The Faithful and the Fallen: Ruin Part 100

He opened his kit bag, pulled out his coat of chainmail. He'd chosen not to wear it stupid, maybe, as he'd been going into battle, but the thought of wearing a mail shirt while in a boat, travelling across rivers and lakes. No, the thought of drowning held a special terror for him.

Then he took out the box, turning it in his hands. He tried the lock again, but it would not shift. He shook it, something solid rattling around inside, took out his knife and wiggled it in the lock.

It would not open. He pressed harder and harder, in the end his knife slipping and cutting the palm of his hand. A flash of anger and he threw the knife, then stood with the box in both hands.

Can't carry this stupid lump of wood around with me wherever I go.

He raised it over his head and smashed it down upon the tree root, as hard as old bones.

There was a loud crack and the lid flew open.

Pleased with himself, he sat back down again, the hounds coming over to be nosey, and he looked inside.

A cup sat in the box, not particularly fancy, dark. He lifted it up to the light and was surprised by how heavy it was.

It's made out of some kind of metal. He twirled it in his hand, saw it was mostly black and smooth, here and there a paler vein running through the metal. Around its rim old runes curled in a scrawling script.

Well, I've carried a cup five hundred leagues across the Banished Lands. He laughed to himself and hefted it to throw it in the river, then paused. Looking at it, he suddenly felt thirsty.

Might as well have a drink from it first, let it earn its keep.

He poured some of his wine into the cup, swirled it around a little, then drank it down. He'd intended to only take a sip, but then he was smacking his lips and the cup was empty.

Maybe it's a magic cup, he thought, one that makes everything taste nicer. P'raps I won't throw it in the river.

He could feel the wine in his belly, a warm glow. As he thought about it the sensation grew, felt as if it was spreading through his veins, warm and wonderful, like tendrils of gold.

He groaned in pleasure.

The sensation grew, spreading to the far corners of his body toes, fingers, into his head, behind his eyes, swirling, intoxicating, better than the finest usque his da had ever let him sip. He heard laughing, realized it was him, and then he felt gra.s.s on his cheek. The cup rolled out of his fingers, into the gra.s.s.

Waves of pleasure pulsed through him, continued to grow, becoming uncomfortable in their intensity, too wonderful, an itch behind his eyeb.a.l.l.s, feeling as if his heart was swelling in his chest. He groaned again, but not from pleasure this time. From fear, pleasure turning to pain. He curled his legs up to his chest, writhed and groaned and squirmed, the dogs sniffing and whining around him, ears back, licking his face.

Then he screamed, his whole body going rigid, sweating, every muscle in his body locked in an endless spasm. He tasted blood, realized he'd bitten his tongue. Darkness swooped down upon him, his vision blurring, the world around him fading, and then he knew no more.

CHAPTER NINETY.

CORBAN.

Corban marched along the dank tunnel, torches lodged high in sconces punctuating the darkness, the thud of his boots and whisper of Storm's footsteps echoing ahead of him.

He felt as if he was going insane.

The enormity of what Meical had just told him kept hitting him, rolling over him like endless waves upon a beach.

His first thoughts had been for his friends, of telling them. Of telling Gar.

He has lived his whole life devoted to the prophecy, and to me because of it. His father died because of it. It will destroy him.

How can I tell everyone else? So many who have lost so much for this strategy, as Meical called it.

What will they think?

What will they do?

Will they all leave Dra.s.sil? Go back to their homes? Give up?

And then, hitting him like a hammer.

What will I do?

The truth was that right now he did not know. All he knew was that he needed to be away from Meical. His rage had scared him in the great hall, knowing that he was only heartbeats away from drawing his blade on the Ben-Elim. And, despite everything, he did not want to see Meical dead. Or even try to kill him. There had been something raw and honest in Meical's confession, and as he'd listened to the Ben-Elim Corban had even felt an edge of sympathy for him completely overwhelmed by all-out rage right now, but he knew it was there nevertheless.

He looked at Storm beside him, rested a hand upon her back and carried on walking.

Figures stood highlighted beneath the next pool of torchlight, two men, swords at their hips, one with a spear. Corban had lost track of how long he had been walking, just knew that his anger had started to recede not fade or disappear, but at least to stop bubbling and spluttering in his mind like a thousand angry hornets kicked from their nest. And his stomach was growling, telling him to find some food.

The figures loomed closer two guards set on the first trapdoor into Forn. He recognized them as he drew closer, the two oarsmen Atilius and his son Pax. Corban waved them a greeting as he drew near, and they both looked pleased when he addressed them by name.

Both of them bore marks from the battle before Dra.s.sil's walls: Pax had linen bandaged around his head and Atilius had a raw scar running down the length of his forearm, the st.i.tch-holes still visible from where they had recently been cut and pulled.

They both were talkative, smiling and asking about Dath.

He was handbound yesterday! Was it only yesterday? A lot seemed to have happened since then. Corban found it hard talking to these two men. He'd grown accustomed to people wanting to talk to him and always tried to take a few moments to speak with anyone who wanted to, but that had been before.

Before I learned of the great lie. He felt ashamed before them, warriors who had risked their lives before Dra.s.sil's walls, all in the name of a prophecy and a Bright Star. They looked at him, thinking he was something that he knew he wasn't.

I need some air.

'Would you open the gate for me?' he said. 'I could do with some sunshine upon my face.'

'Aye, lord,' Pax said, running up the slope that led to the hidden door.

Lord! Corban thought as he and Atilius followed more slowly.

'Any news on the next warband?' Atilius asked him. He was an old soldier, a warrior of Tenebral, and clearly used to war.

'No,' Corban said.

'We'll show them, if they ever reach here,' Pax said as he threw the bolt, his da moving to help him lift the oak crossbar.

'I don't doubt it,' Corban said as the door was pushed open and broken sunlight streamed in. 'My thanks,' he said as he stepped out into the fresh air, Storm loping off to sniff at a patch of dogwood.

'My lord?' Pax said nervously.

Not that again. 'Aye,' Corban sighed.

'Where are your shieldmen?' Pax looked about the forest. 'Forn is not safe.'

'They're all sleeping off hangovers,' Corban said with a wan smile. 'But Storm is with me, and besides, I won't go far,' he said to the two men. 'I'll stamp on the door when I'm ready to come back down.'

'All right then,' Atilius said and they pulled the trapdoor closed. Pax stuck his head out just before it shut and threw something to Corban a water skin and something rolled in linen. Corban smiled and then the door was closed, turf fixed to its top making it look like an ordinary patch of woodland.

He walked for a little while, drawn to the sound of running water, and soon he came upon a steep-sided river, fast flowing and narrow, its water foaming white and loud as it carved its way through a miniature ravine. Corban climbed a gentle rise that suddenly steepened until he emerged into a gra.s.sy glade on the brow of a hill, to the south the walls and towers of Dra.s.sil visible through the trees, behind and above the fortress the great tree spreading like a guardian of bark and branch. The sun was warm upon his face in this glade. He lay on his back and looked up, enjoying the sensation of not having a canopy of branches above him for a change. Cloud like faded gossamer veiled the sky, softening the sharp blue glare of spring.

From here the troubles of life seemed to fade, just a little, the storm of shock and despair that had been so overwhelming a short while ago receding to calmer waters. He propped himself up onto an elbow and unstoppered the skin Pax had thrown him. It was watered wine, not water, a little reminder of yesterday's celebration, and it tasted very good to his dry throat. Wrapped in linen was a chunk of cheese and a thick oat biscuit, which he shared with Storm. She sat and stared at him, perfectly still except for the drool dripping from one of her fangs. He threw her another bit of cheese and she leaped to catch it, jaws snapping, then padded over and bashed him with her head, knocking him onto his back again. She stood over him and licked his face.

He pushed her off and rolled over, felt a pinch in his arm and looked down to see his arm-ring, dark iron and silver thread curling around his upper arm, a thing of beauty. He remembered the night it had been given to him, Meical slamming his sword into the ground.

We are what we choose to be, Meical had said to him that morning.

The question is, what do I choose to be?

He thought over Meical's words to him, every sentence, poring over them. He noticed the air starting to cool about him, a strong wind coming up from the south.

'Time to go back,' he said eventually to Storm. 'I can't sit here forever. And I have an announcement to make.'

Meical's confession still hurt, almost more than he could bear, like a wound that had pierced deep unreachable, unhealable but he knew that he could not just hide away in the woods, that he had to go back, if not for his sake then at least for those others who had believed the lie and followed him. And there was more to this G.o.d-War than t.i.tles and the strategies and games of immortals. There were people. Kin. Friends.

I may not be the great warrior prophesied to come and save the world that I once thought, but I am a man who has lost his mam and da to war. Lost my home, my King, my friends. I will not just walk away from that. Calidus and Nathair are still a great evil, and they still need to be stopped. I will not turn my back on that fight, avatar of a lost G.o.d or not.

As he stood, Storm looked northwards, down the incline and into the shade of the trees. She growled. At the same time a sound drifted up to him on the wind from the south. From Dra.s.sil. The wild blasts of horns. He strained to listen and thought he heard voices, screaming, the clash of iron.

Beside him Storm's growl deepened, turning into a snapping snarling, the ridge of her hackles standing. Corban spun around, felt the ground tremble, saw branches shaking as something huge approached through the forest.

He told his feet to move but for a moment remained transfixed to the ground. Then a ma.s.s of fur and jaws and teeth emerged from the gloom and the treeline: a great bear with a blond-haired, paleskinned giant upon its back. He was wrapped in fur, a war-hammer slung across his back.

The giant from Gramm's hold that slew Tukul. Ildaer, warlord of the Jotun.

'I know you,' the giant grated at him.

Other bears emerged from the forest, two, four, five of them, each with a rider upon their backs.

Corban snapped a command at Storm as he turned and ran.

CHAPTER NINETY-ONE.

CORALEN.

Coralen kicked Akar's feet out from under him, saw him drop and attempt the roll that Sumur had executed so perfectly in front of them all during his duel with Corban, but Akar was a fraction slower and Coralen aimed a little higher, accounting for the attempted roll before it had fully begun.

The result was a dead Akar, or he would have been, if her sword had not been made of wood. He rose with a wince and a courteous nod, which she hardly even noticed. She was thinking about Corban.

I kissed him. Kissed him. And what does he do? Nothing. Even in her head the word was a snarl.

'Again,' she said to Akar. She didn't notice that he looked disappointed to be asked.

Their weapons clacked a staccato rhythm as they moved with the tempo of their contest. Akar was technical, fluid, perfect, like all of the Jehar; Coralen was movement and fury, but she was without her wolven claws, using just a practice sword. Akar broke through her guard with a feint and lunge and punched his blade against the flesh a fraction below her ribcage.

You just killed me.

That made her mad and she grabbed his blade, dragged herself up it and sawed her own weapon against Akar's throat.

'What was that?' he asked as he stepped away.

'You killed me, but not instantly. I was practising taking my enemy to the bridge of swords with me.'

He smiled at that and nodded his respect, then touched his hand to his throat, fingertips coming away b.l.o.o.d.y. Even though her blade was made of wood she'd managed to draw blood.

'I am not your enemy,' Akar said.

'What?'

'I am not your enemy,' he repeated, 'and I do not wish to die whilst training on the weapons court.'

'Sorry,' she muttered.

She'd been first on the weapons court this morning, expecting to see Corban, fully intending to give him as many bruises as was physically possible during a morning's training. When he had not turned up it made her angrier, her only option to take it as a personal insult.

He is avoiding me.