‘Obstinate?’ Tahir asked. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Pig-headed,’ Orgull said.
‘She was not given to taking orders, even from Romar,’ Maquin elaborated.
‘Oh. And we’re taking word to her,’ Tahir said. ‘Not sure I like the sound of that.’
‘She’s well suited to stand against Jael. She’ll not give up her son’s throne without a fight.’
‘Do you think Jael has a chance of claiming the throne?’ Tahir asked.
‘He thinks he has,’ Orgull said. ‘He has Romar’s blood in his veins, and he has the stones to try and take it. And he has a powerful supporter in Nathair. It’ll come down to a fight, I should think, and that’ll be decided by who can field the most warriors. The sooner we get word to Gerda, the more chance she’ll have to save her son’s neck.’
‘Most of Isiltir’s warriors are food for crows at Haldis,’ Maquin said. ‘Even Jael can’t have that many men about him.’
‘True enough. At Mikil he’ll have more men who will most likely support him, but not a war-host. But, as I said, he has strong support. Nathair is on the rise, and with men in his camp like that Calidus and his Jehar warriors. .’ He trailed off, all of them remembering the deadly skill and speed that the black-clad Jehar had demonstrated at Haldis.
Maquin drank from the ale skin, watching Orgull across the flames. He was a big man, bald headed and bull necked. Maquin had always thought that Orgull was the brawn to Vandil’s brain, the first and second captains of the Gadrai. But their flight back through Forn had shown there was a lot more to Orgull than muscle.
And those things he had said, about King Braster, about a secret brotherhood, about the starstone axe and the God-War and a Black Sun. .
He took another swig of ale. On the flight from Haldis there had never seemed a time to talk about these things, fleeing from one danger to the next, evading human hunters and Forn’s predators both. But now they were in Brikan with a measure of safety about them, at least for tonight.
‘What is this brotherhood that you spoke of, the reason you spoke to Braster?’ Maquin asked across the flames.
Orgull stared at Maquin; Tahir glanced from one to the other.
‘You have a right to know,’ Orgull said at length. ‘And if I cannot trust the two of you, my sword-brothers, then who in this world can I trust? It is as I said. When I was young, younger even than you — ’ he nodded at Tahir — ‘I met a man. He came to my da’s hold — he was a warrior, strong and skilled, and I looked up to him because of that, but also he seemed wise. When he spoke, it felt as if the whole world should listen. .’ He paused, clearly remembering.
‘One night he came to my father and me, told us of things. Strange, otherworldly things, of a war that has raged for thousands of years, which is still being fought. All will fight in this war, he said, all will choose a side, the darkness or the light. At the time I was young, you understand. I was caught up in the heroism of it, so when he told us that he was seeking out men — a brotherhood, he called it — to help in this coming war, when he asked for our aid, our oaths, I gave mine willingly, and so did my da. My da lives still in the north, with my brothers and other kin. Giant-killers all of us, living so close to Forn and the north, but I felt the call of the Gadrai more than they did. I left.’ He paused, stared silently into the flames for long moments. ‘I almost forgot about the man, the oath, and just lived my life. But then I saw him again, and he told me of others that had sworn the same oath. Men like Braster. He reminded me of the things he had told me — things that I am hearing whispered about now — of the God-War, of how these Banished Lands will become the battleground of angels and demons, of the Seven Treasures, of the avatars of Elyon and Asroth.’ He looked at his palm, tracing an old scar. ‘And my oath still stands.’
Veradis had spoken about those things too, on the journey through the Bairg Mountains to Forn, when Kastell had been alive. At the time Maquin had laughed. Angels and demons were hard to believe in when the sun was shining bright and laughter was on the air. But now, in the cold heart of a giant tower in Forn, after the battle at Haldis and all he had seen, it was easier to believe. He shook his head. He had always trusted what he could see, touch, feel. The rest of it mattered little to him. And now, even if it was true, it still didn’t matter that much. ‘All sounds like faery tales to me,’ Maquin muttered. ‘Only thing that matters is putting Jael in the ground.’
Tahir looked at him. ‘A man with revenge in his heart should dig two graves, my old mam used to say to me.’
‘As long as Jael’s in one of them, I’ll be content,’ Maquin said. But still, he could not stop Orgull’s words rattling around his head — all will fight, all will choose a side.
Whose side am I on?
‘The man who told you of these things,’ he said to Orgull. ‘What was his name?’
‘Meical.’
The next day they set out early, dawn a mere hint beyond the trees. The Rhenus was liquid black. Maquin dipped his oar; Orgull sat across from him and they rowed away from the small quay that jutted from Brikan’s walls.
On the second day they saw a large barge moored on the eastern bank of the river. No one answered their calls so they approached cautiously. Orgull was the first to recognize it.
‘It is the one we were guarding that was attacked by the Hunen and their white wyrms,’ he said.
Maquin peered closely, seeing corpses strewn across the deck and other bodies littering the wide track of the east bank; a booted foot, a hand, the shaft of a giant war-hammer, a horse’s skull, all lying where they had fallen in battle, clothes rotted, flesh picked clean by Forn’s inhabitants.
In silence they pushed away from the barge and moved on up the river.
By highsun on the fifth day the trees began to thin, great shafts of the sun beaming down upon the travellers. Soon the river swept them from the forest into rolling meadows, the riverbank thick with wildflowers; it was as if they had rowed into spring.
‘How far to Dun Kellen?’ Tahir asked, scratching his leg. He had been complaining of a sore arse, stiff arms and blisters on his palms for two days solid.
‘Ten to twelve days, if nothing slows us,’ Orgull said. Tahir groaned, looking at his palms.
‘We could always put you ashore, let you walk,’ Orgull suggested. Tahir did not reply, except to grip his oar and continue rowing.
Early on the seventh day since leaving Forn they were breaking camp where they had pulled ashore for the night. A mist hung heavy over the river, clinging to thick beds of reed. Orgull was shaving his head with a sharp knife.
‘Why do you do that? Tahir asked. ‘Why not just let it grow?’
‘I used to have fine long hair,’ Orgull said, ‘or so the ladies told me. When I first joined the Gadrai, on one of my first patrols we came upon a party of Hunen. One of them grabbed a fist full of my hair and threw me about like a rag doll. He bashed me into a tree. I didn’t wake up till I was back in Brikan — my sword-brothers had carried me there.’ He smiled, half a grimace. ‘I’ve shaved my head clean ever since.’
‘Do you hear that?’ Maquin said, head cocked to one side.
They all listened. The river was silent, muted by the mist. A moorhen cried out, long and mournful. Then Maquin heard it again: horses’ hooves, lots of them, the jingle of harness and chainmail.
‘Quickly,’ Orgull hissed, and as quietly as they could, they climbed back into their boat and pushed away from the shore. As time passed the mist evaporated, giving a good view of the land about them. It was flatter now they were further north, broken up with ragged stands of trees. There was no sign of the riders they had heard.
Late in the day they saw shapes ahead: a stone bridge spanning the river, a tower on the western bank, a sprawling village of timber and thatch behind it. Figures moved on the bridge and amongst the buildings.