John Gwynne - Valour

There was a cry from the front. Marrock was pointing at something ahead. Halion made his way forward, others following. He spoke briefly with Marrock and then called for Mordwyr. The fisherman set Dath on the steering oar and made his way to the prow.

He doesn’t look too good , thought Corban as Mordwyr passed him. The man was pale, a sheen of sweat on his face. Corban followed him, leaning over the rail to look ahead when he could go no further. In the distance, directly in front of them, was a cluster of black dots. Boats. They trailed off to a thin line that led almost back to the coast.

‘What is that?’ he heard Halion ask Mordwyr.

Mordwyr stared silently, squinting into the distance. ‘Boats,’ he muttered. ‘Lots of them.’

‘I can see that,’ Halion snapped. ‘I mean, what are they doing? Why are they there?’

Even as the two men spoke, Corban could make out the sight more easily as they sped forwards. The boats were of different shapes and sizes, but most appeared to be fisher-boats similar to the one they were on. Corban counted at least thirty. They were heading out into open sea, their line stretching back to the coast, where a fair-sized village lay nestled along the shore.

‘I don’t know,’ Mordwyr murmured, ‘but they look to be heading to Ardan. More of Owain’s handiwork?’

‘This is Cambren,’ Marrock said. ‘Rhin rules here.’

‘Whatever is going on, we need to find the coast. Now. And pray to Elyon that we have not already been spotted,’ Mordwyr said, bursting into motion. Nimbly he scrambled back down the boat, yelling instructions to Dath.

Mordwyr took over the steering oar and Dath leaped to the sail, baffling Corban with the speed that he pulled on ropes, the sail abruptly sagging, emptying of wind. Slowly, the fisher-boat turned, losing the rhythm it had maintained. The sea suddenly felt more powerful beneath them, more dangerous. Corban grabbed onto the rail as they all lurched upwards, caught in the swell of a wave. Spray burst over the side.

Then Dath was pulling at the ropes again, darting around the base of the mast, and the sail began to fill. Within moments it was billowing, straining, and soon the boat was cutting towards the coast, a wake of white foam spreading behind them.

Mordwyr guided them onto a shingle beach flanked by a grassy ridge, hidden from sight from the village ahead by a curve in the land. Quickly they disembarked. Corban’s heart pounded as they scrambled up the beach, the crunch of shingle sounding deafening under their feet. They passed under a treeline, entering a wood of ash and sycamore. ‘We’ll have to stay here for now,’ Halion said. ‘Set up camp in these woods and wait until our path is clear. No fires,’ he added. He set a guard on the ridge to watch over the boat and check that no vessels came searching for them. ‘Camlin, take some hands with you and make sure we’re not too close to any unfriendly eyes or ears,’ Halion said with a wave at the thick woodland.

‘Aye, chief,’ the woodsman said. ‘Dath, bring your bow. And Corban, might need your wolven’s nose.’

They set off into the woods. Corban saw Dath glance at his da. The fisherman was sitting against a tree, his head in his hands. His shoulders were trembling. Dath hovered, then Vonn sat down beside Mordwyr. Dath shook his head and made after Camlin.

As they made their way into denser woodland Corban heard footsteps following and turned to see Gar behind him. ‘What’re you doing?’ he said.

‘Watching your back.’

‘I don’t want you to. I’m not a bairn .’’

‘Ban, don’t waste your breath. I’m coming, whether you’re happy about it or not. You’d have to be bind me hand and foot to stop me.’

Camlin looked at Gar and shrugged. ‘I’m not complaining,’ the woodsman said. ‘I saw you the other night; you an’ that sword would be handy if we walk into any bother.’

Corban said nothing more and followed Camlin into the woods.

They made their way in silence, Storm shadowing them, rustling through the undergrowth. The woodland was dense with flowering bluebell and ramsons, the strong scent of the white flowers filling the air as they passed through it. Before long the woodland changed, opening into deep-shaded beech, and soon after they were standing on the edge of a rolling meadow, steep hills in the distance. The village that the fleet of fisher-boats had set sail from was visible, smokehouses lining the coast, buildings of thatch further back, spread along the banks of a river. Clustered beyond them the land was filled with tents, paddocks and lots of men. A road stretched into the distance, skirting the river. It was dotted with more men on horseback.

Camlin sucked his teeth and spat.

‘What’s going on?’ Dath whispered.

‘Unless I’m mistaken, that looks like a warband,’ Camlin muttered. ‘What it’s doing here, though. .’

As they stood there staring, the drum of hooves reached their ears. Horsemen crested a rise in the meadow before them, five or six, spread in a line, heading their way. Sunlight glinted on coats of mail and spear-tips. Camlin swore.

‘Back into the trees,’ he snapped. ‘And, Dath, best you string your bow.’

TUKUL

Tukul blinked sweat from his eyes, gritted his teeth as he held his pose in the sword dance and focused on keeping the tip of his practice sword perfectly still. His thighs and shoulders were burning, trembling with the effort.

When did this start getting harder? he wondered. Fifty-eight summers is not so old . He concentrated on keeping his breathing even and smooth. Then, as if responding to some unheard bell, he relaxed. He rolled his shoulders and looked about at the others with whom he stood in rank — about three score men and women — all sheened with sweat. We are all older now , he grimaced, though not too old, I hope. ‘Soon,’ he whispered, both a promise and a prayer.

They were gathered in a courtyard built between the roots of a great tree that towered high above them, its branches arcing, blotting out the sun, its trunk wider that any keep he had ever seen.

Drassil.

The fabled city of Forn Forest, built by giants about and beneath the roots of the Great Tree: lost, hidden for countless generations until he had come here with his band of warriors. Five score they had numbered. They were fewer now, some taken by sickness, others by Forn’s predators. One they had parted with during their travels. And patiently they had waited.

Tukul swatted sweat from his nose. ‘Or maybe not so patiently,’ he muttered with a scowl.

People were beginning to spar now, the clack-clack of their practice blades growing about him. He looked for someone to try himself against, then heard running footsteps.

A figure burst into the courtyard — Enkara, black hair streaked with silver and tied at her nape, her sword hilt arching over one shoulder. She searched the courtyard, eyes fixing on him.

‘Someone comes,’ she called, a tremor in her voice.

Everyone froze.

Without a word, Tukul left the courtyard, stooping to collect his curved sword. Slinging its harness over his shoulder, he strode purposefully towards the outer wall.

They had been here over fourteen years, and in that time they had made Drassil habitable. More than that, they had made it defendable again, shearing vines from walls, repairing stonework, mapping the labyrinthine catacombs that burrowed for leagues beneath his feet. He grimaced as he passed a handful of cairns, eyes drawn to where his Daria was buried.

All those who had been in the courtyard followed silently behind him, Enkara half running to keep up with his long strides. He leaped up the steps on the outer wall two at a time, stood above the gateway and looked out into Forn.