Valour

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

UTHAS

Uthas ran, his legs taking long, ground-eating strides. The old pain in his knee throbbed but he ignored it, concentrating on his breathing. He could hear Salach behind him, the dull thud of his boots on turf, behind that the others: Fray, Struan, Kai and Eisa. Far above, Nemain’s raven Fech flew in a jagged line. Up ahead he could see mountains rearing behind the pine-coated foothills they were running through. And beyond them is Cambren, Rhin’s land. We will be safe there.

He risked a glance behind, his pace slowing a little. There was no sign of pursuit at first, then he saw it, a thin line in the distance, moving, following them.

Rath.

Fech had been right, back at Dun Taras. Rath had picked up their trail in the north and was tracking them south. Panic and anger had rippled through his group at Rath’s name, the reputation of the man and his band of giant-killers overriding rational thought. Fray and Eisa had wanted to fight Rath, to march out and meet him and his warriors, but Uthas had known it would be suicide. You did not fight Rath on his own ground, on his own terms. He had been too long and efficient at giant-killing. No, escape was the priority; fulfil the plans. So they had fled east, towards Cambren. Rath had gained on them, somehow, and for the last five nights their pursuers had been almost constantly within sight. He looked forwards and fixed his eyes on the mountains. Five leagues, at least. We will make it. It will be close, but we will make it. And he will not dare to follow us into Cambren.

The giants’ road was a shadowed line far below them. Uthas paused and looked back; he could see that Rath and his men were closer.

Damn them.

He muttered a curse and led his group quickly into the trees, a growing sense of alarm settling upon him. For the first time he began to consider the possibility of being caught by Rath, of being forced to battle. Of dying. As the thought grew, so did a sense of panic. By sunset he knew he had to do something.

He called a halt. They were still in the foothills, under the cover of dense pines, but further ahead he could see that the trees thinned and the path led into the mountains proper. He set Fray and Kai on watch while he scouted ahead and found a place far enough distant that he would not be disturbed. After making a small fire, he drew a knife and opened a small pouch, from which he pulled out a lock of brittle silver hair. Rhin’s hair. This was giant magic, earth magic — he cut his palm, rolled the lock of hair in his blood and dropped it into the fire. The flames swirled as a shape grew within them: a face, old and lined. Rhin. ‘What?’ Rhin said. Her eyes focused on Uthas. ‘This is not a good time.’

‘I must talk to you, now,’ Uthas hissed. Then he heard a bough creak above and looked up to see a dark shape, feathers. Fech. He froze and the bird flapped its wings, rising into the air.

Nemain cannot know.

He fumbled for his knife, found it, aimed and threw. There was a muted squawk as he found his target, then Fech was gone.

Uthas looked back to the fire, but Rhin’s face had disappeared. He stood, hurriedly stamped the fire out and left. He was on his own.