Valour (45 page)

Braith frowned at her. ‘I have met this boy before, at Dun Carreg when I rescued Camlin, and he fought in the Darkwood, when I had Alona. That wolven is no pet, I saw it tear my men to
pieces,’ Braith said.

‘I want him, this Corban. Alive and in chains before me. There are other parties that are very interested in him, which means that I am interested, too. Take as many as you need, whatever
supplies, all the gold necessary, but it must be done now, quickly and quietly. You must leave now.’

Braith bowed and kissed Rhin’s hand, then turned to leave.

‘Braith,’ Rhin called as he reached the exit.

‘Remember, I want the boy alive, but you can kill the rest of them, including Edana. Actually, especially Edana.’

‘What about the wolven? Do you want that alive as well?’

‘Of course not. Kill it.’

Maquin sat with his back to the wall of Dun Kellen’s stone bridge. His hands and ankles were shackled. The place where his ear had been was throbbing; a blood-stained
bandage wrapped around his head stemmed the bleeding.

He was part of a group of defeated men, at least a hundred of them, the number being added to all the time. A dozen warriors – all men from the ships – stood guarding them. Further
away, towards Dun Kellen, Jael’s warband was busy, organizing the clearing of the town, bringing order back where chaos had ruled. The newcomers who had arrived on the black-sailed ships were
busy around the river, restocking supplies, it looked like.

Heads on spikes lined the bridge; Maquin was sitting beside one. He looked up and saw a crow perched on the head, tugging a strip of flesh from it. Further along he saw Gerda’s head, one
eye already taken by these looters of the dead.

Orgull’s head was not on a spike. Not yet. The big man had laid down his axe to save him. In a way Maquin wished Orgull had kept fighting, that they had both died in that tunnel
underground. But he hadn’t. As soon as Orgull’s axe had touched the ground they had both been bound and taken from the fortress. He had no idea where Orgull was.

He had failed.

Jael was alive – not only that, he had won. And Maquin had been so close. He put his head in his hands.

The only hope to cling to was that Tahir had escaped with Gerda’s son, or at least had not been captured yet. If they had been caught, surely their heads would be on spikes alongside
Gerda’s. There was a glimmer of hope for Isiltir while Romar’s son still lived and that would surely tarnish Jael’s victory. That was something.

A noise caused him to lift his head. A group of riders had emerged from the town and gathered at the end of the bridge, laughing. One of them dismounted.

Jael.

He felt a shadow fall over him, refused to look up until his boot was kicked. ‘Someone’s angry,’ Jael said, smiling. ‘Ulfilas, protect me from the poison in this
man’s gaze.’

Maquin lowered his eyes. Jael kicked his boot again and suddenly Maquin was lunging forwards. Even with the chains it was so fast and so unexpected that he had his fingers around Jael’s
throat before anyone could react. As Jael’s eyes bulged, Ulfilas clubbed Maquin across the head with the hilt of his sword and Maquin’s legs turned to gruel. He slumped to his
knees.

Jael kneed Maquin in the face. He fell backwards, the sound of his nose breaking was like a branch splitting. Blood sluiced from his nose and his head cracked against the stone wall of the
bridge.

Maybe now I’ll die
, he thought as he lay sprawled, staring up at Jael.

‘Help him up,’ Jael said, brushing himself down. Ulfilas grabbed Maquin under the arm and hoisted him back to his knees.

‘You’ve come a long way from Haldis,’ Jael said. ‘And survived Forn Forest. I am guessing that you are the reason that Gerda and Varick were not surprised to see me. And
yet you lost. You must feel terrible.’

Maquin just looked at him, the words filtering through layers of dizziness and pain.

‘And, of course, I haven’t mentioned your greatest loss. Kastell.’

Maquin felt the world pull into focus, juddering; Jael’s face, his mouth, his lips moving, filling the entirety of his vision.

‘He died badly, you know, if you didn’t see. A gut wound. He screamed, a lot. Not very brave in the end, for all his words, his giant-killing – one of the Gadrai
indeed.’ Jael spat on the ground, as if the words gave a bad taste.

‘So you are quite the failure. You failed Kastell. You have failed Gerda. Are you the worst shieldman in all of the Banished Lands? Ulfilas, remind me never to enlist this man in my
service. The day when I do that I will surely lose whatever battle I am fighting.’ Laughter drifted about him, from dark places that Maquin could not see.

‘I call . . .’ Maquin coughed on his words, hawked and spat. ‘I call you out,’ he said, little more than a whisper. ‘I challenge you, to the Court of
Swords.’

Jael threw his head back and laughed. A deep, genuine sound. He wiped his eyes. ‘I think it is a little late for that. In case you are not clear: you have already lost.’ There was
more laughter at that.

‘I challenge you to the Court of Swords,’ Maquin said again, louder. ‘I do not expect you to accept. You are afraid. A coward, dung that I would scrape from my boot.’

‘Be careful,’ Jael said, his expression hardening, ‘before your jest loses its humour.’

‘A coward – as you have always been,’ Maquin continued, aware now that others were listening, people moving closer to hear. ‘I have watched you grow, seen you pick always
on the weaker man. You are a coward, a traitor, you have betrayed your own kin. Kastell you stabbed in the back, too scared to face him. I saw.’

‘I did not,’ Jael roared, angry, looking about at the gathering crowd.

‘And your victories – given to you like crumbs from your better’s table. These men –’ he looked to those on the bridge that had come from the ships –
‘Nathair’s men? Of course they are. There are few warriors in Isiltir who would follow you.’

Jael backhanded him across the face. He swayed but managed to remain upright.

‘Put a sword in my hand. Face me, as a man. Look at me – beaten bloody – yet you are still too scared to face me.’

‘Unchain him and give him a blade,’ Jael snarled at Ulfilas as he stepped back and drew his sword.

Ulfilas moved hesitantly forwards and helped Maquin stand.

‘Why do you follow him?’ Maquin whispered. Ulfilas looked sharply at him, then looked away. He fumbled at the chains about Maquin’s wrists.

‘I have no key.’

‘Just put a sword in my hand,’ Maquin said. ‘I’ll still win.’ He knew that he would not, had seen Jael spar many times in the weapons court at Mikil. But at least
he would die that much closer to his dream, not chained to an oar, a thousand leagues from home.

‘Do as he says,’ Jael yelled, spittle flying.

Maquin smiled. He had witnessed Jael goading Kastell many times over the years, Jael always with that maddening smile on his lips. It was not there now. It was nice that at the end he at least
had this small victory.

A crowd had pulled in about them now. Even some amongst the chained warriors along the wall were standing, trying to see the confrontation. Some called out encouragements to Maquin, or jeered at
Jael.

There was a pushing and shoving further back in the crowd, men moving to let someone through. It was the leader of the ship men: Lykos, Maquin had heard him called. Behind him strode a lean
warrior, his face disfigured, part of his nose missing. He led a man by a chain. Orgull.

His friend was bleeding from a hundred cuts, all small wounds, his face bruised and swollen. He shuffled behind his captor, head bowed.

‘What’s happening here?’ Lykos asked Jael.

‘I am going to teach him some truths,’ Jael said, his rage adding a tremor to his voice.

‘What truths?’

‘That I am no coward, and that I am the better swordsman.’

‘He is in chains,’ Lykos said. ‘And close to collapse; look at him. You will prove nothing fighting him now. And besides, he is not yours to kill. He is my captive,
remember?’

‘He has insulted me; I will not ignore that.’

Lykos frowned and stepped close to Maquin, studying him. ‘You have the death wish upon you. You want to die – I can see it in your eyes.’

Maquin just stared back at him.

Lykos grinned. ‘He is baiting you, Jael. He wishes to die and is using you.’

‘Then I will grant him his wish,’ Jael said, stepping forwards.

‘No, you will not,’ Lykos said, a harshness in his voice. ‘He is mine, and I do not want you to kill him.’

‘I am king here,’ Jael said.

‘Not yet,’ Lykos replied. He stepped in close to Jael and whispered in his ear. Maquin strained to hear, but could catch nothing of it. But he did see Jael’s expression change
– from anger to fear. Jael stepped away.

‘Have him; he is yours, a gift from me,’ Jael said.

‘Run away, coward,’ Maquin said, seeing his opportunity slipping away.

Jael smiled at him, that familiar, maddening smile. ‘But, Lykos, some advice. Kill him soon. Otherwise he is likely to bring you bad luck, as he has his previous masters.’

‘I am more than his master,’ Lykos said. ‘I am his owner. He drew a knife from his belt and stepped close to Maquin. He grabbed a handful of Maquin’s hair and cut it with
his knife, then opened his palm for Maquin to see.

His warrior braid.

‘You are mine, my property, a warrior no longer.’

The warrior who was leading Orgull turned and did the same, cutting Orgull’s warrior braid from his beard. All along the line of captives the same thing happened.

‘Now let’s get these useless piles of dung onto the ships,’ Lykos yelled, pushing Maquin. ‘You’ve got a long way to row.’

Laughter ran through the ship men.

As Maquin walked away he looked back over his shoulder.

‘I’ll see you again,’ he shouted at Jael.

‘I doubt that,’ Jael said. His laughter followed Maquin as he shuffled towards the black ships.

Corban stared at Halion and his sister Coralen. She stared back.

Before anyone had a chance to speak, a warrior rode up. He was old, his hair a mix of grey and white flowing from beneath an iron cap. Corban remembered him, from the gathering at Badun on
Midwinter’s Day. Brenin had invited the rulers of the west – Owain, Rhin and Eremon – to a council and to witness the day turn to night, as had been prophesied. This man had been
the representative of King Eremon at that meeting. Rath. He slid from his saddle and gripped Halion by the shoulders. ‘It’s good to see you, little bastard.’

‘And you, old man.’

Another warrior rode up, younger, a jagged scar running through the empty socket of one eye.

‘Some still live,’ the man said. ‘They have fled into the mountains.’

‘We must talk, but later,’ Rath said to Halion. ‘Let’s see if we can run the swine down before they reach Cambren.’ Rath yelled orders as he rode after the
giants’ trail, some men following him, others staying, moving amongst the dead. The red-haired girl, Coralen, picked up her fallen helmet and, tucking her hair back into it, mounted her horse
and rode after Rath.

Corban looked about the glade, bodies twisted in death littering the ground – men, giants, wolven. Brina crouched beside Heb, holding his hand. Corban hurried to her and knelt beside her.
She looked at him with bloodshot eyes. Corban wanted to say something, to comfort her, but knew that no words could take away the pain in her eyes. He put a hand over hers.

Corban remembered Heb standing before the giant, defying it. ‘I heard him say something to the giant – in giantish. What did he say – at the end?’

‘He said,
I will not run
.’

‘He was a brave man. Good and kind,’ Corban said.

‘He was an old fool, and now he’s dead and has left me,’ Brina whispered. She bowed her head and wept. Craf fluttered down out of the branches and landed close to them. He
stared at Brina and Heb, head cocked, then shuffled over to Brina and leaned his beak against her.

Gwenith was sitting up now, Gar feeding her sips of water. Corban rushed over and embraced her.