He’s lying, thought Tukul. And even if he’s telling the truth, we are Jehar.
The sound of combat drifted behind them. They strode through empty corridors, down a long staircase, the steps wide and worn, then into another corridor. Tukul barked an order and some of his warriors peeled away from the back, groups of five positioning themselves at each new doorway. Soon fifty warriors became thirty.
‘We’re going to need a way out,’ he said to Meical.
Horn blasts echoed through the stronghold – the call to arms. Tukul heard the slap of running feet.
Guards appeared at the far end of the corridor, more than Tukul could see to count – at least a score, more coming behind them. The first ones paused for a heartbeat, then ran at him. He drew his sword, heard the familiar sound behind him as Meical and the others followed suit.
The corridor was wide, built by giants. Three men could stand abreast and still swing a sword. Tukul cracked their guide on the head with his sword pommel, saw him slump unconscious, then stepped into summer storm from the sword dance, his left hand forwards, blade arched over his right shoulder. He felt Meical and Enkara move to either side of him.
Let my heart be true and my sword be sharp.
Then he stepped into battle.
It was like coming home. He swayed and spun, ducked and lunged, and then his whole world was filled with blood, with the sounds of men dying. Most didn’t have a chance to make a sound, others just a surprised grunt or yelp, in an instant moving from life to death, to empty husks of meat and bone.
The battle swirled past him, the two groups filtering into each other. He carved a red path through all that stood before him. He turned an overhead blow and followed through with a short horizontal slash, saw the man stumble and fall, his blood draining from his throat and his life from his eyes.
Then it was over.
Meical and Enkara still stood either side of him; both were covered with blood. None of it seemed to be their own. The corridor was littered with the dead. At a swift glance he did not think any of his sword-kin had fallen. Then a sound drifted into the corridor. The clash of iron. Yelling, but it came from ahead, not behind.
Tukul and Meical shared a glance and moved on, their pace fast but not reckless. The sounds of combat ahead grew. They turned a corridor, followed the sound down a staircase, then Tukul pulled up short.
Before him he saw the backs of at least a dozen of Rhin’s warriors. Tukul heard the clash of weapons, shouting, a scream. Something was holding the warriors here. He glimpsed a form at the far end, a movement, the trail of a sword, a body moving fast, gracefully. Meical moved past him, sword high, and launched himself into the enemy. Tukul followed, chopping a head from its body with his first blow.
Panic ripped through Rhin’s men as they tried to turn and face this new enemy. In moments twelve men fell, bleeding out their lives into the cold stone.
Just one man had been holding the corridor against them. He fought still, against the last of Rhin’s warriors. He parried a frantic lunge, spun on his heel, reversed his sword and drove it into his opponent’s belly. They stood there briefly, close as lovers, then the victor pulled his sword clear and turned to face Tukul.
He was clothed in leather and fur and wool, a long, curved sword held loosely. But Tukul’s eyes were drawn to the warrior’s face. Weathered skin, dark, earnest eyes, a ridged nose.
Garisan. My son.
Tukul saw recognition dawn in Gar’s face, first a question in the eyes, then a twitch of the mouth. A hesitant smile.
Without a word Tukul strode forward and wrapped his son in his arms.
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO
CORBAN
Corban opened his eyes. He was hanging suspended, his arms stretched above him.
‘He’s waking up,’ a voice said.
He lifted his head, the effort launching a pain in the back of his head, a white-hot needle twisting inside his skull. He groaned and saw Conall and Braith staring at him.
A figure sat slumped in a chair close by. Rhin. Her head was resting on her chest, her breathing deep and slow.
Rhin. He closed his eyes, trying to contain the stabbing pain in his head. The Otherworld. Had it been a dream? Then it all came back, a flood, a kaleidoscope of fractured images – a domed building, a host of winged creatures, battle.
Asroth. Asroth had spoken to him, and to Rhin. Slay him, Asroth had told Rhin. Cut his heart from his body.
Fear rippled through him. His head snapped up and he pulled himself upright, ignoring the pain in wrists and head. Rhin still slept. Braith and Conall were moving closer, expressions of concern on their faces. Braith knelt beside Rhin and touched his fingers to her wrist.
Don’t wake her. The thought filled Corban like a silent scream.
‘I’d not do that if I were you,’ Conall said. ‘She said not to wake her, and I’ve seen what happens to those that disobey her.’