Valour

by John Gwynne

  He burst explosively from his chair, launching across the table, and Fidele instinctively flinched backwards. She was not his target, though.

  Orcus had his sword drawn by the time Lykos reached him, but Lykos was inside his guard, something in his hand. He punched hard upwards, under Orcus’ chin. Blood erupted from Orcus’ mouth. Lykos held him close, then lowered him to the ground, where he twitched a few times, then was still.

  Fidele stood, opening her mouth to scream.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Lykos said, turning to face her. He reached into his cloak and pulled something out, something small. ‘Don’t make a sound,’ he said.

  Fidele felt a hand clamp around her throat, fingers squeezing. She tried to scream but nothing came out. She reached to her throat to pull away the choking grip, but nothing was there, only her own flesh.

  ‘Amazing,’ Lykos said, holding the thing in his hand up. It looked like a lump of clay, a few hairs sticking from it. ‘Come back here.’

  She felt her feet moving, tried to stop them, but could not, just walked, haltingly at first, back towards Lykos. She saw blood pooling behind him, almost black, spreading like spilt ink.

  ‘Stop.’

  She stopped.

  ‘Lift your right hand.’

  She lifted it.

  Lykos laughed. ‘This is wonderful. Calidus, I owe you greatly.’ His brow furrowed in thought. ‘Tell me that we shall rule Tenebral together. And be polite.’

  Never. I will see you dead . . .

  ‘We shall govern Tenebral together, my lord.’ She could not believe the words were her own, the voice her own. She formed a sentence in her mind, mostly curses. ‘Your will shall guide me.’ She wailed inside.

  What? She stared at the lump that Lykos held in his hand. This close she could see that the hairs in it were black. Lines were scrawled across the clay. Runes?

  ‘Yes,’ he said, following her eyes. ‘It is a lock of your hair.’ He looked behind him, at Orcus sprawled on the stone floor. ‘We’ll arrange for my men to clean this up; don’t want rumours spreading through your eagle-guard. I shall leave shortly and send Deinon and a few others up here. Later today you shall announce that I am forgiven all previous misunderstandings and that the people of Tenebral are about to enter a new age of kinship with the Vin Thalun.’

  ‘I shall do as you say, my lord.’

  He grinned, then looked at her, up and down.

  ‘Perhaps we should seal this new beginning while we are alone.’ He reached out, ran a hand up her thigh, over her hip and onto her waist.

  Get off. Don’t touch me. She spasmed inside, willed her limbs to move, to kick, to shove, her voice to cry out. Nothing happened.

  ‘Lie back on the table,’ he commanded.

  In her mind she screamed.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  CORBAN

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Corban said to the trader.

  ‘Why are you following us?’ Coralen asked as she moved from behind a boulder.

  ‘Yes, why are you following us?’ Gar strode close to him. Ventos’ hound growled. Storm jumped from the rock shelf; her hackles were raised and she matched snarl for snarl.

  This could turn bloody. ‘Ventos, tell your hound; Storm will not tolerate a challenge from him.’

  ‘Talar, down,’ Ventos snapped. The hound crouched lower and stopped growling.

  ‘Easy, everyone,’ Ventos said. ‘I am no danger to you.’

  ‘An explanation, please,’ Gwenith said.

  ‘I wish to get out of Domhain, and I saw you all leave, saw you heading towards the mountains.’ He shrugged.

  ‘Why not just use the giants’ road? And what about your goods, your wain at Dun Taras?’ Corban asked.

  ‘You don’t know, do you? Domhain’s warband has been routed; it is fleeing to Dun Taras. Rhin controls the giants’ road, and that’s the only way in or out of Domhain that a wain can travel.’ He shrugged, a guilty expression crossing his face. ‘I’m cutting my losses. If I get out of Domhain with my life I’ll count myself lucky. I just want to get away, and I thought, you know, safety in numbers.’

  ‘Rath’s warband is routed?’ Coralen gasped. ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Ventos said. ‘But it happened. It wasn’t the warband from Cambren that turned it. It was the warriors of Tenebral. They made a wall of shields, just walked up the giants’ road and killed every man that threw himself against their shields.’ He shook his head, passing a hand across his brow. ‘It was terrible to see.’

  Coralen leaned against a tree, the colour draining from her face.

  ‘We’ll make camp here,’ Brina said, ‘and you can tell us properly.’

  As they ate a broth made from the leftovers of Storm’s kill, Ventos told them in detail all that he had seen. It was a grim tale. When he had finished, a silence settled over the travellers.

  That is no way to fight, thought Corban. There’s no honour in it.

  ‘Does Rath still live?’ Coralen asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I think so. At least, someone was still in control and organized the retreat. It wasn’t just a flood down the giants’ road. Not when I left, anyway. It was still daylight when I set off – I wanted to pick up your trail before it was too dark to find it.’

  ‘What of Edana?’ Corban asked the question that was on all their minds.

  ‘Again, I did not see. But she would have had good warning of the retreat, and she would not have been in the fighting to begin with. I would imagine she is one of those more likely to have been on the road back to Dun Taras.’

  ‘You must have ridden hard to catch up with us,’ Gar said.

  ‘I did. I rode like the wind, once I found your trail. Nothing like the thought of an angry warband behind you to put some fire beneath your feet.’

  ‘Did anyone see you, follow you?’ Gar asked.

  ‘No. Or not that I saw. You can never be sure, but . . .’

  ‘Up before dawn,’ Coralen said. ‘We’ll travel hard.’ Then she stood and walked to where the horses were hobbled. After a while Corban followed her.

  ‘You could tell us the way, and go back,’ he said to her back as she checked her horse’s feet.

  ‘You’d never find it,’ she said. ‘You’ll end up dead and frozen for foxes to nibble at.’

  ‘But Rath, your kin.’

  ‘Don’t you think I know?’ she snapped, turning a glare on him. ‘I said I’d show you the way, and that’s what I’ll do. That’s what Rath would say to me. He’d skin me if I just left you here. Anyway, this newfound care for my well-being – is it genuine, or just an excuse to get rid of the guide that you don’t trust?’ She started pulling out knots from her horse’s mane.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, last night. I do trust you. I just thought how I would feel, if it were my brother or sister.’ He shrugged to her back. She didn’t say anything so he just walked away.

  For another eight nights they rode steadily north, Coralen pushing them hard. The path wound out of the foothills and into the mountains, passing through sweeping woods of pine until they climbed beyond the treeline and into the mountains themselves. Here the paths were icy, the slopes dusted with snow. They camped on a grassy slope near a dark still pool. Corban sat first watch of the night, sitting with his back to a boulder and his cloak pulled tight.

  They would be crossing into Cambren soon, another one or two days’ travel through the mountains. Then they would be in Rhin’s realm, voluntarily walking back into the danger they had spent so long escaping. But this time we will be chasing, not running.

  When his watch was up he passed guard over to Ventos, then tried to get comfortable on the ground, hard and cold as iron.

  His thoughts swirled, thinking of Edana and Halion, Marrock and Camlin and Vonn, praying silently that they were still alive, had made it back to Dun Taras. And then Cywen. How alone she must feel with only her enemies surrounding her. He felt a wave of anger at the people
and events that had treated them so cruelly. Rhin. Nathair: the man who had slain his da – plunged a sword into his chest. His thoughts had strayed to that image many times since he had fled Dun Carreg, always accompanied by a measure of pain. Here, though, alone in the dark, suddenly the anguish threatened to drown him, pain as deep and dark as the lake they were camped beside. He turned over and squeezed his eyes shut.

  He woke with a start, the memory of strange dreams hovering, of wings and warriors and battle, but even as he tried to cling to it, it faded. There was a noise: a rustle up above, a whisper on the wind, then he heard soft footfalls, moving away. He sat up.

  Ventos was gone.

  He saw him disappearing along a path, his hound padding alongside him. Quietly Corban rose. He looked about for Storm, but she was nowhere to be seen. Probably off hunting. He crept after Ventos.

  He followed the path, taking it slowly. A half-moon gave some light, though frequently clouds scudded across it. The path wound upwards, the ground slippery with frost. He reached a bend and paused, then peered around it.

  The path opened into a wider space, boulders littering it. A hawk sat on the rock.

  Kartala, the bird that Ventos won from the Sirak.

  Ventos was writing, then rolling something up, tying it to the hawk’s leg.

  A growl sounded in the darkness.

  Corban reached for his sword, then remembered he’d taken it off. He had a knife at his belt, though, and gripped its hilt.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Ventos said. ‘Come out now, where I can see you. Or I’ll set my hound on you.’

  Corban stepped away from the shelf. ‘What are you doing?’ he said. ‘Who are you writing to?’

  Ventos stared at him, none of the open friendliness Corban was used to showing now. He looked cold, calculating, weighing up the situation. ‘Someone who’s interested in you.’ He drew a knife of his own.

  He’s made his decision, then. If I shout, will anyone hear me? How far have I walked?

  The hound Talar stepped out of the shadows. He was still snarling. Saliva dripped from his teeth.

  There was the sound of movement above, the rattle of stones falling down the rock face. A blur of white fur hurtled out of the darkness and crashed into the hound. Storm. The two animals rolled towards the edge of the path, the hound yelping. Ventos ran at them, knife raised, and Corban hurled himself at Ventos. They went down in a bundle of limbs, Ventos gasping sharply, stiffening, arching his back, then flopping limp.

  Corban struggled free, saw that his knife was buried in Ventos’ torso, beneath his ribs, a dark stain spreading about the blade.

  Ventos put a hand to the knife hilt and groaned.

  Snarling behind him. Corban turned to see Storm kick with her back legs, hurling the hound through the air. It crunched to the ground, skidded, rose unsteadily, dark gashes down its shoulder, blood dripping from its belly. Storm braced and leaped, crashing into the hound again and in a scrabble of earth and stone they both disappeared over the edge of the path. There was the sound of scratching, claws on rock, then a silence, followed by a splash.

  ‘Storm!’ yelled Corban, running to the path’s edge.

  He couldn’t see anything, just the glimmer of water here and there, a fast-flowing stream by the sound of it.

  ‘Storm,’ he shouted again, thought he saw a flash of something white moving fast – in the stream’s grip. There was no way down so he turned, began running along the bank’s edge, following what he thought, hoped, had been Storm carried in the flow of the stream. He left Ventos lying in a pool of his own blood, didn’t even know if the man was alive or dead.

  He ran in the dark, tripped and fell, pushed himself back up, feeling panic growing in his gut, a pressure building.

  He heard something – the scuff of feet? He looked about wildly – had he been heard from the camp, missed? Then he heard a sniffing, the whine of dogs, more than one, and figures were appearing out of the darkness. Two, three, more movement at the edge of his vision. A man strode towards him, tall, a scar running down his face. Memories flared, of the Darkwood.

  Braith.

  Then hands were grabbing him.

  Corban felt a sharp pain in his ribs. He jerked his hands, but they were bound tight and there was a cloth over his head.

  ‘I’m going to take your hood off now. Make a sound and it’ll be the last thing you do. Feel that?’ Whoever it was poked him harder with the blade in his ribs.

  ‘Yes,’ he said inside the sack.

  The sack was pulled off and Corban blinked in the light. It was early, the sun weak and pale, but it still made his eyes water.

  He had been walking half the night, it seemed, or stumbling, hands before and behind pulling, dragging, steering him onwards.

  Braith stood before him, leaner than Corban remembered him, deep lines in his face, around his mouth and eyes, almost matching the silver of his long scar. Around them men were sitting, drinking from water skins, chewing on biscuit or strips of meat. A few hounds sat close to Braith’s feet.

  ‘I know you,’ Corban said, his voice a croak.

  ‘And I you. You’ve grown up a bit since the well at Dun Carreg.’

  ‘Last time I saw you, you were running away,’ Corban said. ‘In the Darkwood.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ Braith said. ‘Are you sure you want to be reminding me of that? Angering me, right now?’

  Corban shrugged. He felt angry himself, more than anything else right now. His journey through the night had been filled with other things – panic, worry, fear. For Storm, for the people he’d left behind.

  ‘Was it you that shot Queen Alona in the back?’ He took a deep breath, hearing Gar’s voice in his mind. Control your emotions. Use them; don’t let them use you. That’s a quick way to getting killed. Could he rouse Braith enough to get him to make a mistake?

  Braith stepped closer, twisted his knife a little. ‘That’s enough, now. Think I’ll put that sack back on your head.’

  ‘Camlin told me about you,’ Corban said.

  ‘Did he now? How is Cam?’

  ‘He’s well. A good man.’

  ‘Good? He was a thief and murderer, last time I saw him. And a turncoat.’

  ‘He chose to do the right thing. He still does, unlike you,’ Corban said.

  ‘Right has a habit of changing, depending on who’s paying your wages,’ Braith said with a frown. ‘Eat this. You’ll need your strength.’ He put a biscuit in Corban’s bound hands.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ Corban said.

  ‘Someone wants to see you,’ Braith said.

  ‘The same that Ventos spoke of.’

  ‘Ventos? The man you left for dead. No, I believe he worked for another.’

  ‘And you work for Rhin, unless you’ve changed masters since the Darkwood.’

  Braith just smiled at him. A humourless thing.

  Cywen is Rhin’s prisoner. Maybe we’ll end up in a cell together. He thought of his mam and Gar, all the others, waking to find him gone.

  ‘They’ll find you, and when they do, they’ll kill you,’ Corban said, loud, for the others to hear.

  ‘I don’t think so. We’ve a good start on them, and I know these mountains well. Grew up in them as a bairn. Think I know a few paths that your pretty guide doesn’t.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ Corban said. ‘Storm will find me, and lead the others.’

  ‘She’s dead, lad. We saw her fall. There’s no way she’s coming out of that water. Too cold, too fast. Lots of sharp rocks.’

  ‘No.’ Corban refused to think on that.

  ‘I’ll leave the bag off, see if you can behave.’

  You need me to go faster, you mean.

  Braith organized his men, a dozen that Corban could see, though then some others joined them from further down the trail – scouts, he supposed. Braith prodded Corban and they set off. Just then a sound rang out, distant but clear. It echoed against the cliffs, long and mournful. A wolven’s howl.

&n
bsp; Muttering spread amongst the men, and Corban saw Braith scowling, looking back over his shoulder.

  Corban smiled. ‘Dead, is she?’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  CYWEN

  Cywen looked forward into the distance. A snow-capped mountain loomed on the horizon, dominating the range they had been following steadily north. Lower down its slopes she could just make out the walls of Dun Vaner, where torchlight flickered from battlements and windows, little more than pinpricks in the distance. Queen Rhin’s stronghold and, originally, the seat of power of the Benothi giants. She could not help but look at the slopes and plains before her, imagining what it had been like for her ancestors to battle the gathered strength of the Benothi here. And her ancestors had won, Cambros striking down Ruad, the giant king. A memory sprang to life in her mind, of old Heb telling the tale of that battle to a crowd gathered on the meadows below Dun Carreg, on the day Marrock had been handbound. She could see herself, sitting on the grass with her mam and da, Corban and Gar, all of them entranced by Heb’s story. And now Heb was dead, so Veradis had said. From nowhere she felt emotion swell in her chest, her vision blurring with tears.

  ‘Time to stop, child,’ Alcyon said from beside her. He’d appointed himself her guardian. I preferred Veradis. At least I could have a conversation with him. It had been over a ten-night since they had left Veradis at the giants’ road, and she had spoken only a few sentences since then, to the reluctant giant or the Jehar Akar.

  She climbed from Shield’s back and led him to the makeshift paddocks that the Jehar built every night, unbuckled his girth and took his saddle and rug from his back, then rubbed him down and checked his hooves, all the while under the watchful eye of the giant. When she was finished he led her to the edge of the camp, looking for a spot to make their camp. They passed the draig paddock, where Cywen glimpsed Nathair climbing from the back of his long-tailed mount. Soon after, she heard the bellows of an auroch as the draig ripped into it. The same happened every night, Nathair leading an auroch into the draig paddock for it to hunt and eat. By morning there would be little left but patches of fur and some bone.