Valour

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND ONE

VERADIS

Veradis stood beside Rhin and Conall. Behind them stood the combined warbands of Cambren and Tenebral, waiting. Amongst them were also two dozen wains, on open display and filled to overflowing with bread.

Smoke billowed from a dozen points within the walls of Dun Taras. Throughout the night rioting had been heard, even the clash of arms close to the gate, so a watch had been set, warriors put on alert to storm the gates at the first hint of them opening.

‘It will not be long,’ Rhin said to Veradis. ‘Conall was the nudge that they needed.’

I think she’s right. Shrewd and sharp; a good ally, a fearful enemy.

The sounds grew as the day lengthened, the roar of rioting drifting closer, then ebbing away. Eventually, around highsun, the noise reached a crescendo, the screams of pitched battle drifting over the walls. Then a shiver ran through the gates and they swung open.

A roar went up from the warriors behind Veradis.

‘Slowly,’ Rhin called. ‘We are their deliverers, not their conquerors.’

Riders pulled in close about Rhin and then she moved off, entering through Dun Taras’ gates to shouting and cheering. The wains followed in a line behind; Conall and a handful of other warriors leaned to grab loaves of bread and throw them into the crowd.

Veradis marched behind the wains, three hundred of his men massed behind him. All of them were alert, tense. Behind them came more of Rhin’s warband, spreading into the crowds, searching the side streets, up stairwells and onto the walls. The wains stopped at points along the way, quickly emptying to pushing and shoving crowds, then reversed slowly out of the fortress to be refilled. The crowds thinned about Rhin and Veradis as they pushed deeper into Dun Taras, aiming for the keep.

We are being greeted with open arms right now, but I don’t think all feel the same way in this fortress.

As if Veradis’ thoughts willed them out of the shadows, a band of warriors appeared from a side street and hurled themselves at Rhin’s shieldmen. There was a brief clash, a few of Rhin’s men were dragged from saddles, but the attackers were quickly repulsed. Veradis and his men drew closer together, not yet a shield wall, but ready.

Then they were at the keep.

There was a stillness, an emptiness that set Veradis’ skin prickling. That moment when the wind dies, just before a storm breaks.

‘Be ready,’ he said to Bos.

Rhin stopped in the courtyard, her men fanning out before her. The keep doors were shut, but when warriors pushed on them they swung open freely. A score of Rhin’s men entered, more, then like a wave. Then there was a concussive bang, air blasting from the open doors, followed by an explosion of heat and flames. A handful of men staggered out, human torches, the stench of seared flesh filling the courtyard. Veradis felt his stomach lurch.

‘No one’s going in that way for a while,’ Bos said beside him.

Geraint appeared with more men in his wake. He sent scouts around the keep, searching out other entrances. They soon returned with more reports of ambushes and traps, barricaded corridors, more fires. Conall forged ahead anyway, leading a few score warriors into one of the entrances. Veradis settled his men in the courtyard. While he was proud to be involved in any battle, to represent Nathair and honour the alliance, he was not about to lead his men into a potential fiery death. So he waited.

The fires in the keep’s feast-hall guttered out a little before sunset. Other reports came back that pitched fighting was occurring as Geraint’s men moved deeper into the building.

‘Time to go in,’ Veradis said and marched into the keep, shield held high, his short sword drawn, his men following suit.

In the feast-hall timbers still smoked, amongst them the blackened remains of Rhin’s warriors. Veradis found an arched doorway and led his men out of the hall into a wide, high corridor. Archways branched off it, entrances to other corridors, the sounds of battle drifting out to them. Veradis kept going. Every closed doorway was tried, opened, rooms searched. Nothing. As they progressed deeper into the keep a thought hit him.

This corridor isn’t barricaded or defended because of the fire in the feast-hall. That was barrier enough. But whoever set it must have known it would burn out, eventually. Then he understood.

These are not the efforts of a last defence; they’re delaying tactics.

They came to the end of the corridor, a broad stairway before them leading up and down, one last wooden door beside it.

‘Check inside, Bos. Then we’ll split the men — half up, half down, though I’m starting to think there’s no one here to find. I think old King Eremon has flown this coop.’

Bos turned the iron ring, pushed the door open and stepped inside. There was a brief pause, then a wet thunk, a grunt and Veradis saw Bos drop to the floor.

No.

Time slowed. He saw a blade stab down into Bos’ back, between shoulder blade and neck, saw Bos’ leg twitching. Veradis heard himself shouting, felt himself slamming into the door, hurling it open as he leaped over Bos’ prostrate form and knocked Bos’ attacker stumbling back into the room. A pool of blood was growing around his friend’s head and shoulders.

Veradis lifted his shield high, felt an impact and swerved away from the door, instinctively making room for his men, knowing they would be following close behind him.

A warrior swung at his head with a sword. Veradis took the blow on his shield, flung the blade wide, slashed once across the man’s gut, his sword turning on chainmail, then stabbed high, catching the man in the throat, sending him tumbling backwards in a spray of blood.

It was a large chamber, with only a few men standing at its far end — ten, maybe twelve. One was an old man, his shoulder bandaged, holding a longsword in one hand, a knife in the other. He limped as he stepped forwards. Between him and Veradis the room was littered with furniture — tables, overturned chairs, huge chests.

‘No room for your wall of shields in here,’ the old warrior said. ‘Let’s see if you can fight like real warriors.’

‘Brave words, for so few of you,’ Veradis said.

‘I am Rath, and these are the Degad, my giant-killers. We’ve fought a lot worse than you.’

Over a score of his eagle-guard were already in the room. Soon they would be as squashed as the warriors that ended piled against his shield wall. He yelled an order, making them wait, his eyes drawn to the still form of Bos lying on the ground.

‘We’ve slain giants of our own,’ Veradis said and moved forward.

Warriors surged past Rath, howling, swords raised high. They met his eagle-guard with a savage crash.

A great longsword split Veradis’ shield. The blade stuck a handspan from his wrist; he threw the shield and stabbed the swordsman in the belly, shouldering past him as he sank to the floor, switching his short sword to his left hand and drawing his longsword at his hip. He lost himself in each moment, revelling in it, in finding a man to look in the eye, knowing that within heartbeats one of them would be the victor, the other dead. He had not fought like this for so long; there was a beauty in it, somehow, a passion that was missing from the cold ferocity of the shield wall. All about him was a chaos of movement, men yelling and screaming, swords grating and sparking, blood making the floor run slick.

Then there were only a handful of men before him, four of them, backed about a closed door. One of them was the old man, Rath, both knife and sword running red. He was breathing hard, but smiling. He knew his end was close, and had made his peace with it. Veradis looked back, saw the room littered with the dead and dying, the vast majority his eagle-guard.

A voice rang out from the back of the room.

‘Where are they?’ it called.

Veradis saw his eagle-guard part for Conall. He too carried a sword and knife in his hands, both blades red with blood. Other warriors followed him — Rhin’s men.

‘Where are they, Uncle?’ Conall said as he stood before the old man.

‘You’ll have to earn that knowledge,’ Rath said.

‘Drop your weapons, Uncle. You can’t win.’

‘Sometimes it’s not about the winning, Con. It’s about how you lose.’

‘It’s always about the winning,’ Conall said.

‘That’s always been your mistake,’ the old man said, shaking his head sadly.

‘Last chance,’ Conall said. ‘Give the old man and his brat up. Be my battlechief.’

‘He was my brother, Con; your da. How can you be doing this?’

‘Was?’ Conall frowned, then he was moving, almost too fast for Veradis to follow. There was a flurry of ringing clashes, sparks, both men chest to chest, ridged veins mapping their arms as they strained against each other. Then Rath had a foot behind Conall’s leg, was pushing him back. Conall stumbled, somehow regained his balance, used his momentum to slip out of range as Rath’s knife whistled where his throat had been.

Rath taught him, Veradis realized, and instantly it was obvious, from the preference of sword and knife to the way they held their balance, the angles of their attacks, the way they were in constant motion, defence flowing into attack after attack. Conall’s knife snaked forwards, Rath blocked, at the same time both swords whistling through the air, clashing. Rath ducked and spun in close, stabbed. There was a thud, a grunt, then the two men parted. Conall only held his sword now.

His knife hilt stood from Rath’s chest.

There was a silent moment as the two men regarded one another, then, with a rattling sigh, Rath sank to the ground.

The other defenders at the doorway leaped forwards then, but Veradis’ eagle-guard and Conall’s warriors intercepted them before they could reach Conall. There was a flurry of hard combat, and then these last defenders were overwhelmed and cut down.

Conall opened the door they had been guarding and walked into an adjoining room. Veradis followed him, saw the warrior staring at a bed. A smell hit Veradis’ throat, sweet and rotten. Decay.

King Eremon lay upon the bed, hands crossed over his chest. He was dead and, from the smell, had been for a while. Conall walked up to the bed, staring at his father — no expression in his eyes.

‘It looks as if Domhain is now yours,’ Veradis said.

‘Not until I have Lorcan’s dead body before me.’ Slowly the chamber was cleared, the injured tended to, the dead moved. Veradis felt a knot of grief swelling in his chest, but breathed deep and buried it, at least for a little longer.

Later, he told himself.

The heavy tramp of many feet sounded in the corridor and Rhin entered the room, her shieldmen about her. Another was with them, a young man, dirty and bruised. Veradis realized it was Rafe, the lad they had brought from Ardan to help them in the hunt for Corban.

Rhin gave Eremon’s corpse a disdainful glance, then approached Conall.

‘We have some information,’ she said, beckoning for Rafe to be brought forward.

‘I’ve been housed with other prisoners, in a building block close to the stables,’ Rafe said. ‘Last night, late, I heard some noise, looked out through a gap in the shutter. I saw Edana go into the stables. Halion was with her,’ his eyes flickered to Conall, ‘and a lot of others — warriors, another woman — dark hair, a young lad with her-’

‘Roisin and Lorcan,’ Conall breathed. ‘It must be. Which way did they go?’

‘I don’t know. They never came out,’ Rafe said.

Veradis took Bos’ body out of the fortress, laid it in a wain along with their other fallen brothers. A cairn was built over them out on the plain. The eagle-guard gathered in a half-circle about the cairn as Veradis spoke of their sword-brothers, stories about their individual honour and courage, valour and loyalty. He drew his sword and saluted the dead, his brothers-in-arms. And his friend. Behind him his warriors did the same, the sound like a wave breaking. His thoughts spiralled about Bos, a fragmented patchwork of memories — recalling the day they’d met on the weapons court in Jerolin, Bos alongside Rauca, Bos’ great appetite, his easy-going nature, his loyalty as a friend. Both of them were dead now, first Rauca and now Bos, gone from this earth. Both in aid of Nathair’s cause. He felt tears fill his eyes and looked away, to the walls of Dun Taras.

After Rafe’s revelation, Rhin and Conall had ordered the stableblock to be searched. It was not long before a hidden tunnel was discovered, a secret exit crafted by the giants. Conall had set off in pursuit, a hundred or so warriors trailing him, and Veradis searched the plains beyond Dun Taras now, looking for a glimpse of Conall’s passing, but he could only see an empty landscape rolling into the horizon.

We are strangers in a strange land, he thought. Shedding our blood, spending our lives, for what? He looked at his palm, saw the white scar of his blood-oath to Nathair. That is what for. For an oath given, a cause worth fighting for, a cause worth dying for. He looked to the north, his thoughts filled with Nathair. Then another face crept into his mind, drawing into sharp focus.

Cywen.