Malice: The Faithful and the Fallen Series Book 1

by John Gwynne

  ‘Good. Romar troubles me,’ Calidus said. ‘His loyalties…’

  ‘Aye, me too,’ Veradis agreed.

  Calidus looked wary, thinking. ‘He is a thorn in our flesh, Veradis. He opposes Nathair, resents our presence here. And, like a thorn in the flesh, he will not just get better. He will work his way deeper, cause infection, division.’

  ‘If he opposes the Seren Disglair,’ Akar of the Jehar said, his clipped accent prominent, ‘then perhaps his head should be separated from his shoulders.’

  Veradis snorted and smiled at Akar, thinking it a joke, though the thought had some appeal. But Akar just stared back at him with eyes cold and unreadable. Veradis’ smile faded.

  Calidus chuckled. ‘I shall reason with him,’ the Vin Thalun said, ‘before we consider anything more drastic. Besides, he has the Gadrai protecting him.’

  Akar snorted contemptuously.

  Veradis looked between Calidus and Akar, remembering Nathair’s words concerning them. ‘They have licence,’ Nathair had said, ‘to do as they see fit in my service. You command my warband, Veradis, but I have given the Jehar to Calidus. You are a warrior, Veradis, not a politicker. Fight the Hunen for me, let Calidus worry about the alliance. You shall both do what you have to do.’

  Romar was trouble, of that he was growing more certain, but a traitor? Of that he was not yet convinced. And Maquin and Kastell rode with him. He frowned, worried. But Calidus was one of the Ben-Elim, a servant of Elyon–surely he would do what was right? As he stepped under the shadow of the trees, Veradis felt a sense of foreboding, taking his first steps into Forn Forest.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CYWEN

  Cywen heard a whirring sound, a thunk like an axe splitting wet wood, and the guide tumbled from his saddle, a black-fletched arrow sprouting from his chest.

  ‘Shields!’ roared Tull, shrugging his from his back, then bellowed as an arrow sank into his leg, another piercing his horse’s chest.

  All was chaos. Cywen stared frantically around the glade. Warriors were shouting, crying out in pain, horses neighing, screaming as arrows tore into them from all directions. Half of the warriors had already fallen, either with arrows in their flesh or dragged down by their mounts. The rest were surging to Queen Alona, Cywen and Edana, trying to cover them with their shields, herding them back the way they had come.

  There was another burst of arrows, more horses screaming. Then red-cloaked men were pouring from the trees all about, a line of them barring the track they had ridden in on, others blocking the exit at the far side of the glade, still more converging on the huddle of grey in the glade’s centre.

  Two of those still on horseback charged the exit. One fell immediately, his horse’s legs slashed from under him, but the other crashed through, though he swayed in his saddle as his horse galloped away. Arrows skittered after him, Cywen not seeing if they found their mark or not.

  The gap in the line closed up instantly.

  ‘No use,’ Tull shouted above the din, standing beside Alona’s mount and holding his shield before her. ‘Back this way,’ he said, pulling the Queen’s mount towards the edge of the glade, between the two exits.

  A knot of their attackers suddenly crashed into them, some with spears. Tull roared, hacked at a shaft that pierced a gap in the shields and sank into the belly of Alona’s mount. He grabbed Alona around the waist as the horse reared and fell backwards. Gently he set the Queen down, then threw himself at their attackers. In moments two had fallen, one’s face smashed by Tull’s iron-bossed shield, the other clutching at a gaping wound in his gut.

  All of the horses were down now, Tull and a half-dozen others surrounding the women, backing away from their enemies. Cywen searched her protectors for Ronan, felt a surge of relief when she saw him holding a shield before Edana. She resisted the urge to reach out and touch him. Beyond Ronan there were grim-faced, snarling men all about them, circling the tight-pressed bodies of those trying to protect her. Men slammed into them. Iron clashed on iron and she heard the crack of bone, the thwack of iron cleaving flesh and men screaming, but still their small circle held. It moved back and left a handful of their attackers lying still on the churned grass.

  ‘I want the women alive!’ Cywen heard someone yell. Peering through the wall of her defenders, she saw at least a score of men around their few. Then the red-cloaked attackers were coming at them once more.

  Again there was a short, furious clash, Tull in the middle of it, roaring a battle cry. Cywen remembered her knives suddenly, fumbled one from her belt and hurled it at a face in a red cloak–saw him fall backwards, clutching at his throat.

  Then they were at the glade’s edge, a wide tree at their back.

  Tull and four other warriors in grey were still standing, one of them Ronan. Queen Alona, Edana and Cywen huddled behind them. She counted the knives at her belt. Three more.

  Their attackers had fallen back, but had penned them in. They outnumbered the men of Ardan, but none was keen to be the first to charge. Others still hovered at the glade’s exits, barring escape.

  ‘We cannot turn and run,’ Tull muttered, glancing over his shoulder into the forest. ‘As soon as we were amongst the trees they’d be on our backs.’ He paused briefly, thinking.

  ‘Right, listen close, we’ve only a few moments while they catch their breath, gather their courage. This is the way it is going to be,’ he said, fixing Alona with his gaze. ‘Ronan, Ised, when I give the nod you are to lead the girls into the forest. Ised, you’re the van; Ronan, rearguard.’ Both warriors grunted.

  ‘Me, Alwyn and Taren here, we’re going to buy you some time.’

  ‘No, Tull…’ Alona blurted.

  ‘It’s the only way. They’ll take you otherwise,’ he said. ‘And the rest of us’ll still be dead.’ He reached out and covered her hand with his. ‘If you run, live, then our deaths will have worth.’

  They looked at each other a moment, then Alona nodded.

  ‘Good,’ Tull said soberly. ‘You might want to throw another of those knives tucked in your belt, girlie,’ he said to Cywen. ‘With me, lads.’

  Then he was gone.

  He charged forwards, no roaring battle cry this time, the enemy seeming almost inattentive. A rush had been the last thing they expected. Taren and Alwyn, both older warriors like Tull, followed the first-sword of Ardan. They ploughed into their attackers, swords and shields swinging, smashing men to the ground.

  ‘Now, quickly,’ Ronan hissed, tugging at Cywen’s cloak.

  She freed another knife from her belt and cast it at a man poised to hamstring Tull. The man howled, staggered backwards, trying to reach the blade lodged in his back.

  Ronan grabbed her hand, squeezed it. ‘Please, come,’ he exhorted, one eye on Tull. She realized he was crying. She nodded and then they were dashing into the trees, branches whipping at their faces, following Edana’s cloak into the twilight. Cywen looked over her shoulder once, heard Tull roar his defiance, caught a flash of red cloaks at the centre of the glade, then she could see no more.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CAMLIN

  Camlin could not believe his eyes. The maniac with an arrow in his leg was charging them from across the glade.

  He had been distracted, seeing amongst the female faces one he thought he recognized. He knew for sure when she threw a knife, knew her as one of the bairns that had been present at his escape from captivity, back at the fortress of Dun Carreg.

  Then the keening of a blade slicing through air had registered, and he had seen that maniac charging at their line, other warriors following. Camlin stood at the end of the line they had formed around their almost-captives, saw the big man smash into the centre and Digased reel back, blood spurting from his throat. Then someone else, one of the new lads, collapsed, one side of his face ruined by a shield boss. There was confusion and shouting, the line he was part of pulling in to encircle the remaining Ardan warriors.

  Camlin moved in cautiously, shield hel
d high. He had learned quickly how dangerous this big man was, at least half a dozen of their crew having been slain by his hand alone. Then Braith was running from one of the glade’s exits, sword in hand. The new lads’ chief ran beside him, shouting something urgently, screaming it, with eyes wide, but Camlin could not hear him over the din of battle.

  Then one of Ardan’s grey-cloaks was down, still alive, though not for long. He clutched feebly at the grass, a red stain in the centre of his back. Then another grey-cloak fell, Cromhan’s sword in his belly.

  The big man roared, spun in a circle and threw his battered shield into a face. He swung his sword in great, two-handed sweeps until a space, a wide, blood-soaked ring formed around him. He grinned suddenly, face spattered with other men’s blood. ‘Who’s next?’ he roared, nostrils flaring.

  Braith and his companions had reached them now, the man with him still yelling.

  ‘… getting away!’ the man shouted, pointing.

  Camlin looked back and the women had disappeared. He saw a flash of movement amongst the trees, a pale face looking back at him, then it was gone.

  ‘All scared of an old man,’ the warrior at the centre of the glade panted. ‘Best all run back to your mothers.’

  One of the new lads stepped forward, a hard-faced, cold-eyed youth. He wore a coat of mail beneath his red cloak, looked like he knew what he was doing with a blade.

  The Ardan warrior nodded to him.

  They set at each other in a blinding flurry, the larger man moving shockingly fast. When they parted, his opponent had a gash in his thigh.

  The big man attacked again, his blade sweeping high, then low. He pushed inside his adversary’s guard, head-butted him right on the bridge of the nose. Red-cloak stumbled back, then his head was spinning through the air.

  The big man smiled at the corpse, rested a hand on his leg and gulped in deep breaths. He was cut in a dozen places, a broken arrow sticking from a thigh, his sword notched, but he seemed undaunted. He straightened, held his arms out wide and turned slowly.

  ‘Who’s next?’ he said again, spitting blood on the trampled grass.

  Not likely, thought Camlin.

  Then the big man’s eyes fell on the new chief. Scar, they called him, after the white gash on one cheek.

  ‘You,’ the big man whispered, eyes widening.

  ‘Tull,’ Scar said, dipping his head as if to an old friend.

  ‘So this is Rhin’s doing.’ He nodded to himself, taking note of the red cloaks. ‘Didn’t think Uthan and Owain had the stomach for this kind of work.’ He snorted. ‘Ready for your second lesson?’

  Scar smiled, a thin, humourless thing. ‘Much as I’d like to, I fear I will have to decline,’ he said. ‘You think me a fool? With your tactics? One last trick, eh? Every second counts, does it not, when an escape is underway?’

  Tull shrugged, then launched himself at Scar.

  ‘Braith,’ Scar shouted, and the woodsman slipped his bow from his back, nocked an arrow and loosed it.

  Tull grunted, the arrow sticking from his gut. He snarled, stumbled forwards, raising his sword.

  The next arrow took him in the shoulder, spinning him round. He righted himself, took another step forwards, then sank to one knee.

  Scar strode up and smashed his sword into Tull’s, knocking the man’s blade from his weakening grip. He stood over the kneeling man a moment, sword pointed at Tull’s heart, then sank the blade almost to its hilt in his chest.

  Tull coughed, blood filling his mouth, then Scar tugged his sword free.

  ‘Here endeth the lesson,’ Scar said, looking down at the dead man, then went to find Braith.

  Camlin looked away. The man had had courage, and more to spare. He hadn’t deserved those last arrows. Life isn’t fair, you fool, thought you’d learned that by now.

  Then the band of men slipped into the trees after their quarry, leaving their dead comrades in the silent glade.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  EVNIS

  Evnis looked out from the battlements of Uthandun and watched the last members of Queen Alona’s party disappear into the forest. Not long now. He felt a spike of fear, knew he was risking everything, now, with the next play of the dice. But it still felt good. He stood there a long while, then headed back down through the streets, down a shadowed alley, then through a door into a deserted house.

  He sucked in a deep breath, closed his eyes and sent his thoughts within himself. ‘Athru mise, folaigh mise, cloca mise, talamh bri,’ he muttered. There was a tremor, as if the very earth and air rippled. He staggered slightly, then pulled out a brightly polished bronze mirror to check the results of his incantation. The face of another, younger, man stared back at him now, skin unlined, with full, fleshy lips. He almost laughed in amazement at his own glamour, then reached for the package he had left the night before. A few moments later he emerged from the house holding a thick-shafted spear, wearing an iron helm and a red cloak.

  He smiled at the guards on the keep door, who grunted a greeting and let him pass unquestioned. Uthandun was full of red-cloaked warriors at the moment, a large honour guard having arrived with Owain from Dun Cadlas, so one more did not stand out.

  He walked purposefully through the keep, mounting the stairs to Uthan’s chambers until he faced the guard at his door. He continued smiling even as he rammed his spear-tip into the man’s throat. Evnis caught him as he fell and lowered him gently, dragging the body into a shadowed alcove.

  Uthan was a serious young man, he had discovered, old before his years and feeling the weight of leadership on his young shoulders. He was often alone in his chambers, and so Evnis found him. He was looking out of his window as Evnis slipped in through the door.

  ‘Is it time already?’ Narvon’s heir said when he heard the door open and close, still lost in thought.

  When no one answered, Uthan looked round, but it was already too late. Evnis grabbed Uthan’s hair, raking a knife across his throat in one brutal movement.

  Evnis stood there a moment, shaking from the sudden violence of the moment. He wiped his knife on Uthan’s shirt and gazed at the view recently admired by the Prince. A distant rider was moving erratically away from the Darkwood. Braith has done his job well, if that is one of Alona’s guards. Time to get out of here.

  He sheathed his knife, and exchanged the red cloak for another in his bag.

  The new cloak was grey.

  He gathered his energies, then began to sing, soft and quiet. The air rippled about him and he staggered. When he looked into his bronze mirror the face of Marrock stared back.

  He walked calmly through the keep, exiting past the two redcloaked guards.

  ‘Can I help you, friend?’ one of them said.

  He shook his head, made sure they got a good look at him, then spun on his heel so that his grey cloak swirled out behind him, and left quickly.

  He kept the glamour upon him until he was almost at the gates, then slipped into an alley to muster his power and reverse the transformation.

  Vonn was waiting for his father, sitting a horse and holding the reins of another. His son was frowning at him, whether because he finally suspected something or because they had recently argued about the fisher girl again, he did not know. He would have to sit down with his son soon, bring him into the world that Evnis was walking. But not yet. He was not convinced that Vonn’s youthful idealism had matured into something more practical, or where his ultimate allegiance would lie.

  He spotted the distant rider, closer now, swaying unstably in his saddle–and he wore a grey cloak. Definitely one of Alona’s guards.

  ‘Ride to Pendathran in the camp. Tell him Queen Alona has been attacked in the forest, that he should muster some warriors and ride out fast but without drawing attention. I shall take the wounded rider to Brenin and organize our evacuation. Owain is about to strike.’

  Vonn stared at him, looking uncertain, then galloped for help.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  C
ORBAN

  Corban walked through the glade of corpses. This was the band he had seen ride out–Queen Alona, Edana, Cywen flashed through his mind and he started frantically searching the glade, panic rising to choke him.

  Gar was ahead of him, checking faces, kneeling, checking for signs of life. He stopped near the centre of the glade, beside a familiar body, an open space around it ringed with red-cloaked corpses.

  Corban gasped as he reached Gar’s side and saw the man on the ground.

  Tull.

  The warrior’s lifeless eyes gazed past him, up at the blue sky above.

  Storm nudged his hand.

  ‘Cywen was with them,’ Corban mumbled, ‘and Queen Alona, Edana…’ he felt his stomach heave and swallowed, trying not to be sick.

  ‘Keep searching,’ Gar said, moving amongst the dead.

  Corban forced himself to look, battling the fear of what, of who he might find. Eventually he joined Gar by a great oak at the edge of the glade, Gar staring at a narrow, trampled track that led into the trees.

  ‘They are not here,’ Corban said.

  ‘No,’ Gar agreed.

  ‘What happened here?’ Corban whispered.

  ‘Our Queen was ambushed. By King Owain’s men–though that does not make sense,’ Gar murmured. ‘We are at their mercy at Uthandun.’ He rubbed his stubbled chin. ‘Anyway, Alona is not here. She and some others escaped. Fled this way, I think. Or they were taken.’

  ‘We must follow them, help them,’ Corban said.

  Gar looked at him, frowning. ‘I will follow the trail, Ban, but you must go back. Brenin must be told and help must be sent.’

  ‘What? No. Cywen is out there,’ he said.

  ‘No, Ban. It is too dangerous. And I will need help. There are too many of them for you or I.’ He shrugged. ‘You must go back.’

  Corban glared at the stablemaster, who returned his gaze calmly. They stood there in silence long moments, then the sound of mounted warriors filtered into the glade, growing quickly louder.