Malice: The Faithful and the Fallen Series Book 1

by John Gwynne

  ‘Best ask your own,’ the warrior of Tenebral replied calmly, keeping his eyes on the man at the end of his sword-point. ‘For myself, I was returning to the fortress when I saw these men set upon those two,’ he gestured towards Kastell and Maquin. ‘I do not know your customs in Isiltir, but here in Tenebral five against two is considered cowardly.’

  King Romar looked from Veradis to his warriors to Kastell and Maquin, both with bloodied faces, and then finally to Jael.

  ‘You can sheathe your weapon,’ he said to Veradis, who took a step back, and smoothly slid his sword into its scabbard.

  ‘My thanks,’ mumbled Maquin through swollen lips.

  ‘And mine also,’ said Romar. ‘Come, share a drink with me before we leave.’ Veradis looked back at the fortress, then nodded.

  ‘I will deal with you later,’ Romar said to his warriors as he turned and walked away, Veradis following him. ‘Jael, Kastell, with me,’ he barked over his shoulder.

  Silently the three men followed Romar’s broad back until they were standing in a row inside a tent. The King of Isiltir filled four cups from a skin and handed them out. Kastell winced as the sour liquid stung his cut lip, but he gulped it down nevertheless. Fighting was thirsty work.

  ‘Again, my thanks,’ said Romar, tipping his head to Veradis.

  ‘I am glad to have been of some help. Sometimes disagreements can flare into something worse.’

  ‘Not all would have done as you did. Aquilus is fortunate to have men like you around him. A wise king surrounds himself with men of quality, such as yourself.’

  Veradis bowed his head, looking uncomfortable.

  ‘But what does that say about me, I wonder? Those I have close to me seem more inclined to fight each other than our true enemies.’ He scowled at Jael and Kastell. ‘And what have you to say?’ he directed at Kastell, who shuffled his feet, looking at the rim of his empty cup.

  ‘Just a disagreement. Nothing more,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Do not lie to me, boy. You are not very good at it.’ He looked back to Jael.

  ‘Do you think me a fool? Do you think I know nothing of this, this bairn’s grudge you have fostered against your cousin?’

  ‘You take his side?’ Jael blurted incredulously.

  ‘It is not about sides,’ roared Romar, hurling his cup at the ground. ‘I saw, Jael. I saw what you did to Kastell, in the practice court.’ He drained his cup and poured another. ‘I was ashamed. This. Ends. Now,’ he growled.

  ‘But…’ said Jael.

  ‘NOW!’ bellowed Romar. ‘You will both be lords soon. If I were to die it would probably be one of you two that would rule Isiltir until my son Hael comes of age. You will be leaders of men. You do not lead by shaming others.’

  ‘But he shamed me. If you were there you must have seen what he did.’

  ‘Aye, I did. There was wrong on both sides, but more with you, Jael.’ He began pacing around the empty tent. ‘I say again: this ends today. Right now. You are kin, bound by blood. This only brings shame on you both, on me, on our family.’

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

  ‘Now, start behaving like kin, and men.’

  Another long silence.

  ‘Yes, Uncle. You are right. We should put this childishness behind us,’ Jael said. He held out his hand to Kastell, who hesitantly took it.

  Romar smiled. ‘That’s better, lads. Well done.’

  Romar slapped them both on the back. ‘That is good. I have high hopes for the both of you. New times are ahead for us all, what with this alliance and…’ he trailed off. ‘Anyway, the two of you figure highly in my plans for the future of Mikil, and of Isiltir. Now, let us get this campsite cleared and begin the journey home.’

  ‘Yes, Uncle,’ said Jael. Kastell grunted, and they both left the tent.

  ‘This is far from over,’ hissed Jael as he walked away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CORBAN

  Corban slipped into the kitchen, face flushed and sweaty from his morning’s training with Gar. His mam was standing by the oven, pulling out a tray of oatcakes. He ran a hand through his damp hair, chewing on his bottom lip.

  ‘Can I speak to you, Mam?’

  Gwenith placed the oatcakes on the table, brushed her hands down her woollen dress, and sat. ‘Of course.’

  He sat opposite her, absently digging at a piece of wood in the table with his thumbnail.

  ‘Has this anything to do with the bruises on your da’s face?’ Gwenith asked. ‘And the rumours I’m hearing–that he had a talk with Helfach?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mam,’ he said slowly. ‘I lied to you.’

  She said nothing and he looked up at her now, his dark eyes meeting her gaze. ‘About my face. I didn’t fall on the rocks. I was fighting.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘Rafe.’

  ‘Ah. I see.’ Gwenith nodded to herself. ‘Go on.’

  And so Corban told her his tale, including Rafe’s dare and his penance of afternoon chores with Brina. When he was done they sat in silence awhile.

  ‘There is something else,’ he said. ‘In the mornings, when I go out early. I have been training. Training with Gar. He told me to tell no one, but I wanted to tell you. I don’t want to lie to you any more.’

  ‘Does Gar know that you have told me?’

  ‘Yes, Mam. I spoke to him about it this morning.’

  She looked at Corban, large brown eyes filling, and held out her arms. ‘Come here, son.’

  He wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled his head into her shoulder.

  ‘You are a good boy,’ she murmured, stroking his dark hair, ‘better than you know.’ A tear spilled out and rolled down her cheek.

  ‘Why did you laugh?’ Corban grunted as he rested a moment, hanging from a beam in the stables. ‘In Evnis’ courtyard. About the “power of words”.’

  ‘I believe Thannon intended a different outcome for his lesson. Your da would not be my first choice for a task requiring diplomacy. You see, Corban, the power of emotions…’ Gar shrugged. ‘I have not seen the man that could best your da in a fistfight. But anger ruled him for a while back there. And he has made an enemy now. For life.’

  ‘So?’ said Corban. ‘What does that matter?’ He dropped from the beam and rolled his shoulders.

  ‘Maybe nothing. Maybe something. Thannon will need to watch his back from now on, that’s all.’

  Corban grunted, not liking that thought, particularly as he had been the cause of the conflict.

  ‘Well, Helfach has stayed out of Da’s way since. And I haven’t seen Rafe at all.’

  ‘Aye. Helfach is a proud man, a beating like that will not sit well with him. As for Rafe, I have heard that he is not able to leave his bed at the moment.’

  Corban looked at the floor.

  ‘Queen Alona should declare the next hunt soon. It will be interesting whose hound she chooses to lead it.’

  ‘A hunt? It’s my nameday soon. If the hunt is after then I will be able to go.’

  ‘Aye, lad. True enough. And you know what else your nameday means?’

  ‘Yes. The Rowan Field,’ said Corban reverently.

  The fourteenth nameday was the traditional day for boys to begin their warrior training. All began their training long before they reached fourteen, whether on their own with a stick and a defenceless tree, or with their da. Corban had spent many hours whacking the trees in his mam’s rose garden, and Thannon had done his best to teach Corban some combat basics, though the blacksmith was somewhat lacking in technique, having little need. The Rowan Field, a great empty space at the northern tip of the fortress, was where it happened. It held an almost holy aura to all the boys in Dun Carreg. When he came of age, on his sixteenth nameday, he would attempt the warrior trial with sword, spear and horse. If he passed he would ride out to sit the Long Night, standing guard throughout the dark of night over those who had protected him. Then he would be a man.

  ‘They will not teach
you bladework as I do,’ Gar said. ‘They do things differently, where I was trained.’

  ‘Helveth, you mean?’

  Gar gave a curt nod.

  ‘For one thing, you will be shown more with a shield. When I learned my weapons a warrior would grip a sword two-handed and attack rather than hold a shield and defend–we were taught the best defence is to attack.’

  ‘Which is better?’

  ‘You will make up your own mind. It will do you no harm to learn both ways. I will continue to show you my way until you ask me to stop, or I have shown you all I have to teach.’

  ‘That won’t be any time soon,’ said Corban.

  Gar grunted. ‘You will be teamed to a warrior in the Rowan Field, one that will begin your training. Usually Tull takes those on their first day, finds out what they can do, then he passes them on to whoever is free. But Tull is not here. Tarben would be best out of those still at the fortress–if you can learn to block his moaning from your ears.’

  Corban smiled.

  ‘If that does not happen, try for one of the newcomers, Halion or Conall. I have watched them in the Rowan Field. Both know how to hold a blade, though for you Halion would be better. The older one.’

  ‘Why him?’

  ‘He is a thinker. He will teach you to use this.’ The stablemaster prodded Corban’s temple none too gently.

  Days settled into a routine for Corban, the spring sun growing in its strength and lengthening the days, summer’s heat building early. He trained with Gar most mornings, and even though his body complained, he always came away with a sense of satisfaction. He was starting to feel a little stronger in his exercises and a little less clumsy in his sword dance.

  The rest of his days were filled with hot sessions in the forge, hours in the paddocks with Cywen and Gar, building a bond with his colt, and regular afternoons in and around Brina’s cottage.

  Gar had told him not to attend his usual pre-dawn training at the stables. It is a special occasion, he had said. So Corban had risen at sunrise and broken his fast with his family, although he hadn’t had much of an appetite. His thoughts kept drifting to the Rowan Field. He had looked forward to this day for so long, longed for it; but now that it was here, he’d rather wait a little longer. This business with Rafe had tainted it. He felt a pressure building behind his eyes and in his chest as his time to walk into the Field rapidly approached. Until finally Thannon ushered Corban out of the cottage door.

  They walked in silence, his da leading Corban past the feast-hall, the keep, the well passage, past stone buildings busy with people, then past stone buildings empty and dark.

  He heard the clack-clack of wooden swords striking each other before he turned a corner and saw the Rowan Field opening up before him. Green grass flashed bright in the sunlight at the end of a long path, rowan trees edging both sides of it, their branches crisscrossing overhead to form an arched tunnel. He stopped.

  So here he was, staring at the entrance to the most esteemed warrior training ground in all of Ardan, a place of mythologized grandeur that had a special place in the hearts of every boy in the realm.

  Thannon rested a large hand on Corban’s shoulder.

  ‘Here you are, son.’

  Corban nodded silently, took a deep breath and walked into the shade of the trees.

  A huge field unrolled before him, ending in the high stone walls that ringed the outskirts of the fortress. The sound of the sea and the calling of gulls underlay everything else–the noise of men sparring, practice sword beating against practice sword, or shield, or leather, or flesh. Corban felt the thud of hooves through the ground, saw at the far edges of the field warriors riding at each other, or running beside cantering horses. Closer stood rows of thick tree trunks, driven into the ground. Men were lined before them, some drawing bowstrings, some casting spears at the wooden targets. Closer still, men sparred in pairs, some with shields strapped to their arms, others with wooden swords held in two-handed grips, the grass worn and patchy. Around them were small clusters of men watching the contests.

  As Corban gazed around the field a warrior approached them. He was tall and gangly, long brown hair tied back from his face.

  ‘Name’s Tarben,’ he said as he drew nearer, nodding to the blacksmith. ‘This your first time in the Field?’ he directed at Corban.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is my son,’ Thannon said.

  ‘Normally Tull runs things round here, so it would be him that would welcome you to the Field, but as he’s away, playing at Elyon knows what, it’s fallen to me to be the overseer of the Field.’ Then the gangly warrior drew himself up straighter and spoke in a loud, clear voice. On the edge of his vision Corban saw heads turn amongst those watching the sparring, looking over.

  ‘Welcome, Corban ben Thannon, to the Rowan Field of Dun Carreg. May you learn the ways of a warrior while you are here, and may truth and courage guide your hand.’ He grabbed Corban’s arm in the warrior’s grip.

  ‘Good,’ the gangly warrior said, shoulders slumping. ‘Now that’s over. You staying, big man?’ he asked Thannon.

  ‘Not today.’ Thannon hesitated. ‘He’s my son. Any problems, I’ll not be happy.’

  ‘Aye, that’s been made clear already. Have no worries,’ Tarben said quickly. ‘There’ll be no trouble in the Field while I am here.’

  Thannon grunted, slapped Corban’s shoulder and walked away.

  ‘Come on, lad, follow me,’ and Tarben set off, striding briskly towards the mass of sparring warriors.

  ‘Mounted combat over there,’ Tarben said with a wave of his arm, ‘spears and bows over there, but Tull always starts the new lads on swords. Worked well enough for him, so let’s stick with it, eh?’ They pulled up before a row of wicker bins, the hilts of practice swords of all shapes and sizes protruding from them. Tarben took a long, appraising look at Corban, then delved into one of the bins, pulled out a battered wooden sword and passed it to Corban.

  ‘How does that feel, lad?’

  Corban swung the weapon, feeling the smooth wood of the handle, worn by countless years of use.

  ‘Good enough,’ he said.

  ‘Right. This is what’s going to happen, see. First, I’ll test you out a bit, see what you can do, then I’ll set you up with a warrior that’ll train you.’ He walked into the sparring area, searching for a clear space.

  Corban followed, glancing furtively about him. Mostly the people around him were concentrating on their sparring, but here and there he spied faces turned his way, eyes focused on him. Then he found Tarben standing ready in front of him, weapon raised. Filling his lungs with a deep breath, he stepped into the first stance of the sword dance and raised his weapon, one of Tarben’s eyebrows rising.

  ‘Begin,’ said the tall warrior.

  Neither of them moved, Tarben’s eyebrows lifting again. The tall man grunted and stepped forward. Corban stood side-on, sword held high as Gar had shown him. Tarben aimed a blow at his head. Corban blocked it, clumsily, nearly losing his grip on his weapon. Tarben slashed at Corban’s ribs. He blocked it, more comfortably this time. Another swing at his thigh–blocked. Tarben lunged, sword aimed at Corban’s chest, he blocked it, sweeping the wooden blade away as he slipped into another stance from the dance, moving around Tarben, trying to expose the warrior’s left side. Then he struck at the tall man. Tarben blocked him, and so it went on: strike, block, strike, again and again, Tarben’s attacks increasing in speed, the blows falling harder and harder, making Corban’s wrists ache and his shoulder throb, then he slipped. Tarben cracked his elbow and his own weapon went spinning from his fingers. Tarben stood there staring at him, face shiny with sweat.

  ‘Tarben.’

  They both turned, saw a warrior walking quickly towards them, coming from the rowan path. It was Marrock.

  ‘Pendathran wants to see you. In the feast-hall,’ he said.

  Tarben sighed. ‘All right, give me a moment,’ he muttered, rolling his eyes. He walked away, headi
ng towards a warrior who was standing on his own, watching the sparring. Corban saw a handful of people detach from the crowd gathered round the sparring ring. They began to walk over to him, Rafe at their head. One side of his face was mottled a dull green and he walked with a slight limp. Corban recognized some of the faces around him: Vonn, Crain, others he did not know.

  ‘So, the coward dares stand in the Field,’ Rafe said.

  Corban looked at the floor.

  ‘Well, coward? Got nothing to say? Maybe because you haven’t got your sister or da around.’

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened,’ said Corban, looking at Rafe’s bruises.

  ‘Sorry. Sorry,’ hissed Rafe, a vein throbbing in his neck. He took a step towards Corban.

  ‘What’s this?’ said a voice, not loud, but firm nevertheless. It was Halion, one of the two newcomers. The warrior looked at them, at Corban standing on his own, Rafe at the head of a handful of others, face twisted with anger.

  ‘Enough,’ said the newcomer. No one moved.

  ‘I said, enough.’ He placed himself in front of Rafe. ‘This is the Rowan Field; grudges come no further than the trees.’

  Rafe scowled at the warrior, then turned silently and walked away, the others following him.

  ‘What was that all about?’

  Corban said nothing.

  Halion sighed. ‘No business of mine, eh?’

  Corban nudged the grass with a toe.

  ‘Tarben has asked me to help you in your training. Told me a few things about you, Corban.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘That this is your first day in the Field. That you fight like you’ve been here longer.’ He had a practice sword in his hand, longer and heavier than the one Tarben had used. He dug the tip under Corban’s weapon still lying on the ground and flicked it back up to Corban.

  ‘Let’s see if I agree with him,’ he said.

  They sparred for a long while, Corban losing all sense of time as everything came down to Halion’s wooden weapon, its tip stabbing, edges slashing, testing, probing. Corban blocked and attacked as best he could, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not get close to the dark-haired, solemn-faced warrior who fought with an efficiency of movement that reminded him of Gar. Then suddenly Halion stepped back, lowered his sword and held a hand up. He leaned on his practice sword, looking intently at Corban.