‘That is how we summoned the mist, during our escape from Dun Carreg,’ Brina interjected.
Corban nodded thoughtfully. ‘How did you learn these powers? Were you born with them?’
‘It is not something that just happens, like clicking your fingers,’ Brina said. ‘A bairn is not just able to wield a sword.’
‘No,’ Corban said, ‘but some take to it better than others.’
‘There may be something in what you say,’ Heb conceded, frowning. ‘This book talks of two paths to power. One is the way that Brina and I know a little of. The other. .’
‘The other we shall not speak of,’ Brina said.
Heb regarded her a moment, then shrugged. ‘Suffice to say that blood seems to be important. There are suggestions that some bloodlines are stronger; perhaps a purer lineage from the first men. And then there is the use of actual blood; from a living body-’
‘I said we will not speak of that,’ Brina snapped.
‘As you wish. You must understand, Corban, that this is not set out plain. Brina and I have spent years putting scraps of knowledge together.’
‘We studied and learned,’ Brina said. ‘There is value in reading, as I have always told you, though it took us years, decades, to discover even a small portion of what is contained in this book.’
‘So how do I make mist rise from the ground?’ He liked the thought of that, remembering the escape from Dun Carreg — a thick mist enveloping them, hiding them from their attackers. That could be a handy trick to know. He felt a glimmer of excitement.
‘In essence, the act of elemental control can be broken down to two parts,’ Heb said in his loremaster’s voice. ‘You have to believe it, and then you have to speak it.’
‘So if I tell mist to rise from the ground, then it will? It cannot be that simple.’
‘Well, yes and no,’ Heb said with a faint smile. ‘Your words show you are defeated already — you do not believe it will happen. I do not mean that you think it might happen, and so give it a try. You have to believe it, absolutely, as you believe a chair will support your weight before you sit upon it, or that an apple will fall to the ground when you drop it.’
‘And there is common sense,’ Brina added.
‘Yes, you must be aware of your surroundings. For example, you could not command a mist to arise from a desert. Mist is moisture, water. In Dun Carreg Brina and I commanded the moisture in the ground to rise up. If it had not been there to begin with, then nothing would have happened. You understand?’
‘Yes.’ Corban nodded. It did make sense to him. This is becoming interesting.
‘So, then, I have to believe whatever it is that I want to happen, and then I just speak it.’
‘Yes,’ Heb said.
‘Though it’s still not quite that simple,’ Brina said.
Of course it isn’t.
‘You have to speak it in this language,’ Heb said, taking the book from Brina and opening it. It was full of runes, a script that Corban recognized from the inscription carved into the archway of Stonegate, back in Dun Carreg.
‘Is that giantish?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Brina said.
‘It is much more than that,’ Heb said. ‘It is the first language. The tongue of angels, giants, men. It is the language of Elyon, the Maker.’
‘So I have to learn giantish.’ Inwardly, Corban groaned.
‘Yes,’ Brina said. She smiled.
There was a rustling in the undergrowth and Storm appeared. She nudged him, making him stagger, and then she growled, looking through the trees.
‘What is it?’ Corban said, then saw three figures appearing from the underbrush. He recognized Halion. Immediately Corban knew something was wrong — the figure in the middle was being supported, half carried.
Marrock.
He was waxen pale, one arm hanging limp, blood dripping from it.
‘What happened?’ Corban called as he ran to them, to help carry the injured man into their camp.
‘Wounded during our raid,’ Halion breathed. ‘Think he was mauled by one of their hounds.’
‘It’s not that bad,’ Marrock said.
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Brina snapped. She sent Corban running for her pack as she examined Marrock’s arm.
‘Everyone be ready to ride,’ Camlin called out, marching through the camp. ‘We need t’move. Think we’ve been tracked.’
All the mounts were saddled and ready.
When Corban returned to Brina she was pouring water from a skin over the wound. Corban caught a sight of frayed flesh and white bone amidst the blood. Brina took her pack from Corban, rummaged inside it a moment, then unstoppered a jug of something, muttered, ‘This is going to sting,’ and poured it over the wound. Marrock drew in a sharp breath and Brina bandaged his forearm, placing leaves over the bite-marks.
A horn call rang out behind them, answered by the baying of hounds, much louder than Corban would have liked.
‘We must leave,’ Halion said.
‘Dath, string your bow and follow me,’ Camlin said, mounting a saddled horse. Dath looked about nervously, then followed the woodsman.
‘Can you ride?’ Brina asked Marrock, who was drenched in sweat. He nodded and was hastily assisted into a saddle, then they were all riding hard away from the sound of their pursuers.
They rode through broken woodland all day, the land changing from meadows and wide valleys to rolling hills, the trees turning to pine as they rose steadily higher. In the distance, to the north-west, Corban could see a dark smudge on the horizon: mountains. Corban kept checking over his shoulder, hoping for Dath and Camlin’s return.
At highsun they stopped briefly to rest their mounts, then set off again. The afternoon passed. As the sun dipped into the horizon they were strung in a line behind Halion, who was keeping the horses cantering, making the most of the soft pine-needles that covered the ground, allowing a good speed.
We’ve made good time, covered a lot of ground. Surely we’ve widened the gap between us, Corban thought. But where are Camlin and Dath?
Then Marrock fell from his saddle, sliding like a sack of grain onto the pine-covered ground.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
MAQUIN
As the sun rose, Maquin stared down into the streets of Dun Kellen. Bodies buzzing with flies littered the ground.
The night had been long and hard fought, Jael’s warband assaulting Dun Kellen’s walls with growing desperation. There had been a dozen moments when Maquin expected to hear horns call the retreat to the keep, but somehow they still held the outer wall. Orgull had played no little part in that. Jael’s assaults had focused on the parts of the wall that had been rebuilt, a patchwork of timber and stone. Wherever the fighting was fiercest Orgull was there, dealing death with his giant’s axe, and Maquin had been glad to follow, his hatred of Jael fuelling his body well beyond its limits. As he snatched some rest now he felt muscles and tendons complaining, his shoulder throbbing, blood and sweat stinging his eyes. Not dead yet. His thoughts drifted to Kastell and he felt his stomach knot, his eyes drifting to the streets, searching for Jael.
Warriors were busy at work amongst the streets, chopping timber from houses, constructing makeshift ladders and battering rams. More than one of those lay discarded at the fortress’ gates, surrounded by corpses. Even as Maquin scoured the enemy lines a knot of men stepped forward, Jael emerging from amongst them. He stopped a distance from the gates, mindful of spear throws, and cupped his hands to his mouth.
‘Is there any of a rank left to speak with me?’ he called.
Muttering swept the battlements and Gerda came forward, dressed now in an ill-fitting cuirass, a short sword in her hand. Maquin smiled. She had grown in his estimation during the night, refusing to leave the wall, fierce in her exhortations to her warriors, terrifying in her cursing of Jael and his men. She had even charged forwards and swung blows at one point, when men had threatened to breach the wall. Warriors flanked her now, holding their shields ready as she approached the wall, no doubt remembering Varick’s fate.