Valour (59 page)

‘What? Nothing,’ Coralen snapped. ‘Can we go now?’

‘Of course.’

She saw Corban’s friend, the big one with the hammer, staring at her. She scowled at him for good measure before she walked away.

Baird caught up with her and together they walked to the feast-hall. She was starving hungry, ready to eat her weight in food. She lost some of her appetite when she walked into the hall,
though, seeing Quinn and Lorcan sitting close to the entrance.

Quinn smiled at her. She hated that. Hated the way that he looked at her: like she had seen men look at her mam, so many times.

‘Come over here, lass,’ Quinn called out. He patted his knee.

‘If I do it’ll only be to cut your stones off,’ she said.

‘I’ll take the risk,’ Quinn said, his smile growing broader.

She changed her direction but Baird held her arm.

‘He’s not worth it,’ Baird said to her.

She paused a moment, then saw someone else whom she wanted to talk to – Halion. She strode to him instead, sitting down opposite him. He was with a warrior, the one who had lost a
hand.

‘Cora,’ Halion said.

Baird slipped onto the bench beside her.

‘I’ve waited long enough. Tell me about Conall,’ she said to Halion.

Halion’s expression grew guarded. She’d seen that face before, a thousand times, and understood that he would not be telling her much.

‘There’s not much to tell, Cora. There was a battle, Conall fell.’ Grief travelled across his face, a ragged cloud skimming the sun on a summer’s day, then it was gone,
replaced with the cold face that he had taught her so well.

‘There’s more to it than that,’ Coralen pressed. ‘Were you together?’

‘No, we were not.’

‘Why not? You were always together. Inseparable. Had you argued?’

Halion rubbed his face. ‘It was a battle, Cora. Chaos. Enemies had broken into the fortress; there were people fighting everywhere.’

‘So how do you know he’s dead?’ Coralen said, a spark of hope flaring in her belly. She had loved Conall fiercely.

‘I saw him die,’ the warrior beside Halion said.

‘You are?’

‘Marrock. I was fighting on the walls above Dun Carreg’s gates. Conall was there too.’

‘What else did you see?’

The warrior’s eyes flickered to Halion, something passing between them. With the palm of his remaining hand he rubbed the stump of his other wrist, capped now with leather.

‘He was fighting; we all were. He fell.’ Marrock shrugged.

‘But he may have survived.’

‘No. It’s a long drop.’

Coralen leaned back, studying them both.
There’s more they’re not telling me. It’s in their eyes
.

‘You are sure? Did you see—’

‘Enough,’ Halion said, his voice fraying with anger. His face softened. ‘Conall is gone, Cora. It is a hard fact, one I don’t want to accept myself, but it’s the
truth. Accept it. Let him go.’

Tukul grinned with the joy of being on horseback again. His legs and backside ached as if he’d been kicked by an auroch, but he didn’t care. The wind in his face,
the rhythmic drum of hooves at a canter, the bunching and expanding of muscle, the sense of power in the horse he was riding.

It was wonderful.

They had stayed at Gramm’s for two nights. The arrival of the child-king Haelan and his guardian had set a fire in Meical. They had stayed long enough for Gramm to gift them with horses
and provisions and then left. Finding seventy-two horses for warriors as fussy as his Jehar was no easy task but they were wonderful animals. Gramm had given them free choice from both of his herds
– the pure bloods and the cross-breeds. Many of Tukul’s people had chosen the pure-bloods, he suspected out of a sense of nostalgia, a reminder of home, the white-walled city of
Telassar. He had chosen one of the cross-breeds, a powerful piebald mare, because he was riding to war, and if ever he had seen horses made for war, these were it. Daria, he had called her, after
his wife. She wouldn’t have minded – horses were almost family to the Jehar.

There was one other gift that he had been given whilst at Gramm’s, but not from Gramm. It was an axe, presented by Gramm’s son, Wulf.

In memory of our axe-throwing
, the young warrior had said. It was strapped tightly to Tukul’s saddle now, a single-bladed weapon covered in soft leather. For nearly two moons they
had been riding through the flat plains of northern Isiltir, the black columns of smoke on the horizon telling the tale of war. They had seen few people, Meical taking them by less-travelled ways.
Nevertheless, they had needed to cross rivers, and these were guarded. The bridge that crossed the Rhenus had been manned by a band of Isiltir’s warriors – about a score of them. They
were too few and unprepared for the Jehar, who just rode through them, thundering across the bridge like the north wind. No one had pursued them.

They had carried on southwards, for days skirting leagues of stinking marshland, then crossed another river – the Afren, Meical told him, and moved into the realm of Ardan.

That had been three nights ago. They were cantering across a rolling moorland of gorse and heather now, watched only by goats and auroch. To the north the horizon was edged with a wall of trees,
dark and brooding, though insignificant compared to Forn.

‘That is the Darkwood,’ Meical said, following Tukul’s gaze. ‘It marks the northern border of Ardan. On its far side lies the realm of Narvon.’

‘I know, I have studied many maps over the last few years. Soon we shall come upon the river Tarin, which will take us to Baglun Forest, Dun Carreg and the sea. And the Seren
Disglair.’

‘Indeed,’ Meical said.

Excitement was growing in him. They would soon be there. Dun Carreg, home of the Seren Disglair. He could hardly believe these times were upon him.
And I will see one other. My son.
All-Father be praised.

When they reached the river Tarin they skirted south and followed the fringe of the Baglun Forest towards the sea, the ground carpeted in leaves of orange and gold. After
another two days riding Tukul heard the call of gulls. He looked over his shoulder and saw Enkara first amongst his sword-kin. They had all heard it too. He grinned fiercely at them.

Soon they came upon a great road running across their path; it was made of cut stone, though worn and broken, with grass and weeds growing in its cracks.

‘This is the giantsway,’ Meical said.

Tukul stared, could see in the distance a dark smudge upon a high cliff top. Dun Carreg. A jolt of excitement passed through him.

‘We cannot approach in strength – they would bar the gates at the sight of you all,’ Meical grinned. A fierce excitement was scribed on his face. ‘Tukul, you and I will
go. The rest of you, there is a glade within this forest, further along the road. A giant-stone stands in it. Wait for us there.’

Tukul nodded his agreement to his sword-kin and they parted ways – he and Meical riding the road northwards. The road cut through a landscape of rolling moors. A low hill stood nearby, a
cairn sat on its crest, outlined by the cold blue sky.

They rode on in silence, then from between the undulating moorland the road spilt onto a plain, the fortress of Dun Carreg rearing high above.

The Seren Disglair is up there.

A village nestled at the foot of the hill that the fortress was built upon, beyond it the roar of a distant sea. As they drew nearer, a group of men rode from the village: warriors carrying
couched spears and swords at their hips. They wore cloaks of black and gold.

‘Something is wrong,’ Meical said. ‘Those are not Brenin’s colours.’

The riders were closer, had seen them, some pointing. Tukul counted twelve of them.

‘They wear the colours of Cambren. Rhin’s colours,’ Meical said.

‘Should we turn back?’ Tukul asked.

‘Too late. They would only follow. Let us see this through, find out where it leads us.’

‘As you wish.’ Tukul reached down and slipped the leather cover from his axe.
All-Father, may my arm be strong and my sword sharp.
He glanced at Meical, at the longsword
hanging at his hip. ‘When was the last time you used your sword?’

‘In this world of flesh? Against the wolven that gave me these.’ He ran a finger along the silver scars that raked his face. ‘Do not worry, my friend. If it comes to
sword-work, I think I can remember what to do.’

The warriors rode up, pulled up before them.

‘What’s your business here?’ asked one of them, an older man, grey hair pulled back from his face.

‘We are travelling to Narvon. Just looking for a place to rest the night,’ Meical said, his voice warm, relaxed.

‘Where are you from?’ the old man asked. Men moved to their sides, curling around them.

‘Carnutan. Leaving the war behind. We’ve been on the road since midsummer. What’s the news, here?’

‘You’ve come to the wrong place if you’re running from war,’ one of the other warriors spoke up, a younger one, his beard thin with youth.

‘I heard Brenin was a peaceful king,’ Meical said.

‘Brenin’s dead. Rhin rules here,’ the young one said.

‘What about you?’ the older man said, fixing his eyes on Tukul. ‘You don’t look as if you’re from Carnutan.’

Tukul just stared at him, not sure what to say. Diplomacy had never been his strength.

‘He’s got the look of one of those that came with that foreign king,’ another man said.

‘That’s what I was thinking,’ the older man said.

‘There were Jehar here?’ Tukul blurted.

‘Jehar – that’s it. And I’m thinking you know that already. Are you a deserter? Not got the stomach for war? You should be across the water with the rest of your lot,
with Rhin and Nathair.’

Tukul saw Meical stiffen at that.

‘He rode here from Carnutan, with me,’ Meical said, hiding his shock.

The old man looked at them both. ‘Think you’d both best come with me. We’ll see what Evnis has to say about this.’

‘Evnis?’ Meical said.

‘Aye. He rules here in Rhin’s place. Come along now.’

Riders closed about them.

Without a word, or even a warning look to Tukul, Meical burst into motion. His sword arced into the warrior nearest him, cutting upwards into his jaw, teeth and blood exploding. The man fell
backwards, gurgling. Before any could react, Meical was turning his arm, using the momentum of his first strike to form his second, looping his blade down to crack into the helm of another warrior,
denting the helm, the man slumping, senseless or dead.

Tukul pulled his axe free, threw it, and was drawing his sword from its scabbard across his back as the axe buried itself in the old warrior’s chest. Then the others were moving, shouting,
yanking on reins, horses neighing, crushing together, weapons hissing from scabbards.

A spear-blade grazed Tukul’s cheek as he swayed in his saddle, using his knees and ankles to guide his mount straight towards the man with his axe in his chest. He grabbed the shaft as the
man toppled backwards, wrenching it free, used the axe to turn another spear thrust and sliced his sword through the man’s throat, leaving blood arcing.

Four down, eight left. You need space, old man; don’t let them crowd you.
He spurred his horse on, crashing through the loose circle that was pulling tight about him, sword and axe
swirling, deflecting, cutting, another warrior toppling in his wake. Then he was in open space, turf instead of horseflesh about him. He tugged on his reins, his mount turning a tight circle, and
caught a glimpse of Meical with blood on his face, his horse rearing, hooves lashing out. Riders were approaching from the village, galloping: more warriors seeing the conflict, five, ten,
more.

This is not looking good.

He swayed in his saddle, leaning heavily to avoid a sword cut, slashed the man’s leg as he pulled back up, the muscles in his back straining, complaining, his axe-blade biting deep,
turning on bone. He pulled it free, deflected a sword stabbing at his chest, heard the pounding of galloping hooves drawing closer, closer.

Meical, I must reach Meical.

Then horses were all about him. It took a moment to register who their riders were – holding their swords two-handed, carving through their enemy with great swooping blows, tracing crimson
arcs through the air. His sword-kin, the Jehar. All of them.

Within heartbeats their enemy were dead or dying, the ground about them churned, slippery with blood and bodies. A riderless horse trotted away, stopped and began cropping when it found some
grass.

Tukul saw Enkara. ‘You were supposed to wait,’ he said to her, then grinned. ‘I am glad you didn’t.’

She grinned back.

No more riders were issuing from the village, though many were milling about on foot, pointing. A horn blast rang out, answered from the fortress on the hill.

‘Come,’ Meical yelled, ‘we must ride.’

They thundered back along the giantsway; Tukul’s blood was racing, pounding in his ears, the joy of battle still coursing through him.
Blessed are those who stand before the darkness
with a pure heart, though their swords run red. Thank you, All-Father, for the gift of combat.
Wind whipped his face and a thought seeped through the fading euphoria.
But where is the Seren
Disglair?