CHAPTER FORTY
CORALEN
‘I see them,’ Coralen said, turning in her saddle and gesturing to Rath.
‘Where?’ asked Rath, squinting into the distance.
‘There,’ Coralen said, pointing. ‘Not on the giants’ road. To the south, moving into the foothills before the mountains.’
They were riding through grassland, skirting the giants’ road. Up ahead loomed the range of mountains that separated Domhain from Cambren, the giants’ road cutting a deep gully through them.
‘Damn my old eyes,’ Rath said, then was silent a while. ‘I see them,’ he said finally. ‘Well done, Cora; you’re the best tracker I’ve known, and I’ve known a few.’
Coralen snapped a glance at him, surprised. ‘You going soft in your old age?’ she said.
‘Maybe I am. How long till we catch them?’
‘Depends. One day, if things stay as they are.’
‘Good. My arse is sore — too much riding. I must be getting old — I’d rather be having a drink back in Dun Taras.’
Coralen snorted.
‘Still don’t like visiting your home?’
‘Dun Taras? That’s not my home. Here’s my home.’ She slapped her saddle. ‘Anywhere you are is my home.’
‘Now who’s going soft?’
Coralen smiled at that. Truth be told, she’d rather be just about anywhere than back in Dun Taras.
They had tracked the giants all the way from the border of Benoth, pausing briefly at Dun Taras for Rath to warn King Eremon that giants were loose in Domhain and — worse than that — they had been within half a day’s travel from Dun Taras.
She didn’t like the fortress, it held too many bad memories, too many reminders, so she was much happier to be back in her saddle, even if it did mean a sore backside. Better that than all the bubbling emotions that rose up every time she was in sight of Dun Taras. It made her think too much, made her head ache. And she always just ended up feeling angry, usually fighting someone.
‘Let’s keep moving. Soon enough it’ll be time to spill some giant blood,’ Rath said, kicking his horse on.
That’ll do, Coralen thought. They rode hard for a while, a score of warriors in a long column. It was cold and the clouds were low and bloated. As the sun was sinking, Coralen caught glimpses of individual figures ahead, flitting through patches of woodland on the hills.
They’re heading for the pass. I know exactly where they’re going. She grinned to herself, then looked up and saw a bird high above, circling them; it looked like a solitary crow.
Baird rode up beside her. ‘Strange behaviour for a bird,’ the warrior said, staring up at it.
‘That’s what I was thinking.’ She reined in her horse and reached for her bow, pulling it from its case, laying it across her saddle. Then she opened a pouch on her belt and pulled out a bowstring. Deftly she strung the bow and nocked an arrow.
‘Too late,’ Baird said as she raised the bow.
The bird was winging its way into the foothills, squawking, flying in a straight line now.
‘Think you scared it,’ Baird said with a grin, the scars on his face creasing. ‘Don’t look so disappointed; there’ll be plenty more killing soon enough.’
That there will.
She unstrung her bow and led them into the foothills.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
UTHAS
Uthas ran, his legs taking long, ground-eating strides. The old pain in his knee throbbed but he ignored it, concentrating on his breathing. He could hear Salach behind him, the dull thud of his boots on turf, behind that the others: Fray, Struan, Kai and Eisa. Far above, Nemain’s raven Fech flew in a jagged line. Up ahead he could see mountains rearing behind the pine-coated foothills they were running through. And beyond them is Cambren, Rhin’s land. We will be safe there.
He risked a glance behind, his pace slowing a little. There was no sign of pursuit at first, then he saw it, a thin line in the distance, moving, following them.
Rath.
Fech had been right, back at Dun Taras. Rath had picked up their trail in the north and was tracking them south. Panic and anger had rippled through his group at Rath’s name, the reputation of the man and his band of giant-killers overriding rational thought. Fray and Eisa had wanted to fight Rath, to march out and meet him and his warriors, but Uthas had known it would be suicide. You did not fight Rath on his own ground, on his own terms. He had been too long and efficient at giant-killing. No, escape was the priority; fulfil the plans. So they had fled east, towards Cambren. Rath had gained on them, somehow, and for the last five nights their pursuers had been almost constantly within sight. He looked forwards and fixed his eyes on the mountains. Five leagues, at least. We will make it. It will be close, but we will make it. And he will not dare to follow us into Cambren.
The giants’ road was a shadowed line far below them. Uthas paused and looked back; he could see that Rath and his men were closer.
Damn them.
He muttered a curse and led his group quickly into the trees, a growing sense of alarm settling upon him. For the first time he began to consider the possibility of being caught by Rath, of being forced to battle. Of dying. As the thought grew, so did a sense of panic. By sunset he knew he had to do something.
He called a halt. They were still in the foothills, under the cover of dense pines, but further ahead he could see that the trees thinned and the path led into the mountains proper. He set Fray and Kai on watch while he scouted ahead and found a place far enough distant that he would not be disturbed. After making a small fire, he drew a knife and opened a small pouch, from which he pulled out a lock of brittle silver hair. Rhin’s hair. This was giant magic, earth magic — he cut his palm, rolled the lock of hair in his blood and dropped it into the fire. The flames swirled as a shape grew within them: a face, old and lined. Rhin. ‘What?’ Rhin said. Her eyes focused on Uthas. ‘This is not a good time.’
‘I must talk to you, now,’ Uthas hissed. Then he heard a bough creak above and looked up to see a dark shape, feathers. Fech. He froze and the bird flapped its wings, rising into the air.
Nemain cannot know.
He fumbled for his knife, found it, aimed and threw. There was a muted squawk as he found his target, then Fech was gone.
Uthas looked back to the fire, but Rhin’s face had disappeared. He stood, hurriedly stamped the fire out and left. He was on his own.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
MAQUIN
‘Something’s different,’ Maquin said as he looked up.
‘They’ve stopped banging on the doors,’ Orgull said.
‘Aye.’
‘Not that it seemed to bother you,’ Tahir added. ‘You’ve managed to sleep through most of their hammering.’
‘I was just resting my eyes,’ Maquin said.
‘Wish you’d have rested my ears — your snoring’s been loud enough to wake the dead.’
‘Watch your cheek,’ Maquin said as he stood, his back protesting. ‘I’m getting old.’
They were settled at the rear of Dun Kellen’s feast-hall, a large portion of the surviving warriors scattered about the room. The stone walls were solid and thick; the only wood that they could attempt to burn was the hall’s great doors, but the flames had achieved little success.
A warrior strode through a doorway at the back of the hall and approached them.
‘The Lady Gerda would speak with you,’ the warrior addressed all three of them.
Gerda was sitting in a wide chair when they were ushered in to see her; a warrior in chainmail and a bearskin cloak was before her. A child, the young boy Maquin had seen with Gerda before, sat in flickering shadows at the back of the room, whittling at a piece of wood with a small knife. Haelan.
Gerda smiled.