Ghoulslayer

Chapter Thirteen The Victory Feast

‘What happened to us?’ asked Queen Nia. She was seated at King Galan’s side, at the head of the feast. Lords Miach and Melvas looked up at her words, but Galan knew she was talking to him. The war had ignited something in her soul. Her tiredness was gone, her bitter­ness forgotten. She looked wonderful – twenty years younger and flushed with pride. The firelight flashed in her glistening eyes, and he realised he could not remember the last time she had looked at him with such passion and focus.

He reached out and took her hand. ‘What do you mean?’

She nodded at the Great Hall. They were surrounded by victorious warriors, vassals and kinsmen, their faces ruddy from wine and the heat of the fire, their eyes burning with pride as they leant back in their chairs or danced through the smoke. ‘How did we forget this?’ she said. ‘How did we forget how to live?’

Galan laughed and drank more of his wine. ‘It is not our place to choose the why and the when. The Great Wolf chose this moment to rouse his pack. We must just be grateful that he remembered us. He is behind everything. This rebellion would not have come as a surprise to him. I believe he sent us these traitors as a test – a final chance to prove our strength and loyalty.’

She smiled, squeezing his hand so hard it hurt. ‘I love you.’

Galan raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. ‘I saw you at the gates, my love. So brave. So beautiful. You looked like a goddess – like Netona reborn.’

She blushed and looked away, then raised her chin and looked proudly down the table, the very image of a noble regent. For years she had hidden in her chambers, nursing a hurt he could not ease, the agony of not giving him an heir, but now she looked as though she had rid herself of a terrible weight, no longer hunched, no longer bowed. The lines on her face no longer looked like the cruel wounds of time, but badges of honour.

Galan turned to the warrior seated at his other side, Lord Melvas. ‘What news from Lord Curac?’

Melvas was drowsy with exhaustion and drink, and his gaze was fixed on the dancers and musicians at the far end of the table. He sat up and rubbed his face, struggling to focus on his king.

Galan laughed. ‘No one celebrates as well as you, my old friend.’

Melvas gave him a rueful grin. ‘I have waited until tonight, King Galan. We will be on the road for two days or more after this. I will have plenty of time to recover before we reach the capital.’

‘Then Curac has won?’

Melvas grinned. ‘Very nearly. It took less than a day to reach the northernmost castle. He’s attacking it as we speak. If the traitors refuse to surrender, Curac will take their heads just as easily as those of all the others.’

‘Then he has no need of our aid?’

‘No, your majesty.’ Melvas emptied his goblet and poured himself another glass of wine. ‘We are free to enjoy the fruits of our labours. And then, in the morning, we can set off for the capital.’

King Galan closed his eyes, picturing the scene. Once the Hounds of Dinann had captured the capital, the whole kingdom would be his once more. The sign of the Wolf would fly from every castle in the land, and the bards would sing of the day King Galan and Queen Nia crushed the rebels who had turned their backs on a thousand years of tradition and fealty.

He sensed Melvas watching him.

‘I can’t eat with you staring at my ear,’ laughed the king. ‘Speak your mind. What are you worried about now?’

‘Curac could join us within a few days, your majesty.’

Galan shook his head. ‘Not this again.’ On another night, his general’s doubt might have annoyed him, but he was in such good spirits that he smiled. ‘Speed is everything, Melvas. I have told you this from the day we left Ruad. The rebels are a disorganised rabble, but if we give them time to join together against us, this war could become a tedious slog. I will not end my days locked in some drawn-out tussle over a backwater I had forgotten the name of until a few weeks ago. We move fast. We take their heads before they have time to get them together and form an alliance. We don’t need the extra numbers from Curac.’ He nodded at the meat heaped on Melvas’ plate. ‘You’re just getting too comfortable here. You want to spend a few more days stuffing your gut.’

Melvas was about to protest, but Galan held up a hand to silence him. ‘I’m joking! You’re a good man, Melvas. Would I let you lead the Hounds if you weren’t?’ He shook his head. ‘But I won’t wait here for Curac. I needed him to take the north so that we wouldn’t have an enemy at our backs, but you tell me he’s dealing with that, so we will set off for the capital tomorrow. If Curac is as good as you claim, he will join us quickly enough to see me plant the false king’s head on the battlements.’

Melvas seemed about to argue again when Queen Nia laughed at him. ‘Know when you’re beaten, Melvas. We’ll leave in the morning.’

The warrior held up his hands and smiled. ‘I’m not fool enough to argue with both of you.’ He rose slowly to his feet, holding the back of his chair to steady himself. ‘So I will dance.’ He bowed, almost falling in the process, then stumbled down the length of the table towards the dance at the far end. As he went, warriors reached out, grabbing his hand and patting him on the back, roaring his name.

Galan was still smiling as he turned to Nia. ‘Are we going to let that rogue have all the fun?’

She looked shocked. ‘You haven’t asked me to dance since…’ She frowned. ‘Have you ever asked me to dance?’

He shook his head in mock outrage, then stood and bowed to her. ‘Queen Nia, heroine of Sarum Keep, will you consent to dance with me?’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Will your back hold out?’

He laughed as he took her hand and crossed the hall. People backed away, forming an impromptu processional, bowing, smiling and raising their drinks.

As their regents approached, the musicians struck up a new tune, playing faster and louder, and Nia laughed as Galan whirled her into the dance.

Faces blurred as the king turned at pace, lifting his queen off her feet and crushing her to his chest.

Colour and sound blazed in his mind, ignited by the wine and his quickening heart. Some of the dancers were swinging red ribbons, and as he spun, King Galan found himself surrounded by a spiral of crimson strands.