Marrock raised an eyebrow, turned and led them back to camp.
Camlin gave a hasty account of the ambush; Halion and the other travellers huddled round close to listen. Dath interjected comments, most to do with Camlin’s prowess, his skill with a bow, a sword, and his strategic brilliance. Camlin felt himself frowning at the boy.
‘So what now?’ Brina said, hands on hips.
‘Back to the boat, get as far away from here as possible, as quickly as possible,’ Marrock said. He looked to Halion, who nodded.
‘But what if those ships are still out there?’ Edana said. Her voice was hoarse, dry.
‘We’ll have to cross one bridge at a time, my lady,’ Halion said. ‘And staying where we are is no option.’
Brina tutted, bent over and whispered in her crow’s ear. That thing still made Camlin uncomfortable. There was far too much intelligence in its beady eyes. With a squawk of protest it unfurled its wings and flapped into the air, disappearing over the trees.
‘Craf is a good scout,’ Brina said. ‘Don’t want any surprises, do we.’
The group broke up, checked packs, filled water skins, then Vonn and Farrell burst upon them, running hard from the beach.
‘A boat has just beached next to ours,’ Vonn blurted as he skidded to a stop, ‘full of warriors.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FIDELE
Fidele gazed out of her tower window. In the distance the snow-capped Agullas glistened in the summer sun, before them rich meadows rolling all the way down to the lake shore, where countless ships bobbed on the swell, cold and deep from the mountains’ snowmelt. And on those ships: fishermen, traders, all manner of people. Her people. She felt a rush of passion, a fierce pride in the people of this realm. I love this land.
Her gaze drifted southward, to the river that carved its way to the sea. The black ships of the Vin Thalun had long since sailed that route, disappeared into the distance; the only sign of their presence here at Jerolin was the shipbuilding yard that had risen up on the lake shore. Even that was deserted now. Lykos had told her that the shipbuilding would continue to the south, near Ripa, but he needed too many hands on his fleet as it sailed to Nathair and Ardan to keep the two shipyards going.
And good riddance. She understood the logic that underpinned Nathair’s treaty with the Vin Thalun, knew their skills would be of great value in the coming war, but the reality of keeping the peace between them and her subjects had been difficult. Too many hard years between us to wash over in a few moons. She left her chambers, Orcus her shieldman falling in at her side. Fidele marched a quick rhythm through corridors and down the great tower of Jerolin until she was breathing fresh air. Her feet took her to the north, where the city grew quieter, to the cairn ground.
‘I miss you,’ she breathed, barely a whisper on the air. She was stood before her husband’s cairn; Aquilus, King of Tenebral, High King of the Banished Lands, slain in his own chambers, stabbed by a traitor king. I wish we had had more time. She touched one of the great stones of the cairn, already moss-covered, with lichen growing in yellows and reds. Aquilus had been so focused, so strong, always somehow knowing the right path and having the strength to take it, to see it through. I wish you had shared more of your certainties with me. Shared more of your plans. The knowledge of the God-War and the coming of the avatars had been a great burden, but Aquilus had borne it, though not without cost. And, because he had chosen to shoulder most of it alone, things felt so unsure now. She was scared, scared of what the future held, scared of the threat to her son. Her poor Nathair, striving, struggling to do his best, to earn his father’s notice. And now, to live up to his father’s legacy, not only to lead a nation, but to save the Banished Lands, or die in the trying. Fathers and sons — why did it have to be so complicated.
She sighed. ‘I will not let you down. I will not let Nathair down.’
Footsteps crunched on stone behind her and stopped, a respectful silence, then the scuff of an impatient foot. A cough.
‘Yes,’ Fidele said, turning, wiping all emotion from her face. It was Peritus, her husband’s battlechief. Small, wiry, unassuming, deadly.
‘There is something you must see,’ Peritus said, his expression grim.
‘Where did you find him?’ Fidele asked.
‘Was fishing about a league to the north,’ the fisherman said. ‘Pulling in our crab baskets and he was tangled in one of them.’
They were standing on the deck of a mid-sized fisher-boat, half a dozen crewmen gathered around her. Despite the sun the wind was cold, carrying with it a hint of ice from the mountains. Fidele pulled her cloak tighter. To one side, huge baskets were stacked on top of one another, crabs imprisoned within, clacking their great-claws. There was a body slumped on the deck, mottled blue, the flesh bloated and peeling, green weed clinging to the limbs, trailing like extended fingers.
‘Course, the crabs have had a nibble at him,’ the fisherman said.
Peritus bent down and rolled the body over. It was decomposing, chunks of flesh missing, but Fidele still recognized the nervous-looking youth that had been led into her chambers only a ten-night ago and told her of the Vin Thalun fighting pits.
Jace. His throat had been cut, the flesh frayed like rotted string.
Peritus spat on the floor. ‘So this is how Lykos obeys your commands.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
VERADIS
The army marched through the twilight of Forn, Alcyon’s bulk marking the column’s head. Veradis felt sluggish and ill-tempered after sleeping poorly, disturbed by bad dreams. In them he’d been riding across an endless meadow, the head of King Mandros held aloft on his spear-point. Murderer, Mandros’ head had whispered to him, over and over. Something had been bouncing against his leg. When he’d looked down he found Kastell’s head tied to his saddle. Betrayer, his friend had accused him.
He shook his head, banishing the nightmare, then saw Calidus drop back down the column towards him.
‘There you are,’ the silver-haired man said as he fell in beside Veradis. There was a new energy about the man since he had emerged from the catacombs beneath Haldis, a fierce determination in his expression.
‘We are making good progress,’ Calidus said. The hard pace had been set from the first day out from Haldis, four days ago. Veradis had woken the day after the battle to the news that King Braster of Helveth had been murdered in his tent by survivors of the Gadrai, Isiltir’s elite warriors. That had made no sense to Veradis — the realms of Isiltir and Helveth had been on good terms, but Lothar, Braster’s battlechief, had witnessed the deed and told Calidus personally. This news had troubled Calidus and he had ordered all haste in breaking camp and leaving Haldis. We must speed Jael to claim Isiltir’s crown, he had said.
‘I have been talking to Jael,’ Calidus said. ‘He is not as strong willed as I would like in an ally, but he is all we have, and we need Isiltir’s support.’
Veradis frowned at Calidus, suspicious of where this was leading.
‘Isiltir will be rocked by the news of Romar’s death. There will be others who will try to take advantage of the situation, try to claim the throne for themselves. Not least Romar’s estranged wife.’
‘What of Romar’s son?’ Veradis asked.
‘He is ten years old. Jael will rule with the boy as his ward, until he comes of age.’
‘Unless the boy’s mother has anything to say about it.’
‘Exactly. And she has the boy in her care, which gives her the advantage. Especially if those survivors of the Gadrai reach Isiltir ahead of us and warn her of all that has happened here,’ Calidus said. ‘Jael could do with some leverage, in the form of a warband, I am thinking.’