John Gwynne - Valour

The clash of arms grew in pitch behind him. He risked a glance back and saw a man appear from the crowd — tall and silver haired, a red sword in his hand. Shadows danced behind him, a dark cloak that floated like wings. His eyes fixed on Corban. One of the Jehar swirled in front of him, sword chopping downwards. With an effortless shrug the old man blocked the blow, his sword blurring in fluid movement and then the Jehar was falling away, blood spurting from his throat. The old man stalked forwards, straight towards Corban.

Run. I must run . But something held Corban in place, kept him from fleeing. Instead, he found himself turning, lifting his sword, flexing his wolven claws, shifting his balance to face this man.

Other Jehar attacked the old man, all sent reeling away, blood spurting.

Corban moved forwards, raising his sword. It felt as if time had slowed around him. One of the Kadoshim came roaring at him and he swerved out of its path, swung his sword two-handed and saw its head fly spinning through the air. The creature’s body stumbled on, then crumpled to the floor, mist congealing into a winged form above it, quickly melting into ragged tatters.

Then they were standing before each other. The old man regarded him with amber eyes.

‘Bright Star,’ the man said, lifting his sword and dipping his head; a recognition.

‘Who are you?’ Corban said.

‘Your death.’

Corban heard voices behind him, calling his name, then his blade was moving, blocking a blow that moved faster than he thought possible. He pushed his enemy’s sword high, over his head, and stepped in fast, raking his wolven claws across the old man’s belly. They sparked on chainmail, breaking links but nothing else. The old man smiled at him. Then Corban was retreating, their swords clashing, incandescent arcs tracing the flow of exchanges, a discordant melody of violence.

Corban stumbled and the man was on him, pushing his guard away, a hand gripping Corban by the throat, pulling him close.

‘I knew you would come,’ the man said. ‘You pathetic creatures, risking all for love.’

Corban heaved a knee into the man’s groin and his grip loosened. Corban staggered back, stumbling and falling onto his back. The old man followed, but something slammed into his shoulder, making him stagger back a pace. An arrow.

Dath .

Then Gar was leaping over Corban, standing before him, sword raised. The old man snarled at him, an annoyance, and launched into a blistering combination of blows, the arrow in his shoulder seeming to have little effect on him. Gar swerved to the left, trying to lead the old man away from Corban. He blocked a dozen blows, then stepped into an attack of his own; Corban heard their blades clash, six, seven times, more. When they separated, the old man was bleeding from a thin cut along his forehead; blood dripped from Gar’s elbow.

The old man touched a hand to his wound, then licked his fingertips. With shocking speed he powered forwards. Gar took an overhead blow on his blade, his legs spread, braced against the force of the attack. For heartbeats both stood there, the old man looking as if he was trying to grind Gar into the ground, Gar standing like an oak in a storm. Then Farrell suddenly appeared, ploughing into them. They went down in a mass, rolling together. The old man rose first, Gar spinning free. Farrell clambered to one knee and the old man struck out, punching him in the chest, sending him crashing to the floor. Gar rushed in, but the old man kicked out, a boot connecting full with Gar’s gut, hurling him away. The old man’s eyes swung back to Corban.

Corban realized he was still on the ground. He staggered to his feet as the old man strode towards him. Their swords clashed, a brief flurry, then Corban was tripping over a body, dropping to one knee. The old man snarled, a victory grin, raising his sword. Abruptly he stopped, frowning, gazing at his chest. A knife hilt protruded from it. There was another impact and he reeled back a step, another knife hilt poking from his shoulder.

Mam .

She ran past Corban, spear levelled at the old man. Cywen and Coralen appeared either side of Corban, hooking arms under him and hoisting him to his feet.

‘Very touching,’ Corban heard the old man say.

Gwenith stood before him, her spear raised. She thrust with all her strength as the old man surged forwards, but he slashed once, splintering the spear shaft, then again, Corban hearing the sound of iron impacting on flesh, a solid blow. He stared at his mam, saw her sway, then she collapsed in front of him.

He screamed, yanking his arms free from Cywen and Coralen, but before he could charge at the old man another figure was there, Meical.

‘Calidus,’ Meical said.

‘Meddler,’ the old man responded, his lips twisted in sneer or snarl. They set at each other then, a concussive power in their blows that Corban had never witnessed before.

‘Get Corban out of here,’ Meical yelled just before he and his enemy disappeared amongst the crowd.

Corban scrambled over to his mam, Cywen at his shoulder, and together they lifted her. She cried out, eyes fluttering, spots of blood on her lips. And she was pale, deathly pale. A bloody wound stretched from shoulder to chest, chips of white bone amongst the bubbling blood.

‘Mam,’ Corban breathed, the word a sob.

Cywen was crying beside him.

Corban stroked his mam’s face, tried to wipe the blood from her lips, but more kept appearing.

Her eyes were open, looking at them both. ‘My darlings,’ she whispered with her last breath.

Corban howled, a raw, feral thing as grief erupted inside him, an unending torrent. Dimly he was aware of Cywen sobbing beside him, gripping his mam’s hand, as if she were trying to squeeze life back into her.

‘Don’t leave me; please Mam, please Mam,’ he heard her saying, over and over.

He wrapped an arm around her and she hugged him back.

‘Quickly,’ a voice yelled, the sound of hooves suddenly loud. Corban felt hands tugging at him — Brina — saw Cywen hoisted by Farrell across Shield, Coralen sitting in his saddle, and then spurring away.

Gar bent down and lifted Gwenith in his arms, cradling her to his chest, tears streaming down his face. Then they were running towards the exit again, a crowd gathering about them. At the doorway Corban paused and looked back.

Battle was still raging between the Kadoshim and Jehar; many of the untainted warriors were forming a rearguard now, beginning a retreat. The cauldron was still visible upon its dais, a figure sitting on the steps close to it. Nathair. He was just watching the battle before him, a look of shock upon his face. Then others were pushing towards the exit, a knot of Jehar warriors sweeping him through the doors and away.

CORBAN

Everything passed in a blur to Corban as they hurtled through the shadowed corridors of Murias, the sounds of violence fading behind, people all around, the clatter of hooves ahead. Time drifted from its moorings, losing its meaning. Then Corban was in the chamber before Murias’ great gates, the dead everywhere. The giant with the white hair was there — Balur — a handful of his kin with him, including a pale giantess who stared at him intensely, a cluster of giant bairns about her. They had gathered horses for them, found them wandering out on the slopes. Corban felt hands upon him, helping him into a saddle, thrusting reins into his hands. He was dimly aware of more people pouring into the chamber — he saw Tukul and Meical, more of the Jehar.

Then they were outside. It was close to highsun, the air fresh and clean after the stifling damp of the underground caverns.

Corban rode from Murias, a small host about him, thundering down the slope and onto purple moorland, scattered giants running amongst them. Two birds flew low in the air above.