Valour

by John Gwynne

  Meical clasped his hands behind his back, underneath his cloak, as if they were bound. Tukul and a few of his warriors moved around Meical, giving the appearance of guarding him. They rode up the road that led to Dun Vaner’s gates, identifiable only because the snow lay more flat and even across it.

  ‘Remember,’ Meical said as they drew closer. ‘The Seren Disglair is in there. He is a captive and will soon be killed. We cannot fail in this.’

  Tukul felt a shiver at those words, knew that it was passing back through the column of his sword-kin.

  This is it. The moment I’ve waited for. All-Father, I will not fail you.

  The world was quiet and still, a beautiful white as far as he could see. Even the clouds up above him seemed to glow.

  A perfect moment. He drew a deep breath, as he did before he began the sword dance, then he rode ahead of the column, looking up at the walls above the stronghold’s gates. Heads peered over.

  ‘Name your business,’ a voice called down to him.

  ‘I bring a gift from King Nathair – a spy found on the road north. He thought your Queen was better equipped to extract some truth from him.’ He turned and beckoned for Meical to be brought forward. Enkara led Meical’s horse, a few others riding close about him.

  A silence lengthened. Tukul saw more heads peering over the battlements, heard muted words.

  ‘Open your gates,’ he yelled. ‘It is cold down here.’

  There was still no answer.

  ‘Would you have me ride back to Nathair to tell him we crossed fifty leagues only to be turned away at his ally’s gates?’

  There was another silence. Tukul felt his pulse beating faster, had to concentrate to control it as the huge gates creaked open.

  He rode in calmly, nodding to the guards who stood by the gates.

  Four of them. A courtyard lay beyond the gates. More warriors were milling about, performing various tasks – sweeping drifts of snow from the flagstones, piling it in deep banks with shovels, breaking ice in water buckets. A dozen. As Tukul rode deeper he glanced back, and up, scanning the battlements. Another eight, maybe ten. A great keep loomed straight ahead, doors of oak closed against the cold. Other buildings spread about the courtyard, a handful of doors. Shadows moved inside. Maybe barracks. More warriors, Tukul thought. There could be anywhere between one and two hundred inside.

  They dismounted on the far side of the courtyard; doors opened to a huge stableblock from which issued a dozen stable boys. Tukul and his warriors were led into a feast-hall by two of the guards who had stood at the gates.

  The feast-hall was almost empty; a score or so of men sat close to the firepit, breaking their fast, a few others scattered about the room.

  ‘Your men can eat and drink here,’ one of the guards said. ‘Word has been sent to Queen Rhin. Bring your prisoner and we’ll take you to the dungeons.’

  ‘Where is everyone?’ Tukul asked as they walked through the hall. At a nod, five of his warriors followed with Meical, the rest spreading through the feast-hall, pouring drinks, taking food.

  ‘Most are down south, fighting in Domhain.’

  ‘Of course,’ Tukul said. He drew his sword, heard his warriors do the same behind him, all about the hall.

  The guards both reached for their blades. Tukul let them draw before he killed the first one.

  Let him cross the bridge of swords with his sword in his hand.

  The man tried to block, but even fifty-eight years and the freezing cold snow of Cambren could not slow Tukul that much. They did not even touch blades.

  The other guard opened his mouth to yell, at the same time stepping away and raising his sword.

  ‘Don’t kill him,’ Meical snapped.

  In a heartbeat Tukul’s sword-point was at the guard’s throat.

  ‘Your choice,’ Tukul said. ‘Make a noise: die now. Stay silent: live a little longer.’

  The guard’s eyes darted about the room. Tukul didn’t need to look: he knew all of Rhin’s warriors in the room were dead.

  The guard dropped his sword.

  ‘Take us to the dungeon,’ Meical said.

  Tukul left a score of his Jehar in the feast-hall to guard against any newcomers, and the rest followed Tukul. As they left the hall Tukul looked back, saw the main doors open and a handful of guards walk in. His warriors fell on them, but some of the enemy stumbled back into the courtyard. Instants later he heard the blaring of horns.

  ‘Faster,’ he said to the guard leading the way.

  ‘How many warriors are here?’ Meical asked the guard. He didn’t answer, but then he felt Meical’s sword-point at his back.

  ‘Three, four hundred. Enough.’

  He’s lying, thought Tukul. And even if he’s telling the truth, we are Jehar.

  The sound of combat drifted behind them. They strode through empty corridors, down a long staircase, the steps wide and worn, then into another corridor. Tukul barked an order and some of his warriors peeled away from the back, groups of five positioning themselves at each new doorway. Soon fifty warriors became thirty.

  ‘We’re going to need a way out,’ he said to Meical.

  Horn blasts echoed through the stronghold – the call to arms. Tukul heard the slap of running feet.

  Guards appeared at the far end of the corridor, more than Tukul could see to count – at least a score, more coming behind them. The first ones paused for a heartbeat, then ran at him. He drew his sword, heard the familiar sound behind him as Meical and the others followed suit.

  The corridor was wide, built by giants. Three men could stand abreast and still swing a sword. Tukul cracked their guide on the head with his sword pommel, saw him slump unconscious, then stepped into summer storm from the sword dance, his left hand forwards, blade arched over his right shoulder. He felt Meical and Enkara move to either side of him.

  Let my heart be true and my sword be sharp.

  Then he stepped into battle.

  It was like coming home. He swayed and spun, ducked and lunged, and then his whole world was filled with blood, with the sounds of men dying. Most didn’t have a chance to make a sound, others just a surprised grunt or yelp, in an instant moving from life to death, to empty husks of meat and bone.

  The battle swirled past him, the two groups filtering into each other. He carved a red path through all that stood before him. He turned an overhead blow and followed through with a short horizontal slash, saw the man stumble and fall, his blood draining from his throat and his life from his eyes.

  Then it was over.

  Meical and Enkara still stood either side of him; both were covered with blood. None of it seemed to be their own. The corridor was littered with the dead. At a swift glance he did not think any of his sword-kin had fallen. Then a sound drifted into the corridor. The clash of iron. Yelling, but it came from ahead, not behind.

  Tukul and Meical shared a glance and moved on, their pace fast but not reckless. The sounds of combat ahead grew. They turned a corridor, followed the sound down a staircase, then Tukul pulled up short.

  Before him he saw the backs of at least a dozen of Rhin’s warriors. Tukul heard the clash of weapons, shouting, a scream. Something was holding the warriors here. He glimpsed a form at the far end, a movement, the trail of a sword, a body moving fast, gracefully. Meical moved past him, sword high, and launched himself into the enemy. Tukul followed, chopping a head from its body with his first blow.

  Panic ripped through Rhin’s men as they tried to turn and face this new enemy. In moments twelve men fell, bleeding out their lives into the cold stone.

  Just one man had been holding the corridor against them. He fought still, against the last of Rhin’s warriors. He parried a frantic lunge, spun on his heel, reversed his sword and drove it into his opponent’s belly. They stood there briefly, close as lovers, then the victor pulled his sword clear and turned to face Tukul.

  He was clothed in leather and fur and wool, a long, curved sword held loosely. But Tukul’s eye
s were drawn to the warrior’s face. Weathered skin, dark, earnest eyes, a ridged nose.

  Garisan. My son.

  Tukul saw recognition dawn in Gar’s face, first a question in the eyes, then a twitch of the mouth. A hesitant smile.

  Without a word Tukul strode forward and wrapped his son in his arms.

  CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

  CORBAN

  Corban opened his eyes. He was hanging suspended, his arms stretched above him.

  ‘He’s waking up,’ a voice said.

  He lifted his head, the effort launching a pain in the back of his head, a white-hot needle twisting inside his skull. He groaned and saw Conall and Braith staring at him.

  A figure sat slumped in a chair close by. Rhin. Her head was resting on her chest, her breathing deep and slow.

  Rhin. He closed his eyes, trying to contain the stabbing pain in his head. The Otherworld. Had it been a dream? Then it all came back, a flood, a kaleidoscope of fractured images – a domed building, a host of winged creatures, battle.

  Asroth. Asroth had spoken to him, and to Rhin. Slay him, Asroth had told Rhin. Cut his heart from his body.

  Fear rippled through him. His head snapped up and he pulled himself upright, ignoring the pain in wrists and head. Rhin still slept. Braith and Conall were moving closer, expressions of concern on their faces. Braith knelt beside Rhin and touched his fingers to her wrist.

  Don’t wake her. The thought filled Corban like a silent scream.

  ‘I’d not do that if I were you,’ Conall said. ‘She said not to wake her, and I’ve seen what happens to those that disobey her.’

  ‘So have I.’ Braith pulled his hand away.

  Corban breathed a sigh of relief. Rhin, stay sleeping, he willed. How am I going to get out of these shackles?

  ‘What happened?’ Braith said to Corban. ‘Why are you awake and she is not?’

  Then a noise rang out, distant but clear. Horns sounding the alarm.

  Conall went to the door and looked out, then he closed the door. There were more horn blasts, louder, spreading through the fortress. ‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ Conall muttered, pacing now.

  ‘Me neither,’ Braith said.

  Rhin whispered something, little more than an exhalation.

  No.

  ‘Kill. . .’ she said; more sounds followed, but they were incomprehensible.

  ‘Water, please,’ Corban said.

  Braith leaned closer to Rhin, trying to make out her whisperings.

  Corban rattled his chains. ‘Please, a drink.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Braith snapped. Conall brought him a skin of water and held it to Corban’s lips. It was warm, but tasted wonderful and soothing to him.

  Corban’s mind was racing. He had to get out of his shackles before Rhin woke, but how? They were locked wrist and ankle, and he did not even know who had a key. He felt panic bubbling up like high tide in the rock pools of home.

  Rhin’s eyelids fluttered and she moved in her chair.

  ‘My lady,’ Braith said, seizing her hand. ‘You must wake.’

  The sound of booted feet running echoed from beyond the door, men shouting. A muffled scream. The sounds of battle rang clearer and Conall stuck his head out of the doorway, looking down the corridor.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Braith called.

  ‘There are wolven in the corridor,’ Conall said. ‘One of them is hitting people with a hammer.’

  Farrell.

  ‘It’s the boy’s companions,’ Braith said. ‘They’re coming for him.’

  ‘They’re tearing strips out of a dozen men out there,’ Conall said. He took a last look down the corridor and slammed the door shut, throwing an iron bolt across it.

  ‘We need to get Rhin out of here,’ Conall said, striding to the far wall. He reached into an alcove and then Corban heard a hiss, saw the outline of the secret door appear. It swung open.

  There was a clash of weapons beyond the door Conall had just locked, a scream, something sliding down the door. Blood seeped beneath it, a dark pool spreading into the room. ‘That’d be our guardsman,’ Braith said. A great blow struck the door, dust exploding from the frame. The iron bolt and hinges creaked.

  ‘Bring Rhin,’ Conall snapped at Braith. He drew his sword and knife.

  Braith scooped Rhin into his arms. Her eyes opened then, and she looked around.

  ‘The boy . . .’ she said.

  Braith strode to the secret doorway and Rhin began to struggle in his arms.

  ‘We are under attack, my lady,’ Braith said. ‘I am taking you to safety.’

  ‘The boy,’ Rhin snapped, still groggy. ‘Kill him.’

  Another blow slammed into the door; one of the hinges tore from the wall.

  Braith and Conall shared a look, then Braith carried Rhin into the darkness beyond the hidden door, and Conall walked towards Corban.

  Corban threw himself about, slamming against the wall, tearing away from it, the chains rattling. Nothing happened, though.

  ‘Sorry, lad. No hard feelings,’ Conall said as he raised his knife. He hesitated. ‘Your sister’s not going to thank me for this.’

  I’m going to die.

  Another blow hit the door and it crashed into the room, a cloud of dust filling the doorway, billowing out. A figure burst through, a dark-furred wolven standing on two feet, wielding a huge war-hammer, other blurred forms behind.

  Farrell.

  He saw Conall and with a burst of speed Farrell threw himself across the room, hammer raised high. Conall just had time to duck. The hammer crashed into the wall behind Conall, close to Corban’s head, chips of rock flying.

  Conall stabbed with his knife, but the blade turned on Farrell’s coat of mail. There was a brief flurry as the two traded blows, Farrell gripping his hammer like a staff, striking with both ends. They grappled together, then abruptly Farrell was on his back, Conall’s sword hovering over him, his knife at Corban’s throat.

  ‘Con, no!’ A scream.

  Conall froze, eyes drawn to the voice.

  It was Coralen, standing in her wolven pelt, streaks of blood and grime coating her.

  ‘Cora?’ A whisper from Conall.

  ‘Don’t do it, Con.’

  Time stood still – a heartbeat that felt like a year to Corban.

  ‘Please,’ Coralen said.

  A look of pain swept Conall’s face. He lowered his weapon and ran for the hidden door. Briefly he paused at its entrance, standing half in light, half in darkness, and looked back.

  ‘Con, wait.’

  He melted into the darkness.

  Coralen ran to the doorway and shouted after him. Only her echoes answered her. Then she turned and stared at Corban and Farrell. Corban saw tears like pale claw marks streaking her face. She crossed the room, stepped over Farrell and hugged Corban tight, burying her face in the arch of his neck and shoulder. He felt sobs shaking her.

  Farrell shifted on the ground and Coralen stepped away, eyes downcast. Then Corban’s mam was there, clutching her spear. She filled Coralen’s place, squeezing him tight, stroking his face. Farrell climbed to his feet, a frown on his face.

  ‘The keys?’ his mam asked as she let go of him and began searching for a way to set him free.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Corban said.

  Coralen was back at the smashed doorway, her hands at the belt of the dead guardsman.

  ‘Keys,’ she said, taking a bundle from his belt and jangling them.

  They tried them, and the third key clicked in the lock, the shackles about his wrists opening. He slumped down and Farrell caught him. Another click and his feet were free.

  ‘Where are the others?’ Corban asked.

  ‘Brina and Dath are guarding the rope we climbed in on. Storm’s with them,’ his mam said. ‘Gar. We need to get back to him – we were chased. He dropped back.’ The fear in her eyes said more than her words.

  ‘To Gar, then,’ Corban said.

  ‘No need,’ a voice said from th
e doorway.

  Gar stood there, a mass of shapes filling the corridor behind. There was something strange about him, then Corban realized what it was.

  He’s smiling.

  A man stood beside him, of similar build, holding a sword the same as Gar’s. The similarities did not end there. They shared the same nose, the same serious gaze, this man’s dark hair streaked with grey at the temples.

  ‘This is my father, Tukul, lord of the Jehar,’ Gar said.

  They all stared at him. Tukul crossed the room to Corban and dropped to one knee, taking Corban’s hand in his.

  ‘I pledge my sword, my heart, my strength to you,’ he said.

  Corban gaped, too dumbfounded for words. Then another figure stepped past Gar into the room. He was taller, with black hair pulled tight from fine, chiselled features. Silver scars layered his face.

  ‘I know you,’ Corban said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A friend in a dark place,’ the man said, and smiled.

  CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

  LYKOS

  Lykos stood on the battlements of Jerolin, looking out over the lake, which glistened under a wan winter sun.

  The lake bristled with ships. His ships. They were full of warriors, their families, slaves for rowing, merchants and traders from the Three Islands, all gathering to him.

  Over two thousand warriors. They had arrived slowly, over a matter of moons, so as not to arouse suspicion or panic. And during the same time he had ordered Fidele to send off the bulk of the eagle-guard that had been stationed at Jerolin to various distant locations in Tenebral, where they could be of little threat to his plans. Now only a few hundred remained here at Tenebral’s capital, so his Vin Thalun warriors outnumbered them almost ten to one. And that was not all that he had brought to Tenebral.

  Housed on the ships in the lake were his pit-fighters, as well. On the plain between the fortress and the lake a wooden construct was taking shape, circular tiers rising high, supported by huge timber beams. A new type of fighting pit. He smiled to himself.

  Finally, after so many years, it is happening. He turned to look over the dark stone buildings of Jerolin, the sharp spike of the tower overshadowing them all.