In memory of our axe-throwing, the young warrior had said. It was strapped tightly to Tukul’s saddle now, a single-bladed weapon covered in soft leather. For nearly two moons they had been riding through the flat plains of northern Isiltir, the black columns of smoke on the horizon telling the tale of war. They had seen few people, Meical taking them by less-travelled ways. Nevertheless, they had needed to cross rivers, and these were guarded. The bridge that crossed the Rhenus had been manned by a band of Isiltir’s warriors — about a score of them. They were too few and unprepared for the Jehar, who just rode through them, thundering across the bridge like the north wind. No one had pursued them.
They had carried on southwards, for days skirting leagues of stinking marshland, then crossed another river — the Afren, Meical told him, and moved into the realm of Ardan.
That had been three nights ago. They were cantering across a rolling moorland of gorse and heather now, watched only by goats and auroch. To the north the horizon was edged with a wall of trees, dark and brooding, though insignificant compared to Forn.
‘That is the Darkwood,’ Meical said, following Tukul’s gaze. ‘It marks the northern border of Ardan. On its far side lies the realm of Narvon.’
‘I know, I have studied many maps over the last few years. Soon we shall come upon the river Tarin, which will take us to Baglun Forest, Dun Carreg and the sea. And the Seren Disglair.’
‘Indeed,’ Meical said.
Excitement was growing in him. They would soon be there. Dun Carreg, home of the Seren Disglair. He could hardly believe these times were upon him. And I will see one other. My son. All-Father be praised.
When they reached the river Tarin they skirted south and followed the fringe of the Baglun Forest towards the sea, the ground carpeted in leaves of orange and gold. After another two days riding Tukul heard the call of gulls. He looked over his shoulder and saw Enkara first amongst his sword-kin. They had all heard it too. He grinned fiercely at them.
Soon they came upon a great road running across their path; it was made of cut stone, though worn and broken, with grass and weeds growing in its cracks.
‘This is the giantsway,’ Meical said.
Tukul stared, could see in the distance a dark smudge upon a high cliff top. Dun Carreg. A jolt of excitement passed through him.
‘We cannot approach in strength — they would bar the gates at the sight of you all,’ Meical grinned. A fierce excitement was scribed on his face. ‘Tukul, you and I will go. The rest of you, there is a glade within this forest, further along the road. A giant-stone stands in it. Wait for us there.’
Tukul nodded his agreement to his sword-kin and they parted ways — he and Meical riding the road northwards. The road cut through a landscape of rolling moors. A low hill stood nearby, a cairn sat on its crest, outlined by the cold blue sky.
They rode on in silence, then from between the undulating moorland the road spilt onto a plain, the fortress of Dun Carreg rearing high above.
The Seren Disglair is up there.
A village nestled at the foot of the hill that the fortress was built upon, beyond it the roar of a distant sea. As they drew nearer, a group of men rode from the village: warriors carrying couched spears and swords at their hips. They wore cloaks of black and gold.
‘Something is wrong,’ Meical said. ‘Those are not Brenin’s colours.’
The riders were closer, had seen them, some pointing. Tukul counted twelve of them.
‘They wear the colours of Cambren. Rhin’s colours,’ Meical said.
‘Should we turn back?’ Tukul asked.
‘Too late. They would only follow. Let us see this through, find out where it leads us.’
‘As you wish.’ Tukul reached down and slipped the leather cover from his axe. All-Father, may my arm be strong and my sword sharp. He glanced at Meical, at the longsword hanging at his hip. ‘When was the last time you used your sword?’
‘In this world of flesh? Against the wolven that gave me these.’ He ran a finger along the silver scars that raked his face. ‘Do not worry, my friend. If it comes to sword-work, I think I can remember what to do.’
The warriors rode up, pulled up before them.
‘What’s your business here?’ asked one of them, an older man, grey hair pulled back from his face.
‘We are travelling to Narvon. Just looking for a place to rest the night,’ Meical said, his voice warm, relaxed.
‘Where are you from?’ the old man asked. Men moved to their sides, curling around them.
‘Carnutan. Leaving the war behind. We’ve been on the road since midsummer. What’s the news, here?’
‘You’ve come to the wrong place if you’re running from war,’ one of the other warriors spoke up, a younger one, his beard thin with youth.
‘I heard Brenin was a peaceful king,’ Meical said.
‘Brenin’s dead. Rhin rules here,’ the young one said.
‘What about you?’ the older man said, fixing his eyes on Tukul. ‘You don’t look as if you’re from Carnutan.’
Tukul just stared at him, not sure what to say. Diplomacy had never been his strength.
‘He’s got the look of one of those that came with that foreign king,’ another man said.
‘That’s what I was thinking,’ the older man said.
‘There were Jehar here?’ Tukul blurted.
‘Jehar — that’s it. And I’m thinking you know that already. Are you a deserter? Not got the stomach for war? You should be across the water with the rest of your lot, with Rhin and Nathair.’
Tukul saw Meical stiffen at that.
‘He rode here from Carnutan, with me,’ Meical said, hiding his shock.
The old man looked at them both. ‘Think you’d both best come with me. We’ll see what Evnis has to say about this.’
‘Evnis?’ Meical said.
‘Aye. He rules here in Rhin’s place. Come along now.’
Riders closed about them.
Without a word, or even a warning look to Tukul, Meical burst into motion. His sword arced into the warrior nearest him, cutting upwards into his jaw, teeth and blood exploding. The man fell backwards, gurgling. Before any could react, Meical was turning his arm, using the momentum of his first strike to form his second, looping his blade down to crack into the helm of another warrior, denting the helm, the man slumping, senseless or dead.
Tukul pulled his axe free, threw it, and was drawing his sword from its scabbard across his back as the axe buried itself in the old warrior’s chest. Then the others were moving, shouting, yanking on reins, horses neighing, crushing together, weapons hissing from scabbards.
A spear-blade grazed Tukul’s cheek as he swayed in his saddle, using his knees and ankles to guide his mount straight towards the man with his axe in his chest. He grabbed the shaft as the man toppled backwards, wrenching it free, used the axe to turn another spear thrust and sliced his sword through the man’s throat, leaving blood arcing.
Four down, eight left. You need space, old man; don’t let them crowd you. He spurred his horse on, crashing through the loose circle that was pulling tight about him, sword and axe swirling, deflecting, cutting, another warrior toppling in his wake. Then he was in open space, turf instead of horseflesh about him. He tugged on his reins, his mount turning a tight circle, and caught a glimpse of Meical with blood on his face, his horse rearing, hooves lashing out. Riders were approaching from the village, galloping: more warriors seeing the conflict, five, ten, more.
This is not looking good.
He swayed in his saddle, leaning heavily to avoid a sword cut, slashed the man’s leg as he pulled back up, the muscles in his back straining, complaining, his axe-blade biting deep, turning on bone. He pulled it free, deflected a sword stabbing at his chest, heard the pounding of galloping hooves drawing closer, closer.