‘How many are there?’
‘Ventos says six, and the boy’s wolven.’
He’s talking about Corban and Storm.
‘Take a score of Jehar with you. That should be more than enough.’
Alcyon nodded, a rippling of his bulk. ‘Where?’
‘Not out here, in the open moors. We’ll carry on along the road to Murias. There’s some woodland about a day’s journey ahead. The road to Murias passes straight through it, so they’ll be on it, or close to it, depending on how careful they’re being. Wait for them there.’
‘Do you want him alive?’
‘No,’ Calidus said. ‘Kill them all.’ With that he rose. ‘Hurry to me once the deed is done. I would like news of his death before we reach Murias. I’ll keep a watch over our bait once you’re gone.’ He stood and disappeared into the night.
‘You can breathe louder now, child,’ Alcyon said. ‘And come back to the fire, before you freeze.’
‘What did he mean by that?’ she said as she moved closer, panic loosening her tongue. ‘He was talking about Corban, wasn’t he? About my brother.’
Alcyon said nothing, but would not meet her gaze.
‘He told you to kill him.’ Fear was twisting its way through her now, her voice rising. ‘You’ve used me as bait, haven’t you, to lure him after you? Damn you; damn Calidus; damn you all.’
‘That is already beyond doubt,’ Alcyon said quietly. It did not help to calm Cywen.
‘You’ll find Corban’s not so easy to kill,’ Cywen hissed at him. ‘More likely he’ll be the one killing you.’
Alcyon just looked across the flames at her with pity.
CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT
CAMLIN
Camlin stood on the walls of Dun Taras, watching the riders approach along the giants’ road. Mist swirled about their horses’ legs, as high as their knees, giving them a ghostly quality, as if they were floating, not walking. A banner was held above them, the broken branch of Cambren. At its top a strip of white cloth was tied, declaring their intention to talk rather than to fight.
Horns had blown from the camp surrounding the fortress, announcing the advance, and the sounds had been taken up in Dun Taras, ringing all the way to the keep.
Will Eremon come?
He felt a presence at his shoulder: Halion, Marrock, Vonn and Edana stood beside him. Countless others were streaming up the stairwell to see what the horns portended. Everyone looked gaunt and listless, more than one appearing surly, even angry, a black mood enfolding the fortress like a sullen cloud.
Three moons of not eating will do that to a person.
People were dying. Of starvation, of the fever that swept the stronghold, a score of other diseases winnowing away the weak. Every day wains were pulled through the streets, clearing the dead.
A procession appeared in the street below, warriors forcing a path for it: a grand carriage pulled by two glossy black stallions. Eremon and Roisin sat within. The carriage halted by a stairwell close to the gates and Eremon and Roisin disembarked, warriors escorting them up the stairwell to the walls.
A figure with blonde hair squirmed its way between Camlin and Halion — Halion’s half-sister, Maeve, the one who was sweet on Corban.
Camlin looked back to the giants’ road, saw that the party was close to the gates now. A woman rode near the front, a black cloak of sleek fur about her. Silver hair fell about her shoulders, shining like liquid starlight.
‘Rhin,’ Edana hissed from beside him.
Warriors were about her, most in the colours of Cambren. One close to her wore the black and silver of Tenebral, his hair close cropped like all of their warriors. Another sat on his horse with the hood of a cloak pulled up over his head, his face in shadow.
Rhin reined her horse in and gazed up at the wall above Dun Taras’ gates.
‘Eremon, are you there?’ she called out, ‘or are your legs too frail for the stairs? Come, speak to your kinswoman. We have not talked in an age.’
‘I am here,’ Eremon called back, stepping closer to the wall’s edge. His voice was loud and deep, belying his age. ‘Though I don’t think you’ll have much to say worth listening to.’
‘Time will be the judge of that,’ Rhin said. ‘You look tired, kinsman. Age knocking at your door?’
‘I’m not the only one getting older,’ Eremon called back. ‘Your face looks like my arse — saggy and creased.’
Good, thought Camlin as laughter rippled along the wall. He still has his wits, at least.
Rhin scowled at that, but before she could respond a screaming burst from the road behind Camlin. He turned to see a crowd surging around Eremon and Roisin’s carriage, pulling at the horses. One of them was neighing wildly, rearing and lashing out with hooves. The other was stumbling as blood gushed from a wound in its neck. Warriors rushed to protect the animals from the hungry mob.
‘Trouble in your streets?’ Rhin called as the noise quietened, warriors restoring a frayed order.
‘Only of your doing,’ Eremon replied.
‘I can fix that.’
‘Aye, you can. By leaving my country. Go back to Cambren. We’ve already bested your warriors in combat. Save yourself a long hard wait through the cold and go home.’
‘Bested my men in battle? If that were the case, why did your warband run all the long way from the border to here? And why do they hide inside your walls?’
‘It was not your warband that won any victory. It was your allies from Tenebral who turned the battle. Tell them to stand down and the men of Domhain will finish the lesson they began teaching your men of Cambren.’
Camlin could see the effect of Eremon’s words in those about Rhin, her shieldmen scowling. Ragged cheers spread along the wall, some even drifting up from the streets behind.
‘I’m not here to talk about the past; it’s the future that needs our attention, before any more of your people starve to death. This can all stop, today. Now.’
A silence fell upon those on the walls. Even Camlin felt drawn to listen, despite knowing that what Rhin said was unlikely to be anything good.
‘Step down, Eremon. You are an old man, in the twilight of your life. I will give you your life, to enjoy how you see fit. Just renounce your throne, and your heir-’
‘No,’ a shout rose up, fraying at the edges. Roisin.
‘Ah, your wife is there, too. Or should I call her your mistress? I have heard that it is she who rules Domhain, not you, Eremon. Should I be talking to her, or you?’
‘Be silent,’ Eremon hissed to Roisin.
‘I rule Domhain; no one else,’ Eremon said louder.
‘Then rule now, do what is best for your people. Step down. You cannot win. Domhain will be mine. You will be conquered. Both roads lead to that point, but one is littered with your people dead — through starvation and battle — the other can be reached peacefully. No more death. Just hand over your crown.’
‘I do not think the people of Domhain would like you for their mistress,’ Eremon called back.
‘They do not have to have me; only the regent I leave in my place. One of your own, a man of Domhain, a warrior, with the blood of kings flowing in his veins. Your blood, in fact.’
With that she beckoned the hooded man forward and pulled back his hood.
Camlin blinked, recognizing the face but not being able to place it in this context. Then he heard someone close by whisper the name.
‘Conall.’
It was Maeve who spoke it first, taken up by a hundred others, a thousand, rippling along the wall like a wind soughing through long grass. Halion just stared, his face hard and cold.
‘So you have something to think on,’ Rhin said. ‘I’ll be back at highsun on the morrow to hear your answer.’
Camlin sat at the table in their kitchen, wrapping sinew about iron arrowheads, tying them to a bundle of arrow shafts he had cut and left in a local smokehouse to dry out. He’d already fletched them. He finished the one he was working on, placed it in a pile, then took another unfinished shaft.