Valour

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

MAQUIN

Maquin slid from his horse and stood by the gates to the keep, sword drawn, waiting as Dun Kellen’s warriors retreated inside the feast-hall. Orgull and Tahir were still with him, blood splattered and weary.

Maquin had been so close to Jael, just a sword-length away from reaching him, and then the ships had arrived, emptying their deadly cargo. And now instead of victory they were staring death in the face again. They were heavily outnumbered: most of Dun Kellen’s warriors had been killed during the battle on the bridge or cut down as they tried to retreat. If it had not been for Gerda and her battlechief, Thoris, organizing the rearguard, Maquin doubted that any would have made it back to the keep alive.

And who were these new warriors? Not men of Isiltir. They were dressed strangely, in leather kilts, tunics and sandals rather than breeches and boots, with iron rings in their beards and hair. And the ships — sleek and fast, looking as if they were built more for the sea than river.

‘They are allies of Nathair, is my guess,’ Orgull said. ‘Remember what I have told you: there is more to this than the throne of Isiltir. The God-War is being waged here. Right now.’

Maquin shook his head. Why did it have to be so complicated? Revenge used to be simple.

A knot of warriors entered the courtyard, Thoris at their head, Gerda in their centre. She was sweating, short of breath, her sword bloodied and notched.

‘Quickly,’ Thoris shouted, ‘a few have chosen to stay behind, to give us time to get inside and bar the gates. Inside, now.’

With that they were all piling into the feast-hall, heaving the doors shut, slamming the thick bars into place. Then Gerda was marching through the hall, Thoris summoning him, Orgull and Tahir to follow. They ended up with Gerda in her chambers, her son Haelan standing beside her.

‘You must take Haelan now,’ Gerda said, ‘before they gather and strike. Their numbers are too great; they will storm the keep somewhere and we do not have the men to keep them out.’

‘But how can we take him?’ Tahir said. ‘We are besieged — there is no way out.’

‘There is a way. A secret tunnel the giants built. It burrows underground, comes out on the plain half a league to the north.’

Orgull looked at Maquin and Tahir. ‘We swore an oath. Let’s keep it,’ he said.

Noises boomed in the corridor behind them, voices shouting, screaming, the clash of arms.

Thoris ran to the door and stuck his head out. ‘Quickly,’ he said, ‘the assault has begun. You must leave now.’

‘Eboric here will take you to the tunnel and guide you through it.’ Gerda gestured to a man standing beside the boy, a huntsman by the look of him, dressed in worn leathers, an archer’s bracer on his wrist. ‘He knows the land beyond well, and Haelan knows his face.’ Her voice wavered. She grasped her son by his shoulders. ‘You must be strong now, and do as Eboric and these men say — they will keep you safe.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ the boy said, looking up seriously into Gerda’s eyes. She cupped his face in her hands, kissed him, then ushered them out of the door.

Eboric led the way, Orgull and the boy next, Tahir and Maquin at the rear.

They met warriors further along the corridor, running towards the tower stairs. Eboric grabbed one of them, pulling him to a stop.

‘What is happening?’

‘Jael assaults the feast-hall gates, but they are holding for now. The danger is these new men from the river — they are throwing ropes with claws that snag on stone, and are using them to scale the towers.’

‘Are they inside the keep?’ Eboric asked.

The sound of swords clashing rang down the tower stairwell, giving his answer. He let go of the warrior and the man ran up the stairs. Eboric looked grimly at them all and led them down the steps.

They spiralled downwards, reached ground level where the sound of the hall gates being rammed was deafening, but continued on down. Eboric grabbed a burning torch from a wall sconce. They hit level ground and left the stairwell. Maquin heard the slap of feet somewhere above, the echo in the spiral of the tower playing games with his ears. Those feet could be ten paces away, or a hundred.

‘Is this the only way down to this level?’ Maquin called to Eboric.

‘No, other towers also lead down to the cellars.’

Not the answer I was hoping for, Maquin thought.

They twisted and turned through high corridors, sometimes in silence — apart from their breathing, the drum of their feet — at other times the sound of combat was close by, the sound of men moving in numbers.

Then abruptly they were at a dead end. Eboric stuck his hand into a hole in the wall, twisted something that gave a click, and there was a hissing sound. Something like steam or mist poured from the wall as the outline of a door appeared and swung open. Darkness lay within.

‘This is the giants’ tunnel,’ Eboric said.

Maquin peered in, remembering the tunnels beneath Haldis and Forn Forest, and the thing that lived in it that had put a hole in Tahir’s leg. ‘Don’t like the look of it in there,’ he muttered.

The sound of people, men shouting, echoed along the corridor.

‘Come on,’ Orgull said, taking a step towards the tunnel entrance. Then booted feet were clattering in the corridor, tall shadows flickering on the wall. Figures appeared, one flinging a spear. It whistled past Maquin and buried itself in Eboric’s shoulder. He was thrown back into the wall with the impact, his head making a cracking sound. He slumped down the wall, lay motionless.

Haelan screamed.

Orgull swore and hefted his axe, moving to meet the newcomers. ‘Take the boy!’ he yelled without looking back.

Maquin looked at the scene, between Orgull and the crying boy who was shaking Eboric, the huntsman’s head lolling.

‘What do we do?’ Tahir asked.

We swore to protect the boy, but we swore an oath to each other, as well, as Gadrai. He looked at Orgull, swinging his axe, then punching the iron-capped butt into someone’s face. Men were crammed in the corridor, for the moment holding back in the face of Orgull’s ferocity, but the corridor was high and wide, built by giants. Even the bulk of Orgull could not fill it. Once his attackers gained their courage he would be flanked and overwhelmed. He won’t be able to hold them long enough.

‘Tahir, take the boy, get the hell out of here. We’ll buy you some time.’ He gripped Tahir’s arm, saw the indecision in the young man’s eyes. ‘One of us must live,’ he hissed. ‘We are the last of the Gadrai. And we swore to protect the boy. Stay and you make us oathbreakers.’ Tahir stood a heartbeat longer, then nodded curtly, tears filling his eyes.

‘I’ll see you again, on this side or the other,’ he said.

‘I’m not dead yet,’ Maquin said. Tahir took the boy and ran; Maquin slammed the door shut. He turned and yelled as he swung his sword, stepping into line beside Orgull. ‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ breathed Orgull, glancing at Maquin as he swung his axe, severing an extended arm just below the elbow.

‘I’m too old for all this running,’ Maquin said. He lifted his shield high and stabbed a warrior in the gut, one of Jael’s from the way he was dressed. I’m going to die here, Maquin thought as he blocked and stabbed. The thought did not scare him. The thought of failing Kastell hurt far more. At least Tahir has taken Gerda’s boy. That is one oath I have kept, unto death. He smiled grimly. Come then, Death, take me across your bridge of swords, but know this: I won’t be coming alone.