Valour

by John Gwynne

  Most importantly, that the Black Sun is probably in Domhain. And there is nowhere further west that he can run to.

  The camp was a sprawling mess, spreading along the giants’ road and for leagues about it, great clusters of tents and campfires huddled in the rain. The setting sun was just a faint glow beyond the mountains’ rim.

  At least it is warmer here, though wetter.

  The journey back through the mountains had been uneventful, just cold. He was glad to be back; he singled out Nathair’s tents and aimed for them. As he reached the outskirts of the camp he changed his course, weaving between tents and ropes until he reached the eagle-guard’s section – a more organized area, he was pleased to note. He passed through it, staying within shadows, not wanting to be seen, until he reached the paddocks. His eyes searched, then he saw her, grooming her horse as she always did around this time. Her brindle hound lay almost invisible at her feet.

  ‘You’re back, then,’ Cywen said as he approached. She smiled to see him.

  ‘Aye.’ He stood there hesitantly, returning her smile. Unsure. Why have I searched her out. ‘He has recovered well,’ he said, moving to stroke the chest of her stallion. He was a beautiful animal, proud and strong. A good warhorse.

  ‘Yes, he has.’ Pride filled Cywen’s voice. ‘Where have you been, then?’

  ‘Scouting. Through the mountains.’

  ‘I didn’t know first-swords and battlechiefs went scouting. They must do things differently in Tenebral.’ She smiled faintly.

  ‘I wanted to see if there was any sign of these wolven packs. I went in search of changelings and shape-shifters.’

  ‘Did you find any?’

  ‘No. Dead wolven. Dead people.’

  She just looked at him now, eagerly and with some fear, waiting for him to tell her more.

  ‘There was a cairn in the mountains, two bodies in it. Rafe said it was two men named Heb and Anwarth.’ He stared at her in turn now, studying her reaction.

  Tears filled her eyes, a tremor in her lip.

  ‘You knew them, then?’

  She nodded, not trusting her voice. He felt the urge to wipe her tears from her face. They traced streaks through the grime on her cheeks.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said instead and walked away.

  ‘Were there any others that Rafe recognized?’ she called after him.

  He paused, looking back. ‘Your mam and Corban were not amongst them,’ he said, then walked into the darkness.

  Veradis leaned back in his chair, enjoying the heat from the fire in Nathair’s tent.

  ‘You are sure?’ Nathair asked him again.

  ‘I am sure that there were men from Ardan amongst the dead up there, in the mountains. I am sure that they came from Dun Carreg. Evnis’ lad, Rafe – he didn’t just recognize them. He knew their names. All of them warriors or men loyal to Brenin and his daughter, Edana.’

  ‘I see.’ Nathair looked to Calidus. ‘So Edana is in Domhain, likely under Eremon’s protection.’

  ‘It would seem so,’ Calidus said.

  ‘Which means that this Corban is probably with her. He was definitely not amongst the dead?’

  ‘Not that we saw – there were many dead, and most unrecognizable, just bones and gristle. But Edana’s group appears to have won both battles; at least, enough of them survived the first battle to carry on and then kill a number of wolven and giants. And they buried their dead in a cairn, which would suggest they did better than those they were fighting. Corban’s body was not there.’

  ‘So the Black Sun is in Domhain. Possibly camped with Eremon’s army on the other side of those mountains.’ Nathair drank from a cup. ‘It seems almost unbelievable. I have chased this Black Sun in my dreams and in my waking imaginings for so long. I am torn. I was to leave soon for Murias. I must find the cauldron. My dreams . . .’ He trailed off. ‘Elyon commands me. I cannot fail him. And yet the Black Sun – if we could defeat him here – kill him. The danger would be over, surely.’ He looked to Calidus. ‘What should I do?’

  ‘A dilemma, indeed,’ Calidus said. He was silent a while, his expression pensive, unsure. Eventually he sighed. ‘My advice is that you should go to Murias. We need the cauldron. Elyon has come to you in your dreams, I know this. And he has not asked you to defeat the Black Sun. No, he has asked you to get the cauldron.’

  ‘But why, Calidus?’ Nathair shook his head. ‘I don’t understand. Defeating the Black Sun is the goal. That is my task.’

  ‘Yes, ultimately. I do not know Elyon’s mind, but I know that the cauldron is a weapon. Perhaps it is impossible to defeat Asroth and his Black Sun without it. Maybe that is why finding it is so important in Elyon’s plans.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But I do know that Elyon has asked you to find the cauldron and claim it. So that is what you should do.’

  ‘To be so close to my enemy,’ Nathair growled, anger sweeping his face, ‘only to walk away from him.’

  ‘You were closer still in Dun Carreg, and watched him walk away,’ Calidus said quietly.

  Veradis shifted uncomfortably. He is Ben-Elim, but still, to rebuke my King. He felt his own anger stirring.

  ‘I have punished myself a thousand times for that,’ Nathair snapped, slamming his cup on the table.

  ‘Asroth is the enemy,’ Calidus said calmly, ignoring Nathair’s flash of temper. ‘To defeat him and thwart his plans we must have the cauldron. We must focus on that. Of course, if your faithful first-sword has an opportunity to kill this Corban over the coming days, well then . . .’ He smiled at Veradis.

  Nathair drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. ‘All right. You are my counsellor, so I should listen when you give counsel.’ He smiled, the anger of moments before evaporating. ‘And you are well suited for advising on this subject.’

  Yes, he is, thought Veradis. If one of Elyon’s Ben-Elim cannot advise on this, then no one can.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Calidus. He grinned. ‘Commit yourself to your task, Nathair. Focus on that. It will be difficult enough. The Benothi giants will not just hand the cauldron over to you.’

  ‘Well then, Veradis,’ Nathair said. ‘I shall leave you this task. Help Rhin to destroy Eremon, this King that would harbour my enemy.’

  ‘I will do all that I can,’ Veradis said. ‘But I would rather be travelling north with you. I am your first-sword; I would keep you safe.’ He traced the scar on his palm where he and Nathair had sworn a blood-oath. It seemed a very long time ago.

  Nathair saw the movement, turned his own palm over to look at his scar. ‘We are brothers, you and I. That is why I want you to stay. Rhin must be watched – I do not trust her. I would like her to see what your shield wall can do. It may temper her ambitions.’

  ‘I will do as you ask, then join you when it is done.’

  ‘Good. And in doing so, hunt down this Corban. Perhaps he is the Black Sun, perhaps he is not. But if you have the opportunity, kill him. Just in case.’ He smiled at Veradis and raised his drink.

  They all touched cups, Veradis trying to smile back at Nathair. All he could think of was Cywen’s face, her tear-stained, dirty, grimy face, framed with black curls. Nathair had just ordered him to kill her brother. He felt a wave of sympathy for her.

  So be it, a voice said in his head.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CORALEN

  Coralen slid and moved, spinning around Corban as he swung his practice sword at her head. He doesn’t hold back any more. She liked that, knew that when she had first challenged him in the weapons court he had not tried his hardest, had held back because she was not a man.

  A few falls on his arse had soon served to disabuse him of that notion. And now he sparred against her with the same intensity that she saw in him when he fought against Gar.

  Corban’s sword glanced off her shoulder, knocking her off balance.

  Focus, you idiot, she scolded herself, but before she was able to she was on her back, staring up at a cold sky, Corban’s sword-tip hover
ing against her chest.

  Did he just use my move against me?

  He held out a hand for her, grinning, but she slapped it away and rolled fluidly to her feet. She saw men staring, various expressions of shock and surprise on their faces. It was not often that she was knocked on her backside in the weapons court.

  ‘Again,’ she said, wiping the smile from his face.

  When she left the weapons court later with Baird, they encountered her half-sister Maeve hovering near the entrance, casting cow eyes in Corban’s direction, her face painted up like her mam’s. Coralen glared as she walked past.

  Gods, she hated Dun Taras. It was the bedrock of all of her earliest memories, of her mam and da, King Eremon, when she thought the world revolved around them both, when her mam was the most beautiful woman in the world. Or so she thought. Eremon seemed to think so as well, if only for a little while. Then the spurning had come, the constant tears and wailing from her mam as Eremon had tired and moved on to different fields to sow. At the time Coralen had felt as if her world was collapsing, imploding in upon itself, a constant of destruction and misery.

  Never shall I be like my mam. Reliant on a man’s good will. Giving myself up for a few smiles and some time under a dry roof. A man’s plaything to be tossed away when he gets bored. She felt herself scowling as the memories bubbled up inside her.

  She saw the wolven come stalking out of the weapons court, all muscle, teeth and power. She had to admit, it was quite something, seeing a full-grown wolven prowling around the fortress. Corban and his friends followed behind. Well, at least Corban was good with a blade, she had to concede. Better than her, perhaps, if you took out the dirty moves she specialized in: a score of tricks that Conall had taught her, for when a fight got up close and personal.

  Maeve dropped something on the road, a piece of linen, and Corban bent to pick it up.

  Maeve said something and touched Corban’s arm, smiling at him. Coralen couldn’t hear the words but she saw Corban’s face flush red, then saw Maeve lean forwards and kiss his cheek.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Baird asked her.

  ‘What? Nothing,’ Coralen snapped. ‘Can we go now?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She saw Corban’s friend, the big one with the hammer, staring at her. She scowled at him for good measure before she walked away.

  Baird caught up with her and together they walked to the feast-hall. She was starving hungry, ready to eat her weight in food. She lost some of her appetite when she walked into the hall, though, seeing Quinn and Lorcan sitting close to the entrance.

  Quinn smiled at her. She hated that. Hated the way that he looked at her: like she had seen men look at her mam, so many times.

  ‘Come over here, lass,’ Quinn called out. He patted his knee.

  ‘If I do it’ll only be to cut your stones off,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll take the risk,’ Quinn said, his smile growing broader.

  She changed her direction but Baird held her arm.

  ‘He’s not worth it,’ Baird said to her.

  She paused a moment, then saw someone else whom she wanted to talk to – Halion. She strode to him instead, sitting down opposite him. He was with a warrior, the one who had lost a hand.

  ‘Cora,’ Halion said.

  Baird slipped onto the bench beside her.

  ‘I’ve waited long enough. Tell me about Conall,’ she said to Halion.

  Halion’s expression grew guarded. She’d seen that face before, a thousand times, and understood that he would not be telling her much.

  ‘There’s not much to tell, Cora. There was a battle, Conall fell.’ Grief travelled across his face, a ragged cloud skimming the sun on a summer’s day, then it was gone, replaced with the cold face that he had taught her so well.

  ‘There’s more to it than that,’ Coralen pressed. ‘Were you together?’

  ‘No, we were not.’

  ‘Why not? You were always together. Inseparable. Had you argued?’

  Halion rubbed his face. ‘It was a battle, Cora. Chaos. Enemies had broken into the fortress; there were people fighting everywhere.’

  ‘So how do you know he’s dead?’ Coralen said, a spark of hope flaring in her belly. She had loved Conall fiercely.

  ‘I saw him die,’ the warrior beside Halion said.

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Marrock. I was fighting on the walls above Dun Carreg’s gates. Conall was there too.’

  ‘What else did you see?’

  The warrior’s eyes flickered to Halion, something passing between them. With the palm of his remaining hand he rubbed the stump of his other wrist, capped now with leather.

  ‘He was fighting; we all were. He fell.’ Marrock shrugged.

  ‘But he may have survived.’

  ‘No. It’s a long drop.’

  Coralen leaned back, studying them both. There’s more they’re not telling me. It’s in their eyes.

  ‘You are sure? Did you see—’

  ‘Enough,’ Halion said, his voice fraying with anger. His face softened. ‘Conall is gone, Cora. It is a hard fact, one I don’t want to accept myself, but it’s the truth. Accept it. Let him go.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  TUKUL

  Tukul grinned with the joy of being on horseback again. His legs and backside ached as if he’d been kicked by an auroch, but he didn’t care. The wind in his face, the rhythmic drum of hooves at a canter, the bunching and expanding of muscle, the sense of power in the horse he was riding.

  It was wonderful.

  They had stayed at Gramm’s for two nights. The arrival of the child-king Haelan and his guardian had set a fire in Meical. They had stayed long enough for Gramm to gift them with horses and provisions and then left. Finding seventy-two horses for warriors as fussy as his Jehar was no easy task but they were wonderful animals. Gramm had given them free choice from both of his herds – the pure bloods and the cross-breeds. Many of Tukul’s people had chosen the pure-bloods, he suspected out of a sense of nostalgia, a reminder of home, the white-walled city of Telassar. He had chosen one of the cross-breeds, a powerful piebald mare, because he was riding to war, and if ever he had seen horses made for war, these were it. Daria, he had called her, after his wife. She wouldn’t have minded – horses were almost family to the Jehar.

  There was one other gift that he had been given whilst at Gramm’s, but not from Gramm. It was an axe, presented by Gramm’s son, Wulf.

  In memory of our axe-throwing, the young warrior had said. It was strapped tightly to Tukul’s saddle now, a single-bladed weapon covered in soft leather. For nearly two moons they had been riding through the flat plains of northern Isiltir, the black columns of smoke on the horizon telling the tale of war. They had seen few people, Meical taking them by less-travelled ways. Nevertheless, they had needed to cross rivers, and these were guarded. The bridge that crossed the Rhenus had been manned by a band of Isiltir’s warriors – about a score of them. They were too few and unprepared for the Jehar, who just rode through them, thundering across the bridge like the north wind. No one had pursued them.

  They had carried on southwards, for days skirting leagues of stinking marshland, then crossed another river – the Afren, Meical told him, and moved into the realm of Ardan.

  That had been three nights ago. They were cantering across a rolling moorland of gorse and heather now, watched only by goats and auroch. To the north the horizon was edged with a wall of trees, dark and brooding, though insignificant compared to Forn.

  ‘That is the Darkwood,’ Meical said, following Tukul’s gaze. ‘It marks the northern border of Ardan. On its far side lies the realm of Narvon.’

  ‘I know, I have studied many maps over the last few years. Soon we shall come upon the river Tarin, which will take us to Baglun Forest, Dun Carreg and the sea. And the Seren Disglair.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Meical said.

  Excitement was growing in him. They would soon be there. Dun Carreg, home of the Seren
Disglair. He could hardly believe these times were upon him. And I will see one other. My son. All-Father be praised.

  When they reached the river Tarin they skirted south and followed the fringe of the Baglun Forest towards the sea, the ground carpeted in leaves of orange and gold. After another two days riding Tukul heard the call of gulls. He looked over his shoulder and saw Enkara first amongst his sword-kin. They had all heard it too. He grinned fiercely at them.

  Soon they came upon a great road running across their path; it was made of cut stone, though worn and broken, with grass and weeds growing in its cracks.

  ‘This is the giantsway,’ Meical said.

  Tukul stared, could see in the distance a dark smudge upon a high cliff top. Dun Carreg. A jolt of excitement passed through him.

  ‘We cannot approach in strength – they would bar the gates at the sight of you all,’ Meical grinned. A fierce excitement was scribed on his face. ‘Tukul, you and I will go. The rest of you, there is a glade within this forest, further along the road. A giant-stone stands in it. Wait for us there.’

  Tukul nodded his agreement to his sword-kin and they parted ways – he and Meical riding the road northwards. The road cut through a landscape of rolling moors. A low hill stood nearby, a cairn sat on its crest, outlined by the cold blue sky.

  They rode on in silence, then from between the undulating moorland the road spilt onto a plain, the fortress of Dun Carreg rearing high above.

  The Seren Disglair is up there.

  A village nestled at the foot of the hill that the fortress was built upon, beyond it the roar of a distant sea. As they drew nearer, a group of men rode from the village: warriors carrying couched spears and swords at their hips. They wore cloaks of black and gold.