Cywen had stopped listening, only one thought swirling around her mind. Storm, she thought. It must have been Storm and Corban.
Rain dripped off Cywen’s nose. It had been raining since she woke, a soft, gentle drizzle that slowly seeped into everything, and now it was highsun, though it was hard to judge from the faint glow leaking through the low clouds. She was soaked through. A mist shrouded the land, reducing visibility to a score of paces all around. Veradis and the giant were on one side of her, Bos the other. She was not really paying them any attention, or the rain for that matter. She was consumed by a bubbling excitement mixed with worry, last night’s conversation still fresh in her mind. Storm, Corban, Mam, Gar, somewhere out there, and – best of all – these people, her enemy, were taking her to them. But were they still alive?
‘Why is your King so interested in Ban?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Eh?’ said Veradis, looking at her sharply.
‘Ban – Corban, my brother. Why is he the subject of a king’s attention?’
‘I am not going to discuss Nathair’s thoughts with you,’ Veradis said. ‘He is the High King of the Banished Lands.’
‘So?’ Cywen said. ‘He’s not my King, high or otherwise, and Ban’s my brother. What does he want with him?’
‘Tell me about your brother,’ Veradis said, and she noticed the giant walk a little closer.
‘Ban? What’s there to tell? He can work in the forge – our da was a blacksmith; he asks more questions than there are answers. He’s annoying. He could beat even you with a sword, given half the chance.’
Bos laughed at that. So everyone’s listening now.
‘He can make a poultice and cure an illness, he is loyal to the point of stupidity, his friends love him, I love him . . .’ She felt sudden hot tears blur her vision. I’ve never told Ban that. Why am I telling Veradis? She looked at the warrior beside her and felt a sudden swell of suspicion – Is he trying to trick me? To give something away about Ban? – but he was looking at her so openly, no deceit or cunning written upon his face. He is not so old himself, and first-sword to a king. Such responsibility for one so young. She felt her misgiving melt and sighed. ‘He’s just Ban. My brother.’
Veradis nodded thoughtfully.
A mounted figure suddenly appeared – Calidus. He spoke quietly to Veradis and the giant, then turned and rode away, back into the mist.
Veradis and Bos followed after him, Bos snapping a short command back to Cywen to keep up with them.
‘What’s going on?’ Cywen asked.
He ignored her and rode after Veradis and the giant, a group of warriors peeling from the warband to join him. Cywen touched her heels to Shield and cantered after them.
Calidus stood beside Nathair on his draig with a handful of the Jehar surrounding them, and Rhin, accompanied by Conall, watching close by. They were all looking in the same direction. Then Cywen saw something out in the mist as three big figures appeared, wrapped in fur and leather. Giants. She saw some of the eagle-guard reach for their weapons.
‘Hold,’ Nathair snapped, raising a hand.
The giants came nearer, approaching Rhin and Nathair. Their leader held a long spear, whilst one of the two behind had an axe slung across his back. With shock Cywen realized that the third one was female, although really the only difference was that she did not have a long, drooping moustache like the other two. Cywen glanced between these newcomers and the giant with Veradis, saw that he regarded these arrivals with narrow eyes, ridges furrowing his broad forehead.
Then Rhin spoke.
‘Greetings, Uthas of the Benothi; you and your kin are welcome here.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
TUKUL
Tukul the Jehar blinked as he looked up. Light was breaking through the canopy above, more than he had seen in many moons.
They were almost out of Forn.
Meical’s arrival at Drassil and its resulting lurch into action had lit a spark in his slumbering heart: tension, excitement growing, the promise of resolution to a lifetime of waiting.
It felt strange, but he had grown fond of Drassil, and even of Forn Forest, and the thought of leaving, of moving into a world of open spaces and a sky that went on forever felt almost uncomfortable. He laughed at himself – this from a man who had been raised in an oasis in the desert.
He put the thoughts aside and marched on, following the tall frame of Meical, while inwardly complaining at the stiffness in his knees. The damp. I hate the damp here. All else I can cope with, but the damp . . .
Behind him wound the long line of his sword-brothers and sisters, walking their holy pilgrimage in the name of All-Father Elyon. His, theirs, was a life of worship, devoted to the absent god. Soon it would become a pilgrimage drenched in blood, of that he had no doubt. The culmination of generations of devotion, of discipline.