Valour (85 page)

‘Does she suspect?’ the giant asked.

Uthas drew in a shuddering breath. ‘No. I don’t think so.’ He shrugged. ‘The die is cast now. There is no going back.’

Tukul felt the blow ripple through his arms, from wrist to shoulders, then dissolve into his chest and back. He spun on his heel, surging around his opponent, using the
momentum for a backswing that would kill if it connected with flesh.

It didn’t; the blow was deflected, the power leaking from it as Tukul was momentarily forced off balance.

‘Well done,’ Tukul said, and patted Gar on the shoulder.
My son.

Gar all but glowed at his father’s praise.

‘That’s enough for an old man,’ Tukul said, unbinding the cloth and lambswool from his blade, used both to protect it during sparring and to mute the noise. He smiled to
himself.

I am happy
, he realized. The journey northwards had been one of quiet camaraderie, spent in the company of his son, his sword-kin about him, and the Seren Disglair riding at their head.
I am reunited with my son. My beloved son, who has surpassed all of the hopes and dreams I have nurtured about him for so many years. He is capable, measured, strong, compassionate. Different
from us other Jehar who have been hidden away from the world. More open, a mixture of proud and humble.

And I am in the company of the Seren Disglair, finally doing, after all these years of waiting. Setting about the serious business of defeating the Black Sun
. He smiled at the clouds
above him.
It is good to be alive.

They were in a dip in the land, a meagre shelter from the wind that seemed to blow permanently across this barren moorland. All about them sparring partners separated, moving into the tasks of
breaking camp. Gar’s eyes flickered between two people, Tukul following his son’s gaze.

Corban and Gwenith. And you love them both.
That was easy to understand, having lived seventeen years around them, Corban the centre of his world.
But Gwenith
. . . Tukul frowned
at that.
The Seren Disglair’s mother.
Tukul had waited for the Seren Disglair all his life; in his mind he was more than human, and so his mother was special too. But to see them,
human, flesh and blood. It felt strange.
And Gar is somewhere between elder brother and father to Corban. And I have seen how his eyes follow Gwenith
. . . He shrugged, a fatalism that he
had long ago embraced.
It is as it is.

Brina the old healer was hovering close as the sparring ended, a book cradled in one arm. She beckoned to Corban and the young man followed her.
What does she want with him?
His
inquisitive nature won out and he followed them, checking on his horse which was paddocked nearby.

He went through the ritual of inspecting hooves, checking for stones, testing the buckles and tightness of the harness. All was ready; they were just waiting for Coralen to return. She’d
left with the first sight of the sun, scouting ahead as she had each day since they’d passed into Benoth, the giant realm. She had taken the wolven with her, and Tukul had sent Enkara as an
added surety.

He heard Brina and Corban talking, then Corban speak words in the first-tongue. There was a long pause, Corban standing perfectly still, braced, then his shoulders slumped.

Meical appeared and sat upon a boulder close to Corban.

‘You are learning the earth power,’ Meical said.

‘Aye. Brina has been teaching me.’

‘And how does it go?’ Meical asked.

Corban shrugged. ‘I just tried to summon mist. Nothing happened.’

‘With the earth power there is no trying, only doing. Faith is the key.’

‘Aye, well, I’m sure that’s easy for you to say, seeing as you’ve a personal acquaintance with the All-Father. Me, it’s proving to be a bit more
difficult.’

Meical laughed, something that Tukul rarely heard. ‘That’s fair enough, I suppose.’

‘I’ve been thinking, about this Seren Disglair business,’ Corban said, turning to regard Meical.

‘Aye. Go on.’

This sounds like progress.

Tukul had spent much of his time observing Corban since their meeting at Dun Vaner. There was much to like, a respectful, inquisitive lad beneath the solemn layers that experience and tragedy
had accumulated. And strength, not just physical. Back at Dun Vaner he had stood up to Meical, refused to go to Drassil in favour of seeking his sister. As much as that was troublesome, not
sticking to the plan, Tukul liked Corban for it. It took courage to stand up to one of the Ben-Elim. One thing that Tukul had noticed, though, was that when the questions came from Corban, which
they frequently did once he’d started talking, he never asked about who he was, or about Elyon and Asroth. All of his questions were to do with kings and queens, politics, the strategies of
war.
All good questions, to my mind.
But there was always an underlying avoidance of all things spiritual. This was the first time Tukul had heard him broach the subject.

‘Last time, when Asroth crossed the boundaries between the Otherworld and here, Elyon intervened. He stopped Asroth. Yes?’ Corban asked.

‘Aye. The Scourging. Much was destroyed.’

‘Yes, but Asroth was defeated. Will Elyon not just do that again? It seems to me the obvious thing to do, and would avoid all the war and slaughter that is certainly coming.’

‘That would be the best and surest way to defeat Asroth,’ Meical said, his expression becoming sad. ‘But Elyon is absent. Gone. After the Scourging his grief was immense,
indescribable. He took himself into mourning, to a place of solitude that we cannot find. So he is not here to intervene. That is why he is sometimes called the absent god. It has been my prayer
for uncounted years that he return to us.’

‘Oh.’ Corban became silent, clearly pondering that information. ‘I have heard you call me the Seren Disglair, but what does that mean. What am I supposed to do?’

‘There was a prophecy written down by Halvor, a giant from the time soon after the Scourging, when the world was broken and battered, healing. The prophecy speaks of Asroth and his
Kadoshim returning, of the Seven Treasures coming to light again and of two champions, avatars of Elyon and Asroth. The Bright Star and the Black Sun. The Banished Lands will be divided between
these two, so the prophecy says, and they shall go to war.’ Meical shrugged. ‘It should not be so hard to believe, any more. War is already spreading through the land.’

‘That it is,’ Corban said quietly.

He does not look happy about that thought.

Hooves drummed, Coralen and Enkara riding over a crest in the surrounding moorland, Storm loping silently beside them. They reined in hard before Corban and Meical.

‘Someone is out there,’ Coralen said, gesturing behind her.

‘Who?’ Meical asked.

‘I don’t know, but Storm did not like the smell of them. There is woodland further along the road to Murias. They were taking care not to be seen.’

‘Did they see you?’ Tukul asked.

‘I don’t think so,’ Coralen said. ‘Storm scented them first, so we dismounted and crept closer.’

‘We took great care,’ Enkara added.

‘How many?’ Corban asked.

‘I saw at least a dozen moving in the trees, but there could be more.’ She shrugged.

‘Can we go around them?’

‘We could, but it would take us leagues out of our way, and they would most likely still see us; there is little shelter on the surrounding moorland.’

‘That would only matter if they are waiting for us,’ Corban said. ‘Brina, would Craf take a closer look for us?’

‘He will if he wants any supper,’ Brina said.

Tukul approached the trees, a small wooded dip in the land. He tightened the hood of his cloak, a bearskin taken from Dun Vaner, masking his face. His sword and axe were
strapped on either side of his saddle, within easy reach. Overhead the sky was grey, clouds low and heavy.

Highsun, already.

Craf had returned with the information that a score of men and at least one giant were hidden in these woods, off the road, no fires.

He rode amongst the first trees; the light dimmed instantly, shadows encroaching all around.
It is nothing compared to Forn.
He stared straight ahead; half a dozen of his sword-kin were
about him, as well as Dath and Farrell.

They rode in silence for a while, only the sound of hooves echoing on the road, the creak and sigh of branches around them. Then Tukul thought he saw movement, just a shifting of shadows. He
resisted the urge to touch his sword hilt.

Undergrowth crackled as the woods burst to life, figures leaping out at them, ten, fifteen, more. In a blur, Tukul had drawn his sword and thrown his axe, heard the satisfying crunch of it
cleaving flesh and bone. He smiled, then froze as he saw his attackers clearly.

They were Jehar.

He stood tall in his saddle, shrugging his cloak away, revealing his coat of mail and dark robes.

‘Hold,’ he bellowed, the power of his voice freezing everyone.

A score of the Jehar stood about him, swords raised in various stages of attack. They stared at him and his companions as if they were ghosts.

They are Sumur’s; there is no other explanation. I do not want to slay these, my sword-kin.

‘Brothers, sisters, you have been deceived,’ he cried out. ‘Put down your swords; there should be no bloodshed between us.’

For a moment indecision hung in the air, everyone still, staring at him. Then another figure burst from the shadows, this one huge and broad, muscled like a bull.

A giant.

He charged straight for Dath and Farrell, a black-bladed axe raised high.

Dath drew and shot an arrow, the shaft skittering off the giant’s coat of mail, then the giant was on them, roaring as it swung its axe.

Dath yanked on his reins; his horse danced away and Farrell kicked his own mount on, barging into the giant, knocking him to one knee. He stood quickly, swinging his axe overhead at Farrell. One
of Tukul’s Jehar spurred in between them, raising his sword to deflect the axe. The weapons met in an explosion of sparks, the axe-blade shearing through the Jehar’s sword, carrying on
to slice into the warrior’s head, carving through into his chest, blood and gore spraying.

The act was like a spark being lit. The other Jehar who had frozen at Tukul’s words sprang to life, leaping forward with a roar. Tukul parried a sword swing and countered, saw his attacker
stagger. Then other figures were bursting from both sides of the trees, Storm leading the charge, leaping upon a Jehar warrior, blood spraying as they tumbled across the ground. Meical appeared,
Corban and Coralen in their wolven cloaks and claws, Gar close by, more of Tukul’s Jehar. The battle was short and furious, the surrounded Jehar fighting with the skill and ferocity he would
expect, but they had no chance, outnumbered and surprised.

The giant burst for freedom, smashing through the chaos of fighting bodies with two of his Jehar guarding his escape, holding off any pursuers for a handful of moments. By the time they were
dead the giant was gone.

Fidele sat at her desk with a quill hovering in her hand. Her other hand held a sheaf of parchment flat. She was sweating.

Just write it. Lykos controls me by some spell. The words my mouth speaks cannot be trusted. Kill Lykos.

That is what she wanted to write, what she was willing with all of her mind and strength for her hand to write, but it refused, as if it were a separate, sentient entity. It hovered over the
parchment, a tremor of will setting droplets of ink splattering across the parchment. With a strangled yell she flung the quill away and collapsed on the desk, breathing hard.

Lykos.
She could feel him, even now. A caress in her mind, a presence, like a watcher in the shadows, a maggot crawling across her skin. It made her feel sick. For a moment she could feel
his hands on her, smell his sour breath, a wave of revulsion spasming through her body.