Valour

CHAPTER SIXTY

CORBAN

Corban woke with a stiff back.

Strange, after my first night in a bed since. .

He pushed the thought away, still not liking to think of his last days in Dun Carreg. Always the first memory would be of Nathair driving a sword through his da’s chest. With a sigh he climbed to his feet and picked his way towards the kitchen, the stone floor cold.

They had arrived at Dun Taras yesterday. Halion, Edana and Marrock were taken almost immediately to an audience with King Eremon, while the rest of them had waited in a secluded courtyard and gardens. That had been after they had managed to get through the gates of Dun Taras, which had almost not happened. The guards had taken a very dim view of allowing a wolven to walk into the fortress. Craf flying up to the battlements and hurling insults at them hadn’t helped matters much, either. But eventually Rath had overruled the captain. Word spread about them quickly enough; a crowd of children followed them, as well as a fair few adults, most of them pointing at Storm, not Edana.

The meeting between Edana and King Eremon had gone well, according to Halion, though Edana had not looked so convinced. They had been housed in a large stone dwelling on the outskirts of the fortress, where it was easier for Storm to stay with them. Edana had been offered chambers in the keep, but she’d chosen to stay with ‘her people’, as she was referring to her small band of companions.

Dawn was close, pale light leaking through a shuttered window in the kitchen. The bulk of Farrell was a dense shadow sitting near the glowing hearth. Corban pulled a chair over and joined him, warming his hands. Soon Corban heard the pad of feet and Dath came to join them. The three of them sat in silence a while, watching the embers in the fire.

‘Does it get easier?’ Farrell said, his voice harsh in the silence.

Corban sighed, instantly knowing what Farrell was talking about. He missed his da too. They’d all lost their fathers to battle in just a few moons.

‘A little,’ he said. ‘At first it felt as if I had a hole inside me, an empty space that hurt more than any wound. Just to think of him would take my breath from my body.’ He looked at Farrell and Dath. ‘But with everything that’s happened since we left Dun Carreg — the possibility of dying each and every day. It’s been distracting.’

Dath snorted an agreement.

‘Not that you forget,’ Corban continued. ‘I’ll never forget.’ In his mind he was suddenly back in Dun Carreg’s feast-hall, smoke and screaming thick about him, watching Nathair sink his sword into his da’s body. A rush of emotion swelled within him, almost a physical pain, a fist gripping and twisting his heart.

‘All that talk about your da,’ Dath said, looking at Farrell. ‘About him being a coward.’

Farrell looked at him, eyes narrowing.

Anwarth, Farrell’s da, had been shieldman to Ardan’s old battle-chief. In some conflict or other Anwarth had been accused of cowardice, of playing dead while his chief had been slain. Nothing had ever been proven, but accusations like that, they never went away.

‘I don’t believe it,’ Dath said. ‘He volunteered to stay with Marrock, knowing that to stay meant to die. And I saw him in the battle. He was no coward.’

Farrell reached out and squeezed Dath’s shoulder.

‘Ouch,’ said Dath.

‘Your da was no coward, either. He tried to storm that boat all on his own.’

‘He did, didn’t he?’ Dath said. He looked at his hands, his face crumpling. Tears spilt down his cheeks.

‘He loved you, you know, Dath,’ Corban whispered.

‘Did he so? Why was he always hitting me, then?’

‘I don’t know,’ Corban shrugged.

‘I’d hit you if I were your da,’ Farrell said.

‘I’m a coward,’ Dath said quietly, almost to himself.

‘What?’

‘Every day, every battle, I’m scared. More than that, terrified. It grips me, freezes me.’

‘Fear hasn’t hurt your aim much,’ Farrell said.

‘All men feel fear,’ Corban said. ‘Gar told me that. It’s what you do about it — stand or run, fight or give up — that’s what makes you a coward or hero. Without fear there is no courage.’

‘In that case you’re no coward,’ Farrell said.

‘Does that make me a hero?’ Dath said with a weak smile.

‘I’d rather my da be a coward and still be here,’ Farrell said.

They sat in silence some more; Corban had no answer for that.

‘Talking of Gar and heroes,’ Dath said. ‘What’s all this about you being, you know, the seven disgraces, or whatever it was.’

‘Seren Disglair,’ Corban corrected with a grimace. Life had been too filled with danger and imminent death for him to think much on Gar’s claims. Now that things had changed, though, and a measure of safety restored to them, he found his thoughts constantly returning to Gar’s words. Both his mam and Gar were sure that something would happen, that he would change his mind.

Not likely. I don’t want to be some Bright Star, fighting the Dark Sun. I’ve seen enough of war and death for a lifetime.

‘Yes. So when did you become the saviour of the Banished Lands, then?’

‘Shut up,’ Corban said. ‘It’s not funny.’

‘Gar doesn’t think it’s funny,’ Farrell said. ‘He seemed to take it seriously, and he strikes me as a serious man. Never seen him smile, even.’

‘Just because he’s serious, doesn’t mean he’s right,’ Corban said with a frown.

‘What’s he on about, then?’ Dath asked.

‘He’s just made a mistake, that’s all.’ Corban shrugged. ‘You’re best off paying him no mind.’

‘There must be more to it than that,’ Farrell persisted. ‘Look at how he fights, his sword, those warriors back at Dun Carreg like him — the one guarding Nathair that he fought, and the others.’

Corban shifted uncomfortably. Those are thoughts I’ve had myself. Gar is no fool, and until recently not someone I’d consider mad. ‘Anyone can make a mistake,’ he said. ‘Let’s leave it at that.’

The other two gave him sidelong glances, but they said no more about it.

‘One thing that you can’t just leave lying about is your stinking bag of wolven pelts,’ Dath said, wrinkling his nose and pointing at a large sack.

‘I know. I need to ask Halion’s help in finding a good tanner.’

‘What do you want them for?’ Dath asked him.

‘Just an idea. I’ll say no more about it yet.’

Corban blocked Gar’s practice sword, flicked it away, used the momentum to form his own lunge, saw Gar shift to block his blow. He pivoted on his feet, spinning, ducking Gar’s weapon as it whistled over his head and swung at Gar’s ankles.

Gar jumped over his practice blade, struck at Corban’s head, but Corban was rolling forwards, using the force of his failed swing to carry him out of the way. He came up onto his feet, sword gripped two-handed over his head, and launched a fast combination at Gar — two chops to the head, one lunge to the heart, another short chop to the ribs, a swing and lunge at thigh and groin. All of them were blocked. He felt sweat trickling down his forehead, sensed shadows around him, still and watching, his eyes flickering to them for a heartbeat. And then somehow Gar was inside his guard, the practice blade at his throat.

‘You lost focus,’ Gar said as Corban stepped away. ‘Until then. Good.’

Good. That was the fastest I’ve ever moved, the longest I’ve kept you from killing me. Corban smiled ruefully and wiped the sweat from his face. He glanced about, saw warriors all around the practice court watching them. That had been happening a lot since they’d arrived at Dun Taras. Rath was there, with some of his giant-killers, including the girl, Coralen. She wasn’t looking at him or Gar, though. Nearby were Dath and Farrell, standing with Marrock and Camlin. The woodsman was strapping a buckler to Marrock’s injured arm.

‘Stop looking at girls and raise your sword,’ Gar snapped at him.

‘I wasn’t,’ Corban objected, then had no more time or breath to complain.

When they had finished sparring, Gar put Corban through the sword dance. Corban loved the routine of it; it was a time when his mind became still and calm, and he could forget for a short while the turmoil and upheaval that defined almost every other waking moment.

When he was finished and about to put his practice sword back in the basket he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Coralen standing there.

‘Don’t put it back,’ she said and stepped back into a space on the grass. She raised her own practice sword and waited. In her other hand she had a wooden replica of a knife. She fights like Conall, then.

‘What?’ said Corban.

‘Don’t keep her waiting, she’ll only beat you worse,’ someone yelled, to a burst of laughter. Corban thought it was Baird, Rath’s warrior with the scar.

‘Come on, then,’ Coralen said, spinning her blade in a slow arc.

Frowning, Corban stepped back onto the grass and lifted his wooden sword. Stooping falcon, the standard first position. In a blink Coralen was lunging forwards, her blade coming from unusual angles, moving faster than Corban had expected. Her wooden knife left a red welt across one arm. She uses it like a wolven uses claws. That set an idea growing. One that I must talk to Farrell about. Another blow slipped through his guard.

Focus, you idiot, he scolded himself. You saw her slay a giant. She’s fast, and deadly. He stepped back, seeking time to regroup, but she did not allow it, following him, striking high and low. He managed to block it all, though clumsily, then began to fight back. They moved backwards and forwards over the grass, the clack of their blades marking a sporadic beat. Time passed, Corban losing all track, getting lost in the block and strike, his body and brain working faster together, overriding his thoughts, employing the responses that only uncounted hours of practice could instil.

Then he saw an opening, his blade sweeping forward before he’d had time to think about it, his body following, stepping close into her guard. Somehow she turned his blade and they slammed together, blade to blade, chest to chest. He could smell her breath, sweet, a hint of apple on it. He blinked, then somehow her foot was behind his ankle and he was falling, the air knocked from his lungs as he hit the ground. Her blade touched his throat and she smiled.

He frowned, remembering seeing Conall execute an almost identical move on Marrock back in Dun Carreg. ‘You cheated,’ he muttered.

She grabbed his wrist and helped him up. ‘And you’re still dead,’ she grinned.

He blushed as he looked around, saw a crowd watching them, Dath and Farrell amongst them. Gar shook his head, his lips twitching in a brief smile. Halion strode over. Come to rescue me, I hope.

‘Come on,’ Halion said to him. ‘We’ve to meet Queen Edana. Da. . the King wants to see you.’

‘Me?’ said Corban. ‘Why?’

‘Because he’s been hearing tales about the young warrior that tamed a wolven. He wants to meet you. Come on.’

‘She’s not tame,’ Corban muttered as he left the practice court, shoving his weapon into a wicker basket.

They had been in Dun Taras over a ten-night now. Edana had been back to see Eremon five or six times since her first meeting with him, but there was still no definite answer from the King about his commitment to aiding her cause. Also the King’s wife, Roisin, had been present at the meetings, and according to Halion she was more poisonous than he remembered her.

Storm uncurled herself and fell in by Corban’s side as they left the weapons court and walked through the streets of Dun Taras. It wasn’t so different from Dun Carreg, the streets as wide, paved with huge flagstones, the grey keep looming above everything. The rock was darker here, and there was no sound of the sea, though, no calling of gulls, no salt on the air.

‘Your sister, Coralen, she doesn’t fight fair,’ Corban said, a throbbing in his back reminding him of their sword-crossing.

‘No. She’s good, though.’ Halion grinned at him.

‘She put me on my back easy enough. Reminded me of Conall, though with a sharper tongue.’

Halion looked sad at that. ‘Aye. She spent a lot of time with Conall, growing up. He was always the one she looked up to. She’s not as hard as she pretends, though.’

‘I’d have to disagree. Did you see her kill that giant back in the hills?’

‘I mean on the inside. She’s grown up around men, been around warriors her whole life. Her mam abandoned her when she was young, and Rath took her into his hold, but that is a place for warriors, not bairns.’ Halion shrugged. ‘That’s all she’s ever known.’

Hard on the outside, soft on the inside. A list of her cutting comments came to mind. I’m not seeing it.

‘Where’s Edana?’ Corban asked Halion.

‘She’s already with the King — and it’s Queen Edana, remember. If her own people can’t give her due respect, neither will the folk of Domhain.’

‘Sorry,’ Corban mumbled. It was not that he didn’t respect Edana as his queen; of course he did; it was just that she was his friend, too. He understood Halion’s logic, though.

‘A word of warning, Corban. Be wary of Roisin. She is proud, cunning, jealous. Her son Lorcan is heir to the throne, and protecting his claim is her one ambition. Think before every word that you say to her. Also, because my father is old, do not think his wits have deserted him. He has a sharp mind when he is not distracted, and he still likes looking at the women.’

‘He is still the same, then, as you remember him?’

‘Much the same, though diminished. More cautious. This meeting with you could help — my da is a complicated man, part of him a thinker, part of him spontaneous, wild in his youth, I am told. He can be ruled by his heart, as with Roisin. He likes Edana, I can tell, partly because she is young and female, true, but he likes her spirit, I think. She is no longer the meek sheltered child that she was. And you and your wolven — there is a magic in your story, our story, the escape from Dun Carreg and through Cambren to here. It appeals to my father. That could be helpful in the end. We need his help. And if we are right, Rhin will probably be turning her covetous glance this way soon enough.’

‘It doesn’t sound very safe here for Edana,’ Corban said.

‘No. But where is safer? Ardan, where she would have been hunted by Owain, or Cambren, where Rhin rules? I trust Da where Edana is concerned. He knew Brenin and respected him. I am sure he will treat Edana well.’

‘Would this Roisin do anything to Edana?’

‘I’ll not let her,’ Halion said. ‘I swore an oath, to Brenin and Edana. I could not save Brenin, but I’ll die before I see any harm come to his daughter.’

Looking at Halion’s expression Corban did not doubt him.

Soon they were in King Eremon’s chambers, situated in the lower levels of Dun Taras’ tower. Apparently he had given up his rooms at the top of the tower a long time ago, because he didn’t like the long climb.

It was a large room, a fire burning in a hearth against one wall holding back the autumn chill. Eremon was sitting upon a fur-wreathed chair, his hair white, his skin waxy and loose. His eyes were still young, though, sea grey, like Halion’s. They lingered upon Corban, then dropped to Storm.

‘Ah, the wolven tamer, at last. Stories of you are spreading about my keep faster than the west wind,’ Eremon said.

Corban walked forward and dropped to one knee, bowing his head.

‘Rise,’ Eremon said.

‘My Queen,’ Corban said to Edana as he stood, seeing her seated on a smaller chair close to the King. She gave him a warm smile. Fech the raven was perched on the arm of her chair. A jet-haired woman sat at Eremon’s other side.

Roisin.

With her lips a deep red in a face as pale as alabaster she was beautiful, and Corban’s eyes were drawn to her as he bowed.

‘I have heard much about you and your wolven,’ Eremon said. He held his hand out to Storm.

‘Careful,’ Roisin said.

‘Hush, woman,’ Eremon said irritably. ‘I’ve two hands, and I only need one to scratch my arse with.’ He looked back to Storm.

‘Friend,’ Corban whispered, and Storm padded forwards. She seemed bigger, now that she was indoors, tall enough to look the seated King in the eye. Her long canines glinted in the firelight. She took a long sniff of Eremon’s palm, her amber eyes regarding him. Then she went to Edana and nudged the Queen’s leg with her muzzle. Edana ran her fingers through the thick fur about Storm’s neck. The wolven flopped down at her feet.

Eremon was watching her keenly. ‘Amazing. She is quite relaxed, and knows you well, Edana.’

‘Of course. We are pack,’ Edana said.

‘Come then, Corban,’ Eremon said. ‘Tell me how this came to be. I imagine it’s quite the tale.’

Corban sat at Eremon’s feet and recounted his tale, of finding Storm’s mother in the Baglun, then saving Storm as a pup. Eremon called for a chair to be brought forward for Corban as the tale wound on to when Corban had given Storm up, after she had wounded Rafe, and how she had followed him to Narvon, how she had helped track Edana through the Darkwood, and on until they had reached the mountains between Cambren and Domhain. When he was finished Eremon sat there a while in silence.

‘What a tale,’ Eremon eventually said. ‘How old are you?’

‘Nearly seventeen summers, my lord,’ Corban said.

‘Nearly.’ Eremon grinned. ‘I remember wishing my years away. As you get older you start wishing for the opposite. Or at least for a time when you didn’t have to wake to use the pot half a dozen times a night.’

Corban didn’t know what to say to that. He found himself liking Eremon.

‘Quite the tale,’ Eremon repeated, ‘at any age. Made all the more so by its truth. I don’t know you, but I know Halion well enough to be an honest man, and Queen Edana of course vouches for your tale’s accuracy. Remarkable.’

‘I have never given any thought to it, my lord,’ Corban said. ‘It just happened.’

‘And I bet it gets you a lot of attention from the ladies.’ Eremon winked.

Corban felt himself blushing at that.

‘You are very lucky, Edana, to have such devoted — and unique — protectors about you,’ said Roisin, speaking for the first time. Her voice had a lilting quality, almost musical.

‘Yes, I am,’ Edana said. ‘Corban is part of the reason that I am still alive. As is Halion. When I have regained my kingdom they shall both be rewarded for their loyalty. As will any who support me in my quest for justice.’

Eremon smiled slyly at that, but said nothing.

‘You must be thirsty, Corban, after all that talking,’ Roisin said, clapping her hands. Servants brought a table and filled it with cups, jugs, an assortment of foods: fruits, cold meats, cheese and dark bread.

‘You are Eremon’s kin, and he will do what he can to help you,’ Roisin assured Edana. ‘But we need to have all of the facts at our disposal first. Then we can make an informed decision of what is the best course of action for Domhain.’

‘But I have told you the facts,’ Edana said, an edge to her voice.

This is not the first time they have had this conversation, Corban thought.

‘Owain has invaded Ardan, my mother and father have been betrayed and murdered. And Rhin is the puppeteer behind it all. She plans to rule the west.’

‘With all due respect, those are the facts as you know them. But one version of events is never usually the whole truth.’ Roisin turned her gaze pointedly at Halion.

‘I understand that,’ Edana said, ‘but I am worried. Not only for me, but for you also, for Domhain. While we sit idle Rhin prepares, of that I am sure. I fear that by the time you have gathered these facts that you so desire it will be too late. Rhin will be marching an army into Domhain.’

‘We thank you for your concern. But you must try and see things from our perspective. While the events in Ardan are terrible, wars do happen. And at this moment no form of aggression has been made towards Domhain, by either Owain or Rhin. So whilst we can feel sympathy for your plight, there really is no action that we can take. And also you must remember that, just as you are kin to Eremon, so are Owain and Rhin.’

Edana bowed her head. ‘And if the worst happens? If I am right, and Rhin is plotting to take your crown? She does not play by the rules. She will not behave politely, or respectfully, or fairly. She will use all means at her disposal to succeed in her aim, and then you will have no kingdom to pass on to your heir. I have already seen how Rhin deals with heirs — Uthan, Owain’s son was assassinated by Rhin. She has tried to kill me more than once. I imagine she would wish a similar fate upon your young prince Lorcan.’

Roisin’s eyes narrowed at that.

You are learning this game of politics quickly, Corban thought.

A young girl poured drinks for them. She was fair haired, older than Corban, he guessed, but not by much. Corban saw Eremon’s eyes following her, his head turning as she left. Corban saw that Roisin noticed too.

‘You’re leering at your daughter,’ Roisin hissed.

‘Is she?’ Eremon said, frowning. ‘Pity.’

‘The possibility of Rhin invading has been considered, hasn’t it, my King?’ Roisin said sharply.

‘Eh? Yes, it has,’ Eremon said distractedly. ‘As you know, as soon as you arrived, scouts were sent out to Cambren and Narvon and even Ardan. I have means of gathering information, my young Queen. We shall have the facts soon.’

‘But what about Rhin? What about the danger of invasion?’

‘I have alerted my barons. They will be ready. If the call to war is given, my battlechief is not to be dismissed lightly. Rath is no stranger to combat. You worry too much for one so young. You are safe, now. You must learn to relax a little. And to trust me.’ He reached out and patted her hand.

Frustration flickered across Edana’s face, but then it was gone.

There was a knocking at the door and a guard looked in. ‘A messenger, my King.’

‘Send him in,’ Eremon said.

A man strode in and knelt before the King.

‘Rise, and tell me your news.’

The man stood, looking about the room, his eyes growing wide at the sight of Storm. ‘There are many tales spreading through Domhain about a boy and his wolven. In Cambren I heard similar tales; though bloodier.’

Boy! Corban frowned.

‘You have returned from Cambren, then?’ Roisin asked.

‘I have, my Queen. Tales are rife, and many different. The one I heard most often is that there has been a great battle in Ardan, between Owain and Rhin. They all agreed on the outcome — that Owain is dead. And there is more. There is rumour that Rhin has gathered a great warband, and that she is marching it to Domhain.’

A look of shock and dismay swept Roisin’s face, quickly masked.

In a sentence her political duelling has become a reality.