Valour

by John Gwynne

  ‘What news, Fech?’ Uthas asked.

  ‘Men,’ the raven croaked. ‘Fire, horses, sharp iron.’

  The border between Benoth and Domhain was mostly a natural one made of black-sloped mountains. There was a strip of land between the mountains, though, thirty or forty leagues wide, which provided much easier passage between the two realms. That was the route Uthas had taken them. While it was always patrolled by the warriors of Domhain, Uthas had hoped that the cover of night would cloak them, and they could avoid any patrols.

  ‘Warriors, then,’ Fray said as he loomed out of the dark, the shadow of his axe-blade across his back looking as if another bird was perched on his shoulder. ‘How many?’

  ‘Eight,’ the raven said.

  ‘Eight?’ Struan echoed as he reached them. ‘A good number to whet our weapons on, eh? And to earn our thorns. Where are they?’

  ‘Wait,’ Uthas said. ‘Nemain has sent us to spy, not to kill.’

  ‘I cannot walk the length of Domhain just to sneak a look at those maggots lording it in our lands,’ Fray said. ‘What do you say?’ the giant asked as their other companions drew close – Aric, Kai and Eisa.

  Uthas smiled to himself, though the darkness hid it from the others. As I hoped. Raised on tales of war and glory, but having played no part in those tales themselves, they wanted to make their own stories. Killing will bind them tighter to me. Blood offers many qualities.

  He could almost see the bloodlust come upon them, the desire to ink the first thorn of their sgeul into their flesh. He glanced at the thorns and vine tattooed upon his own arm, most from the war with the Exiles. That was no small thing, to take a life. To see existence snuffed out before your eyes. It had humbled him the first time, sending another’s spirit across the bridge of swords. It also gave him pride, whenever he glanced at it, and much honour amongst his Benothi kin. Among those who had been birthed after the wars, anyway. There were those in the clan who had survived the Sundering and the Scourging. Their sgeuls were a sight to behold.

  ‘We should attack, teach them who this land belongs to,’ Eisa said, her fingers stroking the bone hilt of her knife as she spoke. Her eyes searched out Uthas, pleading. Others grunted agreement.

  ‘I command here,’ Uthas said. ‘And we are here to discover, not to slay.’

  ‘Why can we not do both?’ Kai asked.

  ‘If we did, we would discover first, and slay on the return journey,’ Uthas said. ‘That is wisdom. But Nemain has bid us to be swift and secret, to leave no sign of our passing. To gather information. We will not kill tonight.’ He said the last sentence louder, looking straight at Nemain’s raven. If you would report something to Nemain, report that.

  There was some muted grumbling, but Salach snapped a curse at them and rested his hand on his axe hilt, and the complaints faded.

  ‘We will take a closer look,’ Uthas said, ‘and see what there is to see.’

  ‘And if it is Rath?’ Fray said, the challenge still sitting behind his eyes.

  ‘If it is Rath we will kill him,’ Uthas said. ‘I know Nemain would forgive us that.’

  Rath had been Eremon’s battlechief. Decades ago a warband of the Benothi had raided into Domhain and razed Rath’s hold to the ground. He had not been there, but his wife and bairns had been. Ever since then the warrior had hated the Benothi. Rath had gathered about himself a band of warriors and together they had mercilessly tracked and hunted any Benothi giants that dared enter Domhain’s borders.

  ‘Fech, lead us,’ Uthas said, and turned, using his spear as a staff, following the raven’s shadow.

  Soon they saw the light, a fire’s orange glow, and Uthas caught the scent of meat cooking. He held his spear up and the warriors behind him fanned out, spreading like a cloak tugged by the wind. Slowly he moved forwards.

  Fech had been right – they were warriors. A handful were grouped around a guttering fire, huddled against the wind. Two more stood guard a little further out; one to the east, one looking north, into Benoth. This one was the only danger, though it was unlikely he would see anything on this moonless night. Aric was closest to the northerly guard, crouched low to the heather, moving like a slow mist. The guard saw nothing.

  I must change that.

  Uthas dug his fingers into the ground, felt the moist earth flow about him, under his fingernails, then he began to whisper, hardly more than a breath on his lips. He knew that Salach would hear him; that was fine, he trusted Salach with his life. But no one else would hear. Fech was nowhere to be seen. A slight tremor ran through the earth about Uthas’ hand, rippling away towards Aric.

  Uthas heard the sound, a popping, as a patch of ground burst close to Aric, sounding much like a wet branch breaking. Uthas could not tell who was more surprised: Aric or the guard. Certainly the guard heard it.

  ‘Who’s there?’ the warrior called, half drawing his sword, taking a step towards the sound. The men around the fire stirred, one of them standing. Aric froze for a heartbeat, then exploded forward, swinging his hammer as he did. It smashed into the guard’s chest, sending him hurtling through the air. He rolled and fell still.

  There was a moment’s silence, then the men about the fire were rushing Aric. Giants burst from the darkness about them. Blood sprayed black in the starlight.

  Salach made to join the battle but Uthas put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Let them earn their thorns.’

  The fight was almost done, anyway, the men surprised and outmatched by Uthas’ company. Even as Uthas watched, Fray sent a man’s head spinning through the night. It fell into the fire, sending up an explosion of sparks.

  Uthas strode over, surveying the battleground. Fray was looking around, axe held across his chest, looking for someone else to kill. The battle-madness slowly faded from his eyes. Eisa was bloodied, a hand clasped over her shoulder, blood welling black between her fingers. She grinned at Uthas.

  Aric was down. He still lived, but he was clutching his gut, trying to staunch the blood that was pulsing from a deep wound.

  Not good, Uthas thought. Gut wounds are never good.

  ‘I-I am sorry,’ Aric said as Uthas crouched beside him. ‘I do not know –’ he paused, a wave of pain snatching his speech – ‘I do not know what happened.’

  I am sorry, Aric. Uthas felt a wave of guilt, knowing his actions had brought this about. It was necessary, he told himself.

  ‘Easy,’ he said gently. ‘It is done now.’ Reaching to his belt, he unfastened a skin, pulling the stopper. A smell came out, earthy and he wrinkled his nose. Brot, the food of giants. Three thousand years, and this is the best we can come up with. Just a mouthful would sustain any giant for a day’s hard running, though, and they could cross twenty leagues in a day. ‘Drink some,’ Uthas said, holding it to Aric’s lips.

  He took a sip and swallowed.

  ‘Stay with him,’ Uthas said to Salach as he rose and walked away. The others had checked the dead: eight men, warriors of Domhain by the look of them. Fech was perched atop a body, an eyeball dangling from his beak. He gulped it down.

  ‘Nemain will be angry,’ the bird croaked.

  Uthas shrugged. ‘They attacked us.’

  He strode past it, to the paddocks behind, where eight horses were penned. They were white eyed, gathered at the far end of the paddock.

  ‘We’ll eat well tonight,’ Uthas said to Kai and Struan. ‘Slaughter one.’

  Some of the horses panicked and bolted, breaking the paddock rope. They caught one, though, its scream cut short with the crunch of Struan’s hammer.

  They lit a fire and spitted a hindquarter. Uthas stared into the flames, remembering another fire, felt a twinge on his back, as if his burn scars had a memory, too. It had been many years ago, decades, when he and Salach had been captured whilst scouting south, in Cambren. They had ventured too close to the walls of Dun Vaner, been hunted and caught, thrown in chains into a damp, dark cell. The memory of it blurred, even now causing a twist of fear
in his gut. They had been tortured, their screams ringing out for days. He remembered begging for death and weeping when it had been withheld from him. Then Rhin had come to them and the torture had stopped. She had shown them mercy – kindness, even – tending their wounds, silently washing them, applying poultices and bandages. Part of him had known that it was a ploy, but he had been so filled with gratitude, so overwhelmed, that it had not seemed to matter. She had lit another fire then, causing him to writhe in renewed fear, but no tools of torture had been heated. Instead Rhin had whispered and a face had appeared in the flames.

  Asroth.

  He had spoken – of his betrayal by his angelic brotherhood, of his fall from grace, of his war with Elyon. He spoke of dreams and ambitions, of a new order in the Banished Lands, of the gifts he would give to those who served him. And Uthas and Salach had listened.

  Uthas shook his head, banishing the memories. It’s been long enough. He walked back to Aric, who was lying where Uthas had left him; Salach and some of the others were sitting silently about the wounded giant. He was groaning, eyes clenched shut. They flickered open as Uthas crouched beside him. It took a moment before there was recognition in Aric’s eyes. The pain will do that.

  ‘You are strong, brother,’ Uthas said.

  ‘I have earned my first thorn, begun my sgeul,’ Aric said.

  ‘That you have,’ Uthas said. ‘Salach will make the mark for you.’

  He touched his fingers to Aric’s wound, the slowly pulsing dark blood, then raised his fingers to his lips and pressed them to his tongue.

  Brot. The brot he had given Aric earlier was seeping from the wound, mixed with the blood. There was no doubt now. Aric will die of this wound. He sat back and watched Salach prepare the paste for Aric’s tattoo, grinding the leaves with his stone pestle and mortar, his bone needle lying on a piece of cloth beside him. Eisa and Kai gripped Aric’s arm and Salach set quietly to work, dipping the needle, carefully piercing Aric’s flesh – dip, stab, stab, stab, dip, stab, stab, stab, countless times – then it was done.

  Aric smiled at the thorn on his arm.

  ‘Your wound – it is a brot wound,’ Uthas said.

  ‘I know,’ Aric whispered.

  It is for the best, Uthas thought. If he had lived I would have had to punish him for disobeying my orders. This way he keeps his honour.

  ‘Help me kneel,’ Aric said, and Salach and Fray lifted him, one at either arm. Aric grimaced, a groan escaping his lips, then he looked up at Uthas. ‘I am ready now.’

  Uthas signalled to Salach as Aric dipped his head. Salach’s axe was sharp; Aric probably did not feel a thing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CORBAN

  Corban shifted in his saddle, his backside aching and his shoulder itching from where he had been wounded in the fall of Dun Carreg. Eight days they had been riding since Camlin had spotted their pursuers, and he was exhausted. How was it that sitting in a saddle all day long could be so tiring? And so painful? Halion was leading them swiftly north, through a rolling landscape, much of it coated in dense woodland. Each night they had dismounted and walked extra leagues in an attempt to widen the gap between them and their followers. And each morning, before dawn, Gar would wake him to perform the sword dance and to spar. Others were starting to join them: Farrell and his da, Vonn, Halion and Marrock. Even Edana, claiming that if she were to be a true leader then she would need to learn how to swing a sword. Marrock had grudgingly agreed. And just this morning his mam had joined them: Halion had taken her through some forms with the spear that she now carried permanently. She had done well, her determination and athleticism reminding Corban of Cywen.

  Cywen. Just the thought of his sister brought a pain all of its own, a dull ache in his gut. Sometimes he forgot that she was dead and then would be reminded of her by some inconsequential thing – a scent, a phrase, a mannerism in someone – then the weight of it would come flooding back. He shook his head, scattering the memories like gathering flies.

  He was riding midway down their small column, along a narrow track which was winding through light woodland. Sunlight dappled the ground, moving as a breeze swayed the branches above. Storm was a flicker of white movement deeper in the woods. Without her they would all be close to starving by now.

  He saw his mam and Gar in quiet conversation ahead of him, and scowled. He had hardly spoken to either of them since the night they had taken him into the dark and asked him to leave, spouted all that madness about Elyon and Asroth, about going to Drassil. Though he had not talked to them about it, once they had begun their ride through Cambren he had thought of little else. He did not like things this way between them. He was grieving, and he knew his mam was too, when they should be comforting each other. He felt there was a wall between them instead, something invisible but solid that he could not break through.

  Corban stood straight and approached his mam and Gar, who were tending their horses. It was almost full dark and further away the others were making camp. He stopped before the two of them and they looked at him expectantly.

  ‘Can I talk to you?’ he mumbled.

  ‘Of course,’ his mam said quickly. Gar just looked at him.

  ‘I will not leave our friends,’ he said. Gar took a deep breath to say something but Corban held a hand up. ‘Please, hear me out. I have words I need to say. I am oath-bound to Edana, and even if I weren’t, I could not leave these people. They are my friends, our friends, and all that is left of home. I have thought about it long and hard, thought about nothing else for days, and, even if what you have said is true . . .’ He paused, thinking again of Elyon and Asroth, the tales he had heard of the Otherworld, the Ben-Elim and Kadoshim. How could it be true? ‘Even if it were true, I would not leave my friends. If it is true, then Elyon can tell me, not just you two. And until that happens I am not going to change my mind. You can say what you like, but I will not change my mind.’ He looked down at the ground. ‘I hope that we can be . . .’ And suddenly the words dried up. The same as before, he wanted to say. Before they had taken him into the dark and said those mad things. He looked up at his mam, eyes pleading. The silence lengthened.

  She nodded.

  ‘You are a man now, a warrior who has sat your Long Night, and proven in battle,’ she said. ‘We will respect your decision. And we will wait until Elyon, or his Ben-Elim,’ she added with a quick flicker of her eyes to Gar, ‘changes your mind.’

  With her words he felt his tension drain, evaporating like smoke in the breeze, and he saw the same happen in her face. He reached out and hugged her tight. She felt small in his arms, fragile. When they separated, Gar was busying himself rubbing his horse down, checking its hooves. He avoided Corban’s gaze.

  Corban sat with Dath and Farrell close to the fire. They had all dined on dried meat and cold water, all that was left of a doe that Storm had carried into the camp four nights earlier, though none complained.

  Right now Storm was curled behind Corban, half hidden in the shadows of a tree.

  ‘A fine meal,’ Farrell said as he swallowed his last mouthful. ‘Even if it was as tough as the leather on my boots.’

  Corban chuckled, while Dath sat gazing into the fire. Corban watched his friend. He had been like this since his da had been killed on the beach. Corban wanted to help, to do something, but he understood: there was nothing that he could do, nothing that would make things better. You can’t bring back the dead. All he could do was let Dath know he wasn’t alone.

  Storm growled behind Corban. She was half crouched in the darkness, staring into the trees, ears pricked forward. She sniffed, then visibly relaxed and sank back to the ground. Corban looked where she’d been staring. He thought he saw movement, then a figure solidified in the gloom, treading softly into the firelight.

  Camlin.

  He walked purposefully to Marrock and Halion, who were sat with Edana. They rose when they saw him and fell into deep conversation. Corban watched them intently. Eventually Marrock nodded dec
isively and stepped away, closer to the fire. ‘Our followers are close. Camlin has scouted back along our path.’

  ‘They have gained on us,’ Camlin told them. ‘They are no more than two leagues behind us.’

  ‘How many?’ Anwarth asked.

  ‘Two score, at least.’

  Corban looked around his companions’ faces, could see fear wrapping its fingers about them.

  Halion walked to the edge of the glade. ‘Corban – with me,’ he said. ‘And bring your wolven.’

  ‘Why?’ Gwenith said, her hand reaching out towards Corban.

  ‘We are going to teach them to fear us,’ Halion said.

  ‘Will she attack on your command?’ Halion asked Corban as they picked their way through dark woods.

  Camlin was leading the way, Gar and Vonn following closely behind Corban. He had not even tried to dissuade the stablemaster when he had followed Corban silently from their camp; he knew there was no point.

  ‘Yes,’ Corban answered. ‘You remember? Friend and foe?’

  Halion looked at him, then chuckled, clearly remembering a time in the Rowan Field when a wolven pup had attacked his leg. ‘That seems so long ago,’ he murmured.

  Camlin stopped in front, looking up, then changed their direction, leading them down a slope.

  ‘What exactly are we doing?’ Corban asked.

  ‘We are going to even the odds a little, and spread some fear amongst them. They will have seen the dead back at the beach and in the woods, will see that some of them have not been killed by a blade.’ He looked at Storm, loping almost silently beside Corban. ‘They will not know that we have a wolven with us – how would you react upon seeing warriors ripped, torn apart?’

  Corban thought about that. ‘I’d be scared,’ he said.

  ‘Aye,’ Halion said, ‘and the dark breeds fear.’

  Corban crouched in the undergrowth, one hand wrapped in the thick fur around Storm’s neck. Gar was close by, a darker shadow in the gloom. Both of them were staring into the darkness.

  Camlin had led them in a great loop, so that they could approach downwind of the camp. ‘They have hounds,’ Camlin had whispered.