‘Yes. Sorry. There were some phrases in this scroll that sparked a memory, particularly when my father questioned Nathair about this Meical. So.’ He spread the scroll on the table, finger tracing a line as he read. ‘Here it begins: We make war, we bleed, we gain, we build, but for what purpose? If Halvor spoke true then it is meaningless. It is all meaningless.’ He looked up at her. ‘You see what I mean: melancholy.’
She nodded trying to stay patient.
‘Halvor says the end-days are coming — but what will they end? An era, a life, all life? When the white wyrms spread from their nest, and the Treasures stir from their rest, he says, but the wyrms are sleeping, dust covered, perhaps dead, and the Treasures are scattered, spread.’
‘Those words in the middle of that — wyrms’ nests and the Treasures at rest — they are familiar to me. Meical spoke them, read them, at Aquilus’ council.’
‘Did he? Good, then we can be almost certain that this is referring directly to Halvor’s writing, then. There is more here, though, I am sure — scattered amongst the melancholia.’
‘And what of the Firstborn? Where are they now? In the end-days they shall tread this earth, Halvor says, the Faithful and the Fallen, strange-eyed men clothed in flesh and bone, one Ben-Elim, the other dread Kadoshim. One Lightbearer’s servant, Black Heart, Spider that spins the web, high king’s counsel, one guide of the Hundred, Outcast, messenger of dread.’ He looked at her thoughtfully.’ And what to make of that,’ he mused.
‘It just sounds confusing to me, like one of the riddles my father used to ponder over. The Lightbearer part sounds good, though,’ Fidele said, her brow furrowing.
‘A riddle: yes, that is exactly what it is. A two-thousand-year-old riddle. Messenger of dread. Black Heart. Outcast. Spider that spins the web. Are any of these terms that you are familiar with?’
‘Only Black Heart — that is mentioned elsewhere in the prophecy,’ Fidele said.
‘High king’s counsel,’ Ektor mused. ‘Aquilus was high king, and Meical his counsellor. .’
He was. Uneasiness gripped Fidele, another thought splintering in her mind. And Nathair is high king now, with a counsellor of his own. She felt abruptly anxious, a seed of fear expanding rapidly until she felt short of breath. ‘I must go,’ she mumbled as she rose unsteadily, feeling the weight of stone all about her, suffocating her. ‘Solve these riddles for me,’ she gasped, grasping a hand to her chest, and rushed for the door.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CAMLIN
Camlin walked along the giants’ road, its stone slabs cutting a line through green fields. He was near the rear of their company, which had been swollen by the addition of Rath’s warriors.
Hard men they were, of that he had no doubt. There was something about them that reminded him of Braith and his old company of woodsmen living off the land and their wits. But, unlike his previous band of outlaws, there was an honour in what these men did, putting their lives on the line to keep the roads safe and free from the giant spawn. Almost a ten-night they’d spent in each other’s company, since the battle with the giants and wolven in the mountains. Their pace had been steady, but not fast, as most of Edana’s company were on foot. Still, they were safe now, had been for a ten-night, or a measure of safety at least, as much as could be expected anywhere in these Banished Lands.
He looked up; the sky was blue, the sun warm on his face, clinging to the end of summer. It was a good day, in more ways than one, so why did he have this sensation creeping over him, a hollow uneasiness taking shape in the depths of his gut?
Perhaps it’s vanity, he thought, knowing that he felt a growing sense of disappointment since they had crossed the border into Domhain, a sense of being no longer needed. He had guided this company, led them from danger to safety. And that had felt good, he could not deny it. You are of no use to them any more. They are no different from the rest you’ve dipped your head to — Braith, Casalu — all out for their own gain, using you until you’ve nothing left to give. Just watch, you’ll be forgotten about soon enough.
He felt himself frowning. Sometimes he really didn’t like the voice in his head.
Dath was walking beside him now, using his yew bow as a walking stick. Camlin noticed that the youth was watching him, following his gaze to the warriors on horseback in front of them.
‘That one there’s Baird, you know,’ Dath said to him, nodding at the back of the one-eyed warrior. After Rath he was the most famous, or infamous, of this bunch, and even Camlin had heard many tales told about the man whilst sitting around campfires in the Darkwood. The most common one told of how Baird’s hold had been raided by giants, back when he had been a lord of Domhain. His wife, bairns and shieldmen had been put to the sword, and he’d been left for dead, his hold burning around him. He had been found the next day, close to death, and taken in by a neighbour. Slowly Baird had been nursed back to health — the tales told — and as soon as he was able, he had borrowed a horse and ridden into the mist that hung over Benoth, land of the giants. No one had expected to see him again.
A ten-night later Baird had ridden out of the mist, back into Domhain. Half a dozen giant heads were tied to his saddle pommel, and he had a new scar on his face, the one that had taken his eye. Apparently he had never spoken of what had happened in the mist.
‘I know,’ Camlin said. ‘I’ve heard the stories too.’ He smiled at Dath’s awestruck face, and felt a pang of jealousy at the same time. He’d become used to seeing that look in Dath’s eyes when the lad was looking at him.
Don’t be an idiot.
Baird was trying to calm his horse, which kept shying from Storm. Camlin felt a swell of protective anger. Storm had been the subject of more than a few suspicious glances over the last handful of days. Not that he could begrudge these warriors their glances. He was part of a strange bunch, warriors, wolven, a dethroned queen and two talking birds. Craf had flown off early, but the other one still had its wing bandaged, and was sitting on Edana’s saddle pommel croaking quietly to Edana. After a few days of silence it had warmed to the girl, and now seemed to be in constant conversation with her. The other thing that drew the attention of their new companions was Gar. At first he had gone unnoticed, other than his unusual sword drawing a few glances. That had all changed the next morning when he had put Corban through his forms. He’d drawn a crowd then, sure enough. Gar was a mystery, his technique and skill with the blade earning him an instant respect amongst this band of warriors. They have not heard the half of it, though. All that he said about the God-War, and Corban. Camlin had not known what to think at that revelation and had chosen not to dwell on it. Something like that, if it was the truth, well, there’d be no keeping it hidden. If Gar was a mad man — and really that was the only other option — let him keep his hallucinations and fantasies. As long as it meant that he and Camlin fought on the same side, all was well and good. Corban had earned himself not a little respect after his training, as well; Camlin had even caught Coralen watching him with something like admiration in her eye. Not that she hadn’t had her own fair share of attention from others in Camlin’s company, Dath and Farrell especially. Each in turn had tried to impress her in his own clumsy way, though Farrell had been most persistent. He’d eventually come away with his ears glowing, though. The girl’s tongue was as sharp as the knife she’d used to cut that giant’s throat.
Camlin sniffed, catching the smell of decay seeping from the packages Corban and his friends were carrying — the skins they had carved from the dead wolven in the glade. Corban had been determined to take them, though he had been vague about the reasons. Brina rode a horse close by. She sat slumped in the saddle, like a sail with no wind in it. The life had seemed to have gone out of her with the death of old Heb. I liked the old codger, shame he’s gone. The death of someone close always did things to a person — grief, regret, anger, all left their mark. A lesson he’d learned all too well back in his youth, when he’d watched his mam and brother butchered by raiders. With an effort he pushed the memories away.