spared no sympathy as his shaken prisoner was hauled by the scruff to his feet. ‘West tower dungeon,’ he declared forthwith. ‘The irons stay locked. Under Arithon’s bond of protection, you say?’ At Dakar’s nod, the Duke of Alestron stepped back, ‘Then his Grace had better collect his goods, quickly. I don’t care fiend’s get if the wretch rots in the dark till the rats pick him down to a skeleton.’
‘The tower guard’s apt to spit him,’ Mearn warned, his evil smile still in place.
Parrien’s agreement chimed in lightning fast. ‘A shove on the stairs, or a slip with a knife. I’d do that, myself, there’s enough provocation.’
‘You’re turncoats!’ Fionn Areth gasped, faint with shock as the hold on him viciously tightened, and someone’s badgering blade nicked through skin. ‘Traitors gone over to Shadow!’
‘We are Arithon’s men,’ said Duke Bransian, complacent. ‘And my brothers are right. You’re a damned idiot with a tongue that the breeze flaps to every fool point on the compass. Leave you to yourself, you won’t last an hour. Sithaer, without help, I doubt we can get you out of my sight without somebody hasty pinning your liver up on my wall for a trophy!’
At Dakar’s concerned glance, the duke finally smiled. Still murderously vigorous, he had all his teeth. ‘Don’t worry, man. He’ll have Arithon’s feal backing. Vhandon and Talvish will serve as his wardens. Let them handle the puppy as they see fit, and keep him breathing against all comers.’
‘That’s rich!’ Keldmar whooped. ‘We’ll take bets to see who winds up bloodied first.’
‘Or better,’ Parrien attacked with bright relish. ‘A thousand royals on whether Vhan or Talvish is willing to die, defending a priest-sucking goatboy’
Summer 5670
Of nine Companions who marched with their Earl’s war-band from Halwythwood, eight had held the blood-soaked ground in Daon Ramon and broken the net of Alliance forces that had closed on the Master of Shadow. Five were killed in the red slaughter on the field. A sixth succumbed during rearguard action, defending a ragged contingent of scouts as they slipped through the lines and took flight. Cienn, who was seventh, was dispatched for mercy, by the knife of a steadfast friend. The eighth, single-handed, had been charged to defend the s’Ffalenn prince through a desperate retreat to the Mathorn Mountains.
Against odds, alone, he survived to return.
Braggen came south and entered the forest on foot to avoid leaving tracks for the head-hunters. He crossed the north fork of the River Arwent in the heat of high summer and paused to trap a black fox. As he intended, his smoke fire to finish the cured hide drew the clan scouts who watched over the downlands near Caith-al-Caen. News was exchanged, and directions.
Under the regal crowns of the oaks, the warm air scarcely trembled. The fragrance of greenery clung thick as glue, shafted with sun through the heat haze. In the shaded glens, the deer drowsed through midday, fawns asleep while the does stamped off flies. Braggen slipped on his way, his step just as furtively silent, and his strapping frame lost in the brush.
Worn lean from the trail, he arrived at the s’Valerient chieftain’s encampment in the lucent glimmer of twilight. He carried the pelt slung over his shoulder and the black brush strung at his belt.
The pack of clan children discovered him first. ‘Look! It’s Braggen! Braggen’s alive! Another Companion is back!’
Like starlings, they descended, calling his name. Their eager hands plucked at his clothing. He tousled heads, fended the boys off his knives, and detached the girl toddler before she wore the caked mud from the last stream he had forded.
No welcoming crowd of adults came forward. No one mentioned the loss of his clan braid.
Instead, given space out of mourning respect, two men were sent by the watch. They arrived unaccompanied, armed and dressed in the fringed, forest leathers that carried no other adornment. The expected, tall figure was slightly ahead, with the other sturdy and short, striding fast through the failing light. The children all scattered. Left standing alone, his heart heavy in him, Braggen confronted Sidir, and after him, Eriegal, whose round face was no longer merry. ‘We are four. After us, of fourteen, only Deith is still living.’
Deith, who had not gone with the war-band, but remained in Strakewood, holding the tenuous ground in Deshir since the massacre at Tal Quorin that had savaged a whole generation.
Now, the other survivors were fallen. Against crushing numbers and impossible odds, their lives had been given as well, to win their prince free of Lysaer’s massed assault on Daon Ramon Barrens.
Braggen, who was not a demonstrative man, bent his close-cropped head, overcome. ‘I knew there were deaths. Just how many, the scouts would not tell me.’
Grief closed his fists against helpless pain. Then Sidir caught him, gripped his massive frame close, and Eriegal embraced him also. Braggen wept with these two, whose lot had been hardest to bear: their doomed earl’s command had asked them to stand guard for the children and families in Halwythwood. Of them all, the bravest and best had been spared to advise the heirs chosen to inherit the s’Valerient titles. Barach, not yet twenty, was now Earl of the North, and clan chieftain ruling Deshir. Young Jeynsa, a hot-tempered and rebellious seventeen, must swear her oath and stand as caithdein to the crown of Rathain.
Eriegal stood back first. His crooked smile broke through as he tipped his fair head to bear-bait the comrade, whose return was a gift unexpected. ‘You’ve hacked off your hair, man? Whoever she was, she must have shown you a rousing performance to have filched your braid as a keepsake.’
‘We were certain the Fatemaster had passed you for judgement,’ Sidir added, gruff. ‘Since you’re not maimed, we’re right to presume the knife-work was yours, not a townsman’s?’ The same height as Braggen, but spare and long-boned, he lost none of his quiet dignity through the moment of desperate emotion. ‘Come in. You’ll be starving. Better expect you won’t get any sleep until you’ve satisfied Feithan’s questions.’
Braggen gripped the fox hide, too nerve-wracked to eat. He had dreaded this meeting with the earl’s widow for the better part of three months. Now the hour was upon him, he pressed the question. ‘What of Jieret’s successors?’
Eriegal hooked fretful hands on his antler-bossed belt. ‘Barach will come once the runner’s informed him. He’s out on patrol with the archers.’
‘And Jeynsa?’
The two Companions exchanged a taut glance. Then Sidir murmured, ‘You’ll see.’
Flanked by his peers, Braggen crossed the encampment. Since the return of the Prince of Rathain, increased persecution by head-hunters had redoubled an already rigorous security. No open fires burned after dark. The Companion passed through the lines of dimmed tents, then ducked into the balsam-sweet shadows of the central lodge.
The hide flap slapped shut, and Braggen stopped cold. Trophy hide on his shoulder, scarred hands crossed on his sword-pommel, he stood speechless, while Sidir lit a pine knot in a staked iron sconce, and Eriegal dodged
