‘Hold tight to your blade,’ Halion said, ‘and hold as tight to truth and courage. Now make your oath.’
‘I pledge my arm, my mind, my soul, my strength in service of the two: King and Kin.’ He drew his sword across his palm, dripping blood from a clenched fist onto the ground. ‘I swear this by my heart, seal it with my blood,’ Corban said.
Thannon grinned at him.
Cheers rang out from the crowd–a huge crowd now, all staring at him as if something special was happening–and then Thannon swept Corban into a bear-like embrace.
Cool shadow replaced bright sunshine as Corban rode under the arch of Stonegate, Storm an almost silent presence behind him.
The sun was dipping into the west, sending long shadows stretching out before him as Corban rode across Dun Carreg’s bridge. When he reached the giantsway he set his back to the Baglun. He was riding to find a spot to sit his Long Night, and all the land between him and the Baglun felt too familiar. He wanted it to feel new, as everything else on this day of days had been.
He rode until the world about him was grey, shrinking before the red glow of the setting sun behind him. He finally reined Shield in before a dell, a boulder of dark granite offering some shelter from the sharp wind that rolled in from the coast. He dismounted, feeling the slap of the still-unfamiliar blade on his hip as he did so, and spent a long moment admiring his weapons. After tending to Shield it was a good while later before he was settled next to a small fire, looking up at the moon, which cast a pale glow across the land.
He felt exhausted, the excitement of the day finally waning and allowing him to consider Gar’s ominous words. This talk of leaving Dun Carreg scared him. It was only at the thought of leaving it that he realized how much he loved this place and the people. His friends were here, and so was his heart. No. He was not leaving. No matter what his mam or Gar said, no matter what history Gar shared with Sumur. He was a warrior now, a man. He could do as he chose. His hand crept up to the braid that was now in his hair–his warrior braid, put there by his mam and Cywen that afternoon, bound with a thin strip of leather.
Halion had honoured him, requesting his warrior trial and Long Night be brought forward, but there was practicality in the decision, too. They were as good as at war with Rhin, and soon the warriors of Ardan would ride against Cambren. Every arm that could wield a sword would be needed.
He felt a fluttering of fear at that thought. Riding to war, but pushed it down. It would be better by far than leaving.
Instinctively he reached for the hilt of his sword and curled his fingertips around the hilt. It was a big sword, longer than was usual, with a hand-and-a-half grip. After much deliberation with his da he had decided upon this. Because of his training with Gar he favoured a two-handed blade, but that would rule out a shield, which he did not want to do. This way he almost had the reach of a two-handed sword, but–largely due to his uncounted toiling in his da’s forge, as well as his training with Gar over the last two years–he had the strength to wield it like a shorter, lighter blade, and so could use it with a shield.
Soon his eyes began to droop. But the Long Night was to be spent in unsleeping vigil. He stirred himself with another memory of the day, an unwelcome one. Nathair. All over the fortress people were gossiping about the King of Tenebral. He was both handsome and pleasant, so was becoming increasingly popular. But there was something about him that nagged at Corban. And every time he saw him there was that shadow, a presence…
Seeing things that are not there is the first sign of madness, he chided himself, at least that’s what Brina has told me. Still, that shadow…
He shivered.
Strange, unnerving sounds drifted on the night breeze. But Storm slept undisturbed. He blew into his cupped hands. It was cold, the sea breeze adding a bite to the already chilly air. He reached for a blanket from his pack.
I’ll just sit for a while, he thought, until the blanket chases the chill from my bones.
With a start he woke, stiff all over. It was still dark, though there was a touch of grey in the sky, the stars fainter. His small fire had long since burned out, but he could see Storm and Shield, so dawn must be close. Deciding movement was better than staying still, he quickly collected his things together and began saddling Shield up. He felt guilty at dozing off on his Long Night and wondered if he should tell Halion.
Everything was done, Corban just slipping his spear into its leather couch on his saddle when Storm suddenly lifted her head, looked down the slope and growled.
Corban froze and followed the wolven’s gaze.
A rider burst from the trees, splashed across the stream and galloped for the giantsway. He reined in when he saw Corban, turning his frothing mount in a tight circle.
‘Have any others got through?’ he said, his voice hoarse, almost a whisper.
‘What do you mean?’ Corban asked, hand gripping the hilt of his sword.
‘Messengers from Badun,’ the man grunted.
‘No. No one.’
The man swore, spat on the ground and glanced over his shoulder. ‘You must ride, they cannot be far behind,’ the man urged. ‘Badun has fallen.’
‘What? But…’ Corban said.
‘Ride. There is no time,’ the man snapped, then dug his heels into his horse, spurring it on.
Corban watched the rider disappear over the ridge, then noise from the valley bottom drew his attention.
Mounted figures emerged from the woodland, a dozen or so, warriors, by their couched spears. Corban frowned. There was something wrong about their movements, something furtive.
Then there was movement on the ridge of the far slope, perhaps a league away, maybe less. A dark line appeared on the giantsway: riders, a wide column, framed by a pale strip of light that preceded the coming sun. They were moving quickly towards him. Either side of the road more figures spilt over the ridge, moving like a dark stain across the land, spears and rippling banners silhouetted briefly against the lightening sky.
Corban just stared, watching. Then the rim of the sun appeared on the horizon and a host of spear-tips caught the first rays, sparking into light like a thousand candles. A war-host crawled across the slope towards him, a sea of red-cloaked warriors, the bull of Narvon snapping on countless banners.
Owain had come.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
CORBAN
Corban mounted Shield and guided the horse up the embankment to the giantsway. He looked once more at the host creeping towards him, his gaze flickering to the scouts picking their way down the slope towards the stream. As he watched, one of them signalled to the others, and pointed at him. His heart lurched as he kicked Shield into a gallop, voices rising behind him and the sound of hooves splashing through water.
He rode Shield hard, his heart pounding, and panic building.
Eventually Brina’s cottage came into view, Dun Carreg a tall blur on the horizon in the still hazy light of dawn.
He reined Shield in, the horse blowing great gouts of breath in the cold morning air. Further ahead he saw a dust cloud marking the rider he had spoken to entering the village. He urged Shield towards Brina’s cottage.
The healer was bent over her herb patch, tugging at a clump of hawkweed as Corban pounded up to her.
‘Quick!’ he cried. ‘We must go.’
‘What?’ Brina snapped, scowling at the hawkweed that clearly did not want to leave the ground. ‘Has one night alone in the dark unhinged your mind completely?’
‘Owain’s war-host, thousands coming,’ Corban uttered breathlessly. ‘A league or so back, but his scouts are not far behind me.’
Brina stared at him a moment, then shoved herself to her feet and bustled inside her cottage, calling to Craf.
‘Hurry!’ Corban yelled, and in moments Brina appeared in her doorway, a sack over her back, the crow flapping behind her, squawking a protest.
Surprising Corban with her agility, Brina pulled herself up behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist
and then Shield was moving through the alder glade. Corban looked to the east and saw a line of riders strung across the road, moving quickly, more than the dozen scouts he had seen earlier.
He dug his heels into Shield’s ribs, Craf a black smudge in the sky above him, and Storm running at his side. He cut across meadow to join the giantsway and set his face to Havan, bent low in the saddle, urging Shield on.
When he reached the village he shouted a warning as he rode through the streets to the roundhouse. But the rider had already spread the word and there were people everywhere, most of them making for the road that led up to the fortress. Corban made his way to Dath’s home, jumped from his saddle and pounded on the door. Bethan pulled it open, a scowl on her face, but her words failed when she saw Corban’s expression.
‘What’s wrong?’ she said.
‘Owain is attacking, you don’t have long. Where’s Dath?’
‘Here, Ban,’ his friend said, appearing behind his sister.
‘We have to go.’ Corban grabbed Bethan’s shoulder, but she pulled back.
‘Da…’ she said.
‘Where is he?’
‘Back there,’ Dath said, nodding into his home.
‘Show me.’
Mordwyr was snoring in his cot, a jug of usque in his arms. It proved impossible to rouse him, until Brina pushed her way in and emptied a jug of cold water over his head. That and her scolding served to wake Mordwyr enough that he could stagger from their home, Corban leading him, and Dath balancing him from behind.
Corban told Brina and Bethan to take Shield and ride on ahead. He and Dath led the staggering fisherman through the village and joined a growing line of people making their way up the steep path to Dun Carreg. They paused a little way up, to look back over the village.
Smoke was rising from Brina’s cottage, black, billowing clouds of it. Further away, at the edge of sight, Owain’s host was a creeping smudge on the horizon. Closer, between the village and Brina’s cottage, riders milled about on the giantsway, Owain’s advance scouts. ‘Come on,’ Corban said, and turned towards Dun Carreg. When they were halfway up the steep slope, Mordwyr protesting all the way, there was a rumble of hooves ahead. Pendathran rode past them, with scores of warriors at his back. They continued down to the village and fanned out, protecting the villagers from Owain’s advance scouts.
Then Gar was there, riding his great piebald stallion towards them.
‘Is it true?’ Gar said when he reached them. Corban just pointed at the land behind him, at the dark tide of warriors swarming across the meadows.
Gar stared a while as Corban eyed the packs tied to Hammer’s side, the full water skins, a long object wrapped in leather strapped to the saddle. ‘Going somewhere?’ he asked.
‘I was,’ he said. ‘Not now, though. Come, let’s get you inside the fortress walls.’
With great difficulty, they hoisted Mordwyr into Gar’s saddle, and made much quicker time up the slope. Corban’s mam and Cywen met them in the courtyard, both dressed for a journey, he noted, in thick leathers and cloaks. Thannon stood beside them, scowling, his newly made war-hammer in his hands.
‘Shield is at the stables–I’ve tended him,’ Bethan said to Corban as she took Hammer’s reins, guiding her da into the fortress. The rest of them made their way up the stone stairs to stand on the battlements.
The village was overrun now, the land about the base of the hill teeming with marauders, the dark mass beginning to swarm up the slope towards the fortress. The last of the villagers were crossing the bridge, Torin with them, driving a wain piled high with sacks and barrels, Pendathran and his few score warriors riding behind. When they were all across the bridge the iron-bound doors of Stonegate slammed shut, bars ramming home. Everywhere was the shocked murmur of voices. King Brenin emerged into the courtyard, with Halion and a clutch of other warriors about him, Heb and Evnis trailing. Behind them came the Tenebral visitors.
Brenin conferred with Pendathran a few moments, then climbed the stairwell. He positioned himself on the walkway above Stonegate, staring down at the bridge that spanned the chasm between Dun Carreg and the mainland.
In time the host’s vanguard drew near, stopping two score paces before the bridge and spreading out in front of the fortress. Then Owain emerged from the mass of red-cloaked warriors.
‘Cousin,’ Owain called out, his voice ringing off the stone walls, his eyes scanning the battlements.
‘Aye,’ Brenin called back. ‘I am here.’
‘My son was more welcoming, when you visited my realm,’ Owain said, gesturing to the barred gates.
‘That is true,’ Brenin called, ‘but I was invited. You are not.’
Owain snorted. ‘Let us dispense with this. You are trapped, no means of escape. Give yourself up, along with your daughter and Pendathran. Then you will save much needless bloodshed.’
‘You are a fool, Owain. You are Rhin’s tool in this, nothing more–her puppet.’
‘Stop with your lies,’ Owain roared and thumped his saddle. ‘Marrock was seen, witnessed by many, leaving Uthan’s chambers. You ordered my son’s death. You killed him.’ His rage looked set to dominate him for a moment, before he mastered himself, and glared up at Brenin. ‘And in recompense I shall see you and your line wiped out.’
Brenin shook his head. ‘You are blind. But even so, what can you hope to achieve? Look at these walls. Your threats are empty. You can bang on my gates until Midwinter’s Day, and we shall hardly notice your presence.’
‘Maybe,’ Owain shouted up, ‘if you had food enough. I am in no hurry to be leaving. Let us see how much your people love you when they are starving, when they are dying about you. Consider my terms,’ he said. ‘I shall return at the same time on the morrow.’
He began to turn his horse, then paused. ‘Ah. I have something for you, to aid you in your deliberations.’ One of his men untied a small sack from his saddle, and emptied its contents.
A head rolled across the flagstones. The face was distorted by a rictus of pain or fear, but it was still recognizable to all close by.
Gethin, Lord of Badun.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
CYWEN
Cywen muttered angrily to herself as she scraped Hammer’s hooves clean, running her knife deftly around the rim, clumps of hard-packed straw and earth coming loose. The stables were empty of people. Almost everyone was out on the walls, just watching Owain’s host, or training in the Rowan Field. That thought produced a fresh flow of expletives and she scraped more vigorously.
Two nights had passed since Owain had arrived, and Brenin had announced that anyone due to sit their Long Night before Midwinter’s Day could take their warrior trial early, to join the fight against Owain. That meant just about everyone that she knew, including Dath.
Dath, whom she had sparred with almost every day–and bested every day. And that lump, Farrell, who was as slow as an auroch.
She grimaced, imagining them all together, playing at being warriors, at being men. Ronan’s face came to mind, bright blood bubbling on his lips.
But it’s no game, she thought.
None of them understood. Except Ban. He had been there too, had seen Ronan, and had even fought. She felt a sudden rush of pride, of love for her brother, as she remembered watching him take his warrior trial. She remembered the shock she felt as she’d seen his sword trial, seen how he’d set at Halion, with a growing sense of witnessing something special filling her. And she hadn’t been the only one, going by the expressions of those about her.
The stable door opened and she blinked at the sudden burst of light flooding the darkness. And the figure silhouetted against the bright day was no less than Brenin. Evnis and his son were with him, along with Edana and Halion.
‘I am looking for Gar,’ Brenin said. ‘Is he here?’ ‘No, my lord,’ Cywen said. ‘I thought he was out in the paddocks.’
‘No, he is not,’ Brenin said sharply.
‘Then I am sorry, I do not know where he
is,’ Cywen said with a shrug. In truth Gar had been almost impossible to find for days, appearing only to issue a string of more commands, then disappearing again. He had been strange, ever since the day of Corban’s warrior trial, as had her mam, both of them insisting she dress for a journey but not telling her where or why. Of course, that had all changed with Owain’s siege, but still no explanation had been given, and Gar had become increasingly absent.
‘Is it something that I may help you with?’ Cywen asked.
‘Perhaps,’ Brenin said, preoccupied, clearly troubled to see Alona’s favourite mare nearby. ‘I need to know how many horses we have here–warrior mounts, not ponies.’
Cywen nodded. ‘No more than two hundred, lord. Maybe fewer. I do not know the exact number, but thereabouts. I can find out for sure…’
‘Only two hundred?’ Brenin said quietly. ‘That is not enough.’ He shook his head, ‘Yes, yes–find out.’
Only once since the siege had begun had there been any kind of prolonged battle. The day after Owain’s arrival an assault had been made on the gates, warriors hauling felled trees capped with iron up the hill, attempting to batter the gates down. But they had been too thick, and the defenders above had let loose a constant barrage of rocks upon those wielding the battering ram. Scores had been crushed to death before Owain called his men back, with little more than scratches on the gates of the fortress to show for their efforts.
Dun Carreg seemed impregnable, but nevertheless there was a mounting tension spreading amongst those within the walls. With Gethin dead, and his warriors no doubt scattered, all hope rested on Dalgar and his warband from Dun Maen to break the siege.
Others entered the stables to join the royal group. It was Nathair with his usual companions, the black-clothed Sumur with his long curved sword on his back, and the eagle-guard, Rauca.
Cywen sidled over to Edana, who smiled at her, though her face looked strained.
‘Got a new guard?’ Cywen whispered, nodding towards Halion.