I must change that.
Uthas dug his fingers into the ground, felt the moist earth flow about him, under his fingernails, then he began to whisper, hardly more than a breath on his lips. He knew that Salach would hear him; that was fine, he trusted Salach with his life. But no one else would hear. Fech was nowhere to be seen. A slight tremor ran through the earth about Uthas’ hand, rippling away towards Aric.
Uthas heard the sound, a popping, as a patch of ground burst close to Aric, sounding much like a wet branch breaking. Uthas could not tell who was more surprised: Aric or the guard. Certainly the guard heard it.
‘Who’s there?’ the warrior called, half drawing his sword, taking a step towards the sound. The men around the fire stirred, one of them standing. Aric froze for a heartbeat, then exploded forward, swinging his hammer as he did. It smashed into the guard’s chest, sending him hurtling through the air. He rolled and fell still.
There was a moment’s silence, then the men about the fire were rushing Aric. Giants burst from the darkness about them. Blood sprayed black in the starlight.
Salach made to join the battle but Uthas put a restraining hand on his shoulder.
‘Let them earn their thorns.’
The fight was almost done, anyway, the men surprised and outmatched by Uthas’ company. Even as Uthas watched, Fray sent a man’s head spinning through the night. It fell into the fire, sending up an explosion of sparks.
Uthas strode over, surveying the battleground. Fray was looking around, axe held across his chest, looking for someone else to kill. The battle-madness slowly faded from his eyes. Eisa was bloodied, a hand clasped over her shoulder, blood welling black between her fingers. She grinned at Uthas.
Aric was down. He still lived, but he was clutching his gut, trying to staunch the blood that was pulsing from a deep wound.
Not good, Uthas thought. Gut wounds are never good.
‘I–I am sorry,’ Aric said as Uthas crouched beside him. ‘I do not know — ’ he paused, a wave of pain snatching his speech — ‘I do not know what happened.’
I am sorry, Aric. Uthas felt a wave of guilt, knowing his actions had brought this about. It was necessary, he told himself.
‘Easy,’ he said gently. ‘It is done now.’ Reaching to his belt, he unfastened a skin, pulling the stopper. A smell came out, earthy and he wrinkled his nose. Brot, the food of giants. Three thousand years, and this is the best we can come up with. Just a mouthful would sustain any giant for a day’s hard running, though, and they could cross twenty leagues in a day. ‘Drink some,’ Uthas said, holding it to Aric’s lips.
He took a sip and swallowed.
‘Stay with him,’ Uthas said to Salach as he rose and walked away. The others had checked the dead: eight men, warriors of Domhain by the look of them. Fech was perched atop a body, an eyeball dangling from his beak. He gulped it down.
‘Nemain will be angry,’ the bird croaked.
Uthas shrugged. ‘They attacked us.’
He strode past it, to the paddocks behind, where eight horses were penned. They were white eyed, gathered at the far end of the paddock.
‘We’ll eat well tonight,’ Uthas said to Kai and Struan. ‘Slaughter one.’
Some of the horses panicked and bolted, breaking the paddock rope. They caught one, though, its scream cut short with the crunch of Struan’s hammer.
They lit a fire and spitted a hindquarter. Uthas stared into the flames, remembering another fire, felt a twinge on his back, as if his burn scars had a memory, too. It had been many years ago, decades, when he and Salach had been captured whilst scouting south, in Cambren. They had ventured too close to the walls of Dun Vaner, been hunted and caught, thrown in chains into a damp, dark cell. The memory of it blurred, even now causing a twist of fear in his gut. They had been tortured, their screams ringing out for days. He remembered begging for death and weeping when it had been withheld from him. Then Rhin had come to them and the torture had stopped. She had shown them mercy — kindness, even — tending their wounds, silently washing them, applying poultices and bandages. Part of him had known that it was a ploy, but he had been so filled with gratitude, so overwhelmed, that it had not seemed to matter. She had lit another fire then, causing him to writhe in renewed fear, but no tools of torture had been heated. Instead Rhin had whispered and a face had appeared in the flames.
Asroth.
He had spoken — of his betrayal by his angelic brotherhood, of his fall from grace, of his war with Elyon. He spoke of dreams and ambitions, of a new order in the Banished Lands, of the gifts he would give to those who served him. And Uthas and Salach had listened.
Uthas shook his head, banishing the memories. It’s been long enough. He walked back to Aric, who was lying where Uthas had left him; Salach and some of the others were sitting silently about the wounded giant. He was groaning, eyes clenched shut. They flickered open as Uthas crouched beside him. It took a moment before there was recognition in Aric’s eyes. The pain will do that.
‘You are strong, brother,’ Uthas said.
‘I have earned my first thorn, begun my sgeul,’ Aric said.
‘That you have,’ Uthas said. ‘Salach will make the mark for you.’
He touched his fingers to Aric’s wound, the slowly pulsing dark blood, then raised his fingers to his lips and pressed them to his tongue.
Brot. The brot he had given Aric earlier was seeping from the wound, mixed with the blood. There was no doubt now. Aric will die of this wound. He sat back and watched Salach prepare the paste for Aric’s tattoo, grinding the leaves with his stone pestle and mortar, his bone needle lying on a piece of cloth beside him. Eisa and Kai gripped Aric’s arm and Salach set quietly to work, dipping the needle, carefully piercing Aric’s flesh — dip, stab, stab, stab, dip, stab, stab, stab, countless times — then it was done.
Aric smiled at the thorn on his arm.
‘Your wound — it is a brot wound,’ Uthas said.
‘I know,’ Aric whispered.
It is for the best, Uthas thought. If he had lived I would have had to punish him for disobeying my orders. This way he keeps his honour.
‘Help me kneel,’ Aric said, and Salach and Fray lifted him, one at either arm. Aric grimaced, a groan escaping his lips, then he looked up at Uthas. ‘I am ready now.’
Uthas signalled to Salach as Aric dipped his head. Salach’s axe was sharp; Aric probably did not feel a thing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CORBAN
Corban shifted in his saddle, his backside aching and his shoulder itching from where he had been wounded in the fall of Dun Carreg. Eight days they had been riding since Camlin had spotted their pursuers, and he was exhausted. How was it that sitting in a saddle all day long could be so tiring? And so painful? Halion was leading them swiftly north, through a rolling landscape, much of it coated in dense woodland. Each night they had dismounted and walked extra leagues in an attempt to widen the gap between them and their followers. And each morning, before dawn, Gar would wake him to perform the sword dance and to spar. Others were starting to join them: Farrell and his da, Vonn, Halion and Marrock. Even Edana, claiming that if she were to be a true leader then she would need to learn how to swing a sword. Marrock had grudgingly agreed. And just this morning his mam had joined them: Halion had taken her through some forms with the spear that she now carried permanently. She had done well, her determination and athleticism reminding Corban of Cywen.