John Gwynne - Valour

MAQUIN

Maquin sat in a chamber, staring at his hands. He had been waiting all day; they all had, the last of his comrades, Herak’s elite, their final contest upon them. In the distance he heard the roar of the crowd, knew that blood was being spilt in the arena.

Whose blood, though?

He hoped that Javed survived, for what it was worth. He had avoided making friends amongst these pit-fighters, knew when he made his decision in the pit on Nerin to live and fight that there was no room for friendship in his life any longer. There was only Jael. That was the focus, the goal, the justification for all that he had done. For all that he would do.

But Javed was hard not to like, with his easy smile and open nature. Perhaps he would survive, earn Lykos’ chest of gold and his freedom. He hoped so.

He continued to stare at his hands.

A killer’s hands. A murderer’s hands. I have become all that I hated, and if that takes me to Jael and his death, then I shall be content.

He raised a hand to scratch an itch in his ear, only to touch a stub of flesh, all that remained of his ear since Deinon cut a slice out of it. Strange how something that isn’t there can itch.

A key rattled in the door of his chamber — rooms that lined the courtyard of Jerolin. The guard Emad walked in, two other Vin Thalun with him.

‘You’re up, old wolf,’ Emad said.

Maquin stood and walked to the door, stepping out into the sunlight.

Petals littered the courtyard as he walked through it and out of the gates, drifting about his feet. Crowds had been celebrating earlier, lining the streets as Lykos and Fidele had passed through on their way to the arena. Tonight they would be handbound, the culmination of a day of celebrations.

How has Lykos managed that? He did not know Fidele, had only seen her on a few occasions, most of them back in the life-before, as he thought of it, when he had been here for Aquilus’ council. But even then she had not seemed even remotely suited to the likes of Lykos.

The sound of the crowds grew louder as he approached the arena. Vin Thalun were everywhere, spread about the meadow, ringing the outside of the arena, lining all the entrances.

He ignored them as he was led into a tunnel, more guards closing about him, shouldering a way through the crowds.

Then he was there, stepping out into the ring, the ground a churned quagmire of mud. Off to his left a patch of blood and gore marked the end-place of the last contest.

He was the first to arrive, no one else in here yet. He moved forwards and saw a sack in the middle of the ring. Two knives were in it, curved and thick bladed, tapering to wicked points. He took them out, twirled them in his hands, did a slow turn of the arena.

All around the crowd were shouting, cheering. He had built a reputation now. Close to the ringside in a boxed tier sat Lykos and Fidele. Lykos looked relaxed, enjoying himself, a cup of something in one hand. The other was inside his cloak, and something about his posture told Maquin he was gripping something, as he had before.

What is it?

Fidele was sitting beside him, a fixed expression on her face, part smile, part grimace. She looked as if her countenance had been frozen in place.

A sound drew his attention, snapping his head around. The gateway to the far tunnel had opened. His eyes focused on the dark entrance: a handful of figures stepping out into the daylight; Vin Thalun guards and the man he would fight.

His eyes narrowed as he saw his final opponent. It was Orgull.

CORBAN

Corban found Coralen alone amidst the trees, strapping on her wolven claws with sharp, jerking movements. Tears stained her cheeks.

She heard his footsteps and looked up.

‘What do you want?’

‘I am sorry,’ he said.

‘You? You’ve nothing to be sorry for,’ Coralen said. ‘What have you done?’

‘I mean, I wish I could help, and I’m sorry that I can’t. I’m sorry that I can’t make you feel better, that I can’t take your pain away.’

‘No one can,’ she snapped. ‘Don’t concern yourself.’

‘But he was your da.’

‘Yes, he was my da,’ she murmured, sorrow coating each word. ‘Not that he ever acted like it.’ Her eyes were unfocused now, seeing something other than Corban and the trees about them. With a shiver she came back. ‘You should go now.’

‘Come with me. You’re amongst friends now.’

‘I’ll be along after.’ She wiped the tears from her cheeks. Corban understood her meaning — she did not want anyone to see the evidence of her grief. She held her emotions hidden deep and secure, a wall of her own making. He turned to go.

‘Corban,’ she said, the word stopping him dead. He stood, waiting.

‘You asked me before, why I have come on this journey.’

‘I did.’

He turned to face her then, and for a long, timeless moment they just looked at one another. She smiled, a vulnerable, tenuous twist of her lips. ‘The reason-

Then horns blew in the distance, harsh and long. They kept ringing.

‘That sounds serious.’ Coralen strode past him, back to the others, no sign of the previous moment’s fragility left about her.

All were mounted when they returned, waiting for him. The horn blasts were still ringing, whether from Nathair’s host or from the walls of Murias he could not tell. It did not matter — the purpose was clear. Battle was about to begin. He climbed into his saddle and looked to his mam.

‘Cywen,’ he said, and they set off.

They rode across the heather-clad moor, the sun melting into the horizon. Fech flew above, quickly outpacing them, blending with the darkness that was Murias. No one spoke, all eyes on the dark slopes ahead. Then Corban saw something, a movement in the heather. Something coming towards them, fast.

It was a hound, running hard.

Have we been spotted by Nathair’s scouts?

Before he could say anything, Storm was outpacing him, moving from her ground-eating lope into a run. Corban scanned the shadows for scouts. He had no doubt that Storm would deal with the hound.

Then wolven and hound were clashing together, bodies intertwining, rolling, Storm’s bone-white fur contrasting with the hound’s darkness. They separated, came together again. Corban squinted.

Something’s wrong.

There was no snarling or growling, no teeth baring, no blood. Then Storm was rolling on her back, the hound bouncing around her in great excited leaps.

Then he realized.

‘It’s Buddai .’

Together he and his mam slid from their saddles and ran to the wolven and hound. Buddai was jumping around Storm like a pup, licking her face, nipping at her ears as Storm rolled on her back, paws swatting at the hound. Buddai saw Corban and Gwenith, paused long enough to take a great sniff, then he was leaping on them, bowling them over, snuffling and licking at their faces.

Corban looked up and saw seventy faces staring back at him, the Jehar all wearing the same mildly confused expressions. All except Gar, who was grinning at them.

‘Wolven, crows, ravens, hounds,’ Tukul said. ‘What will it be next?’

‘Cywen is there, Ban,’ his mam said. ‘There’s no doubting it now.’

‘I know. Let’s go and get her.’

With that they mounted back up and headed for Murias. A noise rose up before them, drifting from the mountain stronghold, sounding like a great wind. It was followed by distant screams.

UTHAS

Uthas stood beside Nemain, looking out from a balcony on the host approaching Murias. Ravens soared on updraughts above them, looking like black leaves in a whirlwind. Behind him Sreng and Salach stood, shield-warriors, both dressed for war. Uthas could see Nathair now, riding his draig at the head of the column, Calidus and Alcyon close to him.