Two hundred paces. The ground was shaking, the oncoming draigs a great tidal wave approaching them. He could make out minute details: a chipped tooth in a draig’s gaping mouth, speckled green and brown scales on another’s neck, swirling tattoos on giants’ arms–their Telling, he thought. Where is Alcyon? Where is Nathair? He tried to swallow but his mouth was dry; he coughed instead.
One hundred paces. Horns blew, somewhere in the distance, a great roaring, like the sea whipped by a storm. It must have been loud for him to hear it over the charge of the onrushing draigs. Many of the great lizards faltered, slowed, the giants in their saddles turning. The noise behind them grew: weapons clashing on shields, the roar of warriors’ voices, frantic horn blasts. Veradis peered over his shield rim, glimpsed through the enemy Nathair’s warband streaming over the ridge on the far side of the valley.
You will be the anvil, I the hammer, Nathair had said to him. Giants struggled to turn their mounts, realizing the trap they were plunging into–to be ensnared in the shield wall and then charged by horsemen from the rear. Harsh voices called out, then many of the great lizards turned and thundered back down the slope to meet Nathair’s charge. A handful of draigs still powered up the hill, bent on the foe in front of them, giants on foot following behind.
Veradis grimaced. He had hoped more would turn. All, in fact. He sucked in a deep breath, braced his feet and waited for the storm to hit.
Draigs ploughed into the wall, sending a concussive explosion rippling through the massed men. Bodies, shields, blood, all flew through the air wherever draigs connected with the wall. Veradis felt terror threaten to overwhelm him. Nathair was wrong. The shield wall was not enough to turn the draigs.
The great lizards smashed through the wall, scattering men, trampling them into unrecognizable heaps of flesh and bone, giants seated on huge saddles, lashing about them with long-shafted hammer and axe, then the lizards were through the other side of the wall, their momentum carrying them across the ridge.
‘REGROUP,’ yelled Veradis, although he was not sure if anyone heard him above the screams of dying and injured warriors. The lizards were on the far side of the ridge, no doubt turning to wreak more death amongst his men, but he could do nothing about that. More pressing were the score or so of silent, grim-looking giants charging up the slope towards him.
‘SHIELD WALL!’ he screamed, and at least those about him heard, for he felt men draw close, then the giants were upon them.
Bodies slammed into the wall. The line wavered around Veradis, men grunting, setting their feet, leaning against the great pressure of giant flesh and bone. An axe slammed into the shield of the man next to Veradis, splintered wood spraying into their faces, then the warrior was gone, dragged forwards as the giant wrenched on his axe. Another warrior moved up and filled the gap.
A huge blow smashed into Veradis’ shield, numbing his arm and making his legs buckle. He glanced over the rim of his shield, saw small, fierce eyes set in a giant’s angular face towering above him, heaving a huge war-hammer over his head, readying it for another blow.
Veradis lifted his shield, blindly stabbed with his short sword under the iron rim, heard a howl, felt hot blood gush over his hand. The giant’s grip on his war-hammer loosened, the weapon dropping to the ground as fingers clutched frantically over its thigh, trying to staunch the jet of blood. With a thud the giant fell to his knees and Veradis stabbed again, his blade sinking into the giant’s throat. He pulled it out as his foe toppled backwards. He snarled wordlessly and hefted his shield. Another giant loomed before him, chopped at his shield with a great double-bladed axe. The blade stuck, Veradis gripping his shield with all his might, blinking at the axe blade’s edge, only a handspan from his eye. There was a pushing and shoving behind him now, men shouting. Panic stung him: was that a giant’s voice behind him? Were the draigs back? Then the giant in front of him heaved on his axe, pulling him stumbling forwards, out of the shield wall. He slipped in blood, fell to one knee, lifted his short sword in a vain attempt to block the axe-swing he knew would be coming. There was a chopping sound, a gurgle, and then a giant’s head rolled in the dirt before him.
‘Here, little man,’ a voice rumbled behind him. He twisted round, saw Alcyon standing above him, his great longsword in his hand, blood dripping from its blade.
‘The b-battle…’ Veradis panted.
‘Is all but done,’ Alcyon said. ‘Look.’
Veradis passed a hand over his eyes, wiping blood and sweat away. Alcyon was right. The shield wall had held against the giants’ charge, over a score of the huge warriors dead along its length. Further away, the sounds of battle still raged. He walked to the ridge of the valley, Alcyon following.
The draigs that had burst through his shield wall to such devastating effect were fleeing, a dust cloud rising about them. Even as he watched, they were dwindling into the distance.
Turning, Veradis looked down to the valley’s floor. Some of the giants and draigs were retreating back down the valley; the few standing and fighting were beset by a flowing tide of warriors on horseback. Remember the ants, Nathair had said, and from here the draigs and horsemen looked strangely similar to the ants he had seen that day in the glade, swarming over the dog.
His eyes picked out one warrior, gripping Nathair’s standard. Rauca still lives, then. Good. Then he saw Nathair, unmistakable on his great white stallion, thrusting a spear into the mouth of a draig. The beast roared, reared backwards, crushing a handful of riders in its ruin. And as suddenly as it had started, the battle was over. He breathed a great sigh of relief. Nathair had been right–the surprise, the tactics, their own Elementals–all had combined to win the battle. But it had been so close, balancing on a knife’s edge. If the giants and draigs had turned, attacked his shield wall from the rear instead of fleeing…
But they hadn’t. The battle was won, the victory theirs.
Veradis looked along the slope, saw warriors looking at him, others on their knees, tending comrades, weeping, groaning, the wounded calling out. Many more were strewn about the ridge, unnaturally still. He felt his whole body begin to tremble and looked down at his hands. He still gripped his short sword, blade, hilt and hand black with drying blood. Thrusting it into the air, he screamed a victory yell. Those about him looked, did the same, more and more joining, like ripples from a rock cast into water. The shouting changed, became a chanted name.
‘NATHAIR, NATHAIR, NATHAIR…’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CYWEN
Cywen gritted her teeth, sweat trickling into her eyes, stinging, making her blink. She shook her head, trying to clear her vision, and felt Corban’s weapon thump into the join between neck and shoulder. Not that it was really a weapon, but a branch that they had tried to shape to resemble a practice sword.
She scowled, flung her own stick to the ground and held a hand up.
‘One moment,’ she muttered, trying to catch her breath.
Corban nodded, a smirk twitching at his mouth as he took a step back.
They were in their garden. The sky was a searing blue, cloudless, the sun high, hot, even though Midsummer’s Day was long past. She wiped sweat from her face and sat with a thump in the grass. Storm was nearby, oblivious to her, a coiled spring of soft fur as she stalked a clump of grass and goldenrods. Ears pricked forward, hugging the ground, she pounced. A toad leaped into the air, through her clumsy paws, and disappeared into more grass.
Corban tapped a skin of water against Cywen’s arm. She scowled at him again, but took the skin and gulped thirstily.
‘You’re supposed to be grateful,’ he said, standing above her.
‘For what? A new bruise?’ She rubbed her shoulder.
‘No. For teaching you the ways of a warrior.’ He spoke as if talking to a child.
‘Warrior,’ she snorted, raising an eyebrow at him.
He pulled a face at her.
‘I am grateful,’ she grinned, holding out a hand for him to help her rise. ?
??It’s just annoying. How easily you beat me.’
‘It makes a nice change for me,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ve more than enough of my own bruises.’
It was frustrating, feeling that you were learning something, progressing, becoming better, yet never getting closer at touching her pretend blade to any part of Corban. In fact, if anything, the gap between them was growing wider.
He must actually be learning something, she thought, looking him up and down.
He’s changing. The thought struck her suddenly, as she stood there. Not just his shape, although that was obvious–arms growing thicker, shoulders broader, face more angular. But in other ways, inside. Even today. He had returned from the Rowan Field quiet, thoughtful, but less troubled than she had seen him for some time. His smile seemed different, deeper.
‘Come, then,’ he said, setting his feet and raising his stick.
She retrieved her own, then looked up. Taking a few paces backwards and to her left, she set her back to the rose wall, stood in the shade of a squat tower that loomed over the garden, the sun behind her.
Corban chuckled, knowing she was trying to use the sun to blind him, as he had taught her, and attacked her anyway.
She did better this time, remembering how Corban had told her to use her feet, to keep her balance when lunging, how to avoid overstretching. She still didn’t touch him with her pretend weapon, though, not even coming close, but she did avoid being whacked for longer than the last time.
That must count for something.
Eventually, though, the frustration became too much. She rushed him, certain that she had him… only to end up face first in the grass with dirt up her nose and laughter rising behind.
She turned her head, a curse forming, but Storm bounded over, sniffed her ear with a wet nose and pawed her face.
‘You let your emotions rule you,’ Corban said.
‘Idiot,’ Cywen muttered.
He turned away and looked up at the sun, shading his eyes. ‘Enough for today. Keep practising, Cy. You’re doing well.’
‘Ban…’ she said, following him, but he ignored her, walking quickly towards their house.
Their da was in the kitchen, helping himself to a slice of meat and a cup of mead.
‘Da, I wanted to ask you something,’ said Corban.
‘Aye.’
‘Why did you not stop me from taking Storm to the Field this morning? After you had forbidden me for so long?’
Thannon swung his gaze onto Corban, was silent awhile. Then he shrugged.
‘I judged you ready,’ he said. ‘I knew it would not go easy on you, so you had to want it. Really want it.’ He smiled. ‘You had a look in your eyes this morning.’
Corban frowned, eyes crinkling. ‘Is that why you came? With Gar.’
‘You saw us, then?’
‘Aye–spying in the shadows.’
‘It was not like that, Ban.’ Thannon reached out a huge hand to ruffle Corban’s hair, but stopped halfway. ‘It was something you had to do. And I’m proud of you, lad. But sometimes, these things can get out of hand right quick. If we’d walked with you into the Field, how would you have felt?’
Corban thought about that a while. ‘Like a bairn.’
Thannon nodded. ‘Some things a man has to do by himself. But I wanted to be there, watch you. And that way, if things had got out of hand. Well…’
Corban smiled. ‘Not the power of words again.’
Thannon chuckled. ‘Something like that.’
Cywen looked from face to face, frowning. ‘What’s going on? What are you two talking about? What happened in the Field today?’
Corban just smiled at her. ‘I’ll see you after,’ he said, and Thannon stepped out of the way.
‘Where are you going?’ Cywen called after him.
‘Think I’ll go and see Dath. It was his first day in the Field today.’
Cywen ran her thumb along the tip of her knife, pulled it back over her shoulder, focusing on the wooden post. A moment later the knife blade was deep in the post, its hilt vibrating with the force of her throw. She smiled, pleased with the accuracy, drew another knife from her belt and did it again. And then again.
Someone clapped behind her. She spun around, pulling another knife.
It was Princess Edana, Ronan at her shoulder.
‘What are you doing?’ Cywen snapped, despite herself, sheathing the blade. She didn’t like the thought of people being able to sneak up on her.
‘I knocked, but there was no answer,’ Edana said. ‘You must have been concentrating very hard.’
‘I was,’ Cywen said, marching to the post and pulling out her knives.
‘Be careful, you might cut yourself,’ said Ronan, Edana’s shieldman. He was grinning.
Cywen whirled; in a blur she sighted and threw the blade in her hand. With a soft thunk it sank into the tree Ronan was leaning against, about half a hand above his head.
‘Careful, girl,’ he spluttered, ducking. His grin had gone.
‘I only cut what I mean to,’ Cywen said, trying to keep a smile of her own from her face.
‘Can I see?’ Edana asked, looking at the knife in the tree.
‘Of course.’
Ronan wiggled the blade free, whistling as he ran his finger over its edge. ‘It’s weighted strange,’ he said.
‘It’s made for throwing, not stabbing. My da makes them.’ Inside she winced. Her mam had taught her to throw a knife, but her da had told her to keep the skill to herself, said others wouldn’t like her being so skilled with a weapon. Said it wasn’t womanly.
‘Your brother has caused quite a stir, taking his wolven to the Rowan Field this morning,’ Edana murmured as she studied Cywen’s knife.
‘What?’ said Cywen.
‘You don’t know?’
‘Nobody tells me anything,’ Cywen muttered sourly. ‘What happened?’
Edana told her.
So that’s what he and Da were talking about. Cywen felt a grin spill onto her face.
‘Your mam is at the keep,’ Edana said.
‘What?’
‘Gwenith. Your mam. I saw her in the keep. She was talking to my parents.’
‘She’s never done that before. What about?’
‘I don’t know.’ Edana shrugged. ‘I thought you might.’
Cywen shook her head. Her mam, seeking an audience with Brenin and Alona. Why? But she had looked troubled, of late. ‘You are a most useful friend to have,’ Cywen said, smiling at the Princess. ‘My very own spy in the keep.’
Edana grinned. ‘Where is your brother?’
‘He went to see Dath by the boats.’
‘Maybe he knows why your mam was in the keep. Let’s go and ask him.’
Ronan took the knife from Edana and handed it to Cywen. ‘That’s quite a skill you have there,’ he said.
Cywen stared at him a moment, saw the summer sun had dotted his face with freckles. He looks so young, she thought.
‘See something you like?’ he said, grinning again.
Cywen looked away, scowled, feeling her cheeks flush.
‘To the beach,’ Edana said.
They rode out of the fortress and took the track that led down to the bay.
‘There they are,’ said Edana.
Two figures were standing a little way off, near one of the boats. One was sitting on a smooth, table-like slab of rock, a small shadow at its feet. Storm. The other was throwing stones into the bay. They both turned as they heard the approaching horses.
Cywen lifted her hand, smiled at her brother and saw him wave in return.
They dismounted, Ronan minding the horses as Cywen and Edana joined Corban and Dath.
‘Cy. My lady,’ said Corban. Dath just stared at Edana, which for some reason annoyed Cywen.
‘Oh, none of that,’ said Edana, her lips pursed. ‘My name is Edana, not “lady”. We were looking for you.’
‘Aye. Well, you have found us,’ Corban said with a faint sm
ile.
‘Edana saw Mam,’ Cywen said. ‘At the keep, with the King and Queen. Do you know why she was there?’
Corban shook his head. ‘No.’ He frowned. ‘Why? Mam’s never done that before.’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘We’ll ask her tonight.’
‘No, Corban,’ said Edana. ‘Your mam took pains not to be seen–cloak on, hood pulled up, and she was led into the keep by my mother. Not Evnis or Heb, no other guards. If you ask her, it will probably lead back to me. Then your spy would be discovered, and that wouldn’t do at all, would it?’
Storm appeared from behind a boulder and padded over to Corban, standing by his heel. Edana bent down. Storm stayed where she was, considering the Princess with copper eyes.
‘Friend,’ Corban muttered, and the wolven-cub padded forward, sniffing Edana’s outstretched hand.
‘She’s beautiful,’ said Edana, beaming.
‘Aye, she is. Shame not everyone agrees with you.’
‘I heard about your morning. In the Field.’
‘Oh aye.’
‘You should have seen him,’ said Dath. ‘Ban, all on his own, standing up to at least a score of them, warriors an’ all.’
Corban coughed, blushing suddenly, and looked at his feet.
‘And he put Rafe in the right place–knocked him on his arse,’ Dath continued, laughing now.
‘Enough, Dath. It wasn’t like that, anyway.’
‘Yes, it was,’ said a voice from behind them. Ronan strode closer. ‘And I’m not the only one who saw. Took some stones to do that.’
Corban just grunted.
‘How was your first day in the Field, Dath?’ Cywen asked.
‘Good,’ said Dath, skimming a stone into the bay.
‘Your da must have been proud.’
‘Well, he was there, at least.’
‘Who’s your weapons-master, boy?’ asked Ronan.
‘Tarben,’ Dath said, turning now. ‘He knows how to use a blade.’ Reverence dripped from his voice.
‘Aye, to be sure. And if his skill with a blade doesn’t kill his foe, he has a secret weapon,’ said Ronan, grinning.
‘What’s that?’ asked Dath.