Valour

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

MAQUIN

‘Something’s different,’ Maquin said as he looked up.

‘They’ve stopped banging on the doors,’ Orgull said.

‘Aye.’

‘Not that it seemed to bother you,’ Tahir added. ‘You’ve managed to sleep through most of their hammering.’

‘I was just resting my eyes,’ Maquin said.

‘Wish you’d have rested my ears — your snoring’s been loud enough to wake the dead.’

‘Watch your cheek,’ Maquin said as he stood, his back protesting. ‘I’m getting old.’

They were settled at the rear of Dun Kellen’s feast-hall, a large portion of the surviving warriors scattered about the room. The stone walls were solid and thick; the only wood that they could attempt to burn was the hall’s great doors, but the flames had achieved little success.

A warrior strode through a doorway at the back of the hall and approached them.

‘The Lady Gerda would speak with you,’ the warrior addressed all three of them.

Gerda was sitting in a wide chair when they were ushered in to see her; a warrior in chainmail and a bearskin cloak was before her. A child, the young boy Maquin had seen with Gerda before, sat in flickering shadows at the back of the room, whittling at a piece of wood with a small knife. Haelan.

Gerda smiled.

‘I am expecting my reinforcements to arrive soon,’ she said. ‘Possibly today. When they reach Dun Kellen we will rally, take the battle to Jael from within. He will not be able to stand an attack on two fronts, and the reinforcements should outnumber him. I think he will flee.’

‘Probably,’ Orgull said. ‘He does not strike me as one for a brave last stand.’

‘No, indeed. He’d rather run and save his scrawny neck, the snot-nosed slimy little piece of dung,’ Gerda said with venom.

The boy looked up, appearing to be holding back laughter.

Gerda took a shuddering breath. ‘But the Jael I know is unpredictable. He is capable of many things. This is Thoris, my battlechief,’ she said with a wave of her hand. The man nodded to them, his warrior braid woven thick in his fair hair. ‘We are discussing eventualities.’

Where is she going with this?

‘If the unlikely happens, and Jael is victorious, then I would ask one last thing of you all. I would ask you to protect Haelan, my son, and take him somewhere safe.’ She looked at them pleadingly. ‘I do not expect this to happen, and I pray to Elyon that it will not, but it is better to be safe than sorry.’

‘That’s what my mam used to say,’ Tahir whispered to Maquin.

‘I have seen your valour, your strength in combat, seen how you value an oath given. That is why I ask this of you. My other warriors are sworn to me, but also to Dun Kellen, and to avenge Varick. They have too many oaths to serve. You three are different. If you gave your word you would see it happen, or die in the trying. You have served me well, served Isiltir well, and if we survive this, your reward will be great.’

A silence filled the room. Maquin was shocked. Throughout the battle and days of siege he had thought of little except his revenge. Jael dead by his hand. He had given his word back in Haldis to help Orgull escape, to bring word of Jael’s treason here to Isiltir. He had done that, fulfilled that promise. And now here was Gerda asking him to take another oath, to place more shackles upon him. He did not want to do it, wanted only to seek out Jael in the coming battle and see his life’s blood spilt.

And he had sworn an oath of protection before, to Kastell and his da. A blood-oath. He looked at his palm and traced the old scar, white and faded. Looking up, he saw the young lad staring at him. Ten years old, fair hair streaked with copper, freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks. He even looked like Kastell. That should not be a surprise; they shared blood, distantly.

‘Will you do this for me?’ Gerda said.

‘Yes,’ Maquin heard himself say. You old fool, Maquin.

The wind pulled at Maquin’s hair. He was standing on a flat tower roof looking over Dun Kellen, from where he could see Jael’s men — some camped in the keep’s courtyard while others moved among the streets. He has gathered quite a warband. Where did he come by these numbers, when so many of Isiltir’s warriors died in Forn Forest?

A noise drifted on the wind, coming from the north. Horns. He squinted, looking across the plains, then saw them. A dark stain on the horizon, inching its way closer. Gerda’s reinforcements have come. He smiled grimly. Jael’s reckoning was close.

‘Are you ready?’ Orgull asked him.

‘Aye.’

‘And you remember the plan?’

‘We stick together, find Jael; kill him.’ Maquin grinned at Orgull and Tahir, no humour in the expression.

They were standing close to the barred gates of the feast-hall with Gerda’s warriors, all armed and ready for battle. As soon as the signal was given they planned to burst from the tower and join the banner-men, so that Jael would be fighting on two fronts.

‘Yes, that’s the plan,’ Orgull said. ‘Or part of it. If things go bad we head back here, to Haelan, take the boy and flee.’

‘Aye,’ Maquin said. He had taken the oath, said the words, but the weight of them sat in his gut now like a lead ball. Why did I do it? He didn’t need to ask himself that question. He knew why. For Kastell. For himself — a chance to prove he could fulfil his oath, keep a child alive. A chance to not fail.

A wild clanging rang down from the tower, filling the hall. The gates were heaved open and then they were charging, pouring into the courtyard, blinking in the daylight.

They slammed into a line of warriors, the combat quickly disintegrating into individual battles. Maquin ducked behind his shield and felt a heavy blow shiver through the wood and up his arm. He chopped low and heard a crack as he broke his enemy’s ankle. Another man jabbed a spear at his ribs but he swept it away with his sword, stepped in close and smashed his shield into the man’s face, sending him staggering back.

Orgull was up ahead, his axe a blur swirling around his head, tracing an arc of blood. Tahir fought beside him, and Maquin stepped in next to his sword-brothers. Together they carved their way forwards, Jael’s warriors giving before them.

Surrounded by Dun Kellen’s defenders, they fought through the courtyard, out into a wide street, and then finally the fortress’ gates were visible ahead. There was only the stone arch still standing, the wooden gates twisted and charred.

Maquin could hear the frantic blowing of horns in the distance, the sound of hooves on stone streets, men screaming, the clash of arms. All about them was a swirling mass of combat, the blood and stench of men dying. Maquin blinked sweat from his eyes, a sword hilt punched into his face and he felt a tooth go. He spat it out, along with a mouthful of blood, grinned wildly and ploughed on.

Gerda’s reinforcements were slowly reclaiming the town; Jael’s men were breaking, retreating through the streets towards the river. Maquin saw Gerda and her guards pursuing them.

‘Come on,’ Maquin said to Orgull and Tahir, ‘or else she’ll find Jael before us and have his head.’

‘Think you’re right,’ Orgull said, watching Gerda disappearing through the gates. ‘Where is Jael most likely to be?’

‘Now? Preparing to run. Maybe their paddocks?’

‘Worth a look,’ said Orgull. Some sections of the town were almost empty now, other than the many corpses littering the ground, elsewhere the streets were packed with fighting men. Maquin and his companions cut themselves a way through; there were not many standing to give the three of them any real resistance. They were Gadrai, sword-brothers who had come through the battle of Haldis, had faced giants, fought the Jehar, survived Forn Forest, and together they were death on wings.

The paddocks were in chaos; Jael’s routed warriors were scrambling into saddles, desperately seeking a way of retreat. ‘There.’ Maquin pointed as he saw Jael’s banner, then Jael himself, the white horsehair plume of his helmet marking him out. ‘Quick, he intends to flee,’ Maquin yelled.

The three of them charged across the plain, Maquin leading the way, slipping on the treacherous ground and chopping or battering anyone in his way with sword and shield. A thin line of defenders was soon scattered by Orgull’s terrifying axe. Maquin strode through the paddock, slapping horses’ flanks with the flat of his sword, making his way closer to Jael, who was surrounded by a handful of his shieldmen. Reaching them, Maquin swung his sword overhead, crushing a man’s skull before he was even seen, then Jael’s shieldmen realized the threat in their midst and were coming at him. It was impossible in the confined space to swing a blade properly, so he drew a knife, pushed in close to his next opponent and stabbed quickly into the man’s neck and chest, shoved him out of the way, deflected a weak blow on his shield from another attacker, then moved inside his guard and slit the warrior’s belly. And there, finally, he came face to face with his quarry. Jael was mounted, his horse rearing and kicking its hooves at Maquin. Before he got any closer, Jael turned the beast and was riding away. Maquin swore, determined not to let him go this time. He lunged at a man with his foot in a stirrup, dragged him off his horse, climbed into the saddle and kicked his mount into a gallop.

Jael was heading south, towards the bridge that crossed the river.

The warriors of Dun Kellen, under the command of Thoris and Gerda, were moving across the plain, routing out any enemies who had taken shelter in any of the smokehouses and tanners’ yards that lined the river.

Orgull and Tahir had found mounts and caught up with Maquin as he reined his horse in at the bottleneck of warriors massed at one side of the bridge. Jael’s men had gathered at the far side, had turned and were battling fiercely. Maquin saw Jael amongst them, his white plume snapping in the wind.

‘Need to catch him here, or he’ll be gone,’ Orgull said.

‘Aye. It’s just getting to him that’s a problem,’ Maquin replied. The bridge was thick with fighting men.

‘Soonest started, soonest finished, as my mam used to say,’ Tahir said.

The three of them shared a look and kicked their mounts forwards into the battle on the bridge. They passed Gerda, a handful of shieldmen about her and her sword stained red as she harried the fleeing warriors attempting to regroup with their comrades on the other side. Orgull spurred his horse forwards, swinging his axe in great sweeps to either side. Men screamed, trying to get away from him. Maquin and Tahir guided their mounts to fill the gaps, stabbing and hacking, and they slowly carved their way across the bridge.

Jael’s men blocked the end of the bridge, four or five ranks deep. They fought with a desperate ferocity. They know that if they break here they’re dead, Maquin thought. Jael was screaming exhortations, his shieldmen gathered close about him. Maquin recognized one of them — Ulfilas — he had fought beside the man against bandits on the journey back from Aquilus’ council. Ulfilas saw Maquin and stared at him, squinting. He called to Jael, gesturing towards Maquin. Jael gaped, recognition dawning in his eyes and a look of fear sweeping his face.

Maquin pointed his sword at Jael and gave him a bloody-mouthed snarl. He was so close! He felt fresh energy fill his limbs and renewed his efforts to break Jael’s lines. Soon, Kastell. Soon we will have our vengeance.

Then suddenly voices filtered through the sounds of battle. There was shouting spreading through the ranks on the bridge. Jael looked back towards Maquin with triumph in his eyes and spat on the ground.

Around a bend in the river, ships had appeared, lots of them, long, shallow-draughted, painted with black tar. The sails were black, a silver eagle upon them.