‘Because Halvor’s prophecy says that is where you will go, where the resistance against Asroth and his Black Sun will gather.’
Who is Halvor? What prophecy? A hundred other questions lined up in his mind, fighting to be asked first.
I’m going to Murias to get my sister,’ he said instead.
‘Murias. Where Nathair is going?’ Meical said.
‘That’s right. My sister Cywen is his prisoner.’
‘She is his prisoner to lure you to him, surely you must know that?’
‘I was starting to guess as much,’ Corban said. ‘But it makes no difference. I cannot abandon her.’
‘No, we cannot,’ his mam echoed.
Meical just looked at him for a long drawn-out moment. Corban returned his gaze.
‘All right then,’ Meical said. ‘We shall go to Murias.’
‘You don’t have to come,’ Corban said. He did not want the lives of so many on his conscience.
‘It is our choice,’ Meical said. ‘And as you feel about your sister, so we feel about you.’
Corban thought about that, thought about standing before Asroth and seeing a band of the Ben-Elim brave the hosts of Kadoshim to save him. He nodded.
‘And Sumur is with Nathair,’ Tukul said from the fireside. ‘I would like to see him. We have things to discuss.’
I can imagine what they are.
‘What is at Murias?’ Corban asked.
‘Giants,’ Coralen said.
‘She’s right,’ Meical said. ‘The Benothi giants. And one of the Seven Treasures. The cauldron.’
The Seven Treasures? Now those were tales I used to love hearing old Heb tell.
‘The cauldron?’
‘Aye,’ Meical said with a sigh. ‘Asroth used it before, in the War of Treasures. It was made for good but, like most things, can be put to a different use depending on the hand that holds it. It has the potential to be a powerful weapon.’
‘What did Asroth want it for?’ asked Corban.
‘To slaughter every living soul that Elyon has created.’
‘That doesn’t sound good,’ whispered Dath to Farrell.
‘Well it obviously didn’t work, did it?’ Farrell whispered back. ‘Else none of us would be here.’
‘That is because Elyon unleashed his Scourging,’ Meical said. ‘That was bad enough, and Elyon is unlikely to intervene this time.’
‘So we need to stop Nathair getting to this cauldron, then,’ said Farrell.
‘Perhaps. I do not know if we can. It is protected, though. There are some of the Benothi that live still who saw the destruction wrought by the War of Treasures. Nemain, the Benothi Queen, was there. She saw. She will not willingly allow the cauldron to be used to wage war again.’
‘But Nathair has the Jehar with him. If any are capable of taking it, it is them,’ said Tukul.
‘Aye. So, to Murias it is,’ said Meical. North of here, a hundred leagues through Cambren and then into Benoth.’
‘It will be hard going, fighting all the way through Cambren,’ said Coralen. ‘The bulk of Rhin’s warriors may be to the south invading Domhain, but that does not mean the entire north is empty of enemies. And the best roads are littered with settlements — they will not look on you kindly. You may be forced to travel leagues out of your way, through difficult terrain. You would be better off travelling back into Domhain and then heading north on a clear path. You may even catch them.’
‘I do not know the way through Domhain,’ Meical said.
‘I do,’ said Coralen. ‘I’ve lived half my life patrolling the borderlands, I know every path and fox’s trail for a hundred leagues, and I’ve been in sight of Murias before. I’ll take you.’
Meical looked between Corban and Tukul.
‘Thank you,’ said Corban. She nodded at him, as if something long considered had just been decided, then leaned back on her bench and crossed her arms.
‘So then, we should gather supplies for a mountain crossing,’ said Meical. ‘We’ll leave at dawn.’
They settled down for sleep soon after, the fire-pit still crackling. Storm stretched close to Corban. The murmur of Gar and Tukul’s voices blended as they talked into the night.
Corban’s mind was whirling, but he was exhausted and sleep rose up like a tide to wash over him. Strangely, after all that had happened to him today, the most prominent thought in his mind as he drifted off wasn’t that he had come face to face with Asroth, or seen one of the Ben-Elim walk into his dungeon, or seen Rhin evicted from her own stronghold. It was the embrace that Coralen had given him whilst he was hanging from his shackles. He could still feel her hair in his face, smell her skin, feel the beating of her heart and the heave of her suppressed sobs against his manacled body.
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
VERADIS
Veradis gazed at the mist-shrouded walls of Dun Taras. He had looked at the same walls every day for more than a moon now, through snow, rain and winter sun.
His and Geraint’s warbands ringed the fortress, allowing no passage in or out.
‘They must be hungry by now,’ Bos said beside him.
‘I would think so.’
Geraint had wanted to assault the walls as soon as they had reached Dun Taras, not far behind the last stragglers of Domhain’s fleeing warband. Veradis had refused to commit his men, not wanting to throw lives away for uncertain gain. He had counselled patience, to lay siege to the fortress, despite how he hated the thought of waiting here through the heart of winter.
‘We have the upper hand now,’ Veradis had said when Geraint asked him to join in the assault. ‘They are beaten, disheartened. If you assault the walls you will lose hundreds, and in likelihood fail, at least at first. Why lose good men and boost your enemy’s morale when we can just sit here, eat good food and watch them starve?’
Geraint had gone ahead without him, taking a day to build ladders and battering rams. Over a thousand men had died in the assault; they gained the walls once, but were beaten back. Geraint did not attack again.
So they had set up camp, encircled the fortress and waited. Midwinter’s Day came and went. The days started to grow longer. Veradis hated it; the inactivity frustrated him. Each day he set his men to training — first the shield wall, then individual sparring. And he had been meeting with weapon-smiths, the battle at Domhain’s border having planted the seeds of ideas in his mind. And always in his mind the same recurrent thoughts crept to the surface. Nathair. Where is he? Has he reached Murias? Is the cauldron his? Is Cywen safe?
‘How much longer of this?’ Bos asked him.
‘Depends what they choose to do. They could surrender. Or they could decide they’ve had enough of not eating and march out and take us on.’ Veradis shrugged. ‘What would you do?’
Bos scowled. ‘I don’t like being hungry — makes me mad. I’d probably come looking for someone to kill.’
Veradis smiled at that. He could almost picture it.
‘Also, much rests on their king. This Eremon, he’s old, and not so well liked as he could be by his people, I’ve heard. Makes me think he’s more likely to order an attack sooner than later, before his people decide they’ve had enough of him.’
‘So why haven’t they come looking for a fight already?’ Bos mused.
‘My guess is us,’ Veradis said. ‘The shield wall. They know what we can do now, and this ground is perfect for us. Would you march out to face us again?’
‘Probably not. At least, not without an idea of how to win.’
‘Exactly. So they sit behind their walls, and starve.’
The sound of riders drew their attention, from behind, along the giants’ road. Veradis saw a small group, perhaps fifty, moving at a canter. Rhin’s banner rippled above them, a broken branch.
Veradis was ushered into a tent; furs were scattered liberally, a fire burning brightly in an iron basket. Rhin sat close to it, warming her hands. She looked older, somehow, or perhaps just exhausted. Blue veins traced a map beneath her papery skin. She looked up at Veradis as he entered and ushered him to a seat.