Riders appeared, at least a dozen of them, dressed for war in mail shirts, with helmets and long-hafted spears couched at their saddles, most with axes strapped to their backs.
Axes — awkward, clumsy weapons.
The riders saw Tukul and his companions and cantered towards them, one of their number peeling away and heading back the way they had come.
‘They are shieldmen of Gramm’s,’ Meical said, ‘scouting his lands.’
‘They look like more than scouts to me,’ Tukul said.
‘Their land is bordered by Forn Forest to the east, and the Desolation to the north. Nowhere is safe in these Banished Lands, but here least of all.’ Nevertheless Meical frowned as the riders approached, his own hand straying to the hilt of his sword.
As they approached, the riders gripped their spears, bringing them lower. Not committed to the charge yet, but prepared for it. Tukul felt a detached respect flicker to life. Their horses were bred for war, tall, big-boned yet with a rare grace to them, long, thick manes streaming, some plaited with leather.
The first rider raised his spear, and reined in his mount before Meical. He took his helmet off and hung it from his saddle, his men lining up behind him.
‘Well met, Meical. Father said to look for you.’
Meical stepped forward and gripped the rider’s wrist. ‘And you have found me, Wulf. Well met.’
‘And your companions — they have the look of those who were with you, all those years ago.’
‘You have a good memory, Wulf — you were only a bairn.’
‘Eleven summers — and I’ll never forget the day I saw you all. The horses!’
‘Are you riding my horses?’ Tukul asked, stepping forward.
‘Not yours exactly,’ Wulf said, turning his gaze upon Tukul. ‘But bred from them. My father says he had your permission.’
‘Aye, that’s true,’ Tukul said, moving towards him, holding his hand out for Wulf’s mount to smell, murmuring softly as he ran fingers down the animal’s muscled chest. ‘Your father has done well.’
‘You are not the only one who thinks so. Our horses are sought by many, both north and south,’ Wulf said, sitting straighter.
‘Come,’ Meical said. ‘I’ll be happier talking horse trade with a cup in my hand and my backside in a comfortable seat. We’ve walked a long way.’
‘Of course,’ Wulf said. ‘We shall escort you home.’
With that they set off, the riders spreading around them, a protective hand.
My sword-kin need no protection, Tukul thought, but he liked the gesture. It was good manners.
‘You are always ready for danger, here on the edge of the northlands,’ Meical said as they walked. ‘But you looked about ready to skewer us back there.’
‘Aye. You will not have heard the news, I guess, coming from Forn as you have. There is war to the south. In Isiltir. War parties have been raiding from the south, sweeping further and further north — burning out holds. They won’t be doing that to us.’
‘War? Between whom?’
Wulf shrugged. ‘We hear different things. An internal struggle for the throne. Romar is dead — in Forn, fighting the Hunen. At least, that’s the tale we’ve heard the most. Those he left behind are fighting over his scraps.’
Meical glanced at Tukul and they shared a grim look.
So many years we’ve waited. Have we waited too long?
Gramm’s hold was upon the crown of a low-lying hill, a tall timber wall ringing it. They approached from the south-east, walking through a series of fenced paddocks. Tukul saw a herd of horses like the ones these warriors were riding, at least a hundred strong. A thrill coursed through him at the sight and smell of them, and he shared smiles and appreciative nods with his followers. All-Father be praised, maker of such beauty. He wanted to stop, to watch, to ride, but knew it was not the time.
Soon.
They marched up the hill, Tukul catching a glimpse of barns and buildings clustered along the side of a wide river to the north of the hold’s walls. Beyond the river stretched a wasteland, punctuated by a scattered range of mountains receding into the distance. The Desolation: a peninsula of land where the Scourging had raged hottest, so the histories read. The land was all but barren, pitted and scarred and broken from the outpouring of Elyon’s wrath. Tukul paused, gazing reverently into the distance.
To see such a place, where Elyon once touched this earth.
Reluctantly he moved on and soon passed through a wide arched gateway into a busy courtyard.
Gramm had changed — he was thicker about the waist, with streaks of grey in his fair hair. His face was still open and friendly, though, something that Tukul remembered from their first meeting. Gramm greeted them, hugging Meical and Tukul, then showed them to rooms with fresh-poured steaming bowls of water.
‘Wash away the dust of the road. We shall feast tonight,’ he said, ‘and celebrate. An auroch is being slaughtered as we speak.’
Tukul wiped grease from his chin, savouring the hot meat as he chewed. They had not starved while living in Drassil, but the journey through Forn had been long and dark, with little time for hunting and cooking. This roasted auroch tasted like the finest meal he had ever eaten.
A long hall lay at the centre of Gramm’s hold, and tonight it was filled. It seemed that Gramm had done well indeed. His timber trade had made him wealthy, and he was famous for leagues round about for the quality of his horses. He had told Tukul that he had bred two lines from the horses Tukul and his warriors had left here fifteen years ago. One he’d kept pure; he said the herd numbered in its hundreds now. The other he had crossed with a hardy breed from the north, big boned and heavily muscled, bred for heavy work and lots of it. The result had been the horses Tukul had seen today, and he had to admit that he was impressed.
Gramm had been successful in other ways as well; he had introduced Tukul to more sons, daughters and grandchildren than he could possibly remember. Tukul had felt a stab of jealousy at seeing the joy that family brought this man. He had always dreamed of many sons, of laughter and the sound of running feet in his halls.
It was not to be. He sighed. He had left his only son in a strange place with a task greater than any other he could conceive. He struggled even to remember his face now. And Daria, his beloved wife, she had crossed the bridge of swords over twelve years gone. Wounded in a clash with a draig in Forn, taken by the fever a ten-night later.
He lifted his cup in a silent toast. My Daria. My son.
All of his Jehar warriors were sitting together, taking up about half of a long table that ran down the centre of the hall. Having been so solitary, he could tell they were a little overwhelmed, to be surrounded by so many people, so much noise. While Gramm’s family filled a large portion of the hall, he also had a number of other people under his roof — men and their families that worked for him, tree-felling, logging, working the barges that took timber downriver, stablehands, as well as a group of warriors, employed to protect his lands and trade. Usually they were busiest defending against raids from the north, out of the Desolation, but of late they had been busy further south, where rumour of war and raiding parties had increased the boldness of lawless men.
A handful of these warriors were gathered between Tukul’s table and the rest of his Jehar. They were throwing axes at straw targets, laughing, either applauding or mocking the various attempts. Tukul was surprised to see how accurate many of them were.
‘They are all handy with an axe,’ Gramm said from beside him, seeing where Tukul’s gaze was drawn. ‘Though none can out-throw my Wulf.’ He raised a cup and drank, slapping Wulf across the shoulder.