Valour

CHAPTER NINE

CORBAN

Corban shifted uncomfortably; a tree root was digging into his back. He’d slept little, if at all, and now a raindrop dripped onto his nose.

‘Wonderful,’ he muttered, pulling his cloak over his head. He just wanted to sleep, it was preferable to getting up, having to face people, having to face his mam and Gar.

Their words from the night before were still spinning around his head. They had shaken him, stirred both anger and guilt. The things they had told him; madness, surely, born out of grief and exhaustion. And they have asked me to leave. Nothing else could have felt so wrong — to leave this small band of survivors. And so he had said no. Never had he said no to his mam or Gar — many times in his head, or muttered quietly after a reprimand — but never to their faces. And then had come the guilt. This was the worst moment in the world to have a conflict with his mam, when they were both grieving the loss of his da and Cywen. But what they asked was so unreasonable. And then anger had followed.

How can they put me in such a position? He wished their conversation had never happened. And so his night had passed, racked with anger or guilt, along with a measure of self-pity. Now, though, with the coming of dawn, he just felt alone. No one was who he thought they were. His mam and Gar felt like strangers.

Something tapped his shoulder.

He poked his head out from beneath his cloak, squinting up at a dark form silhouetted by the grey light of dawn. It was Gar.

‘Come, lad,’ the stablemaster whispered, prodding him with something.

‘Come where?’

‘Training.’

‘Wha. .?’ Corban said. ‘Are you joking?’

‘You still have much to learn,’ Gar said with a shrug. ‘Come on, there is not much time before we have to get back on that boat.’

He climbed upright, winced at the stiffness in his limbs and grimaced at the stablemaster. ‘I don’t want to do this,’ he muttered. ‘You and mam. .’ He could not find the words to express how he felt, did not know where to start.

‘This way,’ Gar said, walking away. With a scowl, Corban followed; Storm uncurled and padded after them.

Marrock was standing guard, the shadow of his body merging with the tree he was leaning against. He looked inquisitively at Gar and Corban.

Gar stopped beside the stream. ‘Give me your sword,’ he said, then wrapped Corban’s blade with cloth, tied it tight and passed it back.

Without a word, Gar slid into the sword dance, his curved sword wrapped like Corban’s.

Sullenly Corban watched him, a host of questions and accusations swirling in his mind. There were so many things that he wanted to ask Gar about, but they were all linked to last night’s conversation, and he had set his will to avoiding that subject at all costs. Gar paused, staring at him. ‘Don’t think; do. Questions, talking later, but this will help.’ He resumed his fluid movements.

Corban sighed and raised his sword, stepping into stooping falcon, the first position of the sword dance. Skin and muscles around the wound on his back stretched and pulled, but he held the pose, then moved smoothly into the next stance. Gar was right, soon Corban felt his mind calming, his thoughts draining away as he became lost in the rhythm of the dance.

Sunlight was dappling the ground and sparkling on the stream when he finished. Sweat dripped from his nose and the wound on his back pulsed dully. Gar faced him and raised his sword. Corban shrugged and they began to spar, and slowly Corban became aware of movement around him. A quick glance showed him half a dozen figures from the camp watching them, but also earned him a crack to the ribs from Gar.

‘Enough,’ the stablemaster declared.

Gar stripped the cloth from his and Corban’s swords, then began walking back to the camp, ignoring their audience. In no mood for conversation, Corban followed him, purposely avoiding Brina’s stare.

Halion drew level with them and grasped Gar’s arm, halting him. ‘I need to talk to you,’ he said to Gar. The stablemaster stopped, drawing a deep breath.

‘You fight differently,’ Halion said. ‘I have travelled much of the west and seen nothing like your style.’

Gar just stared at Halion, expressionless.

‘Until the night Dun Carreg fell. The man you fought, Sumur. Marrock tells me there were many like him in the battle, that they opened Stonegate for Owain. You fought like this Sumur, spoke with him. You knew him?’

Gar’s gaze flicked to Corban and back. ‘Yes.’

‘Tell me of him, of yourself. Who are you, where are you from?’

‘I have heard others ask the same questions of you, yet you have held your silence. My past is my own,’ Gar said.

‘True enough, my business is my own, and not a subject for gossip. But things are different now, and so I have spoken of my past. Because it was necessary. Now you know who I am, where I am from, who my father is. It is necessary to hear these things from you. Do you know this Sumur?’

Gar closed his eyes and blew out a long breath. ‘I knew him, many years ago. Corban will tell you more, soon.’

Corban raised an eyebrow at that.

‘That is not good enough. I am Edana’s sword and shield, and you know more about her enemies than anyone else here — seemed almost to be one of them — I must understand all that goes on, for Edana’s sake. Are you a danger to her?’

Gar sighed. ‘No, I am no danger to the princess. You saw that I fought Sumur — that must answer your fears. I would tell you more, but Corban should hear these things first, and until he has I will speak no more of it, with you or any other.’

Halion still gripped Gar’s arm. He held the stablemaster’s gaze for long moments then let his hand drop. ‘I will wait, but we will have this conversation again. Soon.’

Gar nodded and strode away.

‘What’s this all about, Corban?’ Halion asked.

Corban shrugged.

‘Well, whatever he has to say to you, let him say it.’

With a grunt Corban followed Gar back to the camp, where everyone was making ready to leave. Amidst it all Edana sat huddled against a tree. Brina returned and set to helping Gwenith prepare some food — cold venison that still tasted good.

Corban’s mam tried to catch his eye but he looked away, immediately experiencing a rush of guilt. She’s lost her husband. My da. .

But somehow his feet would not take him over to her.

In no time they were all clambering back onto the boat. Mordwyr and Dath set the sail to catch the wind, guiding them out of the cove they had sheltered in, and soon they were scudding along the coast. The sky was a clear, sharp blue, wave tips glistening in the sun. Corban burrowed into the pile of nets towards the rear of the boat, Storm curling beside him, her nose twitching at the scent of fish.

Days passed like this, the boat hugging the coast, moving ever further from Dun Carreg, from home. Nights were spent huddled around small fires, when they dared, eating whatever Marrock and Camlin could provide. Storm was usually more successful in the hunting. Corban maintained his silence with his mam and Gar, though his mam tried more than once to pull him away from the small company. He always refused, though he was starting to hate himself for it. But no matter how he thought of things, as soon as the suggestion of leaving their small band of friends rose in his mind, he felt an instant surge of anger. Everything else had been taken from him. He would cling to this last remnant of home like a drowning man in a stormy sea.

Every morning Gar would prod him awake and work through the sword dance with him, but the stablemaster did not try to drag him into conversation. His look was enough. It said, We will talk, whether sooner or later, as patient as a hovering hawk.

On the fifth day after Dun Carreg’s fall Corban was sitting in his customary position on the fisher-boat, Storm beside him. Dath was a half-visible figure climbing on the mast up above. Farrell walked unsteadily towards him, swaying as the boat rose and fell.

‘Thank your wolven for me,’ Farrell said as he settled into the nets beside Corban.

‘For what?’

‘Food to break our fast with this morning, and dinner last night. I don’t like being hungry. Makes me angry.’

‘Well we wouldn’t want that. Not while you’ve got that hammer strapped to your back, anyway.’

Farrell chuckled, patting Thannon’s hammer-head which poked over his shoulder.

Corban thought of his da, lying in the keep at Dun Carreg, Buddai curled beside him. He felt a stab of guilt, that he could be making jests so soon after his da’s death. He shook his head. ‘How’d you get so big, anyway?’ he asked, glancing at Anwarth, Farrell’s da. He was a short man, the absolute opposite of Farrell, although they shared something in their features, the angle of their jaws, eyes set beneath heavy brows.

‘You haven’t seen my mam, then,’ Farrell said. ‘She always said I got my big bones from her. Da must like big women. .’

Corban smiled, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders begin to lift. It was good, somehow, just to sit and talk with a friend.

‘Hope she’s all right,’ Farrell muttered, his face creasing. ‘Mind you, she can look after herself. Me and da can vouch for that.’ He tried to smile, but wasn’t completely successful. ‘Saw you training, this morning.’

Corban nodded.

‘It was quite something. Never seen anything like it.’

‘Gar’s been training me a while now. About two years.’

‘Explains why you’re so good with a sword, then. I couldn’t believe it when you beat Rafe.’

Corban shrugged. ‘I don’t know where Gar learned all that stuff, though. Always thought it was from Helveth. .’ He trailed off. As it turned out Gar wasn’t from Helveth, after all. Turned out most of what he thought about his past was wrong, lies piled on top of one another.

Time passed, the boat rising and falling rhythmically. Corban felt exhausted, worn out by his churning emotions as much as the events of the last few days. Gwenith and Gar sat together. His mam’s eyes were red rimmed and sunken, her face pale and drawn. Storm nuzzled his palm and he absently stroked her head. The things his mam had said about him swirled in his mind like flotsam in a whirlpool, different parts bobbing to the surface. Like what she had said about him being hunted — by Asroth — how could that be? He had never given much thought to Asroth or Elyon before, was not even sure if he believed them to be real, and so far had not particularly cared. Elyon, the maker of all, and Asroth, his great enemy, leading his host of the Fallen. Corban knew the tales well enough, of Asroth’s corruption of the first giants and men, the War of Treasures that followed, and then the Scourging. Until now he’d thought they were little more than faery stories told to keep children in their cots at night. He looked about, at his companions littered around the boat. Beyond the railings he caught a glimpse of the coastline, a dark smudge of dense trees and cliffs. Lifting his hand in front of his face, he stared at his fingers, saw black dirt making patterns in the creases of his skin, the swirling design of his fingerprints. Someone or something must have made all of this, I suppose, he thought. But Asroth, hunting me. .?

He shook his head.

Brina sat down beside him. Farrell glanced at the healer, then looked away. No matter how the recent events had affected everyone, Brina still had a reputation. Corban weathered her silent stare as long as he could.

‘Where’s Craf?’ he asked, more to break the silence than anything else.

‘There,’ she said with a nod.

Craf was sitting on the prow of the ship, staring straight ahead like some tattered figurehead.

‘I wanted to ask you something,’ Corban muttered.

‘There’s a surprise,’ Brina snorted. ‘All right then, but this time I will be asking a few questions of you, too. Perhaps we can do a trade.’

‘What could I possibly know that would interest you?’

‘A trade — yes or no?’

‘Perhaps.’ Corban eyed her suspiciously. ‘Let’s hear each other’s questions first, then decide.’

Brina scowled. ‘Well?’ she prompted.

‘The night we fled Dun Carreg, on the way to the tunnels. You and Heb. .’ He cleared his throat. ‘That mist. Did you. .?’

‘Ah, a good question.’ She almost smiled at him. ‘My question, then: Gar.’

Corban sighed. He knew it would have to be about the stablemaster. ‘Go on.’

‘He came to Dun Carreg when you and Cywen were bairns?’

Hearing Cywen’s name made something twist in his stomach. He nodded.

‘I’d like to know where he came by that curved sword of his, and where he learned how to use it. I’d like to know how he was on speaking terms with the King of Tenebral’s first-sword. And most of all, I’d like to know why he’s so interested in you.’ She jabbed his chest with a finger.

‘That’s a lot of questions. I only asked you one,’ Corban pointed out.

‘Mine are linked,’ Brina retorted.

Corban held a hand up. ‘Believe me, they are all questions that I’d like to hear the answers to, myself.’

‘You don’t know, then?’

‘No, though I wish I did.’

‘Well, go and ask him,’ she said. ‘Then you can come back and tell me.’

‘No,’ he snapped, more harshly than he’d intended. ‘It’s complicated. .’

She stared at him, then rose with a grunt. ‘When you’ve uncomplicated it, come and talk to me. I’ll tell you about the mist.’ She walked away.

Highsun had come and gone. Corban was standing by the rail, staring at nothing. He could just make out the coast: a blur of tree and rock, here and there lines of smoke climbing into the sky, marking villages and homesteads. Mordwyr and Dath had taken the boat as far out to sea as possible to avoid being seen from land, and so far Corban had only spied one other vessel on the water, not much more than a black dot in the distance.

There was a cry from the front. Marrock was pointing at something ahead. Halion made his way forward, others following. He spoke briefly with Marrock and then called for Mordwyr. The fisherman set Dath on the steering oar and made his way to the prow.

He doesn’t look too good, thought Corban as Mordwyr passed him. The man was pale, a sheen of sweat on his face. Corban followed him, leaning over the rail to look ahead when he could go no further. In the distance, directly in front of them, was a cluster of black dots. Boats. They trailed off to a thin line that led almost back to the coast.

‘What is that?’ he heard Halion ask Mordwyr.

Mordwyr stared silently, squinting into the distance. ‘Boats,’ he muttered. ‘Lots of them.’

‘I can see that,’ Halion snapped. ‘I mean, what are they doing? Why are they there?’

Even as the two men spoke, Corban could make out the sight more easily as they sped forwards. The boats were of different shapes and sizes, but most appeared to be fisher-boats similar to the one they were on. Corban counted at least thirty. They were heading out into open sea, their line stretching back to the coast, where a fair-sized village lay nestled along the shore.

‘I don’t know,’ Mordwyr murmured, ‘but they look to be heading to Ardan. More of Owain’s handiwork?’

‘This is Cambren,’ Marrock said. ‘Rhin rules here.’

‘Whatever is going on, we need to find the coast. Now. And pray to Elyon that we have not already been spotted,’ Mordwyr said, bursting into motion. Nimbly he scrambled back down the boat, yelling instructions to Dath.

Mordwyr took over the steering oar and Dath leaped to the sail, baffling Corban with the speed that he pulled on ropes, the sail abruptly sagging, emptying of wind. Slowly, the fisher-boat turned, losing the rhythm it had maintained. The sea suddenly felt more powerful beneath them, more dangerous. Corban grabbed onto the rail as they all lurched upwards, caught in the swell of a wave. Spray burst over the side.

Then Dath was pulling at the ropes again, darting around the base of the mast, and the sail began to fill. Within moments it was billowing, straining, and soon the boat was cutting towards the coast, a wake of white foam spreading behind them.

Mordwyr guided them onto a shingle beach flanked by a grassy ridge, hidden from sight from the village ahead by a curve in the land. Quickly they disembarked. Corban’s heart pounded as they scrambled up the beach, the crunch of shingle sounding deafening under their feet. They passed under a treeline, entering a wood of ash and sycamore. ‘We’ll have to stay here for now,’ Halion said. ‘Set up camp in these woods and wait until our path is clear. No fires,’ he added. He set a guard on the ridge to watch over the boat and check that no vessels came searching for them. ‘Camlin, take some hands with you and make sure we’re not too close to any unfriendly eyes or ears,’ Halion said with a wave at the thick woodland.

‘Aye, chief,’ the woodsman said. ‘Dath, bring your bow. And Corban, might need your wolven’s nose.’

They set off into the woods. Corban saw Dath glance at his da. The fisherman was sitting against a tree, his head in his hands. His shoulders were trembling. Dath hovered, then Vonn sat down beside Mordwyr. Dath shook his head and made after Camlin.

As they made their way into denser woodland Corban heard footsteps following and turned to see Gar behind him. ‘What’re you doing?’ he said.

‘Watching your back.’

‘I don’t want you to. I’m not a bairn.’’

‘Ban, don’t waste your breath. I’m coming, whether you’re happy about it or not. You’d have to be bind me hand and foot to stop me.’

Camlin looked at Gar and shrugged. ‘I’m not complaining,’ the woodsman said. ‘I saw you the other night; you an’ that sword would be handy if we walk into any bother.’

Corban said nothing more and followed Camlin into the woods.

They made their way in silence, Storm shadowing them, rustling through the undergrowth. The woodland was dense with flowering bluebell and ramsons, the strong scent of the white flowers filling the air as they passed through it. Before long the woodland changed, opening into deep-shaded beech, and soon after they were standing on the edge of a rolling meadow, steep hills in the distance. The village that the fleet of fisher-boats had set sail from was visible, smokehouses lining the coast, buildings of thatch further back, spread along the banks of a river. Clustered beyond them the land was filled with tents, paddocks and lots of men. A road stretched into the distance, skirting the river. It was dotted with more men on horseback.

Camlin sucked his teeth and spat.

‘What’s going on?’ Dath whispered.

‘Unless I’m mistaken, that looks like a warband,’ Camlin muttered. ‘What it’s doing here, though. .’

As they stood there staring, the drum of hooves reached their ears. Horsemen crested a rise in the meadow before them, five or six, spread in a line, heading their way. Sunlight glinted on coats of mail and spear-tips. Camlin swore.

‘Back into the trees,’ he snapped. ‘And, Dath, best you string your bow.’