Valour (39 page)

Then suddenly voices filtered through the sounds of battle. There was shouting spreading through the ranks on the bridge. Jael looked back towards Maquin with triumph in his eyes and spat on the
ground.

Around a bend in the river, ships had appeared, lots of them, long, shallow-draughted, painted with black tar. The sails were black, a silver eagle upon them.

‘Prepare to land!’ Lykos yelled. In response, the drummer beating time increased his rhythm, the rowers put a last spurt of fire in their limbs and men clashed
weapons on shields. Lykos felt his spirits soar. He was looking forward to this. No more ferrying other men to battle, watching them disembark for greater deeds. Time to do something that would be
remembered in this era when the world was changed. In a hundred years songs would be sung about these days, about this battle.
If there is anyone left to sing them.

Time to win a nation for Nathair. He gave the runner beside him fresh orders, a young lad, not more than twelve summers, but quick and wiry, who climbed like a monkey. He scurried away and soon
Lykos heard the horn blasts, felt his ship steer for the north bank. He looked back and saw the thirty sleek-bottomed war-galleys he had brought with him from Dun Carreg do the same, deadly as
hunting wolves. It had been a back-breaking trip, most of it up the river Afren, through the Darkwood that split Ardan and Narvon, through the stinking marshes beyond and then into Isiltir. There
had come a point where the river Afren shrank to little more than a stream in the marshlands as it neared its source. There was a wide stretch across the marshland to the banks of the river Rhenus
in Isiltir where there had been no choice but to travel by portage, taking the masts down, dragging the ships onto land and rolling them over the masts for a league or more. Then it had been back
to the rowing. His back still ached. He might be lord of his cut-throat nation of pirates, but he would not sit back and grow soft, let some other man hungry for power take what he had spent years
in the making.

He looked along the riverbank. There were scores of quays and jetties lined along it.
Most helpful
, Lykos thought, pushing his way to the front ranks gathered on the ship’s deck.
Further ahead was a wide stone bridge, looking to be the focal point of the battle, and there he could see the banner that had been described to him raised at the southern end, a lightning bolt
with a white wyrm coiled about it.
My allies
. They didn’t look to be doing so well.
Looks as if we’ve arrived just in time. Perhaps we’ve had divine help
. He snorted
at that, liking his own joke. If divine meant nightmares, sleepless nights and yellow eyes boring into you every time you closed your own eyes, then he was blessed beyond all men.
Nothing is
ever as you imagine it; even consorting with a god.

Oars were drawn in as the boats drew alongside a quay, timbers scraping. Ropes were cast, secured tight, and then he was leaping the rail, boots thudding on the boards of the quay. His shieldmen
Deinon and Thaan were close behind, scores of others behind them, roaring as they charged, over a thousand warriors along the riverbank doing the same.

The men on the bridge had finally realized what they were seeing and were trying to turn and face this new enemy screaming towards them. But they had no time to form any kind of cohesive line
before Lykos and his Vin Thalun corsairs hit them. Instantly all became a churning chaos as the Vin Thalun carved their way onto the road, only a few hundred paces from the bridge. At the same time
Jael and his men at the far end renewed their attack. Lykos could feel the panic spreading, see it in the eyes of the men he faced. Fifteen hundred warriors screaming blood and murder could unman
even the most experienced veterans, given the right circumstances. Lykos grinned, ducked a half-hearted sword blow and gutted the man as he surged by.

On the road he stopped and blinked. He saw a fat woman brandishing a sword and hacking one of his warriors into the dirt. She was flanked by a handful of hard-looking men who were stopping his
charging men in their tracks.

That won’t do
. He snarled and ran at them, seeing Deinon and Thaan fall in on either side of him. They hit the warriors like a hammer, cutting men down and forging close to the fat
woman. Then he felt the ground trembling, heard hooves and turned in time to see three mounted warriors bearing down on him, one looking more like a giant than a man, swinging a great two-bladed
axe over his head. He had just enough time to duck, yell a half-formed warning, then the axe was whistling through air where his head had been, the blade carrying on, burying itself into
Thaan’s shoulder and back. Deinon gave a bellow as he saw his brother slump to the ground. Lykos snarled and darted towards the big man on the horse, only to be smashed from his feet by
another horse’s chest and shoulder as it surged forwards. The collision sent him flying through the air. He hit the ground hard, then was rolling and tumbling down the riverbank, coming to a
stop in tall reeds and mud.

He climbed to his feet, head ringing, and scaled the bank again. When he reached the top the scene had changed. The giant on the horse and his two companions were disappearing amongst the barns
and smokehouses that rose up before the town and the fat woman was nowhere to be seen. Someone with some sense was clearly commanding the enemy, as a rearguard had been formed and was holding back
the tide of Vin Thalun and Jael’s warriors, allowing others to fall back to the town and fortress.

I don’t want a long siege
, Lykos thought, scowling. He saw his shieldman Deinon kneeling beside Thaan and strode over. He took one look at his fallen shieldman.
He’s not
going to be getting back up.

‘Come, Deinon, he’s dead. Avenge Thaan now, mourn him later.’

Deinon looked up at him, eyes red, tears washing gullies through the blood and grime on his face. Slowly he stood. ‘Don’t kill the bald one; he’s mine. I want to take my time
on him.’

A hand gripped Lykos’ shoulder and he spun around, sword readied for attack. It was Jael, grinning as if it was his nameday, his shieldmen about him. ‘I must say, I am impressed with
your timing,’ he said.

Lykos lowered his sword. ‘Nathair sends his greetings,’ he said, gripping Jael’s arm.
What kind of king will you make, who needs the help of corsairs to win your first
victory?
He looked up at the town and fortress. ‘Getting here in time was only half the job. Best we finish this lot before they dig themselves in too deep.’

‘Their walls and gates are thick,’ Jael said. ‘We may have to starve them out.’

‘There are other ways to scale a wall,’ Lykos said, signalling to Deinon. ‘We Vin Thalun are not cut out for siege making. I hate waiting.’

One of Dun Kellen’s warriors was kneeling on the ground, begging for mercy. The warrior standing above him looked to Jael, who shook his head.

‘I need prisoners,’ Lykos said. ‘The more the better to row me back to Tenebral when we are done here.’ A
nd they’ll make good sport in the pits when we’re
back there.

Jael was silent, then he nodded. ‘You can have all those who surrender, but you look after them. I don’t have the men, or the inclination to care for them.’

‘Good enough,’ Lykos said. He looked to Deinon. ‘Let’s teach these landwalkers how to scale a wall.’

Maquin slid from his horse and stood by the gates to the keep, sword drawn, waiting as Dun Kellen’s warriors retreated inside the feast-hall. Orgull and Tahir were still
with him, blood splattered and weary.

Maquin had been so close to Jael, just a sword-length away from reaching him, and then the ships had arrived, emptying their deadly cargo. And now instead of victory they were staring death in
the face again. They were heavily outnumbered: most of Dun Kellen’s warriors had been killed during the battle on the bridge or cut down as they tried to retreat. If it had not been for Gerda
and her battlechief, Thoris, organizing the rearguard, Maquin doubted that any would have made it back to the keep alive.

And who were these new warriors? Not men of Isiltir. They were dressed strangely, in leather kilts, tunics and sandals rather than breeches and boots, with iron rings in their beards and hair.
And the ships – sleek and fast, looking as if they were built more for the sea than river.

‘They are allies of Nathair, is my guess,’ Orgull said. ‘Remember what I have told you: there is more to this than the throne of Isiltir. The God-War is being waged here. Right
now.’

Maquin shook his head.
Why did it have to be so complicated? Revenge used to be simple
.

A knot of warriors entered the courtyard, Thoris at their head, Gerda in their centre. She was sweating, short of breath, her sword bloodied and notched.

‘Quickly,’ Thoris shouted, ‘a few have chosen to stay behind, to give us time to get inside and bar the gates. Inside, now.’

With that they were all piling into the feast-hall, heaving the doors shut, slamming the thick bars into place. Then Gerda was marching through the hall, Thoris summoning him, Orgull and Tahir
to follow. They ended up with Gerda in her chambers, her son Haelan standing beside her.

‘You must take Haelan now,’ Gerda said, ‘before they gather and strike. Their numbers are too great; they will storm the keep somewhere and we do not have the men to keep them
out.’

‘But how can we take him?’ Tahir said. ‘We are besieged – there is no way out.’

‘There is a way. A secret tunnel the giants built. It burrows underground, comes out on the plain half a league to the north.’

Orgull looked at Maquin and Tahir. ‘We swore an oath. Let’s keep it,’ he said.

Noises boomed in the corridor behind them, voices shouting, screaming, the clash of arms.

Thoris ran to the door and stuck his head out. ‘Quickly,’ he said, ‘the assault has begun. You must leave now.’

‘Eboric here will take you to the tunnel and guide you through it.’ Gerda gestured to a man standing beside the boy, a huntsman by the look of him, dressed in worn leathers, an
archer’s bracer on his wrist. ‘He knows the land beyond well, and Haelan knows his face.’ Her voice wavered. She grasped her son by his shoulders. ‘You must be strong now,
and do as Eboric and these men say – they will keep you safe.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ the boy said, looking up seriously into Gerda’s eyes. She cupped his face in her hands, kissed him, then ushered them out of the door.

Eboric led the way, Orgull and the boy next, Tahir and Maquin at the rear.

They met warriors further along the corridor, running towards the tower stairs. Eboric grabbed one of them, pulling him to a stop.

‘What is happening?’

‘Jael assaults the feast-hall gates, but they are holding for now. The danger is these new men from the river – they are throwing ropes with claws that snag on stone, and are using
them to scale the towers.’

‘Are they inside the keep?’ Eboric asked.

The sound of swords clashing rang down the tower stairwell, giving his answer. He let go of the warrior and the man ran up the stairs. Eboric looked grimly at them all and led them down the
steps.

They spiralled downwards, reached ground level where the sound of the hall gates being rammed was deafening, but continued on down. Eboric grabbed a burning torch from a wall sconce. They hit
level ground and left the stairwell. Maquin heard the slap of feet somewhere above, the echo in the spiral of the tower playing games with his ears. Those feet could be ten paces away, or a
hundred.

‘Is this the only way down to this level?’ Maquin called to Eboric.

‘No, other towers also lead down to the cellars.’

Not the answer I was hoping for
, Maquin thought.

They twisted and turned through high corridors, sometimes in silence – apart from their breathing, the drum of their feet – at other times the sound of combat was close by, the sound
of men moving in numbers.

Then abruptly they were at a dead end. Eboric stuck his hand into a hole in the wall, twisted something that gave a click, and there was a hissing sound. Something like steam or mist poured from
the wall as the outline of a door appeared and swung open. Darkness lay within.