John Gwynne - Valour

Camlin circled left, signalled for Dath to go right, then, in the instant that the warrior was sizing them up, Camlin surged forwards. He struck fast and hard at the warrior’s head. His first two blows were hastily blocked, the warrior retreating. Then he stumbled and Camlin hacked his blade between the man’s neck and shoulder. Bone crunched and blood spurted. He wrenched his sword free and the man slumped to the ground.

Camlin swung around, marched to the warrior trapped by his dead horse and slammed his sword into his chest. He looked up, saw Dath staring at him, wide-eyed.

‘Strike first,’ he said, ‘else you might not get a chance to strike at all. That’s a Darkwood education.’

Dath gulped.

Down the track a horse neighed.

One rider was still mounted, swinging a sword at Corban, who was ducking, trying to pull him from his mount. Gar was on the far side, moving in. Storm was circling the horse, crouched low, about to leap. The rider saw his doom approaching, kicked frantically at his mount. The horse leaped forwards, Corban diving out of the way, and then it was galloping down the track.

Camlin broke into a run, unslinging his bow. He reached the horse that Storm had fallen upon, rested a foot on its flank and drew an arrow, its feathers touching his ear. For a moment he tracked the escaping horseman, pulled in a deep breath, held it, then released the arrow. It arced high, dipped, and the rider stiffened, toppling backwards onto the soft ground. The horse ran on a dozen paces, then slowed, began cropping grass.

‘That shot was amazing,’ Dath breathed.

‘I was aiming for the horse,’ Camlin said with a rueful grin.

We’ve taken too long , Camlin thought. They were almost back to their makeshift camp.

They had dragged the corpses of the slain warriors into the trees, Camlin setting Dath to retrieving as many of their arrows as he could find.

‘Do we need to?’ Dath had asked.

‘Once you’ve made arrows of your own you’ll never leave one behind that you didn’t have to. And we may be on this road a long time — what happens if we run out?’

Dath had thought about that and nodded. Then they had rounded up the horses and hobbled them a good distance from the track. That had taken the most time, but if they hadn’t done it one of the animals at least would have wandered back to the encampment, rousing suspicion and an angry pursuit far quicker than if the horses were hidden. Without Gar it would not have happened at all; he had a way with horses.

After that they had all but run back to their camp. They needed to get back on their boat and put some distance between them and the bristling warband that would certainly be sent after them. It was just a matter of time.

Marrock stepped out from behind a tree. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked, frowning as he looked at their faces.

‘We ran into. . some. . company,’ Camlin breathed. ‘We need to leave.’

‘How far behind you?’ Marrock said, scanning the trees.

‘They won’t be following anyone, but can’t say how long it’ll be before they’re missed.’

Marrock raised an eyebrow, turned and led them back to camp.

Camlin gave a hasty account of the ambush; Halion and the other travellers huddled round close to listen. Dath interjected comments, most to do with Camlin’s prowess, his skill with a bow, a sword, and his strategic brilliance. Camlin felt himself frowning at the boy.

‘So what now?’ Brina said, hands on hips.

‘Back to the boat, get as far away from here as possible, as quickly as possible,’ Marrock said. He looked to Halion, who nodded.

‘But what if those ships are still out there?’ Edana said. Her voice was hoarse, dry.

‘We’ll have to cross one bridge at a time, my lady,’ Halion said. ‘And staying where we are is no option.’

Brina tutted, bent over and whispered in her crow’s ear. That thing still made Camlin uncomfortable. There was far too much intelligence in its beady eyes. With a squawk of protest it unfurled its wings and flapped into the air, disappearing over the trees.

‘Craf is a good scout,’ Brina said. ‘Don’t want any surprises, do we.’

The group broke up, checked packs, filled water skins, then Vonn and Farrell burst upon them, running hard from the beach.

‘A boat has just beached next to ours,’ Vonn blurted as he skidded to a stop, ‘full of warriors.’

FIDELE

Fidele gazed out of her tower window. In the distance the snow-capped Agullas glistened in the summer sun, before them rich meadows rolling all the way down to the lake shore, where countless ships bobbed on the swell, cold and deep from the mountains’ snowmelt. And on those ships: fishermen, traders, all manner of people. Her people. She felt a rush of passion, a fierce pride in the people of this realm. I love this land.

Her gaze drifted southward, to the river that carved its way to the sea. The black ships of the Vin Thalun had long since sailed that route, disappeared into the distance; the only sign of their presence here at Jerolin was the shipbuilding yard that had risen up on the lake shore. Even that was deserted now. Lykos had told her that the shipbuilding would continue to the south, near Ripa, but he needed too many hands on his fleet as it sailed to Nathair and Ardan to keep the two shipyards going.

And good riddance. She understood the logic that underpinned Nathair’s treaty with the Vin Thalun, knew their skills would be of great value in the coming war, but the reality of keeping the peace between them and her subjects had been difficult. Too many hard years between us to wash over in a few moons. She left her chambers, Orcus her shieldman falling in at her side. Fidele marched a quick rhythm through corridors and down the great tower of Jerolin until she was breathing fresh air. Her feet took her to the north, where the city grew quieter, to the cairn ground.

‘I miss you,’ she breathed, barely a whisper on the air. She was stood before her husband’s cairn; Aquilus, King of Tenebral, High King of the Banished Lands, slain in his own chambers, stabbed by a traitor king. I wish we had had more time. She touched one of the great stones of the cairn, already moss-covered, with lichen growing in yellows and reds. Aquilus had been so focused, so strong, always somehow knowing the right path and having the strength to take it, to see it through. I wish you had shared more of your certainties with me. Shared more of your plans. The knowledge of the God-War and the coming of the avatars had been a great burden, but Aquilus had borne it, though not without cost. And, because he had chosen to shoulder most of it alone, things felt so unsure now. She was scared, scared of what the future held, scared of the threat to her son. Her poor Nathair, striving, struggling to do his best, to earn his father’s notice. And now, to live up to his father’s legacy, not only to lead a nation, but to save the Banished Lands, or die in the trying. Fathers and sons — why did it have to be so complicated.

She sighed. ‘I will not let you down. I will not let Nathair down.’

Footsteps crunched on stone behind her and stopped, a respectful silence, then the scuff of an impatient foot. A cough.

‘Yes,’ Fidele said, turning, wiping all emotion from her face. It was Peritus, her husband’s battlechief. Small, wiry, unassuming, deadly.

‘There is something you must see,’ Peritus said, his expression grim.

‘Where did you find him?’ Fidele asked.

‘Was fishing about a league to the north,’ the fisherman said. ‘Pulling in our crab baskets and he was tangled in one of them.’

They were standing on the deck of a mid-sized fisher-boat, half a dozen crewmen gathered around her. Despite the sun the wind was cold, carrying with it a hint of ice from the mountains. Fidele pulled her cloak tighter. To one side, huge baskets were stacked on top of one another, crabs imprisoned within, clacking their great-claws. There was a body slumped on the deck, mottled blue, the flesh bloated and peeling, green weed clinging to the limbs, trailing like extended fingers.