Ruin

Book 3: The Faithful and the Fallen

by John Gwynne

Genres: Epic Fantasy; Historical Fantasy

Synopsis

The Banished Lands are engulfed in war and chaos.

The cunning Queen Rhin has conquered the west and High King Nathair has the cauldron, most powerful of the seven treasures. At his back stands the scheming Calidus and a warband of the Kadoshim, dread demons of the Otherworld. They plan to bring Asroth and his host of the Fallen into the world of flesh, but to do so they need the seven treasures. Nathair has been deceived but now he knows the truth. He has choices to make, choices that will determine the fate of the Banished Lands.

Elsewhere the flame of resistance is growing — Queen Edana finds allies in the swamps of Ardan. Maquin is loose in Tenebral, hunted by Lykos and his corsairs. Here he will witness the birth of a rebellion in Nathair's own realm.

Corban has been swept along by the tide of war. He has suffered, lost loved ones, sought only safety from the darkness. But he will run no more. He has seen the face of evil and he has set his will to fight it. The question is, how?

With a disparate band gathered about him - his family, friends, giants, fanatical warriors, an angel and a talking crow he begins the journey to Drassil, the fabled fortress hidden deep in the heart of Forn Forest. For in Drassil lies the spear of Skald, one of the seven treasures, and here it is prophesied that the Bright Star will stand against the Black Sun.

Release date: October 13, 2015

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 800

Sample

Ulfilas touched his heels to his horse’s side, urging her up the incline before him, a slope of grey rock and gravel littered with the remains of long-dead trees. Beside him King Jael kept pace, his face set in rigid lines. A dozen paces ahead of them rode Jael’s huntsman, Dag.

Jael should not be here, Ulfilas thought, a knot of worry shifting in his gut. The King of Isiltir, wandering in the northern wilderness on a fool’s errand. It was not that Ulfilas felt any great sense of loyalty to Jael; he didn’t even like the man. It was more that after all they had been through, to die now on a journey like this, which he considered a waste of time, would feel foolish.

Ulfilas was aware that times were changing, there was war on the horizon, and the power in Isiltir needed consolidating. He had been Jael’s shieldman since he’d sat his Long Night, and despite his dislike of Jael’s character and practices, Ulfilas was also a pragmatic man. I’m a warrior. Got to fight for someone. Recent events had proven his choice well made. King Romar was dead. Kastell, Jael’s cousin, was dead. Gerda, estranged wife of Romar, was dead. Her young son, Haelan, technically speaking still heir to the throne of Isiltir, was missing. Running. He knew that Jael felt little to no loyalty towards the men who followed him, that the new self-proclaimed King of Isiltir was scheming, vain and power hungry and would do whatever it took to keep his newly won crown. But he was a man on the rise. And so Ulfilas had stuck with him, when a voice in his mind had been telling him to walk away and find another, more worthy, lord to serve.

A conscience? he wondered. Hah, a conscience doesn’t put food on my plate or keep my head from a spike.

‘How much longer?’ Jael called ahead.

‘Not much longer, my lord,’ the huntsman Dag called back. ‘We’ll be with them before sunset.’

Close to the top of the incline Ulfilas reined in his horse and looked back.

A column of warriors wound up the slope behind him, surrounding a wain pulled by two hulking auroch. Beyond them the land stretched grey and desolate, further south the fringes of Forn Forest were a green blur. A river in the distance sparkled under the dipping sun, marking the border of this northern wasteland with the realm beyond.

Isiltir. Home. Ulfilas looked away, back up the slope towards his King, and spurred his horse after him.

They travelled ever northwards as the sun sank lower, shadows stretching about them, their path winding through empty plains and steep-sided ravines. Once they crossed a stone bridge that spanned a deep abyss; Ulfilas looked down into the darkness. His stomach shifted as his horse stumbled on loose stone, the thought of falling into the unknown making him snatch at his reins. He let out a long breath when they reached the far side, the sharp rush of fear receding as quickly as it had appeared.

They rode into a series of barren foothills, eventually cresting another slope to find Dag silently waiting for them. Ulfilas and his King drew level with the huntsman and pulled their mounts to a standstill at the sight before them.

A flat plain unfolded into the distance, the tips of mountains jagged on the horizon. Just below the travellers lay their destination: a great crater, as if Elyon the Maker had punched a fist into the fabric of the earth, barren of life and no breeze or sound of wildlife to disturb it.

‘The starstone crater,’ Jael whispered.

Ulfilas had thought it more tale than truth, the rumoured site of the starstone that had fallen from the sky.

How many thousands of years ago was it supposed to have crashed to the earth? And from it the Seven Treasures were said to have been forged, over which past wars had changed the face of the Banished Lands, not least of all here, where the stories told how Elyon’s Scourging had broken the land, scorching it black.

Ulfilas stared up at the sky, slate-grey and swollen with clouds, and imagined for a moment that they were filled with the white-feathered Ben-Elim and Asroth’s demon horde. He could almost hear their battle-cries echoing about him, hear the clash of weapons, the death-screams.

Elyon and Asroth, Maker and Destroyer, their angels and demons fighting for supremacy over these Banished Lands. I thought it all a faery tale. And now I am told it is happening again.

Riding through these lands now Ulfilas found himself believing what, only a year ago, he had thought to be bedtime stories for bairns. He thought of the time he had spent at Haldis, the burial ground of the Hunen giants hidden deep in Forn Forest. He had witnessed a king betrayed and slain over a black axe said to be one of the Seven Treasures carved from the starstone; he had seen white wyrms, and earth magic where solid ground turned into a swamp, suffocating the life from his sword-brothers. He was a man of action–of deeds. Monsters made real were not something he’d found easy to accept. Fear churned in his gut at just the memory of it.

Fear keeps you sharp.

Further down the slope and built on the lip of the crater was the carcass of an ancient fortress, walls and towers broken and crumbling. Figures moved amongst the ruins, mere pinpricks in the distance.

‘The Jotun,’ said Jael.

The giants of the north. Rumoured to be strongest and fiercest of the surviving giant clans. Not for the first time Ulfilas questioned the wisdom of this journey.

‘No sudden movements,’ Dag said, ‘and keep your wits about you.’

Some of the Jotun’s number filtered out of the ruins, gathering on the road that cut through the derelict walls, their spear-tips and mail catching the sinking sun. A handful were mounted on shaggy, lumbering creatures.

‘Are they riding bears?’ Ulfilas asked.

‘We’ve all heard the tales of the Jotun in the north,’ Jael said. ‘It would appear some of those tales, at least, are true.’

They stopped at the first remains of a wall, the column of riders behind them rippling to a halt. Warriors spread from the path, curling about Jael like a protective hand. Ten score of Jael’s best shieldmen. Ulfilas could feel the tension amongst them, saw the way hands gripped spear shafts and sword hilts.

Giants appeared from the ruins, moving with surprising grace despite their bulk. Some sat on the path ahead of them upon the backs of dark-furred and yellow-clawed bears. Ulfilas knew Jael was right to be wary, they’d seen first-hand at the Battle of Haldis how deadly an attacking force of giants could be. If it hadn’t been for the men of Tenebral forming their wall of shields and stopping the Hunen giants’ attack that had been tearing the warbands of Isiltir and Helveth apart, then Ulfilas knew none of them would be here today.

Too late to learn the shield wall now, but I swear, if I make it home…

One of the bear-riders moved ahead of the others, a tremor passing through the ground with the bear’s every footfall. It halted before Jael, looming over him.

The giant slid from a tall-backed saddle and strode forward, blond hair and moustache bound in thick braids. A cloak of dark fur wrapped his wide frame, the glint of iron beneath it. In his hand he held a thick-shafted spear, a war-hammer was left strapped to his saddle. His bear watched them with small, intelligent eyes. It curled a lip, showing a line of sharp teeth.

‘Welcome to the Desolation, Jael, King of Isiltir,’ the giant said. His voice sounded like gravel sliding over stone.

‘Greetings, Ildaer, warlord of the Jotun,’ Jael replied. He beckoned behind him, his warriors parted to allow the wain forward. One of the shaggy auroch that pulled it snorted and dug at the ground with a hoof.

It doesn’t like the smell of bear any more than I do.

Jael pulled back a cloth that covered the wain’s contents. ‘It is as my envoys promised you. A tribute. Weapons of your ancestors, hoarded at Dun Kellen,’ he said, reaching in and with difficulty pulling out a huge battle-axe. ‘My gift to you.’

Ildaer gestured and another giant moved to the wain, a broadsword slung across his back. He stood as tall as Jael did upon his horse. The giant took the axe, turning it in his hands, then peered into the wain. He could not hide the look of joy that swept his face.

‘They are the weapons of our kin,’ he said with a nod to Ildaer.

‘I return them to you, as a token of my goodwill, and part payment of a task that I need your aid in.’

The giant gripped the aurochs’ harness and led them forward, Ildaer peering in as the wain passed him. Giants pressed close about it.

‘And what is to stop me from killing you and your men, and giving your carcasses to my bears?’

‘I am of more value to you alive. You are a man of intellect, I have been told. Not a savage.’

Ildaer looked at Jael, his eyes narrowing beneath his jutting brow. He glanced back over his shoulder at the wain full of weapons.

‘And besides, who is to say that we would not kill you and all of your warband?’ Jael said.

The giants behind Ildaer all glowered at Jael.

A bear growled.

Ulfilas felt the familiar spike of fear–the precursor to sudden violence. His fingers twitched upon his sword hilt.

‘Hah,’ Ildaer laughed. ‘I think I like you, southlander.’

Ulfilas felt the moment pass, the tension ebbing. Southlander? Isiltir is not one of the southlands. But then, we are in the northlands now. They call anything south of here the southlands.

Ildaer looked back at the wain again. ‘That is of great worth to my people,’ he admitted.

‘It is nothing compared to what I am prepared to give, if you can help me.’ Jael told him.

‘What is it that you want?’

‘I want you to find a runaway boy for me.’



Corban woke with his heart pounding. The remnants of a dream, dispersed with wakefulness, just a hint of black eyes and immeasurable hatred remaining for a moment. Then that too was gone.

It was cold darkness all around.

He heard Storm growl and he sat up, one hand feeling for his sword hilt. Something’s wrong.

He felt Storm’s bulk beside him, reached out and felt her hackles standing rigid.

‘What is it, girl?’ he whispered.

The camp was silent. To his left the fire-pit glimmered, but he avoided looking at it, knowing it would destroy any night vision he possessed. He made out the dense shadow of a guard standing on the incline of the dell they were camped within. The moon emerged, revealing another figure close by, tall and dark-haired. Meical. He was standing perfectly still, his attention fixed on the dell’s rim. Behind Corban a horse whinnied.

There was a flapping up above and then a croaking bird’s screech. ‘WAKE, WARE THE ENEMY, WAKE. WAKE. WAKE.’

Craf or Fech. Corban leaped to his feet, all around him other shapes doing the same, the rasp of swords pulled from scabbards. Shapes appeared at the dell’s edge, figures outlined for a moment in the moon’s glow before they swarmed down the incline. There was a crunch, a collision, a scream.

‘Kadoshim,’ Meical shouted, then all was chaos. Bodies were swirling, solid shadows blurred with starlight, then an explosion of sparks burst from the fire as it blazed brightly, scattering light. Corban caught a glimpse of Brina calling out incantations beside the fire, making it burn higher and directing tongues of it towards their enemy.

The new light revealed a dozen attackers amongst them, dressed like the Jehar but moving differently, with none of their fluid grace, as if their bodies held too much power to contain within the confines of flesh and bone. They carved their way through the camp, sending those that attacked them hurtling away. Corban remembered how the Kadoshim had fought in Murias, just after they’d been raised from the cauldron, tearing limbs from bodies with a savage, inhuman ferocity. A wave of fear suddenly swept him, pinning his feet to the ground. He heard a strange language screamed in defiance and looked to see Balur One-Eye the giant, his kin gathered behind him, hurling defiance at the Kadoshim, who paused for a moment, then surged towards Balur.

They have come for the axe.

As he watched them charge together, Corban remembered his mam, their attack on her, how he had tried to stop the blood flowing as he’d held her, how the light had dimmed from her eyes. Hatred for these creatures swept him, burning away the fear that had frozen him moments before, and then he was moving forwards, running faster with each step, Storm at his side.

They saw him before he reached them, or perhaps it was Storm that marked him out. Either way, the Kadoshim obviously recognized him, and who he was supposed to be: the Seren Disglair – Bright Star and Elyon’s avatar made flesh. Some of them broke from the main bulk that was now locked in combat with Balur and his giant kin. Tukul and his Jehar swirled around their edges, slicing, cutting.

Storm lengthened her stride and forged ahead of him. Corban glimpsed the muscles in her legs bunching as she gathered to leap, then she was airborne, colliding with one of the Kadoshim in a mass of fur and flesh, her jaws tearing at its throat.

Instinct took Corban as he reached them; gripping his sword two-handed he raised it high, slashing diagonally, shifting his weight to sweep around his target. He felt his sword bite through leather and mail, shattering bone and carving through flesh. It should have been a killing blow. The Kadoshim staggered, one hand gripping Corban’s blade. It stared at him, black eyes boring into him, then it grinned, blood as dark as ink welling from its mouth. These were no longer the human Jehar whose bodies they’d possessed upon emerging from the cauldron, but something far stronger.

Corban yanked his sword away, saw severed fingers fall as the Kadoshim tried to keep its grip. Its other hand shot out, grabbing Corban around the throat, lifting him from the ground. Impossibly strong fingers began to squeeze. He kicked his legs, tried to bring his sword round, but could put no strength in his blows. Stars appeared at the edges of his vision, a darkness drawing in. The pounding of his heart grew in volume, drowning all else out. Panic swept him and he found new strength, bringing the wolven hilt of his sword down on the Kadoshim’s head. He felt the skull crack, but still it gripped him.

It regarded Corban calmly, head cocked to one side.

‘So you are Meical’s puppet,’ it growled, startling Corban. Its voice was unsteady, a basal rumble that seemed too deep for the throat it issued from.

Corban tried to raise his sword, but it was suddenly so heavy. Too heavy. It slipped from his fingers. The strength was fading from his limbs, leaking from him, a great lethargy seeping through him.

So much for everyone’s hopes of me being the Bright Star. Is this what dying feels like? At least I’ll get to see Mam again.

There was an impact, a crunch that he felt shudder through his body and he saw sharp teeth sink into the Kadoshim’s neck and shoulder.

Storm, he realized, distantly.

The Kadoshim was spun around as Storm tried to drag it off Corban, but it would not release its grip on Corban’s throat. Then there was another impact–this one accompanied by what sounded like wet wood being split as an axe-blade hacked through the Kadoshim’s wrist, severing it completely.

Corban crashed to the ground, his weak legs folding beneath him. He looked up to see Tukul wrestling with the Kadoshim, Storm tearing at the creature’s leg. Then someone else was there, sword a blur, and the Kadoshim’s head was spiralling through the air.

Its body sank to the ground, feet drumming on the turf as a black vapour in the shape of great wings poured from it, eyes like glowing coals regarding them with insatiable malice for a moment before a breeze tugged it apart. A wail of anguish lingered in the air.

Gar stood over Corban, reaching to pull him upright.

‘You have to take their heads,’ Gar said.

‘I remember now,’ Corban croaked.

‘Remember earlier next time.’

Corban nodded, massaging his throat. He touched his warrior torc, felt a bend in the metal.

This must have stopped it from crushing my throat.

The battle was all but done. The grey of first dawn had crept over them as they fought, and by it Corban saw a handful of giants pinning the last Kadoshim to the ground, Balur standing over the creature. His axe swung and then the mist-figure was forming in the air, screeching its rage as it departed the world of flesh.

There was the silent, relief-filled moment that comes at the end of battle. Corban paused, just glad to still be alive, the fear and tension of combat draining from him. He could see it in those around him, the shift and relaxing of muscle in bodies, a change on their faces, a gratitude shared. Then they were moving again.

As dawn rose they gathered their dead, laying them out along the stream bank next to the cairn they’d finished building just yesterday. Corban stood and stared at the pile of rocks they’d dragged from the stream.

My mam is in there, beneath those rocks.

A tear rolled down Corban’s cheek as grief and exhaustion welled in his belly, swelling into his chest, taking his breath away. He heard a whine: Storm, pressing her muzzle into his hand. It was crusted with dried blood.

A cold breeze made his skin tingle as he stood before his mam’s cairn. How can she be gone? He felt her absence like a physical thing, as if a limb had been severed. The events of yesterday seemed like a dream. A nightmare. His mam’s death, so many others, men and giants and great wyrms. And he had seen the cauldron: one of the Seven Treasures, remnant from an age of faery tales. He had seen a bubbling wave of demon-spirits from the Otherworld pouring from it, Asroth’s Kadoshim, filling the bodies of transfixed Jehar warriors like empty vessels. He knew the group who had attacked them had only been a small part of those remaining a dozen leagues to the north; Nathair and his demon-warriors camped within the walls of Murias.

What are we going to do?

He watched as the rest of his followers started to break camp. He searched for Meical but could not see him. Brina stood close to the fire-pit, Craf and Fech fluttering about her. He glimpsed Coralen moving quietly to the camp’s fringe, checking on the paddocked horses. Her wolven claws were slung across her shoulders. Corban remembered their words before the battle at Murias, when they had heard of Domhain’s fall, of her father King Eremon’s death. She’d fled into the trees and he’d followed her, wanted to comfort her but not known how. They’d shared a handful of words and for a moment he’d seen through the cold hard walls she’d set about her. He wished he could go back to that moment and say more to her. He saw her head turn, her gaze touching him for a moment, then turning sharply away. Beyond her, a huddle of figures stood–the giants who had fled Murias, clustered together like an outcrop of rock. Closer by, the Jehar were gathering beside the stream, making ready to begin their sword dance. He felt the pull of habit drawing him to join them. Without thinking he approached them, seeking comfort in the act of something familiar amidst the whirl of fear, death and grief that threatened to consume him.

They were gathered about their leader, Tukul, Gar beside him; a few score stood further behind the old warrior–the ones who had saved Corban in Rhin’s fortress. Others were grouped before Tukul, at least twice their number. As Corban approached Tukul raised his voice, saying something in a language Corban did not recognize. The mass of Jehar before him dropped to their knees and bowed their heads. There was one who did not–Corban recognized him as one of the Jehar who had been with Nathair before realizing they had been betrayed. It seemed he was angry about something. Gar stepped forward. From years of knowing him Corban could tell he was furious, a straightness in his back, a tension in the set of his shoulders.

For a moment the two men stood staring at one another, a sense of imminent violence emanating from both of them, then Tukul snapped an order and they stepped apart, the other man stalking away.

Gar saw Corban and walked towards him. His eyes looked raw, red-rimmed. Corban remembered him weeping before his mam’s cairn. The first time he’d seen him display such emotion.

He has always seemed so strong, so in control. Something about seeing Gar weep had made him seem more human, somehow. Corban felt a sudden surge of emotion for the man, his teacher and protector. His friend.

‘What’s happening?’ Corban asked him.

‘The Jehar that followed Sumur and Nathair,’ Gar said with a nod towards the Jehar, who had risen and all started forming the lines for the sword dance practice. ‘They have recognized my father as their captain.’

‘Good. And him?’ Corban said, looking at the one who had spoken with Tukul.

‘Akar. He was Sumur’s captain. He is ashamed that they followed the Black Sun, that they were fooled by Nathair. That he was fooled. And he is proud. It is making him say foolish things.’ Gar shrugged, the emotion of a few moments ago gone or well hidden.

‘He looked like he wanted to fight you.’

‘It may come to that.’ Gar looked at the warrior, mingling now in the line of the sword dance. ‘And we have a history.’

Corban waited but Gar said nothing more.

‘Where’s Meical?’Corban asked.

‘Scouting. He set off soon after the attack–took a giant and a few of my sword-brothers and left.’

‘Shouldn’t we go and find him?’

‘I think Meical can look after himself. He’ll be back soon. Best use our time.’ Gar ushered him forward amongst the ranks of Jehar warriors. Corban drew his sword and slipped into the first position of the dance, his mind sinking into the rhythm of it, muscle memory automatically taking over from conscious thought. Time passed, merging into a fusion of contraction and extension, of focus and sweat, of pumping blood and his beating heart and the weight of his sword. Then he was finished, Tukul stepping from the line and ordering the Jehar to break camp.

Corban stood there a moment, savouring the ache in his wrists and shoulders, clinging to the familiarity. He looked around and saw his friends were nearby, watching him–Farrell and Coralen, standing with Dath. A figure walked towards him–Cywen, their mam’s knife-belt strapped diagonally across her torso.

‘Happy nameday, Ban,’ Cywen said.

‘What?’

‘It’s your nameday. Seventeen summers.’

Is it? He shook his head. It’s been over a year since we fled Dun Carreg, since I last saw Cywen. A year of running and fighting, of blood and fear. But at least I have spent it amongst my kin and friends. What has she been through? A year by herself, surviving who knows what. And only to come back and be reunited with us and help bury our mam. He took a long look at her–thinner, grime on her cheeks highlighted by tear tracks. The bones in her face were starkly defined, and her eyes were haunted. They hadn’t spoken much last night before sleeping. There’d been too much happen to all of them that day for them to relive anything else. Instead they’d sat by the fire for hours, just comfortable in each other’s company, Dath teasing Cywen and trying to make her smile, Farrell quietly watching and Coralen pacing as if she couldn’t quite settle.

Before he could respond to Cywen’s greeting there was a drum of hooves as a handful of riders crested the dell. Meical led, with the hulking forms of giants following behind. Corban could barely believe that what had once been mankind’s fiercest enemy was now their ally. Meical rode into the camp, dismounted smoothly and strode to Corban. Balur and another giant, a female, accompanied him, with Tukul following behind.

‘Only one of the Kadoshim survived last night’s attack. We tracked him halfway back to Murias before we gave up the chase. The land between us and the fortress is clear, for now,’ Meical said. ‘My guess is that the Kadoshim will stay within the fortress walls a while and become accustomed to their new bodies.’

‘Fech is watching them for us,’ the female giant said. ‘We will not have another surprise like the one last night.’

‘Good,’ Corban nodded, then looked at Meical. ‘What next?’

‘That is what we have come to ask you,’ Tukul said, staring at Corban.

‘Me?’

‘Of course you. You are the Seren Disglair. We follow you.’

Corban felt a shift around him and looked about to see the whole camp still and silent, all watching him.

He gulped.



Uthas of the Benothi stared down at the dead. He was standing just within the great doors of Murias, the sun warming his back. The bodies of his kin were laid out before him, scores of them, the might of the Benothi laid to waste. Here and there survivors of his clan moved, a handful remaining of those who had joined him–little more than two score–pulling fallen Benothi from the mass of the dead. The whole chamber was clogged with corpses, giants, men, horses, the stench of blood and excrement underlying all else.

Other figures lurked in the shadows, the Kadoshim. They moved awkwardly, not yet fully accustomed to their new bodies of flesh and bone. Uthas suppressed a shudder and looked away; the sight was unsettling now the chaos and rush of battle had passed.

Most of his surviving kin were gathered around a large ink pot, dipping bone needles as they inscribed the tale of thorns on their bodies. All had killed during yesterday’s battle; all would have fresh thorns to tattoo into their flesh. He saw Salach, his shieldman, bent close over Eisa as he tattooed her shoulder. Uthas’ eyes strayed back to the corpses lined at his feet, searching the faces of the dead. One that he had hoped he would find was not there. Balur. I should have known he would not have the good grace to die. He felt a flutter of fear at the knowledge that the old warrior was still alive, knew what Balur would wish to do to him. He will carry this blood-feud until the end of days. He needs to die. His gaze came to rest upon the corpse of Nemain, once his queen, now so much food for carrion.

What have I done? Fear and doubt gnawed at him. He cursed the events that had led to this. Cursed Fech, the damn bird that had warned Nemain of his betrayal. He put a hand to his face, felt the claw marks that Fech’s talons had raked into his forehead and cheeks.

Things could have been different if I’d had time to reason with Nemain… He gritted his teeth. No. It is done, no going back. I must salvage from this what I can, protect and rebuild my clan. I am King of the Benothi now.

Voices drew his attention and he looked up to see Nathair’s adviser, Calidus, emerge from a hall, the giant Alcyon looming behind him. After the battle they had set a makeshift camp in the chamber of the cauldron, deep in the belly of the mountain, but Uthas could not stand it in there; the stench of so many dead wyrms was making him retch. Besides, it was foolish to leave the great gates unguarded, the only entrance and exit to the fortress of Murias. Their enemies had seemingly fled, but who knew what they were capable of? Meical and his followers had already stormed their way into Murias once and shattered the ceremony, preventing many of the Kadoshim from passing through the cauldron into the world of flesh.

Calidus saw him and strode over.

‘How many of the Benothi live?’ Calidus asked. A cut across his forehead was scabbing, the skin puckering as he spoke. After the battle he had appeared weary to Uthas, face drawn, his silver hair dull. For the first time he had looked frail, like an old man. Now that was gone. He stood straight, his body alive with new energy, his yellow eyes appearing feral, radiating power.

‘Forty-five, fifty maybe of those who stood with me. Others still live who fought against us, or at least, their bodies have not been found. Balur is one of them.’

‘Balur has the starstone axe. He took it from Alcyon.’ Calidus flickered a withering stare at the giant beside him who stood with head downcast, his face stained with a purple bruise. Uthas noticed Alcyon had a war-hammer slung across his back, replacing the black axe that had been there. Taken from a fallen Benothi, no doubt. That stirred anger in his belly and he scowled at Alcyon, a member of a rival giant clan, the Kurgan.

No, he told himself, if my dream is to become reality I cannot think like that. We were one clan once, before the Sundering. It can be so again. Looking at Alcyon, though, he realized just how deep the old grudges ran.

‘You have something to say?’ Alcyon growled at him, standing straighter, returning his dark look.

Control your temper, build bridges, he told himself.

‘I see you carry a Benothi weapon. There is much honour in that.’

‘Honour, in the Benothi?’ Alcyon sniffed.

‘Aye,’ Uthas growled, anger rising. ‘As there is in all of the clans. Even the Kurgan.’

Alcyon looked slowly around, his gaze lingering on the fallen Benothi. ‘I see little evidence of Benothi honour here.’

‘I did what had to be done,’ Uthas snarled. ‘For our future. Yours, mine, all of the clans’. If Nemain had continued to do nothing all of the clans would have faded, become a tale to frighten wayward children.’

‘And instead we will slaughter ourselves to extinction.’

You fool, you do not see the long path, only the next step. His temper was fraying.

‘You would be better served by concentrating on the task set for you.’ Uthas shrugged, feeling the spite rise in him like bile after too much