Maquin agreed; the thought of Jael getting away with his betrayal filled him with a white anger.
‘What brotherhood?’ Tahir asked.
‘It is more a cause,’ Orgull said. ‘The God-War is coming, and we’ll all be sucked into it, whether we want to or not. We already have been, if I’m right. There’s more to this than dealing with Hunen raiders. That black axe . . .’
Maquin thought of Veradis, of his talk of the prophecy, of Nathair, of the Bright Star and Black Sun . . .
Orgull rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘I met a man, a long time ago. He told me of what was coming, of what is happening now. Said he would need my help one day, to fight Asroth’s avatar. I pledged myself to him, to his cause.’
‘What, just like that?’ Tahir said.
‘No, not just like that,’ Orgull snapped. ‘There was a lot more to it, but I’m not inclined to repeat it word for word right now. Just believe me when I say I was convinced, and I’m not an easy man to convince. So I must find Braster and tell him, or know for certain that he is dead. I’ll understand if you’d rather keep walking. I feel like a mad man listening to myself say it.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Maquin said. ‘Watch your back, if I can. Tahir, you wait in the forest for us – you’d not stand much of a chance if we needed to leave with speed, not with that hole in your leg. And if we don’t come back, at least you’ve still got a chance of getting back to Isiltir, telling what’s happened here.’
Orgull stared at Maquin, then nodded. ‘Appreciate it,’ he said grimly. ‘Let’s be getting on with it, then.’ He marched off towards the campfires.
They made their way to where the forest thinned and they could see the survivors of the battle spread along the slopes before Haldis. The campfires were clustered in groups, the biggest lower down the slope. Maquin saw a glimpse of men with swords jutting from their backs ranged about it.
The Jehar.
‘Must be Veradis’ lot,’ Orgull whispered.
‘There,’ Maquin said, pointing along the slope, closer to the forest. There was a large tent, surrounded by a handful of fires. Slowly they crept closer, until the tent and fires lay between them and the camp guarded by Jehar. Two warriors stood before the tent’s opening. The orange glow of firelight flickered across their shields, the symbol of the black hammer clear upon them.
‘That’s them,’ Tahir whispered. ‘Helveth’s hammer.’
‘All right then,’ Orgull said, rubbing a hand across his bald head, skin rasping on bristle, ‘let’s do this.’ He passed something to Tahir; Romar’s sword, Maquin realized, then stood straight and walked out of the forest, hands raised high. Maquin hurried after him, afraid the guards would mistake Orgull for one of the Hunen, especially with that giant’s axe slung across his back.
The guards called them over, and after a few tense moments of explanation they were brought before Lothar, Braster’s battlechief. He listened to them, frowned at them a while, then turned on his heel and led them to the large tent. A guard opened the canopy for them and Lothar took them inside.
‘You must leave your weapons here,’ Lothar said, a tall, shrewd-looking man with a pointed nose and heavy-lidded eyes. He gestured to a warrior standing just within the tent. Begrudgingly Maquin drew his sword and set it down, alongside Orgull’s broadsword and giant’s axe. Then Lothar led them deeper into the tent. A man lay on a cot, propped upright with pillows. He was big, both muscled and fat. Red hair lay damp with sweat across his brow. His right arm was strapped in a sling. Braster, King of Helveth.
Another man was stood beside Braster, offering a cup to the wounded king. Braster took it, sniffed the contents and pulled a face.
‘You must drink,’ the man before him said, ‘it will ease your pain and speed your recovery.’
Braster sipped tentatively.
‘You must drink it all,’ the man said, then bowed and left.
‘Idiot,’ Braster muttered at the healer’s back.
Lothar ushered Orgull and Maquin forward. ‘We found these men on our camp’s fringe, my King,’ Lothar said. ‘They are the Gadrai of Isiltir, and they claim to have important news, fit only for your ears.’
Orgull stepped forward and bowed, clumsily.
Braster grinned in recognition, made to rise and grimaced in pain. He sank back into his pillows, pale-faced.
‘Look at me,’ Braster said, ‘my shoulder crushed by some giant’s hammer and now I’m fit for nothing.’ He scowled.
‘You should drink your medicine,’ Orgull said.
‘It tastes like urine,’ Braster muttered. ‘I am glad you live,’ he said. ‘I’d heard you were dead, along with the rest of the Gadrai.’