Valour

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CYWEN

Cywen woke suddenly, her heart pounding as loud as war-drums in her head. She was curled in a chair in the kitchen, embers in the fire burned down to a red glow. What woke me? Had she dreamed? Then she heard Buddai growling.

She sat up quickly, reaching for a knife. It was dark, but she could tell there were people on the other side of the door; she could hear them whispering. Then the door handle turned.

‘Don’t go throwing anything sharp at me,’ someone said. Cywen’s memory fumbled to put a face to the familiar voice. Conall.

‘Get out,’ Cywen replied. Buddai was snarling now, only her hand in his fur stopping him from leaping at the intruder.

‘You’ve got visitors, girl,’ Conall said. ‘They were all for putting a sack over your head and carrying you to the keep, but I told them you’d wake all of Dun Carreg, and most likely every demon in the Otherworld as well. So I told them if we asked you polite you’d see sense and be reasonable.’

‘What time is it?’ Cywen asked, blinking as someone behind Conall lit a torch. ‘What visitors?’

‘It’s nighttime,’ Conall said with a shrug, stepping into the kitchen, his gaze flitting between the knife in Cywen’s hand and Buddai’s bared teeth. ‘Got anything to drink?’ he asked.

Figures crowded the door behind him, spilling into the room. The first Cywen recognized: Nathair, King of Tenebral, and his shadow, Sumur. Behind them was an old man, silver-haired but somehow youthful; he was looking at her intently.

Buddai whined, tail tucking between his legs, ears going flat to his head, and the old man frowned, then something huge followed behind him, a man’s shape, though taller and wider, small black eyes peering out from beneath a thick jutting brow. A giant, a black axe slung across his back.

Conall stepped before her, seeing her knife hand move. ‘Be calm, lass. Don’t do it, they’ve just come to talk.’

Cywen froze, fear making her pulse race. I must still be asleep. Please let me still be asleep. Her instinct was to throw first and talk later. Then another figure entered the room wearing a black cuirass, the silver eagle of Tenebral embossed upon it, two swords at his hip, one long, one short; a young man, stern faced, with serious, searching eyes. He looked at her and smiled apologetically.

She lowered her knife.

Behind this serious warrior one last man came, shutting the door behind him. Metal rings were woven into his braided beard, clinking as he moved.

‘How about that drink?’ Conall asked.

‘There’s mead in the cold room,’ Cywen said, waving her hand, and Conall fetched a skin, unstoppered it and took a swig. Nathair shook his head when Conall offered him the skin.

‘I’ll have some,’ the man with rings in his beard said.

‘Why are you all here?’ Cywen said.

The silver-haired man dragged a chair over and sat before Cywen. ‘I need to talk to you about your brother.’

The sky was a searing blue, wisps of cloud doing little to block the heat of the sun as Cywen rode to the paddocks beyond Havan. Over two thousand horses were roaming here, more than she had ever seen in her life — the war mounts of Owain’s warband mixing with Brenin’s herds. She was on Shield, could feel his barely controlled energy, his yearning to gallop reflected in how he lifted his hooves, how he held his tail straight and proud.

She was in the company of a dozen other stablehands, all ordered by the warrior Drust to bring back mounts from Brenin’s herd considered suitable for training in the Rowan Field. She rounded up half a dozen, Gar’s piebald stallion, Hammer, amongst them, and roped them in a line behind Shield. As she was leaving, a memory tugged at her and she changed direction, rode to a small copse of alders and followed a track, now overgrown.

She pulled up before Brina’s cottage, or what was left of it. It had been burned out, the charred framework still standing, the open doorway leading to a pile of rubble and ash. Brina would have a lot to say to the man that had put fire to her home. Even the herb garden was overgrown, a mass of weeds and grass gone to seed. Then she was remembering the night that Corban had sneaked into this cottage and stolen a comb, to prove his courage. She felt her breath catch in her chest. A tear rolled down her cheek and she brushed it away. Strange, how a memory from the past can sneak up so quietly.

Corban.

Last night had been so strange, woken in the dead of night by the strangest bunch of companions she had ever witnessed — a giant, a living, breathing giant walking around Dun Carreg — and questioned. Questioned about Corban.

She had been scared at first — who wouldn’t be with a giant standing in your kitchen? — but then the silver-haired man had started talking to her. His voice had been so calm. She had not said much, little more than she had told Nathair during their previous meeting, though some of it she found hard to remember. There had been so many questions from the old man with the strange yellow eyes.

He had asked about Meical, she remembered that, and she had thought instantly of seeing him sitting in the kitchen, talking to her mam and da, and to Gar. They had spoken about Corban as well. And finally Calidus had asked her for something that had belonged to Corban — an item of clothing, a knife, anything. She had given him Corban’s old forge apron, scarred and pitted by heat and flame, sweat-stained on the inside. She had found it in her da’s forge when she had been searching for her throwing knives, and for some unexplained reason had brought the apron home with her.

Calidus had held it, run his fingertips over its entirety, then closed his eyes and started singing, so quietly that it had been little more than a whisper. When he opened his eyes he had pronounced Corban gone from Ardan, said that he was across the sea, to the north-west. That had scared her more than anything else, even more than the giant staring at her. Calidus was an Elemental. She shivered at the memory. An Elemental, searching for Corban.

Corban. To her he was just her baby brother. Why were these people so interested in him?

Her thoughts stayed fixed on her brother as she rode Shield away from Brina’s cottage, leading the other horses back to Dun Carreg. The fortress and surrounding land was buzzing with activity. Owain’s warband was spread between Dun Carreg and the plains south of the giantsway, more of them arriving every day. North of the giantsway Nathair’s forces camped, swollen first by the arrival of his fleet and then the warband that had ridden in from the east only yesterday. Rows of tents filled all the land between the giantsway and the beach. She scowled as she saw black-clad figures in Havan, more of the Jehar that had stormed Stonegate the night Dun Carreg had fallen.

The warriors everywhere grew smaller and smaller as she steadily climbed the path to the fortress. Out in the bay a great cluster of ships with Tenebral’s eagle upon them were rowing for open sea, their sails billowing and filling as they left the bay’s shelter. As she watched, they turned east, becoming specks as they dwindled into the distance, and she wondered where they were heading. Eventually she clattered over the bridge and through Dun Carreg’s stone-paved streets until she reached the Rowan Field. Drust inspected the mounts she had brought in, grunting approvingly. He gave particular attention to Hammer, Gar’s stallion, who was also the sire of Shield.

‘You’ve done well, girl,’ the red-haired warrior said. ‘You’ve a good eye for horses.’

‘Thank you,’ she replied without smiling.

He took the reins from her and led the horses away, towards a pile of saddles and tack. ‘Help me with them,’ he called over his shoulder.

She looked around as she worked. The Field was busy, warriors everywhere. She spotted Rafe on the weapons court, sparring with a man bearing the bull of Narvon. Even though he still limped, Rafe used his height and long reach to good effect, and in short time he had scored a hit to his opponent’s chest. He caught Cywen’s eye as he hobbled from the court and strolled over to her, grinning.

‘Enjoy watching men sweat?’ he said. ‘Or is it my skills that draw your eye?’

‘I was wondering what you looked like against my brother, when you challenged him to the Court of Swords.’ She had heard about Rafe’s challenge in Dun Carreg’s feast-hall, how the confrontation had lasted little more than a few heartbeats, Rafe defeated, his blood on Corban’s sword. ‘Apparently it was quite the sight.’

Emotions swept Rafe’s face — too many, too complex to read. ‘I wasn’t ready,’ he said, looking away.

Cheering drifted over from the weapons court and they both turned to look.

Conall was stepping onto the court, a practice sword in his hand. From the far side a figure appeared, flanked by a bald, thick-necked warrior. Cywen recognized the young warrior; he was one of those who had woken her in the night. He still wore the silver and black of Tenebral.

‘Who is that?’ she asked.

‘He’s Nathair’s first-sword, rode in with a warband yesterday,’ Rafe said. ‘Name’s Veradis, I think. And it looks as if he’s about to get a hiding from Conall.’

Quickly the court cleared for the two warriors, Cywen and Rafe hurrying over to watch. Conall was smiling, waiting for Veradis as he chose a practice sword from a wicker basket. He did not rush, testing the weight of a few until he found one that he was happy with. He returned Conall’s smile as he walked to him, then set his feet.

In a burst of speed Conall was on him, rushing forward, striking high and low in a blur of motion.

‘That’s your brother’s trick,’ Rafe whispered in Cywen’s ear, ‘catching people off-guard.’

Cywen heard rather than saw the exchange, the staccato clack of wood striking wood. When her eyes caught up, Veradis had retreated a few steps, but Conall had not broken his guard. Conall attacked again, feinting high then spinning around Veradis and chopping at the man’s ribs. Veradis spun on his heel, sweeping Conall’s attack away and striking at Conall’s head and chest with two short, solid blows. Conall blocked one and stepped away from the second. They continued like this, neither gaining the upper hand, Conall like a storm-whipped sea, swirling fluidly around Veradis’ wall of stone, solid, impenetrable. Then, from nowhere, Conall’s blade-tip was at Veradis’ throat, Conall grinning wolfishly. Cywen scowled, wishing for some reason that Conall had lost. He needs some of his swagger chopped away.

Veradis returned the smile, nodding down. Conall looked and saw Veradis’ weapon pressing against Conall’s groin.

Cywen smiled; that was one of the kill points that Corban had taught her.

Conall scowled then laughed, one emotion chasing the other as quick as a blink. Veradis stepped away and dipped his head to Conall.

‘Well, that was something to see,’ Rafe breathed. ‘I’ve never seen anyone except Conall’s brother touch wood to him while sparring.’

‘What’s going on today?’ Cywen asked him. ‘It feels different, somehow. Tense.’

‘Have you not heard?’ Rafe said. ‘Queen Rhin has broken out of the Darkwood into Ardan. She is marching on Owain. She is marching here.’