Valour (40 page)

‘This is the giants’ tunnel,’ Eboric said.

Maquin peered in, remembering the tunnels beneath Haldis and Forn Forest, and the thing that lived in it that had put a hole in Tahir’s leg. ‘Don’t like the look of it in
there,’ he muttered.

The sound of people, men shouting, echoed along the corridor.

‘Come on,’ Orgull said, taking a step towards the tunnel entrance. Then booted feet were clattering in the corridor, tall shadows flickering on the wall. Figures appeared, one
flinging a spear. It whistled past Maquin and buried itself in Eboric’s shoulder. He was thrown back into the wall with the impact, his head making a cracking sound. He slumped down the wall,
lay motionless.

Haelan screamed.

Orgull swore and hefted his axe, moving to meet the newcomers. ‘Take the boy!’ he yelled without looking back.

Maquin looked at the scene, between Orgull and the crying boy who was shaking Eboric, the huntsman’s head lolling.

‘What do we do?’ Tahir asked.

W
e swore to protect the boy, but we swore an oath to each other, as well, as Gadrai
. He looked at Orgull, swinging his axe, then punching the iron-capped butt into someone’s face.
Men were crammed in the corridor, for the moment holding back in the face of Orgull’s ferocity, but the corridor was high and wide, built by giants. Even the bulk of Orgull could not fill it.
Once his attackers gained their courage he would be flanked and overwhelmed.
He won’t be able to hold them long enough
.

‘Tahir, take the boy, get the hell out of here. We’ll buy you some time.’ He gripped Tahir’s arm, saw the indecision in the young man’s eyes. ‘One of us must
live,’ he hissed. ‘We are the last of the Gadrai. And we swore to protect the boy. Stay and you make us oathbreakers.’ Tahir stood a heartbeat longer, then nodded curtly, tears
filling his eyes.

‘I’ll see you again, on this side or the other,’ he said.

‘I’m not dead yet,’ Maquin said. Tahir took the boy and ran; Maquin slammed the door shut. He turned and yelled as he swung his sword, stepping into line beside Orgull.
‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ breathed Orgull, glancing at Maquin as he swung his axe, severing an extended arm just below the elbow.

‘I’m too old for all this running,’ Maquin said. He lifted his shield high and stabbed a warrior in the gut, one of Jael’s from the way he was dressed.
I’m going
to die here
, Maquin thought as he blocked and stabbed. The thought did not scare him. The thought of failing Kastell hurt far more.
At least Tahir has taken Gerda’s boy. That is one
oath I have kept, unto death
. He smiled grimly.
Come then, Death, take me across your bridge of swords, but know this: I won’t be coming alone
.

‘Gerda, where is your son?’

Gerda was tied to a chair, rope burns on her wrists and ankles where she had struggled. Blood speckled her face and one eye was mottled and bruised. It appeared that Jael was not one to spare
the rod during questioning. Lykos looked on approvingly.

They were in the feast-hall, corpses strewn about and the stink of death thick in the air. Lykos and his Vin Thalun had used grapple-hooks to scale a high unguarded tower in the fortress. What
little resistance they’d met had been surprised and cut down without even slowing them. They had swept into the great hall as Jael had been assaulting the gates, the following slaughter quick
and fierce. Gerda had been discovered leading a counter-attack in the corridors. When Lykos arrived the fighting had been furious, her shieldmen savage in their defence of her. And she had not been
shy with her blade, either. He might have admired her as a warrior, but for the fact she was a woman. Still, they had been outnumbered, attacked from two sides. It had not taken long.

‘Where is he?’ Jael demanded.

‘Far from your reach,’ Gerda said through swelling lips.

‘Where?’ Jael repeated.

‘I don’t know.’ Gerda’s head lolled, her eyes flickering. Jael slapped her hard with the back of his hand.

‘You’ll not leave us yet,’ he said, then nodded to a man at his side. ‘This is Dag. He is my huntsman, a skilled tracker. He also has other skills, such as how to skin an
animal. Usually this skill is reserved for the dead, for good reason. Apparently the pain is unbearable, like nothing else this side of death. He is going to skin you. Going to peel the skin from
your fat body, piece by bloated piece, until I have an answer. It will take some time, I should imagine.’ Laughter rippled the room.

Dag stepped forward, a tiny knife in his hand. A warrior clamped Gerda’s wrist, her eyes bulging with fear.

‘First the nails have to come off,’ Dag said as he bent over Gerda. Lykos felt the urge to look away, but resisted. Gerda screamed, a trail of sobs and spluttered half-words between
each crescendo of pain.

‘Then the skin is cut, just a little,’ Dag said over Gerda’s ragged breaths.

Footsteps from beyond the feast-hall clattered, and a warrior hurried to Jael’s side.

‘We have encountered strong resistance, my lord,’ the warrior said as he bowed.

Jael waved a hand. ‘Take more men and crush it.’

‘It, it is not so easy,’ the man said, looking uncomfortable.

‘How many,’ Jael snapped, eyes still on Gerda.

‘Two, my lord.’ That got his attention. ‘They have barricaded the corridor.’

‘With what?’

‘Our dead. It is hard to explain, but I do not think it will be easy to finish them.’

‘Where are they?’

‘In the cellars, my lord.’

Gerda’s head snapped up at that, noticed by Lykos as well as Jael.

‘Let’s have a look at this resistance, then,’ Jael said, striding to the tower. ‘And bring Gerda,’ he called over his shoulder.

Lykos walked beside Jael, warriors behind them, and further back a handful of men carrying Gerda still strapped to her chair.

The corridor was high and wide, with flickering torches breaking up the darkness. Ahead of Lykos stood a dozen or so men, all with weapons held ready. They parted for Lykos and Jael.

The floor was slippery, covered in blood, gore, bodies, severed limbs. It was thick with them. Two men stood further up the passage; Lykos recognized them instantly. The bald giant and his
companion from the bridge. The ones who had slain Thaan. Deinon knew them as well; Lykos heard his shieldman draw in a sharp breath and felt his weight as he made to push past.

‘Wait,’ Lykos barked at Deinon, holding a restraining arm out.

Jael recognized them too, by the look on his face.

‘Ironic. The last time I saw you, Maquin, we were underground,’ Jael said.

The smaller man took a step forwards, a look of such hatred sweeping his face that Jael took an involuntary step back.

‘Question is, what are you fighting so hard to keep us from?’

‘Why don’t you come and take a look?’ Maquin invited. Grey streaked his hair, where it wasn’t gore splattered, but judging by the corpses piled high about him he was not
too old to use a blade.

Jael raised an arm, summoning Gerda’s chair-bearers forward. They placed her before the two warriors. Lykos studied her face, saw a question bleeding out through her pain. The big man gave
an almost invisible nod and she sagged back in her chair.

‘You know where her boy is, then,’ Jael said. It wasn’t a question. ‘Spears,’ he called over his shoulder.

‘They cannot kill him,’ Deinon whispered to Lykos. ‘The bald one – he is mine, for Thaan . . .’

Lykos stepped forward, uncurling the grapple rope that was wrapped about his waist. He swung it once over his head, flicked his wrist and then its end was snaking forwards, wrapped around
Maquin’s sword wrist. Before the warrior realized what was happening Lykos tugged hard, dragging the man forwards, and Deinon was surging towards him, knocking the sword from the man’s
hand and placing his own blade at the warrior’s throat.

The big man took a step.

‘No, Orgull,’ Maquin snapped.

‘Deinon,’ Lykos said, and Deinon had a knife in his other hand, had sliced quicker than Lykos’ eyes could follow. Blood spurted and then Deinon was holding up a scrap of
flesh.

Maquin’s ear.

Orgull took another step forwards.

‘My man can keep cutting chunks out of him all day,’ Lykos said. ‘Want him to stop – you drop that axe.’

Corban shouted a warning, seeing wolven everywhere, leaping into the hollow. Instantly all was madness. The wolven were not on a side, did not care who was from Ardan or
Cambren; they were here to feast, and they were taking meat where they found it. Horses screamed from where they had been hobbled, wild and terror stricken, the sound echoing around the rock walls.
Craf exploded upwards in a burst of feathers and squawks as a wolven snapped at him. Corban saw men wrenched from battle, mauled in slavering jaws, saw hounds scattered like flotsam and two wolven
rolling in savage battle. One dark, one white.
Storm
. He felt a rush of fear, the thought of Storm dying launching him into movement. The two wolven were a mass of fur and teeth and claws.
For a moment they separated. Corban saw blood on Storm’s white fur. He lunged at the other wolven, burying his sword in its belly. It yelped and writhed, a claw slicing his shoulder. He
pushed harder, deeper, his sword-point piercing the creature’s heart. It sagged, its heart’s blood a hot flood.

Storm limped up, her side matted with blood, claw marks raking one side of her muzzle. Corban buried his fingers in her fur and she stepped closer to him, pressing her head against his chest.
‘Good girl,’ he said quietly, felt an echo of the fear that had consumed him, that she would be slain.
So loyal, fighting for us, for me, even to death. And it’s not over
yet
.

Where’s Mam and Gar?
He scanned the dell desperately, but could make little of the nightmare visions set against the flickering light of the burning branch that Heb and Brina had
just ignited.

There was a snarl behind him and he twisted on his heel to see another wolven, muscles bunching, about to spring. Then his mam was beside him, thrusting her spear. Gar spun past them, sword
flashing and suddenly the wolven was whining, scrabbling away from the double attack.

Everywhere, forms were silhouetted by flames. Corban saw two figures side by side, firing arrow after arrow into a mass of wolven and warriors. Camlin and Dath. A wolven jumped at the two
archers and they scattered, leaping different ways. Dath rolled on the ground, tangled in his bow as the wolven surged towards him. Then Anwarth dashed between them, screaming at the wolven, trying
to distract it from Dath. It worked. The creature sprang, all teeth and muscle, as Anwarth tried to block it with his battered shield. But the wolven knocked aside the shield as if it were a
child’s plaything and, jaws clamping about Anwarth’s waist, heaved him from the ground. Corban heard the sound of ribs snapping.

Farrell screamed and charged the beast; Dath loosed arrow after arrow into the wolven as it shook Anwarth. Corban ran forwards, sword raised high. Arrows pin-cushioned the beast as Camlin joined
Dath. The wolven dropped Anwarth, took an unsteady step, then Corban and Farrell were there, sword and hammer a series of flashes in the firelight. The wolven stumbled and fell.

There was still chaos everywhere, figures fighting, running, screaming, wolven snarling, leaping, tearing at anything that moved. Farrell cradled Anwarth’s head in his lap. The warrior
coughed blood, his breathing shallow.

Then Brina and Heb were beside them, Heb blood-soaked, his arm hanging limp. They joined hands and shouted into the chaos, their voices a thunderclap. There was a cracking sound; the trees that
ringed the bowl about them swayed, rippling, although there was no wind. Then there were sparks everywhere, wood splintering and the trees were bursting into flame. Instantly the dell was
transformed, as bright as highsun, a wave of heat searing Corban’s face, flames arching high from the treetops, the smell of scorched sap and woodsmoke thick in the air.

The wolven scattered in all directions, whining, howling as they went. Only Storm stayed, pushing in close to Corban, snarling at the flaming trees and the retreating wolven.