Valour (78 page)

‘But how did you find me? How did you know where to look?’

‘Craf again,’ said Dath. ‘He looked in every hole in this fortress until he found you. He’s handy to have around, that bird, even if his eating habits would make the dead
vomit up their last meal.’

‘He is indeed,’ Corban agreed. He tore off a strip of meat and threw it to Craf, who was perched contentedly on the back of Brina’s chair. He caught the meat in the air and
gulped it down.

Brina had hugged Corban tight when she had seen him, then berated him sharply for having let himself be captured. Corban had not minded, though. He had felt a swell of emotion at seeing the old
woman, at seeing all of his friends. And what they had done for him.

He felt it again now, looking about the room at them – his mam sitting quiet beside Brina, Gar talking to Tukul – his da, Corban could still not get over that – Dath and
Farrell sitting either side of him, Coralen, further apart, brooding, silently scouring crusted blood from her wolven claws.

Such friends. Following me through the mountains, attacking Braith. Storming a fortress. Rhin’s fortress.
Just looking at them, he felt a pressure building in his chest.
This
world may be full of greed and tragedy and darkness, but I am fortunate beyond measure to have such people about me.

His eyes drifted deeper around the room, at the scores of Jehar warriors. Most were quietly going about small tasks – repairing torn leather with thread and needle, replacing rings in a
chainmail shirt, using a whetstone to work out a notch in a blade, cleaning and binding a wound.

Every now and then he would feel eyes upon him, would catch some of the Jehar looking at him, just staring. It made him feel uncomfortable. There was something in their eyes, almost
adoration.

Then he saw Meical. He was sitting in the shadows beyond the firelight, long legs stretched out before him, his face a dark pool, but something told Corban he was staring straight back at
him.

He remembered his dream –
not a dream, something more, something real
– and Meical’s part in it. He was the Ben-Elim who had saved him, who had carried him from
Asroth’s palace.

They had hardly talked in the dungeon, Corban struggling to take in what he was seeing, but they would have to, soon. He knew that.

He looked away from the shadows, his gaze settling upon his mam. She was watching him, too. She rose and sat beside him.

‘So,’ she said.

‘Thank you, Mam.’

‘What for?’

‘For coming to get me.’

She hugged him fiercely.

‘I knew him. He was in Dun Carreg, briefly. But I recognize him from my dreams,’ Corban said, looking back to Meical.

‘I saw, in the dungeon. So, do you believe, now?’

He was dimly aware that Dath and Farrell were leaning forward, listening intently.

‘I . . . my dreams, Mam. They weren’t dreams, really, I was somewhere else. In the Otherworld.’

‘Yes. You’ve been having them for years. They stopped for a while.’

‘Rhin was in the last one. She took me to Asroth.’

His mam tensed, her hand squeezing his leg.

‘I was terrified. Asroth, he wants to kill me – you were right.’

‘So you do believe, then?’

He had not wanted to think about this, to face it. All the while he was busy it was just a shadow hovering somewhere behind him, but now he could no longer avoid this subject. He had walked in
the Otherworld, come face to face with Asroth and his Kadoshim, and with the Ben-Elim. How could he deny the truth of it? Clearly it was no lie, so either he was mad, as he had thought Gar was, for
a while, or it was the truth. There was no longer any option for an alternative explanation. He sighed.

‘How could I not, now? I’m sorry for not trusting you.’

She smiled. ‘I have found it hard to believe, myself, at times.’

‘I don’t want to believe it, though. I’d rather not think about it. And when I do think about it I end up with a lot of questions,’ Corban said.

‘Of course you do.’

A voice rang out, then. Corban looked up and saw that Meical was standing close to the fire-pit, almost before him.

‘What would you do from here?’ Meical said, looking straight at him.

‘You’re asking me?’ Corban said.

‘Everyone in this room is here because of you, Corban. You are the Seren Disglair, the Bright Star.’

Corban cringed inwardly at that. He caught a glimpse of Dath and Farrell staring at him – Dath wide eyed, Farrell nodding thoughtfully. Coralen regarded him with a raised eyebrow.

‘We will follow your lead,’ Meical continued. ‘I will offer you my counsel, and you can do with it what you will. For myself, I would advise that we should go to Drassil, deep
within Forn Forest.’

‘Why?’ Corban asked. He heard Brina chuckle.

‘Because Halvor’s prophecy says that is where you will go, where the resistance against Asroth and his Black Sun will gather.’

Who is Halvor? What prophecy?
A hundred other questions lined up in his mind, fighting to be asked first.

I’m going to Murias to get my sister,’ he said instead.

‘Murias. Where Nathair is going?’ Meical said.

‘That’s right. My sister Cywen is his prisoner.’

‘She is his prisoner to lure you to him, surely you must know that?’

‘I was starting to guess as much,’ Corban said. ‘But it makes no difference. I cannot abandon her.’

‘No, we cannot,’ his mam echoed.

Meical just looked at him for a long drawn-out moment. Corban returned his gaze.

‘All right then,’ Meical said. ‘We shall go to Murias.’

‘You don’t have to come,’ Corban said. He did not want the lives of so many on his conscience.

‘It is our choice,’ Meical said. ‘And as you feel about your sister, so we feel about you.’

Corban thought about that, thought about standing before Asroth and seeing a band of the Ben-Elim brave the hosts of Kadoshim to save him. He nodded.

‘And Sumur is with Nathair,’ Tukul said from the fireside. ‘I would like to see him. We have things to discuss.’

I can imagine what they are.

‘What is at Murias?’ Corban asked.

‘Giants,’ Coralen said.

‘She’s right,’ Meical said. ‘The Benothi giants. And one of the Seven Treasures. The cauldron.’

The Seven Treasures? Now those were tales I used to love hearing old Heb tell.

‘The cauldron?’

‘Aye,’ Meical said with a sigh. ‘Asroth used it before, in the War of Treasures. It was made for good but, like most things, can be put to a different use depending on the hand
that holds it. It has the potential to be a powerful weapon.’

‘What did Asroth want it for?’ asked Corban.

‘To slaughter every living soul that Elyon has created.’

‘That doesn’t sound good,’ whispered Dath to Farrell.

‘Well it obviously didn’t work, did it?’ Farrell whispered back. ‘Else none of us would be here.’

‘That is because Elyon unleashed his Scourging,’ Meical said. ‘That was bad enough, and Elyon is unlikely to intervene this time.’

‘So we need to stop Nathair getting to this cauldron, then,’ said Farrell.

‘Perhaps. I do not know if we can. It is protected, though. There are some of the Benothi that live still who saw the destruction wrought by the War of Treasures. Nemain, the Benothi
Queen, was there. She saw. She will not willingly allow the cauldron to be used to wage war again.’

‘But Nathair has the Jehar with him. If any are capable of taking it, it is them,’ said Tukul.

‘Aye. So, to Murias it is,’ said Meical. North of here, a hundred leagues through Cambren and then into Benoth.’

‘It will be hard going, fighting all the way through Cambren,’ said Coralen. ‘The bulk of Rhin’s warriors may be to the south invading Domhain, but that does not mean the
entire north is empty of enemies. And the best roads are littered with settlements – they will not look on you kindly. You may be forced to travel leagues out of your way, through difficult
terrain. You would be better off travelling back into Domhain and then heading north on a clear path. You may even catch them.’

‘I do not know the way through Domhain,’ Meical said.

‘I do,’ said Coralen. ‘I’ve lived half my life patrolling the borderlands, I know every path and fox’s trail for a hundred leagues, and I’ve been in sight of
Murias before. I’ll take you.’

Meical looked between Corban and Tukul.

‘Thank you,’ said Corban. She nodded at him, as if something long considered had just been decided, then leaned back on her bench and crossed her arms.

‘So then, we should gather supplies for a mountain crossing,’ said Meical. ‘We’ll leave at dawn.’

They settled down for sleep soon after, the fire-pit still crackling. Storm stretched close to Corban. The murmur of Gar and Tukul’s voices blended as they talked into the night.

Corban’s mind was whirling, but he was exhausted and sleep rose up like a tide to wash over him. Strangely, after all that had happened to him today, the most prominent thought in his mind
as he drifted off wasn’t that he had come face to face with Asroth, or seen one of the Ben-Elim walk into his dungeon, or seen Rhin evicted from her own stronghold. It was the embrace that
Coralen had given him whilst he was hanging from his shackles. He could still feel her hair in his face, smell her skin, feel the beating of her heart and the heave of her suppressed sobs against
his manacled body.

Veradis gazed at the mist-shrouded walls of Dun Taras. He had looked at the same walls every day for more than a moon now, through snow, rain and winter sun.

His and Geraint’s warbands ringed the fortress, allowing no passage in or out.

‘They must be hungry by now,’ Bos said beside him.

‘I would think so.’

Geraint had wanted to assault the walls as soon as they had reached Dun Taras, not far behind the last stragglers of Domhain’s fleeing warband. Veradis had refused to commit his men, not
wanting to throw lives away for uncertain gain. He had counselled patience, to lay siege to the fortress, despite how he hated the thought of waiting here through the heart of winter.

‘We have the upper hand now,’ Veradis had said when Geraint asked him to join in the assault. ‘They are beaten, disheartened. If you assault the walls you will lose hundreds,
and in likelihood fail, at least at first. Why lose good men and boost your enemy’s morale when we can just sit here, eat good food and watch them starve?’

Geraint had gone ahead without him, taking a day to build ladders and battering rams. Over a thousand men had died in the assault; they gained the walls once, but were beaten back. Geraint did
not attack again.

So they had set up camp, encircled the fortress and waited. Midwinter’s Day came and went. The days started to grow longer. Veradis hated it; the inactivity frustrated him. Each day he set
his men to training – first the shield wall, then individual sparring. And he had been meeting with weapon-smiths, the battle at Domhain’s border having planted the seeds of ideas in
his mind. And always in his mind the same recurrent thoughts crept to the surface.
Nathair. Where is he? Has he reached Murias? Is the cauldron his? Is Cywen safe?

‘How much longer of this?’ Bos asked him.

‘Depends what they choose to do. They could surrender. Or they could decide they’ve had enough of not eating and march out and take us on.’ Veradis shrugged. ‘What would
you do?’

Bos scowled. ‘I don’t like being hungry – makes me mad. I’d probably come looking for someone to kill.’

Veradis smiled at that. He could almost picture it.

‘Also, much rests on their king. This Eremon, he’s old, and not so well liked as he could be by his people, I’ve heard. Makes me think he’s more likely to order an attack
sooner than later, before his people decide they’ve had enough of him.’

‘So why haven’t they come looking for a fight already?’ Bos mused.

‘My guess is us,’ Veradis said. ‘The shield wall. They know what we can do now, and this ground is perfect for us. Would you march out to face us again?’

‘Probably not. At least, not without an idea of how to win.’

‘Exactly. So they sit behind their walls, and starve.’

The sound of riders drew their attention, from behind, along the giants’ road. Veradis saw a small group, perhaps fifty, moving at a canter. Rhin’s banner rippled above them, a
broken branch.

Veradis was ushered into a tent; furs were scattered liberally, a fire burning brightly in an iron basket. Rhin sat close to it, warming her hands. She looked older, somehow,
or perhaps just exhausted. Blue veins traced a map beneath her papery skin. She looked up at Veradis as he entered and ushered him to a seat.

Something is wrong.

Geraint was already there, sitting and sipping from a cup. Conall stood behind Rhin, a bearskin cloak draped over his shoulders.

‘Where is Nathair?’ Veradis said. ‘My lady,’ he added as he remembered who he was talking to.

‘Nathair is on his way to Murias. Or was when I left him at Dun Vaner.’

‘He was well?’