‘I don’t want you to. I’m not a bairn.’’
‘Ban, don’t waste your breath. I’m coming, whether you’re happy about it or not. You’d have to be bind me hand and foot to stop me.’
Camlin looked at Gar and shrugged. ‘I’m not complaining,’ the woodsman said. ‘I saw you the other night; you an’ that sword would be handy if we walk into any bother.’
Corban said nothing more and followed Camlin into the woods.
They made their way in silence, Storm shadowing them, rustling through the undergrowth. The woodland was dense with flowering bluebell and ramsons, the strong scent of the white flowers filling the air as they passed through it. Before long the woodland changed, opening into deep-shaded beech, and soon after they were standing on the edge of a rolling meadow, steep hills in the distance. The village that the fleet of fisher-boats had set sail from was visible, smokehouses lining the coast, buildings of thatch further back, spread along the banks of a river. Clustered beyond them the land was filled with tents, paddocks and lots of men. A road stretched into the distance, skirting the river. It was dotted with more men on horseback.
Camlin sucked his teeth and spat.
‘What’s going on?’ Dath whispered.
‘Unless I’m mistaken, that looks like a warband,’ Camlin muttered. ‘What it’s doing here, though . . .’
As they stood there staring, the drum of hooves reached their ears. Horsemen crested a rise in the meadow before them, five or six, spread in a line, heading their way. Sunlight glinted on coats of mail and spear-tips. Camlin swore.
‘Back into the trees,’ he snapped. ‘And, Dath, best you string your bow.’
CHAPTER TEN
TUKUL
Tukul blinked sweat from his eyes, gritted his teeth as he held his pose in the sword dance and focused on keeping the tip of his practice sword perfectly still. His thighs and shoulders were burning, trembling with the effort.
When did this start getting harder? he wondered. Fifty-eight summers is not so old. He concentrated on keeping his breathing even and smooth. Then, as if responding to some unheard bell, he relaxed. He rolled his shoulders and looked about at the others with whom he stood in rank – about three score men and women – all sheened with sweat. We are all older now, he grimaced, though not too old, I hope. ‘Soon,’ he whispered, both a promise and a prayer.
They were gathered in a courtyard built between the roots of a great tree that towered high above them, its branches arcing, blotting out the sun, its trunk wider that any keep he had ever seen.
Drassil.
The fabled city of Forn Forest, built by giants about and beneath the roots of the Great Tree: lost, hidden for countless generations until he had come here with his band of warriors. Five score they had numbered. They were fewer now, some taken by sickness, others by Forn’s predators. One they had parted with during their travels. And patiently they had waited.
Tukul swatted sweat from his nose. ‘Or maybe not so patiently,’ he muttered with a scowl.
People were beginning to spar now, the clack-clack of their practice blades growing about him. He looked for someone to try himself against, then heard running footsteps.
A figure burst into the courtyard – Enkara, black hair streaked with silver and tied at her nape, her sword hilt arching over one shoulder. She searched the courtyard, eyes fixing on him.
‘Someone comes,’ she called, a tremor in her voice.
Everyone froze.
Without a word, Tukul left the courtyard, stooping to collect his curved sword. Slinging its harness over his shoulder, he strode purposefully towards the outer wall.
They had been here over fourteen years, and in that time they had made Drassil habitable. More than that, they had made it defendable again, shearing vines from walls, repairing stonework, mapping the labyrinthine catacombs that burrowed for leagues beneath his feet. He grimaced as he passed a handful of cairns, eyes drawn to where his Daria was buried.
All those who had been in the courtyard followed silently behind him, Enkara half running to keep up with his long strides. He leaped up the steps on the outer wall two at a time, stood above the gateway and looked out into Forn.
A strip of land a hundred paces deep had been cleared beyond the wall, to keep the encroaching forest at bay. Into this clearing strode a figure, cloaked and hooded, a sword at its hip.
The figure stopped, pushed his hood back and looked up at the walls.
Tukul squinted, then smiled. ‘Open the gates,’ he cried as he made his way through the crowd gathered behind him and ran through the gates. He reached the figure, gripped his wrist and pulled him into an embrace.
‘It is good to see you, Meical,’ he whispered, looking up at the dark-haired man.
‘And you, old friend.’
Soon they stood inside the walls of Drassil, every last man and woman gathered about them.