‘He is Jehar,’ Sumur began.
‘What?’ said Calidus, leaning forward.
‘He is Jehar,’ Sumur repeated. ‘Do you remember when you first came to Telassar that I told you another had come, that some of my sword-brothers had been deceived by this man and had left Telassar on some fool’s errand.’
Veradis nodded.
‘Gar was one of them. He was young then, only just become a man, a warrior, but his father led the deceived, and Gar would cross a world on fire to stay close to him.’
‘His father? Then where is he now? How many Jehar were there with him?’
‘One hundred men and women left Telassar. Where they are now I know not, only that they went in search of the Seren Disglair.’
‘They did not find me,’ Nathair said.
‘Of course not. That I know. They must be dead, their quest long since failed. I cannot imagine Gar leaving his father for any other reason.’
This Gar — I will see him dead, vowed Veradis, only half listening to the other talk, his mind too full of Rauca’s memory. He felt a frustrated rage welling up, the desire to draw his sword and strike something.
‘Was this Gar with anyone?’ Calidus spoke now, his voice quiet, but his tone caused Veradis to focus again. There was something, an underlying emotion, that he had never heard in the old man before.
It was a battle,’ Sumur said. ‘All was chaos, but he looked to a boy, with a wolven.’
‘I have thought along the same lines as you,’ Nathair said to Calidus. ‘Evnis has told me something of the boy — this Gar was friendly with his family.’
‘A wolven?’ asked Calidus.
‘Yes,’ Evnis said. ‘The boy had a pet wolven, though it was far from tame. Storm, he called it.’
‘Storm,’ echoed Calidus. He closed his eyes. ‘Before one, storm and shield shall stand. .’ he intoned. Nathair drew in a sharp breath.
‘What is that? What do you speak of?’ Evnis asked.
‘Calidus is reciting a line from Halvor’s prophecy,’ Nathair whispered. ‘It speaks of Asroth’s champion, the Black Sun.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
UTHAS
Uthas strode through the heather, starlight silvering the moorland that stretched for leagues ahead of him. He was close to the southern border of Benoth now, would soon be moving into the realm of Domhain. The pain in his knee was a dull throb. He paused, resting his weight on his spear, and looked back. The fortress of Murias was long faded from view, the cauldron within it still drawing his mind, as dead meat draws a crow.
Salach, his shieldman, loomed large behind him, the other giants accompanying them mere shadows strung out into the night. Five he had chosen at Queen Nemain’s bidding, five warriors to journey into Domhain, to spy on their enemy, Eremon, upstart king of an upstart race that had driven him and his clan from their homeland. He felt a wave of sadness, looking back at the kin he had chosen. They were young by giant standards, and he had hard choices to force upon them. But we must have our vengeance, and no path is easy in this grim life. If the Benothi are to return to the south once again, then hard choices must be made. I will make it worth their while.
If they live long enough, another voice whispered in his mind. He felt the hairs on his neck stand up.
‘What is it?’ Salach said as he drew near.
‘Nothing. Just thinking.’
‘You’ve had years for that. It is time for doing now,’ Salach said.
There was a fluttering from above; a dark shape swooped out of the night. A bird landed on a boulder close by, dark eyes glinting in the moonlight. Nemain had sent the raven with them to act as scout, but Uthas new that when they returned to Murias the bird would report back to Nemain on every word and deed.
More spy than scout.
‘What news, Fech?’ Uthas asked.
‘Men,’ the raven croaked. ‘Fire, horses, sharp iron.’
The border between Benoth and Domhain was mostly a natural one made of black-sloped mountains. There was a strip of land between the mountains, though, thirty or forty leagues wide, which provided much easier passage between the two realms. That was the route Uthas had taken them. While it was always patrolled by the warriors of Domhain, Uthas had hoped that the cover of night would cloak them, and they could avoid any patrols.
‘Warriors, then,’ Fray said as he loomed out of the dark, the shadow of his axe-blade across his back looking as if another bird was perched on his shoulder. ‘How many?’
‘Eight,’ the raven said.
‘Eight?’ Struan echoed as he reached them. ‘A good number to whet our weapons on, eh? And to earn our thorns. Where are they?’
‘Wait,’ Uthas said. ‘Nemain has sent us to spy, not to kill.’
‘I cannot walk the length of Domhain just to sneak a look at those maggots lording it in our lands,’ Fray said. ‘What do you say?’ the giant asked as their other companions drew close — Aric, Kai and Eisa.
Uthas smiled to himself, though the darkness hid it from the others. As I hoped. Raised on tales of war and glory, but having played no part in those tales themselves, they wanted to make their own stories. Killing will bind them tighter to me. Blood offers many qualities.
He could almost see the bloodlust come upon them, the desire to ink the first thorn of their sgeul into their flesh. He glanced at the thorns and vine tattooed upon his own arm, most from the war with the Exiles. That was no small thing, to take a life. To see existence snuffed out before your eyes. It had humbled him the first time, sending another’s spirit across the bridge of swords. It also gave him pride, whenever he glanced at it, and much honour amongst his Benothi kin. Among those who had been birthed after the wars, anyway. There were those in the clan who had survived the Sundering and the Scourging. Their sgeuls were a sight to behold.
‘We should attack, teach them who this land belongs to,’ Eisa said, her fingers stroking the bone hilt of her knife as she spoke. Her eyes searched out Uthas, pleading. Others grunted agreement.
‘I command here,’ Uthas said. ‘And we are here to discover, not to slay.’
‘Why can we not do both?’ Kai asked.
‘If we did, we would discover first, and slay on the return journey,’ Uthas said. ‘That is wisdom. But Nemain has bid us to be swift and secret, to leave no sign of our passing. To gather information. We will not kill tonight.’ He said the last sentence louder, looking straight at Nemain’s raven. If you would report something to Nemain, report that.
There was some muted grumbling, but Salach snapped a curse at them and rested his hand on his axe hilt, and the complaints faded.
‘We will take a closer look,’ Uthas said, ‘and see what there is to see.’
‘And if it is Rath?’ Fray said, the challenge still sitting behind his eyes.
‘If it is Rath we will kill him,’ Uthas said. ‘I know Nemain would forgive us that.’
Rath had been Eremon’s battlechief. Decades ago a warband of the Benothi had raided into Domhain and razed Rath’s hold to the ground. He had not been there, but his wife and bairns had been. Ever since then the warrior had hated the Benothi. Rath had gathered about himself a band of warriors and together they had mercilessly tracked and hunted any Benothi giants that dared enter Domhain’s borders.
‘Fech, lead us,’ Uthas said, and turned, using his spear as a staff, following the raven’s shadow.
Soon they saw the light, a fire’s orange glow, and Uthas caught the scent of meat cooking. He held his spear up and the warriors behind him fanned out, spreading like a cloak tugged by the wind. Slowly he moved forwards.
Fech had been right — they were warriors. A handful were grouped around a guttering fire, huddled against the wind. Two more stood guard a little further out; one to the east, one looking north, into Benoth. This one was the only danger, though it was unlikely he would see anything on this moonless night. Aric was closest to the northerly guard, crouched low to the heather, moving like a slow mist. The guard saw nothing.