Valour

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

VERADIS

Veradis walked along the hill, the sinking sun sending a long shadow stretching far behind. He was checking the line of bodies that lay before him. Twelve of his men, slain in the battle. It was a good number by any standard, but still it upset him. They had been good men, brave and loyal. Three he recognized from having been with him since the beginning — from the battle in distant Tarbesh against giants who rode draigs. He did not doubt that somewhere on their bodies they would have a draig’s tooth. He stroked the one Nathair had presented to him, embedded now in his sword hilt. And something else gnawed at him. Their wounds. All of them had injuries on their lower legs — cuts and gashes on ankles and shins. Not killing wounds, obviously, but nevertheless, it bothered him. Any chain was only as strong as its weakest link, and if this weak link was getting his men killed, then he needed to do something about it. He looked down at his own feet, bound in leather sandals, the soles iron shod, cords of leather wrapped about his calves. An idea began to form in his mind.

Owain had not been found yet, but the battle was over. The defeated dead had been stripped of their precious things — weapons and armour, torcs and rings, any silver or gold — and been piled high and soon their bodies would be burned. The victorious dead were laid out separately, ready to have a cairn raised over them. Rhin had set up a tent at the top of the hill, and was sitting on a huge wooden chair draped with furs, celebrating. Veradis turned and looked over the woodland to the west, rolling away in shades of green into the twilight as night crept upon them. He strained his ears, listening, and thought he heard something on the breeze — shouting? Perhaps they’ve found Owain. Woodland was not a place he would choose for battle — he had had enough of trees in Forn. Just stepping into these woods earlier had brought those memories flooding back. He hadn’t been in these woods long, though. Just long enough to find the girl, Cywen, and bring her back. And only just in time. Veradis had taken command of watching the girl, given her to Bos with a stern warning to watch her closely. Even though Conall had beaten her bloody she had been more worried about her horse, and how to get that arrow out of it. So the first thing he had done upon their return was to take her to the paddocks in search of Rhin’s horsemasters. He had bumped into Akar, who was overseeing the care given to the Jehar’s mounts, and to Veradis’ surprise Akar had said that he would help. Together they had tied the stallion to a series of posts, securing him as tightly as they could. Akar had called other Jehar to help, one of them attaching something to the soft flesh around the horse’s nostrils, tightening it until the stallion’s head had drooped, had seemed beyond calm, close to sleep even. Then a poultice had been placed around the wound — Akar said it would open the flesh a little and numb it — then with a sharp tug he had pulled the arrow out. The horse had jumped, eyes rolling, but it was over so quickly it settled almost immediately. Veradis had left them tending the wound, Cywen looking with interest over their shoulders despite her obvious mistrust of them all.

And now he was looking at his dead warriors, wondering what he could do to save lives in the next battle. And there will be many more, as we walk ever deeper into this God-War.

He went in search of Nathair, found him seated in a wide ring of warriors, hidden in shadow and watching Rhin as she rewarded her chieftains with plunder. A fire-pit had been dug; the carcass of a great boar was turning above it, fat crackling as it dripped into the flames. Veradis’ gaze was drawn to Rhin where she was sitting upon an ornate chair, thick with furs, clothed in black sable, a cloak of the same material edged with gold about her shoulders, her silver hair spilling across it. A gold torc wrapped her neck, and the firelight flickering across her face cast it one moment in shadow, the other in light. Her hand was extended, draped with gold and silver that she was offering to a warrior who stood before her. It was an older man, with streaks of white in his red hair and silver torcs curled around broad arms.

‘Who’s that?’ Veradis asked Nathair.

‘That’s her battlechief, Geraint.’

‘You should be seated with her,’ Veradis whispered to Nathair. ‘You won this battle for her and, besides, you are high king.’

‘Let her enjoy her moment,’ Nathair said with a smile. ‘She might well have won this battle without our help, even outnumbered. She’s a sly one.’

‘Yes,’ said Veradis. He remembered her well from Aquilus’ council. Clever, cunning and with a clear predilection for younger men, if the way she had looked at her first-sword had been anything to go by.

Bos pushed through the crowd, heading towards them, grasping Cywen’s wrist. She had washed the blood from her face, but it was still patched with bruises.

‘I hear you have taken on a new ward,’ Nathair said, looking at the girl.

‘Thought you’d be upset if she was found with her throat slit. I don’t think that Conall has the temperament for guard duty.’

‘You are right. And Calidus would most likely explode if she was killed. He is convinced the girl is important, perhaps a route to finding her brother.’ Nathair’s expression turned serious. ‘The Black Sun. He is out there. .’ He looked out across the marshes, just a glimmer now as darkness fell, the sea beyond a murmur.

‘So what now,’ Veradis said.

‘Tomorrow we shall meet with Rhin, make more plans and continue the serious business before us. But tonight. Tonight we shall celebrate our victory and the fact that we are still alive.’ He raised a jug, poured from it and offered Veradis a cup. Veradis took a sip. Mead. He winced at the sweet taste of honey, but still managed a twisted grin.

Bos led Cywen over, freeing her when they reached Veradis. She scowled at the big warrior, rubbing her wrist.

‘How is your horse?’ Veradis asked her.

A smile touched her face, hesitant, for an instant transforming her. There’s actually a pretty girl beneath all those bruises and scowling.

‘I think he will be fine,’ she said. ‘Your friend, he is an amazing horseman.’

For a moment Veradis did not know what, or who, she meant, then realized she was talking about Akar. ‘The Jehar are skilled horsemen. I have never seen their like on horseback. .’ He blew out a long breath. ‘I think they care more for their horses than people.’

She smiled again at that. ‘I know how that feels.’

Veradis heard a blowing of horns, looked in the direction of the sound and saw men spilling from the woods, many holding torches aloft, a constellation of firelight in the growing darkness. At their front three men marched. One walked — a woodsman by the look of the long bow slung across his back. Beside him a warrior rode a fine horse, sitting tall, teeth glinting in the torchlight. Before them both stumbled another man, his hands bound behind his back.

Owain.

Veradis saw Evnis further back amongst the warriors emerging from the woods, his shieldmen riding close about him.

Owain’s captors marched him up the hill and pushed him stumbling before Rhin. The rider with them raised a hand in greeting to Rhin, gave a wide smile and dismounted, handing his reins to a warrior.

Cywen was still standing beside Veradis, and he heard her hiss, saw that her eyes were fixed venomously on the warrior.

‘Morcant, Rhin’s first-sword and paid killer,’ Cywen said bitterly.

Veradis blinked. Of course.

Owain was cut and bruised, his lips and one eye swollen, but somehow he managed to stand straight.

‘Welcome, cousin.’ Rhin smiled. ‘You have arrived just in time. We were about to eat.’ She gestured to the boar turning above the fire. ‘I am celebrating, you see.’

Owain stared at her, rage surfacing through the ruin of his face. ‘Cambren not enough for you?’ he said.

‘Not when I am surrounded by realms ruled by idiots,’ Rhin replied.

‘You are a tyrant, a liar, a thief. I hope you rot in hell for what you have done.’ He spat on the ground. Angry murmurs rippled the crowd, but Rhin merely laughed.

‘A tyrant? Surely it’s a little too early to tell. I have only been Queen of Narvon and Ardan for half a day.’

Owain lunged at her but Morcant clubbed him across the shoulders, sending him sprawling.

‘You started the war between Brenin and me,’ Owain snarled.

‘Yes, I did. Which is why you accuse me of being a thief, I suspect. Stealing your realm from you. To be fair, you did have a choice in the matter. And Brenin did try to explain my part in things to you. He was always the brighter of you two. Besides, I have not stolen your realm; I have taken it from you. There is a big difference.’

‘But. .’

‘Now, the real question left is what to do with you. You could serve me, you know. Be my vassal, govern part of my realm for me.’

‘What?’

‘I know, a shocking idea, and most likely a bad one. You see, I am not sure that I can trust you.’

Owain snorted.

‘So what other options do I have? Exile. A lenient ruler, merciful even, might choose that, as you are kin.’

She looked around the crowd. ‘What should I do with this vanquished king?’

‘Mercy,’ a voice shouted behind Veradis. It was Nathair, hands cupped to his mouth. ‘Show him mercy.’

‘Mercy,’ Veradis called out, joining his voice to Nathair’s. Soon it was a chant, hundreds strong.

‘Very well,’ Rhin said. ‘And if I grant you mercy, will you accept it?’ she said to Owain.

He stood silently, glowering at her.

‘Please, merciful I may be, but patient I am not. Well, not tonight, anyway. I am too hungry, and that roasting pig smells very good.’ She looked about the ring, all eyes on her.

She’s enjoying this, Veradis thought.

‘You killed my son,’ Owain said.

‘Not me personally, actually. That was him.’ Rhin pointed to Evnis. ‘But I did order his death.’ She shrugged. ‘It was war. Men die. But now the war is over, with you, at least. And you have the chance to live. Will you take it?’

‘I would rather die than serve you.’ Owain stared defiantly at her.

‘Very well.’ Rhin shrugged. ‘Braith, hold him. Morcant, take his head.’

The woodsman kicked Owain behind the knees, dropping him to the ground as Morcant drew his sword. Owain struggled, spluttering mud, then the sword was whistling, chopping with a wet thunk. It did not cut all the way through Owain’s neck, and his body jerked, spasmed, his feet kicking. Morcant wrenched his sword free and swung again, then Braith was holding Owain’s head for Rhin to see. He turned slowly, showing the crowd.

‘Well, that’s done, then. Put his head on a spike, Morcant, but later. First come and cut some meat for me,’ she said, rising and holding her hand out to her first-sword.

Veradis sighed at yet another life lost and looked down at Cywen. She was gone.

He snapped a curse at Bos, scanned the crowd.

‘But I was watching the head,’ Bos said.

Then Veradis saw her, a figure pushing through the crowd, moving determinedly towards Rhin. Thought she would have been going the other way, trying to escape. Then it hit him. She can’t seriously be thinking to kill Rhin. He charged after her, warriors grunting as he shouldered them out of the way.

Rhin was standing by the spitted boar, Morcant about to slice the first cut of meat for her, when Cywen stepped into the ring. She started to run, reaching a hand low to the heel of her boot — no doubt a hidden weapon. Veradis gave a burst of speed after her and yelled a warning, knowing he was too late, that she would reach Rhin before he managed to stop her.

Morcant looked up, shoved the Queen away and stepped forwards, reaching for his sword.

Cywen threw her knife and barely paused as it hit Morcant in the shoulder, knocking him back into the boar, flames flaring around him. She leaped at him, heedless of the flames, her hands reaching for the knife. Veradis closed the gap; all about people were staring in frozen surprise. Warriors hastened towards Rhin.

Morcant and Cywen rolled away from the fire, flames licking about them from Morcant’s clothes. She had a hand around the knife hilt, was trying to pull it out to use again. He managed to get a knee up and kicked out, catching Cywen in the gut, sending her rolling away. In a heartbeat he was on his feet, grabbing his dropped sword and raising it high. With a hiss of iron Veradis drew his own sword, sparks flying as he blocked Morcant’s swing. For a heartbeat the warrior stood and stared at Veradis, then Cywen was leaping at him again as Veradis lunged for her, grabbing a handful of her tunic, and managing to block another strike from Morcant as the warrior tried to cave Cywen’s skull in with the hilt of his sword. Veradis glimpsed Alcyon striding into sight, Calidus, Bos and Nathair close by. He pushed Cywen towards them just as Morcant seemed to decide that Veradis was an obstacle that needed to be removed.

Their blades clashed; Veradis retreated before a surprisingly fast combination of blows. He stepped out of range and then Rhin was moving between them, scowling at Veradis.

‘What is going on here?’ she demanded.

‘She tried to kill you,’ Morcant said, pointing at Cywen, who was being restrained in one of Alcyon’s huge hands.

‘I tried to kill you, you idiot,’ Cywen yelled.

‘What?’

‘You murdered Ronan.’ She struggled in Alcyon’s grip, then slumped, angry tears staining her face. ‘In the Darkwood, when you attacked Queen Alona.’

‘I probably did,’ Morcant said, ‘though I don’t know who he is.’ He studied Cywen. Recognition flared in his eyes. ‘But you I do remember. She should be executed.’

‘No. She is under my protection,’ Nathair said, stepping forward.

Rhin frowned, staring icily at Cywen. Then she smiled at Nathair, a sudden change to graciousness and charm. ‘As you will, Nathair. She is fortunate to have your patronage. But I wonder who will protect my first-sword from her?’’ She cast a look of derision at Morcant as laughter erupted from her chieftains.

‘I can look after myself,’ Morcant said indignantly. He grabbed the knife hilt sticking from his shoulder and pulled it out with a grimace. ‘Think I’ll keep this.’

‘I’ll just find another one,’ Cywen said.

Veradis strode over to her, furious at having been put in such a position in front of Nathair. She does not know when to quit. ‘Bos, bind her hands. And you.’ He stepped close to Cywen and pointed a finger at her. ‘You really need to stop trying to kill people.’

She glared at him.

‘Well, I’m glad that’s all over with now. Good, then perhaps I can finally have something to eat?’ Rhin said.

Morcant strode back to the fire-pit, drawing his knife. As he reached to make the first cut for his Queen another figure stepped into the ring.

It was Conall. ‘I contest your right,’ he said loudly, for all to hear.

It was written in the Lore of the Exiles that each ruler would have their champion, their first-sword. Tradition said that only they had the right to carve the first cut of meat for their king or queen. That right could be challenged, though, to be decided in the Court of Swords. The victor would be first-sword.

‘Ahhh,’ Rhin groaned, ‘am I never going to eat tonight?’