Malice: The Faithful and the Fallen Series Book 1

by John Gwynne

  The dark-haired man looked away, gazing upwards.

  Suddenly, almost collectively, the crowd gasped. Veradis’ head jerked up, staring at the sun, shielding his eyes.

  Through the glare he saw something, an indentation, on the sun’s western rim. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. The mark was still there when he looked again, appearing like a curved finger caressing the sun’s edge.

  People cried out, pointing. Slowly, the black smudge grew, spreading like a stain across the disc of the sun. He shivered, blew out a long breath and saw it mist in the air before him. It was colder, dramatically more than when he had climbed the steps to the battlement.

  A sound, a movement caught his eye. Meical had staggered, was clutching at the black stone of the battlement. Beside Veradis, Nathair muttered something and leaned against him.

  ‘Are you well?’ Veradis said, suddenly worried.

  Nathair collapsed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CORBAN

  Corban gazed up at the sky, wondering what, if anything, was going to happen. The snow clouds were gone now, the sky a sharp blue, the sun pale and weak. He was stood close to the stone circle, amongst a crowd of onlookers. Brenin, Owain, Rhin and Rath were within the tall stones, though there was an icy gap between Rhin and Brenin.

  Corban was still filled with the excitement of the duel between Tull and Morcant. Both men were standing close to the circle, though Morcant had his head bowed, the cut on his cheek stitched now, raw and angry.

  Suddenly something changed. It was colder, Corban’s skin goose-fleshing. People were shouting, pointing. He squinted at the sun, saw a shadow creeping across it, like a veil being drawn. He felt light-headed, dizzy, and he staggered. Cywen was beside him, caught his arm and snorted in annoyance. Then his legs were too weak to support him and he was falling, his vision fading.

  He was alone, still at the stone circle. He walked into it, turning as he did so, looking all about. All was the same, yet different. Mist swirled about his feet. The sky was grey, the sun a leached, colourless brightness behind thin clouds. The stones seemed taller, more ominous, somehow, the Darkwood an impenetrable shadow before him.

  A figure appeared from those shadows, the man he had seen before, marching towards him, an urgency in his stride, his cloak billowing behind him.

  ‘It is time,’ the man said, smiling warmly as he drew near. ‘I have given you all the time that can be spared. Will you help me?’

  ‘Where am I?’ Corban mumbled.

  ‘The Otherworld. The place of spirit,’ the man said.

  ‘And who are you?’

  The man smiled, his eyes creasing. ‘Your friend.’ A smell touched Corban, decay, thick and cloying. ‘Help me.’

  ‘I-I don’t know,’ Corban said.

  The man grimaced, his mouth tightening. ‘I have been patient, but I cannot wait any longer. You are not my only option, you know.’ He gestured in the air.

  Corban saw a figure, transparent but clear, a curly-haired man, handsome, with striking blue eyes. He was walking alone on a battlement, staring out into an empty plain. Cords, chains, were wrapped around the man’s wrists and ankles, though loosely, moving with him as he walked. Corban felt a sharp stab of worry for the man. He is ensnared, yet does not know it. A wind gusted and the figure melted away.

  ‘Others can help me, but I want you.’ The last word was almost a growl. ‘You must make a stand, fight for what is right. Fight for me. If not, you will fight for someone else, eventually. I will not let that happen.’ Suddenly Corban felt scared.

  ‘I have no use for cowards,’ the man continued. ‘Courage is what I need. I can see the fear in you, can smell it.’ He took a long, languid breath, his tongue flickering out, as if tasting the air. ‘You must face your fear, defeat it. Do not be afraid of the task I set you.’

  ‘It is not the task that I fear,’ Corban said, looking into those ancient, amber eyes. ‘It is you.’

  The man frowned. ‘That is a shame.’ He looked genuinely saddened. His hand reached inside his cloak, resting on a sword hilt. Corban saw he was wearing a coat of chainmail, dark and oily, but as he stared, it flickered, looking for a moment like scales.

  ‘I have been patient. Decide. Now. Will you help me?’

  ‘I will not,’ Corban said, not knowing why; just that every sense within him was screaming ‘No!’ at the man before him.

  The man sighed, shook his head and drew his sword. Black smoke coiled around the blade.

  Corban turned and ran.

  Behind him the man screamed, full of rage.

  There was a sudden rushing of air, the sound of beating wings, and figures dropped to the earth about him, the wind from their leathery wings almost knocking him from his feet. Six of them, all wearing dark mail, carrying smoke-wreathed weapons, sword, axe, spear. Their faces were human-like, though sharp featured, with slitted, reptilian eyes. They converged on him, barring his path.

  ‘Please,’ Corban whispered.

  ‘Too late for that,’ the yellow-eyed man said behind him.

  A strange sound rang out from somewhere above–a horn call? Corban looked up, saw figures bursting through the clouds. They sped towards him, like arrows loosed from a bow, growing from pin-pricks to man-size in moments.

  ‘The Ben-Elim,’ growled one of the figures nearby.

  They alighted about Corban, broad wings of white feathers folding behind them; without a word they fell into savage combat with the creatures about him.

  The ferocity of it stunned Corban. There was no posturing or negotiating, only a primal, feral violence. One white-feathered warrior hacked through a shoulder, the blow continuing through a leathery wing. The creature screamed, collapsed writhing to the ground, black smoke issuing from the wound. A head rolled on the floor before Corban; all about him the clash of arms, grunts and battle cries of combat. Two figures took to the air, clawing, gouging at each other.

  Hands grasped Corban and suddenly he was being lifted into the air, great white wings propelling him skywards. He twisted but was held firm.

  ‘Be still,’ a voice growled in his ear.

  He looked into a grim, battle-scarred face, dark, purple-tinged eyes staring back at him. A hand reached out, touched his temple and he heard whispered words, then all faded into darkness.

  His eyes fluttered open. It was mostly dark, a soft light seeping into the edges of his vision.

  Where am I?

  He blinked, saw wooden beams condense, take shape in the darkness above, and realized he was lying on his back.

  Slowly he lifted his head and rose onto his elbows, tried to move his feet, but found that he couldn’t.

  A noise broke out above him, a flapping, a squawking.

  ‘Awake, awake, awake,’ rasped a harsh voice somewhere up in the rafters. A door opened, footsteps, a face filling his vision.

  Brina.

  She pressed a cool hand against his forehead, her skin rough. Fingers touched his temples and probed his neck.

  ‘You’ll live,’ she muttered, then smiled at him, which scared him more than anything else. He was far more accustomed to scowls from the old healer.

  Something moved at his feet, scrambled up the cot he was lying on and then his face was engulfed in fur, hot breath, a wet tongue.

  Storm. Smiling, he pushed her away and sat up. Cywen, Gar and Dath were hovering behind Brina, Dath’s gaze flitting between Corban and the roof, where Craf was hopping about on a beam, scratching the wood and muttering incomprehensibly. Gar looked about as worried as Corban had ever seen him.

  Cywen flung herself upon him, hugging him tight. He grunted, hugging her in return.

  ‘I was so worried,’ she mumbled into his neck.

  ‘What–what happened?’ Corban asked. ‘How did I get here?’

  ‘You just fell over, Ban,’ said Dath, moving closer, reaching out to touch Corban’s arm. ‘Right there in the snow. The sun turned black, and then you just fell over.’

  ‘Oh,
’ said Corban. Cywen released him from her grip and stepped back, wiping at her eyes as Brina bustled out of the room.

  ‘We didn’t know what to do,’ Cywen said.

  ‘Cy was screaming,’ Dath added over her shoulder.

  ‘We didn’t know what to do,’ Cywen repeated, shooting a glare at Dath. ‘Gar threw you over his horse and galloped you here.’

  ‘Where is here?’

  ‘The house we’ve been staying in,’ Dath said, sitting at the bottom of the bed.

  Brina returned, holding a tray in her hands, a cup and bowl on it.

  ‘Here, drink this,’ she said, passing him the cup as she hooked a hand under his arm and hoisted him, none too gently, into a better sitting position. Gar hurried to help.

  ‘What is it?’ said Corban, sniffing suspiciously at the steam rising out of the cup. He wrinkled his nose.

  ‘What do you think?’ the healer snapped.

  He frowned, sniffing again. ‘Hemlock, and something else.’

  ‘Huh,’ grunted Brina. ‘Hemlock and wormwood, if you must know. Now drink up. It will help.’

  Screwing his eyes shut tight he took a sip, wincing at the bitterness of Brina’s concoction, then held his nose and swallowed the lot. He thought he might as well, before Brina grabbed his nose and did it for him. He’d seen her do it too many times to those in her care.

  ‘Good boy,’ said Brina, smiling sweetly. ‘Now, eat this.’ She passed him the bowl and a wooden spoon. ‘Just oats, before the questions begin again. To fight any fatigue.’

  Corban nodded and began spooning the porridge into his mouth.

  Cywen laughed. ‘Well, Brina. You must teach me your secret. I have never seen Ban go along so meekly with something he does not want to do.’

  ‘I’ve only just woken,’ Corban mumbled, his mouth full. ‘She’s taking advantage of me.’

  Dath laughed, but it trailed off as Craf fluttered out of the darkness above, alighting on a bedpost at the foot of the cot, right next to Dath. The fisherman’s son eyed the crow warily.

  Storm nuzzled Corban’s hand, trying to stick her nose into the bowl of oats.

  ‘She wouldn’t leave you, Ban,’ Cywen said. Corban scratched behind the wolven’s ear and let her lick the last of the oats from his bowl.

  ‘STRANGER,’ squawked Craf suddenly in Dath’s ear, causing him to leap from the bed as if he’d just sat on a roaring fire.

  ‘Oh, hush,’ said Brina, waving a hand at the crow. Dath had gone bright red, his eyes looking a little wild.

  ‘How long have I been here?’ Corban asked.

  ‘Not long,’ said Brina. ‘You’ve been here as long as it takes to boil a pot and mash some oats.’

  ‘What happened to me?’ he asked.

  ‘You fainted,’ Brina said with a shrug.

  Suddenly a memory struggled within him, faint, like a moth battering against wooden shutters. He heard the sound of wings, smelt something rotten, saw purple eyes. Then it was gone. He passed a hand over his face, pressed at his forehead.

  ‘Can you smell something?’ he wondered.

  ‘Eh?’ snapped Brina. ‘No. And don’t change the subject.’

  ‘Is he well?’ Gar asked, frowning deeply.

  ‘Well, there is nothing seriously wrong, as far as I can tell. Other than his permanent ailments, that is: stubbornness, stupidity, spouting ridiculous questions, an ability to vex Elyon himself.’ She folded her arms and smiled again. Cywen snorted in agreement.

  Corban rolled his eyes. The less time Cywen spends in this woman’s company the better.

  ‘Why did it happen, though?’ said Gar, still frowning.

  Brina shrugged. ‘Many people faint,’ she said, peering at Corban. ‘A shock, lack of food, water, air, many reasons.’

  ‘See, Cy. I’m fine. And you don’t need to be telling Mam or Da about this. There’s no need to worry them, is there?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, Ban.’

  ‘Please, Cy. If it happens again, tell them. If it happens again, I’ll tell them. But it won’t.’

  There’s no point you two having this conversation,’ said Gar. ‘I’ll be telling your mam and da, as soon as we’re home. And talking of home, you all need to make ready. King Brenin has concluded his council with the other rulers. He is leaving.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  VERADIS

  ‘And you are sure that you feel well, now?’ Veradis asked Nathair, not for the first time. When Nathair collapsed on the wall Veradis had thought he had been victim to some attack–poison, or elemental magic. It had only been his utter panic over Nathair that had stopped him stabbing Mandros, then and there. He was convinced that the King of Carnutan was behind it.

  Nathair had been carried to Aquilus’ chambers and healers sent for. They had only just arrived when Nathair had woken, though. He had assured them that he was well and continued to do so every time that Veradis asked him, but he looked odd, somehow. Distracted.

  ‘I cannot believe I missed it,’ Nathair said, smiling. ‘All this time, waiting, and then I go and faint, just as the sun turns black.’ He shook his head. ‘Tell me again, Veradis. It did happen, didn’t it?’

  ‘Aye. Just as Halvor’s book said. Day became night. It was the strangest thing. It was not pitch dark, but close, and bitter cold, for a while.’

  Nathair paced to a shuttered window, thrust it open and breathed deep of the cold air that came swirling in, rustling amongst parchments that littered tables and tall scroll shelves covering the walls of the room. Veradis stood in silence, watching the Prince.

  Eventually Nathair turned. ‘So, it has happened.’

  ‘Aye.’ Looking out at the pale sky the whole episode felt like a vivid, freshly remembered dream. ‘What happens now?’

  Nathair crossed the room, sat in a chair beside an inkhorn and scattered quills. ‘First, I think it is time that I spoke to my father, about who I am. It is time.’ There was something in Nathair’s tone that caught Veradis’ attention. Something resolute.

  ‘You are sure?’ Veradis asked. ‘Now is a good time?’

  ‘Yes. It must be. Time is running away.’ Nathair nodded to himself. ‘And after that, we take control of this war, Veradis. We stop waiting for things to happen. We do. I will not sit idly by and wait for Asroth’s Black Sun to grow strong. I will take the battle to him.’

  Veradis rubbed his chin, itching his palm on the short, stubbly beard that he had been cultivating. ‘And how, exactly, will we do that?’

  ‘Finish what we have begun. Forge a warband the Banished Lands have never witnessed–an army, a fleet. Bring the weak to heel. I must have a firm grip on the land if I am to fulfil the task Elyon has set me.’ They fell silent as footsteps echoed in the corridor. The door opened and Aquilus entered, Meical behind him.

  Nathair smiled at his father, but did not rise from his chair. Aquilus just stood and regarded his son a moment, looking weary beyond measure.

  A silence fell.

  ‘Meical has returned to us.’

  ‘So I see,’ Nathair said. ‘A timely arrival.’ He looked at Meical. The tall, dark-haired man returned his gaze in silence.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Nathair asked him.

  ‘Tarbesh.’

  Veradis felt his heart suddenly quicken in his chest, thudding against his ribs.

  ‘Rahim was full of praise for you,’ Aquilus said. ‘Though he was most surprised with your methods. Using giants and sorcerers to track the Shekam, using a fleet of ships to speed your journey. Using the Vin Thalun.’

  Nathair looked away, eyes flitting across the rowed scrolls on the walls.

  ‘Have you nothing to say?’ Aquilus asked.

  ‘It was necessary.’

  ‘Necessary.’

  ‘Aye. Victory is what counted. I succeeded in the task you set me, Father. What matter the means?’

  Aquilus quickly closed the gap between him and his son, slammed a clenched fist onto the table, tipping the inkhorn. A dark st
ain spread across the tabletop, ink dripping to the flagstoned floor.

  ‘You lied to me.’

  ‘I did not lie. I withheld some of the details, true, but only for a time. I was going to tell you,’ Nathair said, a tremor creeping into his voice. ‘Father, consider the results; consider the possibilities…’

  ‘No,’ Aquilus said, voice controlled now. ‘You deceived me. You disobeyed me. I forbade your involvement with the Vin Thalun.’ The King seemed to falter and reached out a hand, steadying himself against the table.

  ‘Father, I… I am sorry. I did not mean to, I wish only to make you proud of me. All that I have done has been to win your favour…’ Nathair’s voice wavered suddenly, tears filling his eyes. He looked down to hide them.

  ‘My favour?’ said Aquilus. He shook his head. ‘You know what we face, Nathair, know what I seek to achieve. We must be ready for the Bright Star.’

  Nathair straightened and took a breath to speak, but Aquilus continued.

  ‘How can I trust you? Allow you into my confidences?’ The King sighed. ‘Now, tell me the truth of what happened in Tarbesh. I must know it all, before we talk of what happens now.’

  ‘What do you mean, what happens now?’ Nathair said.

  ‘Do as I command,’ Aquilus growled, dangerously now. Nathair glowered at him a moment, then began to speak.

  He told of their journey to Tarbesh, of Lykos and his fleet, of the information Alcyon and Calidus provided, though he took care to avoid any mention of Calidus’ name. He told of Rahim’s problems in finding the Shekam, of Calidus and Alcyon’s aid in finding the giants, of thwarting their sorcerous mist, of the battle. He told all except their journey to Telassar. That he mentioned not at all.