Valour

  ‘Something is wrong,’ Meical said. ‘Those are not Brenin’s colours.’

  The riders were closer, had seen them, some pointing. Tukul counted twelve of them.

  ‘They wear the colours of Cambren. Rhin’s colours,’ Meical said.

  ‘Should we turn back?’ Tukul asked.

  ‘Too late. They would only follow. Let us see this through, find out where it leads us.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Tukul reached down and slipped the leather cover from his axe. All-Father, may my arm be strong and my sword sharp. He glanced at Meical, at the longsword hanging at his hip. ‘When was the last time you used your sword?’

  ‘In this world of flesh? Against the wolven that gave me these.’ He ran a finger along the silver scars that raked his face. ‘Do not worry, my friend. If it comes to sword-work, I think I can remember what to do.’

  The warriors rode up, pulled up before them.

  ‘What’s your business here?’ asked one of them, an older man, grey hair pulled back from his face.

  ‘We are travelling to Narvon. Just looking for a place to rest the night,’ Meical said, his voice warm, relaxed.

  ‘Where are you from?’ the old man asked. Men moved to their sides, curling around them.

  ‘Carnutan. Leaving the war behind. We’ve been on the road since midsummer. What’s the news, here?’

  ‘You’ve come to the wrong place if you’re running from war,’ one of the other warriors spoke up, a younger one, his beard thin with youth.

  ‘I heard Brenin was a peaceful king,’ Meical said.

  ‘Brenin’s dead. Rhin rules here,’ the young one said.

  ‘What about you?’ the older man said, fixing his eyes on Tukul. ‘You don’t look as if you’re from Carnutan.’

  Tukul just stared at him, not sure what to say. Diplomacy had never been his strength.

  ‘He’s got the look of one of those that came with that foreign king,’ another man said.

  ‘That’s what I was thinking,’ the older man said.

  ‘There were Jehar here?’ Tukul blurted.

  ‘Jehar – that’s it. And I’m thinking you know that already. Are you a deserter? Not got the stomach for war? You should be across the water with the rest of your lot, with Rhin and Nathair.’

  Tukul saw Meical stiffen at that.

  ‘He rode here from Carnutan, with me,’ Meical said, hiding his shock.

  The old man looked at them both. ‘Think you’d both best come with me. We’ll see what Evnis has to say about this.’

  ‘Evnis?’ Meical said.

  ‘Aye. He rules here in Rhin’s place. Come along now.’

  Riders closed about them.

  Without a word, or even a warning look to Tukul, Meical burst into motion. His sword arced into the warrior nearest him, cutting upwards into his jaw, teeth and blood exploding. The man fell backwards, gurgling. Before any could react, Meical was turning his arm, using the momentum of his first strike to form his second, looping his blade down to crack into the helm of another warrior, denting the helm, the man slumping, senseless or dead.

  Tukul pulled his axe free, threw it, and was drawing his sword from its scabbard across his back as the axe buried itself in the old warrior’s chest. Then the others were moving, shouting, yanking on reins, horses neighing, crushing together, weapons hissing from scabbards.

  A spear-blade grazed Tukul’s cheek as he swayed in his saddle, using his knees and ankles to guide his mount straight towards the man with his axe in his chest. He grabbed the shaft as the man toppled backwards, wrenching it free, used the axe to turn another spear thrust and sliced his sword through the man’s throat, leaving blood arcing.

  Four down, eight left. You need space, old man; don’t let them crowd you. He spurred his horse on, crashing through the loose circle that was pulling tight about him, sword and axe swirling, deflecting, cutting, another warrior toppling in his wake. Then he was in open space, turf instead of horseflesh about him. He tugged on his reins, his mount turning a tight circle, and caught a glimpse of Meical with blood on his face, his horse rearing, hooves lashing out. Riders were approaching from the village, galloping: more warriors seeing the conflict, five, ten, more.

  This is not looking good.

  He swayed in his saddle, leaning heavily to avoid a sword cut, slashed the man’s leg as he pulled back up, the muscles in his back straining, complaining, his axe-blade biting deep, turning on bone. He pulled it free, deflected a sword stabbing at his chest, heard the pounding of galloping hooves drawing closer, closer.

  Meical, I must reach Meical.

  Then horses were all about him. It took a moment to register who their riders were – holding their swords two-handed, carving through their enemy with great swooping blows, tracing crimson arcs through the air. His sword-kin, the Jehar. All of them.

  Within heartbeats their enemy were dead or dying, the ground about them churned, slippery with blood and bodies. A riderless horse trotted away, stopped and began cropping when it found some grass.

  Tukul saw Enkara. ‘You were supposed to wait,’ he said to her, then grinned. ‘I am glad you didn’t.’

  She grinned back.

  No more riders were issuing from the village, though many were milling about on foot, pointing. A horn blast rang out, answered from the fortress on the hill.

  ‘Come,’ Meical yelled, ‘we must ride.’

  They thundered back along the giantsway; Tukul’s blood was racing, pounding in his ears, the joy of battle still coursing through him. Blessed are those who stand before the darkness with a pure heart, though their swords run red. Thank you, All-Father, for the gift of combat. Wind whipped his face and a thought seeped through the fading euphoria. But where is the Seren Disglair?

  They sped along the giantsway, putting league after league between them and Dun Carreg. If there was any pursuit, by nightfall it would have fallen hopelessly behind. Eventually Meical called a halt and they made camp in a sheltered cove. Huge moss-covered boulders and dense stands of wind-beaten trees provided some cover from the rain that had begun to fall.

  Where is the Seren Disglair? And those warriors, they spoke of the Jehar, here. How can that be? ‘Where are we going?’ Tukul asked Meical.

  ‘I must find him,’ Meical said. ‘I have avoided the Otherworld for too long. Going back there has its dangers: Asroth tracks my steps there, and I would not lead him straight to the Bright Star. So I have trusted to King Brenin and the guardians I have set about the Seren Disglair in this world of flesh. I have been too cautious. I must go back to the Otherworld and find him there.’ He spread a blanket on the ground and lay upon it.

  Your ways are not our ways, Tukul quoted to himself, but if it were up to me I would have kept a closer watch on the Bright Star.

  ‘Do not try to wake me,’ Meical said.

  Almost instantly Meical’s breathing changed, deeper and slower. His eyelids twitched, his breaths slowing further, becoming shallow now, the gap between them so wide that a casual observer might think Meical was dead.

  Tukul stood the first watch. When he was relieved he lay down beside Meical, who was as still as the dead. Tukul’s body was stiffening now, his joints and muscles protesting at the day’s events. He woke to someone touching his shoulder. Meical. Dawn’s grey light outlined boulders and trees.

  ‘I have found him,’ Meical said, looking drawn, eyes dark and sunken. ‘We must ride to Domhain.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CYWEN

  Cywen was standing with the giant, Alcyon, who had apparently taken over the duty of guarding her.

  She’d been told only a short while ago that she was leaving. Bos gave her the news. Where she was going he would not, or could not, say.

  She looked up at the giant, a head taller than Shield, his black axe curving over his shoulder.

  ‘Where are we going, then?’ she asked him. Might as well try asking – someone might give me an answer.

  He just stared down at h
er a moment, then looked away.

  Not the most talkative of travelling companions, then. He looks as miserable as I feel.

  The Jehar were milling around her, climbing into saddles, harness creaking. The other three giants that had joined them recently stood close together, and near to them she saw Veradis appear, his eyes searching. They focused on her and as he marched over, her mood lightened, just a little.

  ‘Why wasn’t I told about this?’ he said to Alcyon.

  ‘What?’ His voice sounded like stones grinding together.

  ‘This.’ Veradis gestured at Cywen. ‘Taking her north with you.’

  I’m going north, then.

  ‘I don’t know,’ the giant said with a shrug.

  ‘Why does she need to go with you?’

  ‘Calidus wants her near to him.’ Alcyon shrugged again. ‘You’ll have to ask him why.’

  Veradis frowned, emotions sweeping his face. Anger, worry.

  What are you worried about? Me? She felt pleased to see him. He had not been a bad travelling companion, in his way. Since they had camped here, at the foot of the mountains, she had seen little of him, though. ‘Good day to you too,’ she said.

  ‘What? Oh, yes.’ Veradis looked at her, seemed about to say something.

  ‘What?’ Cywen said.

  ‘Nothing.’ Veradis shook his head.

  Instead he looked to Alcyon and stared at him.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked the giant.

  How does he know something’s wrong with the giant? His face looks like a rock.

  Alcyon didn’t answer, but his eyes flickered across the crowds, towards the other three giants.

  ‘I thought you’d like travelling with others of your kind,’ Veradis said.

  ‘I am Kurgan; they are Benothi. It is an old blood-feud.’ He smiled, looking for an instant more human to Cywen. ‘If nothing else we giants know how to bear a grudge.’

  ‘Look after Nathair,’ Veradis said to Alcyon.

  ‘Calidus will not let any harm come to him.’

  ‘Aye. If it is within his power to stop it.’ Veradis looked over to Nathair, sitting tall on his draig. Cywen could just make out Calidus near him.

  ‘Yes. And his power is formidable.’

  Veradis nodded, still looking troubled. ‘And look after her,’ he muttered.

  ‘I will,’ Alcyon said. ‘And you try and look after yourself. I will not be around to keep saving your skin.’

  ‘No. I shall do my best.’ Veradis smiled now.

  ‘You will be fighting soon – today, tomorrow. Think on that, not about us walking north. We will be at least a moon travelling through Cambren before we even reach Benoth. We will not see trouble until then.’

  Just then a group of warriors rode by, wearing the black and gold of Cambren. Queen Rhin led them. Cywen saw Conall close to her, wrapped in a dark cloak.

  ‘Is she going with you?’ Veradis asked Alcyon.

  ‘Aye, part of the way. She has some reason for returning to Dun Vaner. She is leaving Geraint in charge of her warband, but he seems capable enough. He did well against Owain.’

  ‘That battle ran to Rhin’s plan,’ Veradis said. He shrugged. ‘It does not matter to me who leads the warriors of Cambren. I will lead my shield wall and fight whoever is foolish enough to stand in front of it.’

  ‘You are fighting today?’ Cywen said to Veradis.

  He nodded. ‘We are pushing into Domhain. I don’t think that Eremon will just allow that to happen. There will be a greeting arranged for us. Maybe not today, but soon.’

  ‘Oh.’ Cywen felt a knot in her stomach. She looked back, at the broad road that cut a swathe into the rain-shrouded mountains. Are my mam and Corban through there? Will they fight for Domhain? And Veradis . . . She looked at the young warrior, his expression so earnest.

  Horns sounded, echoing through the throng.

  ‘Time to go,’ Alcyon said. ‘Stay safe, True-Heart.’ Alcyon offered his arm to Veradis, who gripped the giant’s forearm.

  ‘What did you call me?’ Veradis asked him.

  ‘True-Heart. It is your name,’ Alcyon said, then turned to Cywen. ‘On your horse, child.’

  ‘I’m not a child,’ she grumbled as she swung onto Shield’s back. She was feeling miserable again.

  ‘Farewell,’ Veradis said to her as she sat in her saddle. He reached out, his fingertips brushing the top of her hand. ‘Stay safe,’ he said, quietly.

  Looking at him she could not find the words to answer, just stared back at him as she rode away. A strange thought struck her.

  I shall miss him.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CORBAN

  Sweat dripped from Corban’s brow. The heat from the forge and the ache from swinging a hammer felt like familiar friends. They brought back a flood of memories, of working with his da in the forge back in Dun Carreg, Buddai slouched by the doorway. Good times.

  Corban had asked Halion to find him a blacksmith who wouldn’t mind him using his forge for a day or so. With war looming close, that had been harder than Corban originally thought, but Halion was well liked at the fortress, so eventually somewhere had been found. It was cutting it close, though. The muster was finished, and Eremon’s warband was set to march on the morrow.

  ‘Enough,’ Farrell grunted, his tongs turning the piece of iron that Corban was hammering. It was the length of a dagger, but curved.

  Corban hammered an iron pin through the wide end, punching a hole, then Farrell dipped it into a bucket of water, steam hissing. Finally he placed it beside a pile of similar pieces.

  ‘That the last one?’ Corban said, almost disappointed.

  ‘Aye. Fifteen blades. Still some work to do, though. They all need sharpening, and then there’s some leather work to be done.’

  ‘Aye. Let’s go see my mam.’

  The streets of Dun Taras were packed, the population of the whole fortress seemingly determined to enjoy their last night of peace. Musicians strumming upon lyres or beating rhythms out on leather-skinned drums lined every street corner, men and women dancing jigs and singing loudly. Corban, Marrock and Camlin were winding their way towards the feast-hall through the growing crowds. Storm helped them through the throng, a pathway opening automatically wherever she padded. Once upon a time Corban would have shared the excitement – once all he wanted was to be a warrior, to fight in defence of his king and kin. He had had a taste of war now, though, and the thought of more of it filled him with dread. He was not scared, not of battle, anyway. It was more the knowledge of what came after – the loss of life, the grief and heartache. Memories of his da and Cywen flickered through his mind, and other faces: Heb, Anwarth, Mordwyr, those who had fallen on their flight to Domhain. With an effort he pushed the memories away.

  ‘There’ll be a lot o’sore heads on the morrow,’ Camlin observed.

  ‘They’ll have a nice long walk to the border to work it off,’ Marrock said. ‘Besides, I don’t blame them. Live life while you can, for who knows what the morrow will bring.’

  ‘Didn’t take you for a philosopher.’ Camlin smiled.

  ‘Events change us,’ Marrock said. Corban saw him glance at his wrist.

  ‘Aye, that they do.’

  He seems to be coping better, Corban thought. The bitterness that had stained Marrock’s voice every time that he spoke of his injury had faded during their time in Dun Taras. Perhaps he has come to terms with it now. Somehow Corban did not think that was true. If anything, his bitterness is buried, like rocks at high tide. I still see it surface every now and then.

  The doors to the feast-hall were flung open, a wall of sound pulsing out. All manner of merriment was going on inside – dancing, wrestling, singing, dice and throw-boards, all to a tune and barrels of free-flowing ale.

  ‘Where are they?’ Corban said, almost having to shout over the noise.

  ‘Over there.’ Camlin led them to a great crush of people. Vonn and Halion greeted them.

  ‘What??
?s going on?’ Corban asked.

  ‘Farrell,’ Halion said with a grin. ‘Look.’

  Farrell was sitting at a narrow table, a warrior opposite him, all thick muscle and hair. They were arm-wrestling. Both their faces were red with strain, veins bulging in arms that seemed frozen, carved from stone. As Corban watched, Farrell’s opponent gave a great roar, his arm starting to move, first a tremor, and then Farrell had slammed it onto the table. The crowd erupted with cheering.

  Dath appeared with a jug in each hand.

  ‘That’s the third one he’s beaten.’ Dath grinned, passing a jug to Corban, who took a drink and then passed it to Camlin.

  ‘Is it a tournament, then?’

  ‘Aye, and he’s entered another sort too, by the looks of it.’

  Farrell was still seated at the bench, but now sitting opposite him was Coralen. She was filling two pewter cups. Farrell took one and together they tipped the contents down their throats. Farrell screwed his eyes shut. Coralen laughed.

  Corban slapped Farrell on the back.

  ‘She thinks I can’t hold a drink,’ Farrell said to him.

  Coralen handed Farrell another cup.

  Corban looked along the bench, saw Baird slumped upon it with his head resting on the table, half a dozen empty cups beside him.

  ‘What happened to him?’ Corban asked Coralen.

  ‘He’s sleeping off round one,’ Coralen said, flashing a grin. Farrell downed his drink.

  Corban leaned close to Farrell’s ear. ‘Maybe you should concede, and stick to the arm-wrestling.’

  ‘Thish is my chance to impresh her,’ his friend replied loudly.

  ‘Never met a lady who’s impressed with vomit in her lap,’ Dath said.

  A warrior sat down opposite Farrell; Coralen shifted along for him. He put his arm on the table, another challenger for Farrell.

  This one didn’t last more than a dozen heartbeats.

  ‘Have a drink,’ Farrell said to his defeated opponent. Coralen handed out cups and they drank them down.

  Someone tapped Corban on the shoulder – his mam.

  ‘Are they done?’ Corban asked her.