CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE

CORBAN

Corban ran across the plain, men shouting battle-cries, bellowed orders swirling behind him, the thunder of thousands of feet, Balur’s voice rising above all else, but all Corban could focus on was Nathair, sitting on his draig, a longsword in his hand, twisting in his saddle and yelling orders to his warriors. The eagle-guard behind him were locking into a shield wall, already wide and deep, many of Lothar’s white-cloaks forming up on his flanks. But Nathair was out in front of them, vulnerable.

Well, not exactly vulnerable—he has a draig.

An image flashed through his mind, of his da, fallen to his knees in the feast-hall of Dun Carreg, Nathair standing before him, plunging a sword into his chest.

He grabbed hold of Storm’s collar and urged her on.

Storm opened her gait, moving from lope to run. Corban was pulled from his feet, one fist gripping the leather collar around Storm’s neck. He swung his legs and ended up on Storm’s back, felt the wind whipping his hair, dragging tears from his eyes. Behind him the sound of his followers lessened, Storm opening a gap between them as she flew towards Nathair. They were two hundred paces away, a hundred and fifty, Storm almost flying.

Then white-cloaked riders suddenly filled his vision. They had broken away from the black-clothed Kadoshim that were following them, all of them coming between him and Nathair. A man with black hair and a golden circlet in his hair was riding straight at him.

Lothar, King of Helveth.

Corban snarled in frustration.

Come between me and my vengeance.

Storm crunched into Lothar’s stallion, her jaws fastening about its muscular neck and her body swinging to crash side-on into the horse’s flank. Corban used Storm’s momentum to throw himself into Lothar, ripping the man from his saddle before they both slammed into the ground, rolling and tumbling in a spray of turf.

Corban rolled away from Lothar, rising to his feet and dragging his sword free, and ran at the King of Helveth, who was desperately trying to draw his own weapon.

A horse and rider rode between them, the warrior stabbing a spear at Corban. He swayed away, caught the shaft in his wolven claws, with a twist of his wrist locked it and dragged the warrior forwards, stabbed his sword up into the man’s armpit, raked his claws along the horse’s flank, sending it leaping forwards, the rider toppling backwards from his saddle.

Lothar was still standing the other side, one of his shieldmen dismounting to give his King his horse.

Corban surged forwards, ducked the shieldman’s sword swing and slashed at the man’s face with his wolven claws, sending him stumbling to one knee. Corban stabbed him in the throat, then grabbed Lothar’s belt as he tried to swing into the saddle. Lothar snarled and attacked him.

He was good, his attacks solid, economical, well balanced, but Corban was better, and a cold rage fuelled him. Corban harnessed it, letting it fill him, not control him. He blocked four blows from Lothar, deflected the fifth wide and back-swung his blade across Lothar’s chest, making him stagger. Corban strode after him, stepped inside a desperate lunge at his head, punched Lothar in the face with his hilt, sending him crashing to the ground, and stabbed him two-handed through the chest, his blade bursting out through Lothar’s back and into the earth behind him.

A yell of fury made him spin and he saw one of Lothar’s mounted shieldmen bearing down on him, sword raised, only to see him sent flying from his saddle, a hammer-blow slamming into his chest.

“You’ve got to stop running off like that,” Farrell grunted at him, breathing hard, then Gar swirled past them, iron clashing as he grabbed a warrior’s reins and chopped at the man’s head. Another white-cloak fell to the ground before Corban, one of Laith’s daggers sticking from his belly.

Corban grabbed Lothar’s circlet from his brow and mounted the nearest riderless horse. It danced on the spot a moment but Corban leaned low, patting its neck and whispering in its ear, and it calmed.

Most of Lothar’s shieldmen were down, Gar, Farrell and Coralen making short work of the few still alive. Nathair was still rallying his warband, waiting to gather as many stragglers from the forest to him as possible. They had grown formidably, eagle-guard and white-cloaks combined together numbering perhaps over a thousand strong already.

He could see Veradis bellowing at his warband, his men gathering into a shield wall of their own, Balur and his iron giants with their long axes looming to either flank. On this side of Veradis’ shield wall Krelis was breaking into a loping run, with his warband of black and silver a mass behind him, and behind them were Tahir’s men of Isiltir. They were running at the Kadoshim that had arrived with Lothar, at least three score of the black-eyed warriors hurling themselves towards Krelis and his men.

Men and women burst from the treeline, a hundred or so in dark chainmail, swords drawn, raised high over their heads, running into the plain. For a heart-stopping moment Corban thought it was more Kadoshim running straight at him, but then he recognized Akar, Kulla behind him, and saw that they were angling across the field to engage with the Kadoshim.

Corban kicked his mount into a canter, pounding the turf between the two massing warbands.

“Your King is dead,” he yelled, kicking his horse into a gallop to surge past Nathair’s draig and the shield wall, showing them the blood-splattered circlet, repeating his proclamation, yelling it at the top of his voice, then hurling the crown into their massed ranks.

Arrows whistled and flitted from the treeline, and white-cloaks started to fall.

Corban was about to turn and ride back to Krelis’ flank and lend his sword to the battle against the Kadoshim when a hand closed on Corban’s arm. It was Gar, sitting on a dun mare.

“It’s time,” the warrior said. “The plan has worked.”

Corban looked at the battle spreading upon the field, saw faces that had followed him, felt a weight of responsibility for them, and a surging desire to fight, to kill his enemy and lose himself in the simplicity of battle. His eyes fixed on Nathair, and an overwhelming urge to kill him flared bright in his belly.

“Look, the plan’s worked,” Gar repeated, pointing at the gates of Drassil, which were swinging ponderously open, riders pouring out from the fortress in a flood.

Calidus has taken the bait!

“Come,” Gar said. “We can end this, but we have to go. Now.”

Corban’s eyes found Nathair.

He is not the real enemy, just another pawn in this game of angels and demons. Calidus is the one that needs to die.

“Ban,” Gar said, tugging his arm.

“You’re right,” Corban said, and together they rode from the field.

Corban met Brina in the forest north of Drassil’s gates, at a makeshift hospice she had built. Many were there, ready to tend the wounded; injured warriors were already filtering in. Brina was standing with a handful of men, three of them giants. Corban recognized Alcyon and his son Tain, but there was a new one, bigger and bulkier than Alcyon, his head shaved in the same way as Alcyon and Tain, a thick strip of hair running down the centre of his head.

Brina was tending a man, her fingers resting on his throat. It was Maquin, standing with a few of Javed’s Freedmen. All of them looked exhausted, sweat-stained and close to collapse, but Maquin was worse. His eyes were dark hollows, his mouth twisted in a bitter snarl, as if he mocked and hated death, but yearned for it at the same time.

“Fidele’s dead,” Brina said quietly as Corban and Gar reached her.

“Let me go,” Maquin said. “I am going after Lykos.”

Corban looked at Maquin. His voice was a monotone, and there was a tremor in his hand. He swayed slightly, as if the effort of remaining still and upright were too much.

Fatigue.

“I suspect if you wait a little while he might come out onto the plain and fight,” Brina said. “If the battle goes as we hope. Might be easier than trying to get through those gates. Perhaps use the time to eat and drink. You don’t want to find him and then fall flat on your face.”

“That won’t happen,” Maquin mumbled, “but some water would be good.”

Brina nodded to Alcyon, and the giant led Maquin to a log, sat him down and went in search of water and food.

“So,” Brina said, looking at Corban. “We need to go.”

“Aye,” Corban replied.

Footsteps drummed and Coralen came running into the glade. Dath was with her, Kulla as well, then Farrell and Laith a dozen paces behind.

“Corban, this…really is…getting…ridiculous,” Farrell panted, leaning against a tree. “It’s making me angry. Can’t you just stay in one damned place and fight?”

“It’s a busy day,” Corban said with a shrug.

“Is this it, then?” Dath asked. “The plan?”

“Aye,” Corban said. He looked at them all, a still moment in the midst of carnage and blood and fear. “You don’t have to come with me.”

“Oh, shut up, Ban,” Dath breathed.

“Aye,” Farrell grunted. “As if we would do anything other.”

“But—”

“Listen to your friends,” Coralen said. “And shut up. We’re coming.”

Corban nodded. “All right, best be doing it, then, before the battle’s over.”

“Is it far to go?” Farrell asked.

“A little short of half a day on foot,” Coralen said.

Farrell looked miserable, even about to cry.

“Which is why I’ve borrowed some horses from Edana,” Brina said. “Now let’s be off.”

Farrell’s relief was palpable.

“Small mercies,” he whispered.

“Do your good work,” Brina said to Craf, who had been watching the exchange silently from a log beside them. Brina scratched his neck and threw him something slimy. He caught it and gulped it down. “And we’ll see you at the meeting point.”

“On the old oak tree,” Craf squawked as he took to flight.