Valour

by John Gwynne

  ‘And you, old man.’

  Another warrior rode up, younger, a jagged scar running through the empty socket of one eye.

  ‘Some still live,’ the man said. ‘They have fled into the mountains.’

  ‘We must talk, but later,’ Rath said to Halion. ‘Let’s see if we can run the swine down before they reach Cambren.’ Rath yelled orders as he rode after the giants’ trail, some men following him, others staying, moving amongst the dead. The red-haired girl, Coralen, picked up her fallen helmet and, tucking her hair back into it, mounted her horse and rode after Rath.

  Corban looked about the glade, bodies twisted in death littering the ground – men, giants, wolven. Brina crouched beside Heb, holding his hand. Corban hurried to her and knelt beside her. She looked at him with bloodshot eyes. Corban wanted to say something, to comfort her, but knew that no words could take away the pain in her eyes. He put a hand over hers.

  Corban remembered Heb standing before the giant, defying it. ‘I heard him say something to the giant – in giantish. What did he say – at the end?’

  ‘He said, I will not run.’

  ‘He was a brave man. Good and kind,’ Corban said.

  ‘He was an old fool, and now he’s dead and has left me,’ Brina whispered. She bowed her head and wept. Craf fluttered down out of the branches and landed close to them. He stared at Brina and Heb, head cocked, then shuffled over to Brina and leaned his beak against her.

  Gwenith was sitting up now, Gar feeding her sips of water. Corban rushed over and embraced her.

  ‘I thought you were dead,’ he said, fresh tears springing to his eyes.

  ‘Can’t get rid of me that easily.’ She smiled weakly.

  Edana was sitting with Marrock and Vonn, who lay with his back to a tree, white faced, clutching his broken ankle. Marrock sat with his arm across his lap, blood staining the bandages around his wrist.

  Corban moved amongst them all, checking their wounds, fetching salve and bandages from Brina’s seemingly endless stores. Finally he checked Storm. The wolven was covered in a mass of new wounds, claw and tooth marks all over her body. They were all superficial, nothing so deep that would not heal, if kept clean. ‘My brave girl,’ he whispered as he poured water over the cuts. She nuzzled him and licked his cheek.

  Farrell stood over the body of his da, lying at the fringe of the glade where he had placed him.

  ‘I’ll raise a cairn over him here,’ Farrell said.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ Corban said.

  ‘We all will,’ said Edana.

  They lay Heb and Anwarth side by side, then those that could set about gathering stones and rocks from the surrounding area.

  As the last rocks were placed on the cairn a sound drew Corban’s attention, a scratching, rustling sound. Storm stared with her ears pricked forward at a bundle of cloth on the ground. It was moving, feebly, something inside it.

  The bird, Corban remembered. Brina had tucked it into her cloak. It must have fallen free during the battle. Cautiously he unwrapped the bundle and a ruffled black bird stared up at him. It flapped its wings, or tried – one of them hanging limp – and squawked, sounding to be pain.

  Corban reached a hand out and the bird pecked at him, catching his finger. Blood welled and Storm growled.

  The bird wriggled to its feet and shuffled away from Storm, but Dath and Farrell helped contain it.

  ‘Craf, do you know this crow?’ Farrell called.

  ‘Raven,’ the bird with the injured wing croaked, a correction. It sounded offended.

  Craf fluttered over and for a moment the two birds regarded each other in silence, then the raven hopped over to Craf and started pecking him. Craf squawked and flapped his wings, buffeting the unsteady raven away.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Edana yelled, who had joined them. She jumped in and grabbed the raven, pinning its wings as she lifted it.

  ‘Get off get off get off,’ the bird screeched. Vonn started laughing.

  ‘What, so you can attack our Craf again?’ Edana said. ‘No, I will not. But I will wring your scrawny neck if you keep trying to peck me.’ The raven was twisting in her arms, but at Edana’s words it went limp.

  ‘That’s better. It’s clear that you can’t go anywhere – look at your wing. And it must hurt. I would help you, but only if you behave. I’ll not have you attacking me or my companions, and that includes Craf.’ The bird looked at her resentfully.

  ‘So, what will it be? Shall I tend your wing. Or do you want to try attacking us again, and I twist your neck.’

  ‘Is she reasoning with a crow?’ Dath whispered to Corban.

  ‘It’s a raven,’ he said. ‘And yes.’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ Edana continued, and with that she put the raven back on the ground.

  The raven stood still, looking up at Edana, then it hung its head.

  ‘Sorry,’ it muttered.

  ‘All right then,’ Edana said, and bent to look at the bird’s wing.

  The sound of hooves grew and riders appeared from amongst the trees: Rath and his warriors who had given chase to the surviving giants.

  ‘Did you catch them?’ Halion asked.

  ‘No. They’re well into Cambren by now. We’d have followed further, but saw patrols of Rhin’s warriors in the mountains, as well as filling the giants’ road. Something’s stirred them up.’

  ‘That’d be us,’ Camlin said.

  ‘Well then, think it’s time we had that talk now,’ Rath said, sliding from his saddle and striding over to Halion. Rath’s band followed him, and soon the two companies were standing close together, all listening to the two men speak.

  Halion told Rath of the fall of Dun Carreg and their escape by sea, of their landing in Cambren and a brief outline of the flight that had led them here. Edana rose and stood beside Halion as he spoke. When Halion had finished, a silence filled the glade.

  ‘I thought I recognized you, under all that dirt,’ Rath said to Edana. ‘My lady.’ He dipped his head and lifted her hand to his lips.

  He doesn’t look used to doing things like that, Corban thought. It looked as if Edana agreed, as she had a faint smile on her lips.

  ‘I shall escort you to Dun Taras and Eremon,’ Rath said. ‘You can rest easy now – you are out of danger.’

  For the time being, thought Corban.

  ‘You hear that, lads? We’ve a queen amongst us. Show some respect.’ Rath bowed lower to Edana. His rugged band did the same, some cheering, all except the girl, Coralen. She remained upright, a frown creasing her face.

  ‘And welcome home, Halion,’ Rath said. ‘Your da’ll be pleased to see you.’

  ‘Will he?’

  ‘Well, we’ll find out soon enough,’ Rath said. ‘I for one am.’

  ‘And so am I.’ Coralen grinned at Halion.

  They gathered around Heb and Anwarth’s cairn, then. Edana spoke kind words over the stones, tears running freely down her cheeks. Farrell stood beside her, head bowed.

  He has just lost his da.

  He remembered that pain, a distant echo of it twisting inside him, and his sympathy went out to his friend. Are they the last to die? Are we safe now? He wished it were true – so many had died since that night in Dun Carreg, he had lost count. And here, now, looking at Heb and Anwarth’s cairn he felt . . . numb. He had liked Heb always – his stories had felt magical to Corban as far back as he could remember, but over the course of the journey he had come to care for the old man, to think of him as a mentor, and as a friend. And yet no tears came.

  Am I becoming numb to all this murder and death? The thought bothered him. He remembered Dylan, his friend – murdered, his body burned – remembered the ocean of tears he had cried for him. And then the overwhelming grief at the death of his da, and so many others when Dun Carreg fell. Life was so frail, and he had not just seen men die, an impartial observer; he had taken lives himself. More than I can remember. That thought shocked him. What am I becoming? He looked about the faces of his
companions, all lost in their own thoughts, Edana’s voice a wordless blur now.

  His eyes settled on Brina, appearing suddenly older, frailer than he had ever noticed. Devastation was scribed upon her face. Finally he felt grief stir in his gut, an empathy for this harsh, sharp-tongued old lady whom he had come to love; he felt the urge to go and stand next to her, to squeeze her hand, or something, but the silence felt almost like a physical thing, a purity to it, so he did not move. Instead a tear rolled down his cheek.

  When Edana had finished speaking, Rath’s men brought up their horses. Rath and two other men – one the warrior with the scar where his eye should have been, Baird, Corban heard him called – gave their mounts up for Edana, Brina and Gwenith. Craf perched on Brina’s saddle, the black raven on Edana’s, its wing now with a makeshift bandage about it.

  Coralen turned her horse and spurred it over to Halion. ‘Where’s Conall? Why did he stay in Ardan? You haven’t quarrelled again?’

  ‘He fell,’ Halion said.

  He was a traitor; he killed Cywen, thought Corban.

  A look of horror swept Coralen’s face. ‘I thought he was indestructible, that he would live forever.’

  ‘I did not,’ Rath said, who was nearby.

  ‘How did he . . . ? Did he die well?’ Coralen asked, a tremor in her voice.

  ‘No’, another voice said. His mam.

  ‘Not now,’ Halion said. ‘Please.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Coralen snapped.

  ‘It’s complicated. I’ll explain another time,’ Halion said.

  ‘No. She’ll explain now.’ Coralen rode closer to Gwenith. ‘Won’t you?’

  Gar stepped between them. ‘Let her be, girl.’

  ‘Don’t be telling me what to do,’ Coralen said. ‘And who are you, anyway?’

  She has her brother’s temper, thought Corban, seeing the colour rise in her cheeks.

  Storm growled.

  Coralen glanced at Storm. ‘Hal, who are these people you ride with? Bird-lovers and wolven-tamers.’

  ‘She’s not tame,’ Corban said.

  ‘She’d make a good cloak, keep me warm in the winter.’

  Corban felt his own anger stir at that.

  ‘That’s enough, girl,’ Rath said, riding closer.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Enough, Cora. Ride on.’ He stared her down, waiting until the fire went out of her eyes. She yanked on her reins and rode ahead.

  ‘You’ll tell me about Conall soon,’ Rath said to Halion. It was not a question.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘She had a good point, though. It is strange company you keep,’ Rath observed, looking between Storm and the two black birds perched on saddles. ‘Lad, your wolven’s not going to eat any of my men, is it?’

  ‘She, not it,’ said Corban, feeling his anger still lurking, with no obvious target for it now that Coralen had ridden off. He took a long breath. ‘Her name is Storm. And the answer’s no, she’ll not hurt any of your men, unless they try to harm us. We are her pack, you see, and she’s protective.’

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ Rath said.

  With a click of his tongue Corban called Storm closer. A good cloak, indeed. He looked back at the glade, the cairn of stones in its middle, the corpses of wolven and giants scattered around. His eyes came to rest on the body of a wolven, dark furred and sharp clawed, and he remembered the night attack that he and Storm had been part of. A good cloak. The seeds of an idea stirred in his mind.

  ‘Move out,’ Rath called.

  ‘Hold a moment,’ Corban said, marching across the glade.

  ‘What is it?’ Camlin said to him, bloodied but still vigilant.

  ‘Just an idea – one that I may need some help with.’ Corban pulled his knife from his belt as he crouched beside the dead wolven.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  VERADIS

  Veradis focused on his opponents’ blades, all three of them, his body automatically moving to defend and attack. He combined a long sweep to block two different blows, pivoting suddenly and cracking his practice blade into one opponent’s ribs, then striking another on the wrist, sending his weapon spinning. Then there was only Bos left and Veradis pressed forwards against the taller man, one blow turning into another – neat, economical, and deadly until Bos stumbled and fell, Veradis’ blade at his throat.

  ‘All right, you win,’ Bos said good-naturedly. He held his hand out and Veradis pulled him up.

  ‘I think you’re getting faster,’ Bos said, wiping sweat from his bald head. He waved a hand at the other eagle-guard that Veradis had called out to spar with, both nursing bruises on ribs or wrist.

  ‘Feel like I need to,’ Veradis said. He knew that the recent battles were won, but something about this whole situation felt unsafe to him, and a voice in the back of his mind was telling him to sharpen up, to be ready, prepared. What for, he did not know, but he had learned to listen to that voice before. Maybe it was just the politicking of the last few days, which always made him feel uncomfortable, or the sword-crossing between Conall and Morcant. Both masters with a blade – that was obvious. Things were so fluid in these lands, it was not a great stretch of the imagination that one day soon it could be him facing either one of them, or someone equally skilled in the Court of Swords. He would not be found wanting.

  He was near the top of the hill they had been camped upon since the battle, two days gone now. It was early, and the smell of the sea wafted on a cold breeze, salty and sharp. There was a slight chill in the air, the first hint that summer was retreating, autumn encroaching. In the valley at the foot of the hill the only movement Veradis could see was the Jehar gathered together, going through their sword dance. It had been an impressive sight on the journey to Forn Forest, performed by a few hundred. Now over two thousand warriors stood in regimented lines, moving through the forms with precisely the same timing. It was inspiring. I would almost like to join them.

  The valley was emptier today, a large force of Rhin’s army having left the day before, tasked with keeping order in Narvon. Veradis had watched them leave, a few thousand men disappearing into the distance. Strange that out of all those warriors Braith’s face stood in his memory – leaving before the main bulk of Rhin’s force, almost definitely leading a scouting party ahead, a pack of hounds with him, as well as a score or so of hard-looking men.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ Bos asked as he came and stood beside Veradis.

  ‘We’ll break camp today, march back to Dun Carreg, then spend a few days on a ship to Cambren, and help Queen Rhin win some more land.’

  ‘We are getting good at that,’ Bos said, ‘winning land for others.’

  ‘Aye. But it suits Nathair. Besides, we’re just soldiers; we go where we’re pointed.’

  ‘That we do.’

  ‘We’ll put the lads through some moves before we leave, though. Go make sure they’re on the field. I’ll be along soon.’

  Veradis did not want his warband to miss any training in the shield wall. After the meeting with Nathair and Rhin he was sure they would be seeing battle again soon. Veradis walked towards the ramshackle tents that had sprouted on the outskirts of the warband’s camp, containing all those who went hand-in-hand with a warband on the move. Wives, lovers, children, blacksmiths, tanners, weapons-smiths, brewers, whores: all manner of trades made a living from an army. He made his way through the tents, weaving amongst the rope lines and makeshift walkways until he found what he was looking for. The heat hit him first. A tall wiry man was working a bellows, each pull causing a fire to flare and crackle. He stood and watched the man work a little while, enjoying it.

  ‘Here you go,’ the blacksmith said when he saw Veradis, throwing him a pair of boots. ‘How do they suit?’

  Veradis inspected one closely. Long strips of iron, thin enough to keep the weight down but thick enough to turn a blade, were sewn in a half-circle about the front of the boot’s leg.

  ‘I think that’ll do the job,’ Ver
adis said. The leg wounds on his fallen warriors had troubled him for a while, and this seemed the obvious option. ‘I want two thousand pairs like it.’

  The smith’s eyes bulged. ‘That’s a lot of boots, and iron.’ He was silent, working things out. ‘You supply the boots, I’ll come up with the iron, for the right price.’

  That shouldn’t be a problem. Owain’s dead were all wearing good boots. ‘And how long will it take you?’ Veradis said. ‘I need them all within a ten-night.’

  Veradis made his way to Nathair’s tent. They had been on the road for two days now, and Dun Carreg was a faint smudge on the horizon. He felt slow, tired, his sleep disturbed by dreams. More accurately: dream. Always the same one, the dead King Mandros looking at him accusingly. Murderer, the man called him.

  It was not murder.

  And always the accusations about Nathair, blaming him for Aquilus’ death. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

  Nathair’s tent was situated in the shelter of a wooded cove, towards the paddocks and pen that had been erected for Nathair’s draig. Not close enough to smell it though, thank Elyon, thought Veradis.

  It was early, so he was surprised to find the tent empty, although two Jehar still stood guard outside it.

  ‘Where is the King?’ Veradis asked, but they gave no response. Veradis began to pace, thinking of where Nathair could be, when the King of Tenebral appeared, Sumur walking a few paces behind him.

  ‘You’re up early,’ Veradis said as Nathair ushered him into his tent. Nathair just grunted something unintelligible.

  ‘Something important?’

  ‘Yes,’ Nathair said.

  Veradis looked at him inquiringly.

  ‘I’ve just come from Rhin’s tent,’ Nathair said.

  ‘It must be urgent for her to summon you so early.’