Valour

by John Gwynne

  ‘Now, shall we talk about Meical, and what you think relates to him.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Ektor said. He went back to his bundle of scrolls, now strewn across the table. He picked one up, examined an inscription and then put it down, moving on to the next one. Fidele noticed the tip of his tongue protruding from his mouth.

  ‘Here it is,’ he said at last. ‘When I first read it I paid it little mind, as it seemed a philosophical work, and my interests lean towards the histories. Also it is quite maudlin – the giants were – I imagine still are – a melancholy bunch, but who can blame them, I suppose, after the tragedies they have survived: death, humiliation, defeat, near-extinction, loss of lands, more death . . .’

  ‘Ektor, you’re rambling now. As much as I would love to stay here for the next moon, I am queen and have other tasks that I must see to. Please, back to Meical.’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. There were some phrases in this scroll that sparked a memory, particularly when my father questioned Nathair about this Meical. So.’ He spread the scroll on the table, finger tracing a line as he read. ‘Here it begins: We make war, we bleed, we gain, we build, but for what purpose? If Halvor spoke true then it is meaningless. It is all meaningless.’ He looked up at her. ‘You see what I mean: melancholy.’

  She nodded trying to stay patient.

  ‘Halvor says the end-days are coming – but what will they end? An era, a life, all life? When the white wyrms spread from their nest, and the Treasures stir from their rest, he says, but the wyrms are sleeping, dust covered, perhaps dead, and the Treasures are scattered, spread.’

  ‘Those words in the middle of that – wyrms’ nests and the Treasures at rest – they are familiar to me. Meical spoke them, read them, at Aquilus’ council.’

  ‘Did he? Good, then we can be almost certain that this is referring directly to Halvor’s writing, then. There is more here, though, I am sure – scattered amongst the melancholia.’

  ‘And what of the Firstborn? Where are they now? In the end-days they shall tread this earth, Halvor says, the Faithful and the Fallen, strange-eyed men clothed in flesh and bone, one Ben-Elim, the other dread Kadoshim. One Lightbearer’s servant, Black Heart, Spider that spins the web, high king’s counsel, one guide of the Hundred, Outcast, messenger of dread.’ He looked at her thoughtfully.’ And what to make of that,’ he mused.

  ‘It just sounds confusing to me, like one of the riddles my father used to ponder over. The Lightbearer part sounds good, though,’ Fidele said, her brow furrowing.

  ‘A riddle: yes, that is exactly what it is. A two-thousand-year-old riddle. Messenger of dread. Black Heart. Outcast. Spider that spins the web. Are any of these terms that you are familiar with?’

  ‘Only Black Heart – that is mentioned elsewhere in the prophecy,’ Fidele said.

  ‘High king’s counsel,’ Ektor mused. ‘Aquilus was high king, and Meical his counsellor . . .’

  He was. Uneasiness gripped Fidele, another thought splintering in her mind. And Nathair is high king now, with a counsellor of his own. She felt abruptly anxious, a seed of fear expanding rapidly until she felt short of breath. ‘I must go,’ she mumbled as she rose unsteadily, feeling the weight of stone all about her, suffocating her. ‘Solve these riddles for me,’ she gasped, grasping a hand to her chest, and rushed for the door.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CAMLIN

  Camlin walked along the giants’ road, its stone slabs cutting a line through green fields. He was near the rear of their company, which had been swollen by the addition of Rath’s warriors.

  Hard men they were, of that he had no doubt. There was something about them that reminded him of Braith and his old company of woodsmen living off the land and their wits. But, unlike his previous band of outlaws, there was an honour in what these men did, putting their lives on the line to keep the roads safe and free from the giant spawn. Almost a ten-night they’d spent in each other’s company, since the battle with the giants and wolven in the mountains. Their pace had been steady, but not fast, as most of Edana’s company were on foot. Still, they were safe now, had been for a ten-night, or a measure of safety at least, as much as could be expected anywhere in these Banished Lands.

  He looked up; the sky was blue, the sun warm on his face, clinging to the end of summer. It was a good day, in more ways than one, so why did he have this sensation creeping over him, a hollow uneasiness taking shape in the depths of his gut?

  Perhaps it’s vanity, he thought, knowing that he felt a growing sense of disappointment since they had crossed the border into Domhain, a sense of being no longer needed. He had guided this company, led them from danger to safety. And that had felt good, he could not deny it. You are of no use to them any more. They are no different from the rest you’ve dipped your head to – Braith, Casalu – all out for their own gain, using you until you’ve nothing left to give. Just watch, you’ll be forgotten about soon enough.

  He felt himself frowning. Sometimes he really didn’t like the voice in his head.

  Dath was walking beside him now, using his yew bow as a walking stick. Camlin noticed that the youth was watching him, following his gaze to the warriors on horseback in front of them.

  ‘That one there’s Baird, you know,’ Dath said to him, nodding at the back of the one-eyed warrior. After Rath he was the most famous, or infamous, of this bunch, and even Camlin had heard many tales told about the man whilst sitting around campfires in the Darkwood. The most common one told of how Baird’s hold had been raided by giants, back when he had been a lord of Domhain. His wife, bairns and shieldmen had been put to the sword, and he’d been left for dead, his hold burning around him. He had been found the next day, close to death, and taken in by a neighbour. Slowly Baird had been nursed back to health – the tales told – and as soon as he was able, he had borrowed a horse and ridden into the mist that hung over Benoth, land of the giants. No one had expected to see him again.

  A ten-night later Baird had ridden out of the mist, back into Domhain. Half a dozen giant heads were tied to his saddle pommel, and he had a new scar on his face, the one that had taken his eye. Apparently he had never spoken of what had happened in the mist.

  ‘I know,’ Camlin said. ‘I’ve heard the stories too.’ He smiled at Dath’s awestruck face, and felt a pang of jealousy at the same time. He’d become used to seeing that look in Dath’s eyes when the lad was looking at him.

  Don’t be an idiot.

  Baird was trying to calm his horse, which kept shying from Storm. Camlin felt a swell of protective anger. Storm had been the subject of more than a few suspicious glances over the last handful of days. Not that he could begrudge these warriors their glances. He was part of a strange bunch, warriors, wolven, a dethroned queen and two talking birds. Craf had flown off early, but the other one still had its wing bandaged, and was sitting on Edana’s saddle pommel croaking quietly to Edana. After a few days of silence it had warmed to the girl, and now seemed to be in constant conversation with her. The other thing that drew the attention of their new companions was Gar. At first he had gone unnoticed, other than his unusual sword drawing a few glances. That had all changed the next morning when he had put Corban through his forms. He’d drawn a crowd then, sure enough. Gar was a mystery, his technique and skill with the blade earning him an instant respect amongst this band of warriors. They have not heard the half of it, though. All that he said about the God-War, and Corban. Camlin had not known what to think at that revelation and had chosen not to dwell on it. Something like that, if it was the truth, well, there’d be no keeping it hidden. If Gar was a mad man – and really that was the only other option – let him keep his hallucinations and fantasies. As long as it meant that he and Camlin fought on the same side, all was well and good. Corban had earned himself not a little respect after his training, as well; Camlin had even caught Coralen watching him with something like admiration in her eye. Not that she hadn’t had her own fair share of attention from others in Camlin’s co
mpany, Dath and Farrell especially. Each in turn had tried to impress her in his own clumsy way, though Farrell had been most persistent. He’d eventually come away with his ears glowing, though. The girl’s tongue was as sharp as the knife she’d used to cut that giant’s throat.

  Camlin sniffed, catching the smell of decay seeping from the packages Corban and his friends were carrying – the skins they had carved from the dead wolven in the glade. Corban had been determined to take them, though he had been vague about the reasons. Brina rode a horse close by. She sat slumped in the saddle, like a sail with no wind in it. The life had seemed to have gone out of her with the death of old Heb. I liked the old codger, shame he’s gone. The death of someone close always did things to a person – grief, regret, anger, all left their mark. A lesson he’d learned all too well back in his youth, when he’d watched his mam and brother butchered by raiders. With an effort he pushed the memories away.

  He heard a sound behind, faint, blending with the sigh of the wind in the grass. He turned and looked back along the giants’ road, seeing a dark smudge in the distance. Dath hovered with him. It was a horse and wain, gradually gaining on them; something walked alongside it – a hound?

  ‘Dath, run ahead and let them know we’ve got company.’

  Dath sprinted along the column, returning soon with Marrock and Rath behind him. They studied the wain, which was clearer now, seemingly driven by a solitary man. It was close to highsun when the wain caught up with them and Rath called a halt, some of the riders taking their horses down a steep embankment to a stream.

  The wain’s driver slowed, a wiry man with sharp eyes who was obviously wary of such a body of grim-looking warriors filling the road. His wain was piled high, a patchwork of skins tied over whatever was underneath. Not that long ago it would have been a tempting sight to Camlin and the type of men he used to mix with.

  Camlin looked closer and realized he recognized this man – a trader who had passed through the Darkwood more than once. He was one of those that had come to an arrangement with Braith and paid a toll rather than be robbed and left for dead.

  One of the practical ones.

  The man saw something on the road that made him yank on his reins: the wolven, Camlin realized. His hound was crouching low, hackles raised. Then Corban was approaching the wain.

  ‘Ventos, is that you?’

  The trader frowned, then jumped from his seat, smiling. He snapped a command at his hound and met Corban in the road. They clasped wrists and spoke to each other like old friends, any tension that there had been draining from the air.

  Corban introduced the man to them as Ventos, a trader whom he knew. Camlin kept his head down; for some reason he did not want the man to see him.

  He probably won’t recognize me, but just in case . . .

  Camlin did not even quite understand why that would bother him, but it did. Maybe I want no association with my past. I am a different man, now.

  They shared some bread with the trader, his hound lying beneath the wain, watching Storm suspiciously through the spokes of a wheel. Soon after, the man was back in his bench seat and urging his sturdy, thick-boned horse on.

  ‘Remember,’ Rath called out to him. ‘Not a word of us to anyone. If we get to Dun Taras and anyone seems forewarned, I’ll know who to come looking for.’

  ‘No chance of that,’ Ventos called back, and soon he was blurring into the horizon.

  Shortly afterwards a band of riders appeared on the road ahead, coming towards them; Rath approached them and exchanged some words with them. They were only a handful, four or five, and wearing cloaks of the same woollen checks as Rath and his comrades. Camlin kept one eye on them as he sipped from his water skin, his other hand resting on the pouch where he kept his bowstrings safe from the damp. I am a mistrustful soul, he thought, then shrugged to himself. Old habits die hard, and besides, it’s better to be mistrustful and live a little longer, in my book.

  Rath returned to them and spoke to Edana. ‘We are close to Dun Taras now; they were Eremon’s men from the fortress. I’ve sent them on their way, though. I still have some influence here – amongst the warriors, at least.’

  ‘My thanks,’ said Halion.

  ‘I trust your judgement, Rath. Whatever you think best,’ Edana said.

  Camlin had heard this situation discussed already. Rath suggested that if surprise could be engineered it would be best. That way they would stand a good chance that their first meeting with Eremon would be free of Roisin, his young wife. She had been mentioned around the campfire after their first night of travelling with Rath. Apparently she was growing in influence and ambition in Domhain, Eremon becoming more content to listen to her counsel. ‘It’s not the best time to have returned to us, Halion. You’re da is fading and she is on the rise,’ Rath had said.

  ‘I had little choice in the matter,’ Halion had replied. ‘And it is Edana’s safety that I’m thinking of, not my own.’

  ‘She’ll be safe enough; don’t worry about that,’ Rath had said.

  ‘And so will you be, brother, or I’ll have Roisin’s scalp for a trophy,’ Coralen had snapped. Camlin had smiled at that. Fiery little thing.

  It had not been so much of a worry to Camlin when they had been sitting around a campfire, a ten-night away from this Roisin. Now, though, Camlin felt a creeping anxiety take root in him.

  As they rode on, Edana dropped back, Marrock and Halion walking beside her.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you,’ she said, looking seriously at Camlin.

  ‘What about, my lady?’ Camlin said. Those words still don’t fit well on my tongue.

  ‘You have served me well, during our journey here.’

  He looked up at her, not really knowing what to say. ‘The way I’ve seen it, the task has been t’stay alive,’

  ‘Yes, it has. But you would have had an easier time of that if you’d just walked away.’

  He blinked at her. Have I been talking in my sleep? Thinking out loud?

  ‘But you did not. You stayed and guided me, advised me, fought for me. Risked your life, time and again, when you need not have done so. Can I ask you: why?’

  He was caught by surprise, stunned. Same question I’ve been asking myself since we landed in Cambren. ‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled.

  Marrock snorted laughter. ‘You see, he is more honest than you may be prepared for.’

  ‘Honest? I’m a thief from the Darkwood – not been called honest since, well, never.’

  Marrock laughed again, Edana and Halion joining in.

  I suppose I’m still here, with you all, because I want to be,’ he said, only realizing at that moment that it was the truth. He looked about, at Dath and Corban and the others. ‘I like being here – not here as in Domhain, but here.’ He waved a hand and flushed. ‘With you all.’

  Edana smiled at him then, warm and genuine. ‘That is what I thought,’ she said. Her expression changed, became serious. ‘And I want you to know this, Camlin. I may not have a kingdom, or wealth, but I am a queen, and I mean to win back what is rightfully mine. If—’

  ‘When,’ Marrock interrupted.

  ‘When I do that,’ Edana continued, ‘I will not forget those who have helped me and, more than that, been loyal to me, through the dark times, when death looked like the only road, when winning a kingdom was the furthest thing from my thoughts.’ She smiled again. ‘If I ever sit a throne again, you shall have no need to return to thieving in the Darkwood, I promise you.’

  He shrugged. ‘We’ll cross that bridge of thorns when we get to it, eh?’

  ‘Indeed. But for now, we have moved from one danger, but only to slide into another one, I fear, one more sly and devious. An ambitious woman. We must keep our wits about us. Our eyes and ears open. And where we are going you may be more practised at doing that unnoticed. I would ask you to learn what you can of this Roisin and her followers when we reach Dun Taras. It may well save our lives.’

  ‘I will do all that I can, my
lady.’

  She reached down and squeezed his shoulder. ‘I do not doubt that.’

  Rath called out from the front of their column. ‘Dun Taras. Dun Taras is in sight.’

  Edana kicked her heels against her horse and rode to the front. Halion followed as quickly as he could on foot, Marrock lingering.

  Camlin looked at the warrior’s arm, where a bandage covered the stump of his wrist.

  ‘How is it?’ Camlin asked him.

  Marrock raised his left arm, gazing at the stump.

  ‘It itches,’ he said. ‘Or at least, it feels like my fingers itch. And they’re not there.’

  ‘I’ve heard similar said before. Comrade of mine lost an ear, but was always trying to scratch it.’

  ‘I’ll live,’ Marrock said, ‘though it’s hard getting used to the idea I’ll never draw a bow again.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m alive, so I’ll not complain.’ He looked hard at Camlin then. ‘I’m grateful to you, Camlin, for all that you’ve done. Edana’s right: we’d not be here if not for you.’

  Camlin walked along in silence as they crested a rise in the road, the grey walls of Dun Taras appearing in the distance. He did not pay too much mind to it; he was too busy smiling.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  MAQUIN

  Maquin pulled on his oar. He had lost track of time, had no idea how many nights had passed since Dun Kellen had fallen and he had been herded onto this ship. A ten-night? Twenty? It had merged into one long, hellish slog, each day the same: kicked awake at dawn, sitting and pulling on the oar, hour after hour, all marked by the constant beating of a rower’s drum, the only marker of time that seeped into his awareness. He’d thought he was fit and strong, with a warrior’s stamina that could last all day on the battlefield, and recently he had done just that, but nothing had prepared him for this. The muscles in his back and shoulders, neck and arms burned, felt as if they were ripping, tearing apart with each stroke of the oar. And his hands – they were bandaged now, the palms crusted with oozing blood and pus where they had blistered and burst and blistered again. His wrists were the same, the skin and flesh worn by the ill-fitting chains that bound him to the other rowers on his bench. Each day would end with the coming of night, a bowl of something closer to vomit than food, and then sleep – instant, exhausted, dreamless sleep.