Valour

by John Gwynne

  Nathair stared at Veradis. He looked embarrassed. ‘I’ve been in her tent all night, Veradis.’

  ‘Oh.’ A silence fell between them. That’s disgusting.

  ‘We were toasting our alliance,’ Nathair said, rubbing his temples. ‘And one thing led to another. She can be very persuasive.’

  ‘You don’t need to explain to me,’ Veradis said quickly.

  Nathair looked up, blushing. ‘I’m never drinking that mead again. I don’t even like it.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Veradis said. ‘As you’re fond of saying, I’m sure it was for the greater good.’

  Nathair laughed, a little sheepishly, Veradis thought.

  ‘What was it you wanted to see me about?’ Nathair asked.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about things that have been on my mind.’

  ‘Sit, then,’ Nathair said, reclining and gesturing Veradis to a chair. ‘What things?’

  Now that it came to it, Veradis was unsure. There were few specifics; it was more of a general feeling, a sense of foreboding that had settled upon him, ever since the battle in Forn Forest.

  ‘I’m worried,’ Veradis said.

  ‘Go on.’

  Veradis looked at Sumur, a silent shadow behind Nathair’s shoulder.

  ‘Sumur, wait for me outside.’

  Sumur did not move.

  ‘Veradis is my oldest friend. My most loyal companion. There is more chance of my mother assassinating me than of Veradis turning against me. Please – outside.’

  Sumur left quietly, looking back once at Veradis.

  ‘You can trust Sumur,’ Nathair said, ‘but sometimes I long for the old days, before my father . . .’ he trailed off, his hand searching out the draig’s tooth about his neck. Veradis instinctively touched the tooth in his own sword hilt.

  ‘Aye,’ Veradis agreed. ‘Everything seemed simpler then. You, I, your warband on a noble cause.’

  ‘It is still a noble cause, Veradis.’

  ‘I know that, up here,’ Veradis tapped his head. ‘But sometimes it does not feel it.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘In Forn, things were done. By Calidus. Betrayals. What you and I would once have called dark deeds. Dishonourable.’

  ‘You speak of Romar?’

  ‘In part.’

  ‘Romar was setting himself up in opposition to me. Becoming my enemy. In the coming war realms will either join me or fight me. There will be no middle ground.’ He looked enquiringly at Veradis. ‘Do you know what happened in the catacombs beneath Haldis?’

  ‘Only that Romar went in and never came out again. And that Calidus and Alcyon were part of that.’ And that my friend Kastell died as a result. He remembered Maquin’s words to him – be careful whose side you choose.

  ‘I see. Calidus has told me that Romar took the starstone axe, refused to give it up. He would have used it against me, and we have both heard of its power. That could not be allowed.’

  Veradis sighed. Maybe. But it still does not feel right.

  ‘There is more you have to say.’ It was not a question.

  ‘Jael. I do not like him. You have told me to leave the politicking to Calidus, which I am more than happy to do, believe me . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Aye. But, his choices in allies.’ He shook his head.

  Nathair leaned back in his chair, nodding. Something in his face changed then – a glimmer of Veradis’ friend before the weight of kingship and prophecy had fallen upon him.

  ‘I agree with you. Have worried over these issues – and many others besides – for countless nights. But let me tell you that every single time I come back to the same point: Calidus is one of the Ben-Elim, a servant of Elyon. We both saw him change. I will never forget it. There are other arguments, convincing arguments – the alliance is fragile, and at present I do not hold the power to forge an empire. I hope that will change, but until it does, the future is the alliance and politics, and politics is compromise. I do not like Jael, I do not approve of some of the things that have been done to further my cause, but they have all been done for the greater good.’

  The greater good – how many times have I told myself that?

  Nathair paused and smiled. ‘I can see from your face that you have had the same thoughts. And they would be troubling indeed, if we did not have Calidus. Remember what we saw in Telassar; remember what we witnessed. He is a servant of Elyon. It is that memory that strengthens my will, that keeps me on my course. Let it do the same for you.’

  He did remember, could still feel the shock, the awe of seeing Calidus transform before his eyes from an old man into a winged warrior. ‘It does,’ Veradis said. ‘I just . . .’

  ‘I know. War places a burden on us all, Veradis. The lives we have taken or ordered taken in the furtherance of our cause. The choices made.’

  Veradis had no words for that, his thoughts spiralling.

  ‘Thank you, my friend,’ Nathair said, leaning forward and gripping Veradis’ wrist.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For being honest. There is no one in all the earth that I can talk to as freely as you. Talking helps, eh? Crystallizes the problems and solutions.’

  ‘Aye.’ And it had helped, talking to Nathair. Discovering that his friend shared the same doubts and worries eased the sense of foreboding that had haunted him for so long.

  ‘So let us continue our war, in the knowledge that our cause is just and our goal vital.’

  ‘Aye, onwards.’

  Veradis stood on a shingle ridge that overlooked the bay at Dun Carreg. The Vin Thalun transport ships were almost loaded, over three thousand warriors filling their decks. There was not room enough to take all in one crossing, so the ships would have to return for the rest of them. It would not take long – a day’s journey to the shores of Cambren, a day to unload, and a day back. It would still be much quicker than walking.

  The call came for him to board. Most of his men were already on the ships, only a handful standing with him. They walked down the ridge onto the beach, along a wooden pier towards a wide boarding-plank, his new boots thudding heavily. They would take some getting used to, and his men were already grumbling, but they would save lives. Beside him walked Bos, and next to him one of Evnis’ warriors, a young lad, Rafe, from Dun Carreg. Calidus had asked Evnis for someone who would recognize this Corban if ever they met him. Cywen walked next to him, her hands bound, and it was obvious there was little love lost between the pair of them. But at least she hadn’t tried to kill him yet. Or anyone else.

  Veradis put that down to the fact that he’d offered her the now-healed horse she seemed to care so much about, in return for her good behaviour, and he had even committed to bringing it with them to Cambren. It was no great inconvenience, as she would need a mount to ride. She had actually smiled at him when he had offered it to her, and he had asked only in return that she stop trying to escape, which she had attempted four times in the first day and night after Owain’s defeat. It was tiring, always keeping an eye on her, or making sure that someone with wits enough not to be fooled by her was watching her. Her fine mood had lasted until this morning, when she had discovered that Morcant was staying in Ardan as Evnis’ battlechief. Now she was sullen and brooding, no doubt devising imaginative ways to carve more holes into Morcant’s hide.

  ‘It’s not going to happen,’ Veradis said to her as they walked up the boarding-plank. ‘You should let it go.’

  She knew instantly what he was talking about. ‘He killed the man I was to be handbound to,’ she said. ‘I’ll never let it go.’

  Veradis believed her. I’m glad I have not wronged her, he thought. I would not sleep well at night.

  They stood at the railing and looked back as the fleet slowly moved out of the bay, banks of oars sweeping into the water. Veradis could make out Rhin on the ridge he had recently been standing on. Conall stood close to her, Evnis and Morcant a little further along.

  Farewell, Ardan, he thought, and deliberatel
y turned to look ahead, through the ranks of sailors, masts and ropes to the open sea beyond the bay.

  And now to Cambren; to more bloodshed in the name of righteousness, to claim my destiny as the most trusted servant of Elyon’s Bright Star.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  FIDELE

  Fidele followed Ektor down the staircase, torchlight shining off the balding patch on the crown of his head. He was leading her into the tower at Ripa, down to the library in the depths of the tower’s foundations. It was quiet, almost stifling, the deeper they went, with only the crackle of torches and the slap of their feet on stone breaking the silence. Orcus’ footfalls were heavy behind her.

  Eventually Ektor stopped before a door, fumbled with some keys and ushered Fidele inside.

  It was dark. As Ektor bustled around with a candle, opening lanterns and lighting more candles, Fidele made out the outline of a bed, a table, some scattered chairs.

  As the candlelight filled the room, Fidele almost gasped. The first half of the room looked like a ruin, bed sheets strewn on the floor, mouldy fruit and rotting trenchers of half-eaten food. Beyond the detritus was a marvel. The library, as Ektor called it, was one great curved stone wall with a thousand alcoves carved into it, ladders leaning against it at intervals. Box-like alcoves were dug into the wall, becoming clearer as Ektor lit more lanterns. There were regimented rows of them curling around the chamber, retreating into the shadows, all with the ends of scrolls protruding from the square holes.

  It was impressive indeed. She had been looking forward to this moment, ever since Lamar and Ektor had spoken of this library during their council, but a pile of endless tasks had filled her days since then, most of them concerned with the rooting-out of the Vin Thalun fighting pits. And she had stayed in Ripa far longer than she had originally intended. The truth was that she liked it here. The sea air held a freshness that Jerolin lacked, and going home meant a return to the weight of memory. She could put it off only a little longer, though.

  ‘Come, sit here,’ Ektor said, pulling out a chair and sweeping the debris on his table into a pile.

  ‘Do you live in here?’ Fidele asked, trying to keep any hint of revulsion from her voice.

  ‘Of course,’ Ektor said. He looked at her as if the question had not been a sensible one. ‘Otherwise I’d spend half my life walking to and from this room.’

  ‘Of course. So you think there are some clues here, about the God-War, and specifically about Meical?’

  ‘I do,’ Ektor said, abruptly animated. He hurried to one of the ladders and climbed, one hand holding a lantern high. ‘You must remember, of course, that everything written here was done so by the Kurgan, so there will surely be a degree of bias, and therefore of inaccuracy, in all that they wrote, but nevertheless also a large portion of truth.’

  ‘The Kurgan were the giant clan that ruled here?’

  ‘Yes. One of the five clans that survived the Scourging,’ Ektor said distractedly. ‘When our ancestors, the Exiles, were washed up on these shores there were five giant clans still in power. The Kurgan here, ruling in the south, the Jotun in the north, the Benothi in the west, the Shekam in the east, and the Hunen in the central regions – where Helveth, Carnutan and Forn are situated now.’

  Ektor returned with a bundle of scrolls under his arm, the first one he rolled out being a map. ‘You see,’ he said, pointing, ‘here is Ripa; the Kurgan ruled this area.’ He traced a line with a finger.

  Fidele nodded, intrigued by the map, seeing Ripa, Jerolin, Forn Forest, other names she was familiar with, and many she was not.

  ‘The Kurgan wrote much about their history, and that is mostly what fills this room, and most of that is after the Scourging, detailing their clan wars, day-to-day life; much of it would be quite tedious to you.’

  ‘I can imagine. Have you read every scroll in here?’

  ‘Yes, at least once. There are so many, though, that some I have forgotten by now. It may take some time to locate what I need. There is one scroll in particular that I remember; I thought it more philosophical than historical at the time I read it, but now . . .’

  ‘Well, let’s make a start with what you have now, shall we?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ He flicked through his armful of scrolls, then paused at one. ‘This isn’t the one I was speaking of, but I’m sure . . .’ He opened it, eyes flicking across the archaic script, then paused. ‘Here it is. A reference to Halvor. He is the giant that you mentioned, and that Nathair spoke of when he came here; the writer of your prophecy. Listen. We have rebuilt Balara, but Taur and Haldis are lost to us. The Hunen hold them now, and Drassil, though they will never find it, not if Halvor spoke true. It is talking about the contestation of borders between the Kurgan and the Hunen, I think. Halvor is mentioned a few times throughout their histories, or the Voice, as they refer to him in other passages. Apparently he was counsellor to the first giant King, Skald. Somehow this Halvor survived the Scourging and ended up in Drassil, the giant city that is said to lie in the heart of Forn Forest.’

  ‘Counsellor to the first giant king, and yet alive after the Scourging. That is a long life to live,’ Fidele said. ‘This is the difficulty I have,’ she continued, ‘discerning where truth ends and faery tale begins. I believe in much that has been spoken of – Elyon and Asroth, the God-War – I have seen too much not to believe. But some of these things – they just cannot be true, surely?’

  ‘The giants often talk of long life,’ Ektor said, a rare enthusiasm sparking in his demeanour. ‘If the histories and tales are true then all that lived on this earth were immortal once – giants and mankind alike – until Elyon ripped our immortality from us as judgement for the first murder – the giant King Skald, slain by his brother, Dagda. But even then, after that, there are many references to giants especially that have lived extraordinarily long lives. Nemain is written of somewhere here.’ He thumbed through scrolls, a silence stretching.

  ‘If you remember it well enough, you don’t have to find every reference,’ Fidele said, growing impatient.

  ‘All right then,’ Ektor said, putting the scrolls down. ‘In the later scrolls, written – from what I can deduce – just before our kin the Exiles arrived on these shores, Nemain is written of, spoken of as Queen of the Benothi, the giant clan that held sway in the west until we Exiles took it from them, though their remnants still rule in the far north-east.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Nemain was Queen to Skald, the first King. Measures of time are a little unreliable, but by anyone’s counting that was over two thousand years ago.’

  ‘It must be a different Nemain to the one ruling today, then, surely. An honorific?’

  ‘The giants don’t do that. They would never take another’s name; they think they’d be cursed.’

  ‘But that is just impossible.’

  ‘You would think so,’ Ektor said.

  ‘Well, then surely it is just mistakes in the scrolls,’ Fidele said.

  ‘Textual inconsistencies are remarkably rare in the giants’ histories; they were quite particular.’

  He paused, studying Fidele, as if considering whether she was capable of understanding.

  Or worthy of hearing, she thought.

  He nodded to himself and resumed talking.

  ‘But if we are digging through the mysteries of our past, and giving weight to the argument that myths we previously considered to be faery tale, or elaboration at least, could possibly – in fact likely – be true, then we must consider the Seven Treasures.’

  ‘Yes. Aquilus mentioned them to me,’ Fidele said, trying to remember the specifics of their conversation. ‘Some of them were weapons, yes?’

  ‘That is correct,’ Ektor said, beaming like a tutor at a favourite pupil.

  ‘Aquilus spoke of trying to find them, to use in the God-War. He had set Meical to the task.’

  ‘Ah, well, whether that is good or bad we have yet to discover. But the Treasures, yes. In a way, I think they were a
ll eventually used as weapons, even if that was not the purpose they were fashioned for. They were carved from the starstone, you see; a star that fell to earth, the tales say, through Asroth’s design. Each of the Treasures held different properties, or power. One of them, the cup or chalice, if you drank from it you were given unnaturally long life.’

  He looked at her expectantly.

  ‘So that would explain some giants living far longer than others, such as this Nemain,’ Fidele said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What else did the Treasures do? What are they capable of?’

  ‘Well, there were the axe, spear and dagger, all fashioned after the War of Treasures began – they were obviously weapons, no real powers but they’d never blunt, never break. Also there was a cauldron – to eat from it would cure ill health. The cup would lengthen your life and increase your natural state – make you stronger, faster and so on. There was also a necklace. I cannot remember what that could do, or the torc. I shall have to return to my studies.’ He looked longingly over his shoulders at the rows of scrolls in their compartments.

  ‘But not right now, Ektor,’ Fidele said.

  ‘No, no. I shall do that later.’

  ‘Was there anything else that these Treasures could do?’

  ‘Well actually their main design, or Asroth’s main intention, was said to be that they made the veil between the Otherworld and our world . . . thin. Asroth desired to break through this veil and become flesh. Obviously it was not as simple as that – I would imagine that it would need willing parties on both sides of the veil, spells, sacrifice, other unpleasant things. That of course is when Elyon stepped in and decided enough was enough.’

  ‘Yes, I know that tale well enough,’ Fidele said with a wave of her hand.

  She drew in a long, thoughtful breath. So much to learn, so much to understand. But somehow, deep in her bones, she knew this was important. She felt excited by this, and a little scared as well.

  ‘You are a treasure yourself, Ektor; there is much value in what is inside your head.’

  Ektor blinked at her. ‘Thank you,’ he said, blushing.