Malice (Faithful & the Fallen 1)

by John Gwynne

  ‘But how can I ever hope to win? Surely you would be inhuman to not feel anything.’

  ‘That’s right, lad, but it’s about control. About who is the master. All men feel fear, all men feel anger. Use it. Harness it like a packhorse to give you strength, but don’t let it cloud your mind and rule your limbs. Do you understand?’

  ‘Aye,’ nodded Corban slowly, ‘I think so.’

  ‘Good. When you control your emotions you can still think, and that saves lives. Part of a warrior’s skill is assessing combat before you are caught up in it. Can you beat Rafe?’

  ‘Not yet,’ grunted Corban. ‘Though I think I’d stand a better chance with a sword in my hand, after all that you have shown me. But anyway, I had no choice. Honour demanded I fight him.’

  ‘You always have a choice. Sometimes it is possible to retreat and keep your honour intact. You can duel with words as well as with swords or fists, you know. Words have a power all their own. Still,’ he added, seeing Corban’s downcast face, ‘he is older, bigger, much further along his training than you. You did well. Save for your wound. Your mam will be none too pleased about that.’

  ‘I know,’ said Corban ruefully.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Gwenith said as Corban sat down to break his fast, hands on her hips.

  His da was staring at him, Cywen gazing into her bowl of porridge. ‘I fell, Mam. It looks worse than it is.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Thannon, ‘for it looks very bad indeed.’

  A large bruise surrounded an angry-looking gash on Corban’s cheekbone, a brown-black scab not quite covering the cut yet.

  Gwenith laid a plate of honey-cakes on the table, then gently touched Corban’s cheek.

  ‘Don’t fuss, Mam, it’ll be fine,’ Corban mumbled.

  ‘You fell?’ she said.

  ‘Aye, Mam. I was on the rocks down by the beach, with Dath. It was wet. I slipped.’

  Gwenith stroked his face. ‘You must take more care.’

  ‘Aye, Mam.’ Corban did not look up for a while. When he did, Thannon was staring at him.

  ‘I could use your help in the forge, just for the morning,’ his da said. Corban nodded, and soon they were walking the stone streets of Dun Carreg. When they reached the forge they silently fell into their normal routine, the hound Buddai draping himself across the open doorway.

  Corban banked the edges of the fire, so the heat would be turned in on itself, then set to starting a flame, striking sparks from his flint into a small pile of kindling – twigs, straw, some dried moss and slivers of wood. When the spark took, he gave a steady, gentle pull on the bellows, flames springing up hungrily.

  The work began: the coaxing of raw iron into shapes that it would hold for generations. There was something satisfying in that, Corban thought, as he pounded with a hammer where Thannon directed, sparks flying, sizzling and spitting on his leather apron. Thannon doused the length of iron in water and steam leaped up in a hissing cloud.

  Time passed quickly, father and son lost in the rhythm of their work. Corban had just doused another length of iron, steam filling the room, when a shadow filled the doorway.

  It was Vonn, Evnis’ son. He stepped gingerly over Buddai.

  ‘Good day,’ he said to Thannon.

  ‘And to you,’ said Thannon.

  ‘My da’s smith is running low on dousing oil. He has sent me to ask if we might buy some from you,’ Vonn said.

  ‘I have plenty,’ said Thannon, and pulled out two big buckets, wooden lids on top to stop the oil spilling.

  ‘My thanks,’ said Vonn, making to give Thannon some coins, but Corban’s da held up his hand.

  ‘I’ll see your da after, we’ll sort out a price then.’

  Vonn nodded, pocketed the coins and picked up the buckets.

  As he left the forge he paused in the doorway. ‘I am sorry, for last night,’ he said to Corban. ‘I heard what Rafe did. It should not have happened,’ Vonn continued, nodding at Corban’s bruised face. ‘Rafe has taken a disliking to you, but he is not always as you see him.’ Corban stared at the ground. Vonn shrugged and walked on.

  There was a long silence in the forge, then suddenly Corban found himself lifted from the floor and his head shoved into the water trough. He struggled but Thannon held him with an iron grip, then he was pulled out, water flying in a glistening arc.

  ‘“I fell, Mam,”’ Thannon said and shoved Corban’s head back into the trough. When his da pulled him out this time he gave Corban a shove, sending him stumbling backwards, falling with a thump onto his backside.

  There was another long silence, the only sound water dripping from Corban’s bedraggled hair.

  ‘Your mam deserves better,’ Thannon growled. ‘Whatever your cause, lies are a coward’s way; and they are like poison. They bring death. Death of trust, Ban. Death of honour, death of respect. Two things,’ he grunted, holding up two fingers. ‘Truth and courage. Elyon gave us the power of choice. Choose those two and they will see you through. Maybe not easily, but . . .’ He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. ‘Now, why did you lie?’

  Corban took a deep breath.

  ‘Because I was scared, ashamed. And I don’t want you to think me weak, a coward.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Thannon, iron in his voice.

  He told his da the full tale, from Rafe taking his practice sword at the Spring Fair through to their encounter the night before. When he had finished Thannon just sat looking at him.

  ‘Do you think your mam would love you less for knowing this, or me?’

  ‘Love me less? No, but, think less of me, somehow, yes. Why not? I do.’

  ‘Come, boy, it is time for a lesson. Let me teach you the power of words,’ Thannon said, walking from the forge, Buddai following.

  His da set a fast pace, marching through the stone streets of the fortress.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Corban said, trotting to keep up, a sick feeling growing in his stomach. As they marched past the stables Cywen spotted him, and in a quick glance over his shoulder he saw his sister and stablemaster Gar following behind.

  The streets twisted and turned as they walked past the feast-hall, people looking at Corban and his dripping hair. Thannon eventually stopped before a large gateway.

  Corban suddenly realized where they were.

  Evnis’ hold.

  Most of the warriors were in the Rowan Field, so only one warrior stood guard in the courtyard. It was the man that had fought Tull in the sword-crossing at the Spring Fair. He was leaning against one of the gate columns. When he saw Thannon he stood straighter and gripped his spear more firmly. A red line ran across his nose where Tull had broken it.

  Beyond the guard and the gateway was a small open courtyard, then a short set of wide steps leading up to a squat-looking tower. Corban peered around his da, saw Evnis standing on the steps, talking to Brina the healer.

  The guard stepped in front of them. ‘What is your business?’ he asked, looking up at Thannon.

  ‘I would speak with one of your hold. Helfach, the huntsman.’

  Brina rode out of the yard, Corban trying to hide from the healer behind his da. Evnis saw them at his gates and walked over. Cywen and Gar caught up with them, his sister whispering in his ear.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Being given a lesson in the power of words,’ he muttered, receiving a blank expression from Cywen, a faint smile from Gar.

  ‘Stand down,’ said Evnis as he reached the gate. ‘Thannon, have you come for payment, for your dousing oil?’

  ‘That can wait,’ Thannon said, ‘I would speak to your huntsman. We have business to talk over.’

  ‘Really? Certainly, then.’ Evnis sent the guard in search of Helfach and disappeared inside his tower.

  Moments later Helfach appeared, a tall, thickset hound at his side, the guard behind him. Thannon strode forward to meet the huntsman, Corban reluctantly following.

  Helfach was tall, although not as tall as Thannon,
with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He had a wide, flat face with pale, watery eyes.

  ‘Come to see which of my hounds will begin the next hunt? Most likely Braen here,’ he said amiably, patting the grey hound’s wide back.

  ‘No, Helfach. I would talk with you about Rafe.’

  ‘What of him.’

  ‘It seems he has had a disagreement, with my son.’ He gripped Corban’s shoulder in his big hand and pulled him forward so that Helfach could see Corban’s marked face.

  The huntsman stared a moment, then shrugged.

  ‘So?’

  Thannon took a deep breath and carried on. ‘This is not the first time it has happened. Your son has seen almost two more namedays than Ban. He has had almost two years in the Rowan Field where Ban has not had one day.’

  The huntsman said nothing, just stared back.

  Thannon grunted. ‘Your son is bringing dishonour on himself and your hold. It should end.’

  ‘You should not involve yourself in children’s squabbles,’ said Helfach. He turned to walk away. Thannon’s hand shot out, gripping the huntsman’s arm. With a snarl, Helfach spun, wrenching himself free.

  ‘Do not touch me, blacksmith. Your hound is chosen to lead one hunt and next you think you can come here, in Evnis’ own court, and seek to lord it over me.’ He spat on the ground at Thannon’s feet. ‘Go back to your iron and your ash.’

  Buddai gave a low, rumbling growl and then Thannon’s fist crashed into Helfach’s face. He staggered back, falling to one knee.

  Chaos erupted.

  Everything happened at once. The two hounds leaped at each other, rolling away in a twisting, snapping mass of teeth and spittle. Helfach launched himself at Thannon, landing a heavy blow under the smith’s ribs, making him grunt. There was a flurry of movement and a crashing sound behind Corban. He turned to see Gar with his boot resting on the guard’s chest, the warrior lying prone on the floor with Gar holding the guard’s spear.

  Turning back to his da, Corban saw Thannon grab Helfach by his shirt with one hand and his breeches with the other, lift the huntsman over his head, ignoring the blows raining on him, and throw Helfach against the courtyard wall.

  The huntsman crashed to the ground, slowly began to rise. Thannon stepped quickly over to him and threw a heavy hook at his jaw. This time Helfach fell and lay still.

  Corban filled a bucket from a water barrel and threw it over the frenzied hounds. Thannon leaned in and pulled Buddai away by his thick collar. The grey hound limped over to Helfach, nuzzled him, then Evnis burst from his tower, staring around his courtyard.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demanded.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Thannon said, frowning. ‘I did not intend for this to happen.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘The power of words,’ muttered Corban and Gar threw his head back and laughed.

  Brina opened the door of her cottage as Corban rapped on it. She glanced up at the sun and ushered him in.

  ‘Welcome,’ she said as he delved inside his shirt, pulled out her comb and placed it on the table.

  ‘My thanks,’ he mumbled.

  ‘STEALER,’ squawked a voice in Corban’s ear, making him start. Craf was sitting in a dark alcove, beady eyes shining as he ran his beak through coal-black feathers.

  ‘No, Craf, you are mistaken. He is returning my comb, so stealer is incorrect. Borrower might be more appropriate.’

  ‘BORROWER,’ the bird repeated.

  ‘Yes, well. Did it serve its purpose?’ Brina said to Corban.

  ‘Not really,’ said Corban, still eyeing the crow.

  ‘But I thought it was required, as evidence.’

  ‘Yes, it was. But some people only believe what they want to believe,’ Corban said, touching his cheek.

  ‘Ah, I see. Well, be that as it may, now that you are here, let’s put you to work. Do you know your plants?’

  He looked at her blankly.

  ‘Plants, boy, plants. Can you tell the difference between vervain and foxglove, between hare’s foot and wormwood?’

  ‘Worm what?’

  Brina gave an exasperated sigh.

  ‘Useless,’ muttered the crow.

  ‘Today I shall show you. I hope that you have a brain in that battered skull, because next time you shall have to do it alone.’

  ‘Next time? Alone?’

  ‘Yes, boy!’ she yelled. ‘Next time. You don’t think that one fleeting afternoon is all that is required to atone for breaking into my home and attempting to rob me? Do you?’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Good,’ she snapped, and Craf opened and closed his beak with a loud crack, making Corban twitch.

  ‘And can you please stop repeating what I say. You’re behaving alarmingly like my crow.’

  ‘Alarmingly,’ said the crow.

  Soon they were out in the alder grove, Brina pointing to various plants, talking in an almost constant flow as she plucked leaves or pulled them up whole, roots and all.

  ‘. . . silverweed . . .’ she said as she passed a plant to Corban, who carefully placed it in a hemp bag that the healer had supplied him with.

  ‘. . . even though its flower is yellow,’ she explained. ‘It is named after its leaves, which are green, but, see these fine hairs on the leaves? Well, they give the appearance that the leaves are edged in silver, and hence the name.’

  ‘I see,’ said Corban, nodding sagely, trying to give his best impression of being interested.

  ‘And this is bittersweet. It has a small purple flower and red berries. Very good for old bones like mine.’

  ‘Why were you at Evnis’ hold?’ Corban said, finally gathering the courage to ask one of the many questions hovering in his mind.

  ‘His wife is ill. Very ill. I took him some seed of the poppy to help ease her pain. Surprised me, though,’ she said, almost to herself. ‘She looked better. Not healed, mind you, but better than the last time I saw her. And that does not usually happen to people in her condition.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Corban. ‘But I thought you were at the fortress to see to the outlaw from the Baglun.’

  ‘I was. But I can see more than one person in a day, you know. After all, I am a healer, so I try to heal people, when I can.’

  ‘He’s still alive, then?’

  ‘Yes, boy. For now. And if he can avoid another blade in the back. Do you always ask so many questions?’

  ‘Mam says I do,’ he answered quickly.

  ‘Well, that is not such a bad thing, I suppose. Annoying, but not bad.’ And so the afternoon continued, Brina educating Corban on the appearance and properties of plants, Corban asking questions, not usually related to plants in any way, whenever Brina paused for breath. Eventually they returned to the cottage and Brina set Corban to sweeping, which took him a while to get the hang of, but it did not stop him asking questions.

  As the sun was setting, Brina told Corban that he could go home.

  ‘When shall I come back?’ he asked.

  ‘Let me see,’ she said, tapping a tabletop with a long, bony finger. ‘Once every seventh night should be enough. Give the dust a chance to build up for you. And allow me time to gather my strength for your barrage of questions.’

  Corban smiled hesitantly, not sure if she was joking or serious. He nodded to her and walked away, heard Craf flutter onto Brina’s shoulder as she stood in the doorway.

  ‘Annoying,’ squawked the crow.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ he heard Brina say. ‘But in a pleasant kind of way.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  KASTELL

  Kastell walked through the open gates of Jerolin into the wide plain that surrounded it. Already it was beginning to empty, banners furled, patches of yellow grass where tents had stood. Many had left for home the day before.

  Home. That was a strange thought. He’d been away from Mikil for only a few moons, but so much had happened since he’d left, it felt more like years.

  Maquin belched
in his ear.

  ‘Always good t’break your fast, lad, an’ that was the best we’ll have for a while, I’m thinking. Best make ready for the journey home, eh? Wouldn’t want to be last in the saddle, give your cousin something else to moan about.’

  Kastell snorted. Things had not been going well with Jael. He had avoided the practice court since his run-in with his cousin, but Jael had still managed to root him out, and more of the usual had followed – goading, mocking. Somehow, and only by the slimmest of margins, Kastell had managed to keep his anger in check.

  ‘He left early this morning, again, hunting with his new friend, the Prince of Tenebral.’ Kastell hawked and spat. ‘They make a fine pair.’

  Maquin laughed. ‘Come, lad, you sound jealous. Anyway, Prince Nathair can’t be all bad, not if his man Veradis is anything to go by.’

  ‘Aye, true enough.’ They had spent some time with the young warrior since meeting him in the forest glade, usually over a skin of wine, Kastell experiencing the strange new sensation of making a friend.

  They headed towards their tents.

  ‘So what now? Back to Mikil?’ Maquin looked sidelong at Kastell.

  ‘What else is there?’

  ‘Plenty, for one with your skills, giantkiller.’

  ‘Joining the Gadrai’s a nice thought, if giantkilling gives entry to their band, but if it means fighting more of those Hunen, I think I’ll take my chances with Jael.’

  ‘You’d rather carry on like this, then?’

  ‘As I said, what else is there?’

  ‘Well, I’m not one for telling a man what he should be doing . . .’

  Kastell snorted.

  ‘. . . but no good is going to come of this. There’s trouble brewing between you and your cousin. Real trouble. Neither of you are bairns any more.’

  Kastell sighed, but said nothing. How could he argue with the truth? They finished their walk to King Romar’s encampment in silence.