Valour (20 page)

‘Ten to twelve days, if nothing slows us,’ Orgull said. Tahir groaned, looking at his palms.

‘We could always put you ashore, let you walk,’ Orgull suggested. Tahir did not reply, except to grip his oar and continue rowing.

Early on the seventh day since leaving Forn they were breaking camp where they had pulled ashore for the night. A mist hung heavy over the river, clinging to thick beds of reed. Orgull was
shaving his head with a sharp knife.

‘Why do you do that? Tahir asked. ‘Why not just let it grow?’

‘I used to have fine long hair,’ Orgull said, ‘or so the ladies told me. When I first joined the Gadrai, on one of my first patrols we came upon a party of Hunen. One of them
grabbed a fist full of my hair and threw me about like a rag doll. He bashed me into a tree. I didn’t wake up till I was back in Brikan – my sword-brothers had carried me there.’
He smiled, half a grimace. ‘I’ve shaved my head clean ever since.’

‘Do you hear that?’ Maquin said, head cocked to one side.

They all listened. The river was silent, muted by the mist. A moorhen cried out, long and mournful. Then Maquin heard it again: horses’ hooves, lots of them, the jingle of harness and
chainmail.

‘Quickly,’ Orgull hissed, and as quietly as they could, they climbed back into their boat and pushed away from the shore. As time passed the mist evaporated, giving a good view of
the land about them. It was flatter now they were further north, broken up with ragged stands of trees. There was no sign of the riders they had heard.

Late in the day they saw shapes ahead: a stone bridge spanning the river, a tower on the western bank, a sprawling village of timber and thatch behind it. Figures moved on the bridge and amongst
the buildings.

Orgull hissed a warning and they rowed to the bank, pulling the boat ashore, then crept slowly through the rushes.

A banner hung from the tower, snapping in the wind. Upon it was a jagged lightning bolt in a black sky. It was Romar’s mark, the crest of Isiltir, taken from the name the giants had used
– the storm-lands. But as Maquin looked at it he saw something else on the banner, something intertwined with the jagged lightning, coiling about it. A white serpent.

‘I don’t like the look of that,’ Maquin said quietly.

‘Me neither,’ Orgull said. ‘Whose banner is it?’

‘If you don’t ask you won’t know, my mam used to say,’ murmured Tahir.

‘Your mam was a wise woman,’ Orgull said. ‘Let’s go and ask someone.’

Maquin crept through the reeds, wincing at every rustle. He and Tahir were close to the bridge now, though it had taken them a long time to get this close.

A handful of houses were clustered about a squat tower. Maquin could smell horse dung, and hear the gentle neigh of a horse off in the darkness. Torches burned around the tower, small patches of
light in the night, and further away larger fires burned. Men stood at the doors to the tower, grim-looking and dressed for war. This was a warband, no doubt, though it was hard to tell their
numbers in the darkness – two, three hundred, maybe more. The banner hung limp on the tower, but Maquin remembered Isiltir’s lightning bolt and the serpent wrapped around it.

‘We’ll sit tight a while, see what we see,’ he whispered to Tahir.

They lay there waiting a long time before the tower door swung open and a handful of men strode out. At their head was Jael.

Without thinking, Maquin reached for his sword, then felt Tahir’s grip on his arm.

‘Don’t,’ the lad hissed.

‘It’s Jael,’ he whispered back.

‘I know, but there’s too many – you’ll get yourself killed, and worse, get me killed.’

Maquin wrestled with the compulsion, then released his sword hilt.

They crept back along the riverbank to Orgull and told him all they had seen, then waited until deep of night, when most would be sleeping, and pushed the boat back into the river, letting the
current take them downstream. When they were convinced they were far enough away that sound would not carry, they rowed like their lives depended on it.

By the time the sun rose behind them Maquin was slick with sweat, his back throbbing, muscles burning. They had come leagues since the bridge, giving them a good head start on Jael. Their guess
was that he was moving on Gerda and Haelan, Romar’s son. Striking quickly, before news could spread and any resistance could rally. So their task was to reach Dun Kellen ahead of Jael.

‘Keep pulling,’ Orgull said behind them. Maquin wanted to say something but could not find the breath to do it.

Dun Kellen rose out of a river mist, the sun sinking behind it. Built upon a hill, the town around it was a disorderly mass that flowed down the hill’s slopes. A mass of
quays edged the river; the three men steered towards one of them and made fast the boat.

‘What now?’ said Tahir. He sniffed and pulled a face as fishermen and traders began to take notice of them. ‘And what’s that smell?’ he muttered.

Orgull strode away, eyes fixed on the fortress on the hill.

‘Civilization,’ Maquin said, following Orgull.

At the gates to the fortress a handful of guards stood with spears in their hands. Maquin noticed the shoddy state of the fortress’ defences. A whole section of the wall had collapsed,
timber frame and cladding filling the gap. As he looked along the walls he saw there were a number of similar sections.

Not the best place to endure a siege.

‘You – big man,’ a guard called, pointing at Orgull with his spear. ‘What’s your business in Dun Kellen?’ He looked at Maquin and Tahir, at their leather war
gear and their swords. ‘Sellswords?’ He sneered. ‘We don’t need your sort round here.’

‘We are the last survivors of the Gadrai,’ Orgull said, frowning down at the man. He reached inside his cloak and the guards around him drew back, levelling spears and reaching for
swords. Maquin and Tahir spread to either side of Orgull, hands on their own weapons. Bloodshed was only an instant away.

Orgull pulled out a long cloth bundle and slowly unwrapped it, revealing a sheathed sword. He held it over his head.

‘This is King Romar’s sword. He lies slain in the heart of Forn Forest, betrayed by his own kin. His murderer is two days behind us, at best, and he would add your heads to the pile
he has already gathered.’

‘That got their attention,’ Tahir whispered to Maquin.

Maquin remembered the Lady Gerda as tall, strong-boned and athletic. He had last seen her three years ago, riding away from Mikil with her son Haelan and her shieldmen. Now her
tall frame was layered in fat, folds of skin rippling down her bare arms. She was sitting on a chair beside Varick, her elder brother. He was thick boned like his sister, with streaks of grey at
his temples and a plain, open face. In his hands he held Romar’s sword. It gave a metallic hiss as he drew it and held it up.

‘That’s Romar’s sword,’ Gerda said, ‘or I’m a fisherman’s wife. The question,’ Gerda said to Orgull, ‘is do we believe you?’

‘Why else would we come here?’ Tahir blurted. ‘Speeding like Asroth were on our heels to give you warning.’ He looked at his hands, raw and blistered from rowing.

‘Yes, why else would you come here?’ Gerda mused.

‘Do you want a reward for this?’ Varick asked, still staring at the sword.

‘Kill Jael, that’ll be reward enough,’ Maquin snarled.

Gerda looked at him. ‘Is this some blood-feud between you and Jael? And you would have us do your work for you?’

‘He has cause for blood-feud with Jael,’ Orgull said. ‘As do you. As do I. I am Orgull, captain of the Gadrai, and I have come to you out of loyalty to Isiltir, out of a desire
to see justice done. And to stop Isiltir being used as a pawn in the coming war that will overrun the Banished Lands. If we are deceiving you, or wrong, then nothing will happen. If we are right,
Jael will be at your gates soon, probably demanding that Haelan become his ward until the boy is of age. Jael means to rule Isiltir, and he will commit betrayal and murder to do it. He already
has.’ Orgull shrugged. ‘Do not believe us – that is your choice – but in Elyon’s name, choose to be wise. Send out scouts to see if a warband approaches from the
south. Gather your warriors about you, make ready. Just in case.’

‘Better to stay safe than sorry, my mam used to say,’ muttered Tahir.

‘Wise words,’ said Orgull.

Maquin stepped forward. ‘Jael can pour honey on his words, but make no mistake: once he has Haelan in his power, he will kill him.’ Maquin looked down. ‘I have seen what he is
prepared to do.’

‘No one will harm a hair on my son’s head,’ Gerda said fiercely. ‘I will die first.’

You may get a chance to prove that.

‘I’ll send out scouts,’ Varick said, ‘and make sure my warriors are sober and ready.’ He looked at his sister. ‘It will do no harm.’

‘My lord, call in from your lands all warriors sworn to you that you can. The fate of Isiltir could be decided in the next few days,’ Orgull urged.

‘So you say. Perhaps I will do as you suggest. And if you are speaking the truth, then you will have my thanks.’

Gerda rose and strode to them, standing and looking deep into each one’s face. Her expression hardened. ‘Fetch Haelan,’ she said over her shoulder to a shieldman who had been
standing in the shadows of her chair. ‘I believe them.’

‘There they are,’ Tahir said, pointing one of his long arms. Maquin followed and saw a shadow in the distance.

‘They have crossed the river already,’ Maquin observed.

It was just a day later and they were standing on Dun Kellen’s battlements, close to the gate, warriors lined along the wall either side of them. Varick’s messengers had been sent
out to the holds but they knew it would take time for the men to muster. Time they didn’t have. Nearby, the stone wall and battlements were replaced by wooden planks to fill the crumbling
gaps of the fortress.

The warband quickly grew larger, a cloud of dust kicked up by the horses. Maquin could see Jael at the front, beside his banner-man, his pennant snapping in their wake. Varick had ordered that
the streets of Dun Kellen be evacuated but there were still people to be seen. As the sound of the approaching warband filled the air a sudden sense of panic seemed to spread, people hurrying,
running for shelter.

The warband reached the outskirts of Dun Kellen. Riders from the flanks peeled away and began circling the town, filtering into side streets whilst the bulk of the warband rode up the main
avenue leading to Dun Kellen’s gates.

‘I remember wiping the snot from his nose,’ Gerda said as she watched Jael approach. ‘I wonder what terms he will offer for the head of my son.’ Maquin looked at her but
said nothing, remembering Jael and Kastell fighting in the cavern beneath Haldis. Seeing Jael plunge his sword into Kastell’s stomach. His fingers twitched and he reached for his sword.

‘Be ready,’ Orgull said as the riders appeared. Screams were rising from the town, people were scattering in the wide avenue before Jael and his shieldmen as they thundered into
view. Someone slipped in the road and disappeared under the flood of horses, screams quickly cut short, then in a spray of mud Jael pulled his warriors up, about a hundred paces before the
gate.

‘Let’s hear his terms,’ Varick said, stepping forward to stand on the arch above the gateway. Jael clicked his horse on, a spear held loosely in his hand. Only his banner-man
accompanied him.

‘Greetings, Jael, and welcome to Dun Kellen, kinsman. What brings you here?’ Varick called down.

Jael’s eyes were fixed on Varick. He turned his horse in a tight circle. As he came back round out of the turn he hurled his spear. It flew straight, striking Varick in the throat and
throwing him backwards in a spray of blood. Jael wheeled his horse and galloped back to his cheering men.

On the wall men were yelling in shock and horror, warriors letting spears fly at the retreating Jael. They all missed. Maquin looked at the form of Varick, blood splattered about his corpse;
Gerda and a huddle of others were staring at him, wide-eyed. Then Maquin looked back to Jael punching the air as he reached his gathered warriors, men jumping from horses now, chopping with axes at
the timber frames of houses.

Jael did not come to offer terms.

Cywen could not believe her eyes. Pendathran, King Brenin’s battlechief, was staring back at her. But he was dead, had fallen in the feast-hall the night Dun Carreg fell.
Or so she had been told. What was Evnis doing with him locked in his cellar?

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Pendathran said, his voice hoarse.

‘Don’t know,’ Cywen said automatically.

‘Water?’ he asked.

She looked about, but could see no jug or water barrel. She shook her head.

‘Quick, girl, help me up.’

Cywen took his hand and pulled him upright. There were deep cuts on his exposed forearm, part-scabbed and weeping blood. He towered above her, taking long, ragged breaths. The bandage around his
neck was crusted black with blood.

‘Put your arm round me,’ Cywen said and steered him out of the cell. They weaved through the cellar to the boarded doorway. Cywen propped Pendathran against a wall and set to
levering boards from the door frame. She was acutely aware of the noise she was making, and kept taking furtive glances at the shadowed staircase.