Valour (67 page)

‘She does.’ Corban grinned.

‘And you,’ Camlin said, pointing to Dath. ‘Keep your bowstrings dry and your head down. I’ll see you after.’

Dath nodded, looking as if he wanted to say something, but just swallowed instead.

‘Any more?’ Coralen asked. ‘Shall we invite Rath’s warband, see who volunteers?’

‘I like her,’ Brina whispered to Corban.

‘No? Good then.’ Coralen kicked her mount on.

Veradis stared out of the shield wall.

‘Are you ready?’ he said to Bos and the other men pressed close about him.

‘Aye,’ Bos said.

‘Then let’s get on with it.’ He lifted a hand and a horn rang out from the rear. His shield wall began to march along the road, the rhythmic thumping of a thousand men’s
boots. Behind them followed Geraint’s warband, or what was left of it, sprawled across the road and down the embankments either side, spilling into the green meadows about them, like the
wings of a great bird.

The sun rose higher and figures materialized ahead, still a long way off, a great horde filling the giants’ road and the meadows flanking it. Thousands, iron glinting in the rising sun,
grim-faced men, confident with yesterday’s victory fresh upon them.

Veradis had watched the battle the day before with growing horror as Geraint’s warband was slowly beaten into submission through the long day of bloodshed. So many lives, so many brave men
slaughtered.

The survivors had limped back along the giants’ road and into the shadow of the hills. The healers’ tents had been full, the cries of dying men filling the night. Veradis had gone in
search of Geraint and found him having a bandage wrapped around his arm. He was covered in blood and looked close to exhaustion. He looked away when he saw Veradis.

‘You fought with honour today,’ Veradis said. ‘But you were outnumbered.’ It was a lie, but Geraint was a prideful man.

‘Numbers had nothing to do with it,’ Geraint muttered.

‘No. You lost today because your enemy had sown seeds of fear in the hearts of your men, and they used that.’

‘Tomorrow’s another day,’ Geraint said.

‘It is, but it will end the same, if not worse, if you plan just to march out again, as you did today.’

‘What else can I do? I cannot retreat – Rhin would have my stones on a platter. And they are in no hurry to attack us – I have to take the battle to them.’

‘Let me lead the van. My shield wall, it will win the day for you.’

‘You have fewer than a thousand men – they have nearly ten thousand.’

‘I know. If you protect my flanks, stop them from getting behind us, then we will cut the heart from Domhain’s warband and give you a victory.’

Veradis was close enough to see the faces of his enemy now. Wariness, suspicion as they watched the shield wall march closer. He raised an arm, a horn blew, and the wall pulled to a halt, with
rows of warriors from the back of his shield wall moving quickly down the embankments to either side of the road, reforming quickly. Now three shieldwalls stood arrayed before the warband of
Domhain, each forty men wide, seven rows deep. Shields came together with a concussive
crack
. Geraint’s men hovered at their rear.

A warrior stepped out of the milling front ranks of Domhain’s warband. He banged his sword on his shield, others copying, the sound rippling through the warband, growing in volume. Then
with a wide-mouthed scream he charged, his comrades following close behind him.

‘Ready now,’ Veradis said to those around him. He drew his short sword, looking out through a gap in the shields. Three hundred paces away. Two hundred paces. One hundred paces now,
warriors screaming, weapons raised. He widened his stance, lowered his shoulder, bracing for the impact. Then it came, a bone-numbing crash into his shield, shivering through his body, a myriad of
successive blows as body after body piled into a claustrophobic crush on the far side of his shield.

The shield wall weathered the impact; the weight upon it grew and Veradis grunted with the strain. The noise was deafening, all along the shield wall, and further off as well, a distant roar as
Geraint’s warband entered the battle. Then the stabbing began. He plunged his sword through the small gap between shields, felt it punching through leather into flesh, felt blood wash over
his hand. He stabbed again and again, the same happening all along the line. Battle-cries turned to screams. Fingers grabbed at the rim of his shield and he chopped at them. Swords and spears slid
beneath his shield, stabbed at his legs. They were turned by the strips of iron on his boots. Hands clutched underneath and he severed them with his short sword, or stamped on them. Blows rained on
his shield, the wood creaking, but he just kept on stabbing. Bodies began to pile along the line.

The weight on Veradis’ shield lessened.
It is coming.
He kept stabbing, sweat stinging his eyes. He heard Bos grunt in pain but could not look. Two hands grabbed the top of his
shield and yanked it down, almost tearing it from his grip. A red-haired warrior stared at him, fumbling with a longsword in the crush of men. Veradis stabbed out, his short sword biting into flesh
just below the man’s jaw line. He staggered backwards, blood jetting from the wound, bubbling crimson from his mouth; the press of warriors behind him kept him upright until the strength went
from his legs and he sagged slowly to the ground. Veradis brought his shield back up.

He yelled over his shoulder, heard the cry ripple back through the rows behind him, then horn blasts rang out. He took a step forwards, the whole front row moving with him, shoving forwards.
Another horn blast, another step. He slipped in a pool of blood, stumbled over a body, but the men behind and beside him kept him upright. Then more death-dealing, his sword snaking out. Another
horn blast, another step, the weight on their shields lessening each time, then they were moving forwards steadily, no pause between steps, just a steady, grinding momentum as they carved their way
through Domhain’s warriors.

Occasionally he would feel a ripple pass through the shield wall as a man was pulled out of formation and killed, his position being taken by the man behind. Veradis’ arm grew numb, his
grip slipping, and he called out another order, the message moving back until horn blasts sounded. A space opened behind him; every other man in the front row stepped back, replaced smoothly by the
man behind. Veradis moved back through the shield wall until he took his position in the last row, still lending his weight to the march, but having a chance to rest his burning lungs and aching
muscles. Soon the horn sounded again and the other half of the original front row filtered back through the ranks, others moving forwards. Veradis saw Bos fall in beside him. His head was bleeding,
his iron cap missing.

‘I’m too tall for this shield wall,’ Bos muttered, wiping blood from his eyes.

‘Maybe you need a bigger shield,’ Veradis said, taking a swig from his skin of water, then passing it to his friend.

The sun was warm, the only way of reckoning the time.
Halfway to highsun.
The roar of battle sounded. Through the shields Veradis caught glimpses of warriors locked in combat, blood on
the grass, faces snarling, cursing, bodies still, twisted unnaturally. Thuds and blows crashed against their flank, but never in a concerted attack.
Geraint is keeping them off us.

Slowly they moved forwards, as the sun rose and then fell, until Veradis found himself back in the front row again. He hefted his shield and gritted his teeth, began stabbing into the constant
press of men beyond the wall of wood and iron.

Is Corban out there, or has he been slain already, one of the anonymous many who have been killed and trampled like so much meat on the butcher’s table?
The thought didn’t
bring him joy. He wanted to see this Corban again, to talk to him, work out for himself if he was really who Calidus claimed he was. How could the Black Sun be a mere boy? It just didn’t make
sense.

And he wanted to see Cywen again. He found that he missed her, missed her voice, her smile, her sharp words.

A thud on his shield dragged him from his thoughts. A crack had appeared, the wood beginning to splinter. He pressed his shoulder tighter to it, stabbed high and low.

Then the weight pressing against him was diminishing. He heard horns blowing wildly, heard shouting, running. He risked a glance through the gaps in the wall and saw that the line had broken and
the warriors of Domhain were in full retreat, here and there Geraint’s men pressing after them, though he no longer had the numbers to finish the retreating men decisively. Already Veradis
saw him pulling his warriors back, not allowing them to become too stretched over the land.

Good decision.

Nearby a low hill reared up, tattered tents and abandoned wains all that was left of the enemy’s camp. In the distance Veradis saw riders on the giants’ road rallying the fleeing
warriors, pulling them into a semblance of order. Veradis watched them for a while, wondering if they would regroup and return to the battle, but they dwindled into the distance.

‘The day is won, then,’ Bos said as he came to stand beside Veradis.

‘It looks that way.’

‘What now.’

‘A good meal. Then on to Dun Taras.’

Maquin stood and stretched. Twelve days of rowing had set his back and shoulders to aching. Not like before, though. The training that he had been put through during his stay
on the island of Panos had had some benefits, at least.

He looked up at the slopes of Nerin. They were anchored in a sheltered bay, with a beach angling up into rocky slopes. On the skyline ruins reflected the glow of the sinking sun.

‘Get a move on,’ Emad barked, cracking his whip.

They all filed off the ship. At the crest of the hill a town appeared, similar to the one on Panos: houses built of baked clay bricks and reed roofs, hordes of children and skinny dogs rushing
to greet them.

‘These Vin Thalun have too much time on their hands,’ Javed said beside him, ‘if they have all this time to be making children.’

Maquin laughed. He had grown to like the little man, who came from Tarbesh, a land far to the east that Maquin had vaguely heard of. A place of sun and desert, mostly like these islands,
although even here winter was making itself known. Maquin tried not to get too friendly, though. He had lost too many who were close to him, and he never forgot what it was that they were being
trained to become. Killers. He was a warrior already, no stranger to death, to combat, but this was different. Then he had fought for a cause, or so it seemed. Now the only cause was life over
death.

No, there is more than that. There is freedom, and then Jael.

But nevertheless, if he were to fight for that cause, the possibility that he would see Jael again and attempt his vengeance, then he had to embrace the fact that he would have to kill in the
pit, and soon.

I’ve taken that ship already. Better just get used to it.
And that was why he kept his distance from Javed, from any attempts at friendship that came his way. He did not know who
would be thrown into the pit with him. Who he would be forced to slay or be slain by.

They were herded through bustling streets, an abundance of smells doing battle as they passed through a great market, a variety of meats cooking on spits – including big lizards – as
well as mountains of figs and dates, mushrooms and onions, olives and melons, oranges and peppers.

People stopped and stared as they passed by, some even daring to prod shoulders and chests, testing muscle.

Wondering who will survive the pits, who to bet on? We are an investment to them, as well as an entertainment.

They left the market and streets behind and walked out onto a wide plain with a slope rising higher in front of them, a great mountain in the distance, its top jagged like a broken tooth. Night
fell and still they walked, eventually seeing torches ahead. Maquin caught a glimpse of a cavernous opening in the ground, then they were being led down, through open gates and into tunnels –
giant-craft again, tall and wide. Eventually they were ushered into a circular room with alcoves dug into the rock all the way round, cots with straw mattresses in them. A long table stood in the
middle of the room with food and jugs laid out, a good meal, though nothing as lavish as on the night of the first pit-fight.