Valour

by John Gwynne

  ‘What was that?’ Dath said beside him.

  ‘Nothing.’

  I might moan, but I’ll not be leaving this crew anytime soon. I’m not going to turn my back on the first true friends I’ve ever had.

  They had all come in the end, every last one of those who had survived the journey from Dun Carreg. Even the crow and the raven. Somehow Edana had talked her way into coming; Halion said that King Eremon’s wife had supported Edana’s efforts to come – probably in the hope that Edana would meet a tragic end and remove herself from the political throw-board. She was camped elsewhere, though, close to Rath, who was Eremon’s battlechief.

  I suppose it is fitting. Meet Rhin here – win or lose – at least there’ll be an end to it. And this is as good a chance as we’re likely to get.

  Eremon’s warband had grown to about ten thousand strong over the journey to the mountains. Camlin had never seen so many men in his life. In fact he didn’t like it; sometimes he even found himself having to stare up at the sky and take deep lungfuls of air, just to escape the sensation of being crushed.

  Footsteps sounded and Corban and Farrell came and sat by the fire, Gar hovering behind them. They both had bulky sacks slung over their shoulders.

  ‘What’ve you got there?’ Camlin asked him.

  Corban looked to the hills they were camped before, at a few riders disappearing into the wooded slopes.

  ‘Are they scouts?’ Corban asked.

  ‘Aye. Rath will put his men in the hills, I’d imagine. Make sure that Rhin’s warband doesn’t try anything sneaky as they march into Domhain.’

  ‘Do you remember what Halion said back in Cambren, about teaching our enemy to fear the night?’

  ‘Aye. What of it.’

  ‘I think there’s more to that lesson. I’m going to go find Rath, see what he thinks of it. I thought you and Dath might want to come along.’

  Camlin looked at Dath. The lad smiled at him, a nervous twitch to it. ‘Something tells me we’d best string our bows, then,’ Camlin said as he stood.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  VERADIS

  Veradis looked out along the giants’ road. He was stood part way up a ridge.

  ‘There are a lot of them,’ Bos said beside him.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s the plan, then?’

  Veradis was silent a while. His warband was camped below, spread along the giants’ road that they had marched upon. Two days it had taken them since they had parted from Nathair and marched through these looming mountains. Cywen’s face formed in his mind, turning back in her saddle as she rode away, staring at him with her dark eyes. He shook his head.

  They were almost the rearguard, a position that he was becoming used to. Rhin’s warband stretched ahead, a sprawling mass filling the giants’ road and its embankments.

  ‘Geraint will push ahead at dawn on the morrow, then we’ll see what the warriors of Domhain are like.’

  ‘So we’ll be watching, from the back.’

  ‘Most likely. These warbands we march with – they don’t want us stealing their glory.’

  ‘Against a warband of that size I think there’s plenty of glory to go round,’ Bos said. ‘And this road is made for the shield wall. We should be in the van, not the rearguard.’

  ‘I know. But there’s nothing I can do about it. Geraint is battlechief here, not I. We’ll just have to wait and see how things go.’ He looked up at the hills either side of him. Bos followed his stare.

  ‘It’s a good spot for an ambush,’ Veradis observed.

  ‘Aye. We should put some men up in those hills.’

  ‘We don’t have them to spare. I’ll talk to Geraint about it. Bos, you make sure our camp is tight tonight; all are to stay on this road – no tents set close to these slopes – and double guards.’ He looked up at the hills, dense with pine and scrub, black boulders of granite looking like bones of the mountains poking through the hill’s green flesh here and there. There could be a thousand men up there and he would not see one.

  In the distance, high above them, a sound rang out, eerie and ululating. A wolven howling. Throughout the camp heads turned, fear spreading like seeds on the wind. Veradis and Bos looked at each other.

  ‘I think I’ll go and see Geraint right now. You see to the camp.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  CORBAN

  ‘Did you make her do that?’ Rath asked Corban.

  ‘No. She must sense something,’ Corban said.

  They were all looking at Storm, the last notes of her howl fading into the dusk.

  ‘We are hunting. She knows it,’ Gar said.

  ‘Well, it was good timing.’ Rath grinned. ‘I nearly soiled my breeches, so Elyon knows what they’re thinking down there.’

  Rhin’s warband stretched out below them like a dark river. Dusk was settling, and even as Corban looked, pinpricks of light winked into life, torches and campfires being lit to guard against the dark.

  Soft footfalls sounded and Corban looked up to see figures emerging from between the trees. He reached for his sword hilt but Gar put a hand on his arm. Then he saw it was Camlin, with Dath close to him, and a handful of others, Baird the giant-hunter amongst them.

  ‘We chased off a handful of scouts,’ Baird said to Rath. ‘They put a few arrows in backs as they were running.’ He nodded at Camlin and Dath. ‘Think it’s clear up here, for now. I’ve put a guard on the trails from the mountains.’

  ‘Good,’ Rath said. ‘Corban, Farrell, empty your sacks.’

  They dumped a pile of fur and iron onto the ground, then each of them dragged a fur over their shoulders and began fastening them with leather buckles.

  Thank you, Mam. Corban looked up with a wolven pelt draped about him, its head pulled up like the hood of a cloak. Storm growled at him and he tutted her silent. He bent down and pulled something else from the pile, a leather gauntlet, three iron claws at the end of it. The iron claws clinked as he strapped it onto his left forearm and flexed a fist.

  ‘We skinned the wolven that attacked us up here,’ Corban said to the warriors facing him. ‘There are three more skins here.’

  He threw a skin and gauntlet to Coralen, who buckled it onto her left arm. She growled and slashed with the claws, some of Rath’s warriors laughing.

  ‘Now you have three claws instead of a knife,’ Corban said to her. He enjoyed the fierce grin she gave him.

  ‘I’ve heard that Storm and our small company have made quite a name amongst the warriors of Cambren. Apparently they are telling tales of shape-shifters, and changelings, deals with Asroth, stories that we were raised by a wolven pack, that they run with us still; all sorts of tales.’

  ‘I’ve heard a little of that too,’ Baird said, grinning. ‘Can I have one of those,’ he said.

  ‘Help yourself,’ Farrell answered.

  ‘Thought we might help those stories along a bit,’ Corban said. ‘You never know, there might be fewer ready to fight in the morning than are there right now. Superstitious bunch, warriors. What do you say?’

  Rath nodded approvingly.

  Coralen stepped forwards. ‘Let’s bring their nightmares to life.’

  Corban crouched stiffly behind a boulder. It was dark now; only a sliver of the moon was visible, appearing from behind ragged clouds. And it was cold. The wolven fur he wore helped to keep the cold out, though. Storm had had a good sniff of it after he’d put it on, until she was accustomed to the smell on him. He’d gone through the same process with the others who had put on the wolven furs – Baird, Farrell, Rath and Coralen. Otherwise he had visions of Storm attacking them in the confusion of battle. After that they’d made up a paste of mud and blood, smearing it over their faces in swirling patterns to hide their skin.

  ‘You look more like a bear than a wolven,’ Coralen had said to Farrell.

  ‘Thank you,’ Farrell said.

  ‘It wasn’t a compliment.’

  They were spread out along the slopes above
Rhin’s warband now with over a score of Rath’s warriors – all huntsmen used to this terrain. They waited for the signal. Corban felt his eyes drooping. He was tired, had had trouble sleeping for a while now, ever since Dun Taras. And he always woke the same: sweating, scared, a half-remembered dream fluttering in his mind. Dreams of war, but with great winged creatures fighting in the air, almost like tales of the Scourging, when the Ben-Elim and Kadoshim had fought. Probably nightmares brought on by Gar’s mad delusions. He scowled at Gar, who was crouched beside him.

  ‘Rub your hands together,’ Gar whispered. ‘When the signal comes we must be quick, and you will be stiff with cold.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Corban said. ‘I’ll chop my arm off.’ He held up the makeshift wolven claw buckled to his left arm.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Gar said. ‘Remember what Rath said, Ban. In and out. You and Storm will be targets.’

  ‘This is important, Gar,’ Corban muttered.

  ‘I know. But so are you.’

  Because I’m this Seren Disglair. I can’t even pronounce it, how can I be it? He glanced at Gar, wished that this talk of Elyon and Asroth had never happened. He felt that it had driven something between them. When will he accept that it is all in his mind?

  Gar drew his sword, grabbed a handful of loose soil and rubbed it along the blade. ‘Do the same. It will stop reflections – moon, stars, firelight.’

  Corban nodded and copied Gar.

  A noise drifted up from the valley, shouting, higher-pitched screams. Rath had said he had arranged for a feint to be led against the front ranks of Rhin’s warband. That would be their signal.

  That’s it.

  Corban shared a look with Gar and then they both slipped around the boulder they were hiding behind, half-slithering down the hillside. Storm followed silently.

  Tents were set all along the giants’ road; directly below Corban many were spread along the embankment and grass that led to the hill slopes. Crouched low, sword in one hand, claws in the other, Corban reached the bottom of the slope, his heart thumping in his chest, fear bubbling in his gut.

  Control it, master your fear, he ordered himself.

  Men were outlined against a campfire, at least a dozen of them, all standing, looking towards where the noise of battle was drifting down the valley.

  Corban heard a thrum, saw one of the men before the fire stagger, an arrow shaft sticking from his shoulder.

  ‘Foe,’ Corban whispered to Storm and together they leaped forwards, slashing, stabbing, biting. Gar surged forwards to his left, his curved sword moving in swooping arcs. Men fell before them, crashing into the fire, sparks flaring, the smell of scorched hair and flesh everywhere.

  Corban slashed with his claws, stabbed with his sword, Storm close by pinning someone to the ground, their terrified screams suddenly cut short. A man before him fumbled with his sword as he staggered backwards, utter terror etched on his face. Corban snarled and followed him, caught a weak sword blow between his iron claws and punched his own sword into the man’s stomach, slashing him across the chest as he toppled over.

  And then there were no more men standing about them.

  ‘Come on, Ban,’ Gar called to him. He was running towards an embankment that led up onto the giants’ road. Warriors were milling in confusion up there, campfires blazing periodically, framing the chaos. ‘They need to see you,’ Gar was yelling. ‘There’s no point only leaving the dead behind.’

  He’s right, we are a fear that needs to spread like a disease. He bent low and ran up the embankment, barrelling into a warrior, knocking him to the ground, slashing at his face as the man fell. Storm and Gar burst onto the road on either side of him, Gar cutting deep into a man’s chest, Storm snarling, crouched low. Corban saw a warrior turn and run at the sight of her.

  All about the road men were milling, weapons drawn, looking fearfully out into the darkness. Corban saw another man near a blazing campfire stagger and fall, an arrow jutting from his chest. Camlin or Dath. He glanced left and right, heard pockets of shouting, the clash of weapons in both directions. Rath’s plan was for each warrior wearing the wolven skin to attack at different points, and a few men about them to protect and add to the confusion. They were not supposed to stay long, just long enough to kill a few, to maim more, and let their wolven pelts be seen.

  ‘This way,’ Gar said, leading him along the road, deeper into the mountains. Corban followed, running low, slashing with his claws as he went. Storm kept pace, men running from her.

  Others began to appear along the road: warriors grouped together, grim faced, weapons levelled.

  ‘They are rallying, it’s time to go,’ Gar said. ‘Quick.’ He pointed into the night, towards the embankment. Corban ran.

  He sprinted along the edge of the road, Storm bounding ahead, Gar’s feet slapping behind. Corban was about to slither down the embankment when he saw a sight that pulled him up short.

  A knot of combat seethed before them, the clash of iron ringing out, sparks flying. Figures were rolling on the ground, one of them fur-covered. Corban caught a flash of red hair. Coralen. Nearby Corban recognized one of Rath’s warriors trading blows with someone, saw Rath’s warrior crumple as he was stabbed with a spear in the back. Further on Corban saw a row of warriors, their shields raised. Something about it stirred a memory in him, but then Coralen was shouting, snarling, drawing his eyes.

  He ran forwards, hacked at the spear still buried in his comrade’s back, splitting its shaft, and slashed the warrior holding it. The man fell away screaming, clutching at his face. The two rolling on the ground came to a halt, the warrior on top of Coralen, sword arm rising. Corban leaped forwards, grabbed the man and rolled, lost his grip of his sword, just kept slashing and stabbing with the claws on his left hand, slowly realizing his enemy was limp in his arms.

  Hands grabbed him, pulling him to his feet – Coralen. She returned his sword. Gar stood close by, holding back two men. Storm was ripping a hole in a warrior’s belly, blood spraying. Gar’s sword slashed through one man’s throat, sending him reeling back; the other man fighting him drew away, one arm hanging limp.

  ‘We must leave, now,’’ Gar said. Corban turned and began to run, then saw the wall of shields on the road again, closer now. He stopped dead, remembering where he had seen its like before.

  In Dun Carreg. The feast-hall, the night his world had changed. The night his da was killed.

  They were Nathair’s men, eagle-guard.

  He walked closer, for a moment forgetting all else, shaking off Coralen’s hand as she tugged at him.

  ‘Nathair!’ he yelled, his voice cutting the night.

  Gar followed him, sword held ready, eyes scanning the wall. Corban remembered the man Gar had fought. Storm padded on his other side, snarling, fangs dripping red.

  ‘Nathair,’ Corban yelled again, emotion cracking his voice. ‘Come out, face me.’ A memory consumed him: Nathair plunging a sword into his da’s chest. His knuckles became white about his sword hilt.

  A figure stepped from the wall, a warrior. Not Nathair, stern faced, fairer haired, though of a similar age.

  ‘Nathair is not here. But I will face you, Black Sun.’ He took another step closer and raised a short sword.

  Black Sun? The words registered, but were stripped of meaning as Corban was gripped by a swirl of grief and anger. He made to move forwards, then Gar was before him, his curved blade raised high. The world froze.

  A shout rang out and the shield wall shuddered into life, lurching forwards one step, more. A space opened behind the unsuspecting warrior who had challenged Corban, moving about him before he realized what was happening. Shields pulled tight before him with a crack of wood. Corban heard a muffled voice, shouting. The shield wall continued to move forwards.

  Corban stood there in shock, glaring, almost ready to launch himself at the wall of shields, but his bubbling rage did not erase his memory of what would happen if he got too close to those shields: a host of swords darting out.
He could not break through it, he knew that.

  ‘Tell your Nathair I will kill him one day,’ he yelled, then turned and slithered down the embankment, his companions following. They swept through tents, not amongst warriors now, but the people that always accompanied a warband – families and tradesmen. Corban and his companions chopped at ropes, tents collapsing, kicked pots and cook-stands into fires, spreading panic as they went, and then they broke out into the night and were scrambling up a slope back into the safety of the hills. Coralen led them, twisting around black boulders and through patches of loose soil until Corban felt the soft cushion of pine needles beneath his feet. Here they paused, all four of them catching their breath and looking back down into the valley.

  Points of light drew the eye, the campfires looking like candle flames from this height, winding along the giants’ road. Towards the rear of the warband flames spread as tents caught fire in the wake of Corban’s passing. The sound of battle was gone now, but confusion still seemed to be spreading amongst the warband, horn blasts ringing out.

  ‘Best get back to Rath,’ Coralen breathed, her voice raw, and they moved off. Corban paused, sure he had heard the sound of something in the woods behind him, but nothing moved, so he set off again. He frowned to himself as he ran, though. It had sounded like the whine of a hound.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  VERADIS

  Veradis was calm now, though it had taken until the break of day for him finally to become so. Behind him the rising sun was a pale glow on the horizon. I have seen the Black Sun, come a hair’s breadth from crossing swords with him. And then his shield wall had closed about him, Bos standing silent, holding him in an unbreakable grip until Corban and his followers had fled.

  In a way he was grateful, glad that he had been stopped from fighting. He had wanted to hate Corban, had stared at him and tried to muster some righteous anger, some hatred of Asroth and his dark ways, but all he had seen was Cywen staring back at him. Their resemblance was striking. Veradis would have known that it was Cywen’s brother, even without the wolven. The same dark eyes, the high cheekbones, the scruffy hair, even the expression. Corban had been angry, and he had seen that emotion writ across Cywen’s features more than once.