Valour (35 page)

‘Come on, Buddai,’ she said, feeling anxious. ‘Let’s find Shield.’
And then I’m leaving, heading south to find Pendathran. I should have taken Shield and
left with him a long time ago
.

The drum of feet and hooves echoed dull and muted amongst the trees. She followed them, the trail of their passing easy to see. Then, abruptly, there was a loud screaming. She gripped her knife
tightly as the sound of skirmishing grew, then she saw the first of the dead littering the ground. Owain’s men, red-cloaked for Narvon. All with arrows sprouting from their bodies. She moved
on, saw figures moving amongst the trees, saw the sparks of blades clashing, heard the thrum of arrows. All was chaos, horses rearing, men fighting in close combat. She looked about wildly,
searching for Shield. Sounds from the canopy drew her attention and she looked up to see figures in the trees, firing arrows into a knot of Owain’s warriors, Owain amongst them. Her eyes fell
upon their leader and she froze. It was Braith, the outlaw woodsman who had been part of the kidnapping of Queen Alona, when her sweetheart Ronan had died.

Owain and his warriors charged at Braith’s line, breaking it and moving deeper into the woods, fighting as they went; Braith’s men kept pace, harrying them. Then they had moved on
and Cywen was left standing amongst the dead. She heard the crunch of forest litter, turned and saw a horse amongst the trees, a form slumped on its back.

It was Shield.

Cywen slipped from her saddle and ran to him, knew instantly that something was wrong. He was trembling, eyes rolling white. Then she saw the arrow buried in his flank. He whickered as she
reached him, nuzzled his head against her, his coat drenched with sweat, salt-stained. She waved flies from his wound, touched the arrow shaft and he shuddered.

‘This’ll have to come out, boy,’ she murmured, stroking his flank, trying to soothe him. Drust was draped upon the horse’s back, an arrow sticking from his side too; he
had one foot still stuck in a stirrup. She heaved him off and he groaned as he hit the ground.
Still alive, then
.

He looked at her, lips moving but only a whisper coming out. She stared back at him sullenly.
You are Owain’s man; you helped to storm Dun Carreg
. Buddai sniffed the fallen warrior
and whined. Cywen remembered how the warrior had saved Buddai so she took a water skin from Shield’s saddle and, kneeling beside Drust, trickled some water into his mouth.

‘Thank you,’ Drust said, his red hair plastered dark to his face, and for an instant he reminded her of Ronan, red-haired, freckled – or Ronan as he might have been, if he had
lived longer. She pursed her lips, making a decision.

‘Take my horse,’ Cywen said. ‘Owain is finished, will be hunted down before the day is out, so do not follow him. Ride south if you want to join the resistance against
Rhin.’

‘You are forgetting: I am from Narvon; I fought for Owain against Ardan.’

Cywen snorted. ‘Owain is as good as dead. Rhin is the enemy now, and the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Pendathran will be leading the resistance – you’ll find him in the
marshes about Dun Crin. If you get that far tell him my name. If he doesn’t kill you straight away you’ll be all right.’

Drust coughed, held his arm to his side.

‘If not, you must ride north, back to Narvon, but Rhin rules there now, so I don’t know what you’ll find.’

‘You should come with me, girl. There’s nothing for you here, now.’

‘I’m heading south,’ she said, ‘but Shield’s not fit to travel. I need to deal with this arrow.’

‘I’ll help you.’

‘You’ve an arrow in your side. And, besides, won’t be long before these woods are crawling with Rhin’s men. Me, I’m nobody. They’ll kill you as quick as
breathing.’

He frowned, wavering.

‘Maybe I’ll catch you up, if you do choose to go south.’

He nodded to her and she fetched her mare. Drust had the water skin between his teeth, both hands gripping the arrow shaft in his side. With a grunt he tensed, snapping the shaft, and half
collapsed back onto the ground.

Cywen heard the sound of riders, quickly growing louder. She ducked behind a tree, with Drust lying hidden from view beside her. Warriors rode into the glade and she saw them through the foliage
and tensed. It was Evnis. Her hand reached for the knife stuffed in her belt. She had a clear view of him, only twenty paces away. She knew she could make the throw, bury her knife to the hilt in
his back. Her fingers twitched.
He betrayed us all. Caused the death of my da, Brenin, the loss of mam, Corban, Gar. All that has happened is because of him
. Silently she pulled the knife
free, rolled her thumb over it, readying for the throw.

Drust groaned, eyes flickering.

If I kill Evnis they’ll find us – kill me, kill Drust, probably leave Shield with an arrow in his flank that’ll fester and kill him
.

Buddai pressed close against her legs, his hackles a ridge on his back.

And you, they’ll kill you, too. I don’t care if I die, as long as Evnis goes first. But
. . . She stared at them, horse, hound and warrior, realizing that she did not want
their deaths on her hands. With a wrench of will she shoved the knife back in her belt and watched as Evnis and his men disappeared after Owain and his surviving warband.

She waited a while after they had disappeared from sight, then bent to Drust, roused him and helped him into the saddle of her dun mare.

‘I should take Shield,’ he said.

‘That’d be taking my kindness too far,’ she replied. ‘Shield stays with me.’

He shrugged, bent in the saddle with pain, then turned the mare and rode into the shadows. Southwards.

Cywen set to cleaning Shield’s wound, frowning as she realized how deep the arrow had bitten.
How am I going to get this out?

She didn’t notice Buddai growling, so intent was she, but then the growl turned to a snarl and she turned to see Conall running through the trees towards her. Buddai leaped at him,
connecting with a thud, his teeth snapping. Conall grunted and fell, man and hound rolling on the ground. Conall managed to roll and throw Buddai off, climbing to his feet and drawing his
sword.

Cywen screamed and threw her knife. It flew straight at Conall’s chest, but he was so fast, he managed to twist, clubbing the leaping dog with his sword hilt while Cywen’s knife flew
wide of her mark, sinking into the meat of Conall’s arm. He yelled, his sword spinning out of his grip, and ran at her while Cywen reached frantically for her second knife, hidden in the heel
of her other boot.

With a snarl, Conall ploughed into her, sending them both hurtling through the air. Cywen was biting, kicking, punching to get free as Conall grabbed her wrist and knocked the knife from her
grasp. Panting, she brought her knee up hard between his legs, felt his whole body go limp and scrambled out of his grip.

With a groan he staggered upright, grabbing for her again. She punched him and he backhanded her across the face; blood filled her mouth as she staggered and fell. Conall pulled a knife from his
belt.

Get up. I must get up
.

‘That’s the last time you try to kill me, girl,’ he spat, and Cywen felt a wave of real fear pulse through her, sharpening her senses. ‘You’re more trouble than
you’re worth,’ Conall said, putting the knife to her throat.

‘I don’t think so,’ a voice said, a hand gripping Conall’s wrist and pulling him away.

Cywen blinked, her vision clearing. It was Veradis, with the giant towering at his shoulder.

‘Let me go,’ Conall snarled.

‘That depends on what you intend to do with that knife,’ Veradis said.

Conall tensed and looked as if he was about to attack Veradis, but caught sight of the giant as he shrugged his axe from his shoulders and patted one of the blades with a huge hand. Conall
relaxed and let his knife drop to the ground.

Veradis kicked the knife away and released Conall, never taking his eyes from the man.

‘You’re lucky I arrived when I did,’ he said. ‘She is worth more than your life to my King.’ He took a step away from Conall, looked closely at Cywen, who had blood
trickling from her nose and mouth. He frowned. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Gave as good as I got,’ she mumbled.

The giant laughed.

‘Just believe it, Corban,’ Heb said.

That’s easier said than done
.

Corban was sitting with Heb and Brina in a copse of trees, the murmur of voices from their camp filtering through to them.

‘Just a spark, Ban,’ Brina said. ‘See it in your mind, how you want it to be, then speak it.’

He was holding a stick, staring at it. In his mind he saw a wisp of smoke curl from it, a spark, then a flame.

‘
Lasair
,’ he said, the word feeling alien on his tongue. He held his breath. Just for a moment he thought he caught the faint smell of woodsmoke, then it was gone. He
waited.

‘Nothing’s happened,’ he said eventually.

‘You have a talent for stating the obvious,’ Brina said.

‘
Nothing
,’ Craf agreed from a branch above them.

‘It’s early days,’ Heb said, patting Corban’s shoulder. ‘This is only your first attempt.’

It was the fourth night since Marrock had had his hand amputated, every night following the same routine. Make camp. Tend Marrock’s wound, then retreat somewhere with Brina and Heb. For
the first three nights Corban had been given some rudimentary lessons in giantish. Just a handful of words, but the important ones, Brina had said. The elements that he would seek to command
– fire, water, earth and air. Each day he had silently recited them in time to the pounding of his horse’s hooves. And now tonight he had attempted to make something happen.

Nothing. Is it really possible, or just another mad faery tale, like Gar imagining me to be Elyon’s chosen one
.

Heb took the stick from his hand.

‘
Lasair
,’ the old man said. There was a popping sound, a wisp of smoke and then a flame flickered into life.

‘
Fire
,’ Craf squawked.

‘That’s amazing,’ Corban whispered.

Heb smiled and dropped the stick, stamping the flame out.

‘You just have to believe. But,’ he added, ‘I could attempt the same thing another time and, if I had a seed of doubt, I would fail. It is all about believing, utterly, at that
moment.’

‘Drink this,’ Brina said, handing Marrock a skin of something.

‘What’s in it?’ Marrock asked.

‘Something to dull the pain. This is going to hurt. Go on, Corban.’

Marrock frowned but took a long gulp.

It was the sixth night now since Marrock’s hand had been removed. He had been gripped by a fever for the first two days and part of the third, then awoke before highsun, weak but
complaining he was starving hungry. Brina had said that was a good sign. Corban had tended to his wound, under Brina’s constant supervision.

‘Stitch over an infection and we’ll kill him, sure as a blade through his heart,’ Brina had said, so while the skin and flesh was red and inflamed the wound had been left open,
allowing for any pus to drain, a compress of leaves and clean bandages bound about it twice a day. Now, though, the redness had gone, and it had stopped smelling bad, so Brina had ordered the wound
stitched closed.

‘Just start, Ban,’ she said.

‘Have you done this before?’ Marrock asked, his words slurred from the poppy milk Brina had given him.

‘Not exactly,’ Corban said, holding a bone needle close to the stump that was Marrock’s wrist.

‘It’s no different from darning a sock,’ Brina said.

‘My arm’s no sock,’ Marrock blurted.

‘Shut up and drink your milk,’ Brina ordered.

Corban pressed hard, piercing the skin with a pop, then proceeded methodically.

‘This bit will feel strange,’ Corban warned, then pulled the thread tight, stretching Marrock’s skin across the open wound, closing it off. He tied a knot in the thread and
Brina cut it with a knife.

‘It will feel uncomfortable, and it will itch,’ Brina said. ‘Any pain – tell me immediately.’

Marrock inspected Corban’s stitching and nodded at him.

‘You’re doing well,’ Brina said to Marrock as Corban applied a salve to the skin and bandaged it off. ‘You haven’t died, which I expected a few days ago.’

‘No, but I’ll not be drawing a bow again.’

‘There’s more to life than shooting pointy things into people,’ Brina said.

Marrock snorted. ‘What use is a huntsman who can’t draw a bow?’ He looked straight at Corban, bitterness twisting his features.

‘There’s plenty of other new and exciting ways to get yourself killed,’ Brina said. ‘No doubt you’ll discover some of them soon enough.’ She walked away.

‘I can still feel it, you know. My hand, my fingers,’ Marrock said. ‘I would still have it if we’d sailed to the marshes and Dun Crin.’ He glanced at Halion, who
was at the edge of their camp, looking back the way they’d travelled.

There’s been a tension between them since we fled Dun Carreg, and now Marrock blames Halion for the loss of his hand
. This bothered Corban, particularly as he had great respect for
both men. Halion he knew better, though, from the countless days of toil and hard work in the Rowan Field. He knew that, whatever Halion did, whatever choices he made, he was not acting out of
self-interest.