‘Come with me. You’re amongst friends now.’
‘I’ll be along after.’ She wiped the tears from her cheeks. Corban understood her meaning — she did not want anyone to see the evidence of her grief. She held her emotions hidden deep and secure, a wall of her own making. He turned to go.
‘Corban,’ she said, the word stopping him dead. He stood, waiting.
‘You asked me before, why I have come on this journey.’
‘I did.’
He turned to face her then, and for a long, timeless moment they just looked at one another. She smiled, a vulnerable, tenuous twist of her lips. ‘The reason-
Then horns blew in the distance, harsh and long. They kept ringing.
‘That sounds serious.’ Coralen strode past him, back to the others, no sign of the previous moment’s fragility left about her.
All were mounted when they returned, waiting for him. The horn blasts were still ringing, whether from Nathair’s host or from the walls of Murias he could not tell. It did not matter — the purpose was clear. Battle was about to begin. He climbed into his saddle and looked to his mam.
‘Cywen,’ he said, and they set off.
They rode across the heather-clad moor, the sun melting into the horizon. Fech flew above, quickly outpacing them, blending with the darkness that was Murias. No one spoke, all eyes on the dark slopes ahead. Then Corban saw something, a movement in the heather. Something coming towards them, fast.
It was a hound, running hard.
Have we been spotted by Nathair’s scouts?
Before he could say anything, Storm was outpacing him, moving from her ground-eating lope into a run. Corban scanned the shadows for scouts. He had no doubt that Storm would deal with the hound.
Then wolven and hound were clashing together, bodies intertwining, rolling, Storm’s bone-white fur contrasting with the hound’s darkness. They separated, came together again. Corban squinted.
Something’s wrong.
There was no snarling or growling, no teeth baring, no blood. Then Storm was rolling on her back, the hound bouncing around her in great excited leaps.
Then he realized.
‘It’s Buddai.’
Together he and his mam slid from their saddles and ran to the wolven and hound. Buddai was jumping around Storm like a pup, licking her face, nipping at her ears as Storm rolled on her back, paws swatting at the hound. Buddai saw Corban and Gwenith, paused long enough to take a great sniff, then he was leaping on them, bowling them over, snuffling and licking at their faces.
Corban looked up and saw seventy faces staring back at him, the Jehar all wearing the same mildly confused expressions. All except Gar, who was grinning at them.
‘Wolven, crows, ravens, hounds,’ Tukul said. ‘What will it be next?’
‘Cywen is there, Ban,’ his mam said. ‘There’s no doubting it now.’
‘I know. Let’s go and get her.’
With that they mounted back up and headed for Murias. A noise rose up before them, drifting from the mountain stronghold, sounding like a great wind. It was followed by distant screams.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND NINE
UTHAS
Uthas stood beside Nemain, looking out from a balcony on the host approaching Murias. Ravens soared on updraughts above them, looking like black leaves in a whirlwind. Behind him Sreng and Salach stood, shield-warriors, both dressed for war. Uthas could see Nathair now, riding his draig at the head of the column, Calidus and Alcyon close to him.
The road to Murias was wide, gently twisting through a landscape of granite boulders and rocky scree. The balcony that Uthas and Nemain were standing upon looked out from a curve in the cliff face, giving them a view of the approach to Murias as well as the stronghold’s gates themselves. They reared the height of ten giants, wider than twenty, and were fashioned from the rock of the mountain, like everything else in Murias, the last great feat of the stone-masters. And they were barred, of course.
Nathair’s approach had not come as a surprise. Ethlinn the Dreamer had woken a day ago, sweating and disoriented, and declared the coming of the Black Sun and his Black Heart. So they were ready, or as ready as they could be. The cauldron was surrounded by its protectors, the brood of wyrms restless and hungry — Morc had not fed them since Ethlinn’s words, and the entire strength of the Benothi stood armed, most of them the other side of the barred gates. Five hundred Benothi warriors gathered together had been a sight to see. It reminded him of better times, of the host that had faced Eremon’s ancestors on the plains around Dun Taras. There had been more of the Benothi then, but the outcome had still been dire. Sometimes it seemed that since the Sundering life had been one long spiral into despair.
He sighed, feeling the old melancholy sweep through him, a sense of fatalism, of destiny coiling tight about him, like the death grip of a wyrm.
A raised voice pulled Uthas from his reverie. It was Nathair. He had reached the gates of Murias.
‘I am Nathair ben Aquilus, the Bright Star foretold, and I have come for the cauldron,’ Nathair declared, his voice echoing about the cliffs. ‘There is no need for blood to be spilt. Just open the gates, accept the inevitable. Join with me in the coming war; let us stand united against Asroth and his Black Sun.’
The echoes of his voice faded. Nemain stared down at him.
‘Am I hearing correctly?’ she said. ‘Did he just call himself the Bright Star, avatar of Elyon?’
‘He did,’ Uthas confirmed.
‘Is he mad, or deluded?’ she said.
Uthas shrugged. ‘Perhaps both.’
‘Open your gates to me,’ Nathair yelled, his voice strong with the conviction of his cause.
Nemain closed her eyes, breath whispering across her lips. Then her eyes snapped open.
‘There he is,’ she pointed. ‘Black Heart.’
One of the figures close to Nathair was suddenly defined, a dark nimbus around him, as if he were standing before a doorway leading into darkness. The shadows of wings flared around him.
Calidus.
‘I see you, Black Heart,’ Nemain called down, her voice raw with the anger of ages. ‘You will not gain the cauldron so easily. We are not bairns to be tricked.’
Calidus stared back, saying nothing.
‘I do not understand you,’ Nathair shouted. ‘I am no black heart. I stand against Asroth and his darkness.’
‘You will not pass through the gates of Murias by honeyed words and lies,’ Nemain called out. ‘You ride with the Black Heart at your side — that is all I need to know.’
Nathair looked about him, frowning as he stared at Calidus.
‘She lies to you, Nathair,’ Calidus proclaimed, his voice ringing against the walls. ‘She serves Asroth, and would hold the cauldron for him.’
‘He does not know,’ Nemain whispered. She shook her head, pity sweeping the contours of her face. Then she raised her arms and began to speak.
The ravens were abruptly thick in the air, more joining them, swirling in a tight vortex, hundreds, thousands of them, more appearing all the time, bursting from cliff nests, flocking from the skies. She swept her arms forward, pointing at Nathair and Calidus, and the ravens flew at them, a gigantic spear of beak and feather and claw.
Calidus lifted one hand and the air shimmered. The ravens hit it, the first of them exploding into chunks, those behind spreading out about something almost invisible, a shield of air curving around Calidus and Nathair, protecting them and the warriors immediately behind. The birds swept about it, ploughing into the warriors behind. Screams rose up as these men were engulfed by the dark flock of ravens, horses rearing, warriors drawing swords and slashing the air.
They cannot reach Calidus or Nathair, but even so these birds will turn the battle. The Jehar cannot fall. Their numbers are needed if the cauldron is to be taken.