Valour (72 page)

It made Maquin feel sick.

He had come to terms, finally, with what he was doing, what he had become. He didn’t like himself for it, but the face of Jael drove him, made his decisions possible. And when it had come
down to it, when given the choice of life or death, he had chosen life, or at least the right to fight death’s efforts to claim him.

I want to live.

But that did not mean he would be grateful to his captors, or that he would welcome their company and eat with them as if they were brothers. Looking about, though, no one else seemed to share
his feelings. Except Orgull. He was sat at the far end, looking much as Maquin felt. Repulsed.

He sipped a cup of wine.

Herak banged his cup on the table and slowly a silence fell.

‘You are champions now,’ Herak began. ‘Champions of the pit, champions of Panos. You will fight again, but not like that; not amongst so many. That is for the new arrivals, the
initiates.’

‘When will we fight?’ a voice called out.
Javed. Always the question-asker.

‘Not for a while.’ Herak shrugged. ‘You’ll have long enough to enjoy this victory.’

‘Who will we fight?’ Orgull.

‘Whoever is put in front of you,’ Herak said, all friendliness erased from his voice.

The days passed. They were moved from rooms below ground to ground level, a measure of weak sun and fresh air helping to revive Maquin and his companions. To make them feel
human again. The ten of them lived in the same room. Their training with Herak continued – most of it focused on close-quarter combat, knife work and weaponless battle. They were treated
better now, fed well, spoken to, given rewards. Those who excelled in the day’s training were given special meals or an extra drink. Occasionally a woman.

Maquin abstained from all of the rewards offered to him. He wasn’t a
pet
.

Javed laughed at him. ‘Live, man; enjoy what you can. Life will not treat you better because you say no.’

Maquin just smiled and shook his head at the little warrior.
I will not be bought, purchased, manipulated like some half-witted fool. I do what they want because I have no choice. I will not
play their games. They are my enemy.
The only other man who refused as he did was Orgull. They spoke little, but Maquin often caught Orgull watching him. They were sword-brothers, a bond forged
in the Gadrai and tempered in the catacombs of Haldis. Nothing could change that. Maquin did not want friendships, though, had no desire for anything that could distract him from his course.
I
should have hunted Jael down as soon as I was out of the tunnels beneath Haldis.

Should have. Forget that. There is only now, and what happens next.

Often during training Maquin would see groups of men, shackled hand and foot, led past them, towards the entrance to the underground chambers. They all had a look about them that he knew too
well. Half starved, desperate, but still a glimmer of hope in most eyes. They were the latest captives brought in from various ships, more fodder for the fighting pits. Not yet gone through the
horror and torture of that first push into darkness.

It was evening, almost a moon since the last pit-fight. Maquin sat on his cot, knees drawn up, dipping dark bread into a spicy soup. Their chambers reminded Maquin of the great stables at Mikil.
Each room a stable, sharing a communal yard that was fenced in with iron bars. Beyond those bars was their training ground, further off a town. People would often come to look at them through the
bars, even to speak sometimes; they were mostly children, play-acting champions of the pits. Some of the ten liked it, would go and talk and laugh with the visitors. Maquin didn’t. Whenever
he saw movement at the bars he would retreat inside his cell, into the shadows.

There was a rattling at the gates and Maquin rose to see who was coming in, soup and bread still in his hand.

It was Herak, flanked by two guards.

‘Wanted to tell you, it’s your last night on the island,’ he said. ‘You’ll all be getting something to remember Nerin by soon. Food, wine, women.’

A cheer went up from most of the men.

‘Where are we going?’
Javed, of course.

Herak smiled viciously. ‘Tenebral.’

Corban stumbled again; hands reached out to steady him.

‘Keep moving,’ a voice growled close to his ear.

Corban was exhausted. They had been walking a day and a night since he had heard the wolven howl in the distance. He was sure it was Storm, although other wolven prowled these mountains.

Do I just want to believe so hard that I will not accept anything else? No. It was her.

There was little hope of him making an escape. Corban had counted fifteen grim-faced men in Braith’s employ, though there were never more than twelve about him at any one time – the
others scouting ahead or behind. There was also a brace of hounds – two tall, rangy things, skinny with matted hair. They loped ahead, close to one of Braith’s men, himself tall and
long-limbed, beard and hair a tangled mess.

Whether they thought Storm was behind them or not, they kept a fast pace, determined to outpace her and any of his companions who might be following behind.
Mam’ll skin me, getting
caught like this. All the worry I’m giving her.

It was still dark and bitterly cold. As a jagged horizon began to edge in grey Corban realized it was snowing, the flakes looking like slow-falling leaves. They were moving out of the narrow
ravines that had marked their passage through the mountains, onto wider paths, ever downwards now.

We must be almost through, nearly into Cambren by now.

Braith was up ahead. Corban saw him send a man back along the path they had travelled. Corban had noticed him doing that throughout their journey, rotating the scouts to front and rear. Soon
whoever had been on rearguard would join them. Braith broke up a biscuit and threw it to the hounds. They snapped at each other over the crumbs.

The snow fell more heavily now, a cold wind sending it swirling about them, thickening beneath Corban’s boots, muting sound. Corban was bustled to the centre of the group. Each breath and
the pounding of his blood seemed to grow in volume, filling his head.

After a while Corban realized that the rearguard had not joined them. Braith must have noticed too, for he was looking over his shoulder. They were moving through pine trees now, the branches
dipping with the weight of snow, an eerie world of white stillness. A tension seemed to have crept amongst them; Corban could see it in the set of shoulders and faces, the twitching glances all
about. The way their pace had increased.

A shadow flitted across Corban’s path, merging with the shadows of tree and branch. He looked up, saw a black shape moving above the treetops, flitting in and out of view. He gave a cold
smile.

One of the hounds up ahead stopped and turned, ears twitching. Heads peered back, searching through the trees, through the curtain of snow. Then Corban saw her, an off-white blur, bounding out
from between the trees, mouth open, teeth bared.

Storm
.

Behind her other forms, wolven in shape, more upright. Corban blinked. One was carrying a war-hammer.

Farrell and Coralen in their wolven pelts
.

Storm hit the first of Braith’s men, the two of them ploughing through the snow, a great fountain of blood exploding as they rolled. They came to a rest, Storm standing, her jaws dripping
red. The man did not move.

Braith yelled orders, reached for Corban and started dragging him on. The hounds ran back, throwing themselves at Storm. A few men hung back; the rest ran on.

He heard snarling and shouting behind, the yelp of a dog, then the clash of weapons – Farrell and Coralen.

‘No!’ Corban yelled, lurching to the side, his feet clumsy in the snow, his bound hands not helping his balance, then he was tumbling to the ground, his face hitting snow and pine
needles.

Get up,’ Braith snarled, looming over him. He pulled Corban up, punched him in the gut, backhanded him across the face, then held a knife to Corban’s throat.

‘I’ll bleed you here an’ now if you try that again,’ Braith hissed. ‘Rhin’d like you alive, but dead’s better’n nothing at all. You understand
me?’

Corban nodded, feeling the knife burn at his throat. A hot trickle of blood ran down his neck.

‘Get moving, then,’ Braith said. He looped some rope around Corban’s bonds, and pulled him on.

Corban staggered forwards, risking a glance back. Shapes moved amongst the trees, iron sparking as weapons clashed. A hound screamed in agony. One figure moved fast and smooth, more a swirling
snow wraith than a man: Gar. Corban knew him by the way he fought, the way he killed. Arcs of blood glistened about him, scarlet pearls against the snow.

‘On.’ Braith’s boot crashed into his back and Corban was moving forward, half-running, staggering through the trees. An arrow whistled close by, hit one of Corban’s
captors.

Dath.

The trees thinned and then they were on a bare slope, the snow ankle-deep, blanketing the ground. Corban caught a glimpse of grey walls and dark towers further below them, cloaked by the
snow.

Dun Vaner.

Braith shouted orders and more men dropped back, drawing weapons as Corban and Braith ran past them. There was yelling and screaming behind, iron on iron.

I will not run to Rhin, to my own captivity, torture and death
, Corban decided. He threw himself to the right, legs first, and kicked at Braith’s ankles. The man went down in a
tumbling roll, his knife flying from his hands. Corban clumsily climbed back to his feet and ran after the still-rolling form of Braith, kicked him in the chest as he came to a stop. Braith grabbed
at Corban’s boot and the two of them fell together.

Corban rose to his knees, punched two-handed at Braith, caught him on the shoulder, sent him rolling backwards, Corban’s momentum carrying him further. Braith grabbed Corban’s hair,
yanked hard, his other hand reaching for Corban’s throat, squeezing. Corban felt his veins bulging, heard his blood pounding like hooves; black spots edged his vision. He bucked in
Braith’s grip, brought a knee up into Braith’s gut. The grip around his throat disappeared and Corban rolled away, lurched to his feet, took staggering steps back up the slope, towards
his friends.

They were all there, merged with the treeline, fighting Braith’s men. He saw Storm crouched, a man and hound circling her. Coralen was swirling gracefully around a warrior, slicing his
hamstrings with her wolven claws. Then he saw his mam, spear in hand, blocking a flurry of sword blows. Gar stepped in and took the man’s head from his shoulders.

He forced his feet to move, labouring back up the slope, his lungs burning. The sound of pounding, like hooves, grew louder and louder. Someone yelled behind him – Braith – and he
looked back. He realized it wasn’t his blood pounding in his head, it was riders, emerging through the snow, warriors with long spears, surging up behind him.

Braith pointed at him and he turned and ran, making a last effort to reach his friends and the trees.

Something heavy crashed into his back and he was sprawling forwards, a face full of snow.

He tried to rise, then hands were grabbing him, lifting him, and he was slung across a saddle; a blow crunched into his head making the world spin. He was moving, bouncing across the saddle, the
shudder of hooves on snow passing through his body. Somewhere behind him a voice screamed, high and clear. His mam. She was calling his name. He tried to look up but something clumped him across
the head again and all the strength flowed from his body. The sound of combat faded behind him, then he heard hooves clattering on stone and he was riding under an archway, huge gates closing
behind him.

Tukul pulled his cloak tighter and scowled at the mountains. They were half veiled by heavy falling snow. It had started with dawn, and kept falling all day long.

I hate snow. Cold, rain, sun, I can cope with, but not snow.
He looked up to the heavens.
Forgive me, Elyon, it is part of your creation, but . . .