‘Tell me, how many men would be enough to keep the spear safe?’
Tukul smiled.
‘Ten.’
Meical nodded to himself, as if coming to a silent decision. ‘Leave ten men here, then, but the rest of you — you should not stay. Instead of waiting for the Seren Disglair to come to you, you should go to him. He is in danger. He needs you.’
‘Go to him,’ Tukul repeated, feeling his blood surge in his veins. A grin spread across his face. ‘Hah, did you hear?’ he cried, turning a full circle to take in all those about him.
‘What think you, old friend?’ Meical said. ‘Do you agree?’
‘Agree? Yes, we agree,’ he shouted, as all around him his people drew their swords and brandished their curved blades at the sky with ululations. ‘Make ready,’ he cried, ‘for on the morrow we march to the Seren Disglair.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CYWEN
Cywen took aim, the tip of her knife blade tickling her back, then threw. With a satisfying thud the knife sank into her target, a battered post in the garden. Without taking her eyes from it, she drew another blade from the belt at her waist, aimed and threw. Then she did it again. And again.
When her belt was empty she strode to the post and started pulling the knives free, sliding them back into the pockets in her belt. Twenty in total. After the night Dun Carreg had fallen she’d vowed to never run out of knives again. These she had found in a barrel by the kitchen door, rusted and notched, part of her da’s to-do pile. All the best knives, usually kept in a drawer in her mam’s room, were gone. Taken by her mam, she supposed.
Her mam. She still could not even think of her mam without feeling her guts twist. She was not dead, of that she was certain, she’d searched the fortress from one end to another, made herself look at the face of every corpse piled within the walls. Her mam, Corban, Gar — they were not there. Rumours swept the fortress about Edana: she was in hiding, had fled west, south, north. One thing was certain. She had not died in the battle, and people had whispered of Corban being seen with her during the conflict.
They are alive, and together, I am sure of it. She leaned her head against the knife post, felt splinters of wood scratch her nose. Buddai whined, curled in the shade beneath an apple tree. She felt a tear run down her cheek, tasted salt as it reached her lips.
Four nights had passed since she had woken in the courtyard before Stonegate, each one a blur of tears and loneliness, of restless, dream-filled misery. The first night she had tried sleeping in her bed, but had woken up cuddling tight to Buddai in front of the kitchen fire. After that she had just settled there with the hound every night. Somehow it helped, just a little. Why did they leave me? They had no choice, she thought instantly, probably thought me dead. But it still hurt, the sense of abandonment lurking beneath all else, always there. Then into her pain had come a ray of hope. Yesterday she had finished scouring every hand-span of the fortress, her path taking her past the well shaft. In a rush she had remembered the tunnels — what if her kin were hiding in them, waiting for her. The thought had caused a stab of longing so intense that she physically stumbled. It could be true — there was no explanation of how so many had escaped, and Corban knew of the tunnels. Perhaps they were down there now, waiting. Just the thought had almost set her feet running, but there were red-cloaks everywhere, most with the same goal in mind as hers — finding the escapees. She had to wait for a better time to go searching for them.
Buddai growled.
She turned, saw a form standing in the doorway to her house, a deeper shadow in the gloom of the kitchen.
‘Don’t stop on my account,’ a voice said, the figure stepping out into the sunshine. Conall.
She snarled, instinctively reaching for a knife.
‘There’s no need for that, now,’ Conall said, holding a hand up. ‘The battle’s long finished.’ He smiled. ‘Besides, it did you no good last time you tried to stick me with one of your pins — won’t be any different this time.’ He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword, lightly, but Cywen had no doubt that he could have it drawn in the blink of an eye. She’d seen how fast he was.
‘How’d you get in here?’ she asked.
‘Your door was open.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’
‘I mean it wasn’t locked — same thing.’ He shrugged. ‘So, are you going to try some more target practice on me?’
‘You tried to kill me.’
‘True. In my defence, you also tried to kill me. I’m prepared to let that go.’ He brushed his cheek, where a huge bruise was fading green. ‘Me, I’m quick to forgive.’
‘Quick to anger is what I’ve heard,’ Cywen muttered.
‘Aye, that as well.’ He grinned.
I’ve heard people say the same about me, she thought.
‘What do you want?’ she said.
‘Someone wants to speak to you.’
‘Who?’
‘Someone important. Come and see.’
She thought about it. ‘No.’ She wiggled another knife free from the post and slid it into her belt.
Conall sighed. ‘See, this reminds me of something my mam used to say to me every time she wanted me to take a bath. Goes something like this: we can do this one of two ways — the easy way or the hard way — either way it’s still going to happen. Your choice.’ He took a few steps into the garden. Buddai growled and padded closer to Cywen.
Conall scowled at the hound, his grip closing around his sword hilt. ‘I’m starting to get bored with this, lass. And if that dog tries to put his teeth in me it’ll be the last thing he does. Come along now.’
‘Who wants to see me? Evnis?’
‘He’ll be there, but it’s not him as asked for you. That would be Nathair. A king, no less. You should be honoured. Now come on — I’ll not be asking again.’
Nathair. What does he want? Against her better judgement Cywen was curious. ‘All right,’ she muttered. ‘I can always kill you another time.’
‘Very kind of you,’ said Conall.
‘It’s only because I’m too tired to bury your corpse,’ she said as she strode up to him.
He took a step back and placed a hand protectively over his groin. ‘Not too close,’ he said. ‘I saw what you did to Helfach’s boy in the hall the other day. Me, I’m very fond of my stones.’
She hid a grin of her own as she walked through the kitchen and out of her front door, Buddai at her heels.
The cobbled streets were mostly in shadow as she walked through the fortress, the sun setting low, a pink glow reflecting off high clouds. As she passed the stables she scanned the paddocks, quickly finding Shield, Corban’s skewbald stallion; he whinnied at her. Over the last few days she had frequently found herself back at the stables, had immersed herself in her old chores, for a small time burying the pain of the present in unthinking habit. No one had stopped her or complained, despite the red-cloaks that now ran the stables. Workers were in high demand. And while she was there she overheard conversations, news of the outside world. She picked apart every word that she heard, desperate for some clue to her family’s whereabouts.
The gossip on everyone’s lips was that Rhin had apparently invaded Narvon, sacked Uthandun and was even now camped on the far side of the Darkwood. Preparing to invade Ardan, no doubt. Good, Cywen had thought. I hope she takes Owain’ head. Although, to be honest, she hated Rhin as much as Owain. More, if possible. Rhin had been behind all of this, had been the hand pulling the strings, guiding others towards all of this tragedy. She had a memory of the Darkwood, of Ronan slipping through her arms, of trying to stop the blood pumping from the wound in his throat, literally trying to stop his life from leaking out of him. She blinked, her eyes hot, her vision blurred.