Valour

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN

CAMLIN

Camlin reined in his horse.

‘There it is,’ Roisin cried, pointing.

The sail of a ship had come into view, poking above a ridge in the road. The sea churned behind it, an undulating blanket melting into the horizon. Camlin was glad to see it; a ten-night of hard riding south-west to the coast had set muscles aching that he didn’t know he had. Their column set off again, fifty or so riders. Camlin hung back a little, saw Edana’s fair hair up ahead, flanked by Marrock and Vonn. Though this is no end. Just the beginning of the next race. At least it will give us some breathing space, though. He glanced over his shoulder, looking for the tell-tale signs of their pursuers.

For three days now he had glimpsed riders following them, a cloud of dust marking them that suggested many more than their fifty horses. Now though, green hills behind hid anyone from view, and the clouds were low and thick, masking any dust trail.

They’re back there somewhere, but we just need long enough to jump onto a ship and row away. He dipped his body low against his horse’s neck and willed it to gallop faster.

He had told Marrock and Halion of the pursuit, and they had in turn told Edana and Roisin, the word spreading through the warriors. A bleakness had settled over them that night, the knowledge of pursuit suggesting that Dun Taras had fallen. Baird had picked a fight with one of Quinn’s men, knocking the man cold for little more than a lingering glance. Halion had had to step in before Baird had taken on a dozen others. Quinn had challenged Baird, of course, but Halion had forbidden it, saying they were all on the same side, and to save their anger for the enemy, if they ever caught up. Camlin suspected that Quinn had not really meant the challenge, anyway; he had backed down too easily, although he had glowered at Halion’s back afterwards. Camlin had not liked that. He’d heard the man was proud and arrogant, and nothing he’d witnessed during their journey had dissuaded him of the notion. Besides that, anyone with the title of first-sword didn’t take well to being told what to do by another warrior.

Later that night Camlin had watched Quinn as he’d cleaned and sharpened his blades — a longsword and two knives laid out before him. At the end he had poured a dark liquid over them, working it into the iron.

‘What’s that?’ Camlin had asked.

‘Just an extra bite,’ Quinn had said. ‘Something to slow a man down a little.’ He’d smiled.

Camlin hadn’t liked that either. A memory rose in his mind of the night Farrell had arm-wrestled Quinn in the feast-hall, a cut on the back of Farrell’s hand. ‘Best be careful not to cut yourself by accident, then,’ he’d said.

‘I never cut anyone by accident.’

‘Doesn’t look exactly honourable,’ Vonn said, who had been sitting close by, silent as usual.

‘Honourable’s for bairns’ bedtime tales,’ Quinn said. ‘Me, I’m all for winning and living.’

‘My da used to say something similar,’ Vonn said. ‘I used to think he was wrong. That people were honourable, that good should stand against wrong.’

‘And you’re right to think so,’ Marrock had said.

‘Am I? I’m not so sure any more.’

They powered over a ridge and the ocean opened up before them, the trail they were following winding down a lush green slope. They were upon the crest of a hill, beneath them a sharp rocky drop leading to a quay that jutted out into the water, a larger ship moored to it.

Our ship. Our safety.

The road they were on wound down the slope, curling away from the quay and then looping back, turning to sand as it spilt onto a narrow strip of beach. A few huts were scattered about, nets hanging along the beach, ridges in the sand where fisher-boats had been beached. They rode onto the beach, sand and surf spraying, and after a last gallop were finally at the quay, a milling chaos of people dismounting, pulling provisions from saddles, climbing narrow wooden stairs to reach the quay.

Camlin shouldered a bag, mostly full of arrows, his bow gripped in his other hand, and then he was running along the quay, past Halion, who stood rearguard by the stairs, sword in hand, eyes fixed on the approach to the beach. Half a dozen warriors stood with him, the rest hastening to the ship. Waves churned beneath the timber boards as Camlin ran fast, the waiting vessel further along than he’d realized, fifty, sixty paces.

Roisin had already boarded, holding her hands out for Lorcan. Edana was aboard, Vonn and Marrock beside her. Marrock saw Camlin and waved him on. Quinn stood close to Lorcan on the quay, waiting his turn to climb aboard. Other warriors were milling about, only a few being able to board at a time. To Camlin’s eye there was no way they were all going to fit on this ship; there were just too many of them.

Then a cry was rising up behind them, a warning.

Camlin looked back and saw a row of dark silhouettes lining the slope above the quay, more and more swelling the line as every moment passed. One of them kicked his horse closer, moving to the edge of the slope, stones skittering down to rattle on the quay.

Conall.

‘Give the boy up,’ he yelled.

‘Never,’ screeched Roisin.

‘Give up the boy and Eremon’s bitch, and I will grant you pardon. More — I’ll reward you. I’m regent of Domhain now, and I have power and riches to spare. You’ll not have this chance again. Join me now, or I’m coming down there to kill every last one of you.’

A buzz of muttering spread through the warriors massed on the quay. That bothered Camlin — if he could work out that the ship was too small to take them all, then so could others. Men faced with being left behind and dying made rash choices. Roisin screamed for Lorcan to board the ship. Camlin took a few steps away from the crowd, back towards the beach. He saw a figure climb the stairs on the quay and step into Conall’s view.

Halion.

Conall saw him. The colour drained from his face.

‘I thought you were dead, Con,’ Halion called up to him.

‘Me? I’m hard to kill, you should know that.’

‘What are you doing, Con?’ Halion said.

‘What we should have done together, years ago. I’m righting the wrongs of our father, and of that murdering bitch.’ He jabbed a finger towards Roisin. ‘The question is what are you doing, Hal? Protecting her and her spawn, when our mam died because of them, and we’ve lived a life on the run longer than I can remember because of them. Join me; together we can have our vengeance and rule Domhain into the bargain.’ He grinned. ‘A good day’s work, if you ask me.’ He held a hand out to his brother, his eyes pleading.

Camlin froze, waiting on Halion’s answer. It felt as if everyone was doing the same; even the wind and waves were momentarily calm.

‘I swore an oath to Brenin. I’ll not be breaking it, Con. Not for you, not for anyone. But you don’t have to do this. Just let us go. We’ll sail away, never to trouble you again. For Elyon’s sake, man, they’re women and children.’

‘That’s not going to happen, Hal. You’re either with me or against me.’

‘Then I’m against you,’ Halion said and raised his sword.

Conall snarled and yanked on his reins. He rode away, following the trail towards the entrance to the beach, his warband moving behind him.

Shouts and screams rang out behind Camlin, close to the ship. He turned to see Quinn surrounded by a knot of warriors pushing back along the quay, towards the beach. Quinn was carrying Lorcan over his shoulder, the lad flopping senseless. Roisin was screaming, trying to climb from the ship, hands pulling her back. Weapons were drawn, clashing. Camlin saw Baird chop one man down, then set upon another. He glimpsed Marrock leaping from the ship’s rails back onto the quay. Quinn was running now, away from the main huddle of bodies, four or five warriors with him, another score at least forming a crude barrier holding Marrock, Baird and his men at bay.

Camlin reached for an arrow, nocked it, let fly; one of the warriors with Quinn staggered and fell, rolling off the quay into the churning sea. He fired again, another man dropping to the ground.

Then Halion and the men with him were mixed with them, iron sparking. Quinn dropped Lorcan, drawing both sword and knife. Camlin saw him open a wound on a warrior’s bicep. Their weapons clashed again in a long flurry of blows, then the man was staggering away, legs unsteady, as if he were drunk.

Poison on Quinn’s blade.

Quinn stepped after him and with a slash of his sword opened the man’s guts.

Camlin shouldered his bow and ran, drawing his sword.

In slow motion he saw Halion step in front of Quinn. Camlin opened his mouth to scream, to warn Halion of the poisoned blades, but then they were at each other, the harsh ring of iron drowning out all other sound. There was a succession of blows, Halion shuffling forwards, then Quinn’s knife was spinning through the air, landing with a thunk in the wooden boards, just a few handspans from Lorcan’s prostrate body.

Camlin was closer now, twenty paces, fifteen. He hurdled over Lorcan, part of him noticing that the lad was still breathing. Ten paces. He saw Halion duck a sword swing, step in close and smash his sword hilt into Quinn’s mouth, blood and teeth spraying. Quinn staggered back, arms flailing, then the tip of Halion’s sword exploded through his back, blood showering Camlin as he reached them.

Halion ripped his blade free and Quinn sank to his knees, then toppled forwards onto his face.

Relief swept Camlin and he called to Halion. ‘Come on, time to leave.’

Then he saw the red gash across Halion’s shoulder.