John Gwynne - Valour

From branches above a dirt-stained face was peering down at him. He drew his sword, sucked in a breath to call Alcyon, then in front of him a figure stepped out from behind the tree, at the same time foliage rustling behind him. His call for help died in his throat as he gazed at the man standing before him.

Maquin.

The grey-haired warrior held a hand up, signalling to the unseen man behind him, and Veradis knew his life hung in the balance, as did theirs. One call from him and Alcyon, Jael and a dozen warriors would be on them. Carefully, slowly, he lowered his sword, holding Maquin’s gaze.

‘It is good to see you,’ he said.

Maquin grimaced, eyes flickering to the figure behind Veradis. He shook his head. Veradis resisted the urge to turn, kept his eyes fixed on Maquin. ‘Kastell?’ he asked.

Grief twisted Maquin’s face. ‘Jael killed him.’

Veradis hung his head. ‘Was it you that murdered Braster?’

‘No. That was Lothar,’ a voice grated behind him. Maquin nodded confirmation.

Lothar? But, he has been in close council with Calidus.

A voice called from the gloom. ‘Veradis, where are you?’ Alcyon. There was a sound of approaching feet.

He made his decision in an instant. ‘You are being hunted,’ Veradis hissed. ‘Get back into the trees. I will lead them away from you.’

‘Do we trust him?’ the voice behind Veradis said. Maquin looked at Veradis, then nodded.

‘I am sorry,’ Veradis whispered, ‘about Kastell.’

Maquin stepped back into the foliage, pausing before the gloom took him. ‘Before the battle you warned us about what side we were choosing.’

‘Yes,’ Veradis said. ‘I did.’

‘I would give you the same advice,’ Maquin said, then disappeared into the forest.

EVNIS

Evnis stood frozen in the doorway to his secret room. The book was gone. He searched frantically. The casket he had originally found it in was there, the necklace still within it, pulsing with its sickly light, but the book was nowhere to be seen. He stared at the necklace, his gaze sucked into the darkness of the single black stone, the size of his fist, wrapped in twists of silver. Ever since he had laid eyes upon it a suspicion had nagged him. Could it be Nemain’s necklace, one of the Seven Treasures? An ancient relic from when the world was young, if half the tales were true.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, to think. The last time he had used it he had not put the book back in the casket; he had left it sitting on top. He was sure of this, could picture in his mind reading from it, speaking aloud the words of power, then placing the book on to the casket’s lid. That had been days ago — the day Dun Carreg had fallen.

Who could have done this?

Vonn.

But why would he have taken the book? Curiosity? To spite him? They had been arguing over the fisherman’s daughter, Bethan. Maybe he thought to use the book as leverage, a trade — the girl for the book? He almost liked that idea, the thought that Vonn was at last growing up, seeing the world as it really was and being prepared to do what was necessary, regardless of its perceived morality. If it had been anything else that Vonn had taken, he would have been prepared to let it go. But he had taken the book, his access to a world of power. He felt a sudden rage boil inside him and took a shuddering breath. He must get it back.

The tunnels. He suspected that Vonn and his companions had escaped through the secret tunnels beneath the fortress; Evnis had been planning to begin searching them on the morrow. To hell with the morrow , he thought, whirling on his feet and grabbing his sheathed sword and belt as he strode from his tower room.

He called warriors to him as he descended the stairs, sent word for more to be summoned as he made his way to the basement where the boarded-up doorway to the tunnels stood. By the time he had strapped his sword-belt on, ordered the boards torn down from the doorway and lit a torch, almost a score of men had gathered about him, many bleary-eyed, rubbing sleep from their eyes. It is late , Evnis remembered, all thought of time having flown his mind, replaced only by his need to find the book. He looked about, searching for Conall, then remembered he had set him to watch over Cywen, as Nathair had asked of him.

A muffled whimper drifted from a door in the cellar, reminding Evnis of his prisoner. He ignored the sound.

‘With me,’ he said and led his men into the tunnels.

The sun was rising when he at last stepped out of the tunnels, back into his tower; a faint light was seeping down the cellar steps through gaps in the floorboards above. He was dirt stained, weary, and his mood was grim.

Vonn was gone, and with him the book. Of that he was sure.

They had searched long and hard, wary of attack both from Edana’s supporters and wyrms. The headless body of the wyrm that had hatched when he’d found the book was still there, its flesh all but gone, rags of tattered skin draped over its skeleton. He had given it hardly a passing look, though it set his warriors to muttering.

Eventually their search had led them to the lowest cavern, where the sea swelled in a channel. Here Evnis knew was the exit to the beach, though none of his men realized, as there was a glamour hiding the way. There was the body of another wyrm here, this one much bigger than the one in the tunnels above. It had been killed only recently, its body in the first stages of decay — skin bloated and swollen, blood and other fluids leaking from it, pooled and congealed around its coiled body. Its skull had been crushed by a heavy blow, and there were various wounds about its body. If this was not evidence enough of Edana’s passing, they found the corpse of a warrior nearby, his neck and chest torn open. He had been one of Pendathran’s warriors, Evnis was sure.

So, now they were gone, most likely leagues from Dun Carreg by now, and with them the book.

And his son. With a growl he dismissed his trailing warriors and trod wearily up the steps of his tower to his room. There was a message awaiting him — a reminder of Nathair’s request to meet with Rhin. How am I going to do this — Rhin in the Darkwood, Nathair here, Owain and his warbands in between? Evnis reached for the half-filled jug of usque and took a large gulp, slumping into a chair. Almost impossible, but there must be a way. Think. Slowly the glimmer of an idea came to him, but his mind felt slow, could not quite focus on it. I must sleep. A ripple of dread coursed through him. Sleep, and with it the dreams. He chuckled to himself and drank another cup of usque. What did he expect, after selling his soul to Asroth, Lord of the Fallen. .?

A knock at his door. Evnis looked about the room, checking that all was ready: a cauldron hung over the fire-pit, water bubbling, a cup of dark liquid standing on a table beside it. He checked his cloak, reassured himself that the letter was still there, then he opened the door.

Nathair was there, the dark shadow of his guardian, Sumur, hovering behind him.

‘My lord, please,’ Evnis said, ushering Nathair in. He held a hand up to Sumur. ‘Only Nathair may enter.’

‘That is not acceptable,’ Sumur said.

‘It is fine, Sumur, I am sure Evnis has good reason. And I am sure I shall be safe. Only a door stands between us.’

Sumur peered into the room, weighing the situation. He nodded. ‘I consider you responsible for my lord’s life, while this door remains shut,’ he said to Evnis.

‘Of course,’ said Evnis and closed the door.

Nathair looked about the room, eyes settling upon the cauldron. He unclasped his sable cloak and draped it across the table.