John Gwynne - Valour

Corban’s mam tried to catch his eye but he looked away, immediately experiencing a rush of guilt. She’s lost her husband. My da. .

But somehow his feet would not take him over to her.

In no time they were all clambering back onto the boat. Mordwyr and Dath set the sail to catch the wind, guiding them out of the cove they had sheltered in, and soon they were scudding along the coast. The sky was a clear, sharp blue, wave tips glistening in the sun. Corban burrowed into the pile of nets towards the rear of the boat, Storm curling beside him, her nose twitching at the scent of fish.

Days passed like this, the boat hugging the coast, moving ever further from Dun Carreg, from home. Nights were spent huddled around small fires, when they dared, eating whatever Marrock and Camlin could provide. Storm was usually more successful in the hunting. Corban maintained his silence with his mam and Gar, though his mam tried more than once to pull him away from the small company. He always refused, though he was starting to hate himself for it. But no matter how he thought of things, as soon as the suggestion of leaving their small band of friends rose in his mind, he felt an instant surge of anger. Everything else had been taken from him. He would cling to this last remnant of home like a drowning man in a stormy sea.

Every morning Gar would prod him awake and work through the sword dance with him, but the stablemaster did not try to drag him into conversation. His look was enough. It said, We will talk, whether sooner or later , as patient as a hovering hawk.

On the fifth day after Dun Carreg’s fall Corban was sitting in his customary position on the fisher-boat, Storm beside him. Dath was a half-visible figure climbing on the mast up above. Farrell walked unsteadily towards him, swaying as the boat rose and fell.

‘Thank your wolven for me,’ Farrell said as he settled into the nets beside Corban.

‘For what?’

‘Food to break our fast with this morning, and dinner last night. I don’t like being hungry. Makes me angry.’

‘Well we wouldn’t want that. Not while you’ve got that hammer strapped to your back, anyway.’

Farrell chuckled, patting Thannon’s hammer-head which poked over his shoulder.

Corban thought of his da, lying in the keep at Dun Carreg, Buddai curled beside him. He felt a stab of guilt, that he could be making jests so soon after his da’s death. He shook his head. ‘How’d you get so big, anyway?’ he asked, glancing at Anwarth, Farrell’s da. He was a short man, the absolute opposite of Farrell, although they shared something in their features, the angle of their jaws, eyes set beneath heavy brows.

‘You haven’t seen my mam, then,’ Farrell said. ‘She always said I got my big bones from her. Da must like big women. .’

Corban smiled, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders begin to lift. It was good, somehow, just to sit and talk with a friend.

‘Hope she’s all right,’ Farrell muttered, his face creasing. ‘Mind you, she can look after herself. Me and da can vouch for that.’ He tried to smile, but wasn’t completely successful. ‘Saw you training, this morning.’

Corban nodded.

‘It was quite something. Never seen anything like it.’

‘Gar’s been training me a while now. About two years.’

‘Explains why you’re so good with a sword, then. I couldn’t believe it when you beat Rafe.’

Corban shrugged. ‘I don’t know where Gar learned all that stuff, though. Always thought it was from Helveth. .’ He trailed off. As it turned out Gar wasn’t from Helveth, after all. Turned out most of what he thought about his past was wrong, lies piled on top of one another.

Time passed, the boat rising and falling rhythmically. Corban felt exhausted, worn out by his churning emotions as much as the events of the last few days. Gwenith and Gar sat together. His mam’s eyes were red rimmed and sunken, her face pale and drawn. Storm nuzzled his palm and he absently stroked her head. The things his mam had said about him swirled in his mind like flotsam in a whirlpool, different parts bobbing to the surface. Like what she had said about him being hunted — by Asroth — how could that be? He had never given much thought to Asroth or Elyon before, was not even sure if he believed them to be real, and so far had not particularly cared. Elyon, the maker of all, and Asroth, his great enemy, leading his host of the Fallen. Corban knew the tales well enough, of Asroth’s corruption of the first giants and men, the War of Treasures that followed, and then the Scourging. Until now he’d thought they were little more than faery stories told to keep children in their cots at night. He looked about, at his companions littered around the boat. Beyond the railings he caught a glimpse of the coastline, a dark smudge of dense trees and cliffs. Lifting his hand in front of his face, he stared at his fingers, saw black dirt making patterns in the creases of his skin, the swirling design of his fingerprints. Someone or something must have made all of this, I suppose, he thought. But Asroth, hunting me. .?

He shook his head.

Brina sat down beside him. Farrell glanced at the healer, then looked away. No matter how the recent events had affected everyone, Brina still had a reputation. Corban weathered her silent stare as long as he could.

‘Where’s Craf?’ he asked, more to break the silence than anything else.

‘There,’ she said with a nod.

Craf was sitting on the prow of the ship, staring straight ahead like some tattered figurehead.

‘I wanted to ask you something,’ Corban muttered.

‘There’s a surprise,’ Brina snorted. ‘All right then, but this time I will be asking a few questions of you, too. Perhaps we can do a trade.’

‘What could I possibly know that would interest you?’

‘A trade — yes or no?’

‘Perhaps.’ Corban eyed her suspiciously. ‘Let’s hear each other’s questions first, then decide.’

Brina scowled. ‘Well?’ she prompted.

‘The night we fled Dun Carreg, on the way to the tunnels. You and Heb. .’ He cleared his throat. ‘That mist. Did you. .?’

‘Ah, a good question.’ She almost smiled at him. ‘My question, then: Gar.’

Corban sighed. He knew it would have to be about the stablemaster. ‘Go on.’

‘He came to Dun Carreg when you and Cywen were bairns?’

Hearing Cywen’s name made something twist in his stomach. He nodded.

‘I’d like to know where he came by that curved sword of his, and where he learned how to use it. I’d like to know how he was on speaking terms with the King of Tenebral’s first-sword. And most of all, I’d like to know why he’s so interested in you .’ She jabbed his chest with a finger.

‘That’s a lot of questions. I only asked you one,’ Corban pointed out.

‘Mine are linked,’ Brina retorted.

Corban held a hand up. ‘Believe me, they are all questions that I’d like to hear the answers to, myself.’

‘You don’t know, then?’

‘No, though I wish I did.’

‘Well, go and ask him,’ she said. ‘Then you can come back and tell me.’

‘No,’ he snapped, more harshly than he’d intended. ‘It’s complicated. .’

She stared at him, then rose with a grunt. ‘When you’ve uncomplicated it, come and talk to me. I’ll tell you about the mist.’ She walked away.

Highsun had come and gone. Corban was standing by the rail, staring at nothing. He could just make out the coast: a blur of tree and rock, here and there lines of smoke climbing into the sky, marking villages and homesteads. Mordwyr and Dath had taken the boat as far out to sea as possible to avoid being seen from land, and so far Corban had only spied one other vessel on the water, not much more than a black dot in the distance.