by John Gwynne
Run. I must run. But something held Corban in place, kept him from fleeing. Instead, he found himself turning, lifting his sword, flexing his wolven claws, shifting his balance to face this man.
Other Jehar attacked the old man, all sent reeling away, blood spurting.
Corban moved forwards, raising his sword. It felt as if time had slowed around him. One of the Kadoshim came roaring at him and he swerved out of its path, swung his sword two-handed and saw its head fly spinning through the air. The creature’s body stumbled on, then crumpled to the floor, mist congealing into a winged form above it, quickly melting into ragged tatters.
Then they were standing before each other. The old man regarded him with amber eyes.
‘Bright Star,’ the man said, lifting his sword and dipping his head; a recognition.
‘Who are you?’ Corban said.
‘Your death.’
Corban heard voices behind him, calling his name, then his blade was moving, blocking a blow that moved faster than he thought possible. He pushed his enemy’s sword high, over his head, and stepped in fast, raking his wolven claws across the old man’s belly. They sparked on chainmail, breaking links but nothing else. The old man smiled at him. Then Corban was retreating, their swords clashing, incandescent arcs tracing the flow of exchanges, a discordant melody of violence.
Corban stumbled and the man was on him, pushing his guard away, a hand gripping Corban by the throat, pulling him close.
‘I knew you would come,’ the man said. ‘You pathetic creatures, risking all for love.’
Corban heaved a knee into the man’s groin and his grip loosened. Corban staggered back, stumbling and falling onto his back. The old man followed, but something slammed into his shoulder, making him stagger back a pace. An arrow.
Dath.
Then Gar was leaping over Corban, standing before him, sword raised. The old man snarled at him, an annoyance, and launched into a blistering combination of blows, the arrow in his shoulder seeming to have little effect on him. Gar swerved to the left, trying to lead the old man away from Corban. He blocked a dozen blows, then stepped into an attack of his own; Corban heard their blades clash, six, seven times, more. When they separated, the old man was bleeding from a thin cut along his forehead; blood dripped from Gar’s elbow.
The old man touched a hand to his wound, then licked his fingertips. With shocking speed he powered forwards. Gar took an overhead blow on his blade, his legs spread, braced against the force of the attack. For heartbeats both stood there, the old man looking as if he was trying to grind Gar into the ground, Gar standing like an oak in a storm. Then Farrell suddenly appeared, ploughing into them. They went down in a mass, rolling together. The old man rose first, Gar spinning free. Farrell clambered to one knee and the old man struck out, punching him in the chest, sending him crashing to the floor. Gar rushed in, but the old man kicked out, a boot connecting full with Gar’s gut, hurling him away. The old man’s eyes swung back to Corban.
Corban realized he was still on the ground. He staggered to his feet as the old man strode towards him. Their swords clashed, a brief flurry, then Corban was tripping over a body, dropping to one knee. The old man snarled, a victory grin, raising his sword. Abruptly he stopped, frowning, gazing at his chest. A knife hilt protruded from it. There was another impact and he reeled back a step, another knife hilt poking from his shoulder.
Mam.
She ran past Corban, spear levelled at the old man. Cywen and Coralen appeared either side of Corban, hooking arms under him and hoisting him to his feet.
‘Very touching,’ Corban heard the old man say.
Gwenith stood before him, her spear raised. She thrust with all her strength as the old man surged forwards, but he slashed once, splintering the spear shaft, then again, Corban hearing the sound of iron impacting on flesh, a solid blow. He stared at his mam, saw her sway, then she collapsed in front of him.
He screamed, yanking his arms free from Cywen and Coralen, but before he could charge at the old man another figure was there, Meical.
‘Calidus,’ Meical said.
‘Meddler,’ the old man responded, his lips twisted in sneer or snarl. They set at each other then, a concussive power in their blows that Corban had never witnessed before.
‘Get Corban out of here,’ Meical yelled just before he and his enemy disappeared amongst the crowd.
Corban scrambled over to his mam, Cywen at his shoulder, and together they lifted her. She cried out, eyes fluttering, spots of blood on her lips. And she was pale, deathly pale. A bloody wound stretched from shoulder to chest, chips of white bone amongst the bubbling blood.
‘Mam,’ Corban breathed, the word a sob.
Cywen was crying beside him.
Corban stroked his mam’s face, tried to wipe the blood from her lips, but more kept appearing.
Her eyes were open, looking at them both. ‘My darlings,’ she whispered with her last breath.
Corban howled, a raw, feral thing as grief erupted inside him, an unending torrent. Dimly he was aware of Cywen sobbing beside him, gripping his mam’s hand, as if she were trying to squeeze life back into her.
‘Don’t leave me; please Mam, please Mam,’ he heard her saying, over and over.
He wrapped an arm around her and she hugged him back.
‘Quickly,’ a voice yelled, the sound of hooves suddenly loud. Corban felt hands tugging at him – Brina – saw Cywen hoisted by Farrell across Shield, Coralen sitting in his saddle, and then spurring away.
Gar bent down and lifted Gwenith in his arms, cradling her to his chest, tears streaming down his face. Then they were running towards the exit again, a crowd gathering about them. At the doorway Corban paused and looked back.
Battle was still raging between the Kadoshim and Jehar; many of the untainted warriors were forming a rearguard now, beginning a retreat. The cauldron was still visible upon its dais, a figure sitting on the steps close to it. Nathair. He was just watching the battle before him, a look of shock upon his face. Then others were pushing towards the exit, a knot of Jehar warriors sweeping him through the doors and away.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY
CORBAN
Everything passed in a blur to Corban as they hurtled through the shadowed corridors of Murias, the sounds of violence fading behind, people all around, the clatter of hooves ahead. Time drifted from its moorings, losing its meaning. Then Corban was in the chamber before Murias’ great gates, the dead everywhere. The giant with the white hair was there – Balur – a handful of his kin with him, including a pale giantess who stared at him intensely, a cluster of giant bairns about her. They had gathered horses for them, found them wandering out on the slopes. Corban felt hands upon him, helping him into a saddle, thrusting reins into his hands. He was dimly aware of more people pouring into the chamber – he saw Tukul and Meical, more of the Jehar.
Then they were outside. It was close to highsun, the air fresh and clean after the stifling damp of the underground caverns.
Corban rode from Murias, a small host about him, thundering down the slope and onto purple moorland, scattered giants running amongst them. Two birds flew low in the air above.
For the moment they did not know where they were going, just away, spurring their horses to a gallop, the wind whipping Corban’s face. Beside him rode Gar, his mam’s body slumped upon the warrior’s saddle. At a glance it seemed that she was siting up, leaning into Gar, asleep. The man was still weeping. Cywen rode close by, still sitting behind Coralen on Shield’s back, her arms wrapped around Coralen’s waist. Their gazes met, a grief shared.
Meical drew ahead and veered left, guiding them towards a line of hills that rolled eastwards. Corban looked down and saw Storm loping beside him, Buddai keeping pace. He bent forward over his mount’s neck and gave himself to the rhythm of the gallop.
The sun was dipping towards the horizon, sending shadows lancing ahead of them when they stopped. They had reached the foothills that Meical
had led them towards and travelled a league or so into their embrace. Corban could still see Murias behind him, a dark spike on the horizon. Birds swirled above it, a black halo.
Tukul organized the making of camp, setting guards who fanned out from their small host, others constructing a makeshift paddock beside a fast-flowing stream, while some set to digging a fire-pit. Corban looked about and saw they numbered in the hundreds: the Jehar who had travelled with him from Dun Vaner, plus the ones who had escaped the cauldron’s grip – at least another two hundred warriors, probably more. And giants – over a dozen were gathered about Balur, who was holding the black axe he had taken in combat, showing it to his kin. The giantess looked along with the rest, as did the giant bairns, as many at least as the adults. Corban shook his head.
Gar slipped from his saddle, cradling Gwenith’s body. He carried her to the stream’s bank and laid her gently upon the grass. Corban followed and stood over his mam. Her eyes were closed, her skin pale, translucent as wax. Her wound ran from shoulder to chest, blood crusted black about it. Corban felt a presence at his shoulder, knew it was Cywen. The three of them stood in silence, gazing down at Gwenith. Storm sniffed her hand, let out a high-pitched whine and Buddai curled at her feet. Then Cywen scrambled down to the stream, soaked the hem of her cloak in the icy water and came back to dab her mam’s face, washing the blood from her lips. Corban and Gar did the same, the three of them silently washing Gwenith, preparing her for burial. When she was wrapped in Corban’s cloak they began to pull stones from the stream, piling them about Gwenith’s body, building a cairn over her.
Time drifted, Corban slowly becoming aware that others were moving around him, helping to gather stones – first his friends, Dath, Coralen, Farrell, Brina, then others, Tukul and Meical amongst them. Last of all Balur joined them. He pulled a boulder the size of a child from the stream bed, and they set it at the head of Gwenith’s cairn. When they were done, the host stood about the grave, heads bowed. There was a flapping in Corban’s ear and Craf alighted on his shoulder, the crow’s claws pinching.
‘Sad,’ the bird croaked.
‘Yes,’ Corban whispered. A tear rolled down his cheek, and he heard Cywen sniff beside him.
A silence fell, the sound of the stream and wind amongst the heather framing the moment.
A voice broke the silence – old and harsh against the quiet. Brina. Alone she sang the opening lines of the lament. Gar was the first to add his voice, others joining until the hills rang. Even Balur and the giants sang.
They are not just singing for my mam; they all mourn those they have lost.
Memories bubbled up inside Corban of his mam, a thousand tender moments, sealed with her dying words, blood spattering her lips. My darlings, she had said. Grief welled sudden and powerful, consuming him, blotting out everything but his mam’s face. He felt an impact on his knees, realized dimly that he’d fallen, hands about him steadying, comforting. He let out a great sob, his body racked by it, tremors coursing through him, all the pain and torment that he had endured since the night of his da’s death surging up in one overwhelming moment.
He did not know how long he stayed there, kneeling in the dirt before his mam’s cairn. Eventually he looked up, swiping tears from his eyes. A few were still gathered about him – Cywen and Gar, their eyes red and raw. His friends, Dath and Farrell, Coralen regarding him with a rare compassion. He rose slowly and looked back across the leagues they had ridden, saw the last rays of the setting sun shining off the cliffs and towers of Murias, the image fracturing in his tear-filled eyes.
He thought of the cauldron, the black cloud rising from it, the tainted Jehar ripping men limb from limb, Nathair sitting on the dais steps, and finally the old man that he had fought, who had killed his mam. Calidus, Meical had called him. One thought circled in his head like the black birds swirling about the mountain peaks.
They must be stopped.
By John Gwynne
MALICE
VALOUR
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Writing Valour has been a great experience. As with Malice it has had quite a few helping hands along the way.
First of all a huge thank you to my wife, Caroline, and children, both for their support and for putting up with me whilst my head has been off in the Banished Lands.
Thanks must go to my agent, John Jarrold, for his belief and guidance. A consummate professional and also a top bloke who does a wonderful Michael Cain impersonation. Also my bloodthirsty editor at Tor UK, Julie Crisp, for her astounding ability to whip my efforts into shape, as well as a strong dose of belief in The Faithful and the Fallen. And thanks to my copy-editor, Jessica Cuthbert-Smith, a lady with an amazing eye for detail, as well as all the wonderful crew at Team Tor UK.
Thanks also to those who have taken the time to read Valour – not a small book – and thus sacrificing a considerable chunk of their precious time. Mark Roberson, Rhiannon Ivens, Sadak Miah – you are now forgiven for not reading Malice for such a long time – and Edward and William Gwynne, whom I would like to thank for their extra dedication, involving re-enacting most of the battle scenes from the book. Plasters were occasionally required.
First published 2014 by Tor
This electronic edition published 2014 by Tor
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
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ISBN 978-0-230-77143-7
Copyright © John Gwynne 2014
Map artwork © Fred van Deelen
The right of John Gwynne to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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