‘They are rallying, it’s time to go,’ Gar said. ‘Quick.’ He pointed into the night, towards the embankment. Corban ran.
He sprinted along the edge of the road, Storm bounding ahead, Gar’s feet slapping behind. Corban was about to slither down the embankment when he saw a sight that pulled him up short.
A knot of combat seethed before them, the clash of iron ringing out, sparks flying. Figures were rolling on the ground, one of them fur-covered. Corban caught a flash of red hair. Coralen. Nearby Corban recognized one of Rath’s warriors trading blows with someone, saw Rath’s warrior crumple as he was stabbed with a spear in the back. Further on Corban saw a row of warriors, their shields raised. Something about it stirred a memory in him, but then Coralen was shouting, snarling, drawing his eyes.
He ran forwards, hacked at the spear still buried in his comrade’s back, splitting its shaft, and slashed the warrior holding it. The man fell away screaming, clutching at his face. The two rolling on the ground came to a halt, the warrior on top of Coralen, sword arm rising. Corban leaped forwards, grabbed the man and rolled, lost his grip of his sword, just kept slashing and stabbing with the claws on his left hand, slowly realizing his enemy was limp in his arms.
Hands grabbed him, pulling him to his feet – Coralen. She returned his sword. Gar stood close by, holding back two men. Storm was ripping a hole in a warrior’s belly, blood spraying. Gar’s sword slashed through one man’s throat, sending him reeling back; the other man fighting him drew away, one arm hanging limp.
‘We must leave, now,’’ Gar said. Corban turned and began to run, then saw the wall of shields on the road again, closer now. He stopped dead, remembering where he had seen its like before.
In Dun Carreg. The feast-hall, the night his world had changed. The night his da was killed.
They were Nathair’s men, eagle-guard.
He walked closer, for a moment forgetting all else, shaking off Coralen’s hand as she tugged at him.
‘Nathair!’ he yelled, his voice cutting the night.
Gar followed him, sword held ready, eyes scanning the wall. Corban remembered the man Gar had fought. Storm padded on his other side, snarling, fangs dripping red.
‘Nathair,’ Corban yelled again, emotion cracking his voice. ‘Come out, face me.’ A memory consumed him: Nathair plunging a sword into his da’s chest. His knuckles became white about his sword hilt.
A figure stepped from the wall, a warrior. Not Nathair, stern faced, fairer haired, though of a similar age.
‘Nathair is not here. But I will face you, Black Sun.’ He took another step closer and raised a short sword.
Black Sun? The words registered, but were stripped of meaning as Corban was gripped by a swirl of grief and anger. He made to move forwards, then Gar was before him, his curved blade raised high. The world froze.
A shout rang out and the shield wall shuddered into life, lurching forwards one step, more. A space opened behind the unsuspecting warrior who had challenged Corban, moving about him before he realized what was happening. Shields pulled tight before him with a crack of wood. Corban heard a muffled voice, shouting. The shield wall continued to move forwards.
Corban stood there in shock, glaring, almost ready to launch himself at the wall of shields, but his bubbling rage did not erase his memory of what would happen if he got too close to those shields: a host of swords darting out. He could not break through it, he knew that.
‘Tell your Nathair I will kill him one day,’ he yelled, then turned and slithered down the embankment, his companions following. They swept through tents, not amongst warriors now, but the people that always accompanied a warband – families and tradesmen. Corban and his companions chopped at ropes, tents collapsing, kicked pots and cook-stands into fires, spreading panic as they went, and then they broke out into the night and were scrambling up a slope back into the safety of the hills. Coralen led them, twisting around black boulders and through patches of loose soil until Corban felt the soft cushion of pine needles beneath his feet. Here they paused, all four of them catching their breath and looking back down into the valley.
Points of light drew the eye, the campfires looking like candle flames from this height, winding along the giants’ road. Towards the rear of the warband flames spread as tents caught fire in the wake of Corban’s passing. The sound of battle was gone now, but confusion still seemed to be spreading amongst the warband, horn blasts ringing out.
‘Best get back to Rath,’ Coralen breathed, her voice raw, and they moved off. Corban paused, sure he had heard the sound of something in the woods behind him, but nothing moved, so he set off again. He frowned to himself as he ran, though. It had sounded like the whine of a hound.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
VERADIS