‘Would you like to try?’ Wulf asked.
‘I like an axe well enough, when I need to cut some firewood,’ replied Tukul. He heard a snort of laughter from Meical.
‘An axe has more uses than that,’ said Wulf stiffly. ‘Especially here, where we are so close to the Desolation; there are things that come out of it that need some extra persuasion to stay dead. There’s a lot more weight in an axe. If you come face to face with a war party of the Jotun you may find your sword isn’t so well suited.’
‘I’ve survived fifteen years in Forn, fought wolven, draigs, other things that don’t have names, and I’m still here.’ Tukul shrugged. ‘But I am curious. Let me have a throw of one of these axes then.’
Wulf led him down to the gathered men, who parted to let him through.
‘Here, I’ll show you once,’ Wulf said. ‘All the weight’s in the head, so you let that do the work for you.’ He hefted a short-hafted axe that someone passed him, fixed his eyes on the target and threw.
The axe spun through the air, landed with a thunk a hair’s breadth from the target’s centre.
‘Here,’ Wulf said, passing another to Tukul.
Tukul swung the axe a couple of times, gauging its weight and balance. He took a deep breath, held it, then threw the axe.
Instinctively he knew he had thrown wrong. The axe head slammed into the target a handspan above Wulf’s and bounced off, falling to the ground. Raucous laughter burst around him.
‘You see the advantage of an axe,’ Wulf said loudly. He was grinning. ‘If you miss with the blade, you still stand a good chance of braining your enemy.’ More laughter at that. Even Tukul smiled. A quick glance at his Jehar, all sitting silent and grim, told him they were not so amused.
‘Another,’ Tukul said, holding his hand out.
‘Fair enough,’ Wulf said. ‘You’ve blackened your enemy’s eye already; let’s see if you can give him a matching pair.’
Tukul repeated his ritual — test the weight, fill the lungs, throw. This time he knew it was a better effort. It spun, hit with a satisfying thunk, the blade sinking into the straw, two fingers from Wulf’s. A silence fell upon the group, then loud cheers and applause. Wulf slapped his back and Tukul grinned.
‘I think I like your axes,’ Tukul said to more laughter. He noticed some of his sword-kin rising and walking over — Enkara, Jalil, Hester, others behind them. I knew they would not be able to resist. ‘Again,’ he said, holding out his hand.
Just then the great doors of the hall swung open, letting a cold draught of air swirl in, making the fire flare in its pit. Figures filled the doorway, two men with spears — guards, Tukul realized — leading two others. The hall fell silent as they approached Gramm.
The two being escorted were an odd pair — a young warrior and a boy who walked beside him, not more than ten or eleven summers, Tukul guessed. The warrior rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. They were both travel stained, looked close to exhaustion, their steps unsteady. They stopped before Gramm.
‘They were found on the southern border,’ one of the warriors told Gramm. ‘Said they’ve got something to say, but only to Gramm.’
‘My mam said Gramm’s the one I need to speak to; no one else,’ the boy said, his voice reed-thin, a tremor in it.
‘Is that so?’ Gramm said. ‘You look more in need of hot water and something in your belly than talking to me,’ he added, peering at the two. ‘I am Gramm, so tell me who you both are, and then let me hear what it is you have to say.’
‘I am Tahir, last sword of the Gadrai,’ the warrior said, standing straighter. A ripple ran through the hall at that. ‘We bring news of war. Jael of Mikil has slain King Romar and claimed the throne of Isiltir.’
The boy stepped forward, pushing past Tahir’s protective hand. Tukul saw the tremor in his limbs. Fear and exhaustion combined, but he will not hide behind his protector. I like him.
The boy raised his chin. ‘I am Haelan, son of Romar and Gerda, rightful King of all Isiltir. And we have come here seeking your Sanctuary.’
CHAPTER SIXTY
CORBAN
Corban woke with a stiff back.
Strange, after my first night in a bed since. .
He pushed the thought away, still not liking to think of his last days in Dun Carreg. Always the first memory would be of Nathair driving a sword through his da’s chest. With a sigh he climbed to his feet and picked his way towards the kitchen, the stone floor cold.
They had arrived at Dun Taras yesterday. Halion, Edana and Marrock were taken almost immediately to an audience with King Eremon, while the rest of them had waited in a secluded courtyard and gardens. That had been after they had managed to get through the gates of Dun Taras, which had almost not happened. The guards had taken a very dim view of allowing a wolven to walk into the fortress. Craf flying up to the battlements and hurling insults at them hadn’t helped matters much, either. But eventually Rath had overruled the captain. Word spread about them quickly enough; a crowd of children followed them, as well as a fair few adults, most of them pointing at Storm, not Edana.
The meeting between Edana and King Eremon had gone well, according to Halion, though Edana had not looked so convinced. They had been housed in a large stone dwelling on the outskirts of the fortress, where it was easier for Storm to stay with them. Edana had been offered chambers in the keep, but she’d chosen to stay with ‘her people’, as she was referring to her small band of companions.
Dawn was close, pale light leaking through a shuttered window in the kitchen. The bulk of Farrell was a dense shadow sitting near the glowing hearth. Corban pulled a chair over and joined him, warming his hands. Soon Corban heard the pad of feet and Dath came to join them. The three of them sat in silence a while, watching the embers in the fire.
‘Does it get easier?’ Farrell said, his voice harsh in the silence.
Corban sighed, instantly knowing what Farrell was talking about. He missed his da too. They’d all lost their fathers to battle in just a few moons.
‘A little,’ he said. ‘At first it felt as if I had a hole inside me, an empty space that hurt more than any wound. Just to think of him would take my breath from my body.’ He looked at Farrell and Dath. ‘But with everything that’s happened since we left Dun Carreg — the possibility of dying each and every day. It’s been distracting.’
Dath snorted an agreement.
‘Not that you forget,’ Corban continued. ‘I’ll never forget.’ In his mind he was suddenly back in Dun Carreg’s feast-hall, smoke and screaming thick about him, watching Nathair sink his sword into his da’s body. A rush of emotion swelled within him, almost a physical pain, a fist gripping and twisting his heart.
‘All that talk about your da,’ Dath said, looking at Farrell. ‘About him being a coward.’
Farrell looked at him, eyes narrowing.
Anwarth, Farrell’s da, had been shieldman to Ardan’s old battle-chief. In some conflict or other Anwarth had been accused of cowardice, of playing dead while his chief had been slain. Nothing had ever been proven, but accusations like that, they never went away.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Dath said. ‘He volunteered to stay with Marrock, knowing that to stay meant to die. And I saw him in the battle. He was no coward.’
Farrell reached out and squeezed Dath’s shoulder.
‘Ouch,’ said Dath.
‘Your da was no coward, either. He tried to storm that boat all on his own.’
‘He did, didn’t he?’ Dath said. He looked at his hands, his face crumpling. Tears spilt down his cheeks.
‘He loved you, you know, Dath,’ Corban whispered.
‘Did he so? Why was he always hitting me, then?’
‘I don’t know,’ Corban shrugged.