TUKUL
Tukul pulled his cloak tighter and scowled at the mountains. They were half veiled by heavy falling snow. It had started with dawn, and kept falling all day long.
I hate snow. Cold, rain, sun, I can cope with, but not snow. He looked up to the heavens. Forgive me, Elyon, it is part of your creation, but. .
Telassar had been warm, always, even in winter. Even in Drassil when it had snowed they had been protected from the bulk of it by the dense treetop canopy. Some flakes would make it through the lattice of branches, but not enough. Not like this. He looked down and saw his horse’s hooves disappearing into the snow, past its fetlocks.
He rode beside Meical, his Jehar warriors riding in column behind.
They had travelled over a hundred leagues since Dun Carreg, had passed through Ardan and Narvon, then crossed rolling hills into Cambren. Here the going had been slower as Meical had taken them along less-frequented paths, through uninhabited lands, avoiding towns, villages and holds, though always heading for Domhain.
Once they had ridden into a band of warriors, scouts of Queen Rhin, riding back to Narvon. Meical had stayed their sword hands, suggesting that talking was attempted as a first resort in an effort to glean some information.
It had turned out to be simple enough. The warriors had taken one look at Tukul and his Jehar warriors and decided that they were part of a larger force that apparently rode with Rhin’s warband, in service to Nathair, King of Tenebral. Meical and Tukul had managed to keep their surprise hidden, and the warriors had ridden on.
‘The Jehar ride with Nathair,’ Tukul had hissed to Meical, once they were alone. ‘How can that be?’
‘I should have watched Nathair,’ Meical said, shaking his head. ‘And he was right under my nose, all the time I was with Aquilus. It makes sense; Nathair spent time in Tarbesh.’
‘It must be Sumur,’ Tukul said. ‘Sumur must be leading the Jehar. He was always in opposition to me. I should have killed him when I had the chance.’
‘What’s done is done,’ Meical said. ‘At least we have had warning.’
They had also discovered that Rhin’s warband was set to invade Domhain and was somewhere ahead. They had continued onwards and eventually they had come to a point where they could see the giants’ road leading into the mountains: the pass through to Domhain. It was filled with warriors. The warriors choked the path through the mountains, a constant line of wains going along the road, taking supplies towards Domhain. There was no way through.
They had discussed their options and decided to move northwards, to find a safe spot and then let Meical search for Corban.
‘I have spent two score years laying plans, finding people that I trust, preparing for these days,’ Meical said. ‘And yet now I feel like a chicken chopped for the table.’ He gave Tukul a rueful smile.
‘Asroth has been making plans, too,’ Tukul said.
‘Aye, he has. I have been too cautious.’ He shook his head.
‘But we stand on the side of right, and the battle is far from done,’ Tukul said. I will not consider defeat. I have not waited all my life just to lose at the end.
‘Aye. And we are close now, my friend. I have found the Seren Disglair’s shadow in the Otherworld and tracked him through it. He is close. I will sleep now and travel the dream road. I will not lose him again.’
Tukul still found it strange how Meical could fall into a sleep so deep that he could not be woken, in which he almost appeared to be dead, and from which he would wake, looking as if he had fought with death himself, and say that the Seren Disglair was in Domhain, or in Dun Taras, or to the east, or north-east.
He is not of this world. What do I expect?
This time Meical had said that the Seren Disglair was still in Domhain, but travelling north, on the far side of the mountains.
That had been a ten-night gone. They had travelled north, searching for a path to cross into Domhain. Meical said he knew of one, but that they would have to tread carefully.
‘We are close to Dun Vaner,’ Meical said to him, leaning in his saddle. Tukul just grunted, trusting Meical’s judgement. How Meical could tell where they were in this whitewashed world he did not know, but briefly he caught a glimpse through the swirling snow of dark walls in the distance, high on a slope a cluster of towers and pinpricks of light. The day was turning to grey, the obscured sun retreating behind the mountains. They found a place to make camp, taking some shelter beneath a stand of birch and hawthorn in a cup-shaped dell.
‘I will search for him again tonight,’ Meical said as they sat huddled close together around a small fire. Soon Meical lay down and Tukul saw the familiar signs of his breathing slowing, becoming shallower.
Find him, Tukul thought. Find the Seren Disglair, and with him my son.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
CORBAN
Corban was hauled by two warriors through high-vaulted corridors, mostly empty, though in some alcoves fire-pits burned and warriors stood close to the flames to warm themselves. There was a feeling of emptiness here, and decay. Footsteps echoed behind him, following him. Braith.
Eventually he was dragged into a small chamber with weak light filtering in through slits in shuttered windows. One torch burned in a sconce, sending shadows dancing. Corban was slammed against a wall and his hands shackled to an iron ring above him, his ankles below.
Braith sat at a table, poured himself a cup of something dark and drank thirstily.
He leaned back, studying Corban. ‘What does Rhin want with you?’ he said at last.
‘Huh,’ Corban muttered. He still felt sick, and Braith’s words seemed as if they were reaching him through water, or the snowstorm that had raged outside. Distant and muted.
Braith repeated his question.
I don’t know, thought Corban. He looked up to the shuttered window opposite, thinking of his mam and friends out on the hillside. Were they still fighting? Had they escaped? Stray flakes of snow drifted through the gap in the shutters and floated lazily down.
Someone came in, a woman, carrying a platter full of food — bread, fruits, cheese, cold meats. Corban heard his stomach growl as he watched Braith tear into it.
‘Here,’ Braith said, walking over and holding out a chunk of bread. ‘I should let you starve, after what your wolven and friends did to my men back there, but I think Rhin’s going to want to talk with you; so passing out is to be avoided.’
Corban chewed a mouthful. The bread was still warm. It tasted delicious. Braith gave him a sip of his drink — watered ale.
‘My thanks,’ Corban said when he had swallowed and was sure that the food and drink was not going to come straight back up.
Braith sat down and finished his food.
‘Did they get away?’ Corban asked, his voice a croak.
‘I don’t know,’ Braith said. ‘Only two of my men still live, and one of those was the man I sent ahead to tell Rhin we were close. The riders wouldn’t have followed your friends if they ran, not into those trees and possible ambush.’ He rubbed his eyes.
A silence fell on the room.
A muffled sound came from the far wall. Corban saw the outline of a door appear, and what he thought was undressed stone swung open. Two figures emerged from the darkness. Corban recognized both of them.
Rhin, Queen of Cambren. Of Narvon and Ardan, too, now. She was old, appeared much older than the last time he had seen her, in Badun at the Midwinter gathering, when Tull had fought her champion, Morcant.
Morcant was no longer her champion, though; he knew that and he saw Conall walk into the room behind her.
The warrior didn’t say anything, but their eyes locked for a long moment. Conall was the first to look away. Corban wasn’t sure what he saw there: pride, definitely, but there was more, a flicker in his glance, an unwillingness to hold Corban’s gaze. Was that shame? Corban remembered when Conall had first come to Dun Carreg, riding up the giantsway with Halion. He had seemed happy then by comparison, carefree.