Valour

by John Gwynne

  Gerda’s reinforcements were slowly reclaiming the town; Jael’s men were breaking, retreating through the streets towards the river. Maquin saw Gerda and her guards pursuing them.

  ‘Come on,’ Maquin said to Orgull and Tahir, ‘or else she’ll find Jael before us and have his head.’

  ‘Think you’re right,’ Orgull said, watching Gerda disappearing through the gates. ‘Where is Jael most likely to be?’

  ‘Now? Preparing to run. Maybe their paddocks?’

  ‘Worth a look,’ said Orgull. Some sections of the town were almost empty now, other than the many corpses littering the ground, elsewhere the streets were packed with fighting men. Maquin and his companions cut themselves a way through; there were not many standing to give the three of them any real resistance. They were Gadrai, sword-brothers who had come through the battle of Haldis, had faced giants, fought the Jehar, survived Forn Forest, and together they were death on wings.

  The paddocks were in chaos; Jael’s routed warriors were scrambling into saddles, desperately seeking a way of retreat. ‘There.’ Maquin pointed as he saw Jael’s banner, then Jael himself, the white horsehair plume of his helmet marking him out. ‘Quick, he intends to flee,’ Maquin yelled.

  The three of them charged across the plain, Maquin leading the way, slipping on the treacherous ground and chopping or battering anyone in his way with sword and shield. A thin line of defenders was soon scattered by Orgull’s terrifying axe. Maquin strode through the paddock, slapping horses’ flanks with the flat of his sword, making his way closer to Jael, who was surrounded by a handful of his shieldmen. Reaching them, Maquin swung his sword overhead, crushing a man’s skull before he was even seen, then Jael’s shieldmen realized the threat in their midst and were coming at him. It was impossible in the confined space to swing a blade properly, so he drew a knife, pushed in close to his next opponent and stabbed quickly into the man’s neck and chest, shoved him out of the way, deflected a weak blow on his shield from another attacker, then moved inside his guard and slit the warrior’s belly. And there, finally, he came face to face with his quarry. Jael was mounted, his horse rearing and kicking its hooves at Maquin. Before he got any closer, Jael turned the beast and was riding away. Maquin swore, determined not to let him go this time. He lunged at a man with his foot in a stirrup, dragged him off his horse, climbed into the saddle and kicked his mount into a gallop.

  Jael was heading south, towards the bridge that crossed the river.

  The warriors of Dun Kellen, under the command of Thoris and Gerda, were moving across the plain, routing out any enemies who had taken shelter in any of the smokehouses and tanners’ yards that lined the river.

  Orgull and Tahir had found mounts and caught up with Maquin as he reined his horse in at the bottleneck of warriors massed at one side of the bridge. Jael’s men had gathered at the far side, had turned and were battling fiercely. Maquin saw Jael amongst them, his white plume snapping in the wind.

  ‘Need to catch him here, or he’ll be gone,’ Orgull said.

  ‘Aye. It’s just getting to him that’s a problem,’ Maquin replied. The bridge was thick with fighting men.

  ‘Soonest started, soonest finished, as my mam used to say,’ Tahir said.

  The three of them shared a look and kicked their mounts forwards into the battle on the bridge. They passed Gerda, a handful of shieldmen about her and her sword stained red as she harried the fleeing warriors attempting to regroup with their comrades on the other side. Orgull spurred his horse forwards, swinging his axe in great sweeps to either side. Men screamed, trying to get away from him. Maquin and Tahir guided their mounts to fill the gaps, stabbing and hacking, and they slowly carved their way across the bridge.

  Jael’s men blocked the end of the bridge, four or five ranks deep. They fought with a desperate ferocity. They know that if they break here they’re dead, Maquin thought. Jael was screaming exhortations, his shieldmen gathered close about him. Maquin recognized one of them – Ulfilas – he had fought beside the man against bandits on the journey back from Aquilus’ council. Ulfilas saw Maquin and stared at him, squinting. He called to Jael, gesturing towards Maquin. Jael gaped, recognition dawning in his eyes and a look of fear sweeping his face.

  Maquin pointed his sword at Jael and gave him a bloody-mouthed snarl. He was so close! He felt fresh energy fill his limbs and renewed his efforts to break Jael’s lines. Soon, Kastell. Soon we will have our vengeance.

  Then suddenly voices filtered through the sounds of battle. There was shouting spreading through the ranks on the bridge. Jael looked back towards Maquin with triumph in his eyes and spat on the ground.

  Around a bend in the river, ships had appeared, lots of them, long, shallow-draughted, painted with black tar. The sails were black, a silver eagle upon them.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  LYKOS

  ‘Prepare to land!’ Lykos yelled. In response, the drummer beating time increased his rhythm, the rowers put a last spurt of fire in their limbs and men clashed weapons on shields. Lykos felt his spirits soar. He was looking forward to this. No more ferrying other men to battle, watching them disembark for greater deeds. Time to do something that would be remembered in this era when the world was changed. In a hundred years songs would be sung about these days, about this battle. If there is anyone left to sing them.

  Time to win a nation for Nathair. He gave the runner beside him fresh orders, a young lad, not more than twelve summers, but quick and wiry, who climbed like a monkey. He scurried away and soon Lykos heard the horn blasts, felt his ship steer for the north bank. He looked back and saw the thirty sleek-bottomed war-galleys he had brought with him from Dun Carreg do the same, deadly as hunting wolves. It had been a back-breaking trip, most of it up the river Afren, through the Darkwood that split Ardan and Narvon, through the stinking marshes beyond and then into Isiltir. There had come a point where the river Afren shrank to little more than a stream in the marshlands as it neared its source. There was a wide stretch across the marshland to the banks of the river Rhenus in Isiltir where there had been no choice but to travel by portage, taking the masts down, dragging the ships onto land and rolling them over the masts for a league or more. Then it had been back to the rowing. His back still ached. He might be lord of his cut-throat nation of pirates, but he would not sit back and grow soft, let some other man hungry for power take what he had spent years in the making.

  He looked along the riverbank. There were scores of quays and jetties lined along it. Most helpful, Lykos thought, pushing his way to the front ranks gathered on the ship’s deck. Further ahead was a wide stone bridge, looking to be the focal point of the battle, and there he could see the banner that had been described to him raised at the southern end, a lightning bolt with a white wyrm coiled about it. My allies. They didn’t look to be doing so well. Looks as if we’ve arrived just in time. Perhaps we’ve had divine help. He snorted at that, liking his own joke. If divine meant nightmares, sleepless nights and yellow eyes boring into you every time you closed your own eyes, then he was blessed beyond all men. Nothing is ever as you imagine it; even consorting with a god.

  Oars were drawn in as the boats drew alongside a quay, timbers scraping. Ropes were cast, secured tight, and then he was leaping the rail, boots thudding on the boards of the quay. His shieldmen Deinon and Thaan were close behind, scores of others behind them, roaring as they charged, over a thousand warriors along the riverbank doing the same.

  The men on the bridge had finally realized what they were seeing and were trying to turn and face this new enemy screaming towards them. But they had no time to form any kind of cohesive line before Lykos and his Vin Thalun corsairs hit them. Instantly all became a churning chaos as the Vin Thalun carved their way onto the road, only a few hundred paces from the bridge. At the same time Jael and his men at the far end renewed their attack. Lykos could feel the panic spreading, see it in the eyes of the men he faced. Fifteen hundred warriors screaming blood and murder could unm
an even the most experienced veterans, given the right circumstances. Lykos grinned, ducked a half-hearted sword blow and gutted the man as he surged by.

  On the road he stopped and blinked. He saw a fat woman brandishing a sword and hacking one of his warriors into the dirt. She was flanked by a handful of hard-looking men who were stopping his charging men in their tracks.

  That won’t do. He snarled and ran at them, seeing Deinon and Thaan fall in on either side of him. They hit the warriors like a hammer, cutting men down and forging close to the fat woman. Then he felt the ground trembling, heard hooves and turned in time to see three mounted warriors bearing down on him, one looking more like a giant than a man, swinging a great two-bladed axe over his head. He had just enough time to duck, yell a half-formed warning, then the axe was whistling through air where his head had been, the blade carrying on, burying itself into Thaan’s shoulder and back. Deinon gave a bellow as he saw his brother slump to the ground. Lykos snarled and darted towards the big man on the horse, only to be smashed from his feet by another horse’s chest and shoulder as it surged forwards. The collision sent him flying through the air. He hit the ground hard, then was rolling and tumbling down the riverbank, coming to a stop in tall reeds and mud.

  He climbed to his feet, head ringing, and scaled the bank again. When he reached the top the scene had changed. The giant on the horse and his two companions were disappearing amongst the barns and smokehouses that rose up before the town and the fat woman was nowhere to be seen. Someone with some sense was clearly commanding the enemy, as a rearguard had been formed and was holding back the tide of Vin Thalun and Jael’s warriors, allowing others to fall back to the town and fortress.

  I don’t want a long siege, Lykos thought, scowling. He saw his shieldman Deinon kneeling beside Thaan and strode over. He took one look at his fallen shieldman. He’s not going to be getting back up.

  ‘Come, Deinon, he’s dead. Avenge Thaan now, mourn him later.’

  Deinon looked up at him, eyes red, tears washing gullies through the blood and grime on his face. Slowly he stood. ‘Don’t kill the bald one; he’s mine. I want to take my time on him.’

  A hand gripped Lykos’ shoulder and he spun around, sword readied for attack. It was Jael, grinning as if it was his nameday, his shieldmen about him. ‘I must say, I am impressed with your timing,’ he said.

  Lykos lowered his sword. ‘Nathair sends his greetings,’ he said, gripping Jael’s arm. What kind of king will you make, who needs the help of corsairs to win your first victory? He looked up at the town and fortress. ‘Getting here in time was only half the job. Best we finish this lot before they dig themselves in too deep.’

  ‘Their walls and gates are thick,’ Jael said. ‘We may have to starve them out.’

  ‘There are other ways to scale a wall,’ Lykos said, signalling to Deinon. ‘We Vin Thalun are not cut out for siege making. I hate waiting.’

  One of Dun Kellen’s warriors was kneeling on the ground, begging for mercy. The warrior standing above him looked to Jael, who shook his head.

  ‘I need prisoners,’ Lykos said. ‘The more the better to row me back to Tenebral when we are done here.’ And they’ll make good sport in the pits when we’re back there.

  Jael was silent, then he nodded. ‘You can have all those who surrender, but you look after them. I don’t have the men, or the inclination to care for them.’

  ‘Good enough,’ Lykos said. He looked to Deinon. ‘Let’s teach these landwalkers how to scale a wall.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  MAQUIN

  Maquin slid from his horse and stood by the gates to the keep, sword drawn, waiting as Dun Kellen’s warriors retreated inside the feast-hall. Orgull and Tahir were still with him, blood splattered and weary.

  Maquin had been so close to Jael, just a sword-length away from reaching him, and then the ships had arrived, emptying their deadly cargo. And now instead of victory they were staring death in the face again. They were heavily outnumbered: most of Dun Kellen’s warriors had been killed during the battle on the bridge or cut down as they tried to retreat. If it had not been for Gerda and her battlechief, Thoris, organizing the rearguard, Maquin doubted that any would have made it back to the keep alive.

  And who were these new warriors? Not men of Isiltir. They were dressed strangely, in leather kilts, tunics and sandals rather than breeches and boots, with iron rings in their beards and hair. And the ships – sleek and fast, looking as if they were built more for the sea than river.

  ‘They are allies of Nathair, is my guess,’ Orgull said. ‘Remember what I have told you: there is more to this than the throne of Isiltir. The God-War is being waged here. Right now.’

  Maquin shook his head. Why did it have to be so complicated? Revenge used to be simple.

  A knot of warriors entered the courtyard, Thoris at their head, Gerda in their centre. She was sweating, short of breath, her sword bloodied and notched.

  ‘Quickly,’ Thoris shouted, ‘a few have chosen to stay behind, to give us time to get inside and bar the gates. Inside, now.’

  With that they were all piling into the feast-hall, heaving the doors shut, slamming the thick bars into place. Then Gerda was marching through the hall, Thoris summoning him, Orgull and Tahir to follow. They ended up with Gerda in her chambers, her son Haelan standing beside her.

  ‘You must take Haelan now,’ Gerda said, ‘before they gather and strike. Their numbers are too great; they will storm the keep somewhere and we do not have the men to keep them out.’

  ‘But how can we take him?’ Tahir said. ‘We are besieged – there is no way out.’

  ‘There is a way. A secret tunnel the giants built. It burrows underground, comes out on the plain half a league to the north.’

  Orgull looked at Maquin and Tahir. ‘We swore an oath. Let’s keep it,’ he said.

  Noises boomed in the corridor behind them, voices shouting, screaming, the clash of arms.

  Thoris ran to the door and stuck his head out. ‘Quickly,’ he said, ‘the assault has begun. You must leave now.’

  ‘Eboric here will take you to the tunnel and guide you through it.’ Gerda gestured to a man standing beside the boy, a huntsman by the look of him, dressed in worn leathers, an archer’s bracer on his wrist. ‘He knows the land beyond well, and Haelan knows his face.’ Her voice wavered. She grasped her son by his shoulders. ‘You must be strong now, and do as Eboric and these men say – they will keep you safe.’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ the boy said, looking up seriously into Gerda’s eyes. She cupped his face in her hands, kissed him, then ushered them out of the door.

  Eboric led the way, Orgull and the boy next, Tahir and Maquin at the rear.

  They met warriors further along the corridor, running towards the tower stairs. Eboric grabbed one of them, pulling him to a stop.

  ‘What is happening?’

  ‘Jael assaults the feast-hall gates, but they are holding for now. The danger is these new men from the river – they are throwing ropes with claws that snag on stone, and are using them to scale the towers.’

  ‘Are they inside the keep?’ Eboric asked.

  The sound of swords clashing rang down the tower stairwell, giving his answer. He let go of the warrior and the man ran up the stairs. Eboric looked grimly at them all and led them down the steps.

  They spiralled downwards, reached ground level where the sound of the hall gates being rammed was deafening, but continued on down. Eboric grabbed a burning torch from a wall sconce. They hit level ground and left the stairwell. Maquin heard the slap of feet somewhere above, the echo in the spiral of the tower playing games with his ears. Those feet could be ten paces away, or a hundred.

  ‘Is this the only way down to this level?’ Maquin called to Eboric.

  ‘No, other towers also lead down to the cellars.’

  Not the answer I was hoping for, Maquin thought.

  They twisted and turned through high corridors, sometimes in silence –
apart from their breathing, the drum of their feet – at other times the sound of combat was close by, the sound of men moving in numbers.

  Then abruptly they were at a dead end. Eboric stuck his hand into a hole in the wall, twisted something that gave a click, and there was a hissing sound. Something like steam or mist poured from the wall as the outline of a door appeared and swung open. Darkness lay within.

  ‘This is the giants’ tunnel,’ Eboric said.

  Maquin peered in, remembering the tunnels beneath Haldis and Forn Forest, and the thing that lived in it that had put a hole in Tahir’s leg. ‘Don’t like the look of it in there,’ he muttered.

  The sound of people, men shouting, echoed along the corridor.

  ‘Come on,’ Orgull said, taking a step towards the tunnel entrance. Then booted feet were clattering in the corridor, tall shadows flickering on the wall. Figures appeared, one flinging a spear. It whistled past Maquin and buried itself in Eboric’s shoulder. He was thrown back into the wall with the impact, his head making a cracking sound. He slumped down the wall, lay motionless.

  Haelan screamed.

  Orgull swore and hefted his axe, moving to meet the newcomers. ‘Take the boy!’ he yelled without looking back.

  Maquin looked at the scene, between Orgull and the crying boy who was shaking Eboric, the huntsman’s head lolling.

  ‘What do we do?’ Tahir asked.

  We swore to protect the boy, but we swore an oath to each other, as well, as Gadrai. He looked at Orgull, swinging his axe, then punching the iron-capped butt into someone’s face. Men were crammed in the corridor, for the moment holding back in the face of Orgull’s ferocity, but the corridor was high and wide, built by giants. Even the bulk of Orgull could not fill it. Once his attackers gained their courage he would be flanked and overwhelmed. He won’t be able to hold them long enough.

  ‘Tahir, take the boy, get the hell out of here. We’ll buy you some time.’ He gripped Tahir’s arm, saw the indecision in the young man’s eyes. ‘One of us must live,’ he hissed. ‘We are the last of the Gadrai. And we swore to protect the boy. Stay and you make us oathbreakers.’ Tahir stood a heartbeat longer, then nodded curtly, tears filling his eyes.