A fierce baying caused Kastell to rein his horse in and stare back down into the dell.
The mist was evaporating now, the bodies of horses and men scattered about the wains in bloody ruin, the stream flowing a sickly pink. Giants were clustered about a wain, hacking at the crates piled upon it. Suddenly a great cry rose up from them, one reaching into the crate, pulling something out and brandishing it in the air. It glinted in the sunlight.
Maquin hissed. ‘The starstone axe.’
‘What? How?’ Kastell gasped.
‘Damned if I know,’ Maquin said.
A strange-sounding horn blast rose from the dell, and a cold shaft of fear spiked into Kastell’s gut. They had been seen: at least a score of the Hunen breaking into a loping run up the mountain track after them.
Kastell exchanged a glance with Maquin and they wheeled their horses and spurred them up the path.
‘Careful!’ Maquin shouted over the drum of their horses’ hooves. ‘If we press for the gallop our mounts will be blowing before high-sun. This pace is faster than the Hunen can manage, so stick to it, put some distance between us and them, hope they give up the chase.’
‘But, you said…’
‘I know what I said, boy,’ Maquin growled back.
Kastell breathed deep, holding the panic at bay and focused on the track in front of him.
They rode in silence, the only sound the drumming of hooves and the blasts of air blowing from the horses’ nostrils. As the sun passed its highest point they splashed into a stream that ran across their path. They reined in their horses and climbed out of their saddles, filling their water skins, giving the horses a chance to drink and rest.
Maquin drank deeply. He stood staring at the road behind them, then suddenly sprang towards his horse.
‘On your feet, the Hunen are coming.’
The old warrior was not someone to be argued with, particularly as he appeared now, with giant’s blood drying black on his hair and face. Kastell looked towards the horizon and saw a mass of lumbering shapes come into view. Quickly he mounted up, sweat drying salt-white in his horse’s coat and set off again.
Their horses settled into a steady canter on the wide track. Occasionally Kastell glanced over his shoulder, sometimes catching a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision. As the sun sank into the horizon before them, their shadows stretching far behind, Maquin called another halt.
‘How was the axe on that wain?’ Kastell said.
‘Stolen by Aguila’s employer, is my guess,’ Maquin shrugged.
‘But the Hunen–how did they know it was there?’
‘I don’t know, lad. Foul magic?’ He shrugged.
‘How did we ever beat them?’ Kastell asked.
‘We?’
‘Mankind. How did we ever beat the giants?’ The black-haired giant that had almost killed Maquin stood clear in his mind’s eye.
‘Hard to believe, eh,’ Maquin said. ‘Truth be told, although the old tales tell of great deeds of valour, I suspect it came down to numbers. There were more of us than them. That and the pride of the giants. They looked down on us, never considering us a real danger. There’s a lesson there. Even if you’re as strong and fierce as a giant, never underestimate a foe.’ He hawked and spat. ‘So, lad, you going to join the Gadrai now?’
Kastell looked at him, confused.
‘You killed a giant. I’ll speak as witness. I saw you do it with my own eyes.’
Kastell snorted. ‘Giantess,’ he corrected. ‘And if they give a place to anyone in the Gadrai, it should probably go to my horse.’ He patted its trembling flank. ‘It was him that killed the giant, though you made sure of it.’
‘Just didn’t want her getting back up,’ Maquin said with a quick smile. ‘Took grit, what you did, lad. And you saved my life. I won’t be forgetting that.’
Kastell looked away, embarrassed. ‘What do you think our chances are?’
Maquin was silent a long while. ‘I do not think they’ll follow us much past the Rhenus. If we can cross the river into Isiltir, they will likely give up the chase. As they have followed us this far I doubt they will stop before then.’
‘But we have travelled five days since the Rhenus,’ Kastell said, trying to keep the fear from his voice.
‘Aye, true enough; but that was at a different speed, with wains setting the pace. Already we have crossed ground that it took almost two days to cover with the wains.’ He pulled a face. ‘But the horses are tiring; we have ridden them too hard. We must travel through the night if there is to be a chance of living till the morrow, but it will be slower going. My guess is that, if the Hunen have not caught us by highsun tomorrow, we will be in sight of the river. If we travel through the night and if the horses have not died beneath us.’
‘What good is sleep if it means a spear up your arse?’ said Kastell. Maquin nodded grimly.
They ate some salted meat, washing it down with water.
‘Mount up. Let’s see if we can live to see the sun rise.’
The night passed in a daze for Kastell, the horses slowing to an exhausted walk for most of it. He dozed fitfully many times, only to jerk awake as he started to slip from the saddle, and more than once he put out a hand to stop the same happening to Maquin. He thanked Elyon in mumbled prayers through the night for keeping the sky clear, so that the moon and stars shone bright, giving light enough to see the mountain track. Dawn came unnoticed, the sky greying, turning a deep blue before they realized the night was over. Maquin would not let them stop yet, though. A thick mist covered the meadows below, forming a grey mantle up to the feet of the forest. Maquin eyed it suspiciously and kept his mount moving doggedly forward.
The sun was hot on their backs, the mist below burned away when they eventually did stop, almost falling from their saddles. Kastell tried to check for followers, but the sun was low in the sky, and blinded him as he squinted back along the mountain path.
‘Drink,’ Maquin muttered, pouring some water into a cupped hand and giving it to his horse.
Kastell checked behind him again. Black forms materialized out of the bright sun, closer, much closer than he had thought possible. He grabbed Maquin’s arm, squawking a warning.
‘Ride!’ Maquin yelled and shoved Kastell towards his horse.
They kicked their mounts mercilessly, urging them into full gallop, all thoughts of pacing lost as death closed in behind them. Panic rose bubbling in Kastell and he shouted at his mount, urging it on. They crested a ridge and he saw a flash in the distance, the Rhenus curling away from the mountains, then the track fell into a shallow dip before another ridge and the river disappeared. Something screamed behind him, followed by a crash. He twisted in his saddle, saw Maquin lying on the ground, his horse behind him, its foreleg twisted impossibly beneath it. He turned his mount, rode back to Maquin, who was scrambling to his feet, dirt and blood caking one side of his face. One look at his mount showed it would not be getting up.
‘His leg’s broken,’ said Maquin. Kastell offered his hand and Maquin grabbed it, swinging into the saddle behind Kastell. His horse danced on the spot, its legs trembling. Kastell cursed and kicked and the horse began to move, but not much faster than a walk. They travelled only a few paces, then Maquin swore and slipped to the ground.
‘Ride, boy,’ he said to Kastell. ‘If one of us makes it, it will be something.’ Kastell stared silently back at him. ‘Ride on, lad,’ Maquin grunted as he calmly strapped his helmet on. ‘Go now,’ Maquin urged, ‘’fore it’s too late for you as well. Did you see the river?’ Kastell nodded. ‘With the time I buy you here, there is still hope. There is no shame in this, lad. Live.’
For a moment Kastell sat there, thoughts swirling through his mind in an exhausted jumble, then he shook his head and climbed off his horse. ‘Can’t get rid of me that easily,’ he mumbled.
Maquin smiled grimly. ‘Then give me your spear at least. I left mine in a giant, and you could’na hit the broadside of a ship at ten paces.’
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Kastell grinned. He passed his spear to Maquin, unstrapped his shield. His horse was exhausted, certainly no use in the fight to come. He slapped it hard on the flank, sending it trotting up the incline and disappearing over the ridge.
The men stood shoulder to shoulder as the Hunen crested the ridge they had just crossed. Kastell felt a stab of fear in his belly, his bowels turning to water as the giants saw them and began howling strange, ululating cries. Then they fell silent, their iron-shod feet thudding on the ground. Kastell tried to count them. At least a score, maybe more, it was hard to tell; the women amongst them only discernible by the lack of moustaches and beards. Sunshine glinted on iron as they pulled axes and hammers from straps on their backs.
He heard a whisper beside him, saw Maquin, eyes closed, lips moving. Then his eyes snapped open, arm drawing back, whipping forwards, Kastell’s spear flying into the air. It rose and fell in a fluid arc. A giant stumbled, fell and did not rise again.
Kastell’s sword hissed from its scabbard. With a blade in his hand he felt a different person, no longer clumsy. He vowed to take at least one of these monsters with him across the bridge of swords. In the distance behind him he heard a rumble, as of thunder, and glanced up at the sky, but it was a clear blue. The giants were close enough to make out individual features. Black leather armour covered them, wrapped about them in strange patterns. Tattoos spiralled their arms, dark eyes glowered in pale faces, all framed with braided black hair, the males with long drooping moustaches.
The giants swept around Maquin’s fallen horse. Kastell muttered a last prayer to Elyon and raised his sword. Thunder sounded again, louder. This time, instead of fading, it grew, and suddenly Maquin was shoving him out of the track. He fell and rolled in the gravel, cursing a protest. The rumbling grew until the ground shook, and Kastell realized it was not coming from the sky, but from beyond the ridge behind them. Horses suddenly crested it, sweeping down like a great wave, and riding at their head, in a coat of gleaming mail, was his uncle. Like an avenging angel from the time before the Scourging, Romar had come.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CORBAN
Corban clung to Gar as they rode down the giantsway. He could hear more than he could see, as his face was filled with the stablemaster’s billowing cloak. An orange glow flickered about them, light from the torches that many had lit on the way to Darol’s hold, but nevertheless the journey in the dark was slow and tedious and he had no way of knowing how much longer it would take them to reach the stockade, for the company rode in grim silence. All he could hear was the thud of hooves on the ancient road. Still, at least I’m here, he thought, remembering how he had pleaded with Gar to take him.
‘How far?’ he said into Gar’s back, not for the first time, but the stablemaster was silent. He repeated himself, a little louder.
‘Not long,’ Gar grunted, ‘and I swear, if you ask me that question again, I shall throw you from my horse.’
Corban pulled a sour face but chose to say nothing. Dylan’s face flashed into his mind again, where it had been almost permanently since he had seen the hold burning. Many had run to the stables at Gar’s call, and Corban was riding in a party at least two score strong, including Brenin the King. He sighed and clung tighter to Gar.
After what seemed an eternity he felt Gar’s piebald, Hammer, turn and begin to climb a slope. They had arrived. The sky around him grew lighter, and at first he thought that dawn had crept up unannounced, but then he heard the crackling of flames, smelt the smoke and realized that the light was from Darol’s hold, burning.
The riders pulled to a halt and Corban slipped off, gasping as he looked around. Tongues of flame licked the stockade walls, curling into the dark sky above. A dark hole gaped amidst the flames, billows of black smoke issuing from the open gateway.
Brenin marched up the remainder of the hill, shieldmen rushing to form a half-circle before him.
‘Try not to call attention to yourself, you’re not supposed to be here,’ Gar whispered. Corban nodded, knowing that only those who had come through their warrior trials and the Long Night should have ridden with the King. Not even the likes of Rafe, who now trained in the Rowan Field, had been permitted to join them.
Clouds of smoke enveloped him as he stepped through the open gateway. Mingled with the smell of burning wood was a sweeter, sicklier scent that stuck at the back of his throat. Buildings within the stockade were not burning as fiercely, little left of them but charred beams where the feast-hall and stables had once been.
Brenin knelt in the middle of the yard, a handful of warriors about him. Then the King stood and strode on. Corban sidled forward to see what had held Brenin’s attention.
A figure lay on the floor. It was Darol. A dark stain spread around his stomach. His fingers, bloody and twisted, were fixed in the earth, grasping, gouging.
There was a call from up ahead. A warrior was standing next to a black mound in what had been the feast-hall, prising it apart with the butt end of his spear. Someone else went to help, one of the brothers that had ridden into the village the night before, then others were crowding round, obscuring Corban’s view. He forgot about not calling attention to himself, and shoved his way through the massed warriors until he stood starring at the dissected mound, his boots blackened with soft ash.
On the ground before him were figures, black and twisted from the fire. The smell hit Corban like a blow and snatched his breath away, stomach lurching. He counted five, all of them burned beyond recognition, one much smaller than the rest: Frith. He couldn’t tell which one was Dylan, but he knew his friend was there. His stomach lurched again and tears sprang to his eyes. He rubbed them away, dimly aware he was standing amidst the pride of Dun Carreg’s warriors. He turned and stumbled away, falling to his knees, and vomited onto the ash-covered yard.
A hand rested on his shoulder. He blinked away stinging tears and saw Thannon. His da lifted him effortlessly from the ground. ‘You shouldn’t be here, Ban,’ he growled.
‘Dylan…’ Corban mumbled, then Thannon pulled him close. He couldn’t seem to stop his shoulders shaking. They stood like that a while, warriors moving about the enclosure, sifting through the ash. Eventually Corban pulled away. Gar joined them as Corban rubbed his eyes, smearing ash across his face.
‘Brenin has just sent people to scout around the hill, see if they can find any clues as to what happened here.’
‘What do you think happened?’ Corban asked.
‘Blood-feud or thievery, what else?’ growled Thannon.
‘My guess is lawless men,’ said Gar. ‘There have been rumours that some of Braith’s outlaw band from the Darkwood have travelled east, burning and thieving on their way. The Baglun is not as large as the Darkwood, but it is still a tempting place for them to dwell.’
‘Apart from the wolven, and being so close to Brenin,’ said Thannon.
Gar shrugged. ‘There are wolven in the Darkwood too. Do you think this is the result of a blood-feud? Do you think Darol had en emies that would do this?’
Thannon sighed, shaking his head. ‘Just don’t like the thought of it: lawless men so close to home.’
Noise drifted up from beyond the gates. A string of wains had arrived, filled with people from the village and fortress. Many were carrying tools of some description, from buckets to shovels. Corban spotted his mam and sister hurrying up the hill towards them. Gwenith ran to him and took his hand.
‘Dylan’s dead…’ he mumbled, feeling a lump swell in his throat, fresh tears forming. Gwenith tried to pull him into an embrace as villagers passed them by, but he stepped away.
The newly arrived villagers set to work, pilling up charred timber, shovelling ash, sifting through the debris. The rest of the morning passed quickly. Corban climbed onto the back of Gar’s piebald again and went with the stablemaster to the river, where many were already hard at work, including Brenin. They tore down Darol’s salmon traps and piled wains high with rocks from the riverbed to build a cair
n.
Back at the stockade the stones were unloaded from the wains, a large stone cairn built around the bodies of Darol and his family on the brow of the hill. The final stones were laid in place as the sinking sun began to melt into the horizon. Then Brenin stepped forward.
‘Most here knew Darol and his family. They were good people, they and their children. Lawless men struck here last night.’ He beckoned to Marrock.
‘We found two sets of tracks,’ the huntsman said, ‘one set coming from the forest, one set returning, about a dozen horses strong. Some climbed the wall and opened the gate for the others, I believe. Darol heard and came out and was slain. The others were killed inside the feast-hall. We followed their trail a way into the Baglun before it disappeared.’ He grimaced and beckoned to the crowd. One of the brothers that Corban had met on the road the night before, the older, sterner one, stepped forward.
‘Halion found this.’ Marrock nodded to the man, who held his arm out, showing them a pearl necklace that Corban had seen worn by Elin, Dylan’s sister.
Brenin drew his sword. ‘A dark thing has been done here,’ he growled. ‘This I pledge: I will not allow thieves and murderers to do as they please in Ardan, let alone on my very doorstep. Darol and his family will have justice. Blood will be shed by the guilty; I swear it on my father’s sword, and seal it with my blood.’ He clenched his fist around the blade, a thin red line running down its edge, then slammed the sword back into its scabbard.
The next morning, Corban woke and for a moment felt normal, then the weight of memory fell upon him. Dylan. The fire. Tears formed in his eyes and he would have turned over and tried to sleep again but Gwenith must have heard him moving, for she bustled into his room and pulled his blanket off. She sat beside him, running her fingers through his hair, leaned over and gently kissed his cheek. ‘Come and break your fast.’