‘What happened here?’ Rath said. He was old, his hair white, streaked with iron, but he was as strong and sharp witted as anyone Coralen had ever met. She loved him fiercely, this old man before her, uncle, protector, friend. Not that I’ve ever told him. That was beyond imagination in this group of hard men.
She had become one of them slowly, something within her rebelling against the life that had surrounded her mam. So she had taken to following Rath and her half-brothers about. Six years old, never speaking, just following, watching. Rath had ignored her at first, then told her to get back to her mam’s skirts, then scolded her, eventually clumping her. None of it had made any difference; she had just continued to sneak out, following him whenever he was there. Soon she had become his shadow, accepted, almost invisible, and so she had watched him training with his men, sparring, eating, drinking. She had a vivid memory: eight years old, lifting a practice sword from a wicker basket in the weapons court, of men laughing – all except Rath. He had measured her with his serious eyes, told her to hit him. She’d tried, but ended up on her arse quickly enough. Rath had told her to get up and try again. She smiled at the thought.
It had been Baird who had fetched her from her mam’s house; he was a warrior who had served with Rath for more years than Coralen had drawn breath. He had lost both his family and an eye to the giants of Benoth. Rath’s score or so of warriors had been gathered swiftly. Once they were all together, Rath told them why. Word had come back that a patrol was overdue.
Now they knew the reason.
Bodies littered the ground, spread around a burned-out fire, twisted and ungainly in death. Their heads had been hacked from their bodies. Nearby a cairn had been raised, stones piled high. Around its base were the heads of the warriors, placed like some decoration. Coralen shared a look with Baird. He slipped from his saddle and began pulling rocks from the cairn. Coralen and a few others joined him. It was not long before a huge body was revealed, laid flat with a war-hammer resting upon its chest. Baird lifted the giant’s severed head by its hair.
‘The Benothi are loose in Domhain,’ Rath said. ‘Think we’d better do something about that.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CYWEN
Cywen woke suddenly, her heart pounding as loud as war-drums in her head. She was curled in a chair in the kitchen, embers in the fire burned down to a red glow. What woke me? Had she dreamed? Then she heard Buddai growling.
She sat up quickly, reaching for a knife. It was dark, but she could tell there were people on the other side of the door; she could hear them whispering. Then the door handle turned.
‘Don’t go throwing anything sharp at me,’ someone said. Cywen’s memory fumbled to put a face to the familiar voice. Conall.
‘Get out,’ Cywen replied. Buddai was snarling now, only her hand in his fur stopping him from leaping at the intruder.
‘You’ve got visitors, girl,’ Conall said. ‘They were all for putting a sack over your head and carrying you to the keep, but I told them you’d wake all of Dun Carreg, and most likely every demon in the Otherworld as well. So I told them if we asked you polite you’d see sense and be reasonable.’
‘What time is it?’ Cywen asked, blinking as someone behind Conall lit a torch. ‘What visitors?’
‘It’s nighttime,’ Conall said with a shrug, stepping into the kitchen, his gaze flitting between the knife in Cywen’s hand and Buddai’s bared teeth. ‘Got anything to drink?’ he asked.
Figures crowded the door behind him, spilling into the room. The first Cywen recognized: Nathair, King of Tenebral, and his shadow, Sumur. Behind them was an old man, silver-haired but somehow youthful; he was looking at her intently.
Buddai whined, tail tucking between his legs, ears going flat to his head, and the old man frowned, then something huge followed behind him, a man’s shape, though taller and wider, small black eyes peering out from beneath a thick jutting brow. A giant, a black axe slung across his back.
Conall stepped before her, seeing her knife hand move. ‘Be calm, lass. Don’t do it, they’ve just come to talk.’
Cywen froze, fear making her pulse race. I must still be asleep. Please let me still be asleep. Her instinct was to throw first and talk later. Then another figure entered the room wearing a black cuirass, the silver eagle of Tenebral embossed upon it, two swords at his hip, one long, one short; a young man, stern faced, with serious, searching eyes. He looked at her and smiled apologetically.
She lowered her knife.
Behind this serious warrior one last man came, shutting the door behind him. Metal rings were woven into his braided beard, clinking as he moved.
‘How about that drink?’ Conall asked.
‘There’s mead in the cold room,’ Cywen said, waving her hand, and Conall fetched a skin, unstoppered it and took a swig. Nathair shook his head when Conall offered him the skin.
‘I’ll have some,’ the man with rings in his beard said.
‘Why are you all here?’ Cywen said.