‘I’d hit you if I were your da,’ Farrell said.
‘I’m a coward,’ Dath said quietly, almost to himself.
‘What?’
‘Every day, every battle, I’m scared. More than that, terrified. It grips me, freezes me.’
‘Fear hasn’t hurt your aim much,’ Farrell said.
‘All men feel fear,’ Corban said. ‘Gar told me that. It’s what you do about it — stand or run, fight or give up — that’s what makes you a coward or hero. Without fear there is no courage.’
‘In that case you’re no coward,’ Farrell said.
‘Does that make me a hero?’ Dath said with a weak smile.
‘I’d rather my da be a coward and still be here,’ Farrell said.
They sat in silence some more; Corban had no answer for that.
‘Talking of Gar and heroes,’ Dath said. ‘What’s all this about you being, you know, the seven disgraces, or whatever it was.’
‘Seren Disglair,’ Corban corrected with a grimace. Life had been too filled with danger and imminent death for him to think much on Gar’s claims. Now that things had changed, though, and a measure of safety restored to them, he found his thoughts constantly returning to Gar’s words. Both his mam and Gar were sure that something would happen, that he would change his mind.
Not likely. I don’t want to be some Bright Star, fighting the Dark Sun. I’ve seen enough of war and death for a lifetime.
‘Yes. So when did you become the saviour of the Banished Lands, then?’
‘Shut up,’ Corban said. ‘It’s not funny.’
‘Gar doesn’t think it’s funny,’ Farrell said. ‘He seemed to take it seriously, and he strikes me as a serious man. Never seen him smile, even.’
‘Just because he’s serious, doesn’t mean he’s right,’ Corban said with a frown.
‘What’s he on about, then?’ Dath asked.
‘He’s just made a mistake, that’s all.’ Corban shrugged. ‘You’re best off paying him no mind.’
‘There must be more to it than that,’ Farrell persisted. ‘Look at how he fights, his sword, those warriors back at Dun Carreg like him — the one guarding Nathair that he fought, and the others.’
Corban shifted uncomfortably. Those are thoughts I’ve had myself. Gar is no fool, and until recently not someone I’d consider mad. ‘Anyone can make a mistake,’ he said. ‘Let’s leave it at that.’
The other two gave him sidelong glances, but they said no more about it.
‘One thing that you can’t just leave lying about is your stinking bag of wolven pelts,’ Dath said, wrinkling his nose and pointing at a large sack.
‘I know. I need to ask Halion’s help in finding a good tanner.’
‘What do you want them for?’ Dath asked him.
‘Just an idea. I’ll say no more about it yet.’
Corban blocked Gar’s practice sword, flicked it away, used the momentum to form his own lunge, saw Gar shift to block his blow. He pivoted on his feet, spinning, ducking Gar’s weapon as it whistled over his head and swung at Gar’s ankles.
Gar jumped over his practice blade, struck at Corban’s head, but Corban was rolling forwards, using the force of his failed swing to carry him out of the way. He came up onto his feet, sword gripped two-handed over his head, and launched a fast combination at Gar — two chops to the head, one lunge to the heart, another short chop to the ribs, a swing and lunge at thigh and groin. All of them were blocked. He felt sweat trickling down his forehead, sensed shadows around him, still and watching, his eyes flickering to them for a heartbeat. And then somehow Gar was inside his guard, the practice blade at his throat.
‘You lost focus,’ Gar said as Corban stepped away. ‘Until then. Good.’
Good. That was the fastest I’ve ever moved, the longest I’ve kept you from killing me. Corban smiled ruefully and wiped the sweat from his face. He glanced about, saw warriors all around the practice court watching them. That had been happening a lot since they’d arrived at Dun Taras. Rath was there, with some of his giant-killers, including the girl, Coralen. She wasn’t looking at him or Gar, though. Nearby were Dath and Farrell, standing with Marrock and Camlin. The woodsman was strapping a buckler to Marrock’s injured arm.
‘Stop looking at girls and raise your sword,’ Gar snapped at him.
‘I wasn’t,’ Corban objected, then had no more time or breath to complain.
When they had finished sparring, Gar put Corban through the sword dance. Corban loved the routine of it; it was a time when his mind became still and calm, and he could forget for a short while the turmoil and upheaval that defined almost every other waking moment.
When he was finished and about to put his practice sword back in the basket he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Coralen standing there.
‘Don’t put it back,’ she said and stepped back into a space on the grass. She raised her own practice sword and waited. In her other hand she had a wooden replica of a knife. She fights like Conall, then.
‘What?’ said Corban.
‘Don’t keep her waiting, she’ll only beat you worse,’ someone yelled, to a burst of laughter. Corban thought it was Baird, Rath’s warrior with the scar.
‘Come on, then,’ Coralen said, spinning her blade in a slow arc.
Frowning, Corban stepped back onto the grass and lifted his wooden sword. Stooping falcon, the standard first position. In a blink Coralen was lunging forwards, her blade coming from unusual angles, moving faster than Corban had expected. Her wooden knife left a red welt across one arm. She uses it like a wolven uses claws. That set an idea growing. One that I must talk to Farrell about. Another blow slipped through his guard.
Focus, you idiot, he scolded himself. You saw her slay a giant. She’s fast, and deadly. He stepped back, seeking time to regroup, but she did not allow it, following him, striking high and low. He managed to block it all, though clumsily, then began to fight back. They moved backwards and forwards over the grass, the clack of their blades marking a sporadic beat. Time passed, Corban losing all track, getting lost in the block and strike, his body and brain working faster together, overriding his thoughts, employing the responses that only uncounted hours of practice could instil.
Then he saw an opening, his blade sweeping forward before he’d had time to think about it, his body following, stepping close into her guard. Somehow she turned his blade and they slammed together, blade to blade, chest to chest. He could smell her breath, sweet, a hint of apple on it. He blinked, then somehow her foot was behind his ankle and he was falling, the air knocked from his lungs as he hit the ground. Her blade touched his throat and she smiled.
He frowned, remembering seeing Conall execute an almost identical move on Marrock back in Dun Carreg. ‘You cheated,’ he muttered.
She grabbed his wrist and helped him up. ‘And you’re still dead,’ she grinned.
He blushed as he looked around, saw a crowd watching them, Dath and Farrell amongst them. Gar shook his head, his lips twitching in a brief smile. Halion strode over. Come to rescue me, I hope.
‘Come on,’ Halion said to him. ‘We’ve to meet Queen Edana. Da. . the King wants to see you.’
‘Me?’ said Corban. ‘Why?’
‘Because he’s been hearing tales about the young warrior that tamed a wolven. He wants to meet you. Come on.’
‘She’s not tame,’ Corban muttered as he left the practice court, shoving his weapon into a wicker basket.
They had been in Dun Taras over a ten-night now. Edana had been back to see Eremon five or six times since her first meeting with him, but there was still no definite answer from the King about his commitment to aiding her cause. Also the King’s wife, Roisin, had been present at the meetings, and according to Halion she was more poisonous than he remembered her.
Storm uncurled herself and fell in by Corban’s side as they left the weapons court and walked through the streets of Dun Taras. It wasn’t so different from Dun Carreg, the streets as wide, paved with huge flagstones, the grey keep looming above everything. The rock was darker here, and there was no sound of the sea, though, no calling of gulls, no salt on the air.