Malice: The Faithful and the Fallen Series Book 1

by John Gwynne

‘… so you see, Father, I have only ever had one goal, your goal, in mind: the defeat of Asroth and his Black Sun. I have just employed unusual means. Too often we are shackled by tradition, by ways of doing things. I say it is the results that matter. Sacrifices must be made for the greater good.’

  ‘I have heard that phrase before,’ Meical said, quietly, almost to himself. ‘A long time ago. No good came of it then, either.’

  ‘You speak out of turn,’ Nathair said coldly. ‘You are a counsellor. Speak when counsel is requested.’

  Meical stared at the Prince, only the slight flaring of his nostrils revealing a hint of his anger.

  ‘Meical is more, much more, than a counsellor,’ Aquilus said.

  ‘More? What?’

  ‘I was hoping to talk to you of that,’ Aquilus said. ‘But not now, not after this. Truth and courage, Nathair, I have tried to teach you their value, have I not?’

  Nathair just stared, dumbly.

  ‘Trust, Nathair,’ the King continued, both stern and sad. ‘Trust is vital between us. It is the mortar that protects us from Asroth’s schemes and deceit, that holds us together. And I no longer trust you. You–my only son.’

  ‘That is ridiculous, Father—’

  ‘Who was the Vin Thalun?’ Meical interrupted.

  Nathair paused, frowned.

  ‘The one that guided you through Tarbesh, the giant’s companion. What was his name?’

  Nathair shook his head. ‘It is of no import,’ he muttered.

  ‘What was his name?’ Aquilus said.

  ‘Calidus,’ Nathair breathed.

  Aquilus froze, speechless. He looked at Meical, who for the first time looked more than concerned, scared even. Then Aquilus lunged forwards and grabbed Nathair, shaking him. ‘Do you know what you have done?’ he snarled into his son’s face. Before he knew it, Veradis was stepping forward, his sword half drawn. A hand clamped on his wrist, the grip like iron, spun him.

  ‘Hold, Prince’s man,’ Meical said.

  Aquilus released Nathair, who stumbled back against the table, devastation on his face.

  ‘You would draw your sword on me?’Aquilus levelled at Veradis.

  ‘I… no, my King.’ He looked down, suddenly ashamed. Meical released him. With a click he pushed his sword back tight into its scabbard.

  Aquilus sighed, rubbed his eyes and walked to the open window. ‘Veradis,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, my King?’

  ‘I must speak soon with Mandros. Go, bring him to me.’

  ‘Is that wise?’ Veradis blurted. Mandros was the enemy, of that he was sure.

  ‘He has seen day turn to night, seen Halvor’s words proven true. He will be humbled, now, ready to join me.’

  Not if he is a servant of Asroth, thought Veradis. Not if he seeks to prepare the way for the Black Sun. Veradis glanced at Nathair, saw the Prince nod.

  ‘As you wish, my King.’

  ‘Meical–I would speak with my son. Privately.’

  Meical looked between king and prince. ‘Come,’ he said to Veradis, and together they left the room, Aquilus and Nathair regarding one another in silence.

  ‘Your loyalty is admirable,’ Meical said as the two men walked away. Veradis said nothing. ‘Take more care that it is deserved, though.’

  ‘Do you speak ill of Nathair?’ Veradis stopped abruptly, turning to Meical.

  ‘I speak the truth as I see it,’ the tall man said.

  ‘He is the Prince of Tenebral, and a better man you will not find.’

  Meical shrugged. ‘His decisions are questionable. The companions he chooses…’

  ‘Calidus is beyond doubt. It is you that concerns me.’

  ‘Me?’ Meical said contemptuously. ‘I live to serve Elyon, and his Bright Star.’

  Veradis grunted. ‘Your Bright Star is here, you fool. On the top floor of this tower.’

  Meical’s eyes narrowed. ‘You cannot think… Nathair?’

  ‘Ha,’ Veradis spat. ‘The truth has been before you all these years, yet you have failed to recognize it. I have an errand to run,’ he said, heading away to Mandros’ rooms. He did not look back until he reached Mandros’ door. When he did, Meical was gone.

  The King of Carnutan was a large-boned man, once heavily muscled but now turning to fat, a belly pushing over a thick belt twined with silver.

  Veradis informed him of the King of Aquilus’ request, and he came almost immediately, two warriors following. He still looked pale and shaken, as he had on the battlements, even after the sun had returned to normal. Not so mocking, now, Veradis thought.

  Veradis led the way silently back up to the tower to Aquilus’ rooms, passing Orcus, his personal guard.

  ‘Your weapon,’ Veradis said to Mandros. There was no way he was going to allow this man within reach of Aquilus or Nathair with a sword at his hip. He was still half sure that Mandros had somehow been behind Nathair’s collapse at the wall.

  The King scowled at him but unbelted his sword and gave it to Veradis.

  Nathair opened the door to Veradis’ knocking. ‘Wait for me,’ the Prince said as Mandros entered the room, then the door clicked shut. Veradis was left standing in the hallway with Mandros’ two guards.

  He leaned against a tapestried wall. It had been quite a day. He remembered Nathair’s face during the confrontation with Aquilus. The Prince had been devastated, had even shed tears. At least Aquilus was not like Veradis’ own father. Lamar would most likely have slapped him for such an unmanly display. Veradis felt a surge of sympathy for the Prince–so clearly driven by a need for his father’s recognition, his approval. He knew how that felt, had built walls against that pain long ago, but it was still always there, like a thorn in his flesh. He squeezed his temples. Everything had gotten so complicated.

  The King’s door opened, Mandros bustling through it, still pale, looking more haggard, if anything. His hands shook as he took back his sword and belt from Veradis. He closed the door quickly behind him and hurried down the hallway, his two warriors walking fast to catch him.

  As they disappeared down the stairwell Orcus looked at Veradis and frowned. The guard was right–something was wrong.

  Veradis went to the study door, straining to listen. No voices, only silence, then a coughing. Panic welled up and he shouldered the door open.

  Nathair lay against a thick table leg, propped on one elbow, blood staining his waist, pooling on the floor.

  ‘Ve—… Veradis,’ the Prince stuttered.

  ‘Orcus!’ Veradis yelled as he rushed to Nathair, kneeling. A knife hilt protruded from the Prince’s side, just below the ribs. Nathair plucked feebly at it, eyelids fluttering, face as pale as death.

  ‘Lie still,’ Veradis said.

  Orcus surged into the room, stood frozen for a moment.

  ‘The King?’ he said.

  Veradis just stared at him.

  ‘Where is Aquilus?’ Orcus shouted.

  ‘There…’ breathed Nathair, waving a hand.

  In shadows beneath the open window a crumpled figure lay.

  ‘No,’ Veradis whispered.

  Empty, lifeless eyes looked back at him.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CORBAN

  ‘What did you mean?’ asked Corban.

  ‘When? About what?’ Brina said, rolling her eyes.

  ‘At the feast, when you said “Circles within circles.” About Uthan and Kyla being betrothed.’

  Brina shot him a look. ‘Your ears are as honed as your talent for questions.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Corban smiled.

  ‘It was not a compliment. I meant,’ she began slowly, choosing her words carefully, ‘that things are not as simple as they appear.’

  ‘What does that—’

  ‘Ah,’ Brina snapped, holding a finger up. ‘I was going to explain, but if you insist on filling every moment that I pause for breath with a fresh question, then this conversation will end now.’

  Corban clamped his mouth shut with an effor
t of will.

  ‘Specifically what I meant,’ she carried on, ‘is that Gethin is forging his own links with the Kingdom of Narvon. Uthan is King Owain’s heir–so he will be King of Narvon himself one day, if he does not get himself killed first, and Kyla will be his queen. This is something that King Brenin may not be too pleased about. The brothers Gethin and Evnis are ambitious. They seek to elevate themselves and their kin within the kingdom, and beyond, it would seem. Evnis has been manoeuvring for Vonn to be betrothed to Princess Edana for years.’

  Corban grunted. For some reason he did not like that thought at all.

  Brina raised an eyebrow. ‘Imagine that, Evnis’ son married to a queen, Gethin’s daughter married to a king. Not a great leap for their blood to be sitting on two thrones, eh?’

  Corban nodded slowly.

  ‘People are such selfish little creatures,’ Brina sighed. ‘Always seeking to further their own position, no matter how small or petty.’

  ‘Not all are like that,’ Corban said, feeling somehow offended.

  ‘No? Well, maybe you are right. But look about you, Corban. Once you are aware of the particular shape and stink of human greed you will not fail to recognize an abundance of such behaviour. It can be quite depressing.’

  ‘People see what they want to see,’ Corban proclaimed, feeling almost wise.

  Brina looked at him sharply. ‘And where did you hear that particular gem of wisdom? Heb?’

  ‘Aye,’ Corban admitted begrudgingly. Brina just huffed and looked ahead.

  They were on the journey home to Dun Carreg, Badun three days behind them now. A cold wind had blown down from the north on Midwinter’s Day, and had not left, freezing the land, ice crystals in the snow sparkling around them. It was so cold that Corban’s ears ached.

  He was still in awe of all that he had seen at Badun. The duel between Tull and Morcant had taken his breath away, leaving him feeling both sick and elated, and then Midwinter’s Day had come.

  He wished he had seen more of it, from what Cywen had told him it had been amazing–and it was embarrassing that he had fainted. He was not looking forward to Rafe getting hold of that information. Somehow, though, he felt different, stronger. He had strange flashes of memory, as if something significant had happened to him, however unlikely it seemed.

  He didn’t know what had occurred between King Brenin and the other rulers–although Rhin had left soon after the sun had returned to normal. And now they were bound for Dun Carreg early the next day, the mysterious couple that had begged King Brenin’s Sanctuary travelling with them.

  Their journey back to Dun Carreg was uneventful, and Gwenith grabbed him and Cywen before they had even fully entered their kitchen, the smells of home assailing them. She hugged them long and hard, Thannon stepping in and wrapping his broad arms about them all, then she insisted on hearing every detail of their journey.

  ‘Welcome home,’ his mam said when they had finally finished. ‘No more journeying for a while, I hope.’ She hugged them both again.

  Frost-stiffened grass crunched under his feet as Corban followed Halion to the edge of the sparring court.

  ‘Shield-work, Corban, is not all about defence,’ Halion said, gesturing at two men facing up to spar on the stone. ‘Watch a while, and you will learn more than I can teach you with words.’

  Conall was on the court, dark hair pulled tight at his neck and a grin on his face, shield and wooden sword held ready. He faced Marrock, who was taller, leaner, the scar on his face looking red and livid against his pale skin. The huntsman also held a shield and practice sword. They nodded to each other and Conall instantly lunged forwards, Marrock retreating hastily.

  ‘You see,’ Halion said quietly, ‘how my brother uses his shield? Not just to block Marrock’s blade. He seeks to knock him off balance, to open his guard.’

  Corban nodded. As he watched, Conall caught a downswing on his shield, pushed up and back, shoving his shield’s boss at Marrock’s face. The huntsman jumped back, swinging his own shield into Conall’s side as the warrior surged forwards, unsteadying him.

  Halion grunted approvingly. ‘The shield can be a weapon too. In battle it would be iron rimmed, iron bossed. Strike your enemy with it and you may end it all there. Shield-work limits your choice of sword, though. Some men prefer a longer, heavier blade, which must be wielded two-handed. That will give you extra reach, more weight to your blows. To use a shield you must wield a lighter blade, unless the man is an ox like your da, or Tull. Such as they can have the best of both worlds.’ Halion looked Corban up and down, slapping his shoulder. ‘Your labour in Thannon’s forge will serve you well–strong arms and shoulders. You’ll not be as big as your da, I think, but you’ll be stronger than many.’ He stopped. Halion did not usually say much, except when talking of sword-craft.

  ‘Why did you stay away from the feast at Badun?’ Corban asked, remembering they had not been present during the feast and duel.

  ‘What? That was moons ago.’

  ‘So?’ shrugged Corban. ‘Everyone was there, and you missed the duel. I wanted to talk to you about it.’

  ‘I had my reasons,’ Halion said, his mouth tight. ‘Now pay attention.’ He turned back to the contest between Marrock and his brother.

  The two men were trading blows now, huge sweeps and fast lunges, blocking and striking repeatedly.

  ‘Marrock is well matched against my brother,’ Halion said. ‘He is a strategist, while my brother is a force of nature. If he weren’t so good his anger would have got him killed a long time ago. Some men are like that, Corban, you can see it in their eyes. That can be a weapon too. Men make mistakes when they are angry.’

  ‘I know. Anger is the enemy, as G—’ Corban paused. Halion glanced at him, but said nothing.

  ‘Would Conall choose to fight with a shield?’ Corban asked.

  ‘Sometimes. If the situation dictates it. He favours using two swords, or a sword and a knife.’ He grinned. ‘As I said, he’s not a patient man. He is fast, though, the fastest I’ve ever seen.’

  As if to prove Halion’s point, Conall increased the momentum of his attack, his sword arm blurring in Corban’s eye. He swept forwards, lunging with his shield, tucked his sword tight behind it, hidden from Marrock’s view. He swung his blade at Marrock’s ribs, checked the strike as Marrock moved to block, angled his sword down in a half-circle, beneath Marrock’s shield rim, then up, the tip of his blade digging into the huntsman’s gut.

  Marrock paused, looking slightly confused, then realized the contest was over. He dipped his head to Conall, who was grinning again.

  ‘Many think swordplay is about who is the strongest,’ Halion said, ‘and often I suppose that is true. But for the masters–those that plan to live the longest–swordplay is about deception. About making your opponent think you will strike from the left and then striking from the right, making him think you will slash but lunging instead. Deception. That is how Conall just defeated Marrock: his sword was not where he had made Marrock think it was going to be, so Marrock’s guard, his weight, his focus was elsewhere. And he used his shield to aid the deception. You see?’

  ‘I… yes, I do.’

  ‘The duel you mentioned at Badun between Tull and Morcant, well, even though I didn’t see it I heard about every blow.’

  Corban nodded enthusiastically. How could he ever forget?

  ‘Tull won that through deception, remember, flicking the rushes into Morcant’s face. He has a keen mind, Tull, as sharp as his blade. People think he just overwhelms his opponents because he is big, but that is not the case. He thinks. That is no small task when you are fighting to stay alive. Come, lad, now you’ve seen how a shield can be used, let’s see how you get on.’

  Corban followed Halion to the weapons racks. He had tried shield-work in plenty, but still did not feel wholly comfortable with it. His training with Gar was always with a two-handed practice sword. That was the favoured weapon of the stablemaster, and so that was what he felt mos
t at ease with.

  He glanced around the Field as he crunched across frozen grass, saw Tull standing tall before a handful of warriors that he was working with.

  His mam had been different since his return from Badun. He would often catch her staring at him, an unreadable expression on her face. And she was touching him more; not that she had never shown him affection before his journey, but now she would gravitate towards him whenever they were in the same room, even if it was just her fingertips brushing the back of his hand. Maybe it was because of his fainting.

  But she was not the only one paying him more attention. Wherever he was, he would see his da or Gar. When at Brina’s performing his chores, which had somehow settled into a permanent arrangement, Gar would be nearby working with horses in the paddocks; and if not in the forge with his da he would often feel the big man’s presence nearby, even when he was spending his meagre free time with Dath around the village. It was starting to annoy him.

  ‘Make sure your grip is good; it can make the difference between a broken arm or no,’ Halion said as Corban hefted an old, battered shield. Then they set to, Halion pushing Corban to think about every move, making him pay with a new bruise for every thoughtless mistake. It was not long before Corban’s arm was numb, his shoulder throbbing from the blows that had soaked through the shield into his arm. Halion grinned wolfishly at him. ‘That’ll do for the day, lad.’

  ‘Good,’ Corban grunted, sweat stinging his eyes.

  ‘You’re doing well. More than well with a blade, and your shield-work is not bad, either. We need to focus on bow and spear, though.’

  ‘Huh,’ grunted Corban. ‘A sword’s good enough for me. Warriors don’t use a bow–why do I need to learn?’

  ‘Because warriors need to eat,’ said Halion. ‘You won’t have food caught by other people for you all of your life. You will need to play your part. And, who knows? Maybe one day you’ll have to bring down your own meals. You’ll be glad of time spent with bow and spear then.’

  Corban didn’t answer. He knew there was sense in Halion’s words, but he was hungry to learn with a blade. There was just no honour in a bow, unless you were a huntsman like Marrock. He had already tried it, with Halion standing behind him, and done quite poorly. He’d taken the skin off his forearm with more than one mis-timed shot.