The warband quickly grew larger, a cloud of dust kicked up by the horses. Maquin could see Jael at the front, beside his banner-man, his pennant snapping in their wake. Varick had ordered that the streets of Dun Kellen be evacuated but there were still people to be seen. As the sound of the approaching warband filled the air a sudden sense of panic seemed to spread, people hurrying, running for shelter.
The warband reached the outskirts of Dun Kellen. Riders from the flanks peeled away and began circling the town, filtering into side streets whilst the bulk of the warband rode up the main avenue leading to Dun Kellen’s gates.
‘I remember wiping the snot from his nose,’ Gerda said as she watched Jael approach. ‘I wonder what terms he will offer for the head of my son.’ Maquin looked at her but said nothing, remembering Jael and Kastell fighting in the cavern beneath Haldis. Seeing Jael plunge his sword into Kastell’s stomach. His fingers twitched and he reached for his sword.
‘Be ready,’ Orgull said as the riders appeared. Screams were rising from the town, people were scattering in the wide avenue before Jael and his shieldmen as they thundered into view. Someone slipped in the road and disappeared under the flood of horses, screams quickly cut short, then in a spray of mud Jael pulled his warriors up, about a hundred paces before the gate.
‘Let’s hear his terms,’ Varick said, stepping forward to stand on the arch above the gateway. Jael clicked his horse on, a spear held loosely in his hand. Only his banner-man accompanied him.
‘Greetings, Jael, and welcome to Dun Kellen, kinsman. What brings you here?’ Varick called down.
Jael’s eyes were fixed on Varick. He turned his horse in a tight circle. As he came back round out of the turn he hurled his spear. It flew straight, striking Varick in the throat and throwing him backwards in a spray of blood. Jael wheeled his horse and galloped back to his cheering men.
On the wall men were yelling in shock and horror, warriors letting spears fly at the retreating Jael. They all missed. Maquin looked at the form of Varick, blood splattered about his corpse; Gerda and a huddle of others were staring at him, wide-eyed. Then Maquin looked back to Jael punching the air as he reached his gathered warriors, men jumping from horses now, chopping with axes at the timber frames of houses.
Jael did not come to offer terms.
CHAPTER TWENTY
CYWEN
Cywen could not believe her eyes. Pendathran, King Brenin’s battlechief, was staring back at her. But he was dead, had fallen in the feast-hall the night Dun Carreg fell. Or so she had been told. What was Evnis doing with him locked in his cellar?
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Pendathran said, his voice hoarse.
‘Don’t know,’ Cywen said automatically.
‘Water?’ he asked.
She looked about, but could see no jug or water barrel. She shook her head.
‘Quick, girl, help me up.’
Cywen took his hand and pulled him upright. There were deep cuts on his exposed forearm, part-scabbed and weeping blood. He towered above her, taking long, ragged breaths. The bandage around his neck was crusted black with blood.
‘Put your arm round me,’ Cywen said and steered him out of the cell. They weaved through the cellar to the boarded doorway. Cywen propped Pendathran against a wall and set to levering boards from the door frame. She was acutely aware of the noise she was making, and kept taking furtive glances at the shadowed staircase.
‘Looking won’t make you any quieter, or quicker,’ Pendathran croaked. He picked up a discarded axe leaning against the wall and tried to help her.
Cywen shot him a scowl and set to the last board. With a creak it pulled free.
Cywen pulled a fresh torch from her bag and sparked it with tinder and flint. ‘Come on,’ she said and led Pendathran into the darkness of the tunnels.
When they finally emerged from the cave onto the beach Pendathran sank to the sand. It was still dark but the moon was fading, pale and wan as dawn greyed the land.
Cywen could not believe they had made it this far. Pendathran had staggered through the tunnels, at times semi-conscious. When alert he asked for news, information about what was happening in Dun Carreg. In return she discovered that it was Evnis who had imprisoned him. Evnis who knew about the tunnels, had access to them.
The worst of their passage through the tunnels had been when they’d come upon the well, where the path spiralled around the deep hole. Cywen still did not know how Pendathran had managed to avoid toppling into the dark emptiness. But somehow he had. The rest of the journey had passed into terror-filled nightmare, Cywen constantly pausing to listen for the pursuit she expected at any moment: the baying of Evnis’ hounds catching her scent, the sound of running feet, the shouts of her trackers as they saw her. But it had not happened, and now they were here, on the beach of Havan, just before the sun rose and betrayed them to the world.
Frantically she looked around. She had given little thought to what they would do if they made it this far. She scanned the shore, eyes drawn again to where Dath’s boat was usually beached. Then an idea sparked. ‘We cannot rest here,’ she said, looping an arm under Pendathran’s. He groaned but struggled to his feet.
They splashed through shallow pools, crabs scuttling out of their way, then along the path to the village, past the smokehouses, until Cywen saw a small house.
Dath’s house.
The door was open. The smell that greeted them was stale and musty. The place had been ransacked: tables and chairs overturned, cupboards open, emptied. Probably Owain’s men when they occupied the town during the siege, before they moved into Dun Carreg.
There was a barrel with cold fresh rainwater by the back door. Cywen fetched some for Pendathran, who had collapsed onto a sagging cot. He drank and drank, water spilling over his face, soaking his beard. Cywen had to pull the jug from his lips, worrying that he would vomit.
‘I will bring you food when I can,’ she said to Pendathran. ‘I will try tonight, though Evnis has had me watched.’
‘Why, girl?’ Pendathran mumbled.
‘I’m not sure — maybe he thinks I can lead him to Corban, and Edana.’ She shrugged. ‘You must stay out of sight. Stay here until I return.’
‘No chance of me going far,’ Pendathran said.
Cywen stood there, worrying, then turned on her heel and sped to the door.
‘Girl,’ Pendathran called after her. She stopped and looked back.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
She flashed him a quick smile and ran.
After a brief hesitation she turned towards the village. With every passing moment it was more likely that Evnis would discover Pendathran had escaped. Surely he would have men search the tunnels for him.
As the sun rose she mingled with labourers from the village who were making their way up to the fortress. She pulled her hood up and slipped across the bridge and through Stonegate unnoticed. Once back in Dun Carreg she ran through the stone-paved backstreets, skirting her house to climb alley walls and slip in through her garden. Buddai greeted her with a wagging tail as she strode across the kitchen and peered out of her window. A shadow still occupied a doorway across the street, though now it was slumped on the floor, sleeping. She felt exhausted, but knew that if she lay down she would probably sleep half the day. That she must not do. Give the spy no reason to report to Evnis, nothing to raise his suspicions. So she broke her fast with some bacon and honey-cakes, half of which she fed to a drooling Buddai, and then set about her usual daily tasks. She made her way to the stables, where she harnessed up selected horses for warriors to train with in the Rowan Field. One of the horses was Shield. She took her time with him, gave him an extra apple and scowled at the man that climbed into his saddle. It was Drust, the red-haired warrior from Narvon, the one in the feast-hall who had told her to take Buddai, the day after Dun Carreg had fallen.