CHAPTER SIX

CAMLIN

Camlin padded along the stream’s edge, his bow held loosely in one hand. He was returning to Dun Crin from a hunting trip.

Hunting men. It had been a ten-night since the Battle of Dun Crin, where Evnis and Morcant’s warband had been largely scattered. He and a score of others had set about hunting down the stragglers.

The more we kill now, the fewer will come back to try and kill us later.

Camlin had split his hunting party into pairs, although he himself had ended up in a group of three.

He glanced down at Meg, the bairn who he’d rescued from a village on the outskirts of the marshlands.

Though she’s more than paid me back, the times she’s saved my hide, now. She was walking alongside him, wearing a warrior’s leather jerkin, holding a spear in one hand, her other resting upon the pommel of a new dagger that was hanging at her belt, all of them spoils taken from the Battle of Dun Crin. Camlin had helped her cut down and restitch the jerkin, as well as chopping an arm’s length off the spear to make it more manageable for her.

Part of him had been concerned about her accompanying them.

She’s seen worse, though.

A memory of the mottled feet of a bairn swinging from gallows insinuated its way into his mind, beneath it bloated corpses littering a courtyard.

Much worse…

A shadow crossed his path and he looked up to see the third member of his party flying above him. Craf swooped down and squawked loudly.

“Dark waters, tall towers.”

“I know,” Camlin muttered. “Don’t need a bird to tell me when I’m close to home.” Nevertheless he raised a hand at Craf.

When I first met that bird I must confess I didn’t like him much. Turns out he’s right handy to have about, though.

Craf had led him straight to over a dozen enemy warriors lost in the marshes. Camlin had made sure they stayed lost, left them lying face-down in the mud.

He walked through a last bank of reeds and came out on the shore of a huge lake. The towers and walls of Dun Crin reared out of the lake’s waters, damp and moss-covered like some frozen leviathan. Figures moved on the battlement walls, boats scudding between towers. All about him on the lakeshore there was motion. The wives and bairns of the warriors who had fought in the Battle of Dun Crin had finally returned from their hiding place deeper in the marshes, and all manner of rough shelters were being erected, mostly consisting of linen tents and panelled walls of woven willow.

Best not make themselves too comfortable.

Meg dashed off and merged into the crowds.

Camlin watched as a pair of children rummaged amongst the piles of war gear that had been stripped from the dead and heaped in mounds along the lakeshore: great stacks of swords and spears, shields, boots, belts, knives, quivers, shirts of mail, cuirasses of boiled leather and cloaks of black and gold.

Meg reappeared at his side, now with an iron helmet much too big for her head added to her outfit. Camlin tried not to laugh but wasn’t wholly successful.

“What?” Meg scowled at him.

“Think that helmet might slow you down,” he said. “Besides, your head’s thick enough. Doubt if you’ll need it.”

She punched him in the leg.

“When are we leaving?” she asked.

“Don’t know.” He shrugged. “Probably talk about it a while before we get around to doing it.”

He paused as the crowds opened up before him. Edana was walking calmly through their midst, stopping now and again to address someone directly, holding a hand here, cupping a cheek there, always seeming to be interested in what was being said to her. Baird, the one-eyed warrior of Domhain, and Vonn accompanied her. Camlin frowned as he watched the young warrior, his eyes shadowed with dark circles, grief carving new lines upon his face.

Though I’d guess I’m partly to blame for that. Me having killed his da might have something to do with his current mood. He’d tracked Vonn after the battle, found him leagues from anywhere, alone apart from his da, Evnis. Camlin had watched as they’d argued. It had ended with Vonn turning his back on Evnis and walking away. Evnis had followed, hand dipping inside his cloak and coming out with a knife in his fist.

Camlin had put two arrows through the man’s chest.

His eyes flickered back to Edana.

She has grown, since that night in Dun Carreg when she saw her da murdered. Even fought Roisin of Domhain in the court of swords and won. Mind, exile was too good for a woman like that. She’ll never stop her troublemaking.

He searched behind Edana, looking for his friend Halion. He should be back by now. Then he saw him, sitting beside a fire with Lorcan, Halion’s half-brother, Roisin’s son, heir to the throne of Domhain and unofficially betrothed to Edana, with his shieldman, Brogan No-Neck, as Meg affectionately referred to him.

“Good to see you,” Halion said, rising and gripping Camlin’s forearm.

“You too,” Camlin said with a grin.

Camlin looked at their faces, saw they were all sombre; a tension in the air. Lorcan’s dark eyes were red, looked as if he’d been weeping.

“Am I interrupting?” Camlin asked. “Just tell me t’bugger off if I am.”

“No, Camlin,” Lorcan said, standing and surreptitiously wiping his eyes. “I was just going.” He bade them farewell, Halion squeezing his shoulder, and left; Brogan followed faithfully in his wake.

“He all right?” Camlin asked.

“No,” Halion said honestly. “But I think he will be. I know Conall hates him, just for being Roisin’s son, but I like him. There’s no malice in him.”

“Well that’s a rare thing,” Camlin observed. “And he did the right thing, with Roisin. Choosing Edana over his mam wasn’t easy.”

“True,” Camlin said, “sometimes the right thing can be a grim thing, too.”

“Aye, and it’s weighing heavy on him.”

And you, by the look of it. Halion looked tired, a strained look about his eyes.

“Job done, then?” Camlin asked Halion.

“Aye,” Halion breathed. “Got back yesterday.”

“Did it go…?” He was going to say well, but that didn’t seem like the right word.

Halion looked away, staring out into the marshland. “Roisin didn’t try to escape, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s something,” Camlin said.

“Aye,” Halion shrugged. “Not the easiest thing I’ve done,” he added as Camlin continued to stare at him.

“Thought you hated Roisin.”

“I do. She murdered my mam, wanted to kill me and Conall, was the reason we fled Domhain. And she would have murdered Edana, too. Exile is better than she deserves.”

“But?”

Halion shrugged, his sea-grey eyes hinting at the emotion he kept buried within. “Walking away was hard.”

Execution is hard, you mean. We called it exile, but leaving her in the middle of the marsh, it was a death sentence.

Camlin patted Halion’s shoulder.

“Good hunting?” Halion asked him.

“Aye. There’re a few less warriors in black and gold to tell the way to this place. Am I the first back?”

“No. You’re the last,” Halion said. “We’ve all been waiting on you. Edana refused to hold the council until you were back, safe and sound.”

Camlin felt himself blush at that, a smile twitching his lips. It felt strange to be valued.

Camlin looked around the circle of familiar faces. They were gathered in a clearing, amidst the ruins of what looked to have once been Dun Crin’s gatehouse. A collapsed tower rose above them, bird’s nests poking from its crumbled ramparts. The old wall lay in ruins, granite boulders scattered in the grass. Beneath their feet ancient flagstones lay twisted and shattered by the encroaching roots of willow and alder.

A crumbling archway framed Edana, who sat upon a moss-covered boulder. She looked at home in a coat of mail and boiled-leather surcoat, a grey cloak about her shoulders and a sword at her hip.

Surrounding her were those she trusted most closely—Pendathran, her barrel-chested uncle, and Drust the red-haired warrior from Narvon, once shieldman to Owain, Narvon’s fallen king. Lorcan, the young king-in-exile of Domhain, gazed solemnly at Edana.

The others that filled the area were mostly warriors, shieldmen to those present. Halion, Vonn and one-eyed Baird watching Edana. Close to them Brogan loomed protectively close to Lorcan.

Craf perched upon the broken archway above Edana like a carved statue.

And I’ve no doubt that Meg is eavesdropping somewhere close by.

Edana stood, and the quiet conversations that had whispered amongst the ruined walls hushed.

“We are leaving Dun Crin,” she said without any preamble.

Above her, Craf ruffled his feathers. “Leaving,” he cawed quietly.

“Our warriors’ kin have only just returned,” Drust objected. “Not even dried their feet. And this is a good defensible spot.”

There were rumbles of assent.

After our victory they don’t want to leave. I’ve seen it before—victory makes them feel secure. But our enemy’s no fool. Rhin’s as canny as they come. We’ll not defeat her here again. And he’d said as much to Edana.

“I agree,” Edana said. “We won the last skirmish. Rhin and her battlechiefs underestimated us and did not scout well enough—but they will not repeat that mistake. And they will be back. We faced over five hundred swords, put more than three hundred in their cairns, but however many we slew, some escaped. They know where we are, and they will report back to Rhin. Next time they will be cautious, and Rhin rules four realms now; she has the numbers to keep throwing warriors at us until we are overwhelmed.”

Pendathran nodded dourly in agreement. “But where else is there?”

“There are one or two other spots in these marshes,” Drust said. “Not as good as here, but still…”

“We need to change our tactics. Only the families are staying in the marshes,” Edana interrupted. “I’m leading the warband out into Ardan.”

“Ardan?” Craf muttered above Edana. He didn’t look pleased, the feathers of his neck suddenly bristling.

“What?” Pendathran blurted. “Now that is”—he paused, face turning redder as he made an obvious effort to master his tongue—“unwise.”

“We cannot win the war hiding in these marshes. If Rhin is to be defeated and Ardan, Narvon and Domhain set free, then we must take the battle to her. We must become an enemy she fears.”

“Winning one battle does not decide the war,” Drust said. “You’ve done well, but we could lead Rhin a merry dance around these marshes.”

“I know full-well that the war is not won,” Edana said, her voice abruptly cold. “Do not patronize me. I am not a bairn, and I am no stranger to loss and hardship.” She looked around at them all. “Each night I close my eyes, each day I awake, I see the same thing. My dead kin. My friends, cut down. My home, burning. My people. Who cares for them while we are here? Never forget what Rhin has taken from us. It is time we took something back. Time we took the battle to her.”

Drust snorted.

“We cannot face Rhin in open battle,” Pendathran growled.

“Of course not,” Edana said. “We are too few in numbers—less than two hundred swords—but we can use that to our advantage. We can move quickly, strike fast. Disappear, strike elsewhere. Show Rhin, and the people of Ardan, that we have teeth.”

Pendathran nodded, obviously considering it. “That’ll only last so long,” he said.

“Indeed,” Edana said. “Which is why the word needs to spread that Rhin has lost a great battle, that her regent Evnis is dead—” Her eyes flitted to Vonn and she took a deep breath. “That the rightful Queen of Ardan has returned. The people need to know they’ve not been forgotten. I know them. They will join us if we offer them hope.”

Pendathran glanced at Drust. They shared a long silence, then Drust nodded grimly.

“When did the girlie I used to bounce upon my knee become this daring battlechief I see before me?” Pendathran said.

Edana just smiled, though her eyes flickered in acknowledgement to Camlin and Halion who had had long conversations with her, discussing the options.

Though to be fair much of this plan came from her.

There was a flapping of wings and Craf glided down to alight on the rock beside Edana.

“Drassil?” he croaked.

“I’m afraid we are not going to Drassil,” Edana said solemnly to the crow.

“Wrong, wrong, wrong,” Craf cawed, flapping his wings vehemently, muttering, “God-War, Seven Treasures, Brina, Corban,” over and over.

“We are needed here, Craf,” Edana said, reaching out a hand tentatively to touch the crow’s ruffled feathers. He looked at her, then with a disgusted squawk flapped into the air and soared away.

Edana watched him for a few moments, a dark smudge that faded quickly.

Camlin followed Edana from the clearing. The sun was dipping behind the trees; the smell of cooking from the lakeshore wafting over made Camlin’s belly grumble.

“What are you planning on doing with the plunder on the lakeshore?” he asked Edana as he drew up alongside her.

“Taking what we need, dumping the rest in the lake so that Rhin can’t use it,” Edana replied.

“Make sure you keep the cloaks of black and gold,” Camlin said. “Think they might come in handy.”

“I had thought exactly the same thing,” Edana said with a vicious smile.

“My lady,” a voice said behind them. It was Vonn, his expression pensive. They halted to let him catch up.

“Craf—the things he said—”

“I miss our friends as much as he does,” Edana sighed impatiently, interrupting. “Corban, Brina, Dath, Gar, the others…” She fell silent, eyes distant. “But, much as I long to see them all again, I cannot dash off on a fool’s errand to Drassil. The journey alone would take half a year, and I have a duty to my people—”

“You misunderstand me,” Vonn said. “It is the other things he said, about the God-War, about Drassil and…” He took a deep breath. “I need to talk to you, about what my father told me, before he died.”

“About what?” Edana said.

“About the Seven Treasures,” Vonn said quietly. “I think I know where one of them is.”