He glanced over to the ranges at the far end of the Field, saw the tall, gangly frame of Tarben, the small, distinctive outline of Dath beside him, straight-backed, launching arrows unerringly at straw targets. The fisherman’s son had taken remarkably well to the weapon, although he was not overly happy with his newfound ability–he longed to be a swordsman. That was the only way he’d be taken into a baron’s hold as a warrior, and that was his secret dream: to escape his da’s boat, fishing, the sea, and to carve a warrior’s life for himself.
‘Not today, though, lad,’ Halion said, seeing Corban’s sour expression. ‘We’re done for the day. I’ll see you on the morrow.’
Corban trudged out of the Field, Storm rising from beneath the first tree of the rowan lane as he approached.
Others were leaving the Field, walking on their own or in small groups. Corban paid them little attention until he heard Storm growl quietly. He looked up, saw Rafe with his usual companion, Crain. They were stooping as they walked, snatching up handfuls of gravel and stones and throwing them at someone in front.
Corban sped up, trying to see better what was going on.
In front of Rafe a tall, broad figure strode, head bowed as small stones ricocheted off his back.
Rafe was laughing. ‘Just like his da,’ the huntsman’s son was saying. ‘There’s no room in the Field for cowards, or the sons of cowards, you know.’
The figure in front suddenly stopped and turned. It was Farrell, son of Anwarth, the warrior rumoured to have feigned his wounding in the Darkwood when Rhagor had been killed. Farrell’s fists were bunched, face red and pinched. Tears stained his cheeks.
‘What?’ said Rafe, sauntering up to him.
Farrell was shaking. ‘Just–stop,’ he said, a tremor in his voice. He was younger than Corban, but he stood as tall as Rafe, and broader.
Crain stepped up beside Rafe.
‘No,’ Rafe said, ‘I don’t think I will. The Rowan Field is for the training of warriors. Why don’t you spend your days at the village? Try gutting and washing fish with the other women.’
‘W-why are you…?’ Farrell stammered.
Corban reached the group. A deep, burning sensation was spreading outwards from his gut. ‘Leave him alone,’ he heard himself say.
‘Oh ho,’ said Crain, turning. ‘Where are all these cowards coming from?’
Rafe just scowled at him.
Storm took a step forward, snarling, teeth bared. A line of spittle dripped from her mouth. Rafe and Crain took an involuntary step backwards.
‘I don’t think she likes your tone,’ said Corban, touching her flank lightly.
‘Think you’re the hero now, rushing to the rescue of other cowards?’ Rafe said. ‘You two could form your own warband, only cowards accepted. Walk on, blacksmith’s boy–you’ll have yours coming, but you’ve a while yet. Two moons from now I sit my Long Night. Not even Tull will be able to save you once you’ve sat your Long Night. I’ll be waiting for you.’
Corban shrugged. ‘Leave him alone,’ he said again, glancing at Farrell, who was staring at him. He tried to smile reassuringly and took a step closer to the big lad. Suddenly Farrell’s hands were on his shoulders, spinning him around, hoisting him a handspan off the ground.
‘Stay out of it,’ the broad-shouldered lad said, vehemently, scowling at Corban.
Without thinking, Corban kicked both his feet, cracking Farrell in the shins. He was suddenly dropped and staggered back. ‘I’m trying to help you,’ Corban stuttered.
Farrell just glared at him, eyes screwed up, then he turned and ran, lumbering away.
Rafe and Crain laughed, walking on. ‘You must try harder at making friends,’ Rafe called over his shoulder, still chuckling.
Corban stood there a while, shocked, angry. He had only wanted to help–he knew what it was like to have Rafe single you out for attention. He set off, kicking his heels against the shingle. Then he remembered how he had felt when Rafe had first hit him during the Spring Fair, how scared, how angry, how ashamed that he’d done nothing. And then Cywen had stood up for him. He hadn’t been too grateful at the time, either. He thought about that for a while. Maybe he’d try and talk to Farrell, apologize.
How he loathed Rafe. ‘I’ll be waiting for you,’ the huntsman’s son had said. Well, good.
Looking up, he realized his feet had taken him to the stables. His sister stood in the paddock, a horse’s foreleg rested across her knee as she scraped out its hoof with a small knife. He settled against a post a few strides from her, waiting for her to finish.
A strange sensation suddenly spread along his neck, down his back and arms, goose-fleshing his skin. He looked up quickly and saw Gar near the stable doors with a tall, dark-haired man, holding the reins of a huge dapple-grey stallion. The man had deep scars on his face, like claw marks. They were both looking at him.
‘Who’s that, with Gar?’ he asked his sister.
‘Huh?’ grunted Cywen, concentrating on the hoof in her grip. She glanced up briefly. ‘Oh, he rode in earlier. What did Gar call him? Meical, I think.’
CHAPTER FIFTY
VERADIS
Veradis stood on a shingle ridge, arms folded across his leather-bound chest, watching.
Two score ships sat anchored in the bay they had found, crewed by men he would, until recently, have regarded as his enemy. Now they were his allies, speeding him towards his heart’s desire.
Mandros.
Orcus’ call from Aquilus’ study to apprehend the King of Carnutan had come too late. Mandros had fled, not even gathering all of his warriors in his haste to vacate Jerolin. Aquilus’ eagle-guard had followed, but the gap had been too great and Mandros had been reckless in his flight, losing men to the steep slopes and snow-filled trenches of the Agullas, but increasing the distance between himself and those that hunted him. Almost a full moon later those that had set out to bring Mandros back had returned to Jerolin, heads low, empty handed.
Aquilus’ burial had already passed by then, the barons of Tenebral gathered to pay their last respects as a cairn was raised above their dead king, and swear new oaths of fealty to a still weak and pale-faced Nathair. The knife wound had missed all of his vital organs, but the Prince had come close to bleeding to death in Aquilus’ study, waiting for healers to arrive, his grip on Veradis’ hand growing weaker and weaker.
Not for the first time, Veradis felt a flame ignite in his gut. A fierce rage had consumed him those first few days after Midwinter. He had felt such shame, standing idly by in a corridor while his King was murdered and his Prince and friend stabbed, left for dead. Since then all emotion in him had been distilled, transformed into the raw essence of a cold, permanent rage that he had never experienced before.
Mandros would pay.
He had been tempted to leave as soon as those hunting Mandros had returned without their quarry, but Nathair had still been weak and the passes through the Agullas Mountains were closed to more than a handful of men. It would take more than that to root out Mandros. He would be safely back in his kingdom of Carnutan, surrounded by his warbands, who’d be guarding the mountain passes into his realm. Lykos–whom Nathair had summoned soon after the attack–had agreed to ferry a force to the coast of Carnutan, but he had counselled against sailing throughout the Tempest and Snow Moons. So they had waited, planned, organized provisions, spoken of goals and strategy.
Nathair had given Peritus overall command of the campaign, much to Veradis’ surprise.
‘He has weathered many campaigns,’ Nathair had said. ‘No matter my grievances with him, he is good at this, and his anger against Mandros burns as bright as yours. Watch him, learn from him.’
Veradis had grudgingly agreed, and soon recognized the truth in Nathair’s words. Peritus was a keen strategist and a man of immense organizational skills. And so it was that he found himself on a beach on the southern coast of Carnutan, watching hundreds of warriors bearing the eagle of Tenebral disembarking from a fleet of Vin Thalun
ships.
They had begun unloading at sunrise, the first of a score of scouts and their horses, quickly fanning out beyond the beach. It was now almost highsun.
As he watched, a dozen men cried out. The wain they were guiding down a wide ramp lurched off its bearings. One wheel teetered in air before toppling into the surf below, scattering its cargo and sending a cloud of spray up about it.
He cursed to himself, calculating the extra time needed to try and recover the wain’s cargo.
‘Patience,’ a voice said beside him. He turned and saw Peritus a few paces away.
Veradis nodded, turned back to watch warriors filing onto the beach. They were forming into two loose clusters. The smaller was his warband: around six hundred men, the survivors of their campaign in Tarbesh–each man carrying a draig’s tooth. When added to Peritus’ larger band the whole force numbered a little under three thousand swords. Not a large force to send into the heart of an enemy realm, but they hoped stealth would be their ally. Mandros would expect them to wait for the spring thaw and cross the Agullas Mountains in large numbers when the passes opened, but that was at least half a moon away still. Their scouts had reported a massing of warriors at Tarba, the fortress guarding the mountain pass into Carnutan itself.
They did have another warband gathering at Jerolin, ready to march through the mountains with the thaw, but hopefully they would have Mandros by then. The task now was to march north to Mandros’ own fortress. Lykos had assured him that Mandros had fled there, gone to ground like a fox fleeing the hounds.
On the beach a man detached himself from Veradis’ gathering warriors and raised an arm to him–Rauca. He strode purposefully up the shingle ridge dotted with thin, straggly clumps of grass, and stood beside Veradis.
‘There’ll be songs about us, one day soon,’ he grinned. ‘Lads will dream of being us, lasses will just dream of us.’
Veradis snorted, Rauca’s grin broadening.
‘Be careful they’re not singing your cairn song,’ Peritus said.
‘No chance of that. I plan on standing right next to Veradis through every moment of combat.’
Veradis shook his head. In silence the three men watched the last warriors empty from the Vin Thalun ships, rolling a score of wains across the beach onto firmer ground.
The fleet of ships began to move, turned and Veradis nodded approvingly as he saw the ships split into two groups, one disappearing east, the other west.
‘Why are they doing that?’ Rauca asked.
‘They are splitting to harry Mandros’ fortresses along the coast,’ Peritus replied. ‘That way, if the fleet has been spotted, it will just be thought that they are corsair raiders.’
The battlechief turned to Veradis. ‘It grates me to be aided by the Vin Thalun, but they have strategic merit, I must confess. Nathair has a keen head on his shoulders.’
‘Aye,’ Veradis assented. He did not want to think about that right now; it was too close to his last memories of Aquilus, railing at Nathair over his association with the Vin Thalun.
Nathair had not spoken of the final words he had shared with his father while they had been alone. He hoped there had been some reconciliation between them before the end. The end. His thoughts turned to Meical and the conversation they had then had outside the King’s rooms. He had resolved to question the counsellor more, but discovered that Meical had left Jerolin soon after word of Aquilus’ death had spread. Valyn told him that Meical had saddled his horse along with the warriors that had set out in chase of Mandros. The stablemaster presumed that he was riding with them, but he had not. That troubled Veradis: where had the counsellor gone? And why had he left so hastily? Nathair needed him.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. ‘Come, then,’ he said. ‘It’s a long walk to Dun Bagul.’
They had chosen against bringing horses–Lykos could only muster two score ships, and horses took up more space than warriors, so they had sacrificed speed on land for stealth. Besides, wains set the pace, and most warriors preferred fighting on foot to a horse’s back, Veradis’ warband more so. He was looking forward to forming a wall of shields against other men instead of draigs and giants.
‘Aye,’ muttered Peritus. ‘To Dun Bagul, and vengeance.’
‘We are discovered,’ Peritus said grimly as Veradis entered the battle-chief’s tent, Rauca slipping in before the hide flapped shut and closed out the night.
Peritus stood bent over a table, a parchment spread before him.
‘We have done well to come so far,’ Veradis shrugged. They could not see the old fortress of Dun Bagul yet but it was close now, no more than a day’s march.
‘Aye. But now is the knife-edge. Mandros will have a warband about him, at least equalling our numbers, likely more.’
‘Good. Then he may be tempted to leave his fox hole to fight us.’
‘He will send word for aid.’ Peritus jabbed a finger at the parchment before him. ‘His nearest strongholds are Raen in the east, Iska in the west. We do not have the numbers to stop some of them getting through but if our Vin Thalun allies are right, their garrisons are low, most of their warriors sent east to await our expected passage through the mountains.’ The battlechief stretched wearily. ‘We must prise him from his lair, bring him to battle before aid can reach him.’
‘Aye,’ grunted Veradis. ‘If he does not march out to meet us on the field I will shame him before his men, shout of what he did…’ he paused a moment, a tremor running through him. Murderer, whispered a voice in his head. ‘I shall challenge him to the Court of Swords–anything to get him out from behind his walls.’
‘We could storm Dun Bagul,’ Peritus said. ‘It is not impregnable, but it would be costly, both in men and in time. Mandros is no fool, and until now has been no craven, either. Our best chance lies here.’ He prodded at the parchment again, Veradis and Rauca coming closer, looking at the map spread on the table. Peritus traced a line across it. ‘This river lies between us and Dun Bagul. There is no bridge, only a ford, unless we would walk half a ten-night out of our way. The ford is bordered by woodland on one side, hills on the other. It is a most excellent site to ambush us. Mandros will know this, and if he considers our numbers at least even, then I think it likely that he will seize his chance.’
Veradis smiled grimly. ‘Let me lead the vanguard across the river.’
Peritus frowned. ‘Even expecting an ambush, prepared for it, that will be a most unhealthy spot to be standing.’
Rauca laughed, a harsh sound that did nothing to break the mood. ‘We are accustomed to unhealthy spots now. At least we won’t have murderous draigs and giants tearing at us.’
‘I don’t know,’ Peritus said. ‘I am not inclined to return to Tenebral without our new King’s first-sword.’
‘You’ve seen our warband train,’ Veradis said hotly. ‘You know we are best suited to this task, to bear the brunt of any ambush, any charge–our wall of shields is made for just such a position.’
‘Maybe so.’ Peritus suddenly grinned. ‘You have something of your brother in you, it would seem.’
Veradis grunted, unsure of what to say. Krelis had become firm friends with Peritus during his time at Jerolin–and he had spoken frequently of Aquilus’ wily battlechief.
‘All right, you cross first, as our vanguard. We shall march at dawn, take our time reaching the river and just hope Mandros acts on the information his scouts bring him this night.’
There was a tapping on the tent hide and a voice called through–Peritus’ guard.
‘Enter.’
Two warriors stepped into the tent, a man between them. He was dressed in worn leather, a dark cloak pulled about him. He pushed back his cowl, revealing a broad, plain face, ruddy cheeks and nervously darting eyes.
Veradis heard Peritus exclaim under his breath. He had seen this man at Aquilus’ council.
It was Gundul, Mandros’ son, staring nervously back at him.
Veradis stepped into the shallow water of
the river, ice-cold water swirling about his legs, seeping through his boots and numbing his feet. A loose row of some three score men stretched either side of him. Gravel shifted under his feet and he swayed, feeling the weight of the shield on his back.
Before him, too far away, was the far bank of the river. Then there was a gentle slope leading up into woodland.
He tried not to stare at the trees, to search for the glint of sunlight on iron, and kept his eyes on the water. Risking a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw most of his warband had entered the river, Peritus’ warriors spread in a more disorganized crush behind them.
‘Can’t go back now,’ Rauca muttered beside him. ‘Who’s fool idea was it to march us first across this river, anyway?’
‘Huh,’ grunted Veradis, a grin tugging at his mouth, despite the fluttering weightlessness he felt somewhere deep inside.
His eyes swept forward again, drawn inexorably to the treeline half a hundred paces from the river’s edge. If Mandros was in there, he would wait until the warband was partially out of the river so that they could be charged from both flank and front. A head-on charge would keep them in the river, but a surprise charge to the flank usually wreaked more damage. It could even decide the outcome.
Mandros. The thought of Carnutan’s King banished all doubts. Mandros was clearly a servant of the Black Sun. The traitor had grabbed Nathair’s own dagger, stabbed King Aquilus through the throat, then plunged it into the Prince’s side. He should not have let Mandros into that room. Justice, whispered the voice in his head. Justice would be done this day: dark, merciless, bloody justice.
Over halfway across now, forty paces left till they reached the far bank, thirty, twenty…
Suddenly a cry erupted from beyond the trees, a keening, deafening war cry. Men swarmed into the daylight, iron flashing as weapons were drawn, feet thundering as they charged down the slope towards Veradis and his men.