Valour

by John Gwynne

  His eyes drifted deeper around the room, at the scores of Jehar warriors. Most were quietly going about small tasks – repairing torn leather with thread and needle, replacing rings in a chainmail shirt, using a whetstone to work out a notch in a blade, cleaning and binding a wound.

  Every now and then he would feel eyes upon him, would catch some of the Jehar looking at him, just staring. It made him feel uncomfortable. There was something in their eyes, almost adoration.

  Then he saw Meical. He was sitting in the shadows beyond the firelight, long legs stretched out before him, his face a dark pool, but something told Corban he was staring straight back at him.

  He remembered his dream – not a dream, something more, something real – and Meical’s part in it. He was the Ben-Elim who had saved him, who had carried him from Asroth’s palace.

  They had hardly talked in the dungeon, Corban struggling to take in what he was seeing, but they would have to, soon. He knew that.

  He looked away from the shadows, his gaze settling upon his mam. She was watching him, too. She rose and sat beside him.

  ‘So,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you, Mam.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For coming to get me.’

  She hugged him fiercely.

  ‘I knew him. He was in Dun Carreg, briefly. But I recognize him from my dreams,’ Corban said, looking back to Meical.

  ‘I saw, in the dungeon. So, do you believe, now?’

  He was dimly aware that Dath and Farrell were leaning forward, listening intently.

  ‘I . . . my dreams, Mam. They weren’t dreams, really, I was somewhere else. In the Otherworld.’

  ‘Yes. You’ve been having them for years. They stopped for a while.’

  ‘Rhin was in the last one. She took me to Asroth.’

  His mam tensed, her hand squeezing his leg.

  ‘I was terrified. Asroth, he wants to kill me – you were right.’

  ‘So you do believe, then?’

  He had not wanted to think about this, to face it. All the while he was busy it was just a shadow hovering somewhere behind him, but now he could no longer avoid this subject. He had walked in the Otherworld, come face to face with Asroth and his Kadoshim, and with the Ben-Elim. How could he deny the truth of it? Clearly it was no lie, so either he was mad, as he had thought Gar was, for a while, or it was the truth. There was no longer any option for an alternative explanation. He sighed.

  ‘How could I not, now? I’m sorry for not trusting you.’

  She smiled. ‘I have found it hard to believe, myself, at times.’

  ‘I don’t want to believe it, though. I’d rather not think about it. And when I do think about it I end up with a lot of questions,’ Corban said.

  ‘Of course you do.’

  A voice rang out, then. Corban looked up and saw that Meical was standing close to the fire-pit, almost before him.

  ‘What would you do from here?’ Meical said, looking straight at him.

  ‘You’re asking me?’ Corban said.

  ‘Everyone in this room is here because of you, Corban. You are the Seren Disglair, the Bright Star.’

  Corban cringed inwardly at that. He caught a glimpse of Dath and Farrell staring at him – Dath wide eyed, Farrell nodding thoughtfully. Coralen regarded him with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘We will follow your lead,’ Meical continued. ‘I will offer you my counsel, and you can do with it what you will. For myself, I would advise that we should go to Drassil, deep within Forn Forest.’

  ‘Why?’ Corban asked. He heard Brina chuckle.

  ‘Because Halvor’s prophecy says that is where you will go, where the resistance against Asroth and his Black Sun will gather.’

  Who is Halvor? What prophecy? A hundred other questions lined up in his mind, fighting to be asked first.

  I’m going to Murias to get my sister,’ he said instead.

  ‘Murias. Where Nathair is going?’ Meical said.

  ‘That’s right. My sister Cywen is his prisoner.’

  ‘She is his prisoner to lure you to him, surely you must know that?’

  ‘I was starting to guess as much,’ Corban said. ‘But it makes no difference. I cannot abandon her.’

  ‘No, we cannot,’ his mam echoed.

  Meical just looked at him for a long drawn-out moment. Corban returned his gaze.

  ‘All right then,’ Meical said. ‘We shall go to Murias.’

  ‘You don’t have to come,’ Corban said. He did not want the lives of so many on his conscience.

  ‘It is our choice,’ Meical said. ‘And as you feel about your sister, so we feel about you.’

  Corban thought about that, thought about standing before Asroth and seeing a band of the Ben-Elim brave the hosts of Kadoshim to save him. He nodded.

  ‘And Sumur is with Nathair,’ Tukul said from the fireside. ‘I would like to see him. We have things to discuss.’

  I can imagine what they are.

  ‘What is at Murias?’ Corban asked.

  ‘Giants,’ Coralen said.

  ‘She’s right,’ Meical said. ‘The Benothi giants. And one of the Seven Treasures. The cauldron.’

  The Seven Treasures? Now those were tales I used to love hearing old Heb tell.

  ‘The cauldron?’

  ‘Aye,’ Meical said with a sigh. ‘Asroth used it before, in the War of Treasures. It was made for good but, like most things, can be put to a different use depending on the hand that holds it. It has the potential to be a powerful weapon.’

  ‘What did Asroth want it for?’ asked Corban.

  ‘To slaughter every living soul that Elyon has created.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound good,’ whispered Dath to Farrell.

  ‘Well it obviously didn’t work, did it?’ Farrell whispered back. ‘Else none of us would be here.’

  ‘That is because Elyon unleashed his Scourging,’ Meical said. ‘That was bad enough, and Elyon is unlikely to intervene this time.’

  ‘So we need to stop Nathair getting to this cauldron, then,’ said Farrell.

  ‘Perhaps. I do not know if we can. It is protected, though. There are some of the Benothi that live still who saw the destruction wrought by the War of Treasures. Nemain, the Benothi Queen, was there. She saw. She will not willingly allow the cauldron to be used to wage war again.’

  ‘But Nathair has the Jehar with him. If any are capable of taking it, it is them,’ said Tukul.

  ‘Aye. So, to Murias it is,’ said Meical. North of here, a hundred leagues through Cambren and then into Benoth.’

  ‘It will be hard going, fighting all the way through Cambren,’ said Coralen. ‘The bulk of Rhin’s warriors may be to the south invading Domhain, but that does not mean the entire north is empty of enemies. And the best roads are littered with settlements – they will not look on you kindly. You may be forced to travel leagues out of your way, through difficult terrain. You would be better off travelling back into Domhain and then heading north on a clear path. You may even catch them.’

  ‘I do not know the way through Domhain,’ Meical said.

  ‘I do,’ said Coralen. ‘I’ve lived half my life patrolling the borderlands, I know every path and fox’s trail for a hundred leagues, and I’ve been in sight of Murias before. I’ll take you.’

  Meical looked between Corban and Tukul.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Corban. She nodded at him, as if something long considered had just been decided, then leaned back on her bench and crossed her arms.

  ‘So then, we should gather supplies for a mountain crossing,’ said Meical. ‘We’ll leave at dawn.’

  They settled down for sleep soon after, the fire-pit still crackling. Storm stretched close to Corban. The murmur of Gar and Tukul’s voices blended as they talked into the night.

  Corban’s mind was whirling, but he was exhausted and sleep rose up like a tide to wash over him. Strangely, after all that had happened to him today, the most prominent thought in his mind as he drift
ed off wasn’t that he had come face to face with Asroth, or seen one of the Ben-Elim walk into his dungeon, or seen Rhin evicted from her own stronghold. It was the embrace that Coralen had given him whilst he was hanging from his shackles. He could still feel her hair in his face, smell her skin, feel the beating of her heart and the heave of her suppressed sobs against his manacled body.

  CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE

  VERADIS

  Veradis gazed at the mist-shrouded walls of Dun Taras. He had looked at the same walls every day for more than a moon now, through snow, rain and winter sun.

  His and Geraint’s warbands ringed the fortress, allowing no passage in or out.

  ‘They must be hungry by now,’ Bos said beside him.

  ‘I would think so.’

  Geraint had wanted to assault the walls as soon as they had reached Dun Taras, not far behind the last stragglers of Domhain’s fleeing warband. Veradis had refused to commit his men, not wanting to throw lives away for uncertain gain. He had counselled patience, to lay siege to the fortress, despite how he hated the thought of waiting here through the heart of winter.

  ‘We have the upper hand now,’ Veradis had said when Geraint asked him to join in the assault. ‘They are beaten, disheartened. If you assault the walls you will lose hundreds, and in likelihood fail, at least at first. Why lose good men and boost your enemy’s morale when we can just sit here, eat good food and watch them starve?’

  Geraint had gone ahead without him, taking a day to build ladders and battering rams. Over a thousand men had died in the assault; they gained the walls once, but were beaten back. Geraint did not attack again.

  So they had set up camp, encircled the fortress and waited. Midwinter’s Day came and went. The days started to grow longer. Veradis hated it; the inactivity frustrated him. Each day he set his men to training – first the shield wall, then individual sparring. And he had been meeting with weapon-smiths, the battle at Domhain’s border having planted the seeds of ideas in his mind. And always in his mind the same recurrent thoughts crept to the surface. Nathair. Where is he? Has he reached Murias? Is the cauldron his? Is Cywen safe?

  ‘How much longer of this?’ Bos asked him.

  ‘Depends what they choose to do. They could surrender. Or they could decide they’ve had enough of not eating and march out and take us on.’ Veradis shrugged. ‘What would you do?’

  Bos scowled. ‘I don’t like being hungry – makes me mad. I’d probably come looking for someone to kill.’

  Veradis smiled at that. He could almost picture it.

  ‘Also, much rests on their king. This Eremon, he’s old, and not so well liked as he could be by his people, I’ve heard. Makes me think he’s more likely to order an attack sooner than later, before his people decide they’ve had enough of him.’

  ‘So why haven’t they come looking for a fight already?’ Bos mused.

  ‘My guess is us,’ Veradis said. ‘The shield wall. They know what we can do now, and this ground is perfect for us. Would you march out to face us again?’

  ‘Probably not. At least, not without an idea of how to win.’

  ‘Exactly. So they sit behind their walls, and starve.’

  The sound of riders drew their attention, from behind, along the giants’ road. Veradis saw a small group, perhaps fifty, moving at a canter. Rhin’s banner rippled above them, a broken branch.

  Veradis was ushered into a tent; furs were scattered liberally, a fire burning brightly in an iron basket. Rhin sat close to it, warming her hands. She looked older, somehow, or perhaps just exhausted. Blue veins traced a map beneath her papery skin. She looked up at Veradis as he entered and ushered him to a seat.

  Something is wrong.

  Geraint was already there, sitting and sipping from a cup. Conall stood behind Rhin, a bearskin cloak draped over his shoulders.

  ‘Where is Nathair?’ Veradis said. ‘My lady,’ he added as he remembered who he was talking to.

  ‘Nathair is on his way to Murias. Or was when I left him at Dun Vaner.’

  ‘He was well?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  Veradis breathed out a sigh and felt a measure of tension melt away.

  ‘May I ask, what troubles you, my lady?’ he said.

  ‘Is it that obvious?’ She frowned.

  Veradis shrugged.

  ‘At Dun Vaner I had a prisoner brought to me, caught as he was crossing the mountains into Cambren. It was this Corban, the one that your King seeks.’

  ‘What was he doing there?’

  ‘He was chasing after his sister. Somehow he knew she was with Nathair.’

  Cywen. Unbidden, her face flashed into his mind. She was always tear-stained in his memory, always so sad.

  ‘What did you do with him? Nathair will be grateful for your help.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Rhin said with a twist of her lips. ‘He was rescued. I only just escaped with my life.’

  ‘How? What happened?’

  A look crossed her face, harrowed, scared even. ‘That doesn’t matter now. I have sent a large force north to deal with them.’ Her eyes became unfocused, then she shivered and sat straighter. ‘There is nothing more to be done about that now. Let us get on with the business of conquering Domhain. So . . .’ She smiled at him, something of her usual spark returning. ‘Geraint tells me you broke the back of Domhain’s warband and sent them scurrying back here.’

  He didn’t answer that, just took a sip from the drink in front of him.

  ‘I shall have to think of a way to reward you.’ Rhin’s smile deepened.

  Dear Elyon in heaven, no.

  ‘So now we have all the rats in this trap, how are we going to finish them?’ Rhin said. ‘Eremon is the key, I think. I am told he is generally kept in hand by his wife, Roisin, and she is less popular amongst the people than Eremon. Perhaps it is time to go and talk to them, see if a few moons of empty bellies have made them more receptive to negotiation.’

  ‘What have you in mind?’ Veradis asked.

  ‘Him,’ she said, pointing a bony finger at Conall. ‘He is Eremon’s bastard – the blood of a king flows in his veins. Why not make him a king – one who will bend the knee to me, of course, High Queen of the West. He is young, handsome, strong, full of . . . vigour.’ She paused, a sly smile twitching her lips. ‘Eremon is in the twilight of his reign and his heir is only a boy – fourteen, fifteen summers?’

  ‘He will be fifteen now,’ Conall said.

  ‘I think our offer will be quite tempting to those inside the walls of Dun Taras. Not to Roisin or her brat, of course, but to most of the rest. Especially if food is part of the bargain. And peace, of course.’

  Never underestimate this one. Her mind’s as sharp as any of us in this tent, probably sharper.

  CHAPTER NINETY-SIX

  MAQUIN

  Vin Thalun warriors walked before Maquin, the crowds parting around them. Dimly he was aware of them, of the iron-grey clouds overhead, the cold air snatching at his skin. It all merged, a semi-conscious blur as his eyes focused on the space opening before him, a ring of turf churned to mud, tiered rows rising about it, crammed with shouting people. At the ring’s centre stood a tall post, iron chains hanging from it. Beside it was a basket with weapons poking from it: a spear, a sword, maybe more.

  He saw a huddle of men emerge from the far side, herded by Vin Thalun behind them.

  Maquin sprinted for the basket.

  There were three at least, maybe more. They saw Maquin charging towards them; he registered the confusion in their eyes before they realized he was heading for the basket of weapons, not them. One started running for it, others behind him were slower.

  Maquin reached the basket first. He grabbed the spear and hurled it into the baying crowd; before its flight was completed he was reaching back into the basket, pulling out the remaining sword and knife. Then he stepped past it to meet his attackers.

  The first one saw he was too late and tried to slow, twisting away, his feet sl
ithering on the muddy ground. Maquin’s sword caught him in the head as he dropped, just above the ear. The blade stuck, the weight of the lifeless body dragging it out of Maquin’s hands. He stepped over the twitching corpse, switching the knife from left hand to right.

  There were three more. They spread about him cautiously. Maquin could see the raw rope wounds on their wrists – his own had healed to silver scars – recent captives, then, not long come to the Vin Thalun fighting pits.

  He surged at the central man, not wanting to give the group a chance to circle him. He ducked swooping arms, a blow glanced off his shoulder; he collided with his opponent, his momentum burying his knife to the hilt in the man’s belly. He ripped up, at the same time spun away, turning to face the sound of approaching feet.

  This one was almost upon him. He saw a blur of movement, dropped to his knees, a hooked punch whistling over his head. Then he rolled forwards, slashed with his knife as he passed the man. He felt it bite, came out of his roll on the balls of his feet and stood.

  A thin line scored the man’s calf, blood sheeting down. Maquin advanced, the man retreating, hands held high, backing past the man whom Maquin had just gutted, lying in a pool of glistening entrails. Behind him Maquin saw another figure, stooping over the corpse that had a sword lodged in its skull.

  The man before him lunged forwards, perhaps seeing Maquin’s distraction. One hand clamped around Maquin’s wrist, pinning the knife, the other reached for his throat.

  Maquin pulled backwards, using the weight of his enemy’s desperate rush to send them both crashing to the ground. The man flew over Maquin’s head, helped along by his boot. With a twist of his body Maquin was rising, surging forwards. He punched his knife into the man’s chest as he slipped in the churned ground.

  The last survivor was still tugging at the sword stuck in the dead man’s skull as Maquin approached him.

  He was young, surely not much past his Long Night, downy wisps on his chin where a beard should be. He tugged harder as Maquin drew closer, putting a foot on the dead man’s face.