Valour

by John Gwynne

  Halion and Camlin had whispered the plan to Corban, Gar and Vonn, then drawn their knives, rubbed dark earth over the iron and disappeared amongst the trees, Vonn following them.

  ‘Why did they do that?’ Corban whispered to Gar. ‘Wipe dirt on their blades.’

  ‘So they will not reflect light – firelight, moonlight,’ Gar said.

  ‘Oh,’ said Corban, thinking of his companions creeping closer to their enemies’ camp. There would be guards standing in the woods, men on watch, warriors sent to catch them, to kill them. With every moment Corban expected to hear voices, horns, the baying of hounds catching their scent, but none of it happened. For long heartbeats there was only silence, just his and Storm’s breathing, branches scratching in a slight breeze, in the distance the call of a fox.

  Then he felt Storm tense, a vibration deep in her belly, the beginnings of a growl.

  ‘Be ready,’ Gar’s voice whispered from the darkness.

  It was Vonn. He lurched towards them, then snagged his foot on something and staggered forwards, something falling from his cloak and hitting the ground with a thud. Vonn dropped to the floor, hands scrabbling to retrieve the object as behind him the sound of pursuit grew louder, a figure appearing, moving furtively through the undergrowth.

  The plan had worked, then. Halion and Camlin were to kill the camp’s guards, all except one, who was to be lured into the woods by Vonn. Lured to this point. To Storm.

  The figure moved up behind Vonn, stood over him, sword raised.

  Get out of the way! Corban’s mind yelled, one hand clasping Storm’s fur tight. She was growling low and deep, her body quivering.

  Vonn picked up the thing he had dropped and shoved it back inside his cloak – some kind of box, or book? – and leaped forwards, running past Corban. The warrior made to follow, then Storm materialized before him, lips pulled back in a snarl, showing her long teeth. The warrior froze, eyes growing wide.

  Corban stared at the warrior before him. His enemy, yet he felt a surge of sympathy for the man, and guilt at what he was about to do.

  He is hunting me, would kill me, kill my kin, my friends. Still he hesitated.

  The warrior opened his mouth, sucked in a great breath, about to scream, to call for help, or perhaps beg for mercy, Corban did not know.

  ‘Foe,’ Corban whispered in Storm’s ear and in a blur of fur and muscle she leaped at the startled man.

  He had an instant to raise his weapon, a half-formed cry escaping his lips as she smashed into him, then they were on the ground, his arms and legs flailing. Storm lunged forward, her weight pinning him to the ground. There was crunching, bones breaking, and the warrior’s scream rose in pitch, then was cut short as black blood and gore splattered trees and foliage.

  ‘I’m glad she’s on our side,’ muttered Camlin.

  In the distance they heard the first sounds of the camp stirring, a dog barking, a voice calling.

  Storm was standing with one paw on her kill, her muzzle dripping. She raised her head and howled.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CORALEN

  Coralen sat at her mam’s table, picking dirt from her nails with her hunting knife.

  ‘How long are you back for?’ her mam asked.

  ‘I don’t know, Mam. A day, a few days. Rath didn’t say.’

  ‘I don’t know what you get out of riding around the countryside with those savages,’ her mam said.

  Coralen bit back the immediate response on her lips. Because I don’t want to end up like you. She felt a rush of guilt at that. Her mam was sitting close to a window, studying herself in a polished bronze mirror, daubing her face with rouge and kohl.

  She had been beautiful once and a shadow of that lingered still, though her hair had thinned and lost its copper lustre, and her figure had expanded. It was more than that, though, something deeper than the simple passage of time. Coralen noticed it so clearly because she was rarely home. Home? This is not my home. Just timber and thatch in the empty northlands of Domhain. There was a pervasive weariness about her mam that leaked into everything she did, every word or glance.

  ‘You should try some,’ her mam said, offering her the pot of rouge.

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘You need to be making more of an effort; you won’t have your looks forever.’ Her mam looked at her, and frowned. ‘Look at you, in your prime, and all wrapped in leather and iron. You’ve more sharp edges on you than the knives in my kitchen.’

  Coralen smiled at that. ‘Mam, I’m eighteen summers. And all of that –’ she waved at the pot of rouge, as if it summed up an entire way of life – ‘it doesn’t matter to me. I’m happy riding around with a bunch of savages.’

  Happy? Well, that’s probably an exaggeration. But it’s better than the alternative.

  Her mam sighed and shook her head as if to say, You poor, deluded child.

  There was a knock at the door; a figure pushed in, not waiting to be invited. It was a big man, tall, a belly folding over his belt. He smelled of earth and sweat.

  ‘Hearne,’ Coralen’s mam said, brightening, something of her old aura fluttering into life.

  ‘Nara,’ the big man said, his eyes settling on Coralen. He nodded to her. He had small eyes, pinpricks in a large face.

  ‘Take yourself off for a walk,’ Coralen’s mam said to her as she rose and walked away, crossing into the shadows of another room.

  Coralen stood, her chair scraping on the floor.

  ‘No need to leave on my account,’ Hearne said. ‘You could wait for me, or join us, if you like.’ He reached out a big hand, touching Coralen’s hip.

  Without thinking, she burst into movement, sliding around him, twisting his arm behind his back. In heartbeats he was pressed against the wall, Coralen’s knife resting just below his eye.

  ‘I don’t think so, you fat, stinking pig,’ she hissed. A bead of sweat rolled down Hearne’s forehead, around his eye, onto the tip of Coralen’s knife.

  Hooves drummed outside, stopping close by.

  ‘Cora, get out here. Rath says we’re leaving.’

  ‘Be nice to my mam,’ Coralen said as she stepped away, sheathing her knife.

  Hearne hurried away, following her mam.

  Coralen took a deep breath, felt her racing pulse begin to slow. As she left she placed a bag of coins on the table.

  ‘What happened here?’ Rath said. He was old, his hair white, streaked with iron, but he was as strong and sharp witted as anyone Coralen had ever met. She loved him fiercely, this old man before her, uncle, protector, friend. Not that I’ve ever told him. That was beyond imagination in this group of hard men.

  She had become one of them slowly, something within her rebelling against the life that had surrounded her mam. So she had taken to following Rath and her half-brothers about. Six years old, never speaking, just following, watching. Rath had ignored her at first, then told her to get back to her mam’s skirts, then scolded her, eventually clumping her. None of it had made any difference; she had just continued to sneak out, following him whenever he was there. Soon she had become his shadow, accepted, almost invisible, and so she had watched him training with his men, sparring, eating, drinking. She had a vivid memory: eight years old, lifting a practice sword from a wicker basket in the weapons court, of men laughing – all except Rath. He had measured her with his serious eyes, told her to hit him. She’d tried, but ended up on her arse quickly enough. Rath had told her to get up and try again. She smiled at the thought.

  It had been Baird who had fetched her from her mam’s house; he was a warrior who had served with Rath for more years than Coralen had drawn breath. He had lost both his family and an eye to the giants of Benoth. Rath’s score or so of warriors had been gathered swiftly. Once they were all together, Rath told them why. Word had come back that a patrol was overdue.

  Now they knew the reason.

  Bodies littered the ground, spread around a burned-out fire, twisted and ungainly in death. Their heads ha
d been hacked from their bodies. Nearby a cairn had been raised, stones piled high. Around its base were the heads of the warriors, placed like some decoration. Coralen shared a look with Baird. He slipped from his saddle and began pulling rocks from the cairn. Coralen and a few others joined him. It was not long before a huge body was revealed, laid flat with a war-hammer resting upon its chest. Baird lifted the giant’s severed head by its hair.

  ‘The Benothi are loose in Domhain,’ Rath said. ‘Think we’d better do something about that.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CYWEN

  Cywen woke suddenly, her heart pounding as loud as war-drums in her head. She was curled in a chair in the kitchen, embers in the fire burned down to a red glow. What woke me? Had she dreamed? Then she heard Buddai growling.

  She sat up quickly, reaching for a knife. It was dark, but she could tell there were people on the other side of the door; she could hear them whispering. Then the door handle turned.

  ‘Don’t go throwing anything sharp at me,’ someone said. Cywen’s memory fumbled to put a face to the familiar voice. Conall.

  ‘Get out,’ Cywen replied. Buddai was snarling now, only her hand in his fur stopping him from leaping at the intruder.

  ‘You’ve got visitors, girl,’ Conall said. ‘They were all for putting a sack over your head and carrying you to the keep, but I told them you’d wake all of Dun Carreg, and most likely every demon in the Otherworld as well. So I told them if we asked you polite you’d see sense and be reasonable.’

  ‘What time is it?’ Cywen asked, blinking as someone behind Conall lit a torch. ‘What visitors?’

  ‘It’s nighttime,’ Conall said with a shrug, stepping into the kitchen, his gaze flitting between the knife in Cywen’s hand and Buddai’s bared teeth. ‘Got anything to drink?’ he asked.

  Figures crowded the door behind him, spilling into the room. The first Cywen recognized: Nathair, King of Tenebral, and his shadow, Sumur. Behind them was an old man, silver-haired but somehow youthful; he was looking at her intently.

  Buddai whined, tail tucking between his legs, ears going flat to his head, and the old man frowned, then something huge followed behind him, a man’s shape, though taller and wider, small black eyes peering out from beneath a thick jutting brow. A giant, a black axe slung across his back.

  Conall stepped before her, seeing her knife hand move. ‘Be calm, lass. Don’t do it, they’ve just come to talk.’

  Cywen froze, fear making her pulse race. I must still be asleep. Please let me still be asleep. Her instinct was to throw first and talk later. Then another figure entered the room wearing a black cuirass, the silver eagle of Tenebral embossed upon it, two swords at his hip, one long, one short; a young man, stern faced, with serious, searching eyes. He looked at her and smiled apologetically.

  She lowered her knife.

  Behind this serious warrior one last man came, shutting the door behind him. Metal rings were woven into his braided beard, clinking as he moved.

  ‘How about that drink?’ Conall asked.

  ‘There’s mead in the cold room,’ Cywen said, waving her hand, and Conall fetched a skin, unstoppered it and took a swig. Nathair shook his head when Conall offered him the skin.

  ‘I’ll have some,’ the man with rings in his beard said.

  ‘Why are you all here?’ Cywen said.

  The silver-haired man dragged a chair over and sat before Cywen. ‘I need to talk to you about your brother.’

  The sky was a searing blue, wisps of cloud doing little to block the heat of the sun as Cywen rode to the paddocks beyond Havan. Over two thousand horses were roaming here, more than she had ever seen in her life – the war mounts of Owain’s warband mixing with Brenin’s herds. She was on Shield, could feel his barely controlled energy, his yearning to gallop reflected in how he lifted his hooves, how he held his tail straight and proud.

  She was in the company of a dozen other stablehands, all ordered by the warrior Drust to bring back mounts from Brenin’s herd considered suitable for training in the Rowan Field. She rounded up half a dozen, Gar’s piebald stallion, Hammer, amongst them, and roped them in a line behind Shield. As she was leaving, a memory tugged at her and she changed direction, rode to a small copse of alders and followed a track, now overgrown.

  She pulled up before Brina’s cottage, or what was left of it. It had been burned out, the charred framework still standing, the open doorway leading to a pile of rubble and ash. Brina would have a lot to say to the man that had put fire to her home. Even the herb garden was overgrown, a mass of weeds and grass gone to seed. Then she was remembering the night that Corban had sneaked into this cottage and stolen a comb, to prove his courage. She felt her breath catch in her chest. A tear rolled down her cheek and she brushed it away. Strange, how a memory from the past can sneak up so quietly.

  Corban.

  Last night had been so strange, woken in the dead of night by the strangest bunch of companions she had ever witnessed – a giant, a living, breathing giant walking around Dun Carreg – and questioned. Questioned about Corban.

  She had been scared at first – who wouldn’t be with a giant standing in your kitchen? – but then the silver-haired man had started talking to her. His voice had been so calm. She had not said much, little more than she had told Nathair during their previous meeting, though some of it she found hard to remember. There had been so many questions from the old man with the strange yellow eyes.

  He had asked about Meical, she remembered that, and she had thought instantly of seeing him sitting in the kitchen, talking to her mam and da, and to Gar. They had spoken about Corban as well. And finally Calidus had asked her for something that had belonged to Corban – an item of clothing, a knife, anything. She had given him Corban’s old forge apron, scarred and pitted by heat and flame, sweat-stained on the inside. She had found it in her da’s forge when she had been searching for her throwing knives, and for some unexplained reason had brought the apron home with her.

  Calidus had held it, run his fingertips over its entirety, then closed his eyes and started singing, so quietly that it had been little more than a whisper. When he opened his eyes he had pronounced Corban gone from Ardan, said that he was across the sea, to the north-west. That had scared her more than anything else, even more than the giant staring at her. Calidus was an Elemental. She shivered at the memory. An Elemental, searching for Corban.

  Corban. To her he was just her baby brother. Why were these people so interested in him?

  Her thoughts stayed fixed on her brother as she rode Shield away from Brina’s cottage, leading the other horses back to Dun Carreg. The fortress and surrounding land was buzzing with activity. Owain’s warband was spread between Dun Carreg and the plains south of the giantsway, more of them arriving every day. North of the giantsway Nathair’s forces camped, swollen first by the arrival of his fleet and then the warband that had ridden in from the east only yesterday. Rows of tents filled all the land between the giantsway and the beach. She scowled as she saw black-clad figures in Havan, more of the Jehar that had stormed Stonegate the night Dun Carreg had fallen.

  The warriors everywhere grew smaller and smaller as she steadily climbed the path to the fortress. Out in the bay a great cluster of ships with Tenebral’s eagle upon them were rowing for open sea, their sails billowing and filling as they left the bay’s shelter. As she watched, they turned east, becoming specks as they dwindled into the distance, and she wondered where they were heading. Eventually she clattered over the bridge and through Dun Carreg’s stone-paved streets until she reached the Rowan Field. Drust inspected the mounts she had brought in, grunting approvingly. He gave particular attention to Hammer, Gar’s stallion, who was also the sire of Shield.

  ‘You’ve done well, girl,’ the red-haired warrior said. ‘You’ve a good eye for horses.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied without smiling.

  He took the reins from her and led the horses away, towards a pile of saddles an
d tack. ‘Help me with them,’ he called over his shoulder.

  She looked around as she worked. The Field was busy, warriors everywhere. She spotted Rafe on the weapons court, sparring with a man bearing the bull of Narvon. Even though he still limped, Rafe used his height and long reach to good effect, and in short time he had scored a hit to his opponent’s chest. He caught Cywen’s eye as he hobbled from the court and strolled over to her, grinning.

  ‘Enjoy watching men sweat?’ he said. ‘Or is it my skills that draw your eye?’

  ‘I was wondering what you looked like against my brother, when you challenged him to the Court of Swords.’ She had heard about Rafe’s challenge in Dun Carreg’s feast-hall, how the confrontation had lasted little more than a few heartbeats, Rafe defeated, his blood on Corban’s sword. ‘Apparently it was quite the sight.’

  Emotions swept Rafe’s face – too many, too complex to read. ‘I wasn’t ready,’ he said, looking away.

  Cheering drifted over from the weapons court and they both turned to look.

  Conall was stepping onto the court, a practice sword in his hand. From the far side a figure appeared, flanked by a bald, thick-necked warrior. Cywen recognized the young warrior; he was one of those who had woken her in the night. He still wore the silver and black of Tenebral.

  ‘Who is that?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s Nathair’s first-sword, rode in with a warband yesterday,’ Rafe said. ‘Name’s Veradis, I think. And it looks as if he’s about to get a hiding from Conall.’

  Quickly the court cleared for the two warriors, Cywen and Rafe hurrying over to watch. Conall was smiling, waiting for Veradis as he chose a practice sword from a wicker basket. He did not rush, testing the weight of a few until he found one that he was happy with. He returned Conall’s smile as he walked to him, then set his feet.

  In a burst of speed Conall was on him, rushing forward, striking high and low in a blur of motion.

  ‘That’s your brother’s trick,’ Rafe whispered in Cywen’s ear, ‘catching people off-guard.’