CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

UTHAS

Uthas stood upon the battlements of Drassil. Up above him the leafless branches of the great tree clawed at the sky, and above them heavy clouds shrouded the world, slate-dark and oppressive. The gates of Drassil faced west onto the wide plain, beyond it the trees of Forn a wall of shadow. A cold wind tugged at his cloak and warrior braid, sending a shiver through him.

Salach stood to one side of him, battle-axe sharp and ready, his face as sullen as the sky.

To Uthas’ other side stood Rhin, regal in her black and gold, a thick sable cloak about her, silver hair gleaming. And beside her Calidus and Lykos, both clad in shirts of mail, leather-bound, grim-faced. Stretching either side of them all were a line of black-eyed Kadoshim, and beyond them, lining the walls of Drassil, were his Benothi kin: a grim line of giants, their thick-muscled torsos swathed in leather and chainmail, tattoos of thorn and vine swirling up from their wrists, each one their own sgeul, the Telling, testament to the lives they’d sent across the bridge of swords.

They are an impressive sight, and their sgeuls will grow this day, Uthas thought with pride.

All of them stared southwards in silence, at the plain of Drassil and dour Forn beyond.

Where are they?

It was halfway to highsun now, a pale gleam marking the sun’s journey, and for some time a mixture of sounds had been drifting out from the murky green of the forest. Screams, and more recently clouds of smoke filtering up through the canopy to be frayed by the cold wind. Uthas saw a blush of orange and red as flames bloomed, deep within Forn, at least a league away, maybe further.

And the screams were spreading, expanding through the forest.

Not a good sign. They should be getting closer, moving along the line of the road. That is what we expected, for Nathair and Lothar to push Corban and his rabble back.

Uthas looked back at the courtyard, which was full to overflowing with Conall and his warband, close to fifteen hundred men, horses and riders, most of them standing with their mounts. Rammed into the streets behind them was Geraint and his warband of four thousand men. All waiting.

They should have ridden out long ago. All is clearly not going well for Nathair and Lothar; they need our help.

But when Uthas had suggested this to Calidus he had snarled a refusal: And send more men into ambush and death within those trees. No. We will wait until we can see our enemy.

“Any sign?” A voice shouted up to them—Conall, close to the gates of Drassil, stamping his feet and blowing into his hands.

“No,” Rhin called down to him.

“We could ride out onto the field, prepare a line.”

“You cannot ride out to fight a foe that isn’t there,” Rhin snapped. “Wait.”

“I hate waiting,” Conall muttered, though he said no more, just went back to blowing into his cupped hands. Uthas noticed that Rafe the huntsman was standing near him, holding the reins of a horse.

A hiss from Rhin drew his attention back to the horizon.

Shadows were shifting in the treeline to the west, directly before Drassil’s gates, and then figures were emerging. First came a lone warrior and a wolven, big as a horse, padding at his side. Its coat rippled and shimmered like molten silver. Then more came: a handful of men, a trio mounted on horseback, more and more spilling from the forest, an array of warriors. Uthas saw many in the black and silver of Ripa, but there were many others, red-cloaks of Isiltir, a knotted clump of men wrapped in leather and fur, clothed like miniature giants, and then behind them real giants, forty, fifty, still more coming.

Most of the rabble halted a dozen or so paces from the forest, clinging to the treeline.

“Where is Nathair?” Uthas heard Calidus mutter. “Where is Lothar?”

A handful of the new arrivals carried on, approaching the gates of Drassil.

The warrior and wolven walked at their head. Uthas remembered them from Murias, though he had had only scattered glimpses. He had been fighting for his life, after all. They had both grown, that was clear enough, Corban—for that was who it must be—though young, strode with a warrior’s grace and confidence. He was dressed simply, in mail shirt and leather surcoat, a four-pointed star on his chest. The wolven beside him was huge, even for its species, and its coat rippled like liquid. Uthas looked closer and saw it was wrapped in chainmail. As he stared at it, the beast looked up at him and he saw its lip curl back in a snarl, amber eyes and dripping fangs full of malice. He had to stop himself from taking a step back.

Behind them he saw a diverse collection. A man clothed in the black and silver of Tenebral, a bright eagle on his cuirass. A Jehar warrior, sword hilt jutting over his back; beside him a warrior as broad as a bull, hefting a war-hammer as if he were a young giant; one rider upon a horse—Edana, wrapped in mail and a grey cloak, her fair hair braided into a thick warrior braid, a circlet of gold entwined about her head.

A crown! Rhin won’t like that. She won’t like that at all.

And three giants. His breath caught for a moment as he focused on them, and he felt Salach stiffen beside him.

Ethlinn walked at their head, and no longer did she look like the frail dreamer that he remembered. She was straight-backed, dressed for war in leather, fur and iron, a spear in her hands. Behind her strode another giantess, muscular and strong. She was not Benothi, the sides of her skull were shaved clean, a thick mass of dark hair limed and braided down the centre of her hair.

“Kurgan?” Uthas murmured, a memory from the lore stirring in his mind. Beside her walked Balur One-Eye, wrapped in thick iron. His white hair spilt from beneath his helm, the lattice of his scarred empty eye socket staring straight up at Uthas.

Fear and rage coursed through Uthas’ veins. He had drunk from the cup and felt young, strong. How dare this ancient old fool stand against him?

Today you die, old man.

Corban and his wolven padded to within fifty paces of the gates, then stopped, his unlikely band of allies arrayed behind them.

“If you are here to surrender, we accept,” Lykos shouted down to them. “Lay down your arms, muzzle your pet, and we’ll open the gates for you.”

Corban and the others just stared up at them.

“No?”

Another silent response.

Lykos leaned over to Calidus and whispered loudly. “Foreigners, eh! No sense of humour.”

Even Salach chuckled, shoulders rippling.

Corban cupped his hands to his mouth and called up to them.

“No surrender. No bargaining, no offer of peace or treaty. I came to tell you one thing, Calidus.”

“And what is that, you arrogant cub?” Calidus yelled down to him.

“Your death is coming.”

Corban turned and walked away, the wolven stalking beside him.

“Rhin?” Edana shouted from horseback.

“I see you, you thieving bitch,” Rhin called down, “and before this day is done I shall rip that trinket of gold from your cold, dead skull.”

I thought the crown would anger her.

“You will never return to the west,” Edana shouted up to her. “You have run, and now you have nowhere left to hide.” Before Rhin could answer, Edana turned her horse and cantered after the others.

Rhin turned a darker shade of scarlet, a string of curses flowing from her mouth.

I would not wish to be Edana if Rhin gets her hands on her today.

“UTHAS,” Balur One-Eye cried out, “Betrayer, murderer of Nemain; today justice will find you.”

Uthas felt his own rage bubble up, barely contained. “Fine words,” he bellowed, “from one who slew his own king.”

Ethlinn rested a hand on Balur’s arm and stepped forwards.

“Warriors of the Benothi,” she cried. “Today I claim my birthright. I am Ethlinn ap Balur, and I am Queen of the Clans.”

What?

Uthas had expected her to stake her claim as the Benothi’s rightful leader—but all of the Giant clans?

That is my place!

“Behind me stand Benothi and Kurgan,” Ethlinn cried. “It is time to become one clan again. Uthas has led you wrong, but I will forgive you and welcome you, if you leave him now. Spill the blood of your kin no more.”

And then she was turning, striding after Corban, the other giants with her.

Uthas’ lips quivered with rage, his moustache twitching.

It is I who will be Lord of the Clans after this day.

“Salach, take her head,” he hissed.

“I swear it,” his shieldman growled.

Where are Nathair and Lothar? Even without them we are unbeatable within these walls, but there were over six thousand swords in Forn. Surely they cannot have been defeated?

Deep within Forn smoke roiled above the canopy, flickers and flashes of flame now, spreading wider.

A great fire must be blazing within the forest. Have Nathair and Lothar been trapped and burned?

Uthas glanced at Calidus, saw doubt gnawing at him.

Then there was a crashing and roaring to Uthas’ left, to the south of the plain.

A shape emerged from the southern treeline, a beast upon four legs, low to the ground, wide-chested and muscular, razor-sharp talons on its bowed legs. A draig. And a man sat in a saddle upon its back.

Nathair.

The draig lumbered forwards and then paused, gave a booming roar, and behind it warriors spilt from the forest, hundreds of them, both eagle-guard in their black and silver, and Lothar’s white-cloaks.

The eagle-guard were moving into formation, forming a shield wall in orderly, disciplined lines. Nathair was yelling and gesturing to the white-cloaks, and Uthas saw them gathering into two groups, massing about the shield wall’s flanks like white wings.

Corban and his companions were running now, veering towards Nathair, their warriors along the western treeline moving with them, making to bar Nathair’s path to the gates of Drassil.

Then more figures were pouring onto the southern plain, spread in a scattered line behind Nathair and his troops. These newcomers were mounted on horseback, a dozen, more, their riders trailing white cloaks. Black figures on foot followed not far behind them.

“Lothar and his Kadoshim,” Calidus said.

The King of Helveth galloped to Nathair, his mounted honour guard about him, all the while more warriors on foot emerging from the forest, staggering and disordered, but soon massing together.

There must be a thousand of them, at least, and more are still coming.

So Corban attacked them, routed them from the road, but the survivors have managed to make it through the forest.

Corban and his warband were sweeping south across the plain towards Nathair and Lothar, the numbers appearing to be roughly even, though with every heartbeat more eagle-guard and white-cloaks were stumbling out from the forest.

“They will need our help,” Uthas said.

Rhin looked to Calidus, who nodded, and she turned to look down into the courtyard and shouted.

“Conall, your waiting is over.”