‘My lord, call in from your lands all warriors sworn to you that you can. The fate of Isiltir could be decided in the next few days,’ Orgull urged.
‘So you say. Perhaps I will do as you suggest. And if you are speaking the truth, then you will have my thanks.’
Gerda rose and strode to them, standing and looking deep into each one’s face. Her expression hardened. ‘Fetch Haelan,’ she said over her shoulder to a shieldman who had been standing in the shadows of her chair. ‘I believe them.’
‘There they are,’ Tahir said, pointing one of his long arms. Maquin followed and saw a shadow in the distance.
‘They have crossed the river already,’ Maquin observed.
It was just a day later and they were standing on Dun Kellen’s battlements, close to the gate, warriors lined along the wall either side of them. Varick’s messengers had been sent out to the holds but they knew it would take time for the men to muster. Time they didn’t have. Nearby, the stone wall and battlements were replaced by wooden planks to fill the crumbling gaps of the fortress.
The warband quickly grew larger, a cloud of dust kicked up by the horses. Maquin could see Jael at the front, beside his banner-man, his pennant snapping in their wake. Varick had ordered that the streets of Dun Kellen be evacuated but there were still people to be seen. As the sound of the approaching warband filled the air a sudden sense of panic seemed to spread, people hurrying, running for shelter.
The warband reached the outskirts of Dun Kellen. Riders from the flanks peeled away and began circling the town, filtering into side streets whilst the bulk of the warband rode up the main avenue leading to Dun Kellen’s gates.
‘I remember wiping the snot from his nose,’ Gerda said as she watched Jael approach. ‘I wonder what terms he will offer for the head of my son.’ Maquin looked at her but said nothing, remembering Jael and Kastell fighting in the cavern beneath Haldis. Seeing Jael plunge his sword into Kastell’s stomach. His fingers twitched and he reached for his sword.
‘Be ready,’ Orgull said as the riders appeared. Screams were rising from the town, people were scattering in the wide avenue before Jael and his shieldmen as they thundered into view. Someone slipped in the road and disappeared under the flood of horses, screams quickly cut short, then in a spray of mud Jael pulled his warriors up, about a hundred paces before the gate.
‘Let’s hear his terms,’ Varick said, stepping forward to stand on the arch above the gateway. Jael clicked his horse on, a spear held loosely in his hand. Only his banner-man accompanied him.
‘Greetings, Jael, and welcome to Dun Kellen, kinsman. What brings you here?’ Varick called down.
Jael’s eyes were fixed on Varick. He turned his horse in a tight circle. As he came back round out of the turn he hurled his spear. It flew straight, striking Varick in the throat and throwing him backwards in a spray of blood. Jael wheeled his horse and galloped back to his cheering men.
On the wall men were yelling in shock and horror, warriors letting spears fly at the retreating Jael. They all missed. Maquin looked at the form of Varick, blood splattered about his corpse; Gerda and a huddle of others were staring at him, wide-eyed. Then Maquin looked back to Jael punching the air as he reached his gathered warriors, men jumping from horses now, chopping with axes at the timber frames of houses.
Jael did not come to offer terms.
CHAPTER TWENTY
CYWEN
Cywen could not believe her eyes. Pendathran, King Brenin’s battlechief, was staring back at her. But he was dead, had fallen in the feast-hall the night Dun Carreg fell. Or so she had been told. What was Evnis doing with him locked in his cellar?
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Pendathran said, his voice hoarse.
‘Don’t know,’ Cywen said automatically.
‘Water?’ he asked.
She looked about, but could see no jug or water barrel. She shook her head.
‘Quick, girl, help me up.’
Cywen took his hand and pulled him upright. There were deep cuts on his exposed forearm, part-scabbed and weeping blood. He towered above her, taking long, ragged breaths. The bandage around his neck was crusted black with blood.
‘Put your arm round me,’ Cywen said and steered him out of the cell. They weaved through the cellar to the boarded doorway. Cywen propped Pendathran against a wall and set to levering boards from the door frame. She was acutely aware of the noise she was making, and kept taking furtive glances at the shadowed staircase.
‘Looking won’t make you any quieter, or quicker,’ Pendathran croaked. He picked up a discarded axe leaning against the wall and tried to help her.
Cywen shot him a scowl and set to the last board. With a creak it pulled free.
Cywen pulled a fresh torch from her bag and sparked it with tinder and flint. ‘Come on,’ she said and led Pendathran into the darkness of the tunnels.