John Gwynne - Valour

They were still on clear ground when voices rose behind them; Maquin heard the sound of thudding feet. His heart drummed in his head, louder than anything else. Any moment he expected to feel a spear in his back.

His lungs were burning. The feet sounded closer behind him, almost on top of him, then there was a hiss, a thud, brief motion at the edge of his vision. He risked a glance back, saw a form lying on the ground, a spear shaft sticking from it.

Then they were through the treeline, darkness enveloping them.

‘This way,’ a voice hissed, and Tahir was there ahead of them, beckoning through the trees. chapter seven

LYKOS

Lykos’ eyes snapped open, his breath ragged. For a moment he did not know where he was; his hands clutched at the arms of the chair he was sleeping in. He blinked, trying to scatter the lingering shadow of a dream — yellow eyes, staring through him — and looked about. The creak and swell of his ship’s cabin brought him back. He poured himself a cup of wine with shaky hands, spilling some, and drank deep.

He walked unsteadily to the cabin window. A shaft of sunlight cut through the gloom. The black walls of Jerolin filled his view, rising over the lake where his ship was anchored. Fidele had offered him rooms inside those black walls but, being lord of the Vin Thalun, he would rather sleep on a ship’s deck, more home to him than any town or building. Besides, he didn’t trust these people, knew that his privileged position in Tenebral was purely because Nathair made it so.

He drank more wine, slung his scabbarded sword and belt over his shoulder, opened the door and strode through, with his shieldman Deinon silently falling in behind him. Together they climbed onto the deck, the bright sunshine making Lykos squint. He nodded to some of his crew, most of them men who had served with him for many years, fought for him, and his father before him.

‘Is my boat ready?’ he asked.

‘Aye, chief,’ Deinon said, his voice raspy, distinct. Losing half of your nose in the pits did that.

‘Good,’ Lykos said and strode to the gunwale. He swung over and climbed agilely down a rope ladder, dropping into a rowing-boat large enough for a dozen men. Thaan, Deinon’s brother, was waiting for him.

His two shieldmen manned the oars and started pulling steadily for the shore. They skirted the trading and fishing port on the lake shore, instead heading straight for Jerolin. The boat grounded on a strip of silt and reeds, Lykos jumped into the shallows and splashed the rest of the way to dry land. He stopped there and paused to admire the ships lined along the shore. Twelve shallow-draughted war-galleys, all sleek lines and stinking of tar. They had been the first finished, at the end of the Crow’s Moon last year, just before winter had set in. All winter they had sat in their thick-painted coats of moss and tar, and now they were ready for open water. New building had begun with spring, and already five skeletons stood further along the shoreline, the first oak strakes lining ribs of spruce.

Nathair wanted a Vin Thalun fleet and that was what he was going to get.

He raised a hand in greeting to old Alazon, his master shipwright, sitting on a half-built keel with a mallet in his fist and nails in his mouth. Reluctantly, Lykos began striding towards the fortress, resisting the urge to go and inspect the shipyard, speak with his men. There were things that needed doing, and meeting with Fidele was high on that list. He had begun this walk sixteen years ago, the night he had first met with Calidus and sealed his future, so he would not falter now.

The three men reached the road that led to Jerolin’s gates. The meadow about them was wider than it used to be; trees from the nearby forest had been harvested for the shipbuilding. Men were gathered on the plain, hundreds of them, warriors training in Nathair’s shield wall. It looked a fearsome thing, on land, but Lykos sneered as he passed. Little use on a ship’s deck , he thought, knowing even as he did so that he was being illogical. The Banished Lands will not be conquered on the ocean . Beyond Tenebral’s warriors was a cluster of tents, before which at least two thousand of the Jehar were at their training, this sword dance that Lykos had watched with a sense of dread. Here were warriors that would take some beating. Good thing that they fought on the same side. For now .

He looked back at the war-galleys on the lake shore, at the warriors in the meadow, men of Tenebral and the Jehar of Telassar. This was a land mustering for war, and he was at the heart of it, had been preparing for it for nearly two decades.

He swept through the fortress’ gates uncontested and passed quickly through the streets of Jerolin, people moving out of his way. A man stood at the stableblock, arms folded across his chest, scowling at them. A man with a grudge, if ever I saw one , Lykos thought, making a mental note of the man’s features. Wouldn’t do for the hard work of a lifetime to be done away with by a knife in the ribs.

The doors to the keep were open and he strode in, continuing through the feast-hall, and climbed the spiral tower that led to the royal chambers. Here half a dozen eagle-guard stood in their black-polished breastplates and silver helms — Tenebral’s elite. The royal guard had been increased since Aquilus’ assassination.

Fidele was seated behind a wide desk, dark hair framing her pale, beautiful face. Lykos did not allow himself the luxury of staring at her loveliness, close to perfection in his opinion, even if there were creases around her eyes and her lips, a streak of silver in her otherwise jet hair. Never allow another to know they have any kind of hold over you , his father had told him. Wise words.

Fidele was not alone. Another of the eagle-guard stood behind her. Orcus was wiry and as knotted as an old tree, dark eyes set in a face with a nose that had been broken more than once. Fidele gestured and he poured three cups of dark red wine, offering one to Lykos.

‘My thanks,’ the Vin Thalun murmured as he sipped the wine, resisting the urge to gulp it.

‘I have had no word from my son in some time. Have you heard from him?’ Fidele asked with measured calm, but Lykos could sense something else beneath the surface, something brittle.

‘Not since he reached Dun Carreg,’ Lykos said. Though I would hear long before you, with your outdated methods , he thought. Lykos tried to repress a shudder as his thoughts flickered towards his dreams, the alien presence in his mind, in his soul. ‘Calidus has an intricate network of messengers.’

‘I am sure,’ Fidele said, failing to hide a sour twist of her lips. ‘My husband and I had dealings with Calidus a long time ago. He proved. . wanting . And, besides, Calidus is somewhere in Forn Forest, fighting giants, while Nathair is in Ardan.’

‘Calidus is very well connected with both his information and his informers, my lady. I am sure that he is in close contact with Nathair, no matter where he is. If I receive any kind of word regarding your son I shall of course forward it on to you. Immediately.’

‘My thanks. And how goes the task my son has set you?’

‘The shipbuilding proceeds well. Twelve galleys are ready on your lake shore. The other shipyard on the coast does better still. Fifteen war-galleys, and seven deeper-draughted ships for transport. Progress could be even better, though, if the supply of wood was less sporadic.’

‘Surely there is enough wood here for your purposes.’

‘Oak and elm is in plenty here, and on the coast, you are right. But I need a supply of spruce and cedar as well. That is less readily found.’ He paused and sipped some more wine. ‘May I speak plainly?’