Valour

by John Gwynne

  ‘Like what?’ Veradis said.

  The giant shook his head. ‘Better that you do not know,’ he muttered.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Veradis warned with a smile. ‘Best not let Calidus close with a knife, then, lest he take a lock of your hair.’

  ‘He already has some of mine,’ the giant said. Something crossed his face, sadness, anger? He slowed down and dropped behind Cywen and Veradis.

  ‘What does he mean by that?’ Cywen asked. Veradis didn’t answer; he was looking over at the giant, a troubled expression on his face.

  Slowly the warband crept through the densely green and fertile countryside of Cambren. The landscape was beautiful: sweeping hills of meadows filled with wildflowers, sparkling streams and dark, still lakes. Much of the land was covered in swathes of dense woodland, the leaves turning to red and gold as the days passed.

  Cywen’s guards were always close by, mainly Bos, although Veradis also spent much of his time riding alongside her. So there was never any opportunity for her to attempt an escape. Her two guards were far more vigilant than Conall had ever been. It was frustrating. When their duties took them elsewhere – such as each morning when Veradis would spar and drill his warband before the day’s marching began – Cywen would be bound hand and foot and left to watch them going about their training. She had seen Veradis spar against Conall, back in Dun Carreg, but he seemed different now: faster, more aggressive. She doubted that he would draw against Conall if they faced each other again.

  Part of her resentfully enjoyed the journey. It was a joy to be upon Shield’s back. She could feel the power of him; he was quick to follow any command and he was a part of Corban, somehow, as Buddai was a part of her da. One night she was sitting in front of a crackling fire with Bos and a handful of eagle-guards, a thousand similar tiny beacons in the darkness clustered all around. Buddai was curled at her feet, gnawing on a bone that Bos had thrown him, when Veradis appeared out of the darkness and sat with them. Bos passed him a skin of mead.

  ‘What news?’ Bos asked.

  ‘A band of Rhin’s warriors joined us today,’ Veradis said, ‘come from the north. They brought a strange tale. It’s probably not worth the telling – just superstitious faery tales.’ He paused and drank from the skin of mead.

  ‘Just tell us,’ Bos said. ‘We’ll hear it anyway, soon enough.’

  ‘True enough,’ Veradis said. ‘All right then, they said they had chased a small group across these very hills, thought they were spies of Owain. Said they ran with wolven, that they were attacked at night with tooth and claw.’

  There was a silence then, a twig popping in the fire making Cywen jump.

  ‘Wolven don’t run with men,’ someone said.

  ‘Changelings,’ another whispered.

  ‘What happened?’ Cywen said, feeling a shiver of excitement, of kindled hope.

  ‘They caught up with them in the mountains that border Domhain,’ Veradis said, waving his hand into the darkness. ‘They said they’d cornered them, were leading a final attack, and then they were set upon. By more wolven; a pack of them.’

  ‘How many of Rhin’s men were tracking these people?’ Bos asked.

  ‘Fifty of Rhin’s warriors, or thereabouts. Only three have returned.’

  ‘What about the ones they were chasing? How many of them survived?’ Cywen asked, trying to sound only mildly interested.

  ‘From the sound of it no one was counting – they were too busy running.’ Veradis shrugged. ‘I don’t believe the half of it,’ he continued, ‘we all know how tales grow in the telling. Perhaps there’s a stone of truth at the heart of it. When we reach the mountains we’ll have a look at the place where this is supposed to have happened. See what we see.’

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about, anyway,’ Bos said. ‘Not for us. We’ve faced worse than wolven. Draig-slayers and giant-killers, we are.’

  ‘That we are,’ Veradis said. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword and absently stroked it. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  Cheers and laughter rang out, all of them lifting skins of mead.

  Cywen had stopped listening, only one thought swirling around her mind. Storm, she thought. It must have been Storm and Corban.

  Rain dripped off Cywen’s nose. It had been raining since she woke, a soft, gentle drizzle that slowly seeped into everything, and now it was highsun, though it was hard to judge from the faint glow leaking through the low clouds. She was soaked through. A mist shrouded the land, reducing visibility to a score of paces all around. Veradis and the giant were on one side of her, Bos the other. She was not really paying them any attention, or the rain for that matter. She was consumed by a bubbling excitement mixed with worry, last night’s conversation still fresh in her mind. Storm, Corban, Mam, Gar, somewhere out there, and – best of all – these people, her enemy, were taking her to them. But were they still alive?

  ‘Why is your King so interested in Ban?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘Eh?’ said Veradis, looking at her sharply.

  ‘Ban – Corban, my brother. Why is he the subject of a king’s attention?’

  ‘I am not going to discuss Nathair’s thoughts with you,’ Veradis said. ‘He is the High King of the Banished Lands.’

  ‘So?’ Cywen said. ‘He’s not my King, high or otherwise, and Ban’s my brother. What does he want with him?’

  ‘Tell me about your brother,’ Veradis said, and she noticed the giant walk a little closer.

  ‘Ban? What’s there to tell? He can work in the forge – our da was a blacksmith; he asks more questions than there are answers. He’s annoying. He could beat even you with a sword, given half the chance.’

  Bos laughed at that. So everyone’s listening now.

  ‘He can make a poultice and cure an illness, he is loyal to the point of stupidity, his friends love him, I love him . . .’ She felt sudden hot tears blur her vision. I’ve never told Ban that. Why am I telling Veradis? She looked at the warrior beside her and felt a sudden swell of suspicion – Is he trying to trick me? To give something away about Ban? – but he was looking at her so openly, no deceit or cunning written upon his face. He is not so old himself, and first-sword to a king. Such responsibility for one so young. She felt her misgiving melt and sighed. ‘He’s just Ban. My brother.’

  Veradis nodded thoughtfully.

  A mounted figure suddenly appeared – Calidus. He spoke quietly to Veradis and the giant, then turned and rode away, back into the mist.

  Veradis and Bos followed after him, Bos snapping a short command back to Cywen to keep up with them.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Cywen asked.

  He ignored her and rode after Veradis and the giant, a group of warriors peeling from the warband to join him. Cywen touched her heels to Shield and cantered after them.

  Calidus stood beside Nathair on his draig with a handful of the Jehar surrounding them, and Rhin, accompanied by Conall, watching close by. They were all looking in the same direction. Then Cywen saw something out in the mist as three big figures appeared, wrapped in fur and leather. Giants. She saw some of the eagle-guard reach for their weapons.

  ‘Hold,’ Nathair snapped, raising a hand.

  The giants came nearer, approaching Rhin and Nathair. Their leader held a long spear, whilst one of the two behind had an axe slung across his back. With shock Cywen realized that the third one was female, although really the only difference was that she did not have a long, drooping moustache like the other two. Cywen glanced between these newcomers and the giant with Veradis, saw that he regarded these arrivals with narrow eyes, ridges furrowing his broad forehead.

  Then Rhin spoke.

  ‘Greetings, Uthas of the Benothi; you and your kin are welcome here.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  TUKUL

  Tukul the Jehar blinked as he looked up. Light was breaking through the canopy above, more than he had seen in many moons.

  They were almost out of Forn.

  Meical’s
arrival at Drassil and its resulting lurch into action had lit a spark in his slumbering heart: tension, excitement growing, the promise of resolution to a lifetime of waiting.

  It felt strange, but he had grown fond of Drassil, and even of Forn Forest, and the thought of leaving, of moving into a world of open spaces and a sky that went on forever felt almost uncomfortable. He laughed at himself – this from a man who had been raised in an oasis in the desert.

  He put the thoughts aside and marched on, following the tall frame of Meical, while inwardly complaining at the stiffness in his knees. The damp. I hate the damp here. All else I can cope with, but the damp . . .

  Behind him wound the long line of his sword-brothers and sisters, walking their holy pilgrimage in the name of All-Father Elyon. His, theirs, was a life of worship, devoted to the absent god. Soon it would become a pilgrimage drenched in blood, of that he had no doubt. The culmination of generations of devotion, of discipline.

  I hope you are taking note of this, All-Father. Surely you watch, even if you no longer intervene. All I have done, my whole life, has been in the hope that you watch. That you would notice me.

  They had left Drassil two days after Meical’s arrival and had made much quicker going of it than Meical’s journey into Forn. The central task at Drassil had been preparing the old fortress for what was to come: repairing it, making it defensible. During their explorations of the stronghold throughout the years tunnels had been discovered, initially bored by the roots of the giant tree, then extended by the giants. They ran for leagues upon leagues beneath the tangle of Forn, and they had made good use of one such tunnel to bring them close to the forest’s edge. He looked up to the heavens again, blinded for an instant by the glow seeping through the branches high above.

  The trees about them now were spread widely, great-trunked monsters that stretched their roots wide, drinking deep of the earth. Soon they came to a space where trees had been felled, the round bases of the trunks white and leaking sap. Tukul ran his fingers over one – they came away sticky.

  People. Tree-fellers, loggers. We are moving into another world indeed.

  They moved through a field of stumps, came upon a wide river, roughly trimmed trunks stacked along the riverbank, the odd pier that struck out into the river’s black waters, but no sign of people. Yet.

  Meical paused and waited for him.

  ‘We are nearly there,’ he said. ‘We are moving into Gramm’s land now. You remember him?’

  ‘I do,’ Tukul said. On their journey into Forn – fourteen, fifteen years ago? – Meical had led them to a hold built close to the outskirts of the forest. It had belonged to a man, Gramm. He had had a wife and two sons, youthful but old enough for some labour, and was full of boldness and dreams, his plan back then to trade timber along the river and to breed horses. By the looks of things he had made good on the timber trading, at least, and carved a life for himself out here, on the edge of the wild.

  ‘He’d better have looked after my horses,’ Tukul said.

  ‘You’ll see soon enough,’ Meical said.

  They marched on, and in short time Tukul heard the sound of hooves on turf. Instinctively, his hand reached for the hilt of his sword, and without looking he knew his sword-kin were doing the same, all three score and ten of them. The Hundred, they were called, though they did not number that now. But a hundred had ridden out from Telassar all those long years ago, straight-backed and zealous.

  Riders appeared, at least a dozen of them, dressed for war in mail shirts, with helmets and long-hafted spears couched at their saddles, most with axes strapped to their backs.

  Axes – awkward, clumsy weapons.

  The riders saw Tukul and his companions and cantered towards them, one of their number peeling away and heading back the way they had come.

  ‘They are shieldmen of Gramm’s,’ Meical said, ‘scouting his lands.’

  ‘They look like more than scouts to me,’ Tukul said.

  ‘Their land is bordered by Forn Forest to the east, and the Desolation to the north. Nowhere is safe in these Banished Lands, but here least of all.’ Nevertheless Meical frowned as the riders approached, his own hand straying to the hilt of his sword.

  As they approached, the riders gripped their spears, bringing them lower. Not committed to the charge yet, but prepared for it. Tukul felt a detached respect flicker to life. Their horses were bred for war, tall, big-boned yet with a rare grace to them, long, thick manes streaming, some plaited with leather.

  The first rider raised his spear, and reined in his mount before Meical. He took his helmet off and hung it from his saddle, his men lining up behind him.

  ‘Well met, Meical. Father said to look for you.’

  Meical stepped forward and gripped the rider’s wrist. ‘And you have found me, Wulf. Well met.’

  ‘And your companions – they have the look of those who were with you, all those years ago.’

  ‘You have a good memory, Wulf – you were only a bairn.’

  ‘Eleven summers – and I’ll never forget the day I saw you all. The horses!’

  ‘Are you riding my horses?’ Tukul asked, stepping forward.

  ‘Not yours exactly,’ Wulf said, turning his gaze upon Tukul. ‘But bred from them. My father says he had your permission.’

  ‘Aye, that’s true,’ Tukul said, moving towards him, holding his hand out for Wulf’s mount to smell, murmuring softly as he ran fingers down the animal’s muscled chest. ‘Your father has done well.’

  ‘You are not the only one who thinks so. Our horses are sought by many, both north and south,’ Wulf said, sitting straighter.

  ‘Come,’ Meical said. ‘I’ll be happier talking horse trade with a cup in my hand and my backside in a comfortable seat. We’ve walked a long way.’

  ‘Of course,’ Wulf said. ‘We shall escort you home.’

  With that they set off, the riders spreading around them, a protective hand.

  My sword-kin need no protection, Tukul thought, but he liked the gesture. It was good manners.

  ‘You are always ready for danger, here on the edge of the northlands,’ Meical said as they walked. ‘But you looked about ready to skewer us back there.’

  ‘Aye. You will not have heard the news, I guess, coming from Forn as you have. There is war to the south. In Isiltir. War parties have been raiding from the south, sweeping further and further north – burning out holds. They won’t be doing that to us.’

  ‘War? Between whom?’

  Wulf shrugged. ‘We hear different things. An internal struggle for the throne. Romar is dead – in Forn, fighting the Hunen. At least, that’s the tale we’ve heard the most. Those he left behind are fighting over his scraps.’

  Meical glanced at Tukul and they shared a grim look.

  So many years we’ve waited. Have we waited too long?

  Gramm’s hold was upon the crown of a low-lying hill, a tall timber wall ringing it. They approached from the south-east, walking through a series of fenced paddocks. Tukul saw a herd of horses like the ones these warriors were riding, at least a hundred strong. A thrill coursed through him at the sight and smell of them, and he shared smiles and appreciative nods with his followers. All-Father be praised, maker of such beauty. He wanted to stop, to watch, to ride, but knew it was not the time.

  Soon.

  They marched up the hill, Tukul catching a glimpse of barns and buildings clustered along the side of a wide river to the north of the hold’s walls. Beyond the river stretched a wasteland, punctuated by a scattered range of mountains receding into the distance. The Desolation: a peninsula of land where the Scourging had raged hottest, so the histories read. The land was all but barren, pitted and scarred and broken from the outpouring of Elyon’s wrath. Tukul paused, gazing reverently into the distance.

  To see such a place, where Elyon once touched this earth.

  Reluctantly he moved on and soon passed through a wide arched gateway into a busy courtyard.

  Gramm had c
hanged – he was thicker about the waist, with streaks of grey in his fair hair. His face was still open and friendly, though, something that Tukul remembered from their first meeting. Gramm greeted them, hugging Meical and Tukul, then showed them to rooms with fresh-poured steaming bowls of water.

  ‘Wash away the dust of the road. We shall feast tonight,’ he said, ‘and celebrate. An auroch is being slaughtered as we speak.’

  Tukul wiped grease from his chin, savouring the hot meat as he chewed. They had not starved while living in Drassil, but the journey through Forn had been long and dark, with little time for hunting and cooking. This roasted auroch tasted like the finest meal he had ever eaten.

  A long hall lay at the centre of Gramm’s hold, and tonight it was filled. It seemed that Gramm had done well indeed. His timber trade had made him wealthy, and he was famous for leagues round about for the quality of his horses. He had told Tukul that he had bred two lines from the horses Tukul and his warriors had left here fifteen years ago. One he’d kept pure; he said the herd numbered in its hundreds now. The other he had crossed with a hardy breed from the north, big boned and heavily muscled, bred for heavy work and lots of it. The result had been the horses Tukul had seen today, and he had to admit that he was impressed.

  Gramm had been successful in other ways as well; he had introduced Tukul to more sons, daughters and grandchildren than he could possibly remember. Tukul had felt a stab of jealousy at seeing the joy that family brought this man. He had always dreamed of many sons, of laughter and the sound of running feet in his halls.

  It was not to be. He sighed. He had left his only son in a strange place with a task greater than any other he could conceive. He struggled even to remember his face now. And Daria, his beloved wife, she had crossed the bridge of swords over twelve years gone. Wounded in a clash with a draig in Forn, taken by the fever a ten-night later.

  He lifted his cup in a silent toast. My Daria. My son.

  All of his Jehar warriors were sitting together, taking up about half of a long table that ran down the centre of the hall. Having been so solitary, he could tell they were a little overwhelmed, to be surrounded by so many people, so much noise. While Gramm’s family filled a large portion of the hall, he also had a number of other people under his roof – men and their families that worked for him, tree-felling, logging, working the barges that took timber downriver, stablehands, as well as a group of warriors, employed to protect his lands and trade. Usually they were busiest defending against raids from the north, out of the Desolation, but of late they had been busy further south, where rumour of war and raiding parties had increased the boldness of lawless men.