Valour

‘No.’

  ‘Why not – I might need to defend myself.’

  Alcyon smiled at her. ‘I can see why Veradis likes you,’ he said. ‘You’ve got spirit.’

  Veradis? That stilled her tongue.

  ‘Put your knives out of your head; there’s not a chance in Asroth’s Otherworld that I’ll be putting a blade in your hand. I might like you, but I don’t trust you. And don’t worry; if you need defending, I’ll be the one to do it.’

  She couldn’t think of an answer to that, so she just scowled at him instead.

  All about her the Jehar were already mounted, waiting. Horses whickered, harness creaked, chainmail jangled, then a horn call rose up somewhere ahead, eerie and muted in the morning mist. The host set off, two thousand warriors riding to battle.

  ‘The fighting will be at Murias, then?’

  ‘No more questions,’ Alcyon said. Something in his tone warned her not to press him.

  ‘I’m glad,’ she said to him.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Glad?’

  ‘That you’re still alive. That my brother didn’t kill you.’

  ‘Come, faster,’ he ordered, opening his stride, moving past rows of the Jehar, heading for the head of the column. Shield slowed as they neared Nathair astride his draig, but Cywen encouraged him forward and they fell in beside Nathair and his bodyguards.

  By mid-morning the mist had mostly burned away, revealing hills and vales of sweeping moorland, much the same as they had been journeying across for days. Up ahead a lone mountain loomed, dark cliffs soaring into the clouds.

  ‘Murias,’ Calidus declared.

  It was not until the sun was hovering over the horizon that they had ridden close enough for Cywen to make out towers and walls, though the place did not look like any of the giant strongholds she had seen before. The towers looked as if they had grown out of the mountain, as if the rock had been melted and reformed by crude hands. Something organic, rather than built.

  The ground started rising, sloping up to meet the mountains. Cywen saw a wide road, cutting a line into long shadows cast by the mountain, leading to a huge arched gateway of carved stone. The gates were closed.

  ‘Not planning a stealthy attack, then?’ Cywen said to Alycon.

  Nathair overheard her. ‘I am the Bright Star, the Seren Disglair,’ he said from his draig’s back. ‘It feels as if I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life; I’ll not lessen it by sneaking up like a thief in the night. This is my destiny.’ He looked at her and smiled.

  Have it your way. Though I’m wondering how you think you’re going to get in there. Just walk up and knock on their gates?

  In the distance a sound drifted on the air, a wolven howling, as if heralding the coming of night. Buddai whined, and Shield slowed, his head pulling around.

  ‘Walk on,’ Cywen ordered, digging her heels into Shield’s sides. Buddai was standing stock still, his head cocked to one side. Then he bolted away, back the way they had come, quickly disappearing into the gloom. Cywen called him, reining Shield in.

  ‘We can’t stop,’ Alcyon said, tugging on the rope about her waist.

  ‘But Buddai . . .’

  ‘He doesn’t like the look of Murias,’ Alcyon said. ‘Sensible animal. He’ll be out here when we’re done, waiting for you.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Keep moving.’ It was Calidus who spoke now. After a last look back Cywen urged Shield onwards.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SIX

  CORALEN

  ‘Murias,’ Coralen said, pointing into the distance. A tall peak reared before them, the first mountain of a range that faded into the distance.

  They had ridden hard since the ambush in the woods, two nights gone. At first she’d thought they would catch the giant, but he had not stopped running for two days and nights solid, each morning the gap between them widening a little.

  It had been a shock, seeing the other Jehar in the woods, a lesson of what awaited them once they caught up with Nathair and his warband. Tukul had been grim faced ever since, something unspoken passing between them all.

  Blood was going to be shed.

  But I knew that, anyway.

  She saw Corban gazing at Nathair’s host, a dark line winding its way towards the mountains. They were standing beneath a handful of wind-blasted trees, gnarled and twisted branches grasping at the sky. Everyone had taken the opportunity to dismount and stretch their legs, drink some water, chew on some meat, tend their horses.

  ‘Nathair,’ she heard Corban whisper.

  ‘He’s there,’ Meical said, standing close beside them.

  ‘He killed my da. Put a sword in his chest; right here.’ Corban tapped a finger against his leather jerkin.

  Meical gave him a searching look. ‘This is about rescue, not revenge,’ he said. ‘Or is it?’

  She saw Corban close his eyes, screwing them shut. After a while he blew out a long breath.

  ‘Cywen is what matters here,’ he said.

  ‘Good. There are too many of them for us to take on. Another time. Of course, if there is an opportunity to take Nathair’s head from his shoulders . . .’

  ‘And Sumur’s,’ added Tukul.

  Storm was standing nearby, sniffing the air. Suddenly she lifted her head and howled. Dath jumped. Coralen froze, half expecting to see the line of Nathair’s warband stop and look at them.

  ‘Is she trying to tell everyone within a day’s travel where we are?’ Tukul said.

  ‘I don’t know why she did that.’ Corban frowned.

  ‘If we ride hard we’ll catch them by nightfall,’ Tukul said.

  ‘And then what?’ Dath this time.

  ‘We find Cywen and get her out of there.’ Gwenith’s lips twitched into a half-smile as she said Cywen’s name.

  Coralen looked back to Nathair’s warband crawling like ants towards the mountains. Sheer cliffs rose into the sky before them, peaks wreathed in cloud.

  I don’t like this. Murias’ walls are thick, its gates strong. How are they planning on getting in there?

  Craf started squawking, hopping about on Brina’s saddle. The bird was looking up at the sky. A black dot was circling above them, spiralling downwards. They all watched the dot grow into a bird, big and black.

  ‘It’s Fech,’ Brina said.

  The raven seemed to study them, eyes scanning the crowd of seventy or so people, then it saw Corban and sailed down to him, alighting on a branch close by.

  ‘Corban,’ it said, then began preening its feathers.

  ‘Fech, is that you?’ Brina said. Craf cawed.

  ‘Fech, yes,’ the bird said. ‘Message from Edana, for Corban.’

  What is it?’ Corban asked.

  ‘Eremon is dead. Domhain fallen. Edana sails for Dun Crin.’

  The blood in Coralen’s veins turned to ice. ‘What?’ she hissed. She felt dizzy, unsteady on her feet.

  ‘Edana and the others, are they all alive?’ Corban asked.

  ‘When I left them,’ Fech croaked.

  ‘You are sure about Eremon?’ Coralen said.

  ‘Yes. Saw him die. Girl killed him. Maeve.’

  Maeve. My half-sister, murderer of my da. It was all coming too quickly, the bird’s words taking on a dreamlike quality, like some herald from the Otherworld.

  ‘Is there anything else? Any more you can tell us?’ Meical asked.

  ‘Rhin there. Made Conall ruler of Domhain.’

  With a groan Coralen turned and walked deeper into the stand of trees.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN

  MAQUIN

  Maquin sat in a chamber, staring at his hands. He had been waiting all day; they all had, the last of his comrades, Herak’s elite, their final contest upon them. In the distance he heard the roar of the crowd, knew that blood was being spilt in the arena.

  Whose blood, though?

  He hoped that Javed survived, for what it was worth. He had avoided making friends amongst these pit-fighters, knew when he made his dec
ision in the pit on Nerin to live and fight that there was no room for friendship in his life any longer. There was only Jael. That was the focus, the goal, the justification for all that he had done. For all that he would do.

  But Javed was hard not to like, with his easy smile and open nature. Perhaps he would survive, earn Lykos’ chest of gold and his freedom. He hoped so.

  He continued to stare at his hands.

  A killer’s hands. A murderer’s hands. I have become all that I hated, and if that takes me to Jael and his death, then I shall be content.

  He raised a hand to scratch an itch in his ear, only to touch a stub of flesh, all that remained of his ear since Deinon cut a slice out of it. Strange how something that isn’t there can itch.

  A key rattled in the door of his chamber – rooms that lined the courtyard of Jerolin. The guard Emad walked in, two other Vin Thalun with him.

  ‘You’re up, old wolf,’ Emad said.

  Maquin stood and walked to the door, stepping out into the sunlight.

  Petals littered the courtyard as he walked through it and out of the gates, drifting about his feet. Crowds had been celebrating earlier, lining the streets as Lykos and Fidele had passed through on their way to the arena. Tonight they would be handbound, the culmination of a day of celebrations.

  How has Lykos managed that? He did not know Fidele, had only seen her on a few occasions, most of them back in the life-before, as he thought of it, when he had been here for Aquilus’ council. But even then she had not seemed even remotely suited to the likes of Lykos.

  The sound of the crowds grew louder as he approached the arena. Vin Thalun were everywhere, spread about the meadow, ringing the outside of the arena, lining all the entrances.

  He ignored them as he was led into a tunnel, more guards closing about him, shouldering a way through the crowds.

  Then he was there, stepping out into the ring, the ground a churned quagmire of mud. Off to his left a patch of blood and gore marked the end-place of the last contest.

  He was the first to arrive, no one else in here yet. He moved forwards and saw a sack in the middle of the ring. Two knives were in it, curved and thick bladed, tapering to wicked points. He took them out, twirled them in his hands, did a slow turn of the arena.

  All around the crowd were shouting, cheering. He had built a reputation now. Close to the ringside in a boxed tier sat Lykos and Fidele. Lykos looked relaxed, enjoying himself, a cup of something in one hand. The other was inside his cloak, and something about his posture told Maquin he was gripping something, as he had before.

  What is it?

  Fidele was sitting beside him, a fixed expression on her face, part smile, part grimace. She looked as if her countenance had been frozen in place.

  A sound drew his attention, snapping his head around. The gateway to the far tunnel had opened. His eyes focused on the dark entrance: a handful of figures stepping out into the daylight; Vin Thalun guards and the man he would fight.

  His eyes narrowed as he saw his final opponent. It was Orgull.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT

  CORBAN

  Corban found Coralen alone amidst the trees, strapping on her wolven claws with sharp, jerking movements. Tears stained her cheeks.

  She heard his footsteps and looked up.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said.

  ‘You? You’ve nothing to be sorry for,’ Coralen said. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I mean, I wish I could help, and I’m sorry that I can’t. I’m sorry that I can’t make you feel better, that I can’t take your pain away.’

  ‘No one can,’ she snapped. ‘Don’t concern yourself.’

  ‘But he was your da.’

  ‘Yes, he was my da,’ she murmured, sorrow coating each word. ‘Not that he ever acted like it.’ Her eyes were unfocused now, seeing something other than Corban and the trees about them. With a shiver she came back. ‘You should go now.’

  ‘Come with me. You’re amongst friends now.’

  ‘I’ll be along after.’ She wiped the tears from her cheeks. Corban understood her meaning – she did not want anyone to see the evidence of her grief. She held her emotions hidden deep and secure, a wall of her own making. He turned to go.

  ‘Corban,’ she said, the word stopping him dead. He stood, waiting.

  ‘You asked me before, why I have come on this journey.’

  ‘I did.’

  He turned to face her then, and for a long, timeless moment they just looked at one another. She smiled, a vulnerable, tenuous twist of her lips. ‘The reason—

  Then horns blew in the distance, harsh and long. They kept ringing.

  ‘That sounds serious.’ Coralen strode past him, back to the others, no sign of the previous moment’s fragility left about her.

  All were mounted when they returned, waiting for him. The horn blasts were still ringing, whether from Nathair’s host or from the walls of Murias he could not tell. It did not matter – the purpose was clear. Battle was about to begin. He climbed into his saddle and looked to his mam.

  ‘Cywen,’ he said, and they set off.

  They rode across the heather-clad moor, the sun melting into the horizon. Fech flew above, quickly outpacing them, blending with the darkness that was Murias. No one spoke, all eyes on the dark slopes ahead. Then Corban saw something, a movement in the heather. Something coming towards them, fast.

  It was a hound, running hard.

  Have we been spotted by Nathair’s scouts?

  Before he could say anything, Storm was outpacing him, moving from her ground-eating lope into a run. Corban scanned the shadows for scouts. He had no doubt that Storm would deal with the hound.

  Then wolven and hound were clashing together, bodies intertwining, rolling, Storm’s bone-white fur contrasting with the hound’s darkness. They separated, came together again. Corban squinted.

  Something’s wrong.

  There was no snarling or growling, no teeth baring, no blood. Then Storm was rolling on her back, the hound bouncing around her in great excited leaps.

  Then he realized.

  ‘It’s Buddai.’

  Together he and his mam slid from their saddles and ran to the wolven and hound. Buddai was jumping around Storm like a pup, licking her face, nipping at her ears as Storm rolled on her back, paws swatting at the hound. Buddai saw Corban and Gwenith, paused long enough to take a great sniff, then he was leaping on them, bowling them over, snuffling and licking at their faces.

  Corban looked up and saw seventy faces staring back at him, the Jehar all wearing the same mildly confused expressions. All except Gar, who was grinning at them.

  ‘Wolven, crows, ravens, hounds,’ Tukul said. ‘What will it be next?’

  ‘Cywen is there, Ban,’ his mam said. ‘There’s no doubting it now.’

  ‘I know. Let’s go and get her.’

  With that they mounted back up and headed for Murias. A noise rose up before them, drifting from the mountain stronghold, sounding like a great wind. It was followed by distant screams.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND NINE

  UTHAS

  Uthas stood beside Nemain, looking out from a balcony on the host approaching Murias. Ravens soared on updraughts above them, looking like black leaves in a whirlwind. Behind him Sreng and Salach stood, shield-warriors, both dressed for war. Uthas could see Nathair now, riding his draig at the head of the column, Calidus and Alcyon close to him.

  The road to Murias was wide, gently twisting through a landscape of granite boulders and rocky scree. The balcony that Uthas and Nemain were standing upon looked out from a curve in the cliff face, giving them a view of the approach to Murias as well as the stronghold’s gates themselves. They reared the height of ten giants, wider than twenty, and were fashioned from the rock of the mountain, like everything else in Murias, the last great feat of the stone-masters. And they were barred, of course.

  Nathair’s approach had not come as a sur
prise. Ethlinn the Dreamer had woken a day ago, sweating and disoriented, and declared the coming of the Black Sun and his Black Heart. So they were ready, or as ready as they could be. The cauldron was surrounded by its protectors, the brood of wyrms restless and hungry – Morc had not fed them since Ethlinn’s words, and the entire strength of the Benothi stood armed, most of them the other side of the barred gates. Five hundred Benothi warriors gathered together had been a sight to see. It reminded him of better times, of the host that had faced Eremon’s ancestors on the plains around Dun Taras. There had been more of the Benothi then, but the outcome had still been dire. Sometimes it seemed that since the Sundering life had been one long spiral into despair.

  He sighed, feeling the old melancholy sweep through him, a sense of fatalism, of destiny coiling tight about him, like the death grip of a wyrm.

  A raised voice pulled Uthas from his reverie. It was Nathair. He had reached the gates of Murias.

  ‘I am Nathair ben Aquilus, the Bright Star foretold, and I have come for the cauldron,’ Nathair declared, his voice echoing about the cliffs. ‘There is no need for blood to be spilt. Just open the gates, accept the inevitable. Join with me in the coming war; let us stand united against Asroth and his Black Sun.’

  The echoes of his voice faded. Nemain stared down at him.

  ‘Am I hearing correctly?’ she said. ‘Did he just call himself the Bright Star, avatar of Elyon?’

  ‘He did,’ Uthas confirmed.

  ‘Is he mad, or deluded?’ she said.

  Uthas shrugged. ‘Perhaps both.’

  ‘Open your gates to me,’ Nathair yelled, his voice strong with the conviction of his cause.

  Nemain closed her eyes, breath whispering across her lips. Then her eyes snapped open.

  ‘There he is,’ she pointed. ‘Black Heart.’

  One of the figures close to Nathair was suddenly defined, a dark nimbus around him, as if he were standing before a doorway leading into darkness. The shadows of wings flared around him.

  Calidus.

  ‘I see you, Black Heart,’ Nemain called down, her voice raw with the anger of ages. ‘You will not gain the cauldron so easily. We are not bairns to be tricked.’