CHAPTER THREE

CORALEN

Coralen sat with her back to a tree, staring into the dawn gloom of Forn, absently twirling a knife between her fingers. Behind her were the sleeping forms of three score or so of the survivors with whom she had fled Drassil. Amongst them was Brina, grey hair poking from beneath her cloak, beside her the bulks of Farrell and Laith curled close together. She glimpsed the Jehar, Akar, standing guard on the far side of their camp. Exhaustion hovered at the fringes of her consciousness, and in so many ways it would be wonderful to lose herself in the nothingness of sleep. But she couldn’t. Her mind was reeling, a whirlwind of grief, fear and rage as fractured moments of the previous day played out in her mind’s eye. Out of them all, though, everything kept returning to one thought, circling.

Where is Corban?

The fog of tiredness crept upon her again, a relentless assault, but she knew that sleep would not come; the shock and horror of yesterday’s battle was still too present.

There was a soft footfall from behind and a figure came to stand beside her.

Gar.

The lord of the Jehar looked at her, lines of worry etched upon his usually unreadable face. He was clothed in a shirt of dark chainmail splattered with grime and blood, his curved sword sheathed across his back, a single-bladed throwing axe hanging at his belt. Even he was not free of injury: a bloodstained bandage was tied around his forehead.

“Storm is with him,” Gar said, as if he could read her thoughts.

They must be as plain to read upon my face as are his.

Storm.

That was a measure of comfort; Coralen knew that the wolven was a better guardian than a dozen shieldmen. But still…

“We will find him,” Gar said.

Coralen had seen the familiar scuff marks of Storm’s claws in the tunnel, which was why they had exited at this spot. After a brief search she’d found more tracks, leading to the brow of the slope, but darkness had settled upon them and no matter how frustrating, it was pointless to stumble around in the dark.

But where can Corban be? He must have heard the din of battle from Drassil, even if he were this far away.

The thought rose unbidden in her mind, the one thought she had refused to acknowledge throughout the long dark of night.

What if he is slain? What else could have kept him from returning to Drassil? She felt a worm of fear wriggling through her belly but refused to consider it. He lives. He must.

She nodded and stood, sheathing her knife, a myriad of cuts, bruises and strains aching for attention. She ignored them all.

“We need to go,” she said.

“Aye,” Gar agreed. He continued to stare at the trapdoor. “I had hoped that Meical would find us. That he escaped…”

Coralen remembered her last sight of the Ben-Elim, wielding his sword two-handed, feet planted before the entrance to the tunnel in Drassil’s great hall as they had retreated into its shadows. Swathes of blood had surrounded him as he swung his sword in deadly arcs, holding back the enemy, protecting them, purchasing them time to escape.

“He would have come by now. If he could,” Coralen said.

Gar sighed and nodded.

Coralen cocked her head, listening, staring down the hill. Something was moving in the undergrowth, heading towards the trapdoor.

Gar saw it too, and without words the two of them separated, slipping into the shadows as they quietly surrounded the intruder.

Bushes rustled, a twig snapped and Coralen caught a glimpse of dark hair. She knew it wasn’t Corban—even he isn’t that clumsy.

A figure burst from the undergrowth, a young man clad in leather and wool, his dark hair tousled and a scabbing cut marking his forehead. He started at the sight of her, fumbled for a weapon at his belt, his eyes widening.

“I know you,” Coralen said, though she didn’t remember his name. “Your da is Atilius.” A competent, unassuming warrior, Atilius had been a slave oarsman on a Vin Thalun ship.

The lad nodded, his lip trembling.

“Pax, what are you doing here?” Gar said, stepping silently from the shadows, making the young warrior jump again.

“You must come, quickly,” Pax blurted. “My da, Corban, giants—”

“Corban?” Coralen hissed.

“Aye; we must go.” Tears were spilling down Pax’s cheeks now, tracing tracks through blood and grime. “He’s dead.”

Coralen froze, feeling as if a fist had just clamped around her heart.

“I ran,” Pax said. He began to shake, an involuntary twitching that quickly became more violent.

“Where is Corban?” Coralen asked, trying to control the panic leaking through her, reaching out to grab the now sobbing boy and shake the sense from him.

“Hold,” Gar said, putting a hand upon her arm. “Pax, you must tell us, as clearly as you can. Where is Corban and your da? What happened?”

Others were coming down the hill now. Coralen glimpsed Dath and Kulla, a handful of Jehar, Laith looming behind them.

“We heard fighting, knew Corban was out there,” Pax began haltingly. “We found him, facing giants, and bears.”

What? But there were no giants with Nathair at Drassil!

“Da, he threw a spear at a giant. Then we all ran. We thought we’d lost them…then…”

“Go on,” Gar said. The whole group was gathered around them now, listening in absolute silence.

“They came from nowhere. My da…” He rubbed his eyes, blew out a long breath. “They killed my da. Corban told me to run, to fetch help.”

“When did this happen?” Gar asked, not able to keep the urgency from his voice.

“Yesterday. After highsun, before sunset.” Pax’s face had grown paler as he spoke. Now he looked like a corpse. “I ran. I fell, hit my head.” He raised a hand to the cut on his brow. “When I came to, it was dark. I’ve been trying to find my way since then.”

“Take us, now,” Gar said.

“I will try.” Pax nodded. “I became lost, for a while, but I know it was that direction.”

Gar barked orders and then they were moving, Coralen taking the lead with Pax, Gar jogging beside the lad, a steadying hand on his arm.

Corban and Storm facing giants, alone. Yesterday. She sent a silent prayer to Elyon, one of many that she had made over the last half-day.

Let them still live.

Coralen was the first to enter the glade. At its far end was a sudden ridge and beyond it the sound of a fast-flowing river. The smell hit her first, the metallic tang of blood and decay. Death. Flies were buzzing in great clouds about bodies heaped on the floor. She counted three giant corpses on the ground, and Atilius, pinned to a great oak by a giant’s axe. She could not see Corban or Storm. She ran to the first giant, who was on his back, a hole in his belly, throat cleanly cut, his wrist bearing the tell-tale ripping wounds of the wolven. Coralen moved on, dimly aware of others spilling into the glade behind her, the sound of Pax’s sobs as he dropped to his knees before his da, Gar’s presence at her shoulder. The other two giants were close together, the ground trampled, rutted, dark and still sticky with blood. One’s throat had been ripped out by Storm, the flesh mangled and torn.

He is not here, nor Storm. The relief was a physical thing, though she knew their absence did not mean that they were safe, or even alive, but it was clear they had fought here, and won. They slew three giants. She felt a flush of pride at that feat, knew that it would be a story told around the campfire this very night, adding to the tales that were growing up around Corban and his wolven companion.

The other giant lay upon his front. Gar and Coralen tried to turn him over together, flies buzzed angrily, the huge warrior’s dead weight like a boulder. Farrell and Laith joined them and together they rolled the giant, the stench of corruption and decay wafting up to them as they disturbed the body.

“He is of the Jotun clan,” Laith spat as they stood and stared at the dead giant.

What are they doing here?

Coralen’s eyes were drawn to the glint of leather and iron amidst the congealed blood. She bent and wrapped a fist around the hilt of a sword buried deep in the giant’s thigh, angled upwards into its groin. It came free with a sucking sound, and she lifted it for them all to see: the pommel shaped like a howling wolven. The relief she’d felt fled, replaced by the crushing weight of fear.

“That’s Ban’s sword,” Dath said as he joined them, Kulla a pace behind him.

Coralen stared at them a moment, felt a wave of sympathy for them.

They’ve been wed less than two nights.

Gar took the sword from her and stared at it. “I watched Ban’s da give him this blade.”

“In the Rowan Field at Dun Carreg,” Farrell said. “I remember it.”

“And I,” Dath muttered.

Coralen turned away, her eyes scanning the ground, searching for any sign.

He is not here. Storm is not here. They escaped, but they did not make their way back to Drassil. Why?

Brina was on her knees beside the giant. The old healer had a vial in one hand, a knife in the other that she was using to scrape blood from the trampled grass. One side of Brina’s face was still an angry red, seared by the explosion she had generated that had rocked the chamber in Drassil yesterday.

Whatever benefit Brina thought the giant’s blood would bring, she was welcome to it. As Coralen scanned the rest of the clearing, her eyes caught a patch of crushed grass spattered with blood. It was close to the edge of the glade, leading to a sheer drop to the river below.

As if something were dragged.

She followed the marks and dropped to a crouch, looking down to the river. Further down she spied a dark smear on a boulder.

Blood.

“They jumped into the river,” she called out. Gar was first to join her. His eyes found the same evidence and he gripped her wrist.

“After them,” he said.

Coralen led the way, running along the ridge that shadowed the river, twisting around thick-rooted trees and dense vegetation, her eyes flitting between the path she was navigating and the banks of the river.

Rounding a sharp bend in the path, she suddenly saw a shape lying on a grassy verge, fur matted and bloodstained. Her heart stopped.

Storm.

She skidded to a halt on the ridge above the wolven, a part of her mind noticing large boot-prints in the grass. In a spray of dirt she scrambled over the edge, clinging to root and vine as she made her way down to the riverbank.

Storm lay still as stone, and she was covered in blood; a huge wound was visible above her shoulder.

Coralen crouched, too scared to touch her, not wanting to confirm what her eyes were telling her.

Stifling tears, she remembered the first time she had seen Storm, when she had threatened to turn the wolven into a cloak. Even then she had seen the bond between Corban and his faithful and vigilant shadow. Since then she had developed her own bond with the wolven—more like a sword-brother to her than a mere animal.

As Gar joined her she tentatively reached out a hand and laid it upon Storm’s body. She felt nothing.

No. Please, Elyon above.

She screwed her eyes shut tight, pressed harder, flattening her palm against Storm’s deep chest, willing her hand to feel the movement of life, a drawn breath, the pumping of Storm’s heart. With every moment her hopes faded, a bleakness taking hold inside, spreading through her like ink through water.

And then she felt it.

A flicker, a heartbeat deep within the cavern of Storm’s broad chest. Coralen opened her eyes and saw Storm’s amber gaze regarding her. The wolven whined, a weak, miserable sound, but one that gave Coralen a rush of joy. Storm’s tail thumped feebly on the turf.