John Gwynne - Valour

The road to Murias was wide, gently twisting through a landscape of granite boulders and rocky scree. The balcony that Uthas and Nemain were standing upon looked out from a curve in the cliff face, giving them a view of the approach to Murias as well as the stronghold’s gates themselves. They reared the height of ten giants, wider than twenty, and were fashioned from the rock of the mountain, like everything else in Murias, the last great feat of the stone-masters. And they were barred, of course.

Nathair’s approach had not come as a surprise. Ethlinn the Dreamer had woken a day ago, sweating and disoriented, and declared the coming of the Black Sun and his Black Heart. So they were ready, or as ready as they could be. The cauldron was surrounded by its protectors, the brood of wyrms restless and hungry — Morc had not fed them since Ethlinn’s words, and the entire strength of the Benothi stood armed, most of them the other side of the barred gates. Five hundred Benothi warriors gathered together had been a sight to see. It reminded him of better times, of the host that had faced Eremon’s ancestors on the plains around Dun Taras. There had been more of the Benothi then, but the outcome had still been dire. Sometimes it seemed that since the Sundering life had been one long spiral into despair.

He sighed, feeling the old melancholy sweep through him, a sense of fatalism, of destiny coiling tight about him, like the death grip of a wyrm.

A raised voice pulled Uthas from his reverie. It was Nathair. He had reached the gates of Murias.

‘I am Nathair ben Aquilus, the Bright Star foretold, and I have come for the cauldron,’ Nathair declared, his voice echoing about the cliffs. ‘There is no need for blood to be spilt. Just open the gates, accept the inevitable. Join with me in the coming war; let us stand united against Asroth and his Black Sun.’

The echoes of his voice faded. Nemain stared down at him.

‘Am I hearing correctly?’ she said. ‘Did he just call himself the Bright Star, avatar of Elyon?’

‘He did,’ Uthas confirmed.

‘Is he mad, or deluded?’ she said.

Uthas shrugged. ‘Perhaps both.’

‘Open your gates to me,’ Nathair yelled, his voice strong with the conviction of his cause.

Nemain closed her eyes, breath whispering across her lips. Then her eyes snapped open.

‘There he is,’ she pointed. ‘Black Heart.’

One of the figures close to Nathair was suddenly defined, a dark nimbus around him, as if he were standing before a doorway leading into darkness. The shadows of wings flared around him.

Calidus.

‘I see you, Black Heart,’ Nemain called down, her voice raw with the anger of ages. ‘You will not gain the cauldron so easily. We are not bairns to be tricked.’

Calidus stared back, saying nothing.

‘I do not understand you,’ Nathair shouted. ‘I am no black heart. I stand against Asroth and his darkness.’

‘You will not pass through the gates of Murias by honeyed words and lies,’ Nemain called out. ‘You ride with the Black Heart at your side — that is all I need to know.’

Nathair looked about him, frowning as he stared at Calidus.

‘She lies to you, Nathair,’ Calidus proclaimed, his voice ringing against the walls. ‘She serves Asroth, and would hold the cauldron for him.’

‘He does not know,’ Nemain whispered. She shook her head, pity sweeping the contours of her face. Then she raised her arms and began to speak.

The ravens were abruptly thick in the air, more joining them, swirling in a tight vortex, hundreds, thousands of them, more appearing all the time, bursting from cliff nests, flocking from the skies. She swept her arms forward, pointing at Nathair and Calidus, and the ravens flew at them, a gigantic spear of beak and feather and claw.

Calidus lifted one hand and the air shimmered. The ravens hit it, the first of them exploding into chunks, those behind spreading out about something almost invisible, a shield of air curving around Calidus and Nathair, protecting them and the warriors immediately behind. The birds swept about it, ploughing into the warriors behind. Screams rose up as these men were engulfed by the dark flock of ravens, horses rearing, warriors drawing swords and slashing the air.

They cannot reach Calidus or Nathair, but even so these birds will turn the battle. The Jehar cannot fall. Their numbers are needed if the cauldron is to be taken.

Uthas looked from Nemain to the birds, still more of them gathering and flying at the host before the gates. The air was thick with them, swirling all about the Jehar, blood and feathers exploding in a hundred different places as the Jehar tried to cut the ravens from the sky. Uthas saw horses and warriors collapsed on the roadside, torn bloody by the remorseless tide of beak and talon.

Now. I must do something, now.

He looked to Nemain, all her will focused on the scene before her. Beads of sweat stood on her brow, dripped down her face.

His hand drifted to his knife hilt, but still he hesitated. Nemain had been queen for close to three thousand years; how could he strike her down?

She stands in my way. In the way of my kin. She will see us all in our graves. Kill her.

He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling as if his whole life, two thousand years, had come down to this one moment.

I cannot kill her. I will talk to her, convince her.

‘Nemain. .’

She didn’t hear him, her focus entirely upon the host at her gates. He said her name again, louder, and her gaze flickered towards him.

Then there was a fluttering sound from above. A raven drifted down, wings stretched to slow its descent. It landed on her shoulder and put its beak to her ear.

Is that Fech? It can’t be. .

Nemain’s eyes snapped onto him, her mouth opening.

‘Sreng,’ she called.

Uthas stepped forwards, drawing his knife.

‘ Greim ,’ Nemain said, and Uthas felt the air grow thick about him, congealing like spilt blood. Around his limbs, his chest and hips, his face, slowing him, binding him. He tried to push through it, to force his knife into her flesh, but he moved as if through sand. Behind him he heard the clash of weapons, dim and muted — Sreng and Salach. He came to a halt, his fist quivering as he tried to move it, the invisible pressure constricting about him, a fist around his throat.

‘ Fuasgail ,’ he whispered with the last breath in his lungs. There was a moment when his life hung in the balance, a pressure growing in his head, a burning in his lungs, then the grip about him evaporated. He staggered forwards and lunged at Nemain, the clash of weapons behind him suddenly loud, deafening. Nemain grabbed his wrist and twisted, her other hand reaching for his throat. Her strength took him by surprise and he staggered backwards, managed to grasp her arm before her fingers fastened about his neck. Locked together, they reeled about the balcony, knocking chairs over, crashing into a table.

‘Traitor,’ she hissed at him, a depth of pain in her eyes that caused him to falter. The sound of combat stopped.

Either Salach has killed Sreng, or she has slain him. He waited for Sreng’s axe to fall, but instead Nemain jerked before him, was thrown into his arms. They stood like that, gazing into each other’s eyes, then blood gushed from Nemain’s mouth. She flew across the room as Salach wrenched his axe from her back, her body draping over the balcony.

Uthas stared at her, at the great wound in her back, blood and bone mixed.

What have I done?

He stumbled over to her, lifted her legs and threw her from the balcony, an instinctive reaction to his shame, a childish denial. She toppled over the balcony’s edge, tumbling over and over as she sped to the ground. He leaned over, watching her fall.