Valour

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

TUKUL

Tukul the Jehar blinked as he looked up. Light was breaking through the canopy above, more than he had seen in many moons.

They were almost out of Forn.

Meical’s arrival at Drassil and its resulting lurch into action had lit a spark in his slumbering heart: tension, excitement growing, the promise of resolution to a lifetime of waiting.

It felt strange, but he had grown fond of Drassil, and even of Forn Forest, and the thought of leaving, of moving into a world of open spaces and a sky that went on forever felt almost uncomfortable. He laughed at himself — this from a man who had been raised in an oasis in the desert.

He put the thoughts aside and marched on, following the tall frame of Meical, while inwardly complaining at the stiffness in his knees. The damp. I hate the damp here. All else I can cope with, but the damp. .

Behind him wound the long line of his sword-brothers and sisters, walking their holy pilgrimage in the name of All-Father Elyon. His, theirs, was a life of worship, devoted to the absent god. Soon it would become a pilgrimage drenched in blood, of that he had no doubt. The culmination of generations of devotion, of discipline.

I hope you are taking note of this, All-Father. Surely you watch, even if you no longer intervene. All I have done, my whole life, has been in the hope that you watch. That you would notice me.

They had left Drassil two days after Meical’s arrival and had made much quicker going of it than Meical’s journey into Forn. The central task at Drassil had been preparing the old fortress for what was to come: repairing it, making it defensible. During their explorations of the stronghold throughout the years tunnels had been discovered, initially bored by the roots of the giant tree, then extended by the giants. They ran for leagues upon leagues beneath the tangle of Forn, and they had made good use of one such tunnel to bring them close to the forest’s edge. He looked up to the heavens again, blinded for an instant by the glow seeping through the branches high above.

The trees about them now were spread widely, great-trunked monsters that stretched their roots wide, drinking deep of the earth. Soon they came to a space where trees had been felled, the round bases of the trunks white and leaking sap. Tukul ran his fingers over one — they came away sticky.

People. Tree-fellers, loggers. We are moving into another world indeed.

They moved through a field of stumps, came upon a wide river, roughly trimmed trunks stacked along the riverbank, the odd pier that struck out into the river’s black waters, but no sign of people. Yet.

Meical paused and waited for him.

‘We are nearly there,’ he said. ‘We are moving into Gramm’s land now. You remember him?’

‘I do,’ Tukul said. On their journey into Forn — fourteen, fifteen years ago? — Meical had led them to a hold built close to the outskirts of the forest. It had belonged to a man, Gramm. He had had a wife and two sons, youthful but old enough for some labour, and was full of boldness and dreams, his plan back then to trade timber along the river and to breed horses. By the looks of things he had made good on the timber trading, at least, and carved a life for himself out here, on the edge of the wild.

‘He’d better have looked after my horses,’ Tukul said.

‘You’ll see soon enough,’ Meical said.

They marched on, and in short time Tukul heard the sound of hooves on turf. Instinctively, his hand reached for the hilt of his sword, and without looking he knew his sword-kin were doing the same, all three score and ten of them. The Hundred, they were called, though they did not number that now. But a hundred had ridden out from Telassar all those long years ago, straight-backed and zealous.

Riders appeared, at least a dozen of them, dressed for war in mail shirts, with helmets and long-hafted spears couched at their saddles, most with axes strapped to their backs.

Axes — awkward, clumsy weapons.

The riders saw Tukul and his companions and cantered towards them, one of their number peeling away and heading back the way they had come.

‘They are shieldmen of Gramm’s,’ Meical said, ‘scouting his lands.’

‘They look like more than scouts to me,’ Tukul said.

‘Their land is bordered by Forn Forest to the east, and the Desolation to the north. Nowhere is safe in these Banished Lands, but here least of all.’ Nevertheless Meical frowned as the riders approached, his own hand straying to the hilt of his sword.

As they approached, the riders gripped their spears, bringing them lower. Not committed to the charge yet, but prepared for it. Tukul felt a detached respect flicker to life. Their horses were bred for war, tall, big-boned yet with a rare grace to them, long, thick manes streaming, some plaited with leather.

The first rider raised his spear, and reined in his mount before Meical. He took his helmet off and hung it from his saddle, his men lining up behind him.

‘Well met, Meical. Father said to look for you.’

Meical stepped forward and gripped the rider’s wrist. ‘And you have found me, Wulf. Well met.’

‘And your companions — they have the look of those who were with you, all those years ago.’

‘You have a good memory, Wulf — you were only a bairn.’

‘Eleven summers — and I’ll never forget the day I saw you all. The horses!’

‘Are you riding my horses?’ Tukul asked, stepping forward.

‘Not yours exactly,’ Wulf said, turning his gaze upon Tukul. ‘But bred from them. My father says he had your permission.’

‘Aye, that’s true,’ Tukul said, moving towards him, holding his hand out for Wulf’s mount to smell, murmuring softly as he ran fingers down the animal’s muscled chest. ‘Your father has done well.’

‘You are not the only one who thinks so. Our horses are sought by many, both north and south,’ Wulf said, sitting straighter.

‘Come,’ Meical said. ‘I’ll be happier talking horse trade with a cup in my hand and my backside in a comfortable seat. We’ve walked a long way.’

‘Of course,’ Wulf said. ‘We shall escort you home.’

With that they set off, the riders spreading around them, a protective hand.

My sword-kin need no protection, Tukul thought, but he liked the gesture. It was good manners.

‘You are always ready for danger, here on the edge of the northlands,’ Meical said as they walked. ‘But you looked about ready to skewer us back there.’

‘Aye. You will not have heard the news, I guess, coming from Forn as you have. There is war to the south. In Isiltir. War parties have been raiding from the south, sweeping further and further north — burning out holds. They won’t be doing that to us.’

‘War? Between whom?’

Wulf shrugged. ‘We hear different things. An internal struggle for the throne. Romar is dead — in Forn, fighting the Hunen. At least, that’s the tale we’ve heard the most. Those he left behind are fighting over his scraps.’

Meical glanced at Tukul and they shared a grim look.

So many years we’ve waited. Have we waited too long?

Gramm’s hold was upon the crown of a low-lying hill, a tall timber wall ringing it. They approached from the south-east, walking through a series of fenced paddocks. Tukul saw a herd of horses like the ones these warriors were riding, at least a hundred strong. A thrill coursed through him at the sight and smell of them, and he shared smiles and appreciative nods with his followers. All-Father be praised, maker of such beauty. He wanted to stop, to watch, to ride, but knew it was not the time.

Soon.

They marched up the hill, Tukul catching a glimpse of barns and buildings clustered along the side of a wide river to the north of the hold’s walls. Beyond the river stretched a wasteland, punctuated by a scattered range of mountains receding into the distance. The Desolation: a peninsula of land where the Scourging had raged hottest, so the histories read. The land was all but barren, pitted and scarred and broken from the outpouring of Elyon’s wrath. Tukul paused, gazing reverently into the distance.

To see such a place, where Elyon once touched this earth.

Reluctantly he moved on and soon passed through a wide arched gateway into a busy courtyard.

Gramm had changed — he was thicker about the waist, with streaks of grey in his fair hair. His face was still open and friendly, though, something that Tukul remembered from their first meeting. Gramm greeted them, hugging Meical and Tukul, then showed them to rooms with fresh-poured steaming bowls of water.

‘Wash away the dust of the road. We shall feast tonight,’ he said, ‘and celebrate. An auroch is being slaughtered as we speak.’

Tukul wiped grease from his chin, savouring the hot meat as he chewed. They had not starved while living in Drassil, but the journey through Forn had been long and dark, with little time for hunting and cooking. This roasted auroch tasted like the finest meal he had ever eaten.

A long hall lay at the centre of Gramm’s hold, and tonight it was filled. It seemed that Gramm had done well indeed. His timber trade had made him wealthy, and he was famous for leagues round about for the quality of his horses. He had told Tukul that he had bred two lines from the horses Tukul and his warriors had left here fifteen years ago. One he’d kept pure; he said the herd numbered in its hundreds now. The other he had crossed with a hardy breed from the north, big boned and heavily muscled, bred for heavy work and lots of it. The result had been the horses Tukul had seen today, and he had to admit that he was impressed.

Gramm had been successful in other ways as well; he had introduced Tukul to more sons, daughters and grandchildren than he could possibly remember. Tukul had felt a stab of jealousy at seeing the joy that family brought this man. He had always dreamed of many sons, of laughter and the sound of running feet in his halls.

It was not to be. He sighed. He had left his only son in a strange place with a task greater than any other he could conceive. He struggled even to remember his face now. And Daria, his beloved wife, she had crossed the bridge of swords over twelve years gone. Wounded in a clash with a draig in Forn, taken by the fever a ten-night later.

He lifted his cup in a silent toast. My Daria. My son.

All of his Jehar warriors were sitting together, taking up about half of a long table that ran down the centre of the hall. Having been so solitary, he could tell they were a little overwhelmed, to be surrounded by so many people, so much noise. While Gramm’s family filled a large portion of the hall, he also had a number of other people under his roof — men and their families that worked for him, tree-felling, logging, working the barges that took timber downriver, stablehands, as well as a group of warriors, employed to protect his lands and trade. Usually they were busiest defending against raids from the north, out of the Desolation, but of late they had been busy further south, where rumour of war and raiding parties had increased the boldness of lawless men.

A handful of these warriors were gathered between Tukul’s table and the rest of his Jehar. They were throwing axes at straw targets, laughing, either applauding or mocking the various attempts. Tukul was surprised to see how accurate many of them were.

‘They are all handy with an axe,’ Gramm said from beside him, seeing where Tukul’s gaze was drawn. ‘Though none can out-throw my Wulf.’ He raised a cup and drank, slapping Wulf across the shoulder.

‘Would you like to try?’ Wulf asked.

‘I like an axe well enough, when I need to cut some firewood,’ replied Tukul. He heard a snort of laughter from Meical.

‘An axe has more uses than that,’ said Wulf stiffly. ‘Especially here, where we are so close to the Desolation; there are things that come out of it that need some extra persuasion to stay dead. There’s a lot more weight in an axe. If you come face to face with a war party of the Jotun you may find your sword isn’t so well suited.’

‘I’ve survived fifteen years in Forn, fought wolven, draigs, other things that don’t have names, and I’m still here.’ Tukul shrugged. ‘But I am curious. Let me have a throw of one of these axes then.’

Wulf led him down to the gathered men, who parted to let him through.

‘Here, I’ll show you once,’ Wulf said. ‘All the weight’s in the head, so you let that do the work for you.’ He hefted a short-hafted axe that someone passed him, fixed his eyes on the target and threw.

The axe spun through the air, landed with a thunk a hair’s breadth from the target’s centre.

‘Here,’ Wulf said, passing another to Tukul.

Tukul swung the axe a couple of times, gauging its weight and balance. He took a deep breath, held it, then threw the axe.

Instinctively he knew he had thrown wrong. The axe head slammed into the target a handspan above Wulf’s and bounced off, falling to the ground. Raucous laughter burst around him.

‘You see the advantage of an axe,’ Wulf said loudly. He was grinning. ‘If you miss with the blade, you still stand a good chance of braining your enemy.’ More laughter at that. Even Tukul smiled. A quick glance at his Jehar, all sitting silent and grim, told him they were not so amused.

‘Another,’ Tukul said, holding his hand out.

‘Fair enough,’ Wulf said. ‘You’ve blackened your enemy’s eye already; let’s see if you can give him a matching pair.’

Tukul repeated his ritual — test the weight, fill the lungs, throw. This time he knew it was a better effort. It spun, hit with a satisfying thunk, the blade sinking into the straw, two fingers from Wulf’s. A silence fell upon the group, then loud cheers and applause. Wulf slapped his back and Tukul grinned.

‘I think I like your axes,’ Tukul said to more laughter. He noticed some of his sword-kin rising and walking over — Enkara, Jalil, Hester, others behind them. I knew they would not be able to resist. ‘Again,’ he said, holding out his hand.

Just then the great doors of the hall swung open, letting a cold draught of air swirl in, making the fire flare in its pit. Figures filled the doorway, two men with spears — guards, Tukul realized — leading two others. The hall fell silent as they approached Gramm.

The two being escorted were an odd pair — a young warrior and a boy who walked beside him, not more than ten or eleven summers, Tukul guessed. The warrior rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. They were both travel stained, looked close to exhaustion, their steps unsteady. They stopped before Gramm.

‘They were found on the southern border,’ one of the warriors told Gramm. ‘Said they’ve got something to say, but only to Gramm.’

‘My mam said Gramm’s the one I need to speak to; no one else,’ the boy said, his voice reed-thin, a tremor in it.

‘Is that so?’ Gramm said. ‘You look more in need of hot water and something in your belly than talking to me,’ he added, peering at the two. ‘I am Gramm, so tell me who you both are, and then let me hear what it is you have to say.’

‘I am Tahir, last sword of the Gadrai,’ the warrior said, standing straighter. A ripple ran through the hall at that. ‘We bring news of war. Jael of Mikil has slain King Romar and claimed the throne of Isiltir.’

The boy stepped forward, pushing past Tahir’s protective hand. Tukul saw the tremor in his limbs. Fear and exhaustion combined, but he will not hide behind his protector. I like him.

The boy raised his chin. ‘I am Haelan, son of Romar and Gerda, rightful King of all Isiltir. And we have come here seeking your Sanctuary.’