Valour

CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

TUKUL

Tukul was dozing when Meical awoke. It was still dark about him, though a grey light framed the slopes above their dell. The brunt of the snowstorm seemed to have blown over. Orange flames from the fire sent shadows dancing around the bowl they were camped in.

He heard Meical gasp, saw him lurch up onto an elbow. The firelight washed across his face, highlighting the sharp angles, making the lines around his eyes and mouth deep crags of shadow. For the first time Tukul thought he looked old.

Tukul sat up, blinking. ‘What is it?’

Meical leaped to his feet. ‘I know where he is. Corban. We must leave now; it may already be too late.’

‘What do you mean? Where is he?’ Tukul asked as he climbed to his feet, signalling for his Jehar to move about him.

‘He is in there,’ said Meical, pointing to the dark blur of walls and towers nestling amongst the white slopes of the mountain. ‘Dun Vaner. Rhin has him. And she knows who he is. He will not be drawing breath for much longer. If he still does.’

The camp moved into action, silent and efficient.

By the time the sun had fully crested the horizon they were riding across a featureless white plain, approaching the slope and road that led to the gates of Dun Vaner.

‘Those walls are thick, and the gates are shut,’ Tukul observed.

‘Yes,’ Meical said. His earlier sense of franticness had receded, although Tukul could sense it, lurking beneath a veneer of calm.

‘So how are we going to get in there?’

‘We know that the Jehar ride with Nathair, and that they came north with Rhin. The men who are standing on that wall will know that, too.’

Tukul thought about that. ‘So they will think we are their allies.’

‘Exactly. To be safer still, as I stand out a little from the rest of you, I am now your prisoner, sent back to Rhin for questioning.’

‘But what if Nathair and Sumur are in there?’

‘They are not. They are heading north, and I have a good idea why, but we shall think on that after.’

‘Excellent. So that’s getting in. What then?’

‘Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.’

‘With our swords in our hands?’

‘If needs be.’

‘Best you try and look as if you’re a prisoner, then,’ Tukul said.

Meical clasped his hands behind his back, underneath his cloak, as if they were bound. Tukul and a few of his warriors moved around Meical, giving the appearance of guarding him. They rode up the road that led to Dun Vaner’s gates, identifiable only because the snow lay more flat and even across it.

‘Remember,’ Meical said as they drew closer. ‘The Seren Disglair is in there. He is a captive and will soon be killed. We cannot fail in this.’

Tukul felt a shiver at those words, knew that it was passing back through the column of his sword-kin.

This is it. The moment I’ve waited for. All-Father, I will not fail you.

The world was quiet and still, a beautiful white as far as he could see. Even the clouds up above him seemed to glow.

A perfect moment. He drew a deep breath, as he did before he began the sword dance, then he rode ahead of the column, looking up at the walls above the stronghold’s gates. Heads peered over.

‘Name your business,’ a voice called down to him.

‘I bring a gift from King Nathair — a spy found on the road north. He thought your Queen was better equipped to extract some truth from him.’ He turned and beckoned for Meical to be brought forward. Enkara led Meical’s horse, a few others riding close about him.

A silence lengthened. Tukul saw more heads peering over the battlements, heard muted words.

‘Open your gates,’ he yelled. ‘It is cold down here.’

There was still no answer.

‘Would you have me ride back to Nathair to tell him we crossed fifty leagues only to be turned away at his ally’s gates?’

There was another silence. Tukul felt his pulse beating faster, had to concentrate to control it as the huge gates creaked open.

He rode in calmly, nodding to the guards who stood by the gates.

Four of them. A courtyard lay beyond the gates. More warriors were milling about, performing various tasks — sweeping drifts of snow from the flagstones, piling it in deep banks with shovels, breaking ice in water buckets. A dozen. As Tukul rode deeper he glanced back, and up, scanning the battlements. Another eight, maybe ten. A great keep loomed straight ahead, doors of oak closed against the cold. Other buildings spread about the courtyard, a handful of doors. Shadows moved inside. Maybe barracks. More warriors, Tukul thought. There could be anywhere between one and two hundred inside.

They dismounted on the far side of the courtyard; doors opened to a huge stableblock from which issued a dozen stable boys. Tukul and his warriors were led into a feast-hall by two of the guards who had stood at the gates.

The feast-hall was almost empty; a score or so of men sat close to the firepit, breaking their fast, a few others scattered about the room.

‘Your men can eat and drink here,’ one of the guards said. ‘Word has been sent to Queen Rhin. Bring your prisoner and we’ll take you to the dungeons.’

‘Where is everyone?’ Tukul asked as they walked through the hall. At a nod, five of his warriors followed with Meical, the rest spreading through the feast-hall, pouring drinks, taking food.

‘Most are down south, fighting in Domhain.’

‘Of course,’ Tukul said. He drew his sword, heard his warriors do the same behind him, all about the hall.

The guards both reached for their blades. Tukul let them draw before he killed the first one.

Let him cross the bridge of swords with his sword in his hand.

The man tried to block, but even fifty-eight years and the freezing cold snow of Cambren could not slow Tukul that much. They did not even touch blades.

The other guard opened his mouth to yell, at the same time stepping away and raising his sword.

‘Don’t kill him,’ Meical snapped.

In a heartbeat Tukul’s sword-point was at the guard’s throat.

‘Your choice,’ Tukul said. ‘Make a noise: die now. Stay silent: live a little longer.’

The guard’s eyes darted about the room. Tukul didn’t need to look: he knew all of Rhin’s warriors in the room were dead.

The guard dropped his sword.

‘Take us to the dungeon,’ Meical said.

Tukul left a score of his Jehar in the feast-hall to guard against any newcomers, and the rest followed Tukul. As they left the hall Tukul looked back, saw the main doors open and a handful of guards walk in. His warriors fell on them, but some of the enemy stumbled back into the courtyard. Instants later he heard the blaring of horns.

‘Faster,’ he said to the guard leading the way.

‘How many warriors are here?’ Meical asked the guard. He didn’t answer, but then he felt Meical’s sword-point at his back.

‘Three, four hundred. Enough.’

He’s lying, thought Tukul. And even if he’s telling the truth, we are Jehar.

The sound of combat drifted behind them. They strode through empty corridors, down a long staircase, the steps wide and worn, then into another corridor. Tukul barked an order and some of his warriors peeled away from the back, groups of five positioning themselves at each new doorway. Soon fifty warriors became thirty.

‘We’re going to need a way out,’ he said to Meical.

Horn blasts echoed through the stronghold — the call to arms. Tukul heard the slap of running feet.

Guards appeared at the far end of the corridor, more than Tukul could see to count — at least a score, more coming behind them. The first ones paused for a heartbeat, then ran at him. He drew his sword, heard the familiar sound behind him as Meical and the others followed suit.

The corridor was wide, built by giants. Three men could stand abreast and still swing a sword. Tukul cracked their guide on the head with his sword pommel, saw him slump unconscious, then stepped into summer storm from the sword dance, his left hand forwards, blade arched over his right shoulder. He felt Meical and Enkara move to either side of him.

Let my heart be true and my sword be sharp.

Then he stepped into battle.

It was like coming home. He swayed and spun, ducked and lunged, and then his whole world was filled with blood, with the sounds of men dying. Most didn’t have a chance to make a sound, others just a surprised grunt or yelp, in an instant moving from life to death, to empty husks of meat and bone.

The battle swirled past him, the two groups filtering into each other. He carved a red path through all that stood before him. He turned an overhead blow and followed through with a short horizontal slash, saw the man stumble and fall, his blood draining from his throat and his life from his eyes.

Then it was over.

Meical and Enkara still stood either side of him; both were covered with blood. None of it seemed to be their own. The corridor was littered with the dead. At a swift glance he did not think any of his sword-kin had fallen. Then a sound drifted into the corridor. The clash of iron. Yelling, but it came from ahead, not behind.

Tukul and Meical shared a glance and moved on, their pace fast but not reckless. The sounds of combat ahead grew. They turned a corridor, followed the sound down a staircase, then Tukul pulled up short.

Before him he saw the backs of at least a dozen of Rhin’s warriors. Tukul heard the clash of weapons, shouting, a scream. Something was holding the warriors here. He glimpsed a form at the far end, a movement, the trail of a sword, a body moving fast, gracefully. Meical moved past him, sword high, and launched himself into the enemy. Tukul followed, chopping a head from its body with his first blow.

Panic ripped through Rhin’s men as they tried to turn and face this new enemy. In moments twelve men fell, bleeding out their lives into the cold stone.

Just one man had been holding the corridor against them. He fought still, against the last of Rhin’s warriors. He parried a frantic lunge, spun on his heel, reversed his sword and drove it into his opponent’s belly. They stood there briefly, close as lovers, then the victor pulled his sword clear and turned to face Tukul.

He was clothed in leather and fur and wool, a long, curved sword held loosely. But Tukul’s eyes were drawn to the warrior’s face. Weathered skin, dark, earnest eyes, a ridged nose.

Garisan. My son.

Tukul saw recognition dawn in Gar’s face, first a question in the eyes, then a twitch of the mouth. A hesitant smile.

Without a word Tukul strode forward and wrapped his son in his arms.