Malice (Faithful & the Fallen 1)

by John Gwynne

  His eyes swept the dockyard, snapping back to the unmistakable outline of a Vin Thalun galley moored alongside the other ships, sleek and low, like a wolf amongst unwary sheep. He was halfway to drawing his sword and turning his mount before he realized what he was doing. Even though King Aquilus had made a peace of sorts with the Vin Thalun – they had even been seen trading in Jerolin, Nathair riding out to welcome them – it was strange to see them walking amongst the people of Tenebral, stranger still to see one of their ships moored here, where they had only ever been the enemy.

  They finally rode into a hard-packed courtyard before the steps of a wooden hall. Veradis smiled at the gathering faces as he jumped from his horse, recognizing many. A lean, almost skeletal man stepped forward, Alben, his weapons-master. Veradis ran and embraced the man, who pounded his back in return. After a moment he stepped back, a wide smile sending more wrinkles bunching around the corners of his mouth and eyes.

  ‘Welcome home, Veradis ben Lamar,’ he said formally, looking the young warrior up and down. ‘You have much to tell me, I think.’

  ‘Well met, Alben. There is some to tell, aye, but later.’ He moved to the side, allowing Nathair to be seen, and spoke loudly. ‘I am sent with Nathair, Prince of Tenebral, to relay news from our King to my father. Where is he, Alben?’

  ‘Your father is within, awaiting you,’ the white-haired warrior gestured at the doors of the wooden hall. ‘Greetings Nathair, Prince of Tenebral. Lamar, Baron of Ripa and Keeper of the Bay, bids you welcome.’

  ‘My thanks,’ replied Nathair, smiling warmly.

  ‘My lord has commanded me to speed you to him, you and your first-sword.’ Alben glanced at Veradis, who felt a warm burst of pride in his chest at the words. He knows. So too then must Father.

  They were led up stairs to a circular room where two men were poring over a large parchment. Then Lamar, Lord of Ripa, looked up. Even stooped by age as he was, he was a big man. Age had had its way, though, in a fashion that Veradis had not noticed before. The skin of his face had a papery quality, hanging in places like melted wax, and, although still broad at the shoulders, his wrists and hands looked frail and bony, almost brittle. His eyes were bright still, sharp as a hawk’s, just as he remembered them.

  Beside him stood a slight man, much younger, pale-faced with dark greasy hair hanging in clumps. Ektor, his brother. He watched Veradis and Nathair enter the room, as a child would study insects caught in a jar.

  Veradis froze for a long moment, daunted by his father’s gaze, then he walked forward and dropped to one knee.

  ‘Lord,’ he said.

  ‘Rise,’ Lamar boomed in his deep voice. That, at least, was still unravaged by time.

  ‘My Prince,’ the ageing lord said.

  ‘Lord Lamar,’ Nathair replied, ‘my father sends his greetings, and more. He has bade me inform you of the recent events at Jerolin. Of the council, of its conclusions.’ His eyes shifted from Lamar to Ektor, who returned the gaze, unblinking, and gave a stiff bow.

  The sound of heavy footfalls drifted from beyond the doorway, growing louder. In a flurry, the door burst open, filled almost completely by the frame of a huge man who rushed into the room and swept Veradis up into an embrace.

  ‘Put – me – down – Krelis,’ wheezed Veradis, bones clicking in his back.

  ‘It is good to see you too,’ Krelis chuckled, looking Veradis up and down.

  ‘See here, Father, my baby brother has changed. You’ve had your nose broken – a good thing.’ He ran a finger down the battered ridge of his own nose. ‘I have heard tales about you: giant fighting? Are they true?’

  ‘Aye,’ mumbled Veradis, eyes flickering to his father.

  ‘More than that,’ Nathair said. ‘He leaped through a wall of fire, fought a giant single-handed to save me, followed me where none other dared.’

  Krelis dragged him into another embrace.

  ‘I knew it, little brother. You are the best of us. Destined for great things.’ He released Veradis, a huge smile splitting his black beard, moisture filling his eyes. ‘Still can’t grow a beard worth a damn, though.’ He winked as he tugged at the straggly whiskers Veradis had grown during the journey south.

  ‘Enough of your foolery, Krelis,’ said Lamar, ‘Prince Nathair brings us news from Jerolin. But, come, Nathair, unless you bring tidings of invasion, and I need muster my warband now, I bid you rest, wash away the dust of your journey. Eat with us this eve, and then tell us of your news.’

  ‘That I will be happy to do.’

  ‘Good, it is settled then. Alben will show you to your rooms.’

  Veradis turned to follow Nathair, then stopped. ‘Should I await your call, lord?’

  Lamar frowned. ‘Maybe on the morrow.’

  Veradis nodded sharply, hiding his hurt and followed Nathair’s fading footsteps down the tower staircase.

  The rest of the day passed quickly, and all was well with the horses and men, so Veradis and Alben took a skin of wine, some clay cups and sat on the stairs to the hall, basking in the hot sun.

  ‘Jerolin has been good for you, little hawk,’ said Alben. He had called Veradis that as far back as he could remember. Alben had been his sword-master, as he had been for all of Lamar’s children, training him from when he was only as high as the warrior’s belt. Veradis sipped at his cup, looking at the fortress walls.

  ‘You left an untested warrior, you have returned a leader; that is clear to see.’

  Veradis snorted. ‘It is Nathair who is the leader. We would follow him anywhere. He is a great man.’

  ‘Aye, I’m sure that’s true, but that doesn’t change what else I see. And Nathair’s words, just now . . .’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘You bring honour on us Veradis, on Ripa. I am proud of you.’

  Veradis snorted again. ‘What of my father? He did not seem so proud.’

  ‘Look around, your father is lord of all you can see. He has many cares.’

  ‘Aye, right enough, but he is still my father.’ Veradis shook his head. ‘I should not expect so much, then I would not be so disappointed.’

  ‘You know how you remind him of your mother,‘ Alben said. ‘Out of all your brothers, you are the most like her.’

  ‘And I killed her,’ Veradis whispered. ‘That is why he cannot bear to look at me.’

  Alben tutted. ‘Lamar loved your mother. Fiercely. When you love that strongly, reminders can be painful. It does not mean he has no love for you.’

  Veradis snorted.

  ‘I remember when you were a child, not much taller than my knee. You were always quiet, thoughtful.’

  ‘You’re confusing me with Ektor.’

  Alben drank from his cup. ‘No. I think not. Do you recall when you followed Krelis on one of his secret forays into the forest. He didn’t even know you were there until he put his foot into a fox-hole and snapped his ankle.’

  ‘Some of it, but not too clearly, truth be told.’

  ‘Aye, well, that’s not surprising. You could not have seen more than five winters. Anyway, you stayed in the forest all night, refused to leave him to the dark in case the spirits of the giants came and took him away. At first light you came back to the fortress. Your father was mad with worry. He grabbed you, held you as if he would never let you go. When Krelis told him that you chose to stay the night in the forest, thinking you were protecting him, his eyes fair glowed with pride. I saw the same look when we were brought the news about you becoming Nathair’s first-sword.’

  ‘He does know, then?’

  ‘Aye. For some time.’

  Veradis sighed, passing a hand across his face. ‘I do not know the man you are talking of, Alben. I have seen him look at Krelis the way you describe, often. But never me.’ He shrugged. ‘But you are getting old. Maybe your wits are deserting you.’

  Quick as a snake, the old man cuffed him round the back of the head, then the two of them laughed.

  ‘Sometimes it is hardest to see what is right in f
ront of us,’ Alben said quietly.

  ‘Some things have not changed. Still the riddles.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EVNIS

  Evnis wept as the last stone was placed on Fain’s cairn.

  The book had helped, for a while; the earth power restoring some of Fain’s strength for a time. Her smile had warmed him, kept the hatred at bay. But only for a while. Then her strength had failed, until she was only a shell of what she had been.

  And now she was gone.

  His son Vonn stood beside him, tall, keeping his grief within. Does he look to me for comfort, for guidance? Right now, I do not care. I have too much grief of my own.

  A ring of his warriors stood about him, spears held high, with all from his hold, to sing the last lament. But even here his thoughts returned again and again to his book: just the merest hint that he had mastered so far was like a drug, calling, consuming. With an effort, he wrenched his will back to the cairn in front of him. To Fain. His hatred flared bright, and now there was another to add to his list.

  King Brenin.

  Vengeance, a voice whispered in his head.

  I shall destroy him, he promised the voice.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CORBAN

  Corban rested a hand over his eyes, shielding them from the sun as he gazed back towards the river Tarin, where he knew his da was standing before the gathered hunters of Dun Carreg.

  Corban was about half a league from where the hunt was gathering, other boys near him arranged in a long, stretched-out line, facing the forest. All of them had entered the Rowan Field but were not of an age to attempt their warrior trials.

  Their task was to flush or beat the game into the path of those come to hunt. Drifting in the wind he heard the single blast of a horn, then a distant roar. His heart leaped – the hunt had begun. With a jerk he jumped forwards, seeing the beaters’ line lurch towards the forest. They reached the first trees and started banging their wooden rods together. The noise was immense. Distantly Corban heard an answering echo, the beaters on the other side of the hunters, then he was amongst the trees, the boys on either side of him flickering in and out of view.

  Walk slowly, keep beating. It was easier said than done, but nevertheless, slowly, step by step, he made his way deeper into the Baglun, beating his rods together as much as possible. In a short time the line of beaters became separated by trees and undergrowth.

  Some time later his belly rumbled. How long had he been walking and beating now? One thing he had learned about the forest was that time passed very quickly once you were inside it. He looked around, searching for somewhere to sit and eat. He heard the clacking of sticks, somewhere off to his right.

  ‘Farrell,’ he called out to a boy who had been nearest as he’d entered the Baglun, not wanting to eat on his own.

  ‘Aye,’ came the response, closer than he expected.

  ‘Over here.’ He moved in the direction of the voice. Soon they found each other.

  ‘Hungry?’ asked Corban.

  ‘Starved,’ said Farrell, the son of Anwarth, whom many called coward. Farrell was tall, broad and thick limbed, a shock of spiky brown hair framing a handsome, though sullen face. Corban had seen him in the Rowan Field, wielding a practice sword like a hammer.

  He sat on a flat, moss-covered stone, Corban with his back to a thick-trunked tree.

  ‘Bored yet?’ asked Farrell through a mouthful of bread and cheese.

  ‘No. I like being in the Baglun. But how long till we turn back?’ Corban asked.

  ‘Oh, we’ll hear the horns. Why don’t we walk together? Line’s broken anyhow, and one of us could beat while the other uses both hands to make a path. Less blood for the thorns.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ said Corban with a grin, and they set off soon after. Corban took the lead, Farrell behind him. He saw deer tracks in soft earth near a stream, and further on the marks of something larger, but he could not tell what. Wolf maybe. He looked around, suddenly wary.

  Deeper than I’ve ever been before, even when I got lost, Corban thought. Still, he was not alone this time; Farrell had done this before, and soon he switched with him. They came to a small stream cutting across their path. They jumped across, then Farrell pulled to a sudden stop and Corban ploughed into his back.

  ‘What’s wrong . . .’ Corban began, then a low, deep growl silenced him.

  Farrell took a step backwards, turned and bolted into the thicket, heedless of the thorns. ‘Come on!’ he yelled at Corban, grabbing his shirt and pulling. Corban staggered back and became tangled in the thorns as Farrell lost his grip. Then Farrell was splashing through a stream, leaving Corban snared, staring at what Farrell was running from.

  Wolven. Half a dozen at least were in the glade before him, snarling at him, baring dagger-long teeth. Each was easily as big as a pony. One of them growled.

  Terror, mind-numbing, icy-cold terror, flooded him. He opened his mouth to scream, to call for help, but nothing came out. In the distance a horn called. Hounds bayed in answer, closer.

  Behind him he heard movement, felt a presence. Farrell had come back.

  ‘You should have kept running,’ Corban whispered.

  ‘What – you stand while I run? Don’t think so. I’ll not be called coward.’

  ‘Better than dying.’

  ‘Not to me.’

  Before them was a small clearing, bordered heavily with thorn bushes and densely packed trees. In the centre of the glade reared the wide trunk of an ancient tree, in and about which were the wolven. Most were pacing, agitated by the sounds of the hunt, ears flat to their skulls, twitching. One was still. All were staring at him with their copper eyes. Then Corban saw movement on the ground.

  Cubs.

  On the forest litter, gathered together between two widespread roots, squirmed a handful of cubs. Above them stood their mother, her belly still loose, coat dull grey and striped bone white, teeth dripping saliva as she snarled at him. He looked into her copper eyes and remembered – although then she had been covered with thick black mud, and her belly had been swollen, heavy with pup. She was the wolven he had dragged from the bog. She took in a deep, long sniff, holding his scent.

  Another wolven, huge and black, snarled and took a step towards Corban. Muscles bunched as it prepared to spring, but the she-wolven snapped at it, a short, staccato bark.

  Corban’s eyes remained locked with the wolven standing over the cubs. Then the trees opposite exploded as hounds, men and horses poured into the clearing. Corban saw Evnis, tall on his horse, a heavy spear in his hand. Behind him rode his son. Next came Helfach the huntsman, his hounds about him. Warriors followed them: ten, fifteen – more pouring in all the time.

  There was a single moment of stillness, then the wolven threw themselves at the intruders, meeting Helfach’s hounds with a snarling collision of flesh and bone.

  There was blood everywhere. Corban saw a hound thrown through the air to crash against a tree, the sound of bones snapping as it slid lifelessly down the trunk. A wolven wrestled a horse to the ground, jaws clamped around its throat. Spears punctured the beast’s side, the rider screaming as his horse collapsed on him, its eyes bulging white. Elsewhere a wolven stood over a warrior’s body, canines dripping red, the man’s face and throat a red ruin. Hounds circled another of the great beasts, snapping at its hindquarters. One jumped in, squat and grey, clamping its jaws around the wolven’s throat. Razor-sharp claws opened the hound’s belly, spilling its guts. Other hounds leaped in and the wolven sank to the ground, snapping, twisting, biting, taking life even as its own bled into the forest floor. A man screamed, a wolven biting into his arm and shoulder, blood spurting as he fell, the wolven on top of him, shaking his body like a rag doll. Helfach leaped upon its back, a long hunting knife rising and falling.

  Then, suddenly, it was over, the sound of a man groaning, a dog whining, everyone taking deep, ragged breaths. Evnis slid from his horse and ran to the fallen rider, still pinned beneath hi
s dead horse. It was Vonn.

  ‘No,’ mumbled Evnis as he cradled his son’s head in his lap, the face pale, eyes closed. ‘I will not lose another. Come, help me.’ Men around him lurched into life to drag Vonn’s body from beneath the horse’s carcass, his leg broken.

  ‘There’s another,’ cried a man, and all heads turned to look where he was pointing. In between two thick roots of a tree, crouched amongst the leaves of the forest, was the last wolven. She crouched over her cubs, almost blending with the foliage around her. With a snarl, Evnis flew back into his saddle, taking up his spear, and threw his horse towards the beast. She growled and stood, then bunched her legs and sprang at the onrushing horse and rider. Her growl suddenly became a whine as Evnis’ spear pierced her, pinning her to the ground. She spasmed and then lay still. Evnis continued his charge, guiding his horse towards the huddle of cubs, trampling them, fur and blood flying around his horse’s hooves, squeals and yelps cut sickeningly short. He reached the far end of the clearing and turned his horse.

  Then others were entering the clearing: Corban saw Pendathran, Marrock, many others. Amongst the matted fur that had been the wolven cubs a flicker of movement drew his eye. Before he even realized what he was doing, Corban’s feet were moving. He staggered over to the base of the tree. One cub still lived, nuzzling feebly at the body of one of the other dead pups. Instinctively Corban swept it up, cradling it like a newborn child.

  Then he looked around.