‘No. I shall do my best.’ Veradis smiled now.
‘You will be fighting soon – today, tomorrow. Think on that, not about us walking north. We will be at least a moon travelling through Cambren before we even reach Benoth. We will not see trouble until then.’
Just then a group of warriors rode by, wearing the black and gold of Cambren. Queen Rhin led them. Cywen saw Conall close to her, wrapped in a dark cloak.
‘Is she going with you?’ Veradis asked Alcyon.
‘Aye, part of the way. She has some reason for returning to Dun Vaner. She is leaving Geraint in charge of her warband, but he seems capable enough. He did well against Owain.’
‘That battle ran to Rhin’s plan,’ Veradis said. He shrugged. ‘It does not matter to me who leads the warriors of Cambren. I will lead my shield wall and fight whoever is foolish enough to stand in front of it.’
‘You are fighting today?’ Cywen said to Veradis.
He nodded. ‘We are pushing into Domhain. I don’t think that Eremon will just allow that to happen. There will be a greeting arranged for us. Maybe not today, but soon.’
‘Oh.’ Cywen felt a knot in her stomach. She looked back, at the broad road that cut a swathe into the rain-shrouded mountains. Are my mam and Corban through there? Will they fight for Domhain? And Veradis . . . She looked at the young warrior, his expression so earnest.
Horns sounded, echoing through the throng.
‘Time to go,’ Alcyon said. ‘Stay safe, True-Heart.’ Alcyon offered his arm to Veradis, who gripped the giant’s forearm.
‘What did you call me?’ Veradis asked him.
‘True-Heart. It is your name,’ Alcyon said, then turned to Cywen. ‘On your horse, child.’
‘I’m not a child,’ she grumbled as she swung onto Shield’s back. She was feeling miserable again.
‘Farewell,’ Veradis said to her as she sat in her saddle. He reached out, his fingertips brushing the top of her hand. ‘Stay safe,’ he said, quietly.
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.