Belo was a tall man, ageing but straight backed and sharp eyed. Half a dozen men rode with him, all sporting black horsehair plumes on their helmets. Belo’s eyes scanned their party as they rode to meet him, hovering on the head atop Veradis’ couched spear.
‘It would appear I am somewhat behind the times,’ Belo said, tearing his eyes away from Mandros’ decaying features and nodding at the battlechief. ‘Peritus. I did not expect to meet you under such circumstances. You must know I cannot let you pass, even with the King’s son hostage.’
‘I am no hostage,’ Gundul spluttered, nudging his horse forward.
‘Then, how do you explain this?’ the Lord of Tarba said, eyes narrowing.
Gundul drew himself up. ‘As you see–’ his eyes flitted unconsciously up to Mandros’ head–‘I am no longer just the King’s son. I am King of Carnutan, now, and I have made peace with Tenebral.’
‘Peace?’ Belo snarled. ‘Peace with your father’s murderers.’
Veradis moved forward, ‘Mandros fell in battle,’ he said, ‘which is more than can be said for our King, murdered in his own chambers without a blade in his hands.’
Belo turned cold eyes onto Veradis. ‘And who, may I ask, are you?’
‘Veradis ben Lamar,’ he said, glowering at the old baron.
‘Nathair’s first-sword,’ Peritus added. ‘Come, Belo, I have heard you are wise. Your King is dead, has paid the just price for his iniquity. Gundul has chosen wisdom, making peace with us rather than starting a costly war. And now you hold the pass to Tenebral, but you have one warband before you and one behind you, yes?’
‘So it would seem,’ Belo said, still looking at Veradis.
There is a warband of Tenebral in the mountains, then, just as Peritus planned, Veradis thought.
‘But more than that,’ continued Peritus. ‘Your King orders you to stand down. Would your first act under your new king be one of betrayal?’
Belo sat silent for long moments, weighing Peritus’ words. ‘If Gundul is no hostage, then there would be no harm in his accom-panying me to my walls, where we can discuss, in somewhat more detail, the circumstances of this unusual situation.’
Another silence followed as Gundul glanced at Peritus.
‘Of course,’ the battlechief nodded.
‘Good. Come, then, my King.’ Belo waved an arm to Gundul.
Veradis grimaced, suspecting trickery. ‘Do not converse over-long,’ he called out to them as they cantered back up the slope. ‘Our patience is not without end.’
Peritus frowned at him. ‘You have much to learn,’ he muttered.
‘Maybe so. But we are not the wrongdoers here–I will not sit by and wait on Belo’s pleasure.’
‘Not the wrongdoers?’ Peritus’ eyes flickered to Mandros’ head. ‘There is more to this than right and wrong, I fear. And I for one would rather be courteous and perhaps live a little longer. Come, we’ll let the sun rise a little higher at least, before we rush to battle.’
Veradis returned with Peritus, though with an uneasy heart. He did not trust Gundul: the man had betrayed his own father, so there would be no question of loyalty for loyalty’s sake. It just remained to be seen whether Gundul believed it in his favour to remain at peace with Tenebral. That was an uncertain question, now that Veradis had removed Mandros from the board.
He shrugged to himself; he would almost welcome a battle. Since the death of Mandros he had been surprised to still feel so angry, the sensation lurking somewhere in the back of his mind. He’d thought it would have been quenched, now justice was served, but instead it remained, unfocused, a mist shrouding his thoughts.
Perhaps it was because of the manner of Mandros’ death, the words he had uttered, trying to blacken Nathair. He had not wanted it to end that way, had not wanted Mandros’ death on his shoulders. But it had been necessary for the greater good. At the memory of Mandros’ lies about Nathair he felt his anger rise again. He ground his teeth, slid from his horse and settled on the ground beside Rauca and Bos.
Sometime later a small group of riders approached, Gundul on his black charger amongst them.
‘Well?’ grunted Veradis, his eyes fixed on Belo.
The ageing warrior held his gaze a moment, then dipped his head and looked to Gundul.
‘Our peace stands,’ Gundul said loudly, standing in his saddle. ‘Be assured, you are both welcome and safe whilst in my lands. Clear passage to the mountains is yours.’
A cheer rose behind Veradis, although for an instant he felt almost disappointed.
‘My thanks,’ Peritus said to Gundul, though his gaze rested on Belo.
‘I am but my King’s servant,’ the warrior replied. ‘Come, if you are ready. We shall escort you to our border.’
Peritus turned to organize the march.
‘Veradis,’ Belo called, quietly.
‘Aye.’
Belo leaned low in his saddle, speaking quietly. ‘I would not display your trophy so proudly, if I were you. Gundul is King now, but oaths given to Mandros have stood for more than a score of years. Some may find it hard to put so many years behind them so quickly. They may object to a kingslayer passing through their midst.’
Belo turned and rode away before Veradis could form an answer.
It did not take long for Peritus to arrange the movement of their warband and soon they were on their way. Before he left, Gundul promised a new closeness between their realms and thrust a rolled parchment into Peritus’ hand.
Soon a line of mounted warriors appeared on a ridge above them, all wearing the eagle of Tenebral on their shields. The warband that Peritus had arranged.
A giant of a man rode down to greet them. It was Krelis.
‘Well met, little brother,’ he said as they drew close.
Veradis could not help but smile, even though at their last meeting they had not parted well. He suddenly realized how much he had missed his brother. Leaning forward, he gripped Krelis’ arm tight.
‘Nathair has seen fit to place a few thousand swords behind me. Are they needed?’
‘No, they are not,’ Peritus said, grinning at the huge man.
‘Still causing trouble wherever you go, eh?’ Krelis said to the battlechief. He slapped Peritus’ back good-naturedly, nearly knocking the man from his saddle.
‘Not this time,’ Peritus said. ‘Your brother is the one to watch on that count. He begged to be the first one to walk into an ambush–through a river.’
‘He never was the brightest of us,’ said Krelis, grinning again. Veradis felt himself blush, feeling good for the first time since before Aquilus’ death.
‘And Mandros,’ Krelis said, looking up at the head on Veradis’ spear. ‘He has answered for his crime, then.’
‘Aye,’ Peritus grunted.
‘Did he die well?’
‘Well enough,’ Peritus muttered. Veradis looked away. ‘Your brother did the deed.’
‘Good. That is fitting,’ growled Krelis. ‘Aquilus was a great man. A great king.’ He sighed and wiped a huge hand across his eyes. ‘Well then, that is that. I suppose it is back to Jerolin for us.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Peritus.
‘Come, then. I’ve had enough of these mountains,’ Krelis rumbled. Together they began the journey back to Tenebral.
Veradis rode into the courtyard of Jerolin with Krelis and Peritus, and saw Nathair standing at its far end. Fidele was beside him, with rows of the eagle-guard standing behind in polished leather and iron.
The three men slipped from their saddles and dropped to one knee before Nathair.
‘Rise,’ said the new King of Tenebral.
Veradis thought him still pale, drawn around the eyes, but much improved from when he had last seen him.
‘Welcome home,’ Nathair said, gripping Krelis’ and Peritus’ arms in turn, then embracing Veradis before stepping backwards and regarding them all. ‘Elyon has answered my prayers. My battlechiefs have returned to me, through countless dangers.’
&
nbsp; ‘I only sat on a grassy slope for a ten-night,’ Krelis interjected. ‘It was these that risked life and limb–worst I got was a damp arse.’
‘You would have risked all, though, if the need arose,’ said Nathair, smiling. ‘And just your presence played a great part in persuading Belo to grant safe passage, of that I am sure.’ He paused a moment, reached for his mother’s hand and squeezed it tight. ‘And my father is avenged?’
‘Aye. He is,’ Peritus said, a tremor shaking his voice.
‘Where is Mandros?’ Nathair said. Veradis stepped over to his horse, untied a hemp sack strapped to his saddle and threw it to the ground at Nathair and Fidele’s feet.
Mandros’ head rolled out, the skin mottled, flesh peeling and hair falling out in clumps, but still recognizable as the King of Carnutan.
Fidele wrinkled her nose but did not step away.
Nathair nodded slowly, stared at the severed head, a sense of triumph in his eyes. Eventually he sighed. ‘Come. There must be much you have to tell. To my chamber and some food and wine.’
Then a horn blast sounded out from the battlements and they moved to view the gate.
A huge figure was striding across the meadow beyond the fortress walls, through Peritus’ and Krelis’ combined warbands, warriors parting about him. It was Alcyon.
‘A day for welcome arrivals,’ Nathair murmured.
The giant nodded to Veradis as he drew near, then turned to Nathair. Dropping to one huge knee, he fumbled inside his cloak and drew out an egg, larger than a head. It was coloured in rippling, shimmering shades of blues and greens. The giant held it out in cupped hands to Nathair.
‘My lord,’ Alcyon rumbled. ‘I have done as I promised. My gift to you: a draig’s egg.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CORBAN
The year 1141 of the Age of Exiles, Hound’s Moon
‘That’s it!’ Corban yelled. ‘Nicely done, Dath. Now take the fight to her.’
Corban was standing in his garden with his arms folded across his chest, watching Dath and Cywen hack at one another with wooden sticks. Dath was limping slightly, and had a red mark blooming on one cheek. Cywen was unscathed.
Dath lunged forwards, swinging his stick a little wildly at Cywen’s ribs. She stepped nimbly backwards, blocked his strike and swept her own weapon whistling down towards Dath’s knee.
There was a loud crack, then Dath was rolling in the grass and Cywen was holding up what was left of her makeshift weapon.
Corban stepped in, trying not to smile. Poor Dath. It felt a little strange, teaching his friend and his sister their weapons, but there was something about it that he liked–probably being able to tell Cywen what to do with more effect than usual. And Dath had been desperate.
A warband had left Dun Carreg a moon ago, led by Pendathran, heading for Badun and then the Darkwood. It was the beginning of Brenin’s move against Braith and the Darkwood brigands. Over two hundred warriors had ridden out with Pendathran, amongst them Halion and Tarben, leaving both Corban and Dath without weapons-masters in the Rowan Field.
Tull had stayed behind, gathered all of the lads together that found themselves suddenly teacherless and taught them as a group. Dath had become more and more embarrassed pitting his sword skills against others of his own age–it had highlighted his slow progress. In a moment of shame and rage he had asked Corban to help him while Tarben was away. So he was joining in with the training sessions Corban devoted to his sister.
‘Am I the worst swordsman that has ever lived?’ Dath muttered as Corban hoisted him off the ground.
‘I’ve been teaching Cy for a while, now,’ Corban said. ‘Since before you set foot in the Field. And she’s better than most our age.’
‘Humph,’ Dath grunted, rubbing his knee.
It probably didn’t soothe his friend’s battered ego, but it was the truth. Cywen learned quickly, her balance was good and she was fast: traits that were the bedrock for any swordsman, as Gar had told him many, many times.
‘Come on, Dath. I might let you win next time,’ Cywen said, grinning. He scowled and retrieved his practice stick.
‘Don’t gloat,’ Corban said to his sister. ‘It’s not the way.’
Cywen rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out at him.
‘Be polite,’ he said, ‘or I won’t teach you any more. Mind, you could always ask Ronan for lessons.’ He had seen the glances between Cywen and Ronan, how she had watched the red-haired warrior ride out through Stonegate with Pendathran’s warband, oblivious to all else. He grinned to see her blush.
She scowled at him, selected a new stick from their collection, then set her feet for another attack.
‘If he comes back alive from the Darkwood,’ Dath said.
Cywen lunged forwards and whacked his head.
‘Ouch. What was that for?’
‘Wait,’ Corban said, ‘prepare yourselves. And no cheating.’ He walked away, stopping beside Storm, who lay spread on the grass, eyes fixed firmly on the chickens scratching at the ground on the far side of the garden. Corban sat down, and leaned into her. He took a deep breath, filling himself with the scents of the garden: flowers, grass, earth, fur, all mingled.
‘Come on, then, Cy,’ Dath said. ‘Scared?’
Corban looked up, saw his sister staring at him, her expression unreadable. She had been doing that a lot, lately. She looked as if she wanted to say something, but instead just frowned.
‘’Course not,’ she said to Dath and launched herself at him.
Corban watched as Rafe drew his arm back, held his breath, sighted along his spear’s edge, then let fly.
The spear arced through the air, a black blur in a clear blue sky, then thudded into the straw-padded target.
‘Six,’ Tull called in his deep, booming voice.
Rafe was taking his warrior tests in the Rowan Field. Many were paying it no attention, continuing with their training as always, although a small crowd had stopped to watch. Corban was one of them.
One more hit and Rafe would have completed the first part of the tests, and earned his spear. Helfach’s son strode to the target, jerked his spear loose and turned on his heel, face drawn. He counted off two score paces, turned, sighted, let fly again.
‘Seven,’ boomed Tull.
‘Huh,’ grunted Dath quietly. ‘I was hoping he’d miss.’
‘Aye,’ muttered Corban.
They were standing with a small group of lads, those whose weapons-masters had accompanied Pendathran to the Darkwood. All were watching Rafe enviously.
The huntsman’s son smiled as he pulled his spear from the target and turned to Tull, who was striding towards him, holding out a battered shield. Rafe’s smile faded.
‘The running mount next,’ Dath whispered.
As Rafe hefted his shield, adjusting his grip, Tull turned and waved to Gar, who was standing some way off, holding the reins of a tall dun mare. Rafe closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath, then nodded.
Gar clicked his tongue, set the mare into a trot and let go of the reins. He said something and the mare broke into a canter, straight towards Rafe.
He started running, pacing himself to match the mare as she reached him. For a moment they were moving side by side, then Rafe put on a burst of speed, angled closer to the horse and reached for its dark mane with his free hand, shield and spear clutched tight in the other. He gripped a handful of horsehair and launched himself into the air, legs seeking purchase on the soft hide saddle. For a moment Rafe wobbled on the horse’s back and Corban thought he was going to fall. Then he straightened and found the mare’s reins, eyes searching the crowd for his da as he punched his shield and spear into the air.
Helfach was standing alone, a fierce pride etched on his face. He raised his arm as his son looked to him, and clenched his fist.
Few of Helfach’s comrades were left in Dun Carreg, as most of Evnis’ hold had ridden out with Pendathran’s warband to help clear the Darkwood of brigands. Due to the danger
s of travelling through the forest, Brenin had forbidden the handbinding of Evnis’ niece to Uthan, so Evnis hoped he and his warriors could help speed this clearance. The brothers Gethin and Evnis were none too pleased about this delay, according to Edana.
So Helfach stood alone in the Rowan Field, watching his son take the tests of a warrior. From the look on his face, though, he would not have known if he were in the midst of battle. His eyes were fixed on his son as Rafe grinned fiercely and drew the dun to a stop, turf spraying around its hooves.
Others watching cheered, banged weapons on shields, and Corban found himself joining in. Although he despised Rafe, there was something special about this moment, almost sacred.
Corban looked about, saw the hulking frame of Farrell standing on the edge of their group. He had seen the blacksmith’s apprentice a few times since that day with Rafe, but had felt uncomfortable every time, had avoided his eyes, even pretended not to see him.
He took a deep breath and sidled through the crowd until he stood next to Farrell.
‘One day we’ll be doing that,’ Corban said, looking up at Farrell, who stood about a head taller than him.
Farrell regarded him a moment. ‘Aye,’ he grunted, then turned back to watch Rafe.
They stood in silence for a while, watching Rafe dismount, move on to test his skill with a sword against Tull. Corban cleared his throat.
‘I am sorry,’ he said awkwardly. Farrell looked down at him again, but said nothing. Corban felt his neck begin to flush. ‘I meant no insult,’ he said. ‘That day with Rafe. I have been the subject of his attention, before. It just made me angry, seeing him do it to someone else.’ He stopped.
The big lad was still looking down at him. Slowly he nodded, an acknowledgement.
The sound of sparring pulled their attention back to Rafe. He was attacking Tull, Brenin’s champion standing with feet planted, fending off Rafe’s slightly frantic attack.
Tull was taking the huntsman’s son through all of the forms, testing that he knew all that an unblooded warrior should. The conflict lasted a while, Rafe circling the big man, lunging, slashing, feinting with his practice sword.