‘You look more like a bear than a wolven,’ Coralen had said to Farrell.
‘Thank you,’ Farrell said.
‘It wasn’t a compliment.’
They were spread out along the slopes above Rhin’s warband now with over a score of Rath’s warriors — all huntsmen used to this terrain. They waited for the signal. Corban felt his eyes drooping. He was tired, had had trouble sleeping for a while now, ever since Dun Taras. And he always woke the same: sweating, scared, a half-remembered dream fluttering in his mind. Dreams of war, but with great winged creatures fighting in the air, almost like tales of the Scourging, when the Ben-Elim and Kadoshim had fought. Probably nightmares brought on by Gar’s mad delusions. He scowled at Gar, who was crouched beside him.
‘Rub your hands together,’ Gar whispered. ‘When the signal comes we must be quick, and you will be stiff with cold.’
‘I can’t,’ Corban said. ‘I’ll chop my arm off.’ He held up the makeshift wolven claw buckled to his left arm.
‘Oh yes,’ Gar said. ‘Remember what Rath said, Ban. In and out. You and Storm will be targets.’
‘This is important, Gar,’ Corban muttered.
‘I know. But so are you.’
Because I’m this Seren Disglair. I can’t even pronounce it, how can I be it? He glanced at Gar, wished that this talk of Elyon and Asroth had never happened. He felt that it had driven something between them. When will he accept that it is all in his mind?
Gar drew his sword, grabbed a handful of loose soil and rubbed it along the blade. ‘Do the same. It will stop reflections — moon, stars, firelight.’
Corban nodded and copied Gar.
A noise drifted up from the valley, shouting, higher-pitched screams. Rath had said he had arranged for a feint to be led against the front ranks of Rhin’s warband. That would be their signal.
That’s it.
Corban shared a look with Gar and then they both slipped around the boulder they were hiding behind, half-slithering down the hillside. Storm followed silently.
Tents were set all along the giants’ road; directly below Corban many were spread along the embankment and grass that led to the hill slopes. Crouched low, sword in one hand, claws in the other, Corban reached the bottom of the slope, his heart thumping in his chest, fear bubbling in his gut.
Control it, master your fear, he ordered himself.
Men were outlined against a campfire, at least a dozen of them, all standing, looking towards where the noise of battle was drifting down the valley.
Corban heard a thrum, saw one of the men before the fire stagger, an arrow shaft sticking from his shoulder.
‘Foe,’ Corban whispered to Storm and together they leaped forwards, slashing, stabbing, biting. Gar surged forwards to his left, his curved sword moving in swooping arcs. Men fell before them, crashing into the fire, sparks flaring, the smell of scorched hair and flesh everywhere.
Corban slashed with his claws, stabbed with his sword, Storm close by pinning someone to the ground, their terrified screams suddenly cut short. A man before him fumbled with his sword as he staggered backwards, utter terror etched on his face. Corban snarled and followed him, caught a weak sword blow between his iron claws and punched his own sword into the man’s stomach, slashing him across the chest as he toppled over.
And then there were no more men standing about them.
‘Come on, Ban,’ Gar called to him. He was running towards an embankment that led up onto the giants’ road. Warriors were milling in confusion up there, campfires blazing periodically, framing the chaos. ‘They need to see you,’ Gar was yelling. ‘There’s no point only leaving the dead behind.’
He’s right, we are a fear that needs to spread like a disease. He bent low and ran up the embankment, barrelling into a warrior, knocking him to the ground, slashing at his face as the man fell. Storm and Gar burst onto the road on either side of him, Gar cutting deep into a man’s chest, Storm snarling, crouched low. Corban saw a warrior turn and run at the sight of her.
All about the road men were milling, weapons drawn, looking fearfully out into the darkness. Corban saw another man near a blazing campfire stagger and fall, an arrow jutting from his chest. Camlin or Dath. He glanced left and right, heard pockets of shouting, the clash of weapons in both directions. Rath’s plan was for each warrior wearing the wolven skin to attack at different points, and a few men about them to protect and add to the confusion. They were not supposed to stay long, just long enough to kill a few, to maim more, and let their wolven pelts be seen.
‘This way,’ Gar said, leading him along the road, deeper into the mountains. Corban followed, running low, slashing with his claws as he went. Storm kept pace, men running from her.
Others began to appear along the road: warriors grouped together, grim faced, weapons levelled.
‘They are rallying, it’s time to go,’ Gar said. ‘Quick.’ He pointed into the night, towards the embankment. Corban ran.
He sprinted along the edge of the road, Storm bounding ahead, Gar’s feet slapping behind. Corban was about to slither down the embankment when he saw a sight that pulled him up short.
A knot of combat seethed before them, the clash of iron ringing out, sparks flying. Figures were rolling on the ground, one of them fur-covered. Corban caught a flash of red hair. Coralen. Nearby Corban recognized one of Rath’s warriors trading blows with someone, saw Rath’s warrior crumple as he was stabbed with a spear in the back. Further on Corban saw a row of warriors, their shields raised. Something about it stirred a memory in him, but then Coralen was shouting, snarling, drawing his eyes.
He ran forwards, hacked at the spear still buried in his comrade’s back, splitting its shaft, and slashed the warrior holding it. The man fell away screaming, clutching at his face. The two rolling on the ground came to a halt, the warrior on top of Coralen, sword arm rising. Corban leaped forwards, grabbed the man and rolled, lost his grip of his sword, just kept slashing and stabbing with the claws on his left hand, slowly realizing his enemy was limp in his arms.
Hands grabbed him, pulling him to his feet — Coralen. She returned his sword. Gar stood close by, holding back two men. Storm was ripping a hole in a warrior’s belly, blood spraying. Gar’s sword slashed through one man’s throat, sending him reeling back; the other man fighting him drew away, one arm hanging limp.
‘We must leave, now,’’ Gar said. Corban turned and began to run, then saw the wall of shields on the road again, closer now. He stopped dead, remembering where he had seen its like before.
In Dun Carreg. The feast-hall, the night his world had changed. The night his da was killed.
They were Nathair’s men, eagle-guard.
He walked closer, for a moment forgetting all else, shaking off Coralen’s hand as she tugged at him.
‘Nathair!’ he yelled, his voice cutting the night.
Gar followed him, sword held ready, eyes scanning the wall. Corban remembered the man Gar had fought. Storm padded on his other side, snarling, fangs dripping red.
‘Nathair,’ Corban yelled again, emotion cracking his voice. ‘Come out, face me.’ A memory consumed him: Nathair plunging a sword into his da’s chest. His knuckles became white about his sword hilt.
A figure stepped from the wall, a warrior. Not Nathair, stern faced, fairer haired, though of a similar age.
‘Nathair is not here. But I will face you, Black Sun.’ He took another step closer and raised a short sword.
Black Sun? The words registered, but were stripped of meaning as Corban was gripped by a swirl of grief and anger. He made to move forwards, then Gar was before him, his curved blade raised high. The world froze.