It was wonderful.
They had stayed at Gramm’s for two nights. The arrival of the child-king Haelan and his guardian had set a fire in Meical. They had stayed long enough for Gramm to gift them with horses and provisions and then left. Finding seventy-two horses for warriors as fussy as his Jehar was no easy task but they were wonderful animals. Gramm had given them free choice from both of his herds – the pure bloods and the cross-breeds. Many of Tukul’s people had chosen the pure-bloods, he suspected out of a sense of nostalgia, a reminder of home, the white-walled city of Telassar. He had chosen one of the cross-breeds, a powerful piebald mare, because he was riding to war, and if ever he had seen horses made for war, these were it. Daria, he had called her, after his wife. She wouldn’t have minded – horses were almost family to the Jehar.
There was one other gift that he had been given whilst at Gramm’s, but not from Gramm. It was an axe, presented by Gramm’s son, Wulf.
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.’