CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

CORBAN

Corban was in a grey world, standing in an empty corridor, somehow knowing that he was deep underground, with the weight of a mountain above his head. He looked both ways, saw no one, and for some reason felt compelled to walk down the corridor.

Doors were set along both walls, thick oak doors with iron-barred view holes. Corban peered through every door, seeing the small chambers within. They were all empty, until he came to the last one.

A figure, its back to him. Dark-haired, tall. Great wings of white feather furled across its back. It must have heard Corban because it turned, a tear-stained face stared at him, a thick cord of cloth tied around its mouth, gagging it.

It was Meical.

“How? Who has done this to you?” Corban asked.

Meical took a step towards him, but a thick chain rattled on the floor and Corban saw that a manacle was shackled to Meical’s ankle, the chain bound to a great pin that was sunk into the stone floor.

Meical stared at him with grief-filled eyes.

Corban woke to the grey of dawn.

What was that? Meical, imprisoned? Has he been captured by Asroth and the Kadoshim? Shadows were all around, Coralen’s body curled against him. He shifted and her eyes opened, a long sigh. Corban stroked her cheek. He remembered what today was.

I cannot do anything about Meical now.

“It’s time,” he said.

In silence they rose, crouched by the stream they’d slept beside and washed in, banishing the last remnants of sleep. The day was cold, the water icy, making Corban gasp. They dressed for war, still in silence, helping each other, tightening buckles and straps. Corban tugged on his boots, then pulled his mail shirt on over a thick woollen undershirt. It was heavy but felt good, a fine fit. He shifted his shoulders, letting it settle. Coralen lifted a leather surcoat over his head, a four-pointed star on its chest.

Nothing to do with any false prophecies. I choose to stand against Asroth, against Calidus and Nathair. If that makes me the Bright Star, then so be it—I choose to be the Bright Star.

He helped Coralen put on her own mail shirt, taken from a dead eagle-guard that had no more need of it, and then cinched tight the straps and buckles of her leather jerkin. Sword-belts were buckled, two swords on Corban’s, a sword and three knives on Coralen’s. And their wolven claws, tied with a thong to their belts, for now. Coralen adjusted Corban’s wolf’s-head torc, and his arm-ring of silver.

Corban took Coralen’s hand, looked into her eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but she put two fingers upon his lips.

“No words can say what I feel,” she whispered.

“Only this, then,” Corban said. “I love you.”

“I know.” She grinned, and kissed him.

Corban heard footsteps, the darkness was lifting now, everything a shade of grey. He knew the steps were Gar’s before he saw him. His old friend was dressed for war, a shirt of dark mail, hair tied back tight to the nape of his head, sword hilt jutting over one shoulder, his father’s axe at his belt. He just looked Corban up and down and nodded. Then the others began to arrive. Brina and Cywen together, then Farrell, grim-faced, hair and beard bound with warrior braids, war-hammer rearing over one shoulder, longsword at his hip. Finally Dath and Kulla.

“Where’s Laith?” Dath asked Farrell.

“Still asleep. Snoring, truth be told, though don’t tell her I said that,” Farrell said with a shrug. “She’s not one for mornings. She’ll be along after.”

“Long as she doesn’t miss all of the excitement.”

“Not likely,” Farrell said. “I don’t think this one will be over by highsun.”

That’s for sure.

“You could have waited for her,” Corban said.

“Ban, I’m your shieldman. Of all days, she’ll know where to find me today. By your side. Wherever you are, that’s where I’ll be. Guarding your back.”

Corban smiled at his old friend, went to say something but found there was a lump in his throat that wouldn’t allow any words out.

A flapping of wings announced Craf’s arrival. He alighted on Brina’s shoulder.

“News,” he squawked.

“Go on, then,” Brina said, scratching the bird’s neck.

“Starstone torc in Drassil.”

A flurry of questions, Brina cutting over them.

“You’re sure?” she asked.

“Yes, sure,” Craf croaked. “Saw it, with axe, spear, cup and cauldron.”

A long silence followed as the weight of that knowledge settled into Corban and his companions.

“This is it, then,” Dath said. Corban could hear the tension in his voice, felt it in his own chest—a stirring of fear, excitement, anger, back to fear. Kulla squeezed Dath’s hand.

“Aye,” Farrell agreed.

“It is,” Corban breathed out.

They stood in a circle, hands slipping into hands, and just looked at each other, smiles creasing faces, tears rolling down cheeks. It lasted a long, timeless moment.

“One way or another, now, this war will be over by tonight,” Corban said.

They all knew what that meant. Victorious and alive. Defeated and dead.

“I’m scared,” Corban said into the silence.

“I’m scared, too,” Gar said. Murmurs of agreement rippled amongst them.

“But all feel fear, both the coward and the hero, and all those in between,” Farrell said.

“Aye. It’s what we do about it that counts,” Dath muttered.

“And what are we going to do about it?” Coralen asked, though Corban already knew the answer.

“We’re going to fight,” he said.

A stillness as they squeezed each other’s hands and found their courage in that silent place.

“We all ready, then?” Brina asked.

“Not quite,” Corban said. “Storm,” he called, and the wolven emerged from the gloom. “Time for you to get dressed.”

Corban made his way into their camp. His friends were lined behind him, Storm’s mail coat rippling as she moved. It fitted her perfectly, leather-studded collar snug about her neck, buckles and straps under her chest and belly pulled tight so that the mail coat looked like another skin, flowing and undulating with each muscular contraction and extension. Corban had given Storm an opportunity to become accustomed to it during raids on Nathair and Lothar’s warband. She’d scratched at it at first, but Corban had adapted it with an under-rug of wool so that it did not rub, and now she looked like a sleek statue carved from iron, fluid and molten metal. Corban could feel the weight of her steps beside him shivering up the soles of his boots.

“You’re making everyone stare,” Corban told her, and she was.

Brina walked beside him.

They had met with Corban’s captains, told them Craf’s news. All of them knew now how that would change the plan of battle. The strike against Nathair and Lothar would remain the same, but now, instead of avoiding Calidus, they wanted to keep his eyes fixed on the plain, and if possible draw him and his thousands from Drassil. Much could go wrong.

“We could go now,” Brina said to Corban.

“No. I must be seen on the battlefield.”

Brina grunted, but gave up as they’d discussed this already.

“When we go, we will need to move fast,” she said to him.

“Aye,” Corban replied. “We need to stay close to each other.”

“Yes. So don’t go getting carried away and running off to stab people.”

“This is a day for stabbing people.”

“I know that,” she said. “But just be selective.” He felt her hand slip into his. “And stay safe, Ban. There are very few people on this earth that I care about, but you’re one of them.”

“Love you, too, Brina.”

He squeezed her hand and she humphed at him but there was a smile tugging the corner of her mouth.

Corban stopped at the crest of a shallow hill at the southern end of the camp. He stood there a few moments, eyes closed, the enormity of this day filling his head, falling upon him like an avalanche. It almost took his breath away.

He opened his eyes.

The warband was massed before him. Amongst the crowd he saw Jehar, giants, men and women from so many realms: Ardan, Narvon, Domhain, Isiltir, Tenebral. Everywhere he looked he saw the emblem of the Bright Star, upon banners, shields, surcoats, cuirasses, the sigil uniting such a diverse gathering, the symbol of what bound them all together. Three and a half thousand swords, all looking to him.

He took a deep breath.

“Today we fight,” he said, the crowd before him still as a windless lake.

“We’ve suffered, lost much, had much taken from us. But today is the day we say, NO MORE.” He saw nods and grunts ripple around the warband. His eyes flickering across so many, giants, men and women, Haelan looking at him with shining eyes, Camlin, a wry smile upon his face, Vonn and Halion, many others, finally Gar.

“I am proud to stand beside you. I know that none of you fights for riches, nor for glory or for fame. We fight for something simpler and more powerful.” He tapped his chest. “We fight for those we love.” He felt a lump in his throat, his mam and da filling his mind, saw many about him with silvered eyes.

“And that truth shall give us the courage we need,” he cried out. “On this day we will march out to meet our enemies, those that have slain our kin, stolen our homes and would take our lives, and we shall show them what drives us. TRUTH AND COURAGE.”

Voices shouted out then, a wall of sound, echoing his cry of TRUTH AND COURAGE. He felt a surge of passion as he looked about at them all, pride in them, a fierce bond of love and brotherhood for this warband, full of so many who were just like him, scared, angry, pushed too far, ready to stand against evil in defence of their kin and loved ones.

“This day,” he cried, shouting now, “we will live or die, but whatever the outcome, this will still be the day we avenge ourselves for those we’ve lost, the day we right the wrongs done to us, or die in the trying. It will be a dark day, a bloody day, a proud day, for this is the day of our wrath.”

“WRATH,” the cry went up, ringing and echoing through the branches.

“WRATH.”

The roar was deafening, all yelling with a fierce passion, banging weapons on shields, stamping feet, echoing on and on.

“Well, if Laith’s not awake now, she must be deaf,” Dath whispered to Farrell.

“Are they ready?” Corban asked Veradis. They both looked across the camp, heard the clang of iron, Balur swearing loud enough to scare birds from trees.

“They’ll have to be,” Veradis said.

“Veradis,” Corban said, gripping the warrior’s arm as he turned away. “You asked me a question once, about forgiveness…”

“Aye,” Veradis said, still as stone now.

“My answer is, yes,” Corban said.

Veradis exhaled.

“My thanks,” he said.

Beside him Corban saw Halion talking to Craf, who was perched on Brina’s shoulder. The warrior leaned close to the bird’s head and spoke quickly and quietly. When he was done, Craf squawked a complaint, but bobbed his head. Halion walked away.

“Keep an eye over us, make sure there are no nasty surprises out there,” Corban heard Brina say.

“Win and live, or Craf be lonely and sad,” the crow said, riffling its beak through Brina’s hair, then flapping into the sky.

“And you fly safe, you scruffy old crow,” Brina muttered.

Corban felt a wave of fear wash over him as he looked at Brina and the others.

I have tried, planned for every eventuality and outcome, but now we are on the brink. March into this battle and we could be marching to our deaths. Coralen, Cywen, Gar, Brina, Dath, Farrell…

The thought of them dying—it threatened to take his very breath away.

And yet, it must be done. Calidus must be fought, and who else is there but us?

He untied his wolven claws from his belt and strapped them onto his left fist, pulling the buckles with his teeth to cinch them tight, then he strode from the hill, his captains falling in behind him, horses neighing and stamping as riders mounted up. Like a great beast waking from sleep the warband lurched into motion and moved into the forest, and behind them Storm lifted her head to the sky and howled.