Valour

by John Gwynne

  A handful of these warriors were gathered between Tukul’s table and the rest of his Jehar. They were throwing axes at straw targets, laughing, either applauding or mocking the various attempts. Tukul was surprised to see how accurate many of them were.

  ‘They are all handy with an axe,’ Gramm said from beside him, seeing where Tukul’s gaze was drawn. ‘Though none can out-throw my Wulf.’ He raised a cup and drank, slapping Wulf across the shoulder.

  ‘Would you like to try?’ Wulf asked.

  ‘I like an axe well enough, when I need to cut some firewood,’ replied Tukul. He heard a snort of laughter from Meical.

  ‘An axe has more uses than that,’ said Wulf stiffly. ‘Especially here, where we are so close to the Desolation; there are things that come out of it that need some extra persuasion to stay dead. There’s a lot more weight in an axe. If you come face to face with a war party of the Jotun you may find your sword isn’t so well suited.’

  ‘I’ve survived fifteen years in Forn, fought wolven, draigs, other things that don’t have names, and I’m still here.’ Tukul shrugged. ‘But I am curious. Let me have a throw of one of these axes then.’

  Wulf led him down to the gathered men, who parted to let him through.

  ‘Here, I’ll show you once,’ Wulf said. ‘All the weight’s in the head, so you let that do the work for you.’ He hefted a short-hafted axe that someone passed him, fixed his eyes on the target and threw.

  The axe spun through the air, landed with a thunk a hair’s breadth from the target’s centre.

  ‘Here,’ Wulf said, passing another to Tukul.

  Tukul swung the axe a couple of times, gauging its weight and balance. He took a deep breath, held it, then threw the axe.

  Instinctively he knew he had thrown wrong. The axe head slammed into the target a handspan above Wulf’s and bounced off, falling to the ground. Raucous laughter burst around him.

  ‘You see the advantage of an axe,’ Wulf said loudly. He was grinning. ‘If you miss with the blade, you still stand a good chance of braining your enemy.’ More laughter at that. Even Tukul smiled. A quick glance at his Jehar, all sitting silent and grim, told him they were not so amused.

  ‘Another,’ Tukul said, holding his hand out.

  ‘Fair enough,’ Wulf said. ‘You’ve blackened your enemy’s eye already; let’s see if you can give him a matching pair.’

  Tukul repeated his ritual – test the weight, fill the lungs, throw. This time he knew it was a better effort. It spun, hit with a satisfying thunk, the blade sinking into the straw, two fingers from Wulf’s. A silence fell upon the group, then loud cheers and applause. Wulf slapped his back and Tukul grinned.

  ‘I think I like your axes,’ Tukul said to more laughter. He noticed some of his sword-kin rising and walking over – Enkara, Jalil, Hester, others behind them. I knew they would not be able to resist. ‘Again,’ he said, holding out his hand.

  Just then the great doors of the hall swung open, letting a cold draught of air swirl in, making the fire flare in its pit. Figures filled the doorway, two men with spears – guards, Tukul realized – leading two others. The hall fell silent as they approached Gramm.

  The two being escorted were an odd pair – a young warrior and a boy who walked beside him, not more than ten or eleven summers, Tukul guessed. The warrior rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. They were both travel stained, looked close to exhaustion, their steps unsteady. They stopped before Gramm.

  ‘They were found on the southern border,’ one of the warriors told Gramm. ‘Said they’ve got something to say, but only to Gramm.’

  ‘My mam said Gramm’s the one I need to speak to; no one else,’ the boy said, his voice reed-thin, a tremor in it.

  ‘Is that so?’ Gramm said. ‘You look more in need of hot water and something in your belly than talking to me,’ he added, peering at the two. ‘I am Gramm, so tell me who you both are, and then let me hear what it is you have to say.’

  ‘I am Tahir, last sword of the Gadrai,’ the warrior said, standing straighter. A ripple ran through the hall at that. ‘We bring news of war. Jael of Mikil has slain King Romar and claimed the throne of Isiltir.’

  The boy stepped forward, pushing past Tahir’s protective hand. Tukul saw the tremor in his limbs. Fear and exhaustion combined, but he will not hide behind his protector. I like him.

  The boy raised his chin. ‘I am Haelan, son of Romar and Gerda, rightful King of all Isiltir. And we have come here seeking your Sanctuary.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CORBAN

  Corban woke with a stiff back.

  Strange, after my first night in a bed since . . .

  He pushed the thought away, still not liking to think of his last days in Dun Carreg. Always the first memory would be of Nathair driving a sword through his da’s chest. With a sigh he climbed to his feet and picked his way towards the kitchen, the stone floor cold.

  They had arrived at Dun Taras yesterday. Halion, Edana and Marrock were taken almost immediately to an audience with King Eremon, while the rest of them had waited in a secluded courtyard and gardens. That had been after they had managed to get through the gates of Dun Taras, which had almost not happened. The guards had taken a very dim view of allowing a wolven to walk into the fortress. Craf flying up to the battlements and hurling insults at them hadn’t helped matters much, either. But eventually Rath had overruled the captain. Word spread about them quickly enough; a crowd of children followed them, as well as a fair few adults, most of them pointing at Storm, not Edana.

  The meeting between Edana and King Eremon had gone well, according to Halion, though Edana had not looked so convinced. They had been housed in a large stone dwelling on the outskirts of the fortress, where it was easier for Storm to stay with them. Edana had been offered chambers in the keep, but she’d chosen to stay with ‘her people’, as she was referring to her small band of companions.

  Dawn was close, pale light leaking through a shuttered window in the kitchen. The bulk of Farrell was a dense shadow sitting near the glowing hearth. Corban pulled a chair over and joined him, warming his hands. Soon Corban heard the pad of feet and Dath came to join them. The three of them sat in silence a while, watching the embers in the fire.

  ‘Does it get easier?’ Farrell said, his voice harsh in the silence.

  Corban sighed, instantly knowing what Farrell was talking about. He missed his da too. They’d all lost their fathers to battle in just a few moons.

  ‘A little,’ he said. ‘At first it felt as if I had a hole inside me, an empty space that hurt more than any wound. Just to think of him would take my breath from my body.’ He looked at Farrell and Dath. ‘But with everything that’s happened since we left Dun Carreg – the possibility of dying each and every day. It’s been distracting.’

  Dath snorted an agreement.

  ‘Not that you forget,’ Corban continued. ‘I’ll never forget.’ In his mind he was suddenly back in Dun Carreg’s feast-hall, smoke and screaming thick about him, watching Nathair sink his sword into his da’s body. A rush of emotion swelled within him, almost a physical pain, a fist gripping and twisting his heart.

  ‘All that talk about your da,’ Dath said, looking at Farrell. ‘About him being a coward.’

  Farrell looked at him, eyes narrowing.

  Anwarth, Farrell’s da, had been shieldman to Ardan’s old battle-chief. In some conflict or other Anwarth had been accused of cowardice, of playing dead while his chief had been slain. Nothing had ever been proven, but accusations like that, they never went away.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Dath said. ‘He volunteered to stay with Marrock, knowing that to stay meant to die. And I saw him in the battle. He was no coward.’

  Farrell reached out and squeezed Dath’s shoulder.

  ‘Ouch,’ said Dath.

  ‘Your da was no coward, either. He tried to storm that boat all on his own.’

  ‘He did, didn’t he?’ Dath said. He looked at his hands, his face
crumpling. Tears spilt down his cheeks.

  ‘He loved you, you know, Dath,’ Corban whispered.

  ‘Did he so? Why was he always hitting me, then?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Corban shrugged.

  ‘I’d hit you if I were your da,’ Farrell said.

  ‘I’m a coward,’ Dath said quietly, almost to himself.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Every day, every battle, I’m scared. More than that, terrified. It grips me, freezes me.’

  ‘Fear hasn’t hurt your aim much,’ Farrell said.

  ‘All men feel fear,’ Corban said. ‘Gar told me that. It’s what you do about it – stand or run, fight or give up – that’s what makes you a coward or hero. Without fear there is no courage.’

  ‘In that case you’re no coward,’ Farrell said.

  ‘Does that make me a hero?’ Dath said with a weak smile.

  ‘I’d rather my da be a coward and still be here,’ Farrell said.

  They sat in silence some more; Corban had no answer for that.

  ‘Talking of Gar and heroes,’ Dath said. ‘What’s all this about you being, you know, the seven disgraces, or whatever it was.’

  ‘Seren Disglair,’ Corban corrected with a grimace. Life had been too filled with danger and imminent death for him to think much on Gar’s claims. Now that things had changed, though, and a measure of safety restored to them, he found his thoughts constantly returning to Gar’s words. Both his mam and Gar were sure that something would happen, that he would change his mind.

  Not likely. I don’t want to be some Bright Star, fighting the Dark Sun. I’ve seen enough of war and death for a lifetime.

  ‘Yes. So when did you become the saviour of the Banished Lands, then?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Corban said. ‘It’s not funny.’

  ‘Gar doesn’t think it’s funny,’ Farrell said. ‘He seemed to take it seriously, and he strikes me as a serious man. Never seen him smile, even.’

  ‘Just because he’s serious, doesn’t mean he’s right,’ Corban said with a frown.

  ‘What’s he on about, then?’ Dath asked.

  ‘He’s just made a mistake, that’s all.’ Corban shrugged. ‘You’re best off paying him no mind.’

  ‘There must be more to it than that,’ Farrell persisted. ‘Look at how he fights, his sword, those warriors back at Dun Carreg like him – the one guarding Nathair that he fought, and the others.’

  Corban shifted uncomfortably. Those are thoughts I’ve had myself. Gar is no fool, and until recently not someone I’d consider mad. ‘Anyone can make a mistake,’ he said. ‘Let’s leave it at that.’

  The other two gave him sidelong glances, but they said no more about it.

  ‘One thing that you can’t just leave lying about is your stinking bag of wolven pelts,’ Dath said, wrinkling his nose and pointing at a large sack.

  ‘I know. I need to ask Halion’s help in finding a good tanner.’

  ‘What do you want them for?’ Dath asked him.

  ‘Just an idea. I’ll say no more about it yet.’

  Corban blocked Gar’s practice sword, flicked it away, used the momentum to form his own lunge, saw Gar shift to block his blow. He pivoted on his feet, spinning, ducking Gar’s weapon as it whistled over his head and swung at Gar’s ankles.

  Gar jumped over his practice blade, struck at Corban’s head, but Corban was rolling forwards, using the force of his failed swing to carry him out of the way. He came up onto his feet, sword gripped two-handed over his head, and launched a fast combination at Gar – two chops to the head, one lunge to the heart, another short chop to the ribs, a swing and lunge at thigh and groin. All of them were blocked. He felt sweat trickling down his forehead, sensed shadows around him, still and watching, his eyes flickering to them for a heartbeat. And then somehow Gar was inside his guard, the practice blade at his throat.

  ‘You lost focus,’ Gar said as Corban stepped away. ‘Until then. Good.’

  Good. That was the fastest I’ve ever moved, the longest I’ve kept you from killing me. Corban smiled ruefully and wiped the sweat from his face. He glanced about, saw warriors all around the practice court watching them. That had been happening a lot since they’d arrived at Dun Taras. Rath was there, with some of his giant-killers, including the girl, Coralen. She wasn’t looking at him or Gar, though. Nearby were Dath and Farrell, standing with Marrock and Camlin. The woodsman was strapping a buckler to Marrock’s injured arm.

  ‘Stop looking at girls and raise your sword,’ Gar snapped at him.

  ‘I wasn’t,’ Corban objected, then had no more time or breath to complain.

  When they had finished sparring, Gar put Corban through the sword dance. Corban loved the routine of it; it was a time when his mind became still and calm, and he could forget for a short while the turmoil and upheaval that defined almost every other waking moment.

  When he was finished and about to put his practice sword back in the basket he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Coralen standing there.

  ‘Don’t put it back,’ she said and stepped back into a space on the grass. She raised her own practice sword and waited. In her other hand she had a wooden replica of a knife. She fights like Conall, then.

  ‘What?’ said Corban.

  ‘Don’t keep her waiting, she’ll only beat you worse,’ someone yelled, to a burst of laughter. Corban thought it was Baird, Rath’s warrior with the scar.

  ‘Come on, then,’ Coralen said, spinning her blade in a slow arc.

  Frowning, Corban stepped back onto the grass and lifted his wooden sword. Stooping falcon, the standard first position. In a blink Coralen was lunging forwards, her blade coming from unusual angles, moving faster than Corban had expected. Her wooden knife left a red welt across one arm. She uses it like a wolven uses claws. That set an idea growing. One that I must talk to Farrell about. Another blow slipped through his guard.

  Focus, you idiot, he scolded himself. You saw her slay a giant. She’s fast, and deadly. He stepped back, seeking time to regroup, but she did not allow it, following him, striking high and low. He managed to block it all, though clumsily, then began to fight back. They moved backwards and forwards over the grass, the clack of their blades marking a sporadic beat. Time passed, Corban losing all track, getting lost in the block and strike, his body and brain working faster together, overriding his thoughts, employing the responses that only uncounted hours of practice could instil.

  Then he saw an opening, his blade sweeping forward before he’d had time to think about it, his body following, stepping close into her guard. Somehow she turned his blade and they slammed together, blade to blade, chest to chest. He could smell her breath, sweet, a hint of apple on it. He blinked, then somehow her foot was behind his ankle and he was falling, the air knocked from his lungs as he hit the ground. Her blade touched his throat and she smiled.

  He frowned, remembering seeing Conall execute an almost identical move on Marrock back in Dun Carreg. ‘You cheated,’ he muttered.

  She grabbed his wrist and helped him up. ‘And you’re still dead,’ she grinned.

  He blushed as he looked around, saw a crowd watching them, Dath and Farrell amongst them. Gar shook his head, his lips twitching in a brief smile. Halion strode over. Come to rescue me, I hope.

  ‘Come on,’ Halion said to him. ‘We’ve to meet Queen Edana. Da . . . the King wants to see you.’

  ‘Me?’ said Corban. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s been hearing tales about the young warrior that tamed a wolven. He wants to meet you. Come on.’

  ‘She’s not tame,’ Corban muttered as he left the practice court, shoving his weapon into a wicker basket.

  They had been in Dun Taras over a ten-night now. Edana had been back to see Eremon five or six times since her first meeting with him, but there was still no definite answer from the King about his commitment to aiding her cause. Also the King’s wife, Roisin, had been present at the meetings, and according to Halion she was
more poisonous than he remembered her.

  Storm uncurled herself and fell in by Corban’s side as they left the weapons court and walked through the streets of Dun Taras. It wasn’t so different from Dun Carreg, the streets as wide, paved with huge flagstones, the grey keep looming above everything. The rock was darker here, and there was no sound of the sea, though, no calling of gulls, no salt on the air.

  ‘Your sister, Coralen, she doesn’t fight fair,’ Corban said, a throbbing in his back reminding him of their sword-crossing.

  ‘No. She’s good, though.’ Halion grinned at him.

  ‘She put me on my back easy enough. Reminded me of Conall, though with a sharper tongue.’

  Halion looked sad at that. ‘Aye. She spent a lot of time with Conall, growing up. He was always the one she looked up to. She’s not as hard as she pretends, though.’

  ‘I’d have to disagree. Did you see her kill that giant back in the hills?’

  ‘I mean on the inside. She’s grown up around men, been around warriors her whole life. Her mam abandoned her when she was young, and Rath took her into his hold, but that is a place for warriors, not bairns.’ Halion shrugged. ‘That’s all she’s ever known.’

  Hard on the outside, soft on the inside. A list of her cutting comments came to mind. I’m not seeing it.

  ‘Where’s Edana?’ Corban asked Halion.

  ‘She’s already with the King – and it’s Queen Edana, remember. If her own people can’t give her due respect, neither will the folk of Domhain.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Corban mumbled. It was not that he didn’t respect Edana as his queen; of course he did; it was just that she was his friend, too. He understood Halion’s logic, though.