CHAPTER EIGHTY

UTHAS

Uthas ran through the meadow in a loping gait, one he could maintain for days without end, feeling a cold wind blowing out of the north. He would have struggled to do this not so long ago, but not now.

I have drunk from the starstone cup, he exulted, basking in the strength and energy that coursed through his veins, the scents and sounds that clamoured for his attention, the knowledge that he would live another thousand years and more.

As long as I avoid an iron-tipped death.

Alongside him ran Salach, and behind was Eisa and the rest of the Benothi, fifty giants. They ran with a warband as big as any Uthas had seen from the Giant Wars. Over five thousand men, all a-horse, riding across the rolling meadows of Isiltir, the sound of their passage like constant thunder.

Behind them Dun Kellen had long since disappeared. They had stopped there to re-provision. Now they were headed north-east, the cold wind against Uthas’ face a bitter fist greeting them from out of the Desolation, and to the east the brooding green of Forn Forest grew larger with every league travelled. They could have been in Forn already, close to Drassil, but Calidus had commanded that they take a different route. He wanted them to pass the Desolation, to visit a place named Gramm’s hold, and see if there was sign of the Jotun.

In the distance a hill appeared, upon its brown the dull gleam of stone walls.

“This is giant-built,” Salach said to Uthas as they strode through the stone-arched gateway into a courtyard of hard-packed earth at Gramm’s hold, a half-built keep of stone and wood looming over them.

“And it is empty,” Eisa called out as she appeared from one end of the courtyard, other scouts filtering through the hold echoing her call.

“It will do for tonight,” Rhin said as she rode through the gates behind Uthas, her warband spread across the great meadows about the hill and deserted hold like a rippled cloak of leather and iron, flesh and blood.

Uthas strode around the deserted hold. Everywhere were signs that this place had been inhabited once, and recently. Salach called him into a long building, a stable-block, separated into many pens and scattered with straw and hay. Uthas wrinkled his nose.

“It was not horses that were kept here,” Salach said, sifting through the straw with his axe-shaft, uncovering a pile of dung. “The creatures penned here were meat-eaters.”

“Bears,” Uthas murmured, and shared a look with Salach.

“The Jotun,” they said together.

Uthas called the clan about him and set them to searching the hold and surrounding area for any indication of where the Jotun were now. He marched with Salach and Eisa over the peak of the hill and saw a wide river curling across the land, a stone bridge arching across it, a road running from the bridge into a barren wasteland of rock and ash.

“The Desolation,” he whispered, twisting one of the wyrm teeth set in his necklace. Salach and Eisa just stared.

They marched down to the bridge, saw the signs of a great migration, rutted tracks in the road before and after the bridge, boot-prints and huge paw-prints leading into the Desolation. They crossed over the bridge, walked only a little further.

“They left this way, it is clear,” Salach said.

“Aye. What happened, that brought them here, and then sent them back again?”

Other scouts were returning as they marched back towards the feast-hall on the hill. Uthas conferred with them briefly.

He found Rhin in chambers beyond the feast-hall of the new keep, black and gold-cloaked warriors parting for him. She was in a shadowed chamber, the roof a skeleton of dark-timbered bones, and she was bent before her sorcerous frame of flayed skin, fire crackling in the iron bowl, sending shadows dancing, the skin rippling with a twisted parody of life. At his entrance both Rhin and the flayed face stared at him, a red-eyed spark of intelligence flickering in its eyes.

Calidus.

“What news?” the flayed face hissed.

“The Jotun were here,” Uthas said. “My guess is that they built this”—he waved one arm in a wide circle—“but then they left. There are tracks crossing the bridge and travelling back into the Desolation. What made them leave…” He shrugged, a rippling of his slab-like shoulders.

The flayed face cursed.

“What would you have me do?” Rhin asked.

“Send scouts after the Jotun, track them, find them, but nothing else. You must come to me now, bring me the necklace and cup. They must be made safe in Drassil, protected. And I suspect our enemy are preparing for battle, the fools. I need your swords about me. After, I will go to the Jotun myself. But for now, come to me. There is a great road built by Jael that carves into Forn. Travel east and you will find it. Once in Forn I will send some of my Kadoshim kin to guide you.”

“How long, before we are with you?” Rhin asked.

“A moon, if you ride hard. The road is good.”

Then the skin sagged in its frame, the distortion of life gone.

Rhin stared at the flames in the iron bowl.

“A moon,” she whispered.

Uthas knew what she was thinking. One moon until she was face to face with Calidus. One moon until he discovered that she had lost the starstone necklace.

Uthas and his Benothi were ready to march at dawn, but Rhin’s warband were not. It was a task, it seemed, for five thousand men to break fast and camp. The hill and meadows were awash with the rattle, creak and jingle of leather and iron, horses stamping hooves, neighing, men shouting orders and insults. Uthas stood upon the brow of the hold’s hill and stared at Forn. The world felt new to him, this morn, scoured clean by a harsh wind. The sky above was heavy with rain-bloated cloud. He felt the weight of destiny upon him, as if he stood upon the brink of a precipice. One half-step and he would be over, could not return.

He felt scared.

This is what I wanted. I have fulfilled my promise to Asroth, found the cup and necklace, no matter what Rhin has done with them since. My part of the bargain is complete. And in return I shall be made lord of the giants. King of them.

The thought filled him with joy.

He turned his gaze southwards, wishing Rhin’s warband more speed.

I would be on my way.

In the distance, beyond the warband, he saw a lone rider on the southern horizon.

Rhin was mounted on her grey mare, sable furs about her shoulders when the rider drew near to them, galloping along a road of hard-packed earth that led to the massing warband.

A hound ran at the horse’s side, and Rhin guessed what Uthas had already seen.

It was Rafe.

Rhin rode out to meet him, Uthas striding one side of her, Geraint and Conall the other. They met upon the meadows beyond the hill.

“Why are you here?” Rhin asked, her voice tense, a tremor to it.

No lover’s greeting here, then.

“I bring news,” Rafe said, his horse blowing great bouts of air, its sweat-soaked ribs and flanks heaving, “news both great and dire.”

“What news?” Rhin snapped.

Rafe slipped from his saddle and dropped to his knees in the dirt before Rhin, head bowed.

Not a good sign.

“Morcant is slain; Ardan fallen. Taken by Edana.”

Rhin’s lips twitched, the colour draining from her face.

“And what of the starstone necklace?” Rhin asked, voice heavy with venom and tinged with fear.

“Edana still has it, my Queen.”

“Then why are you here?” Rhin snarled. “Answer well, if you would keep your head upon your shoulders.”

“Edana is riding to Drassil, and she is bringing the necklace with her.”

“How do you know this?”

“I heard her say it, my Queen, upon the walls of Dun Carreg.” Rafe looked away, licked his lips. “I thought of fleeing,” he whispered, “of running away, as far from you as my legs would carry me, but when it came to it, I could not do it. I have failed the task you set me, but I would serve you still, if you would have me.” He looked up at her then. “And that is why I sneaked back to Dun Carreg, how I managed to overhear Edana talking of her plans.”

Rhin stared down at him, her face a cold mask.

“You can keep your head, for now,” she said. “Ride with me, and tell me more of Edana’s plan.”