‘Why are you punishing me?’ she said, tears blooming. ‘If you want to get angry with someone, why don’t you try Rafe?’
Corban scowled at her and kicked Willow into a trot. Cywen began to jog after him, but when she drew level with Gar, the stablemaster called her.
‘Leave the lad a while,’ he said.
‘But . . .’
‘Leave him be,’ he said sternly. ‘You’re not helping.’
‘Not you too,’ she muttered, kicking at the road.
‘I know you meant well, but sometimes, this time, it would have been better if you had thought before you acted. Do you not see, in Corban’s eyes your bravery has made him a coward twice over.’
‘He’s not a coward,’ she snapped.
‘It doesn’t matter what you or I think. He thinks it.’
‘Is it really such a big thing?’ she asked. ‘He’s only got a cut lip. I’ve had worse falling off a horse.’
‘It’s not about the cut. He will be entering the Rowan Field soon to begin his walk to manhood. This will rest heavy on him.’
‘What can I do?’ she asked.
‘Do? Nothing else, Elyon forbid. This is something he must come through by himself. Teach yourself to think before you act, that is something you could do.’ He looked at her bowed head. ‘Give him time.’
She nodded.
Dath came running down the road to meet them. Corban pulled to a halt, Dath reaching him just before Cywen and Gar.
‘How are you, Ban?’ said Dath, looking intently at his friend.
‘I’m well, Dath,’ he replied curtly. Then he sighed. ‘My chin’s a bit sore, to tell you the truth, so is my lip. And my ribs.’
‘I’ve got your gifts,’ said Dath.
‘Oh, I’d forgotten,’ said Corban, rooting around in Dath’s bag.
‘I heard what you did,’ Dath grinned at Cywen, ‘people are talking about it all around the fair.’ She pulled a face, causing his smile to flee.
‘This is for you,’ Corban muttered and threw something to Cywen.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, running her fingers over the horse carved on the brooch. ‘Thank you, Ban.’ More tears sprang to her eyes.
The sound of hooves grew behind them: the two riders Gar had seen cantering along at a ground-eating pace. They drew alongside the group. Both had large round shields strapped to their horses’ saddles, and longswords at their hips, their cloaks travel-stained. Gar nodded a greeting. One – the younger, Cywen thought – bright blue eyes sparking in a boyishly handsome face, flashed back a grin.
‘Greetings,’ he said. ‘Judging by that great pile of stone perched over there we have reached Dun Carreg.’
‘Aye,’ answered Gar. ‘You have.’
The blue-eyed man smiled at his companion and clapped him on the back. ‘You hear that, brother.’
The other sat silently on his horse, staring at the fortress. ‘We would speak with King Brenin,’ he said, black hair framing a stern, weathered face.
‘You will find him in the meadow,’ Gar said. ‘His nephew is hand-bound today.’
‘My thanks,’ the stern warrior said, and the two men urged their horses off the road towards the meadow.
Gar watched them go, a frown creasing his face, then he turned to Corban. ‘Come, the sun has almost set. Cywen, try and work some kind of glamour on your brother’s cloak while I introduce him to a bucket of water.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
KASTELL
Kastell stretched in his saddle, filling his lungs with a deep breath. The air was crisp, laced with the scent of pine from the mountain slopes they were riding towards. As his home faded behind him, the fortress Mikil, he began to feel his spirits lift. Life in the fortress had become almost unbearable of late, so when his uncle Romar, who was also King of all Isiltir, had suggested he ride in the guard of this merchant train he had accepted without hesitation.
Maquin, his shieldman, rode at his side, a tall spear cradled easily in the crook of his arm. Kastell had known Maquin longer than any other, the last remnant of his father’s hold. They were all dead ten long years, slain by the giants as they raided out of Forn Forest.
Kastell reined in his horse and looked back, brushing his red hair from his eyes. To the east was Forn Forest, oldest and most dreaded in all of the Banished Lands. Kastell looked at the brooding darkness only a few leagues away and shivered, though the sun was hot on his face. The giant trees rose like a murky bulwark, a dark undulating ocean that travelled endlessly into the northern horizon. Although Mikil lay only a few nights’ journey from the great forest, this was the first time he had really looked upon it in years. Since the slaughter of his family. Many of Isiltir’s warriors rode patrol along its borders, protecting against the beasts that would stray from within Forn’s depths: the savage Hunen giants, bent on revenge for grievances long past, packs of wolven and swarms of great bats that would drain a man of every last drop of blood.
‘I hate that forest,’ he whispered.
‘Aye. Bad memories,’ Maquin grunted beside him.
To the west he could spy Mikil, its grey walls clear in the flat plains around it. He was glad to be away from it, and his kin that lived there. One of them, at least. Jael, his cousin, whose father had been killed in a similar attack to the one that had claimed his own mam and da’s lives.
He and Jael were close enough in age to be brothers, but there was no love between them. Jael took great pleasure in humiliating Kastell. When they had been younger it had been unpleasant, almost a game, although not one that Kastell could ever remember winning or enjoying. Now, though, well past a year since they had both turned sixteen, come through their warrior trials and Long Night, and changed from boys to men, the baiting had become something deeper, something more real, and a rage was building within Kastell, simmering and bubbling, closer to exploding each time that Jael goaded him.
It’s better to be away from Mikil.
Kastell focused on the path they were following, a wide stony track that wound its way into the mountains. He kicked his horse on.
He and Maquin were at the rear of a long column, the merchant train they rode guard to twenty wains long, all heavily laden with goods bought from Mikil: rods of silver from the fortress’ famed mines, as well as vats of mead, rolls of cloth and barrels of apples. They were heading for Halstat, a mining town in Helveth. Two score warriors rode guard about the wains, a mix of mercenaries from Helveth that served the merchants in Halstat and more warriors hired from his uncle Romar, who was always quick to see profit in any situation; the giant raids were the perfect incentive for more protection, especially as the only path through the mountains to Helveth wound so close to Forn Forest.
‘How long till we reach Halstat?’ Kastell asked as they caught up with the column.
‘Twelve, fourteen nights, maybe longer at this pace,’ Maquin said. ‘Who’d have thought salt could buy so much.’
Halstat was a town grown fat on its salt mines, supplying most of Helveth and the countries around it, Isiltir included.
‘I’d like to lighten the load by a jar of mead or three,’ he added.
‘If it helps the wains move faster.’ The slow pace was chaffing at Kastell already. Better than Mikil and Jael, he reminded himself.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. They continued along the path that climbed the mountains until the sun dipped low, sending their shadows stretching out far in front. A halt was called and the travellers quickly set about making camp.
Kastell sat a little apart from the warriors and merchant crew, methodically sliding his whetstone down one side of his sword, then the other. He was lost in the rasp and rhythm of his nightly routine and his own thoughts when a pair of boots appeared on the grass before him. Looking up, he saw Maquin looming above him, carrying two cups, a skin of mead gripped under his arm. Maquin grinned.
‘Here, lad,’ the old warrior said, thrusting a cup at Kastell.
The mead was sour and strong
, going some way to balance the night’s chill.
‘We could always go and sit by the fire,’ Maquin said as Kastell shivered.
‘I’m fine here,’ Kastell said. Around the fire sat warriors of Mikil, mixing with the mercenaries and merchants. Most likely poisoned against me by cousin Jael’s lies, he thought irritably.
Maquin gave him a long, measured look, but he said nothing.
A warrior appeared from amongst the wains, Aguila, captain of the mercenary guard. He wandered over and squatted in front of Maquin, offering a skin of something to the grizzled warrior. Maquin took it and drank deeply, dark liquid spilling into his beard. He coughed.
‘Better’n that horse piss you’re drinking,’ Aguila said, smiling. ‘It’ll warm you quicker, as well.’
‘I believe that,’ Maquin said, taking another gulp from the skin and then passing it back.
Aguila offered it to Kastell. He sniffed at the skin.
‘Won’t kill you, lad,’ the guard captain said.
Kastell took a long gulp, swallowed, then coughed violently. His throat and belly felt as if they were on fire. ‘What is it?’ he wheezed when he’d caught his breath.
‘Best not to ask,’ Aguila grinned. ‘It gets easier, and better.’
Kastell didn’t believe him, but took another, smaller swig, nevertheless. This time the fire didn’t burn quite so strong.
‘Good lad,’ the captain said, slapping his shoulder. ‘Glad to have you both with us.’ He eyed Kastell’s sword and whetstone.
‘It’s good to be out of Mikil for a while,’ Maquin said.
‘Aye. It’s different from the last time I was there, for sure. This time I couldn’t visit an inn for Romar’s swords getting in your face.’
‘That’s my uncle you’re talking about,’ Kastell said, his voice not as steady as he’d wish.
‘I know that,’ Aguila shrugged. ‘It’s not an insult. More an observation. Something’s different, that’s all.’
‘You’re not wrong,’ Maquin said. ‘Strange things have been happening, in and around Mikil.’
‘What things?’ Aguila asked.
The giant-stone, marking Isiltir’s border. We had word in Mikil that it was bleeding.’
‘I have heard whispers of such things,’ Aguila said. ‘There’s a circle of giant-stones in Helveth, south of Halstat. Same thing is said to have happened.’
‘And there’s more – worse as far as Romar is concerned. The starstone axe has been stolen.’
‘Ah. That’d do it,’ Aguila nodded.
The starstone axe was a relic straight out of legend, from a time before the Exiles had set foot in the Banished Lands, from before Elyon’s Scourging, even. Legend told of a star falling from the sky, when giants and men lived in peace and harmony. Kastell did not believe there had ever been a time like that. According to the tales, Treasures had been forged from the starstone, seven Treasures – cauldron, torc, necklace, spear, dagger, axe and cup. Wars had been fought over them, culminating in Elyon’s wrath being stirred and dished out: the Scourging. The axe at Mikil was said to be one of those Treasures, and people travelled from far and wide to visit it, believing it had magical qualities, that somehow it could bridge the gap between this world of flesh and the Otherworld, where the gods Elyon and Asroth dwelt.
Kastell did not know anything about that, doubted all of it. But what he did know was that the axe had made Mikil rich, that the constant trail of pilgrims visiting the relic brought with them a steady stream of silver and gold. Romar knew this too, and so his rage had been great indeed when the axe had been stolen. All the more reason for Kastell to get out of Mikil for a while. Between Jael’s taunting and Romar’s rages it had not been a pleasant place to be.
‘When did this happen?’ Aguila asked.
‘A ten-night gone,’ Maquin said.
‘Who took it? The Hunen, it must be,’ the mercenary muttered.
‘The Hunen,’ said Kastell. ‘They want it, sure enough, and they are the only giant clan within a hundred leagues. But I think they would be noticed walking into Mikil – anyone that stands fifteen handspans tall would be.’ He took another drink from the skin, the warmth feeling almost pleasant this time.
‘Aye, but still. They are Elementals – maybe they used a glamour,’ Aguila said.
‘Maybe,’ agreed Maquin, reaching for the skin in Kastell’s hand.
‘They are sly and fierce, the Hunen,’ Aguila said.
‘I know it,’ muttered Kastell.
‘You’ve had dealings with them, then?’ Aguila asked.
‘The Hunen slew his kin, the man I was oathsworn to,’ Maquin said darkly.
Kastell closed his eyes, remembering the hulking shapes striding through the broken gates of his hold, swinging their great-hammers and war-axes, outlined by flames. He shuddered. He had been six years old. He wished Aguila would stop talking about it. Silently he took the skin back from Maquin and drank some more.
‘Did they ransom you?’ Aguila asked.
‘The Hunen do not take prisoners,’ Kastell said. ‘Maquin saved me, carried me away.’
‘The Hunen are raiders, murderers, nothing more,’ Maquin growled.
Kastell wiggled his fingers, making the sign against evil.
Aguila saw the movement and smiled. ‘You need not worry about giants now, lad. We are forty blades strong, and besides I’d wager you know how to use that sword of yours. Elyon above knows it’s sharp enough.’ He glanced at the whetstone, and winked at Maquin.
‘Are you mocking me?’ Kastell asked, feeling his temper stir. ‘Been talking to Jael, have you?’ he growled. He felt blood rushing to his face and his hand moved to hover over his sword hilt. Aguila’s easy smile vanished, his expression hardening.
‘Have a care,’ the warrior said as he rose. ‘Romar’s kin or no, it won’t protect you always.’
Kastell glared at Aguila’s back as he walked away.
‘See how I am mocked,’ Kastell muttered, ‘because Jael does, all others think me fair game, think I can be scorned.’ He ground his teeth.
Maquin took a long deep breath. ‘Sometimes, Kas, you see enemies where there are none.’ Maquin shook his head. ‘Aguila meant nothing by it. Surely you understand that?’
Kastell snorted.
‘I did not want to have this conversation with you,’ Maquin said, ‘have stopped myself many times, hoping you would see it for yourself. When you passed your trials and Long Night, became a man, I thought it would end.’ He shook his head. ‘It is about time you heard some truths, I think. Jael has not turned all against you, even if he tries to. You are not considered by all as a figure to be scorned. But many do think you haughty, arrogant. Too proud to mix with the rest of us. There is much good in you, Kas, but take care lest it is buried beneath a cairn of self-pity. Your da would be disappointed, to hear you speak so.’ With that he rose and walked away, leaving Kastell sitting wide-eyed in the grass.
He sat alone the rest of the night, listening to the quiet talk and murmured songs that rose from the other travellers. As most of the camp descended into sleep, Maquin told Kastell he was on the next watch. Silently he walked out of the ring of wains and took himself to the rim of the camp. Self-pity, he thought, scowling in the dark, wavering between anger and shame.
He pulled his cloak tighter, a chill wind blowing through the mountains, the moonlight fleeting as clouds scudded across the sky. He was still shocked at Maquin’s words to him and spent his watch mulling over them. Grudgingly he reached the conclusion that Maquin was right, leaving him embarrassed, angry, mostly at himself for behaving the way he had, but also at others: Maquin, Aguila, many, faceless others for misunderstanding him. He had acted like a child, a sulky, spoilt child. Alongside those feelings, though, was a faint glimmer of hope. The thought that most of the fortress was not in league with Jael, in a pact to goad and bait him, was a good one. He made a decision then, in the dead of night. In the morning, he told himself. When his watch candle gutt
ered and went out, he lit a new one from the dying embers of the fire, then woke the next warrior whose turn it was to stand guard. Soon after he was asleep.
The sky was grey with the approaching dawn when Kastell opened his eyes. He rose quickly and went about the morning’s duties, saddling his horse, helping to harness the draught horses to wains, load his pack. When all was done and most were breaking their fast, Kastell saw Aguila walk alone to his horse, a big dun animal. Kastell trotted to catch the warrior and tapped him on the arm.
‘I-I am sorry, for my words to you, yestereve.’ There was a slight tremor in his voice. ‘I misunderstood your meaning.’
Aguila looked at him, then his easy smile returned. ‘It is forgotten, lad,’ he said. Kastell nodded and then, not knowing what else to do, turned and walked away, a smile starting on his own face. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Maquin watching him.
CHAPTER NINE
CORBAN
Heb raised his hands into the air, his frame outlined by the fading sun.
‘Fionn ap Torin, Marrock ben Rhagor,’ he cried in a loud voice that did not seem to match his spindly frame. ‘Your day is done. You have been bound, hand and heart, and lived the day as one. Now is your time of Choosing. Will you bind yourselves forever, or shall the cord be cut?’
Marrock and Fionn looked at each other and raised their bound hands into the air. ‘We will be bound, one to the other, and live this life as one.’
A murmur rippled through the crowd and Heb stepped forward, taking their bound hands in his.
‘Make your covenant,’ cried the loremaster.
‘Fionn ap Torin,’ Marrock began, ‘I vow to you the first cut of my meat, the first sip of my mead . . .’
Corban shifted restlessly. I’m half starved, he thought, looking at the long benches that stood in rows near the firepits, bowed with steaming food. His mam was gazing at the couple in front of them, moisture shining in her eyes. Thannon, his da, stood beside her, a bear of a man beside Gwenith. His hound Buddai lay curled at his feet. A bruise was purpling around one of Thannon’s eyes and he had a split lip, but it didn’t seem to bother him – he was pugil champion for another year.