Valour

by John Gwynne

  Owain called out behind his men, urging them on. The bulk of them ran at the shield wall, clearly preferring that to the mounted Jehar who stood calmly waiting to either side of Veradis’ warband.

  The first ranks slammed into the shield wall, the impact shivering through Veradis’ whole body. A series of jolts and thuds followed as Owain’s warriors piled into one another, the weight quickly becoming immense. Veradis bent his legs, pressed his shoulder into the curve of his shield and held on. Screams rang out along the line. My men are striking back. It was inevitable, he knew. They could not just stand here – eventually shields would be pulled down and his own men would start dying. He raised his sword, slid it into the gap between shields and thrust. He felt resistance, then his blade was cutting into flesh; someone screamed. He pulled his blade back, stabbed again. And again, kept on stabbing until the muscles in his arm burned. Fingers grasped the rim of his shield and he headbutted them, his iron helmet breaking bones. A sword swiped at his ankles, sliding underneath his shield, but he saw the blow coming, managed to block it, trod on the blade with his iron-shod sandals.

  A horn blast filtered through the din of battle, a high, keening sound that he recognized. The Jehar. He risked a glance over his shield rim, saw the Jehar joining the battle, their longswords slashing from horseback, cutting great swathes through Owain’s men. In heartbeats the assault on the shield wall was over, Owain’s men breaking away, running for their lives. They only had one way to go. The battle in the vale was continuing. Rhin seemed to be gaining the upper hand as Owain’s men started to try to escape the combat, panic spreading from the disaster on the hill like a disease. Rhin’s main host blocked the way through the vale, the marshland denied any flight westwards and Nathair’s forces were an immovable object along the ridge of the hill, removing any hope of a retreat to the south. The only way left was west, into the broken woodland that fringed the vale, and that is where Owain’s men ran.

  Screams rang out behind Veradis and he turned to see the Jehar joining the battle about the giantsway, too. Owain’s rearguard was now caught between Rhin’s reinforcements and a group of the Jehar. Even Alcyon was striding into the fray, swinging his axe and taking lives like the angel of death. Owain’s men broke apart, most of them on horseback, scattering in countless directions. The Jehar rode them down.

  So many dead. Just warriors obeying their lords. He shook his head, surveying the corpses sprawled all about them. All for the ambitions of kings and queens. He looked along the ridge, eyes searching for Nathair, and spotted him sitting tall on his draig. Relief swept him that his King had survived the battle – indeed, their entire force seemed to have sustained few casualties. And the battle was won, Nathair’s plans furthered. Warfare is strategy, Nathair had said to him, and strategy had certainly won this battle. It just did not feel very honourable.

  It is for the greater good, he reminded himself.

  ‘What now?’ Bos asked him.

  ‘We’ll hold our position until Nathair orders differently,’ Veradis answered.

  The battle in the vale was chaos now, most of Owain’s warband realizing that the fight was lost. Owain himself was on the slope, a few dozen of his mounted shieldmen about him, others on foot still rallying to him. The King of Narvon pulled his horse in a circle, surveying the chaos about him, then spurred his horse west, towards the woodland. He did not gallop or leave in wild panic; his passage was orderly, controlled, and he still gathered men to him as he passed, his presence bringing an edge of calm. He rode into the shadow of the woods.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CYWEN

  Cywen could not believe what she was seeing, almost did not know where to look, so much was happening at once.

  The battle in the vale had been a terrible, vicious thing. She had seen death before – the ambush in the Darkwood, the night Dun Carreg fell – but nothing on this scale. Its savagery and cruelty took her breath away, made her feel sick. The shield wall was like nothing she had ever seen before. It had dealt out death with a cold efficiency that seemed to go against all she had learned of the warrior’s code.

  Evnis’ treachery had shocked her at first. Though I should expect little else, she thought. Conall had remained calm throughout, seeming composed as he watched the events unfold. He must have known, Cywen realized. His mood did appear black, though – probably at being denied his part in the conflict.

  Her eyes focused on Owain, saw him sitting tall on his horse, moving away, along the ridge of the hill towards the woodland that stretched into the distance. There was a shieldman clutching a banner beside him, the red bull of Narvon serving as a rallying point for Owain’s routed host. She recognized the warrior holding the banner, red hair spilling from his iron helm. Drust, and he was riding Shield. Her heart clenched in her chest. Shield still lived.

  No, Shield will be lost forever.

  Without thinking, Cywen bent in her saddle and slid free the knife that she had hidden in the leather sole of her boot. She whispered to Buddai, the hound sitting close by. Conall was still focused on the battle, his eyes twitching, fists constantly clenching. She reached over silently and sliced the girth of his saddle, then kicked her horse into motion. The animal leaped away – a dun mare that she had helped Gar break.

  Behind her she heard Conall shout her name, glanced back to see him yanking on his reins, urging his horse to give chase, then he was sliding, and falling. Cywen grinned as she heard him swearing.

  Her mount was small framed and she was fast. Cywen bent low in the saddle, spurring her to a gallop along the ridge towards the woodland, behind the shield wall, heedless of Owain’s scattered troops. Buddai barked behind her as he tried to keep up. Owain and his followers had already disappeared amongst the trees. To her left Cywen saw warriors from Rhin’s warband following the stragglers of Owain’s routed forces, cutting them down as they ran. Deeper into the vale a knot of mounted warriors was gathered before the treeline. Cywen saw Evnis at their head. Even as she watched they rode into the shadows of the woods.

  I still may get to see him die today.

  Conall was nowhere to be seen, though she knew he would be after her soon. Some of the Jehar were gathered, one of them pointing towards the woods. Planning to hunt Owain down. And then she saw Veradis. He was high on the hill, talking to Nathair, Calidus and the giant close by. They all looked towards the woods, and just for a heartbeat Cywen was sure that Veradis stared straight at her. Then he was moving, picking his way through warriors, heading steadily her way.

  ‘Come on, Buddai,’ she said, feeling anxious. ‘Let’s find Shield.’ And then I’m leaving, heading south to find Pendathran. I should have taken Shield and left with him a long time ago.

  The drum of feet and hooves echoed dull and muted amongst the trees. She followed them, the trail of their passing easy to see. Then, abruptly, there was a loud screaming. She gripped her knife tightly as the sound of skirmishing grew, then she saw the first of the dead littering the ground. Owain’s men, red-cloaked for Narvon. All with arrows sprouting from their bodies. She moved on, saw figures moving amongst the trees, saw the sparks of blades clashing, heard the thrum of arrows. All was chaos, horses rearing, men fighting in close combat. She looked about wildly, searching for Shield. Sounds from the canopy drew her attention and she looked up to see figures in the trees, firing arrows into a knot of Owain’s warriors, Owain amongst them. Her eyes fell upon their leader and she froze. It was Braith, the outlaw woodsman who had been part of the kidnapping of Queen Alona, when her sweetheart Ronan had died.

  Owain and his warriors charged at Braith’s line, breaking it and moving deeper into the woods, fighting as they went; Braith’s men kept pace, harrying them. Then they had moved on and Cywen was left standing amongst the dead. She heard the crunch of forest litter, turned and saw a horse amongst the trees, a form slumped on its back.

  It was Shield.

  Cywen slipped from her saddle and ran to him, knew instantly that something was wrong.
He was trembling, eyes rolling white. Then she saw the arrow buried in his flank. He whickered as she reached him, nuzzled his head against her, his coat drenched with sweat, salt-stained. She waved flies from his wound, touched the arrow shaft and he shuddered.

  ‘This’ll have to come out, boy,’ she murmured, stroking his flank, trying to soothe him. Drust was draped upon the horse’s back, an arrow sticking from his side too; he had one foot still stuck in a stirrup. She heaved him off and he groaned as he hit the ground. Still alive, then.

  He looked at her, lips moving but only a whisper coming out. She stared back at him sullenly. You are Owain’s man; you helped to storm Dun Carreg. Buddai sniffed the fallen warrior and whined. Cywen remembered how the warrior had saved Buddai so she took a water skin from Shield’s saddle and, kneeling beside Drust, trickled some water into his mouth.

  ‘Thank you,’ Drust said, his red hair plastered dark to his face, and for an instant he reminded her of Ronan, red-haired, freckled – or Ronan as he might have been, if he had lived longer. She pursed her lips, making a decision.

  ‘Take my horse,’ Cywen said. ‘Owain is finished, will be hunted down before the day is out, so do not follow him. Ride south if you want to join the resistance against Rhin.’

  ‘You are forgetting: I am from Narvon; I fought for Owain against Ardan.’

  Cywen snorted. ‘Owain is as good as dead. Rhin is the enemy now, and the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Pendathran will be leading the resistance – you’ll find him in the marshes about Dun Crin. If you get that far tell him my name. If he doesn’t kill you straight away you’ll be all right.’

  Drust coughed, held his arm to his side.

  ‘If not, you must ride north, back to Narvon, but Rhin rules there now, so I don’t know what you’ll find.’

  ‘You should come with me, girl. There’s nothing for you here, now.’

  ‘I’m heading south,’ she said, ‘but Shield’s not fit to travel. I need to deal with this arrow.’

  ‘I’ll help you.’

  ‘You’ve an arrow in your side. And, besides, won’t be long before these woods are crawling with Rhin’s men. Me, I’m nobody. They’ll kill you as quick as breathing.’

  He frowned, wavering.

  ‘Maybe I’ll catch you up, if you do choose to go south.’

  He nodded to her and she fetched her mare. Drust had the water skin between his teeth, both hands gripping the arrow shaft in his side. With a grunt he tensed, snapping the shaft, and half collapsed back onto the ground.

  Cywen heard the sound of riders, quickly growing louder. She ducked behind a tree, with Drust lying hidden from view beside her. Warriors rode into the glade and she saw them through the foliage and tensed. It was Evnis. Her hand reached for the knife stuffed in her belt. She had a clear view of him, only twenty paces away. She knew she could make the throw, bury her knife to the hilt in his back. Her fingers twitched. He betrayed us all. Caused the death of my da, Brenin, the loss of mam, Corban, Gar. All that has happened is because of him. Silently she pulled the knife free, rolled her thumb over it, readying for the throw.

  Drust groaned, eyes flickering.

  If I kill Evnis they’ll find us – kill me, kill Drust, probably leave Shield with an arrow in his flank that’ll fester and kill him.

  Buddai pressed close against her legs, his hackles a ridge on his back.

  And you, they’ll kill you, too. I don’t care if I die, as long as Evnis goes first. But . . . She stared at them, horse, hound and warrior, realizing that she did not want their deaths on her hands. With a wrench of will she shoved the knife back in her belt and watched as Evnis and his men disappeared after Owain and his surviving warband.

  She waited a while after they had disappeared from sight, then bent to Drust, roused him and helped him into the saddle of her dun mare.

  ‘I should take Shield,’ he said.

  ‘That’d be taking my kindness too far,’ she replied. ‘Shield stays with me.’

  He shrugged, bent in the saddle with pain, then turned the mare and rode into the shadows. Southwards.

  Cywen set to cleaning Shield’s wound, frowning as she realized how deep the arrow had bitten. How am I going to get this out?

  She didn’t notice Buddai growling, so intent was she, but then the growl turned to a snarl and she turned to see Conall running through the trees towards her. Buddai leaped at him, connecting with a thud, his teeth snapping. Conall grunted and fell, man and hound rolling on the ground. Conall managed to roll and throw Buddai off, climbing to his feet and drawing his sword.

  Cywen screamed and threw her knife. It flew straight at Conall’s chest, but he was so fast, he managed to twist, clubbing the leaping dog with his sword hilt while Cywen’s knife flew wide of her mark, sinking into the meat of Conall’s arm. He yelled, his sword spinning out of his grip, and ran at her while Cywen reached frantically for her second knife, hidden in the heel of her other boot.

  With a snarl, Conall ploughed into her, sending them both hurtling through the air. Cywen was biting, kicking, punching to get free as Conall grabbed her wrist and knocked the knife from her grasp. Panting, she brought her knee up hard between his legs, felt his whole body go limp and scrambled out of his grip.

  With a groan he staggered upright, grabbing for her again. She punched him and he backhanded her across the face; blood filled her mouth as she staggered and fell. Conall pulled a knife from his belt.

  Get up. I must get up.

  ‘That’s the last time you try to kill me, girl,’ he spat, and Cywen felt a wave of real fear pulse through her, sharpening her senses. ‘You’re more trouble than you’re worth,’ Conall said, putting the knife to her throat.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ a voice said, a hand gripping Conall’s wrist and pulling him away.

  Cywen blinked, her vision clearing. It was Veradis, with the giant towering at his shoulder.

  ‘Let me go,’ Conall snarled.

  ‘That depends on what you intend to do with that knife,’ Veradis said.

  Conall tensed and looked as if he was about to attack Veradis, but caught sight of the giant as he shrugged his axe from his shoulders and patted one of the blades with a huge hand. Conall relaxed and let his knife drop to the ground.

  Veradis kicked the knife away and released Conall, never taking his eyes from the man.

  ‘You’re lucky I arrived when I did,’ he said. ‘She is worth more than your life to my King.’ He took a step away from Conall, looked closely at Cywen, who had blood trickling from her nose and mouth. He frowned. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Gave as good as I got,’ she mumbled.

  The giant laughed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CORBAN

  ‘Just believe it, Corban,’ Heb said.

  That’s easier said than done.

  Corban was sitting with Heb and Brina in a copse of trees, the murmur of voices from their camp filtering through to them.

  ‘Just a spark, Ban,’ Brina said. ‘See it in your mind, how you want it to be, then speak it.’

  He was holding a stick, staring at it. In his mind he saw a wisp of smoke curl from it, a spark, then a flame.

  ‘Lasair,’ he said, the word feeling alien on his tongue. He held his breath. Just for a moment he thought he caught the faint smell of woodsmoke, then it was gone. He waited.

  ‘Nothing’s happened,’ he said eventually.

  ‘You have a talent for stating the obvious,’ Brina said.

  ‘Nothing,’ Craf agreed from a branch above them.

  ‘It’s early days,’ Heb said, patting Corban’s shoulder. ‘This is only your first attempt.’

  It was the fourth night since Marrock had had his hand amputated, every night following the same routine. Make camp. Tend Marrock’s wound, then retreat somewhere with Brina and Heb. For the first three nights Corban had been given some rudimentary lessons in giantish. Just a handful of words, but the important ones, Brina had said. The elements that he
would seek to command – fire, water, earth and air. Each day he had silently recited them in time to the pounding of his horse’s hooves. And now tonight he had attempted to make something happen.

  Nothing. Is it really possible, or just another mad faery tale, like Gar imagining me to be Elyon’s chosen one.

  Heb took the stick from his hand.

  ‘Lasair,’ the old man said. There was a popping sound, a wisp of smoke and then a flame flickered into life.

  ‘Fire,’ Craf squawked.

  ‘That’s amazing,’ Corban whispered.

  Heb smiled and dropped the stick, stamping the flame out.

  ‘You just have to believe. But,’ he added, ‘I could attempt the same thing another time and, if I had a seed of doubt, I would fail. It is all about believing, utterly, at that moment.’

  ‘Drink this,’ Brina said, handing Marrock a skin of something.

  ‘What’s in it?’ Marrock asked.

  ‘Something to dull the pain. This is going to hurt. Go on, Corban.’

  Marrock frowned but took a long gulp.

  It was the sixth night now since Marrock’s hand had been removed. He had been gripped by a fever for the first two days and part of the third, then awoke before highsun, weak but complaining he was starving hungry. Brina had said that was a good sign. Corban had tended to his wound, under Brina’s constant supervision.

  ‘Stitch over an infection and we’ll kill him, sure as a blade through his heart,’ Brina had said, so while the skin and flesh was red and inflamed the wound had been left open, allowing for any pus to drain, a compress of leaves and clean bandages bound about it twice a day. Now, though, the redness had gone, and it had stopped smelling bad, so Brina had ordered the wound stitched closed.

  ‘Just start, Ban,’ she said.

  ‘Have you done this before?’ Marrock asked, his words slurred from the poppy milk Brina had given him.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Corban said, holding a bone needle close to the stump that was Marrock’s wrist.