Valour

by John Gwynne

  ‘Who are you calling a woman?’ Gerda yelled back, her warriors laughing at that. ‘Not too old or too fat to teach you a few lessons in warfare, you snot-nosed brat.’

  Even Maquin laughed at that. He saw Jael scowl as laughter rippled along the battlements, even some from behind Jael, within his own ranks.

  ‘If there is anyone up there with rank to treat with me, I will gladly do so,’ Jael yelled. ‘If there is only a woman left to lead you, then Dun Kellen has fallen far already. Let me make this clear to any with intelligence enough to hear. Gerda and her son Haelan are the walking dead. This is only the van of my warband – more are coming. You cannot win, and I will have their heads on spikes before the next moon rises. Hand Gerda and her brat over and I will let you live, even welcome you into my own warband. Fight on and I will kill every last one of you. Not just you: your wives, your women, your children too. There will be no captives – no surrender.’

  ‘He talks a good talk,’ Orgull muttered, moving up beside Maquin and Tahir.

  Maquin glanced along the battlements, saw fear amongst the warriors there.

  ‘Hard words break no bones, as my old mam used to say,’ Tahir shouted down.

  ‘Well said,’ Gerda laughed.

  ‘I’ll break bones soon enough,’ Jael said, then turned, raising his arm as he did so. Warriors swept forwards from the shadows and ran towards the fortress’ wall. At a horn blast they stopped and hurled a mass of spears, Maquin and his comrades ducking low. A man close to Tahir moved too slowly and a spear buried itself in his chest, hurling him back over the battlements’ edge. Maquin peered over the wall into the street, saw more of Jael’s warriors hurrying from the town’s side streets carrying ladders, others holding shields high over men that dragged a thick battering ram between them.

  Warning shouts ran amongst the defenders; spears and rocks were hurled onto those below. A ladder slammed into place close to Maquin. He leaned out and stabbed down at a man climbing; his sword-tip glanced off an iron helm, burying itself in the man’s shoulder. The man screamed and fell backwards, replaced by another who swung at Maquin’s exposed arm. Orgull dragged Maquin back, then swung his axe at the enemy as he appeared at the top of the wall. In a spray of blood his head spun through the air, Orgull using his axe to push the ladder away, the headless corpse still draped over the top rung. The ladder wobbled in space, then crashed back to the street below, men screaming as they fell or were crushed.

  More ladders appeared along the battlements and Maquin lost himself in the fight. A booming thud marked time to their violence as the ram crashed ceaselessly against the gates, fading to a blur in Maquin’s mind as he slashed and stabbed and snarled at the legion of faces that appeared before him. Always Orgull and Tahir were close by, his Gadrai sword-brothers, beating back the tide wherever they stood. When Maquin paused, his limbs heavy and weak, his lungs burning, he saw Gerda standing on the wall above the gates, yelling defiance, encouraging her warriors, even lifting rocks and heaving them over the battlements at Jael’s men below. As Maquin watched, jars of liquid – oil, he guessed – were thrown from above the gates, burning torches cast after them. There was the sound of flames igniting, then a terrible screaming. Maquin leaned over the wall and saw the ram and those holding it ablaze, some running yelling through the street, many rolling on the ground. The smell of charred meat hit his throat and he ducked back behind the wall.

  Children moved along the top of the wall, taking skins of water to the defenders. Maquin beckoned one over and gulped from the skin. A shadow fell over them as Orgull reached for the water. The young lad’s eyes wide as he stared at Orgull’s axe dripping with blood and gore.

  ‘Thirsty work,’ Orgull muttered between gulps.

  The battle lulled again and Gerda walked along the walls. She reached them and paused. ‘You know Jael well?’ she asked Maquin.

  ‘He was cousin to my lord.’ He shrugged. ‘We lived in Mikil together, but Jael and Kastell, my lord, they were never friends.’

  ‘His claim that more men are coming – do you think he tells the truth?’

  ‘He is a snake, would lie to his own mother. He betrayed his uncle and murdered his cousin in the caverns below Haldis. I would not trust anything he says. Most likely he was trying to spread fear amongst your men, hoping one would take your head and accomplish his goal for him. And he must know that you have many more men mustering in your outlying lands. He will be scared, knowing that time is against him.’

  ‘That is what I thought, too,’ Gerda said. She raised her voice. ‘Jael is a liar, he has no more men coming to aid him. We must just resist, hold them off until our banner-men from the outlying holds arrive.’ A ragged cheer rippled along the battlements and Gerda strode away.

  Someone shouted a warning as ladders slammed against the wall.

  ‘Back to it,’ Orgull said, patting his axe.

  They fought on, time losing all meaning to Maquin. Again and again Jael’s men assaulted the wall, and every time they were thrown back. As the sun dipped into the horizon, reflecting blood red against low clouds, a cry went up and Jael’s men finally broke onto the battlements, first one man gaining a foothold, then another, then a handful.

  Maquin was fighting over the gates, guarding Orgull’s flank as the big man swung his axe into a warrior who had just leaped from a ladder-top onto the wall. The man was off balance and Orgull’s axe smashed into his chest, cutting through chainmail, leather, flesh and bone in an explosion of gore. Maquin heard a change in the battlecries behind him, turned and saw Jael’s men forcing their way onto the wall. Without thinking, he ran at them, shouting to Orgull and Tahir but unaware if they heard him or not.

  He smashed into a man, feeling his teeth rattle with the force of the collision, and slammed the man over the wall with not even enough time to scream. Maquin set his feet and swung his sword two-handed, chopping into a man’s ribs, then bringing his blade up and down onto the man’s head as he crumpled. He stepped over the corpse, chopping, stabbing. His blade was parried, sending shivers along his arm, his wrist numbing. A hand grabbed him, dragging him forwards, and he stumbled over a fallen warrior and dropped to one knee. A man appeared before him, sword raised, Maquin’s death in his eyes. With a snarl, Maquin drew a knife from his belt, launched himself forwards, punching the knife beneath the line of his enemy’s cuirass, sinking to the hilt. He gave a wrench, saw fear fill the man’s face, the strength draining from him. Then he was shoving the dying man away and cutting at the man behind with sword and dagger.

  He heard a battle-cry behind him, two voices shouting, ‘Gadrai,’ and he grinned, knowing his sword-brothers were with him. The battle-joy took him then, which he’d heard others call a madness but to him it was a fierce, pure ecstasy, new strength flooding his limbs, his lips drawn back in a half-grin, half-snarl. Soon the tide had turned, Jael’s men dying or fleeing before the three of them: Maquin, Orgull and Tahir.

  As Jael’s men were killed or cast back over the wall, horn blasts called out from the streets beyond the fortress. The attack ended. Men withdrew quickly. All along the battlements the survivors sagged with exhaustion. Maquin gripped Tahir’s shoulder and smiled at him, too weary to speak.

  There was a lull in the battle, all on the wall taking the opportunity to drink, eat something, some even leaning against the wall and sleeping. The sun sank into the rim of the world, night creeping up behind. Just before full dark Orgull stared out over the wall, frowning.

  Men were running from the side streets, some carrying timber beams between them, others with arms full of straw and thatch. They ran to the gates and the sections of the wall that had long been repaired with wood instead of stone. Soon there were high piles spread along the wall’s base.

  ‘Don’t like the look of that,’ Tahir muttered to Maquin when he saw great jars of oil being carried to the piles of timber and thatch. Warriors on the wall began throwing spears and rocks, and screams told that some found their mark, but almost immediately s
parks were being struck and flames were curling up.

  ‘They’re going to bum their way in,’ Maquin said.

  He watched as Gerda and her captains organized the fetching of water from wells within Dun Kellen’s wall, but by the time the first buckets of water had arrived the fires were burning bright, the thrown water hissing into steam. They managed to put one fire out, but a dozen others raged against different sections of the wall, the wood used to repair it charring and crackling, smoke billowing over the ramparts.

  The boy that had given them water earlier in the day hurried along the wall, scurrying over when he saw Maquin and his companions.

  ‘The lady wants to see you,’ he said to Orgull, who nodded and followed the lad into a cloud of smoke. Soon he returned.

  ‘Gerda’s calling a retreat to the keep,’ he said, but quietly. ‘She’s leaving a handful of warriors up here to watch the back of those leaving, and to give Jael the impression we mean to fight on.’

  ‘A suicide watch, you mean,’ Tahir said.

  ‘No. Her orders were that whoever remains must leave as soon as the first ladders hit the wall.’

  ‘They’d better be quick about it – those walls won’t be standing all night,’ Maquin said, and as if to prove his point timbers nearby creaked, part of the palisaded walkway collapsing with a crash.

  ‘I suppose you volunteered us for the rearguard,’ Maquin said.

  Orgull grinned.

  ‘Best show our faces, then. Give Jael and his lads something to be scared of,’ Maquin said, walking into view on the wall.

  ‘Just make sure we keep our feet on stone,’ Tahir added, stepping close to Maquin.

  The retreat of Dun Kellen’s warriors to the keep did not take long. Soon Maquin, Orgull and Tahir stood with a handful of others left to guard the wall.

  It was not long after that the first wooden section of wall collapsed, flames and smoke roaring up in its aftermath. Jael’s warriors rushed forwards, but the fire flared in their faces, burning fiercer as it was fed by the timber. In their eagerness, Jael’s men lifted ladders to the stone walls, done with waiting.

  ‘Best be out of here,’ Tahir said, looking over his shoulder at the dark shadow of the keep behind them. Orgull barked an order at the other warriors ranged about them, only a dozen or so, and they began filing down a wide stairwell.

  Maquin put a spear to the ladder that appeared nearby, pushed with all his strength, but the weight of the warriors climbing it held it pinned to the wall. Orgull saw and added his axe, bracing the head against the ladder and leaning into it. Nothing happened, then an iron-capped head appeared on the ladder.

  ‘Come on,’ Tahir yelled.

  Maquin and Orgull gave a last effort and the ladder swayed away from the wall, teetering for a moment before it hurtled backwards into the darkness. Maquin smiled at the screams that drifted up to them. Then the three of them were running, leaping down the stairwell and sprinting for the keep. A warrior stood guard, keeping the doors open. They slammed shut behind them and were barred with iron and oak.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CAMLIN

  Camlin drew an arrow back to his ear, held his breath, and released it as the arrow sped from his bowstring. Beside him he heard the thrum of Dath’s arrow, then a succession of screams and the two of them slid back down the ridge.

  ‘Must’ve hit something,’ he muttered to Dath, who grinned back at him. Then they were slipping through the undergrowth. Camlin grunted approvingly as he noted how Dath moved lightly, quick on his feet, looking ahead to avoid snagging branches. He’ll make a good woodsman. Hounds barked behind them, close, from the ridge they had just left. If he lives long enough.

  They ran through the woods, Camlin leading the way back to their horses, always twisting and turning, his path never straight. They mounted quickly and set off, both of them too winded to speak.

  Leaving the cover of trees, they had to ride across open meadows for at least a league. Camlin glanced up, saw it was well past highsun. They had been at their deadly cat-and-mouse game in the woods since mid-morning, striking at their pursuers four times – enough to make them think there’s more’n two of us lurking in the shadows. Camlin was under no illusions, knew that they could not stop their trackers, only hope to slow them a while. They had just slipped under the shadow of a stand of pines when Camlin heard the baying of hounds rising faint on the wind.

  ‘They’ve found our trail,’ he called to Dath, who looked nervously back.

  They spurred their horses on.

  They rode all day, not stopping to rest, periodically allowing the horses to walk instead of canter. As the sun was sinking behind the mountains on the western horizon Camlin spied their companions. They were gathered in an open space of green and purple heather.

  ‘Why aren’t they riding?’ Dath called to him. Camlin just shook his head, wondering the same question. They should be riding on until nightfall, making the most of every daylight moment.

  Close by a fire had been lit, flames crackling hungrily as the cold wind snatched at it. Camlin scowled. They are out in the open. As the dark settles, that fire will draw our trackers like flies to dung. Then he reached them and saw a figure on the ground.

  Marrock.

  Halion and Anwarth moved out to meet them as they slid from their saddles.

  ‘Marrock has a fever; he collapsed from his saddle. Brina says his wounds are rotting.’

  Camlin felt a twist in his gut, like a knife turning. Did everyone he came to think something of have to die?

  ‘What is Brina going to do?’ Dath asked.

  ‘She says there is nothing left, except to take his hand. If the rot has not spread to his blood he may live.’

  Camlin strode to where Edana knelt by Marrock, wiping his feverish face with a damp cloth.

  They are kin, cousins, he remembered.

  Brina stood by the fire, holding a knife blade in the flames. Corban hovered close to her, stirring a pot. Frequently Brina snapped orders at him, the young warrior rummaging through a large pack, pulling out stoppered jars, a roll of linen, a handful of small tools.

  Is that a filing iron?

  ‘I don’t have the strength to do the cutting,’ Brina said. ‘Not here, without all my tools. Who will do it for me? It needs a strong arm, a sharp blade and a good aim.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Heb said. Brina looked him up and down and snorted. ‘You don’t have the strength, and if you did your eyes are so bad you’d probably take his head off, not his hand.’

  Heb scowled at her.

  ‘I will do it,’ a voice said. Gar stepped forwards, drawing the sword from his back.

  Brina strode up to him, her knife glowing red in her hand. She nodded to Farrell, who pulled taut Marrock’s arm with a leather cord. Gar swung his sword once and Marrock screamed, his body jerking, blood spraying from his wrist. Brina stepped close.

  ‘Hold him,’ the healer ordered. Camlin and Halion gripped the thrashing man, then Brina was holding the knife blade to Marrock’s wrist, the flesh sizzling, the stench of cooking meat filing Camlin’s nose. He held his breath, felt Marrock tense and then go limp.

  ‘He’s fainted,’ Halion said.

  ‘Best thing for him,’ Brina said as she held Marrock’s arm up, examining his wound. She looked at Gar. ‘A fine cut.’

  She barked an order to Corban, who passed her the tool that resembled a filing iron, then she began rasping it across Marrock’s wrist bone.

  ‘What’s she doing to him,’ Dath said beside Camlin, looking as if he was about to vomit.

  ‘She’s taking the bone down, getting rid of any sharp edges, so the skin can be stitched over it.’

  ‘I don’t like that noise,’ Dath said.

  When Brina had finished, Corban passed her another tool, long and thin. This time she picked around in the flesh of the wound. Blood began to seep from it.

  ‘She’s digging out dirt and bits of bone,’ Camlin whispered to Dath.

 
; Dath swallowed.

  After that Brina poured a skin of water over the wound and stuck her reheated knife against it, sizzling again.

  ‘Finish off for me,’ she said to Corban.

  Corban smeared a salve over Marrock’s wound, with Brina watching over his shoulder. Then he unbound a cloth from Brina’s pack, took out what looked like a leaf, placed it over the stump of Marrock’s wrist and then bound it with linen. His hands moved deftly, his face taut with concentration.

  Brina grunted with something like approval. ‘Time will be the judge, now,’ she said.

  ‘We need to get off this open ground,’ Camlin said, kicking the fire out. ‘Or we won’t have much time left to any of us.’

  The sky was a deep blue, the last glow of the sun lingering there. Quickly they mounted up, with Marrock hoisted in front of Halion. They rode as long as they could, found a straggly stand of pines to shelter them and made camp for the night.

  ‘No fire,’ Camlin ordered, knowing their pursuers were gaining, and the beacon of firelight would most likely bring enemies down on them before sunrise. He set about cutting branches and making a litter to carry Marrock in the morning. If he has lived through the night.

  The next morning was cold and damp, a mist veiling the sun. Marrock was shivering. Brina knelt beside him, checking his pulse at throat and wrist, listening to the breath in his chest. Then she unwound the bandage on his wrist and sniffed.

  ‘Clean and bind it,’ she said to Corban.

  ‘He’s not safe yet; the fever still has him. Beating that is his first battle.’ She shrugged. ‘His flesh does not smell of rot, and he’s still alive, which is a good sign.’

  When Corban was done they strapped Marrock tight to the litter, one end of it harnessed to his horse, and set off into the mist.

  It was slow going at first, Camlin riding as rearguard, constantly looking over his shoulder, ears straining for any warning. The mist limited his vision and muffled all sound. Anwarth rode next to him.

  ‘Back at Dun Carreg Dath and my boy Farrell were friends,’ Anwarth said, nodding forward to Dath, who was riding with Corban and Farrell. ‘He’s a good lad – had it hard, I heard, when his mam died. His da took to the usque jug, was quick with his fists.’