Get up,’ Braith snarled, looming over him. He pulled Corban up, punched him in the gut, backhanded him across the face, then held a knife to Corban’s throat.
‘I’ll bleed you here an’ now if you try that again,’ Braith hissed. ‘Rhin’d like you alive, but dead’s better’n nothing at all. You understand me?’
Corban nodded, feeling the knife burn at his throat. A hot trickle of blood ran down his neck.
‘Get moving, then,’ Braith said. He looped some rope around Corban’s bonds, and pulled him on.
Corban staggered forwards, risking a glance back. Shapes moved amongst the trees, iron sparking as weapons clashed. A hound screamed in agony. One figure moved fast and smooth, more a swirling snow wraith than a man: Gar. Corban knew him by the way he fought, the way he killed. Arcs of blood glistened about him, scarlet pearls against the snow.
‘On.’ Braith’s boot crashed into his back and Corban was moving forward, half-running, staggering through the trees. An arrow whistled close by, hit one of Corban’s captors.
Dath.
The trees thinned and then they were on a bare slope, the snow ankle-deep, blanketing the ground. Corban caught a glimpse of grey walls and dark towers further below them, cloaked by the snow.
Dun Vaner.
Braith shouted orders and more men dropped back, drawing weapons as Corban and Braith ran past them. There was yelling and screaming behind, iron on iron.
I will not run to Rhin, to my own captivity, torture and death, Corban decided. He threw himself to the right, legs first, and kicked at Braith’s ankles. The man went down in a tumbling roll, his knife flying from his hands. Corban clumsily climbed back to his feet and ran after the still-rolling form of Braith, kicked him in the chest as he came to a stop. Braith grabbed at Corban’s boot and the two of them fell together.
Corban rose to his knees, punched two-handed at Braith, caught him on the shoulder, sent him rolling backwards, Corban’s momentum carrying him further. Braith grabbed Corban’s hair, yanked hard, his other hand reaching for Corban’s throat, squeezing. Corban felt his veins bulging, heard his blood pounding like hooves; black spots edged his vision. He bucked in Braith’s grip, brought a knee up into Braith’s gut. The grip around his throat disappeared and Corban rolled away, lurched to his feet, took staggering steps back up the slope, towards his friends.
They were all there, merged with the treeline, fighting Braith’s men. He saw Storm crouched, a man and hound circling her. Coralen was swirling gracefully around a warrior, slicing his hamstrings with her wolven claws. Then he saw his mam, spear in hand, blocking a flurry of sword blows. Gar stepped in and took the man’s head from his shoulders.
He forced his feet to move, labouring back up the slope, his lungs burning. The sound of pounding, like hooves, grew louder and louder. Someone yelled behind him – Braith – and he looked back. He realized it wasn’t his blood pounding in his head, it was riders, emerging through the snow, warriors with long spears, surging up behind him.
Braith pointed at him and he turned and ran, making a last effort to reach his friends and the trees.
Something heavy crashed into his back and he was sprawling forwards, a face full of snow.
He tried to rise, then hands were grabbing him, lifting him, and he was slung across a saddle; a blow crunched into his head making the world spin. He was moving, bouncing across the saddle, the shudder of hooves on snow passing through his body. Somewhere behind him a voice screamed, high and clear. His mam. She was calling his name. He tried to look up but something clumped him across the head again and all the strength flowed from his body. The sound of combat faded behind him, then he heard hooves clattering on stone and he was riding under an archway, huge gates closing behind him.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
TUKUL
Tukul pulled his cloak tighter and scowled at the mountains. They were half veiled by heavy falling snow. It had started with dawn, and kept falling all day long.
I hate snow. Cold, rain, sun, I can cope with, but not snow. He looked up to the heavens. Forgive me, Elyon, it is part of your creation, but . . .
Telassar had been warm, always, even in winter. Even in Drassil when it had snowed they had been protected from the bulk of it by the dense treetop canopy. Some flakes would make it through the lattice of branches, but not enough. Not like this. He looked down and saw his horse’s hooves disappearing into the snow, past its fetlocks.
He rode beside Meical, his Jehar warriors riding in column behind.
They had travelled over a hundred leagues since Dun Carreg, had passed through Ardan and Narvon, then crossed rolling hills into Cambren. Here the going had been slower as Meical had taken them along less-frequented paths, through uninhabited lands, avoiding towns, villages and holds, though always heading for Domhain.