As the battle had played out Rafe had been standing on a steep ridge overlooking the beach, gripping two hounds on a leash. Braith had been with him and together they’d watched as Halion’s defenders had held the quay against overwhelming numbers, until Halion had toppled to the beach below. Even then Conall’s brother had fought on, aided by a few who had leaped to his defence. It was only when Conall had faced him and beaten Halion unconscious that the path to the quay had been cleared. And by then it was too late: Edana and her companions were sailing away, along with Lorcan, the young heir to Domhain’s throne.
One of the hounds whined and nuzzled his leg. ‘There ya go, Sniffer,’ he said, giving the hound a strip of dried mutton from the pouch at his belt. He crouched and scratched the grey-haired hound between the ears. ‘You’ll be wanting to go home now, I’m guessing,’ he said.
Me too. Home. Dun Carreg, Ardan. Will I ever see it again? Memories swirled up, of long days in the wilderness with his da, Helfach the huntsman, as he taught Rafe the ways of wood and earth, of how to track prey and how to kill it.
The other hound padded over, Scratcher, seeing that he’d missed out on a treat.
‘Go on, then,’ Rafe said, throwing another strip of mutton. Scratcher caught it and swallowed, licked his lips.
Hooves drummed on the beach and Rafe looked up to see Conall returning, a handful of shieldmen riding behind him.
Conall was the closest thing to home now, the last remnant of his life in Ardan. Part of Rafe was scared of the warrior – quick-tempered and deadly – part of him liked the man, as swift to laughter as he was to anger. He’s risen far. Not long ago he was the same as me, just another sword in Evnis’ hold. Conall slipped from his saddle, scowling at any who dared meet his eyes.
‘My brother?’ he called, and men pointed. Halion was still unconscious, laid out on the beach, bound at wrist and ankle. Conall strode to him and stood over Halion’s still form, staring. His face softened, then clouded, other emotions playing out across the landscape of his features. Eventually his expression settled back into a scowl.
‘Any luck?’ a warrior, one of Queen Rhin’s captains, asked as he joined Conall. All of the warriors who had accompanied Conall were Rhin’s. Although the people of Dun Taras had opened their gates to Rhin, it was still too early to trust the warriors of Domhain. It had not been that long ago that the men of Domhain and Cambren had been trying to kill each other.
‘Not a single boat within a league of here,’ Conall muttered.
‘They’ve escaped, then,’ Rhin’s captain said.
‘You’re a quick one,’ Conall snapped.
The captain frowned. ‘Queen Rhin won’t be happy. Glad I’m not you.’
Conall hit the man in the face, hard. He stumbled back a step, then dropped to one knee.
‘I’m not happy, either,’ Conall growled. Other warriors moved, comrades of the felled captain, a loose circle forming around Conall.
Rafe stood, took a step towards them. He’s the only link to home I have. Don’t want to see him dead as well. One of the hounds gave a low growl.
Conall turned to face the men drawing close about him. ‘If any need reminding, I’m your Queen’s regent, and her first-sword.’ He put a hand upon his sword hilt, a reminder of how he’d beaten Morcant to become Rhin’s champion.
Don’t get involved, you idiot, Rafe told himself. You don’t want to die on this cold beach, but his feet were already moving. He pushed through warriors, the dogs snarling at his heels. Rafe joined Conall; the two hounds flanked him with bared teeth.
There was a long drawn-out moment, violence in the balance. Only the roar of surf on shingle, a gull calling overhead. Then Rhin’s men were turning, backing away; first one, then all of them.
‘Up you get,’ Conall said to the fallen warrior, offering his arm.
The man looked at him, then gripped Conall’s wrist.
‘No harm done, eh? Well, maybe a blackened eye for a few days. A tale for the ladies,’ Conall laughed, slapping the man on the shoulder; the captain grunted and walked away.
‘Saw what you did,’ Conall said to Rafe. ‘Won’t forget that.’
Rafe shrugged.
‘Where’s Braith? If anyone can track a ship it’ll be him.’
‘He’s dead,’ Rafe said. ‘Camlin killed him – threw him in the sea while you were fighting Halion.’
‘Did he, now?’ Conall said, frowning. ‘Didn’t expect that.’
There weren’t many that could have stood against Braith.
‘Me neither, but I saw it happen.’
‘Shame. Don’t suppose you can track a ship, can you?’
Rafe raised an eyebrow. ‘Where do you think they’re going?’ he asked, as they both stared at the empty horizon.
‘Away from me,’ Conall growled. ‘Somewhere far away from me.’
‘He’s waking up,’ a warrior called to Conall. Rafe saw Halion stirring.
Conall hurried over, Rafe following.
Halion was cut and battered, a dark bruise staining his jaw. His eyes fluttered open.
‘Water,’ he croaked.
Conall knelt and dripped water from a skin onto Halion’s lips, something tender about the act.
‘Where are they?’ Conall asked.
Halion’s eyes fixed on the sea. ‘They got away, then?’
‘Aye, with your help. Where are they going, brother?’
‘I don’t know,’ Halion whispered. ‘We were just running – away from you, Rhin, Domhain. The where had not been decided.’
‘You’re lying,’ Conall snarled, leaning closer.
‘Believe what you will,’ Halion shrugged. ‘Either way they’re safe from you now.’
Conall gripped Halion and pulled him close. ‘I need to find Lorcan and his bitch-mother.’ Spittle sprayed.
Halion looked at him with sorrow. ‘When did you become a killer of bairns? Lorcan’s your kin.’
‘Do you not remember what Roisin did to us? Murdered our mam, drove us from our home?’
‘Aye – Roisin, not Lorcan.’
‘She’s on that ship too. And Lorcan is her brood. If they’re not dealt with now they’ll come looking for me one day. I’ll not spend the rest of my days looking over my shoulder, and I’ll lose no sleep over shedding their blood. Either of them.’
‘What’s happened to you, Con?’
‘Me? Look at you – bowing and scraping to a spoilt girl; fighting in defence of our mam’s murderer. It’s not me that’s changed.’
‘I gave my oath to King Brenin. I’ll not be breaking it, not for anyone. Not even for you, Con.’
Conall paused then, just stared at Halion. A muscle in his cheek twitched. Then he drew his knife and cut the rope binding Halion’s ankles.
‘On your feet. I’m taking you back to Rhin. We’ll see how long it takes you to tell her everything you know. She’s more persuasive than you can imagine.’
Halion climbed to his feet. He saw Rafe.
‘You’re still alive, then,’ Halion said to him.
‘Aye. Hard to kill, me.’ The last time Rafe had spoken to Halion was in Edana’s tent, back when Rafe had been captured on the border of Domhain. The memory of it stirred a swell of anger – Corban and Dath and Farrell, all sneering at him, Edana looking down her nose, judging him.
‘Things have changed since I saw you last,’ he said as Halion was steered towards a horse.
‘And they’re likely to change some more before this is all over,’ Halion said over his shoulder.
What’s that supposed to mean?
‘Make ready,’ Conall called out. ‘We’ll bury our dead and then we’re riding back to Dun Taras.’
One of the hounds whined, staring out to sea, his body stiff and straight.
Something was bobbing in the waves, a dark smudge amidst the foam and grey of the sea.
Another body?
Rafe waded into the surf. Definitely a body. He could see limbs, a shock of hair. The water was up to his waist as he
reached it, then he froze.
It was Braith.
Face pale, skin tinged blue. There was a great wound between his neck and shoulder that still leaked blood, the surf foaming pink. Rafe grabbed him and began pulling the huntsman to shore.
Then Braith groaned.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TUKUL
Tukul held the severed head up high, gripping a handful of black hair. He regarded it grimly. A young Jehar warrior, female, younger even than his Gar. Empty, lifeless eyes stared back at him.
You were my sword-kin. A warrior, bred for battle, trained in righteousness, yet you ended life as a servant of Asroth, his tool. He shook his head, feeling a wave of sympathy for his dead kin, knew the shame she would carry across the bridge of swords. The emotion shifted quickly to anger as his thoughts turned to Sumur. The prideful fool who followed a Kadoshim, who led my people into disgrace. With a growl he put the head into a leather saddlebag, along with the heads of the other Kadoshim that had been slain during the night raid. A reminder to us of the cost this God-War will carve from us.
‘What of these?’ Gar said with a gesture as Tukul stood surveying the twisted headless corpses of the slain Kadoshim. He looked at Gar. The sight of him after so long a separation filled Tukul with deep joy. My son, how you have grown. Strong, and with a fine measure of wisdom. Pride and humility mixed. You make my heart soar. Tukul had often daydreamed of the man his son would grow into, but the reality was better. Quicker to smile than the rest of us, but that is no bad thing. No smiles today, though, or for a while, I think. Grief sat fresh and raw upon Gar’s face. The death of Corban’s mam had hit him hard.
Life and death, grief and joy, all part of the road Elyon has set before us. Nevertheless he frowned, wishing he could ease his son’s pain. An impossible task, he thought, remembering the death of his own wife, Daria, a faint echo washing over him of the long despair that he had felt upon her death. Keeping busy is what kept me sane through those dark days, and if that is the case, then Gar will be fine. We are entering the time of the God-War and that should keep us all busy enough. He looked back to the corpses strewn upon the ground. ‘I was thinking we should leave something that would serve as a reminder to those who follow, to Calidus and his ilk. A warning to them.’
Tukul gazed about, saw a cluster of windswept trees close to the stream. ‘Over there,’ he said, and they set about carrying the bodies to the trees. They passed Corban sitting by his mam’s cairn, staring into nowhere.
He has much to think about, and not least is what he’s going to do with this unusual warband that has grown up around him.
Tukul had seen Corban’s dismay when he’d realized that all were waiting on his decision.
Since their meeting in the dungeons of Queen Rhin’s fortress, Tukul had watched Corban with the intensity that a lifetime of expectation had nurtured. He is the Seren Disglair, the Bright Star, Elyon’s chosen avatar to stem the tide of Asroth and the legions of his Black Sun. How can any man bear such a burden? And yet Tukul had a confidence in the young man, born not only from faith, but also from what his eyes and instincts told him. He does not want to lead, and that is a good start. Only the vain and foolish crave such a responsibility. He is loyal to a fault, marching half a thousand leagues into a giant’s fortress to find his sister and rejecting Meical’s advice in doing so. That cannot have been easy, disagreeing with a warrior-angel. Tukul liked that.
‘Is he all right?’ Tukul asked Gar.
His son shrugged. ‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘He has lost much, learned much. I trust him.’
‘Good enough for me,’ Tukul said with a smile. He was looking forward to hearing Corban’s decision. It will tell me more of this man that I have sworn to follow. He’d better make his mind up soon, though. We cannot just wait here for the Kadoshim and Benothi to fall upon us like a hammer. About him the camp had been stripped down, horses saddled and ready, packs loaded, the fire kicked out, the giants grouped together, waiting, some of the bairns wrestling with one another upon the heather.
‘Help me here,’ Tukul ordered, lifting the corpse of a dead Kadoshim beneath the branches of a tree. More Jehar came to help. Eventually he stood back and surveyed his and his kins’ handiwork. It will serve.
A murmuring spread about him and he turned to see Corban leaning down to pick a purple thistle. He pressed the flower to his lips and placed it tenderly on the cairn, whispered something. Then he stood straight and strode to his stallion, his sister Cywen holding the bridle for him.
‘And where are we going?’ Meical asked Corban as the young warrior swung into his saddle.
Corban took a deep breath, looking at all those gathered about him. His eyes came back to rest upon Meical.
‘I don’t know.’
A silence settled.
Not the answer I was hoping for.
‘You have counselled me to go to Drassil,’ Corban said. ‘As I thought of your advice, which is probably good advice, though I don’t understand anything about prophecies and old forests and fortresses, my heart whispered to me. It said, you swore an oath to Edana.’
‘I counselled riding to Drassil for a reason,’ Meical said, speaking slowly, controlled. ‘The prophecy. You must go there.’
Tukul saw Corban’s eyes flicker to Gar. He is unsure, searches for reassurance.
‘We have already lost much time and accomplished little,’ Meical said, seeing Corban’s hesitancy. ‘And all the while Asroth is moving.’
‘Accomplished little?’ Corban eyes snapped back to Meical. ‘It may not seem much to you, in the scheme of things, but I have accomplished what I set out to do. My sister is safe.’
‘She is not safe. No one is safe. You should know that better than most – you stood before Asroth himself. You must know what is at risk.’
Corban nodded. ‘I do. And you saved me from that, plucked me from Asroth’s throne room before his very eyes. He was going to cut my heart out. And then you followed me north, helped me save Cywen from Nathair and Calidus.’ His eyes searched out his sister. ‘You will always have my thanks for that.’
‘I do not seek thanks or praise,’ Meical said. ‘I seek victory. We are at war with a foe more powerful and evil than you can hope to imagine. I fear that another delay in the south will spell our defeat.’
‘I know what you have counselled. Because of the prophecy, about these times, about me . . .’ He trailed off. ‘As you say, I have seen Asroth, and I know that a terrible evil is stirring. I have witnessed it, and it must be stopped.’ He glanced north, towards Murias. ‘I do not possess great wisdom . . .’
Tukul heard a cough, saw Brina staring at Corban, a smile twitching her lips.
‘But there are things that I do know,’ Corban continued, ‘things that I have clung to through the dark times that I – we – have already faced.’ He waved a hand at his friends. ‘Family. Friendship. Loyalty. These things have been my guiding star, my light in these dark times.’ He looked to his mam’s cairn beside the stream.
He stopped then and met Meical’s gaze.
‘Edana sent the raven Fech to find me, to tell me of what had happened in Domhain, how she was fleeing back to Ardan. She asked that I find her, if I can.’ He shrugged. ‘My heart tells me that I should do that. I swore an oath to her.’
Tukul glanced at Gar and nodded. I like this young man. He had felt his spirit soar at Corban’s words, even though it sounded as if he was building up to rejecting Meical’s advice, and in Tukul’s experience that had never ended well. But I like what I hear. If it were me, I hope I would have said exactly the same. Although the fact that Corban seems to be taking counsel from a scruffy old raven over the high captain of the Ben-Elim is a little worrying.
‘This time, Corban, your heart is misleading you,’ Meical said. ‘Passion, emotion, those are Elyon’s blessings upon your kind, but they can blind you as well as guide you. You must go to Drassil.’
‘A question,’ Corban said. ‘Our journey to Drassil
. How would we get there?’
‘We would ride south, until we reach the river Afren, then we would turn east into Isiltir. Beyond that is Forn and Drassil.’
‘The river Afren, which runs through the Darkwood, marking the border between Narvon and Ardan?’
‘Aye.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Corban said. ‘Then for a hundred leagues our journey would be the same, whether our destination was Ardan or Drassil.’
‘Aye, it would.’
‘Then let us do that. Ride south. The decision about our final destination can wait awhile, be thought upon.’
Meical frowned at that.
Meical wants him to lead us, Tukul thought. To be decisive. But it is a lot to ask in one so young, and one so unused to leading. Maybe he needs some time to adjust to the weight he now bears.
Meical considered Corban for long, drawn-out moments, his expression as flat and unreadable as any of the Jehar. ‘We shall ride south, then.’
Corban smiled, relief spreading across his face. He touched his heels to his stallion and rode over to the giants, stopping before Balur.
‘If we ride south it does not mean we are running away from Nathair and the Kadoshim, running away from this war.’
‘It is the God-War. There is nowhere to run,’ Balur said with a shrug of his massive shoulders.
‘The God-War – aye. I am not running. Nathair killed my da, burned my home, and now my mam . . .’ He gritted his teeth, grief mingled with anger washing his face. ‘Nathair and those he rides with are a plague that will sweep the land unless they are stopped. I mean to fight them, with all that I am. I have never met a giant before, nor do I understand your ways, anything about you or your people, except that we were once enemies. But now you are the enemy of my enemy. I would value your company, should you choose to come with us.’
Balur looked to the giantess at his side, Ethlinn, then at the rest of his group before turning back to Corban.
‘It has been a long time since we have seen the southlands. I think we will come with you, at least for a while.’
To Tukul’s surprise, Corban, sombre-faced, held his arm out and offered Balur the warrior grip. The giant blinked, then took Corban’s arm, engulfing it with his massive hand.