Free The Iron Grail by Robert Holdstock

the image on the front of the ceremonial shield. ‘The hawk rides the horse through the worst of winter, watching for spring. I was wearing it across my back on the night I was carried to safety. I claim it as mine. There is a message for us all in this bronze and silver symbol. I offer it as the standard that will take us back to Taurovinda.’
    ‘There is a wasteland there,’ Gorgodumnos said sourly. ‘When Urtha left, the druid Sciamath’s ancient prophesy came true. Three wastelands. And the second wasteland is here! The realm was sacked, soiled and deserted. There is nothing there for us to return and claim.’
    Kymon waved the chicken bone in the air. ‘But you have pledged me your sword and spear,’ he said, and there was the merest ripple of laughter at the retort.
    ‘There is nothing to gain by going back,’ Gorgodumnos insisted.
    ‘There is everything to gain,’ Kymon insisted more strongly. ‘The evergroves, the orchards in the fort itself, the springs, the lives of our ancestors; the land that our children will inherit! We are all that is left of the Cornovidi for the moment. But in Ghostland, the Unborn wait to cross into the woods and fields that we have hunted and farmed for longer than I can imagine.’
    ‘My sons lie dead and unburied, somewhere on the Plain of MaegCatha, dragged out by ghosts, but slaughtered by iron.’
    Kymon hesitated for a moment, seeming to struggle for words. Then a small voice, a girl’s voice, murmured, ‘If you will not avenge their deaths, then there is more than one wasteland scourging the land of Cornovidi.’
    Gorgodumnos glanced furiously at Munda, who had risen to her feet, behind the circle of benches. But though his face was set grim and he shook his head, he said nothing.
    Next to him, his heavy-set brother, Morvodugnos, rose to his feet and placed his sword, point inwards, across the table. ‘There are not enough of us to take a heavily defended fort.’
    ‘We must gather an army,’ Kymon said. ‘From the Coratoni, my father’s friends, from the Trinovanda, if they will accept delayed payment for their services; we can scout north for Parisii. We cannot surely be the only survivors.’
    I hesitated to tell Kymon that the lands of the Coritani, to the east as far as the sea coast, were deserted as well, wooden effigies being all that remained of the knights and spearmen who had once formed such effective war bands.
    A wan young man called Drendas then asked, ‘Who will lead the expedition? You are the king’s son, but you are too young.’
    ‘Nevertheless,’ Kymon said strongly. ‘I will lead the expedition. However, I will expect wise and profound counsel from all of you. This is not a question of glory. It is not a question of cattle. It is not a question of tribute. It is not to extend our hunting territory. It is to reclaim the land inside our walls; and to banish the Dead to beyond our earth, and send the Unborn back to bide their time. I will do it for the memory of my father and mother. My sister here will show as strong a heart. We sit here at the edge of a wasteland, but Munda is right: whilst we do nothing, we are as dead as the land that was once our home.’
    All but Gorgodumnos had warmed to Kymon, perhaps more for the confidence with which he had spoken than for the content of his rallying cry. And Gorgodumnos himself seemed more bemused by what was happening than angry at the proposal.
    Later, Ambaros sent for me. He had been told of his grandson’s address to the uthiin and the High Women.
    He told me of several bands who had escaped from the various scenes of destruction when Taurovinda itself had been sacked. They were settled in the hills to the north, in a winding gorge to the south, and at a lake’s edge in the Forest of Andiarid, the ‘silver horn’.
    Then Ambaros reached for my arm, his grip surprisingly strong. I could feel the beating of his heart. He was still between earth and sky, but he was increasingly urgent for