After Rafe’s revelation, Rhin and Conall had ordered the stableblock to be searched. It was not long before a hidden tunnel was discovered, a secret exit crafted by the giants. Conall had set off in pursuit, a hundred or so warriors trailing him, and Veradis searched the plains beyond Dun Taras now, looking for a glimpse of Conall’s passing, but he could only see an empty landscape rolling into the horizon.
We are strangers in a strange land, he thought. Shedding our blood, spending our lives, for what? He looked at his palm, saw the white scar of his blood-oath to Nathair. That is what for. For an oath given, a cause worth fighting for, a cause worth dying for. He looked to the north, his thoughts filled with Nathair. Then another face crept into his mind, drawing into sharp focus.
Cywen.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWO
UTHAS
Uthas strode through the dark corridors and cavernous chambers of Murias, shadow-filled places with flickering blue torchlight and the constant drip of water. Salach and Eisa walked at his heels. They passed a fire-pit with giants gathered about it. One called to him and he paused, raising his hand in greeting. It was Balur One-Eye, his white hair gleaming and his tale of thorns covering both of his arms in a dark spiral.
How many lives has he snuffed out?
‘Ethlinn said you would return soon,’ the ancient warrior said.
‘She was right,’ Uthas said. What else has she said of me? Dreamed of me?
Balor looked at Salach and Eisa. ‘I remember more of you leaving.’
‘Aye. It has not been a smooth journey.’
‘I have earned my first thorns, One-Eye,’ Eisa said, lifting her arm to show Balur.
I must watch her. They worship Balur, as if he were some god.
‘Good,’ Balur said. ‘The first of many.’
‘That is my wish,’ Eisa replied.
‘Ethlinn, how is she?’ Uthas asked.
‘She dreams more now than she wakes.’ Balur rubbed his good eye.
He worries over her like a first-time mother. She is his weakness.
‘She says that battle is close; that the Black Sun comes for the cauldron.’
‘Best keep your axe sharp, then,’ Uthas said as he walked away.
‘I always do,’ Balur called after him.
Uthas made his way deeper into the stronghold’s belly, passing more of his kin gathered in huddles about fires. Occasionally he would catch an eye, give a nod of greeting. There were enough amongst them who had committed to him, would stand with him when the time came. Not a majority, but enough. Eventually he paused at an arched doorway. Two warriors stood before it. They nodded and allowed him to pass; Salach and Eisa waited there.
The chamber was enormous, even by giant standards, the vaulted ceiling cloaked in darkness. Torches radiating their cold blue fire lined the walls, and numerous wyrms slithered around the floor, passing from light to shadow.
The cauldron stood at the centre of the chamber, a fat bloated deity of pitted iron. A light-sucking entity that, to Uthas, looked almost as if it was breathing, a shimmering about its edges, a blurring of its hard lines.
Before it stood Morc, keeper of the wyrms, his beloved reptiles surrounding him, last and most deadly guardians of the cauldron.
Morc had raised this brood of wyrms, once they had hatched, only two years or so ago. He had fed them, cared for them, and they seemed to have some measure of affection for him, as they slithered about him, great milky grey creatures of muscle and teeth. One even reared up, its head as large as Morc’s upper torso, and rubbed its scaly jaw across his chest. He patted its head.
‘Didn’t know you were back,’ Morc said. ‘Welcome home.’
Home. ‘Thank you,’ Uthas said. He’d always liked Morc. He was not the brightest of his kin, but there was a sincerity to him that was endearing.
‘Do you need to be in here?’ Morc asked. ‘Only, it’s feeding time.’ He nodded to a wain sitting in the chamber, upon it a huge cage full of hogs. At least a score of them, fat hairy things with tiny eyes. They were squealing, eyeing suspiciously the wyrms that were coiling around the wain.
‘No. I’m just . . .’ What? Why am I drawn to this thing?
‘Well, it’s still here,’ Morc said, looking over his shoulder at the cauldron.
‘So I see. I’ll be going then. It’s good to see you, Morc.’
‘Going – yes, good idea. It’s going to get messy in here.’
Uthas stood on a balcony high in one of the towers of Murias, gazing out over the land of Benoth. A featureless moorland rolled into the distance, here and there lumps of dark granite poking through the earth.
Nathair is out there. And Calidus. He shivered. How many nights before you reach these walls? Eight? Ten?
‘Are you rested?’ a voice asked from behind him.