Valour

by John Gwynne

  Alcyon found a spot to his liking, beneath a copse of withered hawthorns. He set about making a fire, hanging a pot over it and boiling up some water. This had been their routine every night, Alcyon reluctant to share a place round a fire with any others.

  That suited her just fine. They sat in silence, Cywen stroking Buddai.

  ‘Here,’ Alcyon said, handing her a bowl of porridge. She let it warm her hands first, then blew on it as she spooned some into her mouth.

  ‘Of all the things the tale-tellers say about you giants, they never mention how good your porridge is,’ she said.

  Footsteps thudded and she looked up to see the other three giants walking by. Alcyon’s dark eyes tracked them.

  ‘Why don’t you like them?’ Cywen asked.

  ‘They should be with their clan, not here.’

  ‘But you’re here.’

  ‘They have a choice. I do not.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He shrugged. ‘Also, I am Kurgan. They are Benothi. We are different clans. There is blood-feud between us. Between every clan.’

  ‘Wasn’t that from before the Scourging, though?’ Cywen’s grasp of history was a little vague.

  ‘And after,’ the giant said. ‘The clans have warred since they were formed – since the War of Treasures. And they did not stop until your kin were washed up on these shores and began the Giant-Wars.’

  She listened avidly. Alcyon usually kept his peace, no matter how many questions Cywen asked him.

  ‘So you are Kurgin?’

  ‘Kurgan.’

  ‘Where are your kin, then?’

  ‘A long way from here, child. They live in Arcona, the sea of grass, far to the east.’

  ‘How have you come to be so far from home?’

  A look swept his face – sorrow, regret, shifting to misery, all in a heartbeat – replaced by something cold. ‘That is not your concern, child.’

  ‘Just trying to learn something about my captors,’ she muttered.

  He looked at her a while, then, just as she thought the silence was permanent, he spoke again. ‘I am Calidus’ servant. I do his bidding, that is all. His business is here, with Nathair, with Rhin, so I am here also.’ He looked into his bowl and slurped from it. He didn’t use a spoon.

  ‘Calidus,’ Cywen said. ‘His business is with Nathair, and Rhin. And Corban, my brother. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it. Something to do with Corban.’

  ‘Aye,’ the giant rumbled.

  ‘What is it? How can Corban be of any interest to Calidus, to kings and queens?’

  Alcyon just looked at her over the giant axe resting across his knees.

  They reached Dun Vaner by highsun the next day and stayed one night in its cold and damp halls. The fortress was almost deserted; most of Rhin’s warriors had joined the warband attacking Domhain, with only a small garrison left to man the stronghold.

  Early the next day they set out, Nathair and the three Benothi giants leading as Rhin bid them farewell beneath the stone archway of Dun Vaner. Cywen rode Shield towards the rear of the column, Buddai beside her, Alcyon’s strides keeping easy pace with the horse. As they left the mountain slopes and the ground levelled out, Buddai stopped, frozen to the spot, looking back. He whined.

  ‘What is it?’ Cywen said to him. The hound just stared into the distance, ears pricked, head cocked.

  Alcyon paused, listening. Then she heard it too, faint as a sigh, floating on the wind from the mountains. A wolven howling.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  CAMLIN

  The walls of Dun Taras appeared through a dense curtain of sleet. Camlin rode in the van, close to Edana and her other shieldmen, Halion, Marrock and Vonn.

  It had been a hard and slow march back from the mountains, a wall of sleet and snow bringing death quickly to those too weak to keep up.

  Rhin’s warband had not pursued at any great pace but Rath’s scouts reported that they were coming, marching steadily behind them.

  They’re happy to herd us into Dun Taras and watch us starve to death.

  Camlin could still not believe how decisively the battle had been lost. He had never seen anything like the wall of shields that had marched out of the foothills and along the giants’ road, never seen death dealt out so efficiently and clinically. Something about it had felt so wrong: it took the heart from the battle – no deeds of valour, no great displays of skill or strength that won the day – just a cold, soulless distribution of death. It had scared him. He remembered seeing something similar back in the feast-hall at Dun Carreg, forming up to protect Nathair as all hell had broken loose. But it had been on a much smaller scale, and he had been close enough that he had been able to find a few gaps with his arrows. This time, though, three blocks of warriors, each two or three hundred men strong, shields and swords bristling. It would take a lot more than a few arrows to crack that nut.

  Horns rang out as they rode through the streets beyond the fortress’ walls, then they were passing beneath a stone archway, grim-faced warriors upon the battlements. Rath headed straight for the keep and an audience with Eremon. He beckoned for Edana to go with him, so her four shieldmen followed dutifully behind.

  Eremon was looking even older. Up close he could see every line and crease, his skin sagging, waxy. He looks like a candle burned too long. Beside him sat his pale-faced and dark-haired queen. Roisin. Camlin disliked her greatly, mostly based upon the grief she had rained down on Halion. This was a woman who was prepared to kill to see her plans made real.

  There was a fluttering sound and a bird appeared at the window, peering through a flapping shutter – Fech. When he saw Edana he hopped through the gap, shook himself and started running his beak through his feathers.

  The King listened solemnly to Rath and Edana recount the battle at the border.

  ‘How can we defeat them?’ he asked as Rath fell silent.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Rath said. ‘I have never seen its like before. We threw ourselves against it for a long day and could not stop it. I could not say if we even slew one man. A warband of giants would be easier to defeat.’ He hung his head.

  Eremon looked from Rath to Edana.

  ‘There must be a way, my King,’ Edana said. ‘And your strong walls and harsh winter will help us, I am sure.’

  ‘Aye, true enough,’ Eremon mused, rubbing his wispy chin.

  ‘Is that all you have to offer?’ Roisin said. ‘After you bring Rhin’s warband howling into Domhain, snapping at your heels, slaughtering our warriors. And you say rock and rain will save us?’

  Edana coloured, looking speechless.

  ‘That is not true,’ Halion said, stepping forward. ‘Rhin was always coming, whether Edana was here or not.’

  Roisin turned her look on Halion. ‘That is something we shall never know, now. You play on your father’s good nature.’

  Halion stared at Roisin, but said nothing in response. A silence settled over the room, then Rath spoke.

  ‘Edana and her followers have fought in the battle,’ Rath said. ‘Risked their lives in the defence of Domhain. That counts for something.’

  ‘In defence of their own plans, more like,’ Roisin said.

  ‘Enough,’ snapped Eremon, looking more irritated than angry.

  Edana took a step forwards. ‘I did not force Rhin to invade Narvon, or Ardan. Did not steer her into killing Owain, or my own mother and father. Rhin has her own plans, and to her I am only one minor inconvenience amongst many. As are you. It is your throne she has her eye on now, the reason she is here. She wishes to rule the west – perhaps the whole of the Banished Lands for all I know. Her ambitions reach far higher than hunting down the last heir to a kingdom that barely exists any more.’ She spoke clearly, her eyes on Roisin the whole time.

  Well done, girl, thought Camlin. Give the snake a little venom back.

  Eremon patted a chair beside him and clapped his hands. ‘Come and sit, Edana. Drink some ale with me. You must b
e tired, but I would hear more from you before you retire.’ Servants appeared, carrying food and drink. Camlin and the others were ushered away, leaving Edana with Eremon and Roisin.

  ‘Let’s get a drink,’ Halion said, blowing out a long breath.

  ‘I don’t like her,’ Vonn said, taking a sip from his cup.

  They were sitting in a corner of the feast-hall, the four of them, huddled in conversation.

  ‘There’s not much to like,’ Marrock agreed.

  ‘There’s plenty to like, until she opens her mouth,’ Camlin said.

  ‘Poor Edana.’ Vonn shook his head. ‘She has had enough to deal with, without vipers like that.’

  ‘Roisin must have been raging inside,’ Halion said. ‘Usually she pours honey from her lips. All that she says is thought through, has a purpose.’

  ‘Something is disrupting her composure, then?’ Marrock said.

  ‘Perhaps that’s to do with a foreign warband marching up the giants’ road,’ Camlin pointed out. ‘Don’t read me wrong – she strikes me as an evil bitch, sure enough. But she’s also a mother, and I get the feeling she loves her son to death and beyond. Might be that the thought of Rhin putting his head on a spear is upsetting her a little.’

  Halion nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘For an ex-thief and murderer you talk a lot of sense sometimes,’ Marrock said.

  ‘You get a lot of time to think, living in the Darkwood. All that waiting around for people to rob.’

  ‘What’s going to happen, now?’ Vonn asked. He was looking at Halion.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Halion said. ‘Like Edana said, I suppose. Hide behind these walls, let them and winter put Rhin off. Then try and think of a way to beat that wall of shields by spring.’

  ‘I know how to do it,’ Camlin said calmly.

  ‘How?’ They all looked at him.

  ‘Don’t go getting excited. It can’t be done here – or out there, anyway, in all those open meadows. That’s the perfect terrain for them. We need to fight them in the woods, where they can’t form their wall. Either that or sit on the top of a hill and roll a few score boulders at them. They might not want to stand so close together, then.’

  Halion nodded. ‘You know what – you might just have something there. I’m going to find Rath.’

  Marrock clapped Camlin on the shoulder. ‘You are a good man to have around, you know.’

  Just then the doors opened and in walked Roisin. Her son Lorcan walked beside her, Quinn the first-sword behind him, with a few others. Roisin saw Halion and strode to him.

  ‘What are your schemes here?’ she hissed, leaning close to Halion.

  ‘There is no scheme,’ Halion said. ‘Open your eyes, Roisin. Edana and I, we are swept on the wave of someone else’s plans. Rhin is the great manipulator in all of this. You may have met your match at last.’

  ‘I don’t trust you, Halion the bastard. Using a young girl to worm your way into Eremon’s court? It will not work.’

  Halion jerked away from her. ‘Your paranoia grows, Roisin. I thought it had peaked when it led you to murder my mam.’

  ‘You accuse me?’

  ‘I don’t need to. Those who matter know it was you.’ He took another step back, took a deep breath. ‘I did not come back to Domhain to settle past wrongs. That is done. There is a shared enemy to fight. I am not here to contest Lorcan’s right to the throne, but there is a warband out there that will. Think on that, Roisin; think on who your true enemy is here.’

  With that he strode away, past Lorcan and Quinn and through the feast-hall doors. Roisin watched him leave with narrowed eyes. Camlin suspected this would not be the end of it.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  MAQUIN

  Maquin ate his food slowly.

  All about him men ate and drank to excess, laughed and sang. He was sitting in a room that looked out over the cliffs of Nerin onto the Tethys Sea. It was sunset; the sun’s last rays were turning the sea to molten gold.

  Amongst the men he was sat with were the survivors of the pit. Ten men. There had been twelve, but two of them had become fevered through the night and Herak’s men had hauled them away, to healers, supposedly.

  Unlikely. It is strange how men will believe what they want to believe, cling to it, even when the truth is there to see.

  His fellow pit-fighters were not the only men sitting at the table. Herak was there, as well as some of his guards – ones that had worked with Maquin and the others, helped to train them. They all ate and drank with vigour, smiling and laughing as if they were friends, equals, not masters and slaves. Guards still lined the walls though, standing in the shadows.

  It made Maquin feel sick.

  He had come to terms, finally, with what he was doing, what he had become. He didn’t like himself for it, but the face of Jael drove him, made his decisions possible. And when it had come down to it, when given the choice of life or death, he had chosen life, or at least the right to fight death’s efforts to claim him.

  I want to live.

  But that did not mean he would be grateful to his captors, or that he would welcome their company and eat with them as if they were brothers. Looking about, though, no one else seemed to share his feelings. Except Orgull. He was sat at the far end, looking much as Maquin felt. Repulsed.

  He sipped a cup of wine.

  Herak banged his cup on the table and slowly a silence fell.

  ‘You are champions now,’ Herak began. ‘Champions of the pit, champions of Panos. You will fight again, but not like that; not amongst so many. That is for the new arrivals, the initiates.’

  ‘When will we fight?’ a voice called out. Javed. Always the question-asker.

  ‘Not for a while.’ Herak shrugged. ‘You’ll have long enough to enjoy this victory.’

  ‘Who will we fight?’ Orgull.

  ‘Whoever is put in front of you,’ Herak said, all friendliness erased from his voice.

  The days passed. They were moved from rooms below ground to ground level, a measure of weak sun and fresh air helping to revive Maquin and his companions. To make them feel human again. The ten of them lived in the same room. Their training with Herak continued – most of it focused on close-quarter combat, knife work and weaponless battle. They were treated better now, fed well, spoken to, given rewards. Those who excelled in the day’s training were given special meals or an extra drink. Occasionally a woman.

  Maquin abstained from all of the rewards offered to him. He wasn’t a pet.

  Javed laughed at him. ‘Live, man; enjoy what you can. Life will not treat you better because you say no.’

  Maquin just smiled and shook his head at the little warrior. I will not be bought, purchased, manipulated like some half-witted fool. I do what they want because I have no choice. I will not play their games. They are my enemy. The only other man who refused as he did was Orgull. They spoke little, but Maquin often caught Orgull watching him. They were sword-brothers, a bond forged in the Gadrai and tempered in the catacombs of Haldis. Nothing could change that. Maquin did not want friendships, though, had no desire for anything that could distract him from his course. I should have hunted Jael down as soon as I was out of the tunnels beneath Haldis.

  Should have. Forget that. There is only now, and what happens next.

  Often during training Maquin would see groups of men, shackled hand and foot, led past them, towards the entrance to the underground chambers. They all had a look about them that he knew too well. Half starved, desperate, but still a glimmer of hope in most eyes. They were the latest captives brought in from various ships, more fodder for the fighting pits. Not yet gone through the horror and torture of that first push into darkness.

  It was evening, almost a moon since the last pit-fight. Maquin sat on his cot, knees drawn up, dipping dark bread into a spicy soup. Their chambers reminded Maquin of the great stables at Mikil. Each room a stable, sharing a communal yard that was fenced in with iron bars. Beyond those bars was their training ground, f
urther off a town. People would often come to look at them through the bars, even to speak sometimes; they were mostly children, play-acting champions of the pits. Some of the ten liked it, would go and talk and laugh with the visitors. Maquin didn’t. Whenever he saw movement at the bars he would retreat inside his cell, into the shadows.

  There was a rattling at the gates and Maquin rose to see who was coming in, soup and bread still in his hand.

  It was Herak, flanked by two guards.

  ‘Wanted to tell you, it’s your last night on the island,’ he said. ‘You’ll all be getting something to remember Nerin by soon. Food, wine, women.’

  A cheer went up from most of the men.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Javed, of course.

  Herak smiled viciously. ‘Tenebral.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

  CORBAN

  Corban stumbled again; hands reached out to steady him.

  ‘Keep moving,’ a voice growled close to his ear.

  Corban was exhausted. They had been walking a day and a night since he had heard the wolven howl in the distance. He was sure it was Storm, although other wolven prowled these mountains.

  Do I just want to believe so hard that I will not accept anything else? No. It was her.

  There was little hope of him making an escape. Corban had counted fifteen grim-faced men in Braith’s employ, though there were never more than twelve about him at any one time – the others scouting ahead or behind. There was also a brace of hounds – two tall, rangy things, skinny with matted hair. They loped ahead, close to one of Braith’s men, himself tall and long-limbed, beard and hair a tangled mess.

  Whether they thought Storm was behind them or not, they kept a fast pace, determined to outpace her and any of his companions who might be following behind. Mam’ll skin me, getting caught like this. All the worry I’m giving her.

  It was still dark and bitterly cold. As a jagged horizon began to edge in grey Corban realized it was snowing, the flakes looking like slow-falling leaves. They were moving out of the narrow ravines that had marked their passage through the mountains, onto wider paths, ever downwards now.