Valour

  ‘Aye, he did,’ Krelis said. ‘I’ll speak plainly, as I know no other way.’

  ‘Please do,’ Fidele said.

  ‘My men are learning it, but most of them don’t like it. The older ones especially. It goes against our ways, against generations of learning. It feels dishonourable.’

  Fidele sighed. All over she had heard the same complaints. But it was Nathair’s order, and he was king. And, besides, by all accounts it was devastatingly effective.

  ‘It works,’ Fidele said. ‘Peritus saw the shield wall first-hand, led by Veradis. Tell them.’

  Peritus sat up straighter. ‘Veradis led the van against Mandros in Carnutan. We were ambushed whilst fording a river. He and his warband formed the shield wall, knee-deep in the river, and carved a way through two thousand men, almost to Mandros himself.’

  Fidele watched their faces as Peritus spoke. Lamar tensed, a tightening around his eyes and lips. Why? Is there some grievance between Lamar and Veradis? If so I have not heard of it. Krelis beamed with pride. Ektor showed nothing, whether through self-control or lack of interest, she could not tell.

  ‘And you followed with your warband, did you not?’ Fidele said.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And how many men of yours died in the battle?’

  ‘Around five hundred.’

  ‘And from Veradis’ shield wall?’

  ‘Fewer than thirty.’

  Lamar raised an eyebrow; Krelis blew out a long breath.

  ‘Peritus is a skilled warrior, wise in the art of war, in tactics and strategy,’ Fidele said.

  ‘I know it,’ Krelis murmured. He had spent over a year riding with Peritus and his warband, learning from the battlechief, much like Veradis had done with Nathair. Although Veradis had stayed, while Krelis had returned home to Ripa and his father.

  ‘That is why he was my husband’s battlechief. I am not highlighting the difference in casualties during the campaign in Carnutan to shame him, because I know that he is truly great at what he does, and the best that Tenebral has to offer. But my son is a strategist, with a craftsman’s heart. The fact is that a war to end all wars is coming. The God-War will claim many lives, maybe even our own. My son’s logic is faultless – the shield wall stops our men from dying. And it kills the enemy with an efficiency that has not been seen before; is that not right, Peritus?’

  ‘Just so,’ the battlechief said.

  ‘You will train your men in the shield wall, and after your first battle remind yourself of this conversation. And your warriors’ wives and mothers shall thank you, honour be damned.’

  ‘Of course Krelis will do as you say,’ Lamar said, giving his son a stern look.

  ‘The God-War,’ Ektor said, animated all of a sudden. ‘Nathair and Veradis talked of it when they visited after Aquilus’ council. Nathair spoke of a book, a giant book and a prophecy.’

  ‘Yes, the writings of Halvor.’

  ‘I would dearly love to see it.’

  ‘That’s impossible, I’m afraid. I do not have it.’

  ‘Why, where is it?’ Ektor looked devastated.

  ‘Meical had it. As far as I know, he has it still.’

  ‘I have heard that name before – Aquilus’ counsellor, yes?’ Lamar asked.

  Fidele nodded.

  ‘And where is this Meical?’ Lamar said.

  I have asked that question more times than you can imagine. Fidele had liked Meical, even though there had been something frightening about him – an intensity thinly veiled.

  ‘He has not been seen since my husband was murdered,’ Fidele said.

  ‘What do you know of him?’ Lamar asked. ‘What realm is he from? Does he have kin that he could be tracked to?’

  ‘I do not know,’ Fidele said, feeling foolish before the words were out of her mouth. Meical had come to Tenebral a long time ago, before Nathair was born, and spent a long night in council with Aquilus. When day had dawned, Aquilus had brought Meical to her, and that had been the first time she had heard the God-War mentioned. Meical had soon been declared Aquilus’ counsellor, and almost immediately had left – travelling to Forn in search of Drassil, the hidden fortress. Aquilus had trusted him utterly, and so had she. But, who are you, Meical?

  ‘Well, he must be found. I need to see that book,’ Ektor said.

  ‘Really, why?’ Fidele asked.

  ‘My son is a scholar,’ Lamar said. ‘The past is his passion. We have an extensive library here, at Ripa. Left by the giants.’

  ‘Aquilus spoke of it to me,’ Fidele said.

  ‘I need to see that book,’ Ektor repeated, almost to himself.

  ‘Why?’

  He looked up then, held her gaze with bright, sharp eyes. ‘Because I think I know who, or what, Meical is.’

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CORALEN

  ‘I see them,’ Coralen said, turning in her saddle and gesturing to Rath.

  ‘Where?’ asked Rath, squinting into the distance.

  ‘There,’ Coralen said, pointing. ‘Not on the giants’ road. To the south, moving into the foothills before the mountains.’

  They were riding through grassland, skirting the giants’ road. Up ahead loomed the range of mountains that separated Domhain from Cambren, the giants’ road cutting a deep gully through them.

  ‘Damn my old eyes,’ Rath said, then was silent a while. ‘I see them,’ he said finally. ‘Well done, Cora; you’re the best tracker I’ve known, and I’ve known a few.’

  Coralen snapped a glance at him, surprised. ‘You going soft in your old age?’ she said.

  ‘Maybe I am. How long till we catch them?’

  ‘Depends. One day, if things stay as they are.’

  ‘Good. My arse is sore – too much riding. I must be getting old – I’d rather be having a drink back in Dun Taras.’

  Coralen snorted.

  ‘Still don’t like visiting your home?’

  ‘Dun Taras? That’s not my home. Here’s my home.’ She slapped her saddle. ‘Anywhere you are is my home.’

  ‘Now who’s going soft?’

  Coralen smiled at that. Truth be told, she’d rather be just about anywhere than back in Dun Taras.

  They had tracked the giants all the way from the border of Benoth, pausing briefly at Dun Taras for Rath to warn King Eremon that giants were loose in Domhain and – worse than that – they had been within half a day’s travel from Dun Taras.

  She didn’t like the fortress, it held too many bad memories, too many reminders, so she was much happier to be back in her saddle, even if it did mean a sore backside. Better that than all the bubbling emotions that rose up every time she was in sight of Dun Taras. It made her think too much, made her head ache. And she always just ended up feeling angry, usually fighting someone.

  ‘Let’s keep moving. Soon enough it’ll be time to spill some giant blood,’ Rath said, kicking his horse on.

  That’ll do, Coralen thought. They rode hard for a while, a score of warriors in a long column. It was cold and the clouds were low and bloated. As the sun was sinking, Coralen caught glimpses of individual figures ahead, flitting through patches of woodland on the hills.

  They’re heading for the pass. I know exactly where they’re going. She grinned to herself, then looked up and saw a bird high above, circling them; it looked like a solitary crow.

  Baird rode up beside her. ‘Strange behaviour for a bird,’ the warrior said, staring up at it.

  ‘That’s what I was thinking.’ She reined in her horse and reached for her bow, pulling it from its case, laying it across her saddle. Then she opened a pouch on her belt and pulled out a bowstring. Deftly she strung the bow and nocked an arrow.

  ‘Too late,’ Baird said as she raised the bow.

  The bird was winging its way into the foothills, squawking, flying in a straight line now.

  ‘Think you scared it,’ Baird said with a grin, the scars on his face creasing. ‘Don’t look so disappointed; there’ll be plenty more killing soon
enough.’

  That there will.

  She unstrung her bow and led them into the foothills.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  UTHAS

  Uthas ran, his legs taking long, ground-eating strides. The old pain in his knee throbbed but he ignored it, concentrating on his breathing. He could hear Salach behind him, the dull thud of his boots on turf, behind that the others: Fray, Struan, Kai and Eisa. Far above, Nemain’s raven Fech flew in a jagged line. Up ahead he could see mountains rearing behind the pine-coated foothills they were running through. And beyond them is Cambren, Rhin’s land. We will be safe there.

  He risked a glance behind, his pace slowing a little. There was no sign of pursuit at first, then he saw it, a thin line in the distance, moving, following them.

  Rath.

  Fech had been right, back at Dun Taras. Rath had picked up their trail in the north and was tracking them south. Panic and anger had rippled through his group at Rath’s name, the reputation of the man and his band of giant-killers overriding rational thought. Fray and Eisa had wanted to fight Rath, to march out and meet him and his warriors, but Uthas had known it would be suicide. You did not fight Rath on his own ground, on his own terms. He had been too long and efficient at giant-killing. No, escape was the priority; fulfil the plans. So they had fled east, towards Cambren. Rath had gained on them, somehow, and for the last five nights their pursuers had been almost constantly within sight. He looked forwards and fixed his eyes on the mountains. Five leagues, at least. We will make it. It will be close, but we will make it. And he will not dare to follow us into Cambren.

  The giants’ road was a shadowed line far below them. Uthas paused and looked back; he could see that Rath and his men were closer.

  Damn them.

  He muttered a curse and led his group quickly into the trees, a growing sense of alarm settling upon him. For the first time he began to consider the possibility of being caught by Rath, of being forced to battle. Of dying. As the thought grew, so did a sense of panic. By sunset he knew he had to do something.

  He called a halt. They were still in the foothills, under the cover of dense pines, but further ahead he could see that the trees thinned and the path led into the mountains proper. He set Fray and Kai on watch while he scouted ahead and found a place far enough distant that he would not be disturbed. After making a small fire, he drew a knife and opened a small pouch, from which he pulled out a lock of brittle silver hair. Rhin’s hair. This was giant magic, earth magic – he cut his palm, rolled the lock of hair in his blood and dropped it into the fire. The flames swirled as a shape grew within them: a face, old and lined. Rhin. ‘What?’ Rhin said. Her eyes focused on Uthas. ‘This is not a good time.’

  ‘I must talk to you, now,’ Uthas hissed. Then he heard a bough creak above and looked up to see a dark shape, feathers. Fech. He froze and the bird flapped its wings, rising into the air.

  Nemain cannot know.

  He fumbled for his knife, found it, aimed and threw. There was a muted squawk as he found his target, then Fech was gone.

  Uthas looked back to the fire, but Rhin’s face had disappeared. He stood, hurriedly stamped the fire out and left. He was on his own.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  MAQUIN

  ‘Something’s different,’ Maquin said as he looked up.

  ‘They’ve stopped banging on the doors,’ Orgull said.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Not that it seemed to bother you,’ Tahir added. ‘You’ve managed to sleep through most of their hammering.’

  ‘I was just resting my eyes,’ Maquin said.

  ‘Wish you’d have rested my ears – your snoring’s been loud enough to wake the dead.’

  ‘Watch your cheek,’ Maquin said as he stood, his back protesting. ‘I’m getting old.’

  They were settled at the rear of Dun Kellen’s feast-hall, a large portion of the surviving warriors scattered about the room. The stone walls were solid and thick; the only wood that they could attempt to burn was the hall’s great doors, but the flames had achieved little success.

  A warrior strode through a doorway at the back of the hall and approached them.

  ‘The Lady Gerda would speak with you,’ the warrior addressed all three of them.

  Gerda was sitting in a wide chair when they were ushered in to see her; a warrior in chainmail and a bearskin cloak was before her. A child, the young boy Maquin had seen with Gerda before, sat in flickering shadows at the back of the room, whittling at a piece of wood with a small knife. Haelan.

  Gerda smiled.

  ‘I am expecting my reinforcements to arrive soon,’ she said. ‘Possibly today. When they reach Dun Kellen we will rally, take the battle to Jael from within. He will not be able to stand an attack on two fronts, and the reinforcements should outnumber him. I think he will flee.’

  ‘Probably,’ Orgull said. ‘He does not strike me as one for a brave last stand.’

  ‘No, indeed. He’d rather run and save his scrawny neck, the snot-nosed slimy little piece of dung,’ Gerda said with venom.

  The boy looked up, appearing to be holding back laughter.

  Gerda took a shuddering breath. ‘But the Jael I know is unpredictable. He is capable of many things. This is Thoris, my battlechief,’ she said with a wave of her hand. The man nodded to them, his warrior braid woven thick in his fair hair. ‘We are discussing eventualities.’

  Where is she going with this?

  ‘If the unlikely happens, and Jael is victorious, then I would ask one last thing of you all. I would ask you to protect Haelan, my son, and take him somewhere safe.’ She looked at them pleadingly. ‘I do not expect this to happen, and I pray to Elyon that it will not, but it is better to be safe than sorry.’

  ‘That’s what my mam used to say,’ Tahir whispered to Maquin.

  ‘I have seen your valour, your strength in combat, seen how you value an oath given. That is why I ask this of you. My other warriors are sworn to me, but also to Dun Kellen, and to avenge Varick. They have too many oaths to serve. You three are different. If you gave your word you would see it happen, or die in the trying. You have served me well, served Isiltir well, and if we survive this, your reward will be great.’

  A silence filled the room. Maquin was shocked. Throughout the battle and days of siege he had thought of little except his revenge. Jael dead by his hand. He had given his word back in Haldis to help Orgull escape, to bring word of Jael’s treason here to Isiltir. He had done that, fulfilled that promise. And now here was Gerda asking him to take another oath, to place more shackles upon him. He did not want to do it, wanted only to seek out Jael in the coming battle and see his life’s blood spilt.

  And he had sworn an oath of protection before, to Kastell and his da. A blood-oath. He looked at his palm and traced the old scar, white and faded. Looking up, he saw the young lad staring at him. Ten years old, fair hair streaked with copper, freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks. He even looked like Kastell. That should not be a surprise; they shared blood, distantly.

  ‘Will you do this for me?’ Gerda said.

  ‘Yes,’ Maquin heard himself say. You old fool, Maquin.

  The wind pulled at Maquin’s hair. He was standing on a flat tower roof looking over Dun Kellen, from where he could see Jael’s men – some camped in the keep’s courtyard while others moved among the streets. He has gathered quite a warband. Where did he come by these numbers, when so many of Isiltir’s warriors died in Forn Forest?

  A noise drifted on the wind, coming from the north. Horns. He squinted, looking across the plains, then saw them. A dark stain on the horizon, inching its way closer. Gerda’s reinforcements have come. He smiled grimly. Jael’s reckoning was close.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Orgull asked him.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And you remember the plan?’

  ‘We stick together, find Jael; kill him.’ Maquin grinned at Orgull and Tahir, no humour in the expression.

  They were stand
ing close to the barred gates of the feast-hall with Gerda’s warriors, all armed and ready for battle. As soon as the signal was given they planned to burst from the tower and join the banner-men, so that Jael would be fighting on two fronts.

  ‘Yes, that’s the plan,’ Orgull said. ‘Or part of it. If things go bad we head back here, to Haelan, take the boy and flee.’

  ‘Aye,’ Maquin said. He had taken the oath, said the words, but the weight of them sat in his gut now like a lead ball. Why did I do it? He didn’t need to ask himself that question. He knew why. For Kastell. For himself – a chance to prove he could fulfil his oath, keep a child alive. A chance to not fail.

  A wild clanging rang down from the tower, filling the hall. The gates were heaved open and then they were charging, pouring into the courtyard, blinking in the daylight.

  They slammed into a line of warriors, the combat quickly disintegrating into individual battles. Maquin ducked behind his shield and felt a heavy blow shiver through the wood and up his arm. He chopped low and heard a crack as he broke his enemy’s ankle. Another man jabbed a spear at his ribs but he swept it away with his sword, stepped in close and smashed his shield into the man’s face, sending him staggering back.

  Orgull was up ahead, his axe a blur swirling around his head, tracing an arc of blood. Tahir fought beside him, and Maquin stepped in next to his sword-brothers. Together they carved their way forwards, Jael’s warriors giving before them.

  Surrounded by Dun Kellen’s defenders, they fought through the courtyard, out into a wide street, and then finally the fortress’ gates were visible ahead. There was only the stone arch still standing, the wooden gates twisted and charred.

  Maquin could hear the frantic blowing of horns in the distance, the sound of hooves on stone streets, men screaming, the clash of arms. All about them was a swirling mass of combat, the blood and stench of men dying. Maquin blinked sweat from his eyes, a sword hilt punched into his face and he felt a tooth go. He spat it out, along with a mouthful of blood, grinned wildly and ploughed on.