Valour (13 page)

Camlin sucked his teeth and spat.

‘What’s going on?’ Dath whispered.

‘Unless I’m mistaken, that looks like a warband,’ Camlin muttered. ‘What it’s doing here, though . . .’

As they stood there staring, the drum of hooves reached their ears. Horsemen crested a rise in the meadow before them, five or six, spread in a line, heading their way. Sunlight glinted on coats
of mail and spear-tips. Camlin swore.

‘Back into the trees,’ he snapped. ‘And, Dath, best you string your bow.’

Tukul blinked sweat from his eyes, gritted his teeth as he held his pose in the sword dance and focused on keeping the tip of his practice sword perfectly still. His thighs and
shoulders were burning, trembling with the effort.

When did this start getting harder?
he wondered.
Fifty-eight summers is not so old
. He concentrated on keeping his breathing even and smooth. Then, as if responding to some unheard
bell, he relaxed. He rolled his shoulders and looked about at the others with whom he stood in rank – about three score men and women – all sheened with sweat.
We are all older
now
, he grimaced,
though not too old, I hope.
‘Soon,’ he whispered, both a promise and a prayer.

They were gathered in a courtyard built between the roots of a great tree that towered high above them, its branches arcing, blotting out the sun, its trunk wider that any keep he had ever
seen.

Drassil.

The fabled city of Forn Forest, built by giants about and beneath the roots of the Great Tree: lost, hidden for countless generations until he had come here with his band of warriors. Five score
they had numbered. They were fewer now, some taken by sickness, others by Forn’s predators. One they had parted with during their travels. And patiently they had waited.

Tukul swatted sweat from his nose. ‘Or maybe not so patiently,’ he muttered with a scowl.

People were beginning to spar now, the
clack-clack
of their practice blades growing about him. He looked for someone to try himself against, then heard running footsteps.

A figure burst into the courtyard – Enkara, black hair streaked with silver and tied at her nape, her sword hilt arching over one shoulder. She searched the courtyard, eyes fixing on
him.

‘Someone comes,’ she called, a tremor in her voice.

Everyone froze.

Without a word, Tukul left the courtyard, stooping to collect his curved sword. Slinging its harness over his shoulder, he strode purposefully towards the outer wall.

They had been here over fourteen years, and in that time they had made Drassil habitable. More than that, they had made it defendable again, shearing vines from walls, repairing stonework,
mapping the labyrinthine catacombs that burrowed for leagues beneath his feet. He grimaced as he passed a handful of cairns, eyes drawn to where his Daria was buried.

All those who had been in the courtyard followed silently behind him, Enkara half running to keep up with his long strides. He leaped up the steps on the outer wall two at a time, stood above
the gateway and looked out into Forn.

A strip of land a hundred paces deep had been cleared beyond the wall, to keep the encroaching forest at bay. Into this clearing strode a figure, cloaked and hooded, a sword at its hip.

The figure stopped, pushed his hood back and looked up at the walls.

Tukul squinted, then smiled. ‘Open the gates,’ he cried as he made his way through the crowd gathered behind him and ran through the gates. He reached the figure, gripped his wrist
and pulled him into an embrace.

‘It is good to see you, Meical,’ he whispered, looking up at the dark-haired man.

‘And you, old friend.’

Soon they stood inside the walls of Drassil, every last man and woman gathered about them.

‘You have worked hard here,’ Meical said, looking about. ‘Accomplished much.’

‘I should hope so.’ Tukul snorted. ‘We have had long enough.’ He stared at Meical, realizing that the man looked no different from the last time he had seen him –
his hair still jet black, only the faintest of lines around his eyes. He still looked as if he had been through a war, though, and was marked by his battles.
Wounded inside as much as out
.
Silver scars raked one side of Meical’s face.

‘Why are you here?’ Tukul asked.

‘I have grim tidings. Aquilus is dead.’

‘What? No.’
Aquilus was important, had a part to play.
‘What of the child?’ Tukul gasped.

‘He is a child no longer,’ Meical said, his scars creasing as he smiled. ‘He is well. Very well, the last I saw him.’

‘You have
seen
him? How long ago?’

‘Almost a year, now. I left him and came in search of you. This place is not the easiest to find.’

‘Hah,’ Tukul barked a laugh. ‘That I know. And . . . my son? You have seen my son?’

‘Yes. He has grown into a fine man. He has served you well, brought you honour.’

Tukul grinned and blinked away tears.

‘There is more that I have come to tell,’ Meical said. He drew in a deep breath, blew it out slowly. ‘Things are changing, moving quicker, in different ways from how I ever
imagined. There is war to the south, rumours of war in the west. Asroth is moving. I think there should be a change of plan.’

Tukul felt a fist clench in his gut, a sharp bolt of excitement after so many years of waiting, preparing.

‘Tell me, how many men would be enough to keep the spear safe?’

Tukul smiled.

‘Ten.’

Meical nodded to himself, as if coming to a silent decision. ‘Leave ten men here, then, but the rest of you – you should not stay. Instead of waiting for the Seren Disglair to come
to you, you should go to him. He is in danger. He needs you.’

‘Go to him,’ Tukul repeated, feeling his blood surge in his veins. A grin spread across his face. ‘Hah, did you hear?’ he cried, turning a full circle to take in all
those about him.

‘What think you, old friend?’ Meical said. ‘Do you agree?’

‘
Agree?
Yes, we agree,’ he shouted, as all around him his people drew their swords and brandished their curved blades at the sky with ululations. ‘Make ready,’ he
cried, ‘for on the morrow we march to the Seren Disglair.’

Cywen took aim, the tip of her knife blade tickling her back, then threw. With a satisfying thud the knife sank into her target, a battered post in the garden. Without taking
her eyes from it, she drew another blade from the belt at her waist, aimed and threw. Then she did it again. And again.

When her belt was empty she strode to the post and started pulling the knives free, sliding them back into the pockets in her belt. Twenty in total. After the night Dun Carreg had fallen
she’d vowed to never run out of knives again. These she had found in a barrel by the kitchen door, rusted and notched, part of her da’s to-do pile. All the best knives, usually kept in
a drawer in her mam’s room, were gone. Taken by her mam, she supposed.

Her mam. She still could not even think of her mam without feeling her guts twist. She was not dead, of that she was certain, she’d searched the fortress from one end to another, made
herself look at the face of every corpse piled within the walls. Her mam, Corban, Gar – they were not there. Rumours swept the fortress about Edana: she was in hiding, had fled west, south,
north. One thing was certain. She had not died in the battle, and people had whispered of Corban being seen with her during the conflict.

They are alive, and together, I am sure of it.
She leaned her head against the knife post, felt splinters of wood scratch her nose. Buddai whined, curled in the shade beneath an apple
tree. She felt a tear run down her cheek, tasted salt as it reached her lips.

Four nights had passed since she had woken in the courtyard before Stonegate, each one a blur of tears and loneliness, of restless, dream-filled misery. The first night she had tried sleeping in
her bed, but had woken up cuddling tight to Buddai in front of the kitchen fire. After that she had just settled there with the hound every night. Somehow it helped, just a little.
Why did they
leave me? They had no choice
, she thought instantly,
probably thought me dead.
But it still hurt, the sense of abandonment lurking beneath all else, always there. Then into her pain had
come a ray of hope. Yesterday she had finished scouring every hand-span of the fortress, her path taking her past the well shaft. In a rush she had remembered the tunnels – what if her kin
were hiding in them, waiting for her. The thought had caused a stab of longing so intense that she physically stumbled. It could be true – there was no explanation of how so many had escaped,
and Corban knew of the tunnels. Perhaps they were down there now, waiting. Just the thought had almost set her feet running, but there were red-cloaks everywhere, most with the same goal in mind as
hers – finding the escapees. She had to wait for a better time to go searching for them.

Buddai growled.

She turned, saw a form standing in the doorway to her house, a deeper shadow in the gloom of the kitchen.

‘Don’t stop on my account,’ a voice said, the figure stepping out into the sunshine. Conall.

She snarled, instinctively reaching for a knife.

‘There’s no need for that, now,’ Conall said, holding a hand up. ‘The battle’s long finished.’ He smiled. ‘Besides, it did you no good last time you
tried to stick me with one of your pins – won’t be any different this time.’ He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword, lightly, but Cywen had no doubt that he could have it drawn
in the blink of an eye. She’d seen how fast he was.

‘How’d you get in here?’ she asked.

‘Your door was open.’

‘No, it wasn’t.’

‘I mean it wasn’t locked – same thing.’ He shrugged. ‘So, are you going to try some more target practice on me?’

‘You tried to
kill
me.’

‘True. In my defence, you also tried to kill me. I’m prepared to let that go.’ He brushed his cheek, where a huge bruise was fading green. ‘Me, I’m quick to
forgive.’

‘Quick to anger is what I’ve heard,’ Cywen muttered.

‘Aye, that as well.’ He grinned.

I’ve heard people say the same about me
, she thought.

‘What do you want?’ she said.

‘Someone wants to speak to you.’

‘Who?’

‘Someone important. Come and see.’

She thought about it. ‘No.’ She wiggled another knife free from the post and slid it into her belt.

Conall sighed. ‘See, this reminds me of something my mam used to say to me every time she wanted me to take a bath. Goes something like this: we can do this one of two ways – the
easy way or the hard way – either way it’s still going to happen. Your choice.’ He took a few steps into the garden. Buddai growled and padded closer to Cywen.

Conall scowled at the hound, his grip closing around his sword hilt. ‘I’m starting to get bored with this, lass. And if that dog tries to put his teeth in me it’ll be the last
thing he does. Come along now.’

‘Who wants to see me? Evnis?’

‘He’ll be there, but it’s not him as asked for you. That would be Nathair. A king, no less. You should be honoured. Now come on – I’ll not be asking
again.’

Nathair. What does he want?
Against her better judgement Cywen was curious. ‘All right,’ she muttered. ‘I can always kill you another time.’

‘Very kind of you,’ said Conall.

‘It’s only because I’m too tired to bury your corpse,’ she said as she strode up to him.

He took a step back and placed a hand protectively over his groin. ‘Not too close,’ he said. ‘I saw what you did to Helfach’s boy in the hall the other day. Me, I’m
very fond of my stones.’

She hid a grin of her own as she walked through the kitchen and out of her front door, Buddai at her heels.

The cobbled streets were mostly in shadow as she walked through the fortress, the sun setting low, a pink glow reflecting off high clouds. As she passed the stables she scanned the paddocks,
quickly finding Shield, Corban’s skewbald stallion; he whinnied at her. Over the last few days she had frequently found herself back at the stables, had immersed herself in her old chores,
for a small time burying the pain of the present in unthinking habit. No one had stopped her or complained, despite the red-cloaks that now ran the stables. Workers were in high demand. And while
she was there she overheard conversations, news of the outside world. She picked apart every word that she heard, desperate for some clue to her family’s whereabouts.