Valour (65 page)

‘Come on then,’ Rath said, and they set off.

It was dusk. Rath’s plan was to launch an attack on one of the flanks of Rhin’s warband. They had already been pushed back, were tired and faltering. Seeing a pack of wolven and
changelings attacking them might start a rout. That was Rath’s hope.

They skirted the battle at a distance, looping out wide. The sky was purple, an orange flush on the horizon the last of the sun. Then Rath signalled and they ran at a cluster of Rhin’s
warriors.

They saw Storm first, her bone-white fur drawing the eye, then the rest of them, fur and blood covered. They must have been an eerie sight in the half-light of dusk. Corban saw men slapping each
other and pointing, some scrabbling away, slipping and falling. One stood and stared in horror. He was the one that Storm leaped upon, her jaws latching onto his neck and shoulder, her momentum
flipping him through the air and slamming him to the ground.

Corban and the others were only heartbeats behind her, carving into any who were wavering between fight and flight. Corban slashed a warrior across his gut, ripping into chainmail, and stabbed
him in the throat with his sword; the warrior collapsed in a spray of arterial blood. Marrock ran past him, punching a warrior in the face with his buckler, the iron spike piercing the man’s
eye. He collapsed into a boneless heap.

They cut down all resistance within moments and then moved on, carving deeper into Rhin’s warband. Coralen was close to Corban and he saw her raise her head and let out a keening, wordless
war cry.

Corban echoed her, the rest of them following suit. They howled as they killed, and wherever they trod, men ran. First in ones and twos, but soon knots of warriors were breaking away, heading
back towards the mountains. Then the trickle became a flood, and the whole of Rhin’s left flank was in flight. Geraint must have realized that the day was done, for horn blasts rang out, and
the centre retreated slowly, fighting as they went.

Rath ordered the signal to break from the battle, and soon the field was full of men standing, exhausted, watching their enemy flee back to the hills. A ragged cheer went up, Corban and his
wolven pack howling as euphoria swept them – relief at being alive, the mad joy of victory. Then Corban heard the screaming, men dying about him on the battlefield, the stench of blood and
excrement.
How can we do this to one another?
For a sickening moment he felt overwhelmed with shame.
Look what we have done.
Then his mind flew back to the Darkwood, where Queen Alona
had been kidnapped and killed, a spark that had started a chain reaction of death. Started by Rhin, and still happening, even here. He felt something harden inside, a resolve to see this through.
I cannot run forever. To stop her we must fight her. And we have won. Today, at least.

Coralen prodded her sword into the back of a prisoner, making him increase his pace.

The battle had been won, but she had not stopped to celebrate, or rest. Rath had sent her with a band of others back into the foothills to patrol for stragglers or surprise attacks.

‘Just because we did it last night, doesn’t mean they can’t do the same to us,’ the old warrior had said. Coralen didn’t mind, anyway. She’d rather keep busy
– less time to brood about all that Corban had told her of Conall.

Horses appeared out of the gloom as she approached their makeshift camp. She handed over the man – a blacksmith by the look of his scarred and pitted features – she had found
creeping through the undergrowth to Baird. Without a word, she slipped back into the woodland, heading for the slopes that led down to the giants’ road. That would be where deserters or
raiders would appear, climbing up from the camps below.

She moved silently through the woodland, gliding from tree to tree, using the shadows, a lifetime’s worth of training just habit now, an automatic response bypassing conscious thought,
like fighting. Without realizing, she found Conall hovering in her mind’s eye, the expression on his face a mixture of insolence and humour, daring the world to throw all it could at him. She
felt a physical pain at the thought of him, a knife twisting in her gut.
Con, betraying Halion.
One thing she knew about Halion: he would do the right thing, or at least what he considered
to be the right thing, no matter how hard it was to see it through. And he was a peacemaker. He would not have driven any dispute with Conall. No matter how she looked at it, she came back to the
same conclusion. Corban had told her the truth.

And I am grateful for that.
He had treated her like an equal, not a bairn, which was what Halion had done. She knew now that Halion had kept the truth from her out of an effort to spare
her pain and to save Conall’s name, his reputation, but she’d rather have the truth, no matter how unpleasant.

Corban.
Regarding her with his dark, serious eyes.
Waiting for a kiss. Why did I ask him that? What an idiot I am.
She liked him, she was coming to realize. He was certainly good
to have around in a scrap, him and his wolven and Gar. Between them they could put the fear of Asroth into most that faced them, and she respected that. But it was more than that. She liked the way
he spoke to her. Open, genuine, nothing hidden.

Something caught her eye and she paused, squatting. She was close to the edge of the woodland now, where the slope suddenly dropped down to the camps far below.

Spoor, scattered about, as if it had been kicked to hide it. From a big animal, not big enough for a wolven, but not deer or anything else she would expect to see up here. She lifted it and
broke some off, sniffing.

Hounds. No question. And more than one. But what are hounds doing up here, and where are they now?
It was drying, but still moist at its centre. Half a day old, no more.

There was a rustling to her left. She dropped the spoor and moved closer to a tree, merging with its shadow.

A figure appeared, climbing the slope, breathing heavily. He staggered upright, looking about. A young man, fair haired, a warrior.

She stepped out of the shadows.

He stumbled back a pace, reaching for his sword hilt, then paused.

‘You’re only a girl,’ he said.

Your first and last mistake. Do, don’t think.

She exploded forwards, swatting a hand away, one hand grabbing his collar, the other pressing her knife to his gut.

‘I am,’ she said, ‘and if you don’t walk where I tell you, I’ll slit you from belly to throat.’

He licked his lips. ‘Think I’ll choose the walking.’

Corban sipped from a skin of ale, smiling at Dath and Farrell as they traded stories from the raid of the night before.

‘I saw you,’ Dath said to Farrell. ‘You slipped as you ran up the slope, flat on your face. Have you ever seen a clumsy wolven?’

‘It was steep, and the ground was loose,’ Farrell said, slurring his words a little. He’d had a lot of ale. He was smiling, though – they all were, celebrations sweeping
their camp.

‘Good job Coralen didn’t see you slip. Don’t think she likes the clumsy type.’ Dath grinned.

‘She called me a bear,’ Farrell said, frowning.

Dath and Corban laughed.

‘Do you think she likes bears? I’m hoping she does.’

Their tents were set on the edge of the camp, close to the paddocks. Corban heard the creak of harness, saw the outlines of a few horsemen now. A group of figures followed them closely on foot,
one falling and being dragged for a few paces before the riders stopped.

Prisoners, tied to the horses
, Corban realized. As the rider turned to look at the fallen man the campfire highlighted her face. It was Coralen.

She should be celebrating with the rest of us.

‘Look, there’s your future wife,’ Dath said to Farrell.

‘I’m going to ask her if she likes bears,’ Farrell said, concentrating as he stood, but still managing to look unsteady.

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ Corban asked him as they walked towards Coralen.

‘Coralen,’ Farrell called out.

‘Too late,’ said Dath.

‘You should join us, for a drink. To celebrate,’ Farrell said, looking up at Coralen in her saddle.

Other riders were there. Corban recognized Baird and nodded a greeting at the warrior.

‘There’s still a war going on and, besides, you fall over after a few drinks,’ Coralen said.

Farrell blinked at that. It was obviously not the answer he’d been expecting.

‘Do you like bears?’ he said instead.

‘What?’

‘Bears. Big furry animals. Do you like them?’

‘What’s going on here?’ Coralen said, looking at Dath and Corban. Her eyes fixed back on Farrell. ‘Are you dim-witted? Or are you mocking me?’

Farrell, you need to stop, before she stabs you.

‘I’m not mocking you,’ Farrell said, face twisting in shock. ‘I would never mock you.’

Please stop.

‘I love you.’

Oh no.

Dath laughed and staggered.

‘You’re drunk,’ Coralen said.

‘A little,’ Farrell muttered.

‘You must scare these lads,’ a voice said behind Coralen, ‘if they need a drink to muster the courage to talk to you.’ It was Baird, grinning from ear to ear.

‘Shut up,’ Coralen said over her shoulder.

‘I don’t need a drink to find my courage,’ Farrell said, scowling at Baird. He looked back to Coralen. ‘You haven’t answered my question. Do you like
bears?’

‘What? Yes, I suppose. If they’re not trying to eat me. I’ve heard they make a good meal, and a good bearskin will always keep you warm.’

‘I think he’d like to keep you warm,’ Baird said, nodding at Farrell.

‘You see,’ said Farrell to Corban and Dath. ‘She does like bears.’ He grinned.

‘Well, if we’ve exhausted your conversation, perhaps we can get on,’ Coralen said. ‘We’re in the middle of something.’

‘Who are they?’ Dath said, pointing to the line of figures bound behind Coralen and her companions.

‘The enemy,’ Coralen said. ‘Found most of them up in the hills. Might be deserters, might be spies.’

Corban stared at them, a huddled mass in the darkness, firelight from the camp flickering across shapes and faces. There were warriors amongst them, but also women, even children.

‘I think the raid the other night sent a lot of them running to the hills,’ Baird said. ‘And for all the ones we’ve caught, there’ll be a score more still out
there.’

Corban frowned, staring hard. There was something familiar about one of the figures. Standing hunched over, head down, but still . . .

He stepped forwards.

‘Careful,’ Baird said. ‘They’ve been checked for weapons, but you never know.’

Corban ignored him, shouldering his way through the huddle of figures if they didn’t move quickly enough.

‘You,’ he said. ‘Look at me.’

The figure ignored him.

‘Look at me,’ Corban said, then drew his sword, a slow rasp.

A face appeared, fair haired, dirt stained and gaunt, but still one Corban would never forget.

It was Rafe.