‘They won’t be following anyone, but can’t say how long it’ll be before they’re missed.’
Marrock raised an eyebrow, turned and led them back to camp.
Camlin gave a hasty account of the ambush; Halion and the other travellers huddled round close to listen. Dath interjected comments, most to do with Camlin’s prowess, his skill with a bow, a sword, and his strategic brilliance. Camlin felt himself frowning at the boy.
‘So what now?’ Brina said, hands on hips.
‘Back to the boat, get as far away from here as possible, as quickly as possible,’ Marrock said. He looked to Halion, who nodded.
‘But what if those ships are still out there?’ Edana said. Her voice was hoarse, dry.
‘We’ll have to cross one bridge at a time, my lady,’ Halion said. ‘And staying where we are is no option.’
Brina tutted, bent over and whispered in her crow’s ear. That thing still made Camlin uncomfortable. There was far too much intelligence in its beady eyes. With a squawk of protest it unfurled its wings and flapped into the air, disappearing over the trees.
‘Craf is a good scout,’ Brina said. ‘Don’t want any surprises, do we.’
The group broke up, checked packs, filled water skins, then Vonn and Farrell burst upon them, running hard from the beach.
‘A boat has just beached next to ours,’ Vonn blurted as he skidded to a stop, ‘full of warriors.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FIDELE
Fidele gazed out of her tower window. In the distance the snow-capped Agullas glistened in the summer sun, before them rich meadows rolling all the way down to the lake shore, where countless ships bobbed on the swell, cold and deep from the mountains’ snowmelt. And on those ships: fishermen, traders, all manner of people. Her people. She felt a rush of passion, a fierce pride in the people of this realm. I love this land.
Her gaze drifted southward, to the river that carved its way to the sea. The black ships of the Vin Thalun had long since sailed that route, disappeared into the distance; the only sign of their presence here at Jerolin was the shipbuilding yard that had risen up on the lake shore. Even that was deserted now. Lykos had told her that the shipbuilding would continue to the south, near Ripa, but he needed too many hands on his fleet as it sailed to Nathair and Ardan to keep the two shipyards going.
And good riddance. She understood the logic that underpinned Nathair’s treaty with the Vin Thalun, knew their skills would be of great value in the coming war, but the reality of keeping the peace between them and her subjects had been difficult. Too many hard years between us to wash over in a few moons. She left her chambers, Orcus her shieldman falling in at her side. Fidele marched a quick rhythm through corridors and down the great tower of Jerolin until she was breathing fresh air. Her feet took her to the north, where the city grew quieter, to the cairn ground.
‘I miss you,’ she breathed, barely a whisper on the air. She was stood before her husband’s cairn; Aquilus, King of Tenebral, High King of the Banished Lands, slain in his own chambers, stabbed by a traitor king. I wish we had had more time. She touched one of the great stones of the cairn, already moss-covered, with lichen growing in yellows and reds. Aquilus had been so focused, so strong, always somehow knowing the right path and having the strength to take it, to see it through. I wish you had shared more of your certainties with me. Shared more of your plans. The knowledge of the God-War and the coming of the avatars had been a great burden, but Aquilus had borne it, though not without cost. And, because he had chosen to shoulder most of it alone, things felt so unsure now. She was scared, scared of what the future held, scared of the threat to her son. Her poor Nathair, striving, struggling to do his best, to earn his father’s notice. And now, to live up to his father’s legacy, not only to lead a nation, but to save the Banished Lands, or die in the trying. Fathers and sons – why did it have to be so complicated.
She sighed. ‘I will not let you down. I will not let Nathair down.’
Footsteps crunched on stone behind her and stopped, a respectful silence, then the scuff of an impatient foot. A cough.
‘Yes,’ Fidele said, turning, wiping all emotion from her face. It was Peritus, her husband’s battlechief. Small, wiry, unassuming, deadly.
‘There is something you must see,’ Peritus said, his expression grim.
‘Where did you find him?’ Fidele asked.