All of his Jehar warriors were sitting together, taking up about half of a long table that ran down the centre of the hall. Having been so solitary, he could tell they were a little overwhelmed, to be surrounded by so many people, so much noise. While Gramm’s family filled a large portion of the hall, he also had a number of other people under his roof – men and their families that worked for him, tree-felling, logging, working the barges that took timber downriver, stablehands, as well as a group of warriors, employed to protect his lands and trade. Usually they were busiest defending against raids from the north, out of the Desolation, but of late they had been busy further south, where rumour of war and raiding parties had increased the boldness of lawless men.
A handful of these warriors were gathered between Tukul’s table and the rest of his Jehar. They were throwing axes at straw targets, laughing, either applauding or mocking the various attempts. Tukul was surprised to see how accurate many of them were.
‘They are all handy with an axe,’ Gramm said from beside him, seeing where Tukul’s gaze was drawn. ‘Though none can out-throw my Wulf.’ He raised a cup and drank, slapping Wulf across the shoulder.
‘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 . . .