Looking at him she could not find the words to answer, just stared back at him as she rode away. A strange thought struck her.
I shall miss him.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CORBAN
Sweat dripped from Corban’s brow. The heat from the forge and the ache from swinging a hammer felt like familiar friends. They brought back a flood of memories, of working with his da in the forge back in Dun Carreg, Buddai slouched by the doorway. Good times.
Corban had asked Halion to find him a blacksmith who wouldn’t mind him using his forge for a day or so. With war looming close, that had been harder than Corban originally thought, but Halion was well liked at the fortress, so eventually somewhere had been found. It was cutting it close, though. The muster was finished, and Eremon’s warband was set to march on the morrow.
‘Enough,’ Farrell grunted, his tongs turning the piece of iron that Corban was hammering. It was the length of a dagger, but curved.
Corban hammered an iron pin through the wide end, punching a hole, then Farrell dipped it into a bucket of water, steam hissing. Finally he placed it beside a pile of similar pieces.
‘That the last one?’ Corban said, almost disappointed.
‘Aye. Fifteen blades. Still some work to do, though. They all need sharpening, and then there’s some leather work to be done.’
‘Aye. Let’s go see my mam.’
The streets of Dun Taras were packed, the population of the whole fortress seemingly determined to enjoy their last night of peace. Musicians strumming upon lyres or beating rhythms out on leather-skinned drums lined every street corner, men and women dancing jigs and singing loudly. Corban, Marrock and Camlin were winding their way towards the feast-hall through the growing crowds. Storm helped them through the throng, a pathway opening automatically wherever she padded. Once upon a time Corban would have shared the excitement — once all he wanted was to be a warrior, to fight in defence of his king and kin. He had had a taste of war now, though, and the thought of more of it filled him with dread. He was not scared, not of battle, anyway. It was more the knowledge of what came after — the loss of life, the grief and heartache. Memories of his da and Cywen flickered through his mind, and other faces: Heb, Anwarth, Mordwyr, those who had fallen on their flight to Domhain. With an effort he pushed the memories away.
‘There’ll be a lot o’sore heads on the morrow,’ Camlin observed.
‘They’ll have a nice long walk to the border to work it off,’ Marrock said. ‘Besides, I don’t blame them. Live life while you can, for who knows what the morrow will bring.’
‘Didn’t take you for a philosopher.’ Camlin smiled.
‘Events change us,’ Marrock said. Corban saw him glance at his wrist.
‘Aye, that they do.’
He seems to be coping better, Corban thought. The bitterness that had stained Marrock’s voice every time that he spoke of his injury had faded during their time in Dun Taras. Perhaps he has come to terms with it now. Somehow Corban did not think that was true. If anything, his bitterness is buried, like rocks at high tide. I still see it surface every now and then.
The doors to the feast-hall were flung open, a wall of sound pulsing out. All manner of merriment was going on inside — dancing, wrestling, singing, dice and throw-boards, all to a tune and barrels of free-flowing ale.
‘Where are they?’ Corban said, almost having to shout over the noise.
‘Over there.’ Camlin led them to a great crush of people. Vonn and Halion greeted them.
‘What’s going on?’ Corban asked.
‘Farrell,’ Halion said with a grin. ‘Look.’
Farrell was sitting at a narrow table, a warrior opposite him, all thick muscle and hair. They were arm-wrestling. Both their faces were red with strain, veins bulging in arms that seemed frozen, carved from stone. As Corban watched, Farrell’s opponent gave a great roar, his arm starting to move, first a tremor, and then Farrell had slammed it onto the table. The crowd erupted with cheering.
Dath appeared with a jug in each hand.
‘That’s the third one he’s beaten.’ Dath grinned, passing a jug to Corban, who took a drink and then passed it to Camlin.
‘Is it a tournament, then?’
‘Aye, and he’s entered another sort too, by the looks of it.’
Farrell was still seated at the bench, but now sitting opposite him was Coralen. She was filling two pewter cups. Farrell took one and together they tipped the contents down their throats. Farrell screwed his eyes shut. Coralen laughed.
Corban slapped Farrell on the back.
‘She thinks I can’t hold a drink,’ Farrell said to him.
Coralen handed Farrell another cup.
Corban looked along the bench, saw Baird slumped upon it with his head resting on the table, half a dozen empty cups beside him.
‘What happened to him?’ Corban asked Coralen.
‘He’s sleeping off round one,’ Coralen said, flashing a grin. Farrell downed his drink.
Corban leaned close to Farrell’s ear. ‘Maybe you should concede, and stick to the arm-wrestling.’
‘Thish is my chance to impresh her,’ his friend replied loudly.
‘Never met a lady who’s impressed with vomit in her lap,’ Dath said.
A warrior sat down opposite Farrell; Coralen shifted along for him. He put his arm on the table, another challenger for Farrell.
This one didn’t last more than a dozen heartbeats.
‘Have a drink,’ Farrell said to his defeated opponent. Coralen handed out cups and they drank them down.
Someone tapped Corban on the shoulder — his mam.
‘Are they done?’ Corban asked her.
‘Aye. My thumb feels like it’s going to drop off — stitching leather is not easy, you know — but they’re done.’
‘Thank you, Mam.’ Corban hugged her.
A commotion drew his eyes back to Farrell. A group had approached the bench, a handful of men, Quinn, the first-sword of Domhain leading it. He was a big man, broad and thick muscled, with a flat nose that spoke of the pugil ring. His build reminded Corban of Helfach, Evnis’ dead huntsman. Maeve, Halion’s sister, was hanging on his arm. Quinn grabbed the warrior sitting opposite Farrell and dragged him out of the way, then sat and grinned at Farrell. He tried to wrap an arm around Coralen, but she slipped out of reach.
‘Want to try my arm?’ Quinn said to Farrell.
‘Coursh I do,’ Farrell slurred.
‘Keep an eye on your friend,’ Halion said in Corban’s ear. ‘Trouble follows Quinn.’
‘I don’t like him,’ Corban said. ‘He reminds me of Helfach.’
‘I can see the likeness.’ Halion snorted. ‘Not a good reason to dislike someone, but this time you’re right.’
‘How so?’
‘Let’s just say I wouldn’t want him guarding my back in a fight. There are rumours.’
‘What rumours?’
Just then the warrior whom Quinn had dragged from his seat crashed into Quinn’s back, sending him flying into Farrell. There were a few moments of chaos, fists flying and chairs turning over. Corban pushed forward to Farrell’s side, then Quinn’s followers were holding the warrior who had started it all upright, his hands pinned behind his back. Quinn punched him with a solid uppercut and the unconscious man was dragged from view.
‘How about that arm-wrestle, now?’ Quinn said as he sat back down.
Farrell wiped blood from the back of his hand, a cut during the brief skirmish, then gripped Quinn’s hand.
‘Begin,’ Maeve declared and instantly both arms were straining. The crowd around them roared to life, shouting encouragements, making wagers, some singing. Quinn was the bigger man, his arms bulkier, slabs of meat for biceps, but Farrell’s strength had been honed in the forge, like Corban’s, with years of hammer-pounding packing every fibre with strength. For a long time both arms remained fixed, immovable, then, slowly, a tremor appeared in Quinn’s forearm. His face was contorted with strain, jaws clenched, eyes bulging. His arm moved, just a fraction, and the crowd around them hushed, sensing the end.