoulder. Corban could smell sweat and grease.
He waited, breathing slow and silent. The emergence of the Kadoshim down in the glade had drawn the warrior’s attention. Another three paces closer.
A twig snapped.
The warrior twisted, instantly alert, his spear-point lowering, levelled at the darkness.
A whirring sound, an impact, and an arrow-head sprouted through the guard’s throat, blood jetting.
He opened his mouth to scream, only a gurgling choke came out.
Corban covered the last few paces in a single bound, grabbed the wavering spear-shaft with his right hand, tugged the warrior towards him, rammed his wolven-clawed gauntlet into the man’s lower jaw, his momentum driving the claws deep, felt them grate on skull.
A flurry of muscular spasms, a last gurgle, and the warrior was sinking, already dead, Corban lowering him gently into thick foliage. Crouching, breath rapid, heart pounding. He pulled on his claws, withdrawing them slowly. Took a moment, then peered over the bushes to look down into the glade.
One of the Kadoshim was speaking, black hair pulled tight and tied at his nape, the warriors in the glade all focused upon him.
No one heard.
A sound away to their left, a rustle and snapping, a grunt. The Kadoshim talking paused, head cocking like some predatory bird, all in the glade suddenly alert.
The Kadoshim gestured, one of his companions unfurling their wings and taking to the air with slow, powerful beats. It flew towards the sound, a handful of warriors following, iron glinting as weapons were drawn.
‘Truth and Courage,’ Corban whispered to himself, stood, setting his feet, hefted his stolen spear for half a heartbeat, judging the weight and balancing point, then it was flying, struck the Kadoshim in the air, a meaty thunk as the spear-tip burst through chainmail, the crack of bone as ribs shattered, and pierced deep into flesh.
The Kadoshim shrieked, wings flapping frantically as it lurched in the air, half-falling to a heap on the ground.
A horrified silence as warriors spun around, staring in all directions into the darkness.
One stumbled backwards and fell, an arrow in her belly.
The Kadoshim who had been speaking saw Corban halfway down the ridge, yelled a warning, pointing even as it drew its sword, wings snapping open. Other Kadoshim leaped into the air, wings beating, hovering as they searched for enemies. None thought one lone man would be fool enough to attack them.
Not one man. Three, and a wolven.
Corban put one fist around his hand-and-a-half sword, red-leather hilt sweat-stained, a familiar, perfect fit to his fist, the other hand gripping the scabbard, and he drew, held his blade two handed, in a high guard.
Stooping Falcon, he heard Gar’s voice in his head.
‘TRUTH AND COURAGE,’ Corban yelled and launched himself down the slope. Warriors moved towards him, though some were hesitant, eyes scanning the darkness and ridge behind him. Another whirring noise, like a host of angry hornets, and another Kadoshim was spiralling from the air, crunching to the ground.
A crashing from above, sounding like a bull careening down the ridge, and Farrell appeared, his great war-hammer in his fists, and he bellowed Corban’s battle-cry, surging down the slope like an avalanche.
Corban hit the first row of warriors, sword arcing diagonally down, slicing through a face and chest, let the momentum drag him down, turning him around, felt a trio of blows thud into the shield across his back, and then he was amongst them, switching to a one-handed grip on his sword, knees bent, still spinning, slicing in a straight arc, through leather and flesh, opening a belly, his other hand slashing across a face, cleaving through an eyeball, cartilage and jaw. Intestines spilled from the opened belly, their owner stumbling, a high-pitched screeching as he tripped in his own entrails, the other warrior falling away, grasping at the red ruin that had been his face.
Keep moving, Corban told himself, knowing that to stand still and face these veteran warriors would be to die.
Cannot give them time. Speed, chaos, fear were his allies. He shouldered forwards, levered his shield-rim into a face, mashed lips, teeth flying as he ducked and spun away, onwards, through the heaving mass of warriors as they tried to marshal themselves.
An impact, screams, the sound of bones breaking, one man crashing to the ground, another spinning through the air, and Farrell was in the glade, bellowing, war-hammer swinging around his head.
Another warrior falling, an arrow piercing her eye.
Corban ploughed on, disoriented, moving he hoped towards the Kadoshim. He caught a stabbing sword between his wolven-claws, twisted, stabbed with his own sword into an open mouth, severed spine, ripped his blade free in a spray of teeth and blood, kicked the dying man away.
A shadow above him, instinctively he ducked, air whistling as a sword slashed where his head had been. He twisted on his feet, knew the Kadoshim was above, angling to get behind him.
A blow to his leg, red-fire pain lancing along his thigh, and he stumbled, heard Farrell bellow his name as he dropped to one knee under a torrent of blows. Slashed at a knee with his claws, swung his sword in guard across his body, iron sparking, trusted his shield to protect his back.
A scream, a body collapsing in front of him, half his face pulped, space opening
up. Farrell, standing over him, swinging his war-hammer in a looping circle.
Corban staggered to his feet, saw a circle of warriors about them, dead scattered about the glade, Kadoshim hovering in the air above them, snarling, spears and swords glinting.
Still too many.
Farrell shifted to Corban’s side, the both of them turning, slowly, waiting.
‘TRUTH AND COURAGE,’ a battle-cry rang out, a figure leaping from the foliage, curved sword in hand, slashing at a warrior’s back, slicing another across the throat as warriors turned, then Dath was with them, breathing heavily, sword dripping red.
‘Thought you were to stay on the ridge, keep picking them off,’ Farrell said in a grunt.
‘I know. I got carried away,’ Dath answered. ‘Don’t tell Kulla,’ he added.
Their enemy closed around them, a score at least still standing, edging closer. A spear stabbed at Farrell, Corban swatting it away, another slicing at Dath, who swayed, chopped the spear-head from the shaft.
The circle about them tightened.
A snapping of undergrowth, a savage snarling, and something burst from the trees. Storm, all fur and muscle and bloodied teeth, crashed into the warriors moving on Corban, sent two of them hurtling through the air, stood over another, jaws clamping around a throat, a savage wrench and spray of blood, a scream cut short. Then she was padding to Corban’s side, facing outwards, snarling as the enemy closed the gap in their circle.
‘Is it you, Bright Star?’ one of the Kadoshim said, voice sibilant. His eyes flittered from Storm to the arm-ring coiled around Corban’s bicep, two wolven-heads at each end.
Corban answered with a savage grin.
‘What a fool, to come with so few.’ The Kadoshim grinned in return.
Above the Kadoshim, Corban saw something small and dark, circling.
‘That’s what your Calidus said,’ Corban snarled, ‘before I took his head.’
‘Kill them,’ the Kadoshim screamed, levelling his sword.
The enemy moved closer, cautiously, no mad rush from these veterans, all searching for an opening, sharp iron poised, tightening their circle. Five Kadoshim spiralled above them, ever closer.
A vibration in the ground, Corban feeling it through his boots, a rumbling in the forest, growing rapidly louder. Branches snapping, and then timber and foliage was exploding into the glade, and a monstrous form was exploding from the woods, a giant bear, jaws wide as it let out a roar that shook trees and rattled bones. A swipe of one of its paws eviscerated the warrior unfortunate enough to be closest.
Upon its back was sat a giantess, fair hair bound in a thick warrior-braid, tattoos spiralling up her muscled arms. She was clothed in chainmail, a longsword gripped in her fists. She leaned in her saddle, swung her blade, sliced a wing from a Kadoshim, sending it screeching to the ground, where her bear stamped the screaming into abrupt silence.
A warrior emerged from behind the bear, serious faced with short-cropped hair, a round shield upon one arm with a white, four-pointed star painted upon it, a short sword in his fist. He strode forwards, nodded to Corban. Then more warriors swarmed from around either side of the bear, all with the same round shields and short swords. They came together with a concussive thunderclap as lines were formed and shields thudded together, forming two shieldwalls on the bear’s flanks.
The enemy scattered, running in all directions.
Storm leaped after them, a fox amongst chickens, dealing death with tooth and claw, Farrell and Dath smashing and cutting men down as they tried to escape.
Corban unclipped a folded net at his belt, weighted at each corner with lead balls, shook it out, swung it around his head and threw, the net snaring a Kadoshim, lead balls looping around it, tightening, constricting its wings. The Kadoshim plummeted to the ground, Corban striding forwards, a sharp thrust of his sword and it stopped struggling, blood, a widening pool staining the grass.
And then, as suddenly as that, it was all over.
The giantess rode her bear deeper into the glade, threw a leg over her saddle and slid to the ground, striding to Corban, the serious-faced warrior at her side.
‘Well-met, Sig, Veradis.’ Corban nodded to them.
‘You could have come quicker,’ Dath said as he joined them.
Craf flapped down from above, landing on the dead Kadoshim at Corban’s feet.
‘Craf told Sig, faster, faster,’ the crow squawked, then pecked a strip of flesh from the dead Kadoshim’s cheek.
Sig glowered at the crow. ‘You take too many risks,’ she rumbled at Corban, a frown on her broad face.
‘All’s well as ends well, as our friend Tahir is fond of saying,’ Corban said, smiling at the two of them.
‘Sig’s right,’ Veradis said. ‘Cywen would have my head if anything happened to you.’
‘It was the only way,’ Corban said. ‘They needed distracting and holding here while Sig and her bear smashed a way through the forest. Think they would have heard you coming, otherwise.’
‘Huh.’ Sig grunted begrudgingly, not looking entirely appeased.
‘Agreed,’ Veradis said, ‘but why do you always have to go first. You are too important.’
‘I’ll not shirk from danger and ask another to take my place,’ Corban said, returning Veradis’ serious stare with his own.
‘And that’s why we love you so much,’ Farrell said, wrapping a big arm around Corban and ruffling his hair.
‘Corban, Corban,’ came a cry from above, all of them looking up, even old Craf. A bird appeared above them, a white crow, spiralling down in a flurry of feathers.
‘Rab,’ Craf croaked, ‘why you here?’
The white crow alighted next to Craf, dipped its head to the old crow, ran his beak along Craf’s black-feathered wing as if he were bowing.
‘Cywen sent Rab. Said, get Corban.’
‘Why, Rab?’ Corban said, crouching down to look at the white-feathered crow.
‘Coralen needs Corban,’ Rab said. ‘Cywen said hurry.’
Corban’s heart lurched in his chest.
‘Cywen said HURRY,’ Rab screeched, flapping his wings.
‘Take Hammer,’ Sig said, sweeping Corban up into her arms and striding over to her huge bear, then hoisting him into the saddle.
Trees thinned and then faded around Corban as the giant bear, Hammer, lumbered onto broad meadows that undulated between the forest and his home, Dun Seren. Storm loped alongside them, a bone-coloured blur, and Rab flew ahead, squawking encouragements for greater speed. Dawn had recently come, the world painted in pinks and amber hues, and then Corban saw the tower of Dun Seren in the distance, grey stone glistening in the rising sun.
‘Well done, Hammer,’ he said, patting her thick neck. They’d covered a three-day journey on horseback in a day and a half. ‘Nearly there, now.’
As if understanding his words, or maybe it was just the pleasure of seeing home, Hammer seemed to increase her speed, which was already prodigious.
Meadows rolled by and, soon, Corban was passing half-built walls of stone, marking the new Rowan Field that was being built, an enormous training ground for the warriors of the Order of the Bright Star, men and women carrying stone calling out to him, waving. And then Hammer was climbing the gentle hill that Dun Seren stood upon, shambling through the arched-stone gate and into a huge courtyard.
Before the bear had properly stopped, Corban was leaping from her back and sprinting across the courtyard, up wide stone steps towards the open doors of the feast-hall. Storm kept pace with him, red tongue lolling.
A dark-haired woman stood at the top of the steps, petitely built, her belly heavy with child, four bairns of various sizes swarming around her legs.
Kulla, Dath’s wife, with their ever-growing warband of children. She was also one of the most skilled sword-masters Corban had ever known.
‘Where is she?’ Corban gasped.
‘The healer’s tower,’ Kulla said. ‘You must hurry.’
Corban sped up
.
‘My Dath?’ Kulla called behind him.
‘He’s fine, showed great courage, he’s half-a-day behind me,’ Corban called over his shoulder, then he was through the feast-hall, veering right, and climbing spiralling steps up a tower. His heart pounded like a drum in his head, breath a wheezing gasp, even though he’d run for days at a time before.
A scream echoed along a corridor, and he froze, felt his heart in his throat, fear, a coiled serpent slithering in his gut.
Storm whined beside him.
Another scream, high-pitched and lingering.
Corban sprinted down the corridor, hammered on a closed door.
A new sound, muffled crying.
Footsteps, the door opening. Cywen, his sister stood there, her frame blocking his view of the room, black hair tied back with its famous streak of white, dark tear stains on her cheek like tattoos marking where she had wept tears of blood on the day of Wrath.
‘You’re too late,’ she said.
More crying, behind her. High-pitched.
Cywen stepped aside, revealing a bed, a woman laying upon it, Coralen, Corban’s wife.
Her eyes were closed, her red hair dark with sweat, blankets upon her stained with blood.
My Cora.
Then a bundle on her chest squirmed, cried again.
Coralen’s eyes flickered open.
‘Why do you have to be late for everything,’ Cywen said beside him, a grin splitting her face.
Corban stood there a moment, dumbfounded, speechless, then his legs were moving and he was at Coralen’s side, kneeling, crying, kissing her, his tears wet on her cheeks, mingling with her own tears, Coralen’s hand rising weakly to cup his cheek.
‘Say hello to your daughter,’ Coralen said, a tired smile and shining eyes as she lifted the bundle to him.
A pink face looked up at him, serious dark eyes, completely bald.
Storm licked a tiny foot poking from the blanket, and the baby wrinkled her nose and gurgled.
Corban took her gently, almost reverently, held her close to his chest, gazing down at his baby through tear filled eyes.
‘Hello, my darling Brina,’ he said.
Art of War Page 6