Valour

by John Gwynne

  Wyrms.

  Even as Cywen stared with a mixture of fascination and revulsion, the serpent lunged forwards, its jaws simply engulfing a warrior’s head and shoulders, with a contraction of its coiled muscles tearing him from his saddle and slamming him to the ground. Then in great muscular ripples it started to swallow him. She felt her stomach lurch and vomited.

  The wyrms were everywhere, quartering the floor with their undulating movements. She saw three of them attacking Nathair’s draig – one the draig had managed to pin down with a taloned claw and was biting great chunks out of the snake’s head and torso. Two others were striking at it, though, one’s teeth fastened at the top of the draig’s rear leg, the other twisting about a foreleg, great loops of its body swirling under the draig’s neck, trying to get purchase. Nathair was hacking at that one with his longsword, cutting red gouges into its flesh. Somehow it managed to loop its tail around the draig’s neck, and with one fluid move contracted, pulling the neck and foreleg sharply together. The draig roared and toppled over, Nathair’s arms flailing.

  The serpent’s head reared up now, pulling back to strike, then Calidus was there, his sword slashing in great two-handed blows. The snake’s head flopped, almost severed, only a fragment of flesh connecting it to its body. With a crash it fell to the ground, its grip about the draig loosening. The draig scrambled back up, turning to grip the body of the wyrm still latched to its back leg. The draig’s jaws dragged it from the ground and Nathair chopped into it, Calidus joining him, and together in a flurry of blows they cut the wyrm in two. The draig moved on, the decapitated wyrm’s teeth still sunk into its hindquarters, its neck dragging on the ground, leaving a red trail.

  Cywen watched transfixed. Then she was hurtling through the air as Alcyon barrelled forwards, ducking under a snake’s striking head. He managed to regain his balance, swinging his axe to chop into the snake’s skull. Its body rippled in a death spasm and it collapsed. Alcyon wrenched his axe free.

  Cywen staggered to her feet, only to see a blur of movement; instinctively she ducked, a wyrm’s jaws snapping shut where her head had just been. Its body slithered forwards, colliding with her, hurling her through the air, only for the rope about her to pull tight and stop her flight dead. She dropped to the ground with a thud, felt the snake’s torso brush against her, one great coil looping about her, pinning her arms to her side. Then it squeezed. She heard her bones creaking, felt every last drop of air expelled from her lungs in one great rush as the beast heaved her upright. She saw its long curved fangs, smaller teeth rowed inside its mouth as its jaws opened wide. There was a wild neighing behind her and a horse’s hooves were lashing over her head, slamming into the snake’s head.

  The snake shook its head, like a man in the pugil ring recovering from a heavy blow, then fixed its eyes on Shield, who was standing beside Cywen, nostrils flaring.

  Get out, Shield, run; run away, as fast and far as you can. Black dots were floating in her vision. She saw the snake’s head pull back for another strike, this time angled at Shield; then its head exploded, an axe chopping into it. Blood, brains and bone splattered her, the coils about her collapsing heavily to the floor. She fell to her knees, dragging in heaving gulps of air, her throat burning like she was breathing in fire.

  Alcyon lifted her up, frowning as he checked her over.

  ‘Can you speak?’ he asked her.

  ‘Cut this blasted rope,’ she croaked, her throat raw.

  He grinned at her. ‘You’re fine.’ He patted her shoulder with a big hand, nearly knocking her over again. ‘You have a good horse there.’

  The battle in the chamber was moving away, Nathair and the Jehar pushing steadily towards the dais where a handful of giants had gathered, intertwined with hissing serpents – a last stand. Cywen was shocked to see the giants and wyrms side by side; there was something about the way they were grouped together, bodies touching, weapons and teeth bristling outwards, as if they were allies, brothers-in-arms. What was so important about that cauldron that they were all willing to die protecting it?

  With a roar that made the ground tremble the draig surged up the steps of the dais, sending one giant hurtling through the air, its claws raking a serpent’s torso while its jaws clamped on another giant. Nathair slashed either side at wyrm and giant. Calidus and Sumur rode behind him, swords swinging in bloody arcs, hundreds of Jehar following their lead. Giants and wyrms surged forwards to meet them, bodies slamming into horses and riders, axes and hammers swinging in this last great defence of their guarded treasure.

  Uthas was there, Salach his shieldman close by, attacking the last protectors of the cauldron. A giant saw Uthas. An expression of utter rage swept its face and it threw itself at Uthas, both of them falling to the ground, rolling down the steps, the other giant wrapping fingers around Uthas’ throat.

  They tumbled across the floor, grappling, then Salach was above them, his axe hovering. He hesitated in striking – the two giants were too closely locked – so he reversed his axe and struck down sharply; Uthas’ attacker went limp. Uthas climbed to his feet, Salach helping him, his victim lay motionless on the ground.

  ‘I am sorry, Morc,’ Cywen heard Uthas say.

  She suddenly realized that silence had fallen on the chamber. The battle was over.

  The Jehar moved amongst the fallen, here and there stilling the twitching of a wyrm’s tail or holding the hand of a wounded comrade or ending their pain with a sharp blade, speeding them on their journey across the bridge of swords. Nathair had dismounted from his draig and was now standing before the cauldron. It stood almost as tall as him, a squat, malignant presence. Nathair stared at it with a look of ecstasy upon his face. Calidus moved up beside him, reaching out a hand towards the cauldron. There was something hesitant in the gesture. As his fingertips touched the black metal a spasm passed through him. He stayed like that for a while, head bowed, hand pressed against the cauldron’s belly. Then he turned, a sudden energy filling him.

  ‘We will not delay. We will perform the ceremony now.’

  ‘Is that wise? We are not secure here,’ Nathair said.

  ‘The cauldron is a weapon. Let us use it. We can open a gateway to the Otherworld right now.’

  ‘Not alone. The other Treasures are needed for that to be possible,’ said Uthas.

  ‘We have the starstone axe,’ Calidus said, pointing at Alcyon. ‘The gateway will be narrow, but it will be enough.’

  ‘A gateway for the Ben-Elim?’ Nathair asked. He looked unsure, suddenly.

  ‘Yes, the Ben-Elim. With a host of angels at your back the Dark Sun will soon be crushed. Victory will be certain.’

  Nathair stared at him; a silence lengthened, then he gave a curt nod.

  ‘Good. I need blood, from a heart that still beats.’ Calidus’ gaze swept the room.

  Alcyon moved slightly, stepping in between Calidus and Cywen. She saw the giant’s hand reach to his belt and draw a knife from its sheath, cutting the rope that bound them together. For a moment their eyes locked.

  Someone groaned, the giant who had fought Uthas. He moved.

  ‘He’ll do,’ Calidus said. ‘Uthas, bring him to me.’

  ‘Not him,’ Uthas said.

  ‘I need a sacrifice, now. It could be you, or your shieldman.’ Calidus took a step towards Uthas, who stood frozen for a moment, then Cywen saw something crumble within him.

  Uthas and Salach lifted the semi-conscious giant and carried him up the steps.

  Cywen peered around the bulk of Alcyon, her curiosity getting the better of her.

  Calidus slit the giant’s throat.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Nathair cried.

  ‘Throw him in,’ Calidus ordered, ignoring Nathair. Uthas and Salach heaved the giant’s body into the cauldron, blood pumping from its throat.

  Calidus’ voice rang out, loud and harsh.

  ‘Fuil de beatha gen oscail an bealach, dorcha aingeal eirifeoil.’

  Silence fell, heavier than the m
ountain about them. Calidus’ voice rose again, more fiercely.

  Cywen felt a vibration, a deep base hum, in her feet, spreading through her body. The pressure grew in her ears; she found it hard to draw breath, as though the air was being sucked from the room, and the cauldron blurred, the air around it growing dark, as if it were leaking night.

  ‘Gather before the first born,’ Calidus cried out, his voice almost shrill against the deep rumble that pulsed through the chamber. ‘Welcome them to this world of flesh.’ He gestured for the Jehar to step forwards, and uncertainly they approached the dais, hundreds of them, their numbers greatly reduced from the host of two thousand that had ridden through the gates of Murias.

  Sumur stood with them, facing the cauldron, a look of rapt wonder on his face.

  A darkness formed at the rim of the cauldron, overflowing as if a black liquid were boiling within. It streamed into the air, a dark roiling cloud, expanding before their eyes, churning, a lighting storm within it.

  ‘Bow before the Ben-Elim,’ Calidus said. Sumur fell to his knees, followed by the rest of the Jehar.

  A shaft of darkness from the cloud lanced out, piercing Sumur’s chest. His arms spread wide, his body convulsing. Other shafts, hundreds of them, simultaneously impaled the remaining Jehar, until every single one of them writhed transfixed upon a spear of darkness. They started to scream.

  Cywen was terrified; a wave of crippling, all-consuming terror numbed her mind and filled her veins with ice. Beside her Shield whinnied and stamped the ground, his ears flat to his skull.

  Cywen saw a flicker of movement, up and to her left. She blinked.

  Is that a bird? A black smudge fluttered high in the chamber, on the edge of shadow. No – two black smudges. They circled, then plummeted straight down, swooping upon Uthas, their talons outstretched.

  Their attack took Uthas by surprise. One crashed into his face, talons raking, the other gripped his back and pecked at his head. Uthas flailed wildly with his arms, a scream of shock and pain bursting from his lips. The birds rose higher, out of range, hovering, looking for an opportunity to plunge down again. Then Cywen heard it, a croaking torrent of speech flowing from one of them.

  ‘Betrayer,’ it squawked, time and time again.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

  MAQUIN

  Maquin dropped his weapons to the ground. A hush fell upon the crowd, then they were yelling, hissing and booing. Maquin sat in the mud beside Orgull.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I cannot do it.’

  Then Vin Thalun were running across the arena, big Emad ahead of them all, reaching him first.

  ‘Get up, finish him,’ the guard ordered.

  Maquin just glared at him.

  Emad aimed a kick at him; Maquin rolled to the side, came up on his feet, ducked a hook aimed at his jaw, slapped another kick away.

  ‘Finish him,’ Emad yelled. The crowd were roaring now, the sound deafening. Maquin’s eyes flickered left and right, saw more Vin Thalun bearing down on him. A blow struck his chest – Emad, seeing his distraction. He collapsed to the ground, fighting for breath. Emad stood over him and drew a knife from his belt.

  ‘Last chance,’ the guard said. ‘You live or die in the pit; you know that.’

  ‘Go eat shit,’ Maquin said.

  Then Emad exploded.

  A great tear in his flesh opened up from his shoulder to his belly, blood and bone showering Maquin. An axe-blade ripped clear of the wound as Emad collapsed. Orgull stood framed behind him.

  He reached out a hand and Maquin took it, snatching up Emad’s knife as he rose. Guards were descending on them now, more pouring from the tiers. Maquin glimpsed Lykos, his face contorted with rage.

  ‘This end will do me just fine,’ Maquin said, grinning at Orgull.

  ‘Let’s see how many we can take across the bridge with us.’ He hefted his axe.

  They stood back to back, braced for the rush. Maquin caught a man’s wrist and punched his knife through leather into flesh, stabbed again, then threw the dying man backwards, tearing a sword from his weakened grip and snarling as another Vin Thalun filled his vision. He felt Orgull moving behind him, felt the whistle of the axe, heard the meaty sound of its blade cleaving muscle and bone, a scream cut short.

  Then time fell into dissected moments – blocking a sword blow, stabbing, muscles stretching, hot breath in his face. He expected every next instant to be his last.

  A sound filtered through his consciousness: a murmur, vast, surrounding him, like the sea when he had been a slave oarsman. Then louder as the crowd started shouting, not their usual cries for blood, but panicked, discordant, and behind it horn blasts, frantic, not celebratory. Then the clash of iron.

  Fighting. They are fighting.

  Abruptly there were no more Vin Thalun rushing at him. He saw his attackers running towards the arena’s edge. Even as he watched, a section of bench crashed into the pit, smashing two Vin Thalun to the ground. Everywhere he looked was chaos, upheaval. In the stands men were fighting, all the way up to the tiered heights. Lower down, men in dark cloaks with white eagles on their breastplates were leaping the barriers, engaging the Vin Thalun warriors in battle.

  Eagle-guard – some, at least.

  But the Vin Thalun were not unprepared this time. Everywhere Maquin looked he saw more of the corsair warriors appearing, throwing off cloaks, pouring from the tunnels that led into the arena.

  ‘This way,’ a voice said in his ear – Orgull, tugging him. He followed the big man, saw he was limping, one arm pulled tight to his waist, as if staunching a wound. He was covered in blood, some of it his own.

  They reached the cages where the pit-fighters were watching and Orgull raised his axe and swung it, the blade biting into a thick chain, sparks flying as it severed. The barred door swung open, Javed appeared in the doorway.

  ‘My chest of gold,’ Javed said.

  ‘Better to take freedom than have it thrown to you as a scrap by your master,’ Maquin said. He put an arm under Orgull and helped him stand.

  Javed grinned and stepped out of the cage. A handful of others followed him.

  Maquin scanned the crowd. Everywhere people were fighting. He glimpsed Lykos and Fidele, a huddle of men about them, trying to carve a way through the crowds to an exit.

  ‘Won’t get a chance like this again,’ Maquin said and headed after them, breaking into a run.

  As he powered through the crowd he hamstrung one Vin Thalun, hacked another’s head, knifed one in the belly, shouldered others flying, then he was scrambling amongst the benches, almost upon Lykos’ shieldmen.

  Herak saw him first and turned, fluidly drawing a long curved knife. Maquin was trying to slow his momentum, skidding on the mud. He twisted his body, feet sliding forwards, torso dipping backwards. Herak’s knife whistled through space, scoring a red line across the top of Maquin’s chest.

  They collided, Maquin’s feet ploughing into Herak’s, their bodies coming together, crashing to the ground in a grappling roll. Maquin’s sword spun from his grip. He headbutted Herak, felt cartilage break, felt a knee crunching into his gut. Dimly above them Maquin was aware of the other pit-fighters appearing, slipping into combat with Lykos’ shieldmen.

  Pain focused him back onto Herak; the man was biting into his shoulder. With a curse, Maquin rammed his shoulder forward, forcing it into Herak’s mouth, pushing his jaws apart. There was a momentary loosening of Herak’s grip as the man gagged. Maquin twisted his torso and flipped over, spinning Herak, grabbed a handful of his hair and dragged his knife across the man’s throat.

  He rose fluidly, saw Javed kick a Vin Thalun’s legs out from under him and stab him. Orgull was labouring against another. In a bound Maquin was at his side, punching his knife into the Vin Thalun’s back. Orgull nodded a breathless thanks.

  Maquin turned to see Lykos looming in his vision, Deinon at his side. He glimpsed Fidele behind, sat meekly, her hands folded across her lap. Then Lykos was at him.
Their weapons clashed, Maquin’s knife against Lykos’ short sword, trading a flurry of blows. Maquin staggered back. There was a concentrated fury in Lykos’ assault that was hard to contain. Lykos was still clutching something in his other hand. Deinon swept past him, Maquin knowing instinctively that he was headed for Orgull.

  He launched into an attack of his own, the resentment and pain of the last few months focusing on the man in front of him. Lykos’ advance was halted – he was shuffling back. Maquin stepped away, risked a glance to Orgull, saw his friend stumble over a bench and topple backwards, Deinon following. Javed appeared from nowhere, throwing himself at Deinon, the two of them tumbling into the benches.

  Then Maquin was ducking, slashing, blocking as Lykos was at him again. The corsair King was quick, moving fluidly from one attack to another. Pain seared along one of Maquin’s thighs, then across the opposite shoulder as Lykos managed to get past his defence.

  I’d rather fight a giant than someone this fast. Mustn’t give him space, or I’m a dead man. Maquin barrelled forwards, crashing through Lykos’ guard, slashed, scoring a gash across Lykos’ ribs, crouched and smashed a fist into the man’s knee, rocking him, then stabbed at Lykos’ throat.

  The Vin Thalun wobbled, just managing to turn Maquin’s blade as Maquin grabbed his sword wrist. Lykos gripped his forearm, whatever he’d been clinging to in his other hand fell to the floor and Maquin felt it crunch underfoot.

  Just heartbeats later Fidele rushed at them, a look of utter hatred contorting her face.

  Maquin flinched, thinking she was attacking him, but she crashed into Lykos, screaming incoherently at the Vin Thalun.

  Thought this was her wedding day.

  The three of them fell to the ground, weapons spinning away, Fidele’s fingers tearing at Lykos’ face, ripping bloody streaks across his cheeks.

  ‘You control me no longer,’ she spat at him.

  Not a happy marriage, then.

  Maquin scrabbled for a weapon, just as Fidele snatched his knife and plunged it into Lykos’ back, below the ribs. Lykos was only wearing a silk shirt – this is his wedding day – and the knife sank to the hilt into his flesh. He screamed, an animal cry of pain, and sank to one knee.