Valour (19 page)

She blinked, eyes widening. There was the outline of a great creature on the rock. At first she thought that it had been painted on, but as she held her torch closer she saw that she was wrong.
They were bones, embedded, fossilized into the rock. The creature had a mouth full of sharp teeth, wings that spread as wide as a fisher-boat. Her da had told tales of creatures, whole species that
had existed before the Scourging, great monsters that had been wiped out in Elyon’s day of wrath, caught in either flood or fire. She reached up, her fingertips tracing long talons.

Nearby there was a darker shadow in the rock wall – she moved closer and saw that it was an entrance to another tunnel, disguised somehow by a curve in the rock. She peered back at her
route home, then looked into the new tunnel.

She took a deep breath and stepped into this new tunnel, driven by curiosity.

It was much the same as those she had already searched, high walled, smooth and damp. It turned more, giving the sense of spiralling, somehow, though it was hard to tell. In time she noticed a
change ahead of her – it sounded different, the drip of water louder, a deeper echo. She stepped into an opening, a black hole spreading before her. A chain hung through its middle,
disappearing above and below into darkness.

This is the keep’s well
, she thought, peering up, the darkness a solid thing, consuming her torchlight. The path she was on hugged the well, narrower, twisting upwards. She followed
it as the tunnel bored back into the rock, leaving the gaping hole that was the well behind. She breathed a sigh of relief.

It was not long before she stepped into another cavern. At first she thought it was a dead end, but then saw lines of faint light flickering on the far wall. She moved closer, then with a hiss
of exhaled breath stubbed her torch out.

It was a door.

She approached it slowly and upon closer examination realized that it was a door frame, with wide planks of wood nailed across it. She peered through one of the gaps, seeing a room beyond,
filled with barrels, crates, bottles. Some kind of storage room – a cellar? A torch burned in a sconce on a wall. So this room led into the fortress; it was inhabited. And whoever it was knew
of the tunnels, had access to them.

The board she was leaning against gave way; with a creak its nails pulled out of the frame. She fell forward with it and found herself leaning half in, half out of the room.

She froze, too scared to move, too scared to breathe.

To her relief, no one came running. It was as she thought, a cellar of some kind. At the far end of the room steps rose up and disappeared into the ceiling.

A sound caused her to go rigid again. It came from behind a closed door in the room. She was about to bolt when she heard it again. A voice, weak, little more than a whisper.

‘Water, please,’ the voice said.

Before she could think about what she was doing, she had squirmed through the gap in the doorway, spilling onto a flagstone floor. She hurried over to the closed door, saw it was locked.

‘I know you’re there,’ the voice rasped. ‘I can see the shadow of your feet.’

She stepped away.

‘Please, just some water.’

Cywen pulled the door, a chain rattling around an iron ring, then drew one of her knives and worried at the lock’s hinge, which was bolted to the door frame. It seemed to be the weakest
part, but there was no give in it.

She chewed her lip, then ran over to the staircase. It rose up into shadow. She climbed a few steps, then saw a trapdoor above her. Making a decision, she ran back, grabbing one of the axes that
were leaning beside the boarded door frame that led into the tunnels.

With a crack and a shower of sparks she hacked through the chain and swung the door open.

A horrible smell leaked out, urine and faeces, a figure inside sprawled upon dirty rushes.

He was thin, haggard, dirty, his beard grown unkempt, a grimed bandage tied about his neck, but she still recognized him.

It was Pendathran.

Maquin smiled wearily as he set foot on the moss-grown bridge spanning a black-flowing river. The Rhenus, marking the western edge of Forn Forest and also officially the
eastern border of Isiltir.

On the far side of the river the bridge led straight to a gateway set in a high stone wall, crumbling and vine choked. Beyond the wall rose a grey tower: Brikan, home of the Gadrai. At least it
had been, when there had been enough Gadrai alive to fill it. Now the Gadrai was just the three of them.

Fifteen nights it had taken to walk from Haldis; ten since they had encountered Veradis. The young warrior had been true to his word, had led the giant and those searching for them away. Maquin
owed Veradis his life. It saddened him to think that they were on different sides; he hoped they would not meet again.

He stood in the courtyard, looking around at the silent walls. Orgull climbed the steps that led to the tower, Tahir limping behind him, and together the two warriors disappeared into the
shadows of Brikan’s keep. Maquin did not follow just yet. He was remembering. The day he and Kastell had first come to the Gadrai: this courtyard full of people, noises, life, being welcomed
by Vandil and Orgull as sword-brothers, the long hours spent training in this courtyard, the nights standing watch on the wall, all with Kastell. He felt a lump rise in his throat and pushed it
down.
I shall grieve for you soon, he promised. When Jael is dead.

The three of them sat around a crackling fire that kept the encroaching darkness at bay, passing a skin of ale between them. A few stores had been found, skins of ale, a few
amphorae of wine, a round of cheese still good enough to eat, some salted pork in the cold room. To Maquin it tasted like the finest meal.

Tahir rubbed his leg. His wound had healed surprisingly well – Maquin had seen many die from infection and fever that came from injuries far less severe.

‘We’ll be on a boat from the morrow,’ Maquin said. ‘No more walking for you for a while.’

‘Thank Elyon,’ Tahir said. He was young, not much older than Kastell, with long, thick-muscled arms that made him look out of proportion.

‘Won’t be a pleasure trip,’ Orgull said. ‘A lot of leagues to row between here and Dun Kellen.’

‘I’d rather row it than walk it,’ Tahir replied, drinking from the ale skin.

Their plan had been to make it to Brikan, where they knew a number of boats were moored, and then take the river north to Dun Kellen, where King Romar’s estranged wife, Gerda, dwelt. She
had borne Romar a child before she had left him. Haelan, the lad’s name was. He was ten years old and now heir to the realm of Isiltir.

‘Why is Gerda not queen?’ Tahir asked.

‘She’s an obstinate woman,’ Maquin said. He had lived many years in Mikil, had served there when Romar had married Gerda, and seen her ride away from Mikil with her son,
Haelan, as well.

‘Obstinate?’ Tahir asked. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Pig-headed,’ Orgull said.

‘She was not given to taking orders, even from Romar,’ Maquin elaborated.

‘Oh. And we’re taking word to her,’ Tahir said. ‘Not sure I like the sound of that.’

‘She’s well suited to stand against Jael. She’ll not give up her son’s throne without a fight.’

‘Do you think Jael has a chance of claiming the throne?’ Tahir asked.

‘He thinks he has,’ Orgull said. ‘He has Romar’s blood in his veins, and he has the stones to try and take it. And he has a powerful supporter in Nathair. It’ll
come down to a fight, I should think, and that’ll be decided by who can field the most warriors. The sooner we get word to Gerda, the more chance she’ll have to save her son’s
neck.’

‘Most of Isiltir’s warriors are food for crows at Haldis,’ Maquin said. ‘Even Jael can’t have that many men about him.’

‘True enough. At Mikil he’ll have more men who will most likely support him, but not a war-host. But, as I said, he has strong support. Nathair is on the rise, and with men in his
camp like that Calidus and his Jehar warriors . . .’ He trailed off, all of them remembering the deadly skill and speed that the black-clad Jehar had demonstrated at Haldis.

Maquin drank from the ale skin, watching Orgull across the flames. He was a big man, bald headed and bull necked. Maquin had always thought that Orgull was the brawn to Vandil’s brain, the
first and second captains of the Gadrai. But their flight back through Forn had shown there was a lot more to Orgull than muscle.

And those things he had said, about King Braster, about a secret brotherhood, about the starstone axe and the God-War and a Black Sun . . .

He took another swig of ale. On the flight from Haldis there had never seemed a time to talk about these things, fleeing from one danger to the next, evading human hunters and Forn’s
predators both. But now they were in Brikan with a measure of safety about them, at least for tonight.

‘What is this brotherhood that you spoke of, the reason you spoke to Braster?’ Maquin asked across the flames.

Orgull stared at Maquin; Tahir glanced from one to the other.

‘You have a right to know,’ Orgull said at length. ‘And if I cannot trust the two of you, my sword-brothers, then who in this world can I trust? It is as I said. When I was
young, younger even than you –’ he nodded at Tahir – ‘I met a man. He came to my da’s hold – he was a warrior, strong and skilled, and I looked up to him because
of that, but also he seemed wise. When he spoke, it felt as if the whole world should listen . . .’ He paused, clearly remembering.

‘One night he came to my father and me, told us of things. Strange, otherworldly things, of a war that has raged for thousands of years, which is still being fought.
All will fight in
this war
, he said,
all will choose a side, the darkness or the light
. At the time I was young, you understand. I was caught up in the heroism of it, so when he told us that he was
seeking out men – a brotherhood, he called it – to help in this coming war, when he asked for our aid, our oaths, I gave mine willingly, and so did my da. My da lives still in the
north, with my brothers and other kin. Giant-killers all of us, living so close to Forn and the north, but I felt the call of the Gadrai more than they did. I left.’ He paused, stared
silently into the flames for long moments. ‘I almost forgot about the man, the oath, and just lived my life. But then I saw him again, and he told me of others that had sworn the same oath.
Men like Braster. He reminded me of the things he had told me – things that I am hearing whispered about now – of the God-War, of how these Banished Lands will become the battleground
of angels and demons, of the Seven Treasures, of the avatars of Elyon and Asroth.’ He looked at his palm, tracing an old scar. ‘And my oath still stands.’

Veradis had spoken about those things too, on the journey through the Bairg Mountains to Forn, when Kastell had been alive. At the time Maquin had laughed. Angels and demons were hard to believe
in when the sun was shining bright and laughter was on the air. But now, in the cold heart of a giant tower in Forn, after the battle at Haldis and all he had seen, it was easier to believe. He
shook his head. He had always trusted what he could see, touch, feel. The rest of it mattered little to him. And now, even if it was true, it still didn’t matter that much. ‘All sounds
like faery tales to me,’ Maquin muttered. ‘Only thing that matters is putting Jael in the ground.’

Tahir looked at him. ‘A man with revenge in his heart should dig two graves, my old mam used to say to me.’

‘As long as Jael’s in one of them, I’ll be content,’ Maquin said. But still, he could not stop Orgull’s words rattling around his head –
all will fight,
all will choose a side.

Whose side am I on?

‘The man who told you of these things,’ he said to Orgull. ‘What was his name?’

‘Meical.’

The next day they set out early, dawn a mere hint beyond the trees. The Rhenus was liquid black. Maquin dipped his oar; Orgull sat across from him and they rowed away from the
small quay that jutted from Brikan’s walls.

On the second day they saw a large barge moored on the eastern bank of the river. No one answered their calls so they approached cautiously. Orgull was the first to recognize it.

‘It is the one we were guarding that was attacked by the Hunen and their white wyrms,’ he said.

Maquin peered closely, seeing corpses strewn across the deck and other bodies littering the wide track of the east bank; a booted foot, a hand, the shaft of a giant war-hammer, a horse’s
skull, all lying where they had fallen in battle, clothes rotted, flesh picked clean by Forn’s inhabitants.

In silence they pushed away from the barge and moved on up the river.

By highsun on the fifth day the trees began to thin, great shafts of the sun beaming down upon the travellers. Soon the river swept them from the forest into rolling meadows, the riverbank thick
with wildflowers; it was as if they had rowed into spring.

‘How far to Dun Kellen?’ Tahir asked, scratching his leg. He had been complaining of a sore arse, stiff arms and blisters on his palms for two days solid.