‘I agree with you,’ Veradis said. ‘Although I can also understand the King doubting the Vin Thalun. I have lived on the coast, Nathair, and we feel the corsairs’ bite more often than you. That they would just stop is difficult to imagine.’
Nathair nodded, took a deep breath.
‘We are on the brink of a new age, Veradis, where much will be swept away and much will change, as my father so readily tells me. Yet when it comes to it he is not quite so willing to embrace that change. All he can think of is this council and of forging this league. He has dreamed and imagined it as he hopes for it to be for so long that he does not see the truth of how it really is. And these,’ Nathair snorted, gesturing at the banners rippling around the fortress, ‘they are only here to serve themselves. They cannot see beyond their own borders. How can my father imagine they would unite with him? Better to rule them than bicker with them. If the need is as great as my father believes then we cannot risk these fickle kings. They change their minds with the wind. What then?’ He was looking at Veradis again.
‘I don’t know,’ Veradis said. ‘I have spent more time with my sword and spear than I have in my father’s council chamber. There seems much wisdom in what you say. But we must trust our king, must we not. What else is there?’
Nathair looked intently at Veradis and slowly nodded.
‘What do you think of this God-War?’ Veradis asked. He could hardly believe the talk of the council. He liked the old tales well enough, and knew that there was truth in the stories of the Giant Wars, and the earth showed the signs of Elyon’s Scourging, plain as the back of his hand. But a war between Asroth and Elyon–he could not even imagine it.
‘I believe in the Gods, if that is what you mean. As to this book that Meical brings us. Much as I dislike him, perhaps it is true. There is much I don’t understand, but some of it–the giant-stones have wept blood, have they not? That cannot be denied. And Brenin had a wyrm’s head in a sack…’
‘True enough,’ Veradis muttered, feeling a shiver sweep him at the memory of Meical reading those words from the book.
‘Midwinter’s Day,’ he said. ‘When day shall become night. That will decide it in most minds. But my father believes it now, without any doubt.’ Nathair glanced sidelong at Veradis. ‘As do I. For my own reasons.’
‘What reasons?’ Veradis asked.
‘Another time.’
They had reached the point where the road forked, and saw a stream of people hurrying from the lakeside village into the forest. Veradis leaned down and beckoned to a young boy.
‘Where is everybody going?’
‘There’s a strange sight in the forest,’ the boy replied breathlessly.
‘What sight?’
‘Creatures, I don’t know.’ The boy shrugged as Veradis dismissed him. Veradis looked at Nathair, who raised an eyebrow and with a click of his tongue urged his horse into the forest. They passed many of the crowd on foot, and soon they rode into a wide, open glade and pushed to the front.
There the ground was black, seething with frantic movement.
They were ants. Thousands of them, thousands upon thousands. The biggest that Veradis had ever seen, each one easily the size of his small finger. They marched in a wide column, as wide as a man lying with arms stretched overhead, a writhing, boiling black mass that issued from one side of the glade and disappeared into the forest on the other, in permanent, remorseless motion.
‘I have heard tales of such a thing, deep in the heart of ancient forests,’ he whispered to Nathair, ‘but never did I truly believe them.’ The Prince did not answer, just crouched to see the ants better, an intense, almost rapt expression on his face.
An isle of green grass separated the crowd from the column of ants, no one being overly keen to get too close. Veradis saw the boy that he had spoken to on the road standing nearby.
Knees and elbows began to dig into Veradis’ back as the crowd swelled. The thought of being pitched face first into the marching black carpet in front of him was not appealing, so he jostled back a pace.
Another ripple ran through the crowd as more joined the back, trying to squeeze their way through. The boy from earlier suddenly lurched forwards, knocked by bodies behind him, and his foot came down on the edge of the marching column. Instantly a black tide swarmed up his leg. The boy tried to jump back, but the press of bodies behind stopped him. He screamed and flailed at his leg. Blood was welling in rips that the insects had torn in his breeches, their mandibles tearing through cloth and flesh.
Veradis leaped past the Prince, who glanced at his friend briefly, his eyes drawn immediately back to the mass in front of him. Veradis swept the boy up into his arms, almost instantly feeling stinging pain as the ants surged onto him.
‘To me, pass the boy to me,’ a voice shouted, a young, red-haired man gesturing at him.
Veradis swiped at the boy’s leg, knocking scores of ants onto the ground, people suddenly pushing away from him. Now they’re moving. In the new space Veradis lifted the boy over his head and passed him to the red-haired warrior.
Further up the line a dog barked, a scraggly, wire-haired ratter. Even as Veradis looked, it was knocked sprawling into the ants. For a moment they just swirled around the dog, like a boulder in a river, but then the black tide swarmed up its legs, engulfing it. The whine turned to a frenzied howling as the dog stumbled to the ground, tried to rise, snapping, foam in its mouth turning pink. In a matter of seconds it quivered and then lay still.
Cursing, Veradis turned and stormed into the crowd, pushing his way through, glaring at people as they fell about him.
He found the red-haired warrior tending to the boy in an empty part of the glade and realized it was Kastell. He had sat with Romar, Isiltir’s King, at the feast. Methodically he was plucking insects from the boy, crushing them in his big hands. An older warrior, grey-haired, crouched beside him and tried to calm the boy, who was crying, chest heaving in great, racking sobs.
‘My thanks. There were not many back there inclined to help,’ Veradis said.
The warrior nodded.
‘I have seen you before,’ the grey-hair said. ‘You are the Prince’s man?’
‘Aye. Veradis.’ He extended his bloodied hand.
‘Maquin. And my friend here is Kastell. A strange sight, eh?’ he said, gesturing to the column of ants.
‘Aye. One I’ve never seen before.’
‘These are the times for strange sights, it would seem. Judging by today’s council,’ Kastell said.
Veradis smiled. ‘I saw you in the practice court yesterday. It would have gone the worse for you without that well-timed knee below the belt.’
‘I did not mean for that to happen,’ said the big youth, scowling.
‘It was well done, I would say,’ Veradis replied, and Maquin grunted an agreement. ‘Your opponent–he had it coming. He may not be so quick to laugh at you next time.’
‘Maybe. Maybe I have made things worse.’
‘How so?’
Kastell was silent.
‘His opponent was Jael, nephew of Romar, Isiltir’s King,’ Maquin said.
’Jael is my cousin,’ Kastell said. ‘His reputation in my homeland is not for forgiveness. I should not have struck him as I did. And especially not in front of such an audience.’
‘Long overdue, though,’ growled Maquin, and Veradis laughed.
‘You should stay out of things,’ Kastell said to Maquin with a scowl, ‘otherwise Jael will mark you as well.’
‘When you were six years old I carried you to Romar on my saddle. I have been your shieldman longer still. I think Jael already has me marked,’ Maquin said.
‘Aye, well, you should still be more careful. It is better not to catch Jael’s eye.’
‘Wise words from the man that kicked him in the knackers.’
Veradis laughed.
‘Don’t encourage him,’ Kastell said. ‘And just because you are a giantkiller now, it doesn’t make you invincible,’ h
e added to Maquin.
Veradis held his hands up. ‘I did not want to start a disagreement. Only to say that I thought you fought well.’
Kastell nodded and smiled.
‘And it seems there are some tales worth listening to here,’ Veradis added. ‘Giantkiller?’
‘It was a lucky throw,’ the old warrior said. ‘Kastell could see the colour of the eyes of the giant he killed.’
‘Oh-ho, two giantkillers. This must be a tale indeed.’
The boy on the ground whimpered.
‘Another time,’ said Maquin. ‘Find us at the feast tonight and we’ll share a jug. But now we’d better get this lad back to his kin.’
The two warriors carried the boy from the glade. Veradis studied his arms, grimacing at the mass of cuts and drying blood, then went to find Nathair.
The Prince was still at the front of the crowd, crouched in the grass, as engrossed in the macabre procession before him as when Veradis had left.
Suddenly the end of the marching column appeared, the insects receding from the far side of the glade as if a long rug were being rolled up.
Veradis watched silently as the crowd left the forest glade, until he and Nathair were the only two left.
The ants had flattened the ground they had marched over, leaving the impression of a wide, oft-walked path. All that remained of the dog was a mass of torn bloodied fur and bone.
‘They eat as they march,’ said Nathair, watching Veradis. ‘Amazing. Quite amazing. Did you see them, Veradis, the ants? How they overpowered something so many times their size and strength?’
‘I did,’ said Veradis, shivering at the memory.
‘We could learn from them,’ Nathair whispered.
‘What do you mean?’
‘When we go into battle we fight warrior against warrior, sometimes with shield-brother, but often without. Our wars are like a thousand duels on a battlefield, all happening at once.’
‘Aye. It is the way it has always been done.’
‘But what if we fought like the ants, Veradis, as one body, all aiding each other?’ He paused. ‘We would be unstoppable.’
Grease dripped down Veradis’ chin as he bit into a thick slice of meat. He was sitting at one of many long tables that had been set up in the practice court outside the keep. The night was warm, a half-moon and stars shining down from a cloudless sky. He had searched out Kastell and Maquin and shared a jar of wine with them. They had been good company, though King Romar had called them away early. Now his brother-in-arms Rauca was sitting next to him, trying to talk and gnaw on a rack of ribs at the same time. Veradis was not really listening. He was thinking about Nathair and events since the council had ended.
Rauca slapped Veradis on the shoulder and pointed to the open doorway of the keep. Prince Nathair was standing there, dressed in black with the eagle of Tenebral carved on a leather cuirass. He caught Veradis’ eye and beckoned to him.
‘Are you well?’ Veradis asked him.
‘Aye, my friend. My apologies for my mood earlier. I love my father, I just do not understand some of his decisions. I have thought on what you said, though, and you are right. We must trust our king; but I will not sit idly by and watch while all he has worked for turns to ashes. I must work to further his cause, and indeed my own, for I will be king after him, will I not?’
‘Aye, Nathair. Of course.’
‘Then come, let us play the game that is before us,’ he said, flashing a smile.
Nathair led him into the courtyard, singling out kings and barons, methodically speaking with them all. Nathair was courteous and friendly to all, whether they had agreed to ally themselves to Aquilus or not, talking to them of their concerns with the alliance, and also about their own worries within their realms. Mandros of Carnutan was one of a few who refused to be charmed by Nathair, so the Prince instead turned to Mandros’ son, Gundul, a round-faced youth who laughed loudly at all of Nathair’s jokes. The Prince invited many out hunting with him the following day. Gundul agreed, as did a handful of others–including Jael, who had fought Kastell in the practice court.
He is made to be king, Veradis thought as he watched Nathair throughout the evening, charming, interested and knowledgeable in all subjects.
As the night grew late, and some were beginning to head to their beds, Nathair led Veradis towards a royal group gathered in the gardens that bordered the weapons court. Veradis recognized Brenin of Ardan, along with Rhin and Owain.
Brenin gripped Nathair’s arm, and Veradis noted his muscular build. Not a soft king, like so many of these others, he thought. He nodded a greeting to Tull, the King’s first sword.
The ageing warrior smiled at him. ‘How is your friend, Rauca?’ he leaned over and whispered.
‘He is well, although his knuckles are still bruised, no doubt.’
Tull laughed. ‘He fights well, but you don’t get to live as long as I have without learning to use this.’ He tapped a finger against his temple.
Veradis smiled, liking the old warrior.
‘This is Heb, my reluctant loremaster,’ King Brenin said, gesturing at the spidery old man behind him.
‘Reluctant?’ said Nathair.
‘Oh, it’s nothing personal,’ Heb said. ‘I like Brenin well enough, I just like the pleasures of my hearth more. And I hate long journeys.’
Veradis coughed to cover his laughter.
‘Ignore him; he lies,’ Brenin said. ‘I would have had to tie him down to keep him away. He’s far too inquisitive to have stayed in Ardan.’
Nathair took Rhin’s hand and kissed it. Her skin was mottled, papery thin, blue veins standing proud. ‘You look beautiful, my lady.’
‘Flatterer,’ Rhin said, though she smiled warmly, the flickering torchlight turning her lined face into a place of dark gullies.
‘I speak the truth as I see it.’
‘Really? A dangerous practice for a prince. If I were ugly, would you have told me so?’
‘No,’ Nathair grinned. ‘I would have focused on some other virtue.’
‘If you could find one.’
‘All have something worthy about them, if you look hard enough.’
‘Well said,’ Rhin smiled. ‘Keep looking for my virtues and I think you and I shall get along very well.’
‘Please, Rhin, stop playing with the boy.’ Owain spoke now, the King of Narvon. He was a dark-haired, sharp-featured man, his smile showing little warmth. His realm bordered both Rhin’s and Brenin’s, if Veradis remembered his maps right.
‘I don’t play at anything,’ Rhin said, her eyes fixed on Nathair. ‘Besides, he is doing very well for himself. So far.’
Veradis decided he did not like this Rhin. There was something predatory about her, about the way she looked at Nathair. That’s not right. She’s so old.
‘Careful, Nathair, you are swimming in dangerous waters here,’ Owain said, draining his cup. ‘Before you know it, Rhin will sweep you away and have you handbound.’
‘Hardly,’ Rhin snorted. ‘Variety is what keeps me young. Though for the right man…’ She smiled.
‘And how do things stand in your homeland?’ Nathair asked her, his neck flushing red.
‘Well enough,’ Rhin laughed. ‘As most of the realms that border my lands are ruled by one relative or another, so times are stable. A little dull, but stable. Apart from the giants in the north, of course. They are always determined to test my warriors’ mettle. Still,’ she turned to her champion, ‘I am never in danger, even when the giants are feeling more ferocious, not while I have Morcant here to guard me.’ She ran a long white finger down the curve of his cheek. He smiled back at her. Something about the gesture made Veradis blush.
‘If what we heard in the council today is true, it will take more than one man’s blade to keep you safe,’ Nathair said. ‘I must confess, I had hoped to see more support my father.’ Nathair looked at Rhin and Owain. ‘I do not remember seeing either of you stand today.’
‘That is because
I did not,’ Rhin said. ‘I am old, Nathair, and there are lessons that age has taught me. One is that rushing is overrated. Much of what your father said strikes a chord in me, but I am not yet convinced. Also, I felt a little unsure, shall we say, of your father’s counsellor and his findings. There is something unsettling about him.’ She smiled, brushing a strand of white hair out of her face.
‘I am not the most trusting of people–one of my faults, I fear–but I find it hard to take the word of one man on such claims. So I shall wait, see what Midwinter’s Day brings us. Besides,’ she added, ‘all of this talk of Gods and demons, maybe we do not need to look so far afield for conflict and war. There are those here that would be better served paying more attention to what goes on in their own realms, instead of wishing faery tales come to life.’
She’s a clever one, Veradis thought. Who was that intended for? Brenin, Owain, Nathair. All?
Brenin raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Heb smiled, as if watching an entertaining game.
‘Please, speak plainly,’ Owain said. ‘I have drunk too much wine to untangle your riddles.’
Rhin clucked her tongue. ‘No tact, Owain. I am sure Brenin will explain it to you.’
Brenin chuckled. ‘Leave me out of this.’
‘Very well. Speaking plainly, I have heard that you both have had troubles of late.’
‘Aye, true enough,’ said Brenin. ‘Lawless men, striking out from the Darkwood. Braith is at the heart of it with his band of outlaws, I believe, though I have not the proof yet. I hope it will be waiting for me when I return.’
‘It is the same for me,’ Owain grunted. ‘All along the border of the Darkwood I am raided.’
‘Maybe this alliance is the answer for you both, then,’ Rhin said. ‘Perhaps working together, and with King Aquilus’ help you could deal with these lawless men.’
‘I am capable of keeping my own lands safe,’ Owain snapped.
‘Really? And yet you are here, while your lands are raided, robbed. As are you Brenin.’
‘Ever the same, Rhin,’ Brenin said, shaking his head. ‘You will not bait me, try as you might. I will not be part of your amusements.’ With that he strode away, Heb close behind him. Tull nodded at Rhin’s champion, then followed his King, winking at Veradis as he passed him by.