The warrior frowned, eyebrows bunching. ‘Your mother speaks the truth. The important thing for you to know, Ban, is that you are part of this. Part of the God-War. What happened at Dun Carreg is only the beginning. The Banished Lands are falling into chaos.’
Questions were erupting in Corban’s mind, one after another. One fought clear of the rest. ‘How do you know this?’
Gar waved a hand. ‘There is a lot to tell you, too much for now, for here. But I will answer all your questions during our journey, if I can.’
‘Journey? You mean to Domhain?’
‘No, Ban. We must go to Drassil.’
‘What? Drassil?’ The fabled city in the heart of Forn Forest? Corban shook his head. None of this was making sense. He remembered overhearing his mam and Gar talking, back in Dun Carreg. About the arrival of Nathair and his guard, Sumur. They had mentioned leaving then, spoken of Drassil. But it had felt different. Everything had felt different. Cywen and his da had been alive, then.
‘Yes, the giant stronghold. It is vital that you — we — go to Drassil.’ Something flashed across Gar’s face. Longing? ‘You will be safe there.’
‘But. . what about the others?’ He looked over his shoulder, saw the flicker of their campfire, dark figures around it.
‘We must leave them.’
Corban rocked back, recoiling as if slapped. Leave them. The thought seemed ridiculous to him, unimaginable. This group was all that was left of Dun Carreg, all that was left of home. And his mam and Gar were asking him just to walk away from them. Abandon them, abandon Edana. Suddenly he could see the Rowan Field, smell the sea air. A crowd was gathered about him as he took his warrior trials. He glanced at the palm of his hand, the scar where he had sworn his blood-oath in the Field a silver line. He had pledged his life to king and kin. His king was dead, but Edana was Brenin’s heir. Walking away would make him an oathbreaker.
‘No,’ he heard himself say.
‘Ban,’ his mam said.
‘We must,’ Gar said.
‘No. Everything, everyone has been broken, killed, destroyed.’ He kneaded his temples. ‘Da, Cywen. .’ He looked up and locked eyes with his mam. Tears streaked her cheeks. ‘They are all that’s left of home,’ he said, waving his arm towards the campfire. ‘They are our family now.’
‘Ban, this is beyond all kin, beyond all friendship,’ Gar said, an inflection in his voice hinting at some hidden emotion, a lake of it, buried deep beneath the surface. ‘This is about doing what is right, doing what must be done, despite the cost. Please, trust us. We must leave.’
‘I have sworn an oath to Edana. I’ll not become an oathbreaker.’ He stood, feeling dizzy, not wanting to hear any more, not another word; not this madness about Elyon and Asroth, not about Forn, and Drassil, and not about leaving. He felt as if he was a dam full to bursting. His mam reached for his hand, but he snatched it away and stumbled into the darkness.
CHAPTER SIX
MAQUIN
Maquin followed Tahir into the forest, almost colliding with the young warrior when he stopped abruptly behind Orgull.
‘What’s wrong?’ Maquin hissed, looking about for any hint of danger.
Orgull was muttering unintelligibly, only the odd curse recognizable. He was looking back at the campfires that flickered distantly behind them.
‘What’s wrong, chief?’ Tahir said.
‘Can’t go yet,’ the big man said, looking as if he’d rather not be saying the words.
‘Why not?’ the other two chimed.
Orgull grimaced. ‘I have to speak to King Braster.’
‘Why?’ Tahir asked. ‘We don’t even know if he’s still alive.’
Orgull sucked in a deep breath. ‘I have been part of the Gadrai near half my life, but I am also bound to another brotherhood.’ He gave them a long, measuring look. ‘Braster is part of that brotherhood. If there is a chance he still lives, I must tell him what has happened. We all know there are no guarantees that we’re going to make it out of Forn. Got a long walk ahead of us with enemies right behind, most likely. If we don’t get word back to Isiltir and Romar’s kin, that’ll be the end of it. Jael will have won. Don’t know about you, but that doesn’t sit too well with me.’
Maquin agreed; the thought of Jael getting away with his betrayal filled him with a white anger.
‘What brotherhood?’ Tahir asked.
‘It is more a cause,’ Orgull said. ‘The God-War is coming, and we’ll all be sucked into it, whether we want to or not. We already have been, if I’m right. There’s more to this than dealing with Hunen raiders. That black axe. .’
Maquin thought of Veradis, of his talk of the prophecy, of Nathair, of the Bright Star and Black Sun. .
Orgull rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘I met a man, a long time ago. He told me of what was coming, of what is happening now. Said he would need my help one day, to fight Asroth’s avatar. I pledged myself to him, to his cause.’
‘What, just like that?’ Tahir said.
‘No, not just like that,’ Orgull snapped. ‘There was a lot more to it, but I’m not inclined to repeat it word for word right now. Just believe me when I say I was convinced, and I’m not an easy man to convince. So I must find Braster and tell him, or know for certain that he is dead. I’ll understand if you’d rather keep walking. I feel like a mad man listening to myself say it.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Maquin said. ‘Watch your back, if I can. Tahir, you wait in the forest for us — you’d not stand much of a chance if we needed to leave with speed, not with that hole in your leg. And if we don’t come back, at least you’ve still got a chance of getting back to Isiltir, telling what’s happened here.’
Orgull stared at Maquin, then nodded. ‘Appreciate it,’ he said grimly. ‘Let’s be getting on with it, then.’ He marched off towards the campfires.
They made their way to where the forest thinned and they could see the survivors of the battle spread along the slopes before Haldis. The campfires were clustered in groups, the biggest lower down the slope. Maquin saw a glimpse of men with swords jutting from their backs ranged about it.
The Jehar.
‘Must be Veradis’ lot,’ Orgull whispered.
‘There,’ Maquin said, pointing along the slope, closer to the forest. There was a large tent, surrounded by a handful of fires. Slowly they crept closer, until the tent and fires lay between them and the camp guarded by Jehar. Two warriors stood before the tent’s opening. The orange glow of firelight flickered across their shields, the symbol of the black hammer clear upon them.
‘That’s them,’ Tahir whispered. ‘Helveth’s hammer.’
‘All right then,’ Orgull said, rubbing a hand across his bald head, skin rasping on bristle, ‘let’s do this.’ He passed something to Tahir; Romar’s sword, Maquin realized, then stood straight and walked out of the forest, hands raised high. Maquin hurried after him, afraid the guards would mistake Orgull for one of the Hunen, especially with that giant’s axe slung across his back.
The guards called them over, and after a few tense moments of explanation they were brought before Lothar, Braster’s battlechief. He listened to them, frowned at them a while, then turned on his heel and led them to the large tent. A guard opened the canopy for them and Lothar took them inside.
‘You must leave your weapons here,’ Lothar said, a tall, shrewd-looking man with a pointed nose and heavy-lidded eyes. He gestured to a warrior standing just within the tent. Begrudgingly Maquin drew his sword and set it down, alongside Orgull’s broadsword and giant’s axe. Then Lothar led them deeper into the tent. A man lay on a cot, propped upright with pillows. He was big, both muscled and fat. Red hair lay damp with sweat across his brow. His right arm was strapped in a sling. Braster, King of Helveth.