‘You look more like a bear than a wolven,’ Coralen had said to Farrell.
‘Thank you,’ Farrell said.
‘It wasn’t a compliment.’
They were spread out along the slopes above Rhin’s warband now with over a score of Rath’s warriors – all huntsmen used to this terrain. They waited for the signal. Corban felt his eyes drooping. He was tired, had had trouble sleeping for a while now, ever since Dun Taras. And he always woke the same: sweating, scared, a half-remembered dream fluttering in his mind. Dreams of war, but with great winged creatures fighting in the air, almost like tales of the Scourging, when the Ben-Elim and Kadoshim had fought. Probably nightmares brought on by Gar’s mad delusions. He scowled at Gar, who was crouched beside him.
‘Rub your hands together,’ Gar whispered. ‘When the signal comes we must be quick, and you will be stiff with cold.’
‘I can’t,’ Corban said. ‘I’ll chop my arm off.’ He held up the makeshift wolven claw buckled to his left arm.
‘Oh yes,’ Gar said. ‘Remember what Rath said, Ban. In and out. You and Storm will be targets.’
‘This is important, Gar,’ Corban muttered.
‘I know. But so are you.’
Because I’m this Seren Disglair. I can’t even pronounce it, how can I be it? He glanced at Gar, wished that this talk of Elyon and Asroth had never happened. He felt that it had driven something between them. When will he accept that it is all in his mind?
Gar drew his sword, grabbed a handful of loose soil and rubbed it along the blade. ‘Do the same. It will stop reflections – moon, stars, firelight.’
Corban nodded and copied Gar.
A noise drifted up from the valley, shouting, higher-pitched screams. Rath had said he had arranged for a feint to be led against the front ranks of Rhin’s warband. That would be their signal.
That’s it.
Corban shared a look with Gar and then they both slipped around the boulder they were hiding behind, half-slithering down the hillside. Storm followed silently.
Tents were set all along the giants’ road; directly below Corban many were spread along the embankment and grass that led to the hill slopes. Crouched low, sword in one hand, claws in the other, Corban reached the bottom of the slope, his heart thumping in his chest, fear bubbling in his gut.
Control it, master your fear, he ordered himself.
Men were outlined against a campfire, at least a dozen of them, all standing, looking towards where the noise of battle was drifting down the valley.
Corban heard a thrum, saw one of the men before the fire stagger, an arrow shaft sticking from his shoulder.
‘Foe,’ Corban whispered to Storm and together they leaped forwards, slashing, stabbing, biting. Gar surged forwards to his left, his curved sword moving in swooping arcs. Men fell before them, crashing into the fire, sparks flaring, the smell of scorched hair and flesh everywhere.
Corban slashed with his claws, stabbed with his sword, Storm close by pinning someone to the ground, their terrified screams suddenly cut short. A man before him fumbled with his sword as he staggered backwards, utter terror etched on his face. Corban snarled and followed him, caught a weak sword blow between his iron claws and punched his own sword into the man’s stomach, slashing him across the chest as he toppled over.
And then there were no more men standing about them.
‘Come on, Ban,’ Gar called to him. He was running towards an embankment that led up onto the giants’ road. Warriors were milling in confusion up there, campfires blazing periodically, framing the chaos. ‘They need to see you,’ Gar was yelling. ‘There’s no point only leaving the dead behind.’
He’s right, we are a fear that needs to spread like a disease. He bent low and ran up the embankment, barrelling into a warrior, knocking him to the ground, slashing at his face as the man fell. Storm and Gar burst onto the road on either side of him, Gar cutting deep into a man’s chest, Storm snarling, crouched low. Corban saw a warrior turn and run at the sight of her.
All about the road men were milling, weapons drawn, looking fearfully out into the darkness. Corban saw another man near a blazing campfire stagger and fall, an arrow jutting from his chest. Camlin or Dath. He glanced left and right, heard pockets of shouting, the clash of weapons in both directions. Rath’s plan was for each warrior wearing the wolven skin to attack at different points, and a few men about them to protect and add to the confusion. They were not supposed to stay long, just long enough to kill a few, to maim more, and let their wolven pelts be seen.
‘This way,’ Gar said, leading him along the road, deeper into the mountains. Corban followed, running low, slashing with his claws as he went. Storm kept pace, men running from her.
Others began to appear along the road: warriors grouped together, grim faced, weapons levelled.