Malice: The Faithful and the Fallen Series Book 1

by John Gwynne

  Evnis headed straight for the basements. The tunnels had been boarded up for some time, after the encounter with the wyrm. But Evnis had known their value and had explored. That was how he had found the exit into the cave.

  They waited by the tunnel entrance, and soon Evnis saw the flicker of a torch, and heard the whisper of feet. Many feet. His messenger appeared, sent out alone before sundown. He was not alone now.

  A dark file of warriors slipped past him, filling the basement. Forty, fifty, more–all wrapped in black, curved swords jutting over their shoulders. One of them stood before him, waiting.

  See it through, he told himself. He stood and walked to the staircase. ‘To Stonegate,’ he said.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  CYWEN

  Cywen leaned against the wall and looked out into the darkness that surrounded the fortress. Rain lashed her, winds swirling and pulling. She didn’t care; at least it meant she was alone, away from others that didn’t understand.

  She was standing on the battlements above Stonegate, the night hiding the warband below from view. In the courtyard warriors were huddled about a guttering fire, four score men or so trying to keep the chill at bay. Others, little more than shadows, stood by the gates.

  Cywen sighed, a deep, mournful thing, and wiped moisture from her face.

  ‘Chin firm, lass, it could be worse,’ a voice said behind her. She started at a warrior standing close by, stepping out of the shadows.

  It was Marrock. ‘Least you’re not still in the Darkwood,’ he continued. ‘And you’re on the right side of this wall.’ He looked out into the darkness.

  She knew the truth of his words but could find nothing to say in response that didn’t sound petulant, so she just nodded and turned away. He looked at her a moment, then walked on.

  Absently she stroked the cold handle of a throwing knife, one of seven, strapped in a line along her belt. She was never without them now, not after realizing their worth in the Darkwood. Camlin, the woodsman, had returned one of them to her, saying it had ended up in his shield somehow.

  Every day since her return she had practised with them, imagining Morcant was her target. Unlike Corban, or Brenin, she had no outlet for her vengeance, was not permitted to fight. It was unjust, and made her feel so useless, with a battle-host camped in Havan.

  She glared over the walls, into the darkness and was about to turn away when she saw something. A movement, right on the very edge of her vision, where the darkness became complete. Leaning over the wall, she stared, strained, wiping rain from her eyes. Was that the drum of feet?

  Then there were voices behind her, in the courtyard. She turned and glimpsed Marrock further along the wall, now looking in the same direction as she was.

  A handful of warriors had strode into the courtyard and marched towards the fire, calling a loud greeting to warriors gathered there. She saw Evnis at their head, behind him a clutch of warriors from his hold, as well as Conall, Halion’s brother. That one walked with a swagger, all confidence.

  Maybe he felt her eyes on him, for he looked up at the walls, almost straight at her. He did not smile this time, though, as he was wont to do. She never made more of that than it was, having seen him behave the same with most women in the fortress, and no doubt all of Ardan beyond. This time he just stared at her, eyes narrowing, and began to walk up towards her.

  Then Cywen spotted men, issuing from the street behind Evnis, spreading silently around the edges of the courtyard, clinging to the shadows beyond the firelight’s reach.

  Cywen opened her mouth to shout a warning, and heard Marrock’s voice call out. Men about the fire looked to Marrock, then to the shadows, becoming aware of the creeping warriors.

  Suddenly Evnis had a knife in his hand, and was shockingly plunging it into the chest of the nearest man. Then the shadows burst into life, warriors charging forwards with sharp iron in their hands.

  All became chaos.

  Many were cut down in that first rush, not even having time to draw their swords. Those that did manage to pull blades free of scabbards didn’t do much better, the dark warriors carving through them with frightening ease. In moments almost two score men were dead about the fire as the warriors before the gate milled in shock, unsure whether to rush to their comrades’ aid or stay and guard the gate.

  Someone thought to sound a warning but the storm snatched the sound away as soon as it was made. It couldn’t have carried much further than the courtyard. Men of Ardan stumbled from buildings around the open space, clutching swords and spears. Many of these fell quickly as they were still unprepared, thinking Owain had sent a sortie against the gates, but soon the courtyard was a seething hive of battle.

  Marrock had gathered a handful of men about him from the wall, and was leading them down a stairwell, to aid those guarding the gate. The gate-guards were fighting with the desperation of the cornered, but the greater skill of the black-clad warriors was telling. If help did not come soon, the gates would be lost.

  Cywen remembered her knives, and hurled one at the warriors attacking the gate-guards. A man fell backwards with her blade in his chest. She aimed another into the massed enemy and another fell. The next blade was for one of those blocking Marrock’s way down the stairwell and the next saw another enemy on the stairwell collapsing. Then she snatched another blade from her belt and was cursing under her breath, scanning the crowd for a clear target.

  She became aware of noise behind her and turned, to witness the beginning of the end.

  Men were streaming across the bridge, weapons in hand, hundreds of them, and behind them more than she could count, their lines fading into the sheeting rain. Owain’s host had somehow crept up to the fortress in the darkness, and waited for this moment.

  She screamed, but no one paid any heed, either not hearing or too busy fighting for their lives. None except Marrock, who was being forced step by step back up the stairwell by a dozen black-clad warriors.

  With horror Cywen realized the gate was lost. Even as she looked, the enemy were shouldering the great iron-bound bar from its seating. She sent a knife into them, but it didn’t stop the bar from tumbling to the ground and the gates swinging open with a crash.

  All in the courtyard seemed to pause for an eye-blink, staring at the gaping gateway. Then, with a huge roar, Owain’s warriors poured through the open arch.

  ‘Get to Brenin, along the wall–he must know,’ Marrock shouted to her. Cywen stared, numbed by the shock of what she was seeing. Then Marrock was looking past her, shouting a warning.

  She recognized Conall striding towards her, sword in hand, his face dark with menace.

  Without thinking she hurled her knife at him. But he flicked his wrist, his sword sending the iron blade spinning away into the night. Cywen tripped as she tried to run.

  ‘Get back, lass, out of my way,’ she heard someone yell behind her, Marrock, trying to get at Conall.

  She took a step but suddenly she did not want to get away, let others fight in her stead, again. She sprang at Conall, trying to avoid his sword hand. He was so surprised that his infamous speed failed him, just for a moment, and then she was inside his guard, kicking, punching, scratching, biting. Conall stumbled backwards, and tried to grab her, but she ducked and rammed her head into his belly. He whoofed, but one hand managed to grab her hair, hold her close. Instead of pulling away she pushed, with all of her strength and weight. Conall was already off-balance, so he staggered backwards, a heel slipping out over the wall’s edge. He teetered there a moment, still gripping a handful of Cywen’s hair, flailed an arm, then fell, dragging Cywen with him.

  Together they hurtled towards the stone courtyard, towards a sea of warriors locked in combat. Cywen heard Marrock shout her name, somewhere behind and above, then, suddenly, all was darkness and she knew no more.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  CAMLIN

  Camlin gulped a last mouthful of mead from his cup, and shook his head when Tarben offered him more.
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  The feast-hall was quieter now, many having left for their own hearths and beds. There were still more than a few score, though, Camlin noted as he glanced around the room–mostly warriors, others in small clumps dotted elsewhere. The flames from the firepit were slowly sinking, sending flickering ripples of light and shade around the room. Camlin thought he could just make out that healer’s crow, who led them out of the Darkwood, gripping a beam in the far corner. He could almost feel its strange beady eyes staring at him.

  He glanced at Brina, sitting hunched in conversation with old Heb. As much as she scolded the loremaster at every opportunity, he could see there was an ease in their relationship. Torin and many from the village were also still here. And further away, in a dark corner, laughing, were Corban and his friends. They had been quick to support him, those two, when Corban had been threatened. Something about that scene had touched him. Friends that would guard your back in a fight were rare.

  Something still lingered in the air after that Court of Swords, a tension, an excitement. There was certainly something about that Corban.

  He chuckled to himself, looking at his own companions. He had gone from prisoner to warrior, most of those sitting with him now having served time as his guard. And even Marrock was one–he’d just left the hall to stand his watch on the wall–a good man, a good friend, a bitter enemy. Friend. He was still amazed by the turn his life had taken. Much as he preferred wood and sky to stone walls, he was glad he was here. It felt good, as if he were doing something right, instead of just what was right for him. Even though a good end to this siege was beginning to look more and more unlikely, he didn’t care.

  Suddenly the main doors banged open, rain and cold air sweeping in.

  Evnis stood on the threshold, breathing heavily, his face glistening with sweat or rain. Shadowed figures hovered behind him.

  ‘We are under attack,’ he announced. ‘Stonegate is breached.’

  There was a moment of silence, then noise erupted. Some were shouting, questioning, as others leaped to their feet, benches scraping and falling over. Brenin just blinked owlishly and strained to focus on Evnis.

  Camlin reached for his bowstring, wrapped in a leather pouch and began calmly stringing his bow.

  Evnis rushed through the hall, towards Brenin, and shared a quick glance with Nathair, a handful of warriors and men from his hold behind him.

  The sound of a horn blowing drifted in through the open doors, the wind swirling it around the hall.

  Brenin stood, swayed and stepped out from behind his table. ‘What do you mean?’ he stuttered, a hush falling over the room as all waited to hear Evnis’ words.

  ‘Owain. Somehow the gates are open,’ Evnis said, drawing close to Brenin. The King rubbed a hand over his eyes, and tried to stand straighter. Pendathran moved to steady him.

  ‘Take Edana to her rooms,’ Brenin said to Halion, and Halion managed to steer her a dozen paces towards the hall’s back before she pulled indignantly out of his grip, and stopped to listen to Evnis.

  Camlin realized that Nathair was somehow now standing beside Evnis. About a dozen of his guards, plus the dark-clothed warrior with the curved sword, were spread in a half-circle about Nathair and Evnis, mingling with others from the fortress and village. Camlin nudged Tarben’s arm, not liking something about what he was seeing.

  ‘How… how has this happened?’ Brenin said, shock starting to sober him up.

  A small group burst through the main doors. Camlin glanced over to see Marrock, a handful of warriors at his back. His sword was in his hand and dark with blood. ‘Evnis is a traitor,’ Marrock roared, ‘he has opened the gates to Owain.’

  The sound of swords being drawn filled the hall. Camlin looked back to Brenin, and saw one of Nathair’s eagle-guards standing with his sword-tip levelled at the King’s chest. Slowly, so as not to draw attention, he reached down beside his chair for his quiver, and reached for a black-feathered arrow.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  CORBAN

  Corban reached for his weapons, standing in the feast-hall beside his da, a scene of utter madness overtaking the room before him. Brenin was standing with a sword-point to his chest.

  A terrible silence filled the room. Then Halion drew his sword, the familiar scraping rasp drawing all eyes to him as he began to walk towards Brenin, slowly, deliberately, his eyes fixed on the eagle-guard with a blade at Brenin’s chest. Sumur padded forwards a few paces, and stood between Halion and Ardan’s King. His hand was on his sword hilt, but he did not draw the blade on his back. Instead he raised a warning finger, as if scolding a wayward child.

  ‘Hold, Halion,’ Brenin snapped. ‘Edana is your charge now. Look to her.’

  Halion paused, conflicted, as he looked between King and daughter, then nodded.

  Pendathran shuffled closer to Brenin, and received a warning glance from Sumur.

  ‘What is it that you think you are doing, here?’ Brenin levelled at Nathair, seeming suddenly more the man, the leader. He stood straighter, resolute.

  ‘You have left me little choice,’ Nathair said. ‘Firstly, you lied to me.’ The King of Tenebral stepped closer to Brenin, his stance threatening. ‘I gave you every chance, every opportunity, but it seems that you have chosen your friends poorly. I know that you spoke to Meical. Where is he, now, eh? He ran when my father died, and is absent now…’ He raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Secondly, you are going to lose. Owain has beaten you, though you refuse to see it yet. If I seek strong men for my alliance, then I would not look to you. Outwitted by Rhin and Owain. Why would I choose to ally myself to the losing side?’

  ‘Right and wrong stay the same,’ Brenin maintained, unmoved.

  ‘And thirdly,’ Nathair continued, ‘you question me about Mandros–dare to call me to account, demand an inquiry. I am King of Tenebral, High King of the Banished Lands. And more. I am Elyon’s chosen, the Bright Star. You do not question me.’

  ‘It appears I chose wisely,’ Brenin said. ‘Betrayal would seem to be in your nature.’

  Sumur lunged forwards, and slapped Brenin across the face. ‘You will not speak so to the Seren Disglair.’

  Angry murmurs rippled through the hall, but no one moved, the eagle-guard’s sword-point still pressed tight to Brenin’s chest.

  ‘What do you mean, betrayal?’ Nathair hissed. ‘What did Meical say to you?’ With a struggle he mastered himself. ‘As I told you before, my friends shall be rewarded, my enemies, punished. By hindering me, refusing me your aid, you chose to become my enemy. This,’ he said, gesturing at the sword-point at Brenin’s chest, ‘is the consequence of your choice.’

  ‘A fine logic,’ Brenin snorted.

  In the distance Corban could hear the sounds of battle, coming closer.

  ‘Of course,’ Nathair continued, ‘I could not have achieved this without some assistance. Evnis, at least, is one that has exercised wisdom in his choice of friends.’

  ‘Evnis,’ said Brenin, the sting of this betrayal clear to all. ‘Why?’

  ‘Fain,’ Evnis said, his voice shaking. ‘You sealed her death sentence when you forbade my leaving the fortress. Because of your politicking.’ He spat in Brenin’s face.

  The hall was silent, stunned as Brenin wiped the insult from his cheek. ‘Fain… You hide your greed behind a cloak of revenge, Evnis. Power is what you seek, and will grasp it where you can. Elyon curse you both.’

  Nathair intervened, bringing the focus back to him. ‘I mean you no harm, Brenin, but you have stood in my way.’ He shrugged. ‘If your people remain calm, sensible, then there need be no bloodshed. More specifically, they need not witness your blood being shed. We shall just wait for Owain to arrive…’ He listened to the growing sound of combat beyond the hall’s open doors, ‘… which does not seem too far away. Then I shall hand you over to him and we can all be on our way.’

  ‘You use words to cast a shroud over the truth,’ Brenin said. ‘Owain means for me and my line to be extinguished. You
know that. Whether by your hand or by Owain’s I shall die. But if my people fight, here, now, then at least my daughter, my line, has a chance of survival.’

  Nathair held a hand up, but Brenin suddenly lunged forwards, swiping at the sword held at his chest and slicing his arm.

  At the same moment there was a whirring sound, a wet thunk and the eagle-guard holding Brenin hostage collapsed, a black-fletched arrow sprouting from his throat.

  A stunned pause settled on all in the room, then mayhem erupted.

  Evnis leaped upon Brenin, reaching inside his cloak for something, the two of them staggering back into the table and crashing to the ground. Pendathran lunged towards Brenin, sword half-drawn, and collided with Nathair, then Sumur’s sword was whipped from its scabbard. Pendathran fell with a crash onto the table, his throat jetting dark blood. Nathair’s eagle-guards cut down Brenin’s honour guard and formed a tighter protective half-circle about Nathair and Brenin. With a shout from Rauca the eagle-warriors raised their shields and linked them into a kind of wall as fighters rushed to Brenin’s aid. Elsewhere, warriors from Evnis’ hold set upon their neighbours in the hall.

  There was another whirr, and a thud as an arrow found a gap between shields and another eagle-guard sank to the floor.

  Corban scanned the room, and saw Camlin drawing another black-fletched arrow from his quiver. Men from Evnis’ hold also spotted the woodsman and howled as they charged. But Corban was unsure where to join the melee. Brenin was fighting for his life, but Edana was also under attack, Halion was outnumbered, and his friends, Dath and Farrell, were also in danger. The hall was chaos, Evnis’ warriors seemingly everywhere.