John Gwynne - Valour

Cywen pulled a fresh torch from her bag and sparked it with tinder and flint. ‘Come on,’ she said and led Pendathran into the darkness of the tunnels.

When they finally emerged from the cave onto the beach Pendathran sank to the sand. It was still dark but the moon was fading, pale and wan as dawn greyed the land.

Cywen could not believe they had made it this far. Pendathran had staggered through the tunnels, at times semi-conscious. When alert he asked for news, information about what was happening in Dun Carreg. In return she discovered that it was Evnis who had imprisoned him. Evnis who knew about the tunnels, had access to them.

The worst of their passage through the tunnels had been when they’d come upon the well, where the path spiralled around the deep hole. Cywen still did not know how Pendathran had managed to avoid toppling into the dark emptiness. But somehow he had. The rest of the journey had passed into terror-filled nightmare, Cywen constantly pausing to listen for the pursuit she expected at any moment: the baying of Evnis’ hounds catching her scent, the sound of running feet, the shouts of her trackers as they saw her. But it had not happened, and now they were here, on the beach of Havan, just before the sun rose and betrayed them to the world.

Frantically she looked around. She had given little thought to what they would do if they made it this far. She scanned the shore, eyes drawn again to where Dath’s boat was usually beached. Then an idea sparked. ‘We cannot rest here,’ she said, looping an arm under Pendathran’s. He groaned but struggled to his feet.

They splashed through shallow pools, crabs scuttling out of their way, then along the path to the village, past the smokehouses, until Cywen saw a small house.

Dath’s house.

The door was open. The smell that greeted them was stale and musty. The place had been ransacked: tables and chairs overturned, cupboards open, emptied. Probably Owain’s men when they occupied the town during the siege, before they moved into Dun Carreg.

There was a barrel with cold fresh rainwater by the back door. Cywen fetched some for Pendathran, who had collapsed onto a sagging cot. He drank and drank, water spilling over his face, soaking his beard. Cywen had to pull the jug from his lips, worrying that he would vomit.

‘I will bring you food when I can,’ she said to Pendathran. ‘I will try tonight, though Evnis has had me watched.’

‘Why, girl?’ Pendathran mumbled.

‘I’m not sure — maybe he thinks I can lead him to Corban, and Edana.’ She shrugged. ‘You must stay out of sight. Stay here until I return.’

‘No chance of me going far,’ Pendathran said.

Cywen stood there, worrying, then turned on her heel and sped to the door.

‘Girl,’ Pendathran called after her. She stopped and looked back.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

She flashed him a quick smile and ran.

After a brief hesitation she turned towards the village. With every passing moment it was more likely that Evnis would discover Pendathran had escaped. Surely he would have men search the tunnels for him.

As the sun rose she mingled with labourers from the village who were making their way up to the fortress. She pulled her hood up and slipped across the bridge and through Stonegate unnoticed. Once back in Dun Carreg she ran through the stone-paved backstreets, skirting her house to climb alley walls and slip in through her garden. Buddai greeted her with a wagging tail as she strode across the kitchen and peered out of her window. A shadow still occupied a doorway across the street, though now it was slumped on the floor, sleeping. She felt exhausted, but knew that if she lay down she would probably sleep half the day. That she must not do. Give the spy no reason to report to Evnis, nothing to raise his suspicions . So she broke her fast with some bacon and honey-cakes, half of which she fed to a drooling Buddai, and then set about her usual daily tasks. She made her way to the stables, where she harnessed up selected horses for warriors to train with in the Rowan Field. One of the horses was Shield. She took her time with him, gave him an extra apple and scowled at the man that climbed into his saddle. It was Drust, the red-haired warrior from Narvon, the one in the feast-hall who had told her to take Buddai, the day after Dun Carreg had fallen.

As the day wore on she felt a tension growing in her gut. There was something she must do.

Evnis must surely know Pendathran had escaped by now. He would scour the tunnels searching for him, but he would not risk baying hounds during the day — Pendathran was clearly a closely guarded secret, one that King Owain knew nothing about, and Evnis was not fool enough to draw attention with a full hunt in broad daylight. He would not risk his hounds beyond the tunnels until nightfall, surely. That meant Cywen had some time to do what was necessary. She steeled herself, then set about the task.

The sun was sinking towards the ocean when she left her home, her bag slung over her back. She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder, knowing that someone would be shadowing her, and made her way to the stables.

Once there she slipped inside an empty stall. Quickly, she tied her hair back tight to her head, stuffed straw inside her tunic until it was near bursting, then drew a cloak from her bag, pulling the hood up. She emptied the contents of her bag into a saddlebag. Finally she shouldered a saddle and tack as well as the saddlebag. Taking a deep breath, she stepped from the stables and walked purposefully across the yard. She noticed Conall leaning beside a water barrel, eyes fixed on the stable door. She smiled as she walked away from him into the streets of the fortress.

As soon as she was out of sight she dumped the saddle and tack, heading with speed towards her quarry: Evnis’ tower. She paused, stepped into deep shadows caused by the sinking sun, then made her way furtively along Evnis’ wall. When she judged she was in the right place she stopped, testing the mortar between the wall’s stones with a finger. It was soft and crumbling, succumbing to years of salt in the air. She looked about once more, the street empty, silent, then drew two of her knives, stabbed them into gaps in the stone and began hauling herself up the wall. Dath had taught her how to do this — if he couldn’t climb a wall, then it couldn’t be climbed, though she’d never tell him that.

When she reached the top she wriggled forwards, hooked one arm over the wall, and smiled grimly to herself. A low-roofed building stretched before her. Evnis’ kennels. She unslung her saddlebag, undoing the buckle with her teeth and spare hand.

A hound walked out of the kennel, tall and scar-eared. It stretched and sniffed, its head snapping round, catching her scent. Then it saw her and let out a great, baying howl. Other dogs flowed from the kennel, began barking and jumping at the wall. Panicking now, she emptied the contents of the saddlebag, lumps of meat showering the area. The dogs immediately began to wolf them down, snapping and snarling at one another.

A voice called out; a blond-haired figure appeared — Rafe.

Cywen ducked from view, half slid, half fell from the wall, then sprinted into the shadows. She wiped tears from her eyes. Evnis’ hounds would not be hunting Pendathran tonight.

Cywen led the stallion through the tree-lined path into the Rowan Field. She had tried not to bring him, had used every excuse besides actually making him lame, but Drust had stepped in, examined Shield himself and declared him fit for use. He had looked at Cywen suspiciously, so she had ceased any more protests, knowing that Drust could stop her working in the stables if he wished.

He was waiting for her, in the Field. He strode over, smiling at Shield.