Valour (17 page)

Maquin stepped back into the foliage, pausing before the gloom took him. ‘Before the battle you warned us about what side we were choosing.’

‘Yes,’ Veradis said. ‘I did.’

‘I would give
you
the same advice,’ Maquin said, then disappeared into the forest.

Evnis stood frozen in the doorway to his secret room. The book was gone. He searched frantically. The casket he had originally found it in was there, the necklace still within
it, pulsing with its sickly light, but the book was nowhere to be seen. He stared at the necklace, his gaze sucked into the darkness of the single black stone, the size of his fist, wrapped in
twists of silver. Ever since he had laid eyes upon it a suspicion had nagged him. Could it be Nemain’s necklace, one of the Seven Treasures? An ancient relic from when the world was young, if
half the tales were true.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, to think. The last time he had used it he had not put the book back in the casket; he had left it sitting on top. He was sure of this, could
picture in his mind reading from it, speaking aloud the words of power, then placing the book on to the casket’s lid. That had been days ago – the day Dun Carreg had fallen.

Who could have done this?

Vonn.

But why would he have taken the book? Curiosity? To spite him? They had been arguing over the fisherman’s daughter, Bethan. Maybe he thought to use the book as leverage, a trade –
the girl for the book? He almost liked that idea, the thought that Vonn was at last growing up, seeing the world as it really was and being prepared to do what was necessary, regardless of its
perceived morality. If it had been anything else that Vonn had taken, he would have been prepared to let it go. But he had taken the book, his access to a world of power. He felt a sudden rage boil
inside him and took a shuddering breath. He
must
get it back.

The tunnels. He suspected that Vonn and his companions had escaped through the secret tunnels beneath the fortress; Evnis had been planning to begin searching them on the morrow.
To hell with
the morrow
, he thought, whirling on his feet and grabbing his sheathed sword and belt as he strode from his tower room.

He called warriors to him as he descended the stairs, sent word for more to be summoned as he made his way to the basement where the boarded-up doorway to the tunnels stood. By the time he had
strapped his sword-belt on, ordered the boards torn down from the doorway and lit a torch, almost a score of men had gathered about him, many bleary-eyed, rubbing sleep from their eyes.
It is
late
, Evnis remembered, all thought of time having flown his mind, replaced only by his need to find the book. He looked about, searching for Conall, then remembered he had set him to watch
over Cywen, as Nathair had asked of him.

A muffled whimper drifted from a door in the cellar, reminding Evnis of his prisoner. He ignored the sound.

‘With me,’ he said and led his men into the tunnels.

The sun was rising when he at last stepped out of the tunnels, back into his tower; a faint light was seeping down the cellar steps through gaps in the floorboards above. He
was dirt stained, weary, and his mood was grim.

Vonn was gone, and with him the book. Of that he was sure.

They had searched long and hard, wary of attack both from Edana’s supporters and wyrms. The headless body of the wyrm that had hatched when he’d found the book was still there, its
flesh all but gone, rags of tattered skin draped over its skeleton. He had given it hardly a passing look, though it set his warriors to muttering.

Eventually their search had led them to the lowest cavern, where the sea swelled in a channel. Here Evnis knew was the exit to the beach, though none of his men realized, as there was a glamour
hiding the way. There was the body of another wyrm here, this one much bigger than the one in the tunnels above. It had been killed only recently, its body in the first stages of decay – skin
bloated and swollen, blood and other fluids leaking from it, pooled and congealed around its coiled body. Its skull had been crushed by a heavy blow, and there were various wounds about its body.
If this was not evidence enough of Edana’s passing, they found the corpse of a warrior nearby, his neck and chest torn open. He had been one of Pendathran’s warriors, Evnis was
sure.

So, now they were gone, most likely leagues from Dun Carreg by now, and with them the book.

And his son. With a growl he dismissed his trailing warriors and trod wearily up the steps of his tower to his room. There was a message awaiting him – a reminder of Nathair’s
request to meet with Rhin.
How am I going to do this – Rhin in the Darkwood, Nathair here, Owain and his warbands in between?
Evnis reached for the half-filled jug of usque and took a
large gulp, slumping into a chair. Almost impossible, but there must be a way.
Think.
Slowly the glimmer of an idea came to him, but his mind felt slow, could not quite focus on it.
I
must sleep.
A ripple of dread coursed through him. Sleep, and with it the dreams. He chuckled to himself and drank another cup of usque. What did he expect, after selling his soul to Asroth,
Lord of the Fallen . . . ?

A knock at his door. Evnis looked about the room, checking that all was ready: a cauldron hung over the fire-pit, water bubbling, a cup of dark liquid standing on a table
beside it. He checked his cloak, reassured himself that the letter was still there, then he opened the door.

Nathair was there, the dark shadow of his guardian, Sumur, hovering behind him.

‘My lord, please,’ Evnis said, ushering Nathair in. He held a hand up to Sumur. ‘Only Nathair may enter.’

‘That is not acceptable,’ Sumur said.

‘It is fine, Sumur, I am sure Evnis has good reason. And I am sure I shall be safe. Only a door stands between us.’

Sumur peered into the room, weighing the situation. He nodded. ‘I consider you responsible for my lord’s life, while this door remains shut,’ he said to Evnis.

‘Of course,’ said Evnis and closed the door.

Nathair looked about the room, eyes settling upon the cauldron. He unclasped his sable cloak and draped it across the table.

‘Your message was ambiguous,’ he said, ‘but I am intrigued . . .’

‘Thank you for coming, my lord. I have made arrangements for you to speak with Queen Rhin.’

Nathair raised an eyebrow.

Evnis tried to keep his face calm, to disguise the anxiety he felt.
You can do this
, he told himself. He had seen it in the book, was confident that he could remember the pages, the
incantation, word for word. He licked his lips and strode to the cauldron, lifting the cup from the table.

‘
Fuil glacad anios ag namhaid tor oscail an bealach
, he said, filling the words with as much power as he could summon, and poured the cup of blood into the cauldron.
Blood taken
from a foe, to open the way.
His prisoner, still shackled in a room beneath his feet, hadn’t given up his blood easily and his screams had brought a brief relief from these stressful
times. The prisoner could scream as long and as loud as he liked – no one would hear him down there. Evnis had not even bothered placing a guard on his door; there was no point. He could not
escape, and even if he did, there was nowhere for him to go.

Evnis reached inside his cloak and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment, the letter Rhin had sent to him, delivered by Braith’s outlaw so long ago, written in her spidery hand. He drew
his knife, cut his hand and gripped the letter, soaking it in his blood. Then he dropped it into the cauldron.

‘
Croi ar an comchor tor stiur an ruthag.
’

The water bubbled pink and a vapour hissed out of the pot, swirled upwards, glistening, thick and shiny, like cords of mucus. A shape took form in it, silver-haired, a pale, deeply lined face.
Rhin.

‘What is this?’ she said, her likeness turning in the vapour, the voice sounding submerged, muted. Then her sharp eyes focused on Evnis. ‘Oh, it is you. I see you have found
the book—’

‘My Queen, I have someone with me who wishes to speak to you, urgently,’ Evnis cut in.

‘I’m sure you do,’ Rhin said, a smile ghosting her lips. ‘Who, exactly?’

‘Let me introduce you to Nathair, King of Tenebral.’

Rhin clapped her hands. ‘Excellent. No need for introductions – we have met before. A charming young man. Well, step forward, Nathair, I imagine we have much to talk
about.’

Corban listened as Vonn and Farrell told of the ship they had seen land on the beach.

‘They are looking for us,’ Vonn said. ‘A dozen men, all well-armed.’

‘What of my boat?’ Mordwyr interrupted.

‘They were climbing aboard it,’ Farrell said. ‘We did not wait to see what they would do – thought you needed to know.’

‘You did right,’ Marrock said.

‘We need to get Edana out of sight,’ Halion said.

‘Agreed. Camlin – with me. The rest of you get back into the trees. We’ll see you there soon.’

With that, Corban was running back towards the treeline, his feet heavy in the sand and shingle. Halion drew them up within sight of the beach. Marrock and Camlin were dark shadows, crawling
through a patch of spindly grass.

‘What are we going to do?’ Dath whispered. Corban just shook his head. His pulse was still racing from their ambush of the riders on the path. Dath was as pale as a corpse.

‘We need to get back on my boat,’ Mordwyr said to Halion, who nodded agreement. He was standing protectively beside Edana.

‘Agreed,’ Brina snapped. ‘It’s the how that is the problem.’

‘They’re coming,’ Gar said.

Marrock and Camlin sprinted across the beach. Halion stepped into view to guide them back to the group.

‘Fifteen warriors at least,’ Marrock panted. ‘They’ve torched our boat.’ Even as he said the words a thick plume of smoke broke above the ridge.

‘No!’ Mordwyr exclaimed and started back for the beach. Vonn grabbed his arm, stopping him.

‘What are we going to do?’ Dath said.

Marrock looked at Edana.

‘We’ll take their boat,’ Halion said.

Corban shifted the weight of his shield on his arm and gripped his sword hilt, trying to still the tremor in his hand. He peered over the ridge, eyes drawn immediately to their
boat. It was a burned-out skeleton, flames still licking at the charred ribs. Thick smoke spread along the coast, snatched by a strong wind from the sea. Mordwyr let out a strangled cry, but the
sound of the surf was loud, muffling his grief.

A handful of warriors was grouped a little further down the beach, standing beside a half-beached shallow-draughted fisher-boat. Figures moved on its deck – two at least that Corban could
see.

Marrock slipped down the ridge and they all huddled close to him.

‘Any ideas?’ he asked, looking at Camlin.

‘There’s no chance of sneaking up on them, and the wind’s too strong to be accurate with a bow from here. Our best bet is to get from here to there quick as we can, ‘fore
they have a chance to push off and sail away. An’ keep the charge quiet, no point announcing ourselves.’ With that, Camlin was scrambling over the ridge, Marrock close behind him.
Corban took a deep breath, trying to control his rising fear, and followed.

They were spotted almost immediately as they charged, the warriors about the boat crying out, drawing swords, levelling spears. They were closely matched in numbers, but these were all warriors,
no strangers to battle by the look of them. Still, judging from the expressions on their faces, something about the sight of Corban and his companions must have been unnerving. Corban glanced at
Storm, the grey streaks in her white fur a blur as she gathered speed, spittle spraying from her bared fangs. He felt the urge to laugh; a full-grown wolven hurtling towards you would unsettle
anyone.

Halion yelled a war cry, high pitched and keening; somewhere close Farrell bellowed, then the bands were upon each other, a bone-shaking collision.

Corban turned a warrior’s spear-point with his shield, slammed into the man, sending both of them crashing to the ground. They rolled together, the warrior somehow on top of Corban,
grabbing his throat. Corban thrashed, felt a flood of panic as he tried to draw breath and couldn’t, then there was the sound of snarling, a ripping, tearing noise, high-pitched screaming,
then a crunch, and the grip on Corban’s throat was gone. He staggered to his feet, Storm still shaking the dead warrior by his broken neck.