Valour

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY

CORBAN

Everything passed in a blur to Corban as they hurtled through the shadowed corridors of Murias, the sounds of violence fading behind, people all around, the clatter of hooves ahead. Time drifted from its moorings, losing its meaning. Then Corban was in the chamber before Murias’ great gates, the dead everywhere. The giant with the white hair was there — Balur — a handful of his kin with him, including a pale giantess who stared at him intensely, a cluster of giant bairns about her. They had gathered horses for them, found them wandering out on the slopes. Corban felt hands upon him, helping him into a saddle, thrusting reins into his hands. He was dimly aware of more people pouring into the chamber — he saw Tukul and Meical, more of the Jehar.

Then they were outside. It was close to highsun, the air fresh and clean after the stifling damp of the underground caverns.

Corban rode from Murias, a small host about him, thundering down the slope and onto purple moorland, scattered giants running amongst them. Two birds flew low in the air above.

For the moment they did not know where they were going, just away, spurring their horses to a gallop, the wind whipping Corban’s face. Beside him rode Gar, his mam’s body slumped upon the warrior’s saddle. At a glance it seemed that she was siting up, leaning into Gar, asleep. The man was still weeping. Cywen rode close by, still sitting behind Coralen on Shield’s back, her arms wrapped around Coralen’s waist. Their gazes met, a grief shared.

Meical drew ahead and veered left, guiding them towards a line of hills that rolled eastwards. Corban looked down and saw Storm loping beside him, Buddai keeping pace. He bent forward over his mount’s neck and gave himself to the rhythm of the gallop.

The sun was dipping towards the horizon, sending shadows lancing ahead of them when they stopped. They had reached the foothills that Meical had led them towards and travelled a league or so into their embrace. Corban could still see Murias behind him, a dark spike on the horizon. Birds swirled above it, a black halo.

Tukul organized the making of camp, setting guards who fanned out from their small host, others constructing a makeshift paddock beside a fast-flowing stream, while some set to digging a fire-pit. Corban looked about and saw they numbered in the hundreds: the Jehar who had travelled with him from Dun Vaner, plus the ones who had escaped the cauldron’s grip — at least another two hundred warriors, probably more. And giants — over a dozen were gathered about Balur, who was holding the black axe he had taken in combat, showing it to his kin. The giantess looked along with the rest, as did the giant bairns, as many at least as the adults. Corban shook his head.

Gar slipped from his saddle, cradling Gwenith’s body. He carried her to the stream’s bank and laid her gently upon the grass. Corban followed and stood over his mam. Her eyes were closed, her skin pale, translucent as wax. Her wound ran from shoulder to chest, blood crusted black about it. Corban felt a presence at his shoulder, knew it was Cywen. The three of them stood in silence, gazing down at Gwenith. Storm sniffed her hand, let out a high-pitched whine and Buddai curled at her feet. Then Cywen scrambled down to the stream, soaked the hem of her cloak in the icy water and came back to dab her mam’s face, washing the blood from her lips. Corban and Gar did the same, the three of them silently washing Gwenith, preparing her for burial. When she was wrapped in Corban’s cloak they began to pull stones from the stream, piling them about Gwenith’s body, building a cairn over her.

Time drifted, Corban slowly becoming aware that others were moving around him, helping to gather stones — first his friends, Dath, Coralen, Farrell, Brina, then others, Tukul and Meical amongst them. Last of all Balur joined them. He pulled a boulder the size of a child from the stream bed, and they set it at the head of Gwenith’s cairn. When they were done, the host stood about the grave, heads bowed. There was a flapping in Corban’s ear and Craf alighted on his shoulder, the crow’s claws pinching.

‘Sad,’ the bird croaked.

‘Yes,’ Corban whispered. A tear rolled down his cheek, and he heard Cywen sniff beside him.

A silence fell, the sound of the stream and wind amongst the heather framing the moment.

A voice broke the silence — old and harsh against the quiet. Brina. Alone she sang the opening lines of the lament. Gar was the first to add his voice, others joining until the hills rang. Even Balur and the giants sang.

They are not just singing for my mam; they all mourn those they have lost.

Memories bubbled up inside Corban of his mam, a thousand tender moments, sealed with her dying words, blood spattering her lips. My darlings, she had said. Grief welled sudden and powerful, consuming him, blotting out everything but his mam’s face. He felt an impact on his knees, realized dimly that he’d fallen, hands about him steadying, comforting. He let out a great sob, his body racked by it, tremors coursing through him, all the pain and torment that he had endured since the night of his da’s death surging up in one overwhelming moment.

He did not know how long he stayed there, kneeling in the dirt before his mam’s cairn. Eventually he looked up, swiping tears from his eyes. A few were still gathered about him — Cywen and Gar, their eyes red and raw. His friends, Dath and Farrell, Coralen regarding him with a rare compassion. He rose slowly and looked back across the leagues they had ridden, saw the last rays of the setting sun shining off the cliffs and towers of Murias, the image fracturing in his tear-filled eyes.

He thought of the cauldron, the black cloud rising from it, the tainted Jehar ripping men limb from limb, Nathair sitting on the dais steps, and finally the old man that he had fought, who had killed his mam. Calidus, Meical had called him. One thought circled in his head like the black birds swirling about the mountain peaks.

They must be stopped.