Valour

by John Gwynne

  It was not long before she stepped into another cavern. At first she thought it was a dead end, but then saw lines of faint light flickering on the far wall. She moved closer, then with a hiss of exhaled breath stubbed her torch out.

  It was a door.

  She approached it slowly and upon closer examination realized that it was a door frame, with wide planks of wood nailed across it. She peered through one of the gaps, seeing a room beyond, filled with barrels, crates, bottles. Some kind of storage room – a cellar? A torch burned in a sconce on a wall. So this room led into the fortress; it was inhabited. And whoever it was knew of the tunnels, had access to them.

  The board she was leaning against gave way; with a creak its nails pulled out of the frame. She fell forward with it and found herself leaning half in, half out of the room.

  She froze, too scared to move, too scared to breathe.

  To her relief, no one came running. It was as she thought, a cellar of some kind. At the far end of the room steps rose up and disappeared into the ceiling.

  A sound caused her to go rigid again. It came from behind a closed door in the room. She was about to bolt when she heard it again. A voice, weak, little more than a whisper.

  ‘Water, please,’ the voice said.

  Before she could think about what she was doing, she had squirmed through the gap in the doorway, spilling onto a flagstone floor. She hurried over to the closed door, saw it was locked.

  ‘I know you’re there,’ the voice rasped. ‘I can see the shadow of your feet.’

  She stepped away.

  ‘Please, just some water.’

  Cywen pulled the door, a chain rattling around an iron ring, then drew one of her knives and worried at the lock’s hinge, which was bolted to the door frame. It seemed to be the weakest part, but there was no give in it.

  She chewed her lip, then ran over to the staircase. It rose up into shadow. She climbed a few steps, then saw a trapdoor above her. Making a decision, she ran back, grabbing one of the axes that were leaning beside the boarded door frame that led into the tunnels.

  With a crack and a shower of sparks she hacked through the chain and swung the door open.

  A horrible smell leaked out, urine and faeces, a figure inside sprawled upon dirty rushes.

  He was thin, haggard, dirty, his beard grown unkempt, a grimed bandage tied about his neck, but she still recognized him.

  It was Pendathran.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  MAQUIN

  Maquin smiled wearily as he set foot on the moss-grown bridge spanning a black-flowing river. The Rhenus, marking the western edge of Forn Forest and also officially the eastern border of Isiltir.

  On the far side of the river the bridge led straight to a gateway set in a high stone wall, crumbling and vine choked. Beyond the wall rose a grey tower: Brikan, home of the Gadrai. At least it had been, when there had been enough Gadrai alive to fill it. Now the Gadrai was just the three of them.

  Fifteen nights it had taken to walk from Haldis; ten since they had encountered Veradis. The young warrior had been true to his word, had led the giant and those searching for them away. Maquin owed Veradis his life. It saddened him to think that they were on different sides; he hoped they would not meet again.

  He stood in the courtyard, looking around at the silent walls. Orgull climbed the steps that led to the tower, Tahir limping behind him, and together the two warriors disappeared into the shadows of Brikan’s keep. Maquin did not follow just yet. He was remembering. The day he and Kastell had first come to the Gadrai: this courtyard full of people, noises, life, being welcomed by Vandil and Orgull as sword-brothers, the long hours spent training in this courtyard, the nights standing watch on the wall, all with Kastell. He felt a lump rise in his throat and pushed it down. I shall grieve for you soon, he promised. When Jael is dead.

  The three of them sat around a crackling fire that kept the encroaching darkness at bay, passing a skin of ale between them. A few stores had been found, skins of ale, a few amphorae of wine, a round of cheese still good enough to eat, some salted pork in the cold room. To Maquin it tasted like the finest meal.

  Tahir rubbed his leg. His wound had healed surprisingly well – Maquin had seen many die from infection and fever that came from injuries far less severe.

  ‘We’ll be on a boat from the morrow,’ Maquin said. ‘No more walking for you for a while.’

  ‘Thank Elyon,’ Tahir said. He was young, not much older than Kastell, with long, thick-muscled arms that made him look out of proportion.

  ‘Won’t be a pleasure trip,’ Orgull said. ‘A lot of leagues to row between here and Dun Kellen.’

  ‘I’d rather row it than walk it,’ Tahir replied, drinking from the ale skin.

  Their plan had been to make it to Brikan, where they knew a number of boats were moored, and then take the river north to Dun Kellen, where King Romar’s estranged wife, Gerda, dwelt. She had borne Romar a child before she had left him. Haelan, the lad’s name was. He was ten years old and now heir to the realm of Isiltir.

  ‘Why is Gerda not queen?’ Tahir asked.

  ‘She’s an obstinate woman,’ Maquin said. He had lived many years in Mikil, had served there when Romar had married Gerda, and seen her ride away from Mikil with her son, Haelan, as well.

  ‘Obstinate?’ Tahir asked. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Pig-headed,’ Orgull said.

  ‘She was not given to taking orders, even from Romar,’ Maquin elaborated.

  ‘Oh. And we’re taking word to her,’ Tahir said. ‘Not sure I like the sound of that.’

  ‘She’s well suited to stand against Jael. She’ll not give up her son’s throne without a fight.’

  ‘Do you think Jael has a chance of claiming the throne?’ Tahir asked.

  ‘He thinks he has,’ Orgull said. ‘He has Romar’s blood in his veins, and he has the stones to try and take it. And he has a powerful supporter in Nathair. It’ll come down to a fight, I should think, and that’ll be decided by who can field the most warriors. The sooner we get word to Gerda, the more chance she’ll have to save her son’s neck.’

  ‘Most of Isiltir’s warriors are food for crows at Haldis,’ Maquin said. ‘Even Jael can’t have that many men about him.’

  ‘True enough. At Mikil he’ll have more men who will most likely support him, but not a war-host. But, as I said, he has strong support. Nathair is on the rise, and with men in his camp like that Calidus and his Jehar warriors . . .’ He trailed off, all of them remembering the deadly skill and speed that the black-clad Jehar had demonstrated at Haldis.

  Maquin drank from the ale skin, watching Orgull across the flames. He was a big man, bald headed and bull necked. Maquin had always thought that Orgull was the brawn to Vandil’s brain, the first and second captains of the Gadrai. But their flight back through Forn had shown there was a lot more to Orgull than muscle.

  And those things he had said, about King Braster, about a secret brotherhood, about the starstone axe and the God-War and a Black Sun . . .

  He took another swig of ale. On the flight from Haldis there had never seemed a time to talk about these things, fleeing from one danger to the next, evading human hunters and Forn’s predators both. But now they were in Brikan with a measure of safety about them, at least for tonight.

  ‘What is this brotherhood that you spoke of, the reason you spoke to Braster?’ Maquin asked across the flames.

  Orgull stared at Maquin; Tahir glanced from one to the other.

  ‘You have a right to know,’ Orgull said at length. ‘And if I cannot trust the two of you, my sword-brothers, then who in this world can I trust? It is as I said. When I was young, younger even than you –’ he nodded at Tahir – ‘I met a man. He came to my da’s hold – he was a warrior, strong and skilled, and I looked up to him because of that, but also he seemed wise. When he spoke, it felt as if the whole world should listen . . .’ He paused, clearly remembering.

  ‘One night he came to my
father and me, told us of things. Strange, otherworldly things, of a war that has raged for thousands of years, which is still being fought. All will fight in this war, he said, all will choose a side, the darkness or the light. At the time I was young, you understand. I was caught up in the heroism of it, so when he told us that he was seeking out men – a brotherhood, he called it – to help in this coming war, when he asked for our aid, our oaths, I gave mine willingly, and so did my da. My da lives still in the north, with my brothers and other kin. Giant-killers all of us, living so close to Forn and the north, but I felt the call of the Gadrai more than they did. I left.’ He paused, stared silently into the flames for long moments. ‘I almost forgot about the man, the oath, and just lived my life. But then I saw him again, and he told me of others that had sworn the same oath. Men like Braster. He reminded me of the things he had told me – things that I am hearing whispered about now – of the God-War, of how these Banished Lands will become the battleground of angels and demons, of the Seven Treasures, of the avatars of Elyon and Asroth.’ He looked at his palm, tracing an old scar. ‘And my oath still stands.’

  Veradis had spoken about those things too, on the journey through the Bairg Mountains to Forn, when Kastell had been alive. At the time Maquin had laughed. Angels and demons were hard to believe in when the sun was shining bright and laughter was on the air. But now, in the cold heart of a giant tower in Forn, after the battle at Haldis and all he had seen, it was easier to believe. He shook his head. He had always trusted what he could see, touch, feel. The rest of it mattered little to him. And now, even if it was true, it still didn’t matter that much. ‘All sounds like faery tales to me,’ Maquin muttered. ‘Only thing that matters is putting Jael in the ground.’

  Tahir looked at him. ‘A man with revenge in his heart should dig two graves, my old mam used to say to me.’

  ‘As long as Jael’s in one of them, I’ll be content,’ Maquin said. But still, he could not stop Orgull’s words rattling around his head – all will fight, all will choose a side.

  Whose side am I on?

  ‘The man who told you of these things,’ he said to Orgull. ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Meical.’

  The next day they set out early, dawn a mere hint beyond the trees. The Rhenus was liquid black. Maquin dipped his oar; Orgull sat across from him and they rowed away from the small quay that jutted from Brikan’s walls.

  On the second day they saw a large barge moored on the eastern bank of the river. No one answered their calls so they approached cautiously. Orgull was the first to recognize it.

  ‘It is the one we were guarding that was attacked by the Hunen and their white wyrms,’ he said.

  Maquin peered closely, seeing corpses strewn across the deck and other bodies littering the wide track of the east bank; a booted foot, a hand, the shaft of a giant war-hammer, a horse’s skull, all lying where they had fallen in battle, clothes rotted, flesh picked clean by Forn’s inhabitants.

  In silence they pushed away from the barge and moved on up the river.

  By highsun on the fifth day the trees began to thin, great shafts of the sun beaming down upon the travellers. Soon the river swept them from the forest into rolling meadows, the riverbank thick with wildflowers; it was as if they had rowed into spring.

  ‘How far to Dun Kellen?’ Tahir asked, scratching his leg. He had been complaining of a sore arse, stiff arms and blisters on his palms for two days solid.

  ‘Ten to twelve days, if nothing slows us,’ Orgull said. Tahir groaned, looking at his palms.

  ‘We could always put you ashore, let you walk,’ Orgull suggested. Tahir did not reply, except to grip his oar and continue rowing.

  Early on the seventh day since leaving Forn they were breaking camp where they had pulled ashore for the night. A mist hung heavy over the river, clinging to thick beds of reed. Orgull was shaving his head with a sharp knife.

  ‘Why do you do that? Tahir asked. ‘Why not just let it grow?’

  ‘I used to have fine long hair,’ Orgull said, ‘or so the ladies told me. When I first joined the Gadrai, on one of my first patrols we came upon a party of Hunen. One of them grabbed a fist full of my hair and threw me about like a rag doll. He bashed me into a tree. I didn’t wake up till I was back in Brikan – my sword-brothers had carried me there.’ He smiled, half a grimace. ‘I’ve shaved my head clean ever since.’

  ‘Do you hear that?’ Maquin said, head cocked to one side.

  They all listened. The river was silent, muted by the mist. A moorhen cried out, long and mournful. Then Maquin heard it again: horses’ hooves, lots of them, the jingle of harness and chainmail.

  ‘Quickly,’ Orgull hissed, and as quietly as they could, they climbed back into their boat and pushed away from the shore. As time passed the mist evaporated, giving a good view of the land about them. It was flatter now they were further north, broken up with ragged stands of trees. There was no sign of the riders they had heard.

  Late in the day they saw shapes ahead: a stone bridge spanning the river, a tower on the western bank, a sprawling village of timber and thatch behind it. Figures moved on the bridge and amongst the buildings.

  Orgull hissed a warning and they rowed to the bank, pulling the boat ashore, then crept slowly through the rushes.

  A banner hung from the tower, snapping in the wind. Upon it was a jagged lightning bolt in a black sky. It was Romar’s mark, the crest of Isiltir, taken from the name the giants had used – the storm-lands. But as Maquin looked at it he saw something else on the banner, something intertwined with the jagged lightning, coiling about it. A white serpent.

  ‘I don’t like the look of that,’ Maquin said quietly.

  ‘Me neither,’ Orgull said. ‘Whose banner is it?’

  ‘If you don’t ask you won’t know, my mam used to say,’ murmured Tahir.

  ‘Your mam was a wise woman,’ Orgull said. ‘Let’s go and ask someone.’

  Maquin crept through the reeds, wincing at every rustle. He and Tahir were close to the bridge now, though it had taken them a long time to get this close.

  A handful of houses were clustered about a squat tower. Maquin could smell horse dung, and hear the gentle neigh of a horse off in the darkness. Torches burned around the tower, small patches of light in the night, and further away larger fires burned. Men stood at the doors to the tower, grim-looking and dressed for war. This was a warband, no doubt, though it was hard to tell their numbers in the darkness – two, three hundred, maybe more. The banner hung limp on the tower, but Maquin remembered Isiltir’s lightning bolt and the serpent wrapped around it.

  ‘We’ll sit tight a while, see what we see,’ he whispered to Tahir.

  They lay there waiting a long time before the tower door swung open and a handful of men strode out. At their head was Jael.

  Without thinking, Maquin reached for his sword, then felt Tahir’s grip on his arm.

  ‘Don’t,’ the lad hissed.

  ‘It’s Jael,’ he whispered back.

  ‘I know, but there’s too many – you’ll get yourself killed, and worse, get me killed.’

  Maquin wrestled with the compulsion, then released his sword hilt.

  They crept back along the riverbank to Orgull and told him all they had seen, then waited until deep of night, when most would be sleeping, and pushed the boat back into the river, letting the current take them downstream. When they were convinced they were far enough away that sound would not carry, they rowed like their lives depended on it.

  By the time the sun rose behind them Maquin was slick with sweat, his back throbbing, muscles burning. They had come leagues since the bridge, giving them a good head start on Jael. Their guess was that he was moving on Gerda and Haelan, Romar’s son. Striking quickly, before news could spread and any resistance could rally. So their task was to reach Dun Kellen ahead of Jael.

  ‘Keep pulling,’ Orgull said behind them. Maquin wanted to say something but could not find the breath to do it.<
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  Dun Kellen rose out of a river mist, the sun sinking behind it. Built upon a hill, the town around it was a disorderly mass that flowed down the hill’s slopes. A mass of quays edged the river; the three men steered towards one of them and made fast the boat.

  ‘What now?’ said Tahir. He sniffed and pulled a face as fishermen and traders began to take notice of them. ‘And what’s that smell?’ he muttered.

  Orgull strode away, eyes fixed on the fortress on the hill.

  ‘Civilization,’ Maquin said, following Orgull.

  At the gates to the fortress a handful of guards stood with spears in their hands. Maquin noticed the shoddy state of the fortress’ defences. A whole section of the wall had collapsed, timber frame and cladding filling the gap. As he looked along the walls he saw there were a number of similar sections.

  Not the best place to endure a siege.

  ‘You – big man,’ a guard called, pointing at Orgull with his spear. ‘What’s your business in Dun Kellen?’ He looked at Maquin and Tahir, at their leather war gear and their swords. ‘Sellswords?’ He sneered. ‘We don’t need your sort round here.’

  ‘We are the last survivors of the Gadrai,’ Orgull said, frowning down at the man. He reached inside his cloak and the guards around him drew back, levelling spears and reaching for swords. Maquin and Tahir spread to either side of Orgull, hands on their own weapons. Bloodshed was only an instant away.

  Orgull pulled out a long cloth bundle and slowly unwrapped it, revealing a sheathed sword. He held it over his head.

  ‘This is King Romar’s sword. He lies slain in the heart of Forn Forest, betrayed by his own kin. His murderer is two days behind us, at best, and he would add your heads to the pile he has already gathered.’

  ‘That got their attention,’ Tahir whispered to Maquin.

  Maquin remembered the Lady Gerda as tall, strong-boned and athletic. He had last seen her three years ago, riding away from Mikil with her son Haelan and her shieldmen. Now her tall frame was layered in fat, folds of skin rippling down her bare arms. She was sitting on a chair beside Varick, her elder brother. He was thick boned like his sister, with streaks of grey at his temples and a plain, open face. In his hands he held Romar’s sword. It gave a metallic hiss as he drew it and held it up.