Valour

by John Gwynne

  ‘A word of warning, Corban. Be wary of Roisin. She is proud, cunning, jealous. Her son Lorcan is heir to the throne, and protecting his claim is her one ambition. Think before every word that you say to her. Also, because my father is old, do not think his wits have deserted him. He has a sharp mind when he is not distracted, and he still likes looking at the women.’

  ‘He is still the same, then, as you remember him?’

  ‘Much the same, though diminished. More cautious. This meeting with you could help – my da is a complicated man, part of him a thinker, part of him spontaneous, wild in his youth, I am told. He can be ruled by his heart, as with Roisin. He likes Edana, I can tell, partly because she is young and female, true, but he likes her spirit, I think. She is no longer the meek sheltered child that she was. And you and your wolven – there is a magic in your story, our story, the escape from Dun Carreg and through Cambren to here. It appeals to my father. That could be helpful in the end. We need his help. And if we are right, Rhin will probably be turning her covetous glance this way soon enough.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound very safe here for Edana,’ Corban said.

  ‘No. But where is safer? Ardan, where she would have been hunted by Owain, or Cambren, where Rhin rules? I trust Da where Edana is concerned. He knew Brenin and respected him. I am sure he will treat Edana well.’

  ‘Would this Roisin do anything to Edana?’

  ‘I’ll not let her,’ Halion said. ‘I swore an oath, to Brenin and Edana. I could not save Brenin, but I’ll die before I see any harm come to his daughter.’

  Looking at Halion’s expression Corban did not doubt him.

  Soon they were in King Eremon’s chambers, situated in the lower levels of Dun Taras’ tower. Apparently he had given up his rooms at the top of the tower a long time ago, because he didn’t like the long climb.

  It was a large room, a fire burning in a hearth against one wall holding back the autumn chill. Eremon was sitting upon a fur-wreathed chair, his hair white, his skin waxy and loose. His eyes were still young, though, sea grey, like Halion’s. They lingered upon Corban, then dropped to Storm.

  ‘Ah, the wolven tamer, at last. Stories of you are spreading about my keep faster than the west wind,’ Eremon said.

  Corban walked forward and dropped to one knee, bowing his head.

  ‘Rise,’ Eremon said.

  ‘My Queen,’ Corban said to Edana as he stood, seeing her seated on a smaller chair close to the King. She gave him a warm smile. Fech the raven was perched on the arm of her chair. A jet-haired woman sat at Eremon’s other side.

  Roisin.

  With her lips a deep red in a face as pale as alabaster she was beautiful, and Corban’s eyes were drawn to her as he bowed.

  ‘I have heard much about you and your wolven,’ Eremon said. He held his hand out to Storm.

  ‘Careful,’ Roisin said.

  ‘Hush, woman,’ Eremon said irritably. ‘I’ve two hands, and I only need one to scratch my arse with.’ He looked back to Storm.

  ‘Friend,’ Corban whispered, and Storm padded forwards. She seemed bigger, now that she was indoors, tall enough to look the seated King in the eye. Her long canines glinted in the firelight. She took a long sniff of Eremon’s palm, her amber eyes regarding him. Then she went to Edana and nudged the Queen’s leg with her muzzle. Edana ran her fingers through the thick fur about Storm’s neck. The wolven flopped down at her feet.

  Eremon was watching her keenly. ‘Amazing. She is quite relaxed, and knows you well, Edana.’

  ‘Of course. We are pack,’ Edana said.

  ‘Come then, Corban,’ Eremon said. ‘Tell me how this came to be. I imagine it’s quite the tale.’

  Corban sat at Eremon’s feet and recounted his tale, of finding Storm’s mother in the Baglun, then saving Storm as a pup. Eremon called for a chair to be brought forward for Corban as the tale wound on to when Corban had given Storm up, after she had wounded Rafe, and how she had followed him to Narvon, how she had helped track Edana through the Darkwood, and on until they had reached the mountains between Cambren and Domhain. When he was finished Eremon sat there a while in silence.

  ‘What a tale,’ Eremon eventually said. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Nearly seventeen summers, my lord,’ Corban said.

  ‘Nearly.’ Eremon grinned. ‘I remember wishing my years away. As you get older you start wishing for the opposite. Or at least for a time when you didn’t have to wake to use the pot half a dozen times a night.’

  Corban didn’t know what to say to that. He found himself liking Eremon.

  ‘Quite the tale,’ Eremon repeated, ‘at any age. Made all the more so by its truth. I don’t know you, but I know Halion well enough to be an honest man, and Queen Edana of course vouches for your tale’s accuracy. Remarkable.’

  ‘I have never given any thought to it, my lord,’ Corban said. ‘It just happened.’

  ‘And I bet it gets you a lot of attention from the ladies.’ Eremon winked.

  Corban felt himself blushing at that.

  ‘You are very lucky, Edana, to have such devoted – and unique – protectors about you,’ said Roisin, speaking for the first time. Her voice had a lilting quality, almost musical.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Edana said. ‘Corban is part of the reason that I am still alive. As is Halion. When I have regained my kingdom they shall both be rewarded for their loyalty. As will any who support me in my quest for justice.’

  Eremon smiled slyly at that, but said nothing.

  ‘You must be thirsty, Corban, after all that talking,’ Roisin said, clapping her hands. Servants brought a table and filled it with cups, jugs, an assortment of foods: fruits, cold meats, cheese and dark bread.

  ‘You are Eremon’s kin, and he will do what he can to help you,’ Roisin assured Edana. ‘But we need to have all of the facts at our disposal first. Then we can make an informed decision of what is the best course of action for Domhain.’

  ‘But I have told you the facts,’ Edana said, an edge to her voice.

  This is not the first time they have had this conversation, Corban thought.

  ‘Owain has invaded Ardan, my mother and father have been betrayed and murdered. And Rhin is the puppeteer behind it all. She plans to rule the west.’

  ‘With all due respect, those are the facts as you know them. But one version of events is never usually the whole truth.’ Roisin turned her gaze pointedly at Halion.

  ‘I understand that,’ Edana said, ‘but I am worried. Not only for me, but for you also, for Domhain. While we sit idle Rhin prepares, of that I am sure. I fear that by the time you have gathered these facts that you so desire it will be too late. Rhin will be marching an army into Domhain.’

  ‘We thank you for your concern. But you must try and see things from our perspective. While the events in Ardan are terrible, wars do happen. And at this moment no form of aggression has been made towards Domhain, by either Owain or Rhin. So whilst we can feel sympathy for your plight, there really is no action that we can take. And also you must remember that, just as you are kin to Eremon, so are Owain and Rhin.’

  Edana bowed her head. ‘And if the worst happens? If I am right, and Rhin is plotting to take your crown? She does not play by the rules. She will not behave politely, or respectfully, or fairly. She will use all means at her disposal to succeed in her aim, and then you will have no kingdom to pass on to your heir. I have already seen how Rhin deals with heirs – Uthan, Owain’s son was assassinated by Rhin. She has tried to kill me more than once. I imagine she would wish a similar fate upon your young prince Lorcan.’

  Roisin’s eyes narrowed at that.

  You are learning this game of politics quickly, Corban thought.

  A young girl poured drinks for them. She was fair haired, older than Corban, he guessed, but not by much. Corban saw Eremon’s eyes following her, his head turning as she left. Corban saw that Roisin noticed too.

  ‘You’re leering at your daughter,’ Roisin hissed.
>
  ‘Is she?’ Eremon said, frowning. ‘Pity.’

  ‘The possibility of Rhin invading has been considered, hasn’t it, my King?’ Roisin said sharply.

  ‘Eh? Yes, it has,’ Eremon said distractedly. ‘As you know, as soon as you arrived, scouts were sent out to Cambren and Narvon and even Ardan. I have means of gathering information, my young Queen. We shall have the facts soon.’

  ‘But what about Rhin? What about the danger of invasion?’

  ‘I have alerted my barons. They will be ready. If the call to war is given, my battlechief is not to be dismissed lightly. Rath is no stranger to combat. You worry too much for one so young. You are safe, now. You must learn to relax a little. And to trust me.’ He reached out and patted her hand.

  Frustration flickered across Edana’s face, but then it was gone.

  There was a knocking at the door and a guard looked in. ‘A messenger, my King.’

  ‘Send him in,’ Eremon said.

  A man strode in and knelt before the King.

  ‘Rise, and tell me your news.’

  The man stood, looking about the room, his eyes growing wide at the sight of Storm. ‘There are many tales spreading through Domhain about a boy and his wolven. In Cambren I heard similar tales; though bloodier.’

  Boy! Corban frowned.

  ‘You have returned from Cambren, then?’ Roisin asked.

  ‘I have, my Queen. Tales are rife, and many different. The one I heard most often is that there has been a great battle in Ardan, between Owain and Rhin. They all agreed on the outcome – that Owain is dead. And there is more. There is rumour that Rhin has gathered a great warband, and that she is marching it to Domhain.’

  A look of shock and dismay swept Roisin’s face, quickly masked.

  In a sentence her political duelling has become a reality.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  MAQUIN

  Maquin sat against a wall, trying to keep as much of his body in the shade as possible. The heat in this place was unrelenting, as cruel in its own way as some of the Isiltir winters he half remembered from his childhood.

  He was in a courtyard full of slaves like him. Twelve nights he’d been here, if the marks he’d made on the white-clayed walls were accurate. They were starting to blur. Orgull was not here. They had been herded from the beach where he had last spoken to Lykos, up a sandy path that wound through steep cliffs, then they’d been separated into pens like cattle, ten to a pen. Maquin and his nine companions had been led away as night was falling. He had looked back once and seen Orgull watching him.

  They had not walked long, passing through white-stoned ruins and wide streets until they reached this place, a complex of buildings. They had been led into this courtyard, no words from their captors, unchained and just left.

  At first he and the men he had been brought here with had stayed together. They were all survivors of Dun Kellen, a bond in a strange place. One of them he remembered from the battle on the walls, though he did not know his name. A lean, wiry man with a pockmarked face. The others in this place had greeted them with silent stares. Maquin had studied them the next morning as the sun had risen, most of them sun darkened, a mixture of ages from little more than boys to old, though he guessed that he numbered amongst the oldest.

  At first their captors had returned every evening. Maquin recognized some from his first night, one especially – a wide, barrel-chested man, with an abundance of rings bound into an oily black beard. They brought with them a great trough of food. Or what passed for food. It was mostly a brackish liquid, with unidentifiable items floating in it. Their captors had handed out wooden bowls, ensuring that everyone had one, and then left. Maquin had not eaten on the first day, but by the second he was famished, and knew that abstaining would only result in him losing the strength he had gained in the latter part of his journey. So he ate. It was disgusting, but he found that if he did it quickly, and when the guards first brought the food, before it had had time to ferment in this ferocious sun, then he could manage to keep it in his stomach.

  The last time they had seen their captors, or anything resembling food had been five days ago, though. The first day Maquin thought it was just a mistake. By the third he knew it was intentional. Yesterday two men had fought over a rat that had scurried across the courtyard. One man had died, and the rat had escaped. They were all weak, becoming desperate now. But why were they being starved like this? Had the corsairs just decided they did not need them, and so were just going to let them starve to death? Lykos’ words from the beach still rang in his head – One day soon you shall be thrown into a pit. Others will be thrown in also. Only one will come out alive – and as yet he had no answer to them. All that he knew was that, at this instant, he was not ready to give up and die.

  And death was in the air. Already he could tell that some of those in the courtyard were succumbing, even if they did not realize it. Forty men had been in the courtyard when he was thrown in. There were thirty-eight now.

  Initially there had been an unspoken organization to the courtyard. There had been an area at one end that had become the midden heap. All had used it, and although the pile was high and stinking, constantly swarming in flies, at least the rest of the courtyard was relatively clean. Now, though, people were starting to defecate where they lay. Maquin could smell it, could see urine staining the hard-packed red earth. Death is going to start coming more quickly.

  The sound of chains rattling in the gate brought him sharply out of his thoughts.

  ‘On your feet,’ a voice shouted, the barrel-chested man.

  At first no one moved, but then other men came through the gates. They spread about the courtyard and began hitting people with clubs.

  Maquin stood, feeling lightheaded. His stomach growled and he steadied himself against the wall, putting a hand to his head. His fingers brushed the lump of flesh that was left of his ear. It had healed well enough, and he could hear as well as he ever could. At first it had felt strange, as if his head was unbalanced, but he was used to it now.

  With much staggering and grumbling the men in the courtyard were formed into a line and marched out.

  ‘Where are we going?’ one man called out. Maquin heard the dull crunch of a club breaking bone.

  No questions, then. I do not need to ask, though. I can guess where we are going.

  They marched through streets bordered by houses of sun-dried brick, roofed with reeds. Children chased along behind them, some throwing things – bits of food, stones, sticks, until they were chased away by one of the men with clubs. The children laughed as they went, and soon reformed, like a swarm of flies.

  Broken walls loomed ahead of them and they passed beneath an archway carved from white stone. More Vin Thalun stood before them with short, curved swords in their hands. They were standing guard before a wide and deep stairwell, leading steeply down, beneath the ground. Silently they moved down, the walls closing in about them, the shuffle of their feet echoing, the air thankfully cool after the unbearable heat.

  Soon the stairwell opened up into an underground chamber, with large iron bowls crackling with fire attached to the walls. There were crowds down here, all gathered around holes in the ground. Big holes, and lots of them, too many to count – forty? Sixty? Many of the men about them were holding torches high.

  The fighting pits.

  Maquin saw other men, under guard like him, being pushed to the edge of the pits and thrown in. For a moment he thought he saw Orgull amongst them. The same thing was going on all around the chamber: groups of men thrown into different holes, crowds closing about them, bags of coin waved in the air, changing hands.

  The barrel-chested man who had entered the courtyard first turned and looked at them.

  ‘You are going into those pits. You will fight and live. Or you will die. Those of you that come out alive will feast like kings tonight.’ He looked at his men and nodded. Maquin smelt the acid tang of urine as someone’s bladder loosened close by.

&
nbsp; Quickly the line of captives was divided up into smaller groups and Maquin was herded to the edge of a pit. He only had a brief chance to look down before he was shoved from behind and then he was falling. He landed on something soft, or someone, heard a crack, then a scream as he was rolling off, crouching low on his haunches, unsure what to expect. He looked about wildly, fists clenched.

  The pit was too deep to climb out of, roughly circular in shape. The bowls of fire from above sent light flickering into the pit, but there were areas of shadow. Instinctively, he counted those with him. Eight other men had been thrown in, all looking about, some at him, all with the same sense of panic, wildness. Then a figure was looming over the edge of the pit, the same barrel-chested man, holding a sack.

  ‘Nine of you in there. Four knives in this bag.’ He emptied it, the knives clanging as they hit the ground.

  Briefly there was silence, utter stillness. Then men were bursting into motion around him. Maquin was still frozen. I don’t want to fight. To become their entertainment. But he did not want to die, either. He stepped back into the shadows as the screaming began.

  Men were wrestling, punching, gouging, scratching. One was on his knees, screaming, hands at his stomach trying to stop his guts from spilling about his fingers. Even as Maquin watched, the man toppled to his side, his screaming fading to a mewling, his feet twitching.

  Maquin became aware of yelling up above him, at the pit’s rim. He glanced up, not wanting to take his eyes off the men gone mad on the pit floor. Some of the Vin Thalun had seen him hiding in the shadows, were shouting and pointing. One threw a lit torch, its flame leaving a writhing trail through the air as it fell. It landed right at his feet, sparks flaring. It sputtered but kept burning, banishing the shadows that had cloaked him.

  A man in the pit saw him. He was gore spattered, a knife clutched in one hand, red to the hilt. They locked eyes and then the man was charging, knife held low.