Malice: The Faithful and the Fallen Series Book 1

by John Gwynne

  Corban began laughing too, picturing the thought.

  ‘We’ve taught her not to bite chickens,’ he said, ‘so I’ll just teach her not to bite you.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that. But don’t stop her protecting you. It could prove to be quite advantageous.’

  ‘I won’t. I’m teaching her “Friend” and “Foe”.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Corban walked over to Halion and knelt beside him, then called Storm.

  ‘Hold your hand out,’ Corban said to Halion, who squatted and did as instructed. Storm sniffed the warrior’s palm with her long muzzle, then growled.

  ‘Friend,’ said Corban. The growling stopped.

  Halion snorted. ‘Come, lad. She’s not that clever.’

  ‘My da says she is. He teaches his hounds this, though he said it takes them much longer to pick it up. Even Buddai. Said she’s very bright, and can pick out a scent better than any hound he’s come across.’

  Halion raised his eyebrows, but the disbelief in his face faded a little.

  Suddenly he looked beyond the cub, eyes narrowing, then stood, strode quickly towards the warrior weapons court. Corban hesitated a moment, then followed him.

  The weapons court was really just a square expanse of stone in the Field. It was the place where warriors sparred. Only those that had sat their Long Night were allowed to set foot on the stone.

  As Corban hurried after Halion he saw Tull standing out on the Field, like an old oak amidst saplings, two smaller figures before him. He blinked as he recognized Dath standing beside his da, Mordwyr.

  Of course, he thought, feeling a flush of joy. Dath’s nameday. His friend’s face was tight with excitement and concentration. Corban saw him grin as Tull took his wrist in the warrior embrace. At least I’ll have one friend in the Field.

  Halion reached the weapons court and stopped, folded his arms and stared.

  Two men were sparring, if you could call it that. One man was a whirling blur, in constant motion, the other clearly outclassed, struggling desperately just to defend himself. It was Glyn.

  The blur of motion around him stopped, the warrior laughing. It was Conall, Halion’s brother.

  ‘Guard your head, man,’ Conall said, smiling as he struck at Glyn. ‘That’s it. Now, right thigh,’ he shouted, ‘gut, left shoulder, throat.’ A split second after he spoke, his practice sword would whip out, slashing exactly where he had called. Warriors around the court began to chuckle, although others were frowning.

  ‘Left knee,’ Conall called, but this time his weapon caught Glyn on the wrist with a loud crack. Glyn’s practice sword dropped from numb fingers and the tip of Conall’s weapon was suddenly at Glyn’s throat, pressing upwards, under the chin. Conall sneered, took a step forwards, pushing Glyn back.

  ‘Next time you speak to my brother,’ Conall snarled, ‘you should be more polite.’ He pushed forwards again, and Glyn tripped as he stepped back, falling heavily on his backside.

  Conall hawked and spat at the man’s feet, then turned and stalked away. He grinned as he saw Halion, changing his course to approach his brother.

  Corban watched Glyn rise slowly, rubbing his throat, cheeks flushed, giving Conall’s back a murderous look.

  ‘Do you think he enjoyed the lesson, Hal?’ Conall said, breathing deeply, but still grinning broadly. Halion just watched him approach, until Conall reached him, wrapping an arm around his brother’s shoulder. ‘He’ll treat you better, next time you meet.’

  ‘I can fight my own battles, Con,’ said Halion.

  ‘You are too soft, big brother,’ Conall said, steering Halion away from the court. Corban and Storm followed them.

  ‘He insulted you, called you “outlander”.’ Anger flashed across Conall’s face, then the grin returned. ‘He’ll not be doing that again, I’d wager.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Halion said, ‘but you’ve made no friends out there today.’

  ‘Friends? I care not for friends. You are all I care about. My brother. Just the two of us, remember?’

  Halion’s face relaxed. ‘I know, Con, but do not forget, we are here by Brenin’s grace. Do not abuse that.’

  Conall looked grim. ‘I will brook no insult, to myself or my kin, regardless of whose favour I jeopardize.’

  ‘Have a care, Con. I, at least, have a mind to stay here. Your tongue and temper…’ Halion looked around, taking a deep breath. ‘As I said. I can fight my own battles.’

  Conall pulled his arm away from his brother, then left abruptly with a glare, heading for the arch of rowan trees.

  Halion stood and watched until his brother had disappeared from view. He sighed, looking down at Corban.

  ‘Come, lad. Let’s finish your training.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  VERADIS

  Veradis shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, sweat trickling down his spine. He passed a hand across his face, flicking the dampness from his fingers. His horse whickered and he leaned forward, patted her neck.

  ‘Damn heat,’ he muttered.

  ‘Aye,’ grunted Nathair, one hand shading his eyes as he looked into the distance.

  They were scouting ahead of the warband, sheltered in a dip two-thirds of the way up a steep grassy slope, looking over a wide, dark river: the Rhetta, he recalled Calidus telling him. He glanced quickly at the Vin Thalun, who sat a horse a few paces behind, the giant Alcyon standing silently beside him.

  ‘So, where do they cross?’ Nathair said quietly.

  Veradis shrugged and winced absently as his coat of mail chaffed his shoulders. ‘Rahim said there is only one natural ford, a league or so north of here.’

  ‘Aye, but that is guarded, so they must cross elsewhere.’

  Veradis squinted, his gaze following the sluggish course of the river, in the distance glimpsing the faint outline of a tower, the smudge of buildings around it. Rahim’s bastion–built to fight the Shekam’s raids, although little good it had done. ‘They are giants. Maybe they use sorcery,’ he said.

  Nathair said nothing.

  The river looked black from here, like congealing blood in an open wound. The land on their side of the river was green, lush, dotted with trees and flecked with bright flowers. A small village, single-storey buildings carved from white stone, clustered around a dirt track that led away west. There was no movement anywhere, the village empty and abandoned because of the Shekam’s savage raids. And on the far side of the river the land was marsh. Veradis took a deep breath and pulled a face. There was a sickly sweet scent in the air, as of food left out too long in the sun.

  ‘To slay these giants, we must find them,’ he said, as much to break the silence as anything else.

  Nathair gave him a sour look. ‘The obvious I am well aware of. But how to find them. We could stretch our warband the length of the river, but then we would be spread too thin for combat.’

  ‘My lord,’ said Calidus, and Veradis felt a stab of annoyance. There was something about the Vin Thalun’s insinuating voice that was beginning to grate on his nerves. He looked at the old man, studying him a while. His frame was lean, but muscle stood firm and knotted on his arms, his back straight, a strength in him that belied his silver hair. His eyes glistened in the glare of the sun. Veradis squinted, looking closer. What an unusual colour, he thought. They were amber, like a wolf’s.

  ‘Aye,’ muttered Nathair, still gazing into the distance.

  ‘We can help you, in the locating of any Shekam that cross the Rhetta.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You remember we discussed the use of our particular skill?’

  ‘Speak plainly, man. Do you mean the earth power?’

  ‘Aye.’ Calidus’ mouth twitched at the edges. Annoyance?

  ‘Then, yes, I remember very well.’

  ‘Alcyon and I shall stand vigil. We will know when the Shekam cross the river.’

  Nathair looked at him. ‘You can do this? You are sure? I would not wish to camp out, roasting my war
band in this heat, only to have you fail me.’

  ‘We will not fail you.’

  Nathair was silent a long moment. ‘Good. Then we shall wait upon your word.’

  More waiting. It had been almost twice a ten-night since they had set foot on the shores of Tarbesh now. Midsummer’s Day had come and gone, and the Meadow’s Moon passed into the Draig’s Moon.

  They had spent a handful of days at Rahim’s fortress, where the King of Tarbesh had held a feast in their honour. Then the warband had marched again, heading ever east. It had been clear almost immediately that Nathair’s presence here was considered more token than genuine remedy to the giant problem, although Rahim had sent some two hundred men from his own warband as escort, under the command of his battlechief. Nathair pulled on his stallion’s reins and cantered back up the slope with Veradis following. On cresting the ridge they saw their warband spread across a gentle valley with Rahim’s camp alongside, hide tents and cook-fires dotting the grassland.

  Dawn was not far away. Veradis shivered. Strange how the days in this land were so hot, and the nights so cold. He blinked hard, eyes stinging from tiredness. Leather creaked behind him and a horse whickered gently. Glancing over his shoulder, he glimpsed figures close to him–just–as solid, impenetrable shadows in the darkness. Some four hundred warriors were spread behind him, he knew, but he could only see a handful.

  They had ridden hard for what must have been half of the night. Earlier he had seen the giant Alcyon march into Nathair’s tent, Calidus cradled in his arms, and had rushed after them.

  ‘The Shekam have crossed the river, over a score of leagues to the north,’ the giant announced. They were headed south-west, so the warband could intercept them if it moved quickly. Calidus was exhausted from his scrying; some sorcerous effort, no doubt. Veradis felt the hairs on his neck stand on end at the thought of it, but still, here they were now, moments away from confronting the Shekam. If Alcyon and Calidus could be trusted.

  A huge shadow loomed out of the darkness.

  ‘It is time,’ the giant rumbled.

  Veradis dismounted, handed his reins to the warrior beside him, then turned and followed the hulking shape of the giant.

  They climbed a steep ridge and Alcyon dropped to his belly, crawling the last few paces to the crest. Veradis followed suit, grunting as sharp stones dug into his arms and knees. He drew alongside Alcyon and peered over the ridge, not that it did much good. Although an edge of grey was seeping into the air around him, the sky above turning a deep purple, the valley below was still cloaked in darkness.

  ‘Where?’ Veradis whispered.

  ‘From the east. Patience, little man.’

  More waiting. He wished the battle would just begin–the waiting was worse. He wiped sweaty palms on the coarse grass beneath him, looking across the vale to the vague outline of the opposite ridge, where he knew Nathair and his four hundred men were hidden.

  The darkness was thinning in the valley now, dispersing between solid clumps that slowly became recognizable: large boulders littered the slopes and valley floor, the odd stunted, twisted tree. He could hear the gentle trickle of water in the distance, where, he guessed, the village that the Shekam were bent on raiding was situated.

  Not this time. He smiled humourlessly.

  ‘They will come from there,’ Alcyon rumbled, pointing. Veradis looked at the giant’s arm. At the wrist, flowing from beneath a leather band, a dark tattoo swirled up it, circling great knots of muscle and sinew. Curved thorns were etched into the skin, the tattoo resembling a vine creeping up Alcyon’s arm. It disappeared at his elbow, covered by a half-sleeve of chainmail.

  ‘Why do you have that?’ Veradis asked, without thinking. The giant looked at his arm and grunted.

  ‘That is my Sgeul; my Telling, in your tongue.’ His voice was cold, flat.

  ‘Telling?’

  ‘Aye. The lives I have taken.’

  Veradis swallowed. ‘You mean, each thorn…’

  The giant grunted again.

  With an act of will Veradis stopped himself staring at the giant’s arm, from trying to count the thorns, and gazed back into the valley. He could see a thick wall of mist in the distance, in the direction that Alcyon had pointed. Veradis blinked. It was moving towards them, expanding, rushing like the tide up the valley’s floor.

  ‘They are come,’ Alcyon whispered.

  Veradis felt a faint tremble in the earth beneath him, then the muted sound of–drums? Surely not. The mist was immediately below him now, spreading on towards the village, like broiling storm clouds driven by a gale.

  ‘That mist…’ he mumbled.

  ‘Do not fear, little man. Be ready,’ Alcyon said. He began whispering, so low that Veradis could pick out no words, just a constant droning. He looked over his shoulder, saw his warriors, faces pale, anxious, all looking at him. In the valley the mist slowed as if hitting a barrier, churning sluggishly, then stopped. The drumming sound he had heard was closer now, a little louder, but still muted. It came from within the mist.

  The sun had risen, spreading across the horizon, a molten half-circle joined to the land. The mist below began to bubble and seethe, like boiling water, then it thinned, evaporating into the air, revealing huge shapes within. Alcyon dug his fingers into the ground, clenching handfuls of dirt. Wisps of smoke or steam curled up from his hands. He had not stopped whispering. As the mist thinned, his voice rose sharply, then abruptly fell silent. He slumped to the ground, face pale, glistening with sweat.

  ‘Strike now, Prince’s man,’ he grunted. ‘I will join you soon.’

  Veradis stumbled back to his horse and leaped into the saddle. Raising an arm, he dug his heels into his mount’s ribs, broke for the ridge, four hundred mounted warriors following him.

  His breath caught in his chest as he crested the rise. He had heard old men tell tales of draigs and seen drawings of them, but never viewed one in the flesh. The tales were no exaggeration.

  The beasts were huge, reminiscent of the lizards that he had seen sunning themselves on walls at Rahim’s fortress, but a thousand times larger. Their bellies were low to the ground, four bowed legs holding them up, splayed feet with curved claws like the swords of Rahim’s warband. Long, wide tails flicked behind them, but it was to their heads that Veradis’ gaze was drawn. Broad, flat skulls, long, square-tipped jaws full of razored teeth, the eyes small, dull, black. On their backs rode giants, dwarfed by the great beasts.

  The valley floor seethed with them, like a nest of snakes, almost impossible to count. Alcyon had said at least three score had crossed the river. Surely there were more here.

  He took a deep breath, squeezed his eyes tight. Remember the plan. He heard Nathair’s last words echo in his mind. The ants, remember the ants. He pulled hard on his reins. His horse reared, neighed wildly, and he joined his own voice to it, screaming with all his might.

  ‘NATHAIR!’

  The call was taken up behind him as he thundered down the slope.

  In the valley below, shouts of surprise rang out, then came strange-sounding horn blasts. Draigs roared, setting the very ground trembling as the giants and their mounts turned to meet their attackers.

  Only a few hundred paces between them now, then a horn blew out behind Veradis, this time a call he recognized. He turned his horse to run parallel to the giants. A quick glance saw those behind do the same; somewhere there was a crash, a horse shrieked.

  He reached for his spear, hoping all those behind him would be doing the same, found its smooth, worn shaft couched below his saddle. He cast it arcing into the air, followed by hundreds of others. They rose high, seemed to hang suspended a long moment, then plummeted to the valley floor. Many bounced from the thick-scaled hides of the draigs, or stuck quivering in leather-padded armour, but many more found their mark.

  There was screaming such as he had never heard before. A great cloud of dust rose up from the valley floor, shapes rose and fell, giants tumbled from the backs of draigs, d
raigs crashed to the ground, some roaring in agony, others silent.

  He dug his heels into his horse, urging her to climb the slope, racing away from the valley floor. Before he reached the crest of the ridge he leaped from his horse, slapped her hindquarters to make her run on, then turned, pulling his great round shield from his back, tugged his short sword from its scabbard, warriors all about him doing the same.

  Dragging in a deep breath, trying to slow the pounding of his heart, he gazed into the valley.

  Many draigs and giants were down. A few of the great lizards, riderless, were charging on down the valley towards the village, bellowing. Voices drifted up in the harsh, guttural tongue of giants. Draigs with riders scuttled forward, surprisingly fast for their bulk, forming a crude line that swept up the slope towards him–more than a score of them. Too many. Behind them he glimpsed giants on foot, taking great loping strides, pulling axes and great war-hammers from their backs. Tremors passed from the ground into his boots, up his legs.

  ‘SHIELD WALL!’ he screamed, taking a few steps forwards, trying to place himself at the front and centre of his men. All about him bodies pressed close, shields slamming together with dull thuds.

  So far the plan had worked perfectly. Many giants had been felled, with no warriors of their own down. Nathair was right. Using ranged weapons and staying alive was much better than looking a giant in the eye and dying. Still plenty of chance for that, though, he thought.

  Now was the time of telling.

  The draigs seethed up the slope, bowed legs powering their huge bulk forwards, raking claws sending great sprays of gravel and dirt arcing into the air.

  Three hundred paces between them and his wall of shields and men. He could feel, smell, the fear leaking from those around him, from himself. His guts churned and his legs felt weak, empty of all strength. Every instinct within him screamed to turn and run.

  ‘Now, Nathair, now,’ he muttered.