Malice (Faithful & the Fallen 1)

by John Gwynne

  He knelt, prodded the carcass with the butt of the torch. The skin was thick, a layer of something slimy coating it, mucus, jelly-like. ‘What could have killed this?’ he muttered.

  ‘I’d rather not hang around to find out,’ Cywen said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  Corban frowned. The beast’s head was gone, the cut looking clean, no signs of toothmarks or tearing. Chopped off. By a weapon? ‘Agreed. But let’s go up, not down. We’ve climbed so far, we must be near the top.’

  Cywen looked at him dubiously, but nodded.

  Another archway led out of the chamber, ever up. They took it. Passages branched off it now, smaller ones, twisting into darkness. Corban stared into each one, imagining white snakes coiling in the gloom, waiting to strike. He ran his hand against the tunnel’s wall, in case they passed another glamour, and increased his pace. Eventually the passage came to a dead end, the rock all around them hard to the touch.

  ‘What’s that?’ Cywen said.

  It was an alcove, fist-sized. Corban held the torch close and peered in. There was some kind of handle inside. He reached in and turned it. With a hiss an outline appeared in the rock – a doorway. Cywen pushed against it and it swung open. They crept through and found themselves still underground, a dark pit opening up before them, with a path around it.

  ‘We are in the well-house,’ Cywen said.

  The well-house was where most of Dun Carreg’s water was gathered, and a short passageway led up to the fortress. Pale light, dusk, Corban realized, marked their way out.

  Cywen pushed the door closed and it snapped shut, its outline disappearing, just a rock wall.

  ‘There must be another handle this side,’ Corban said. They searched long and hard, eventually finding it in the actual well. Cywen had to hold Corban’s feet while he lay on his belly and wriggled over the edge to reach the alcove, just a darker shadow in the well-shaft. He tried it to make sure it worked: as soon as he turned it the outline of the door appeared in the wall.

  ‘Let’s get home. The moon’s almost out, Mam’s going to skin us,’ Cywen said.

  Corban closed the door; even its outline disappeared. They crept into the fading daylight, the well’s courtyard empty before them. Then they heard voices, footsteps, and darted into the doorway of an empty building.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CAMLIN

  Camlin stared at the wall, watching as moisture pooled slowly into a single droplet. It rolled down the rock face, its course changing as it encountered pits in the surface, until it eventually reached a horizontal edge. Here it hung awhile, suspended, clinging to the rim until another droplet rolled into it. Swelling, it tore away from the edge and tumbled through the air to burst on the stone floor.

  Camlin sighed. He hated it in here, just rock and stone, no trees or wind or sky.

  Grunting, he stood from his cot, stretching his arms overhead. He winced as skin pulled tight around his wound, reached down, tentatively stroking it, reassuring himself that it had not torn open. Although she had a sour tongue, he had to admit the healer had done a fine job. He’d seen men die of much less, especially once the fever took them. That was not an end he wished for himself.

  He grimaced.

  ‘Made me well so they can kill me properly, most like,’ he muttered quietly, pacing around the large stone room that had become his cell. ‘Still, alive is alive.’ He tutted. Talking to yourself, you old fool. First step to madness, that is.

  He frowned, suddenly remembering Goran’s face staring lifelessly at him from amidst a framework of wildflowers and meadow grass. That had happened a lot of late, remembering faces from the past: his mam and big brother, Col, both long gone now, other, nameless faces he’d killed in combat or ambush, and especially those of the crofter’s family near the Baglun. He shook his head, as if to dislodge the memory.

  Stretching out on the floor, he began doing push-ups until sweat was staining his linen shirt. Eventually, when his arms were quivering and he could do no more, he rolled onto his back and stared at the roof. It had been difficult at first, forcing his body to exercise, trying to regain his strength. He had been as weak as a baby, but solid hard work and stubborn determination was starting to pay now. His wound and fever had sheared what little fat had been on his body, along with a good portion of his muscle. It was the reflection of his face, which he had seen on his first walk past the well-pool, that had shocked him most: like a wax doll left out too long in the sun. Still, the effort was working; he was definitely stronger now, even if he had not put much of the weight back on yet. Given time, it would come. Especially if they kept feeding him so well.

  As his breathing returned to normal he heard noises filtering through the window above him. People were shouting, and feet were echoing on stone. Clenching a fist, he banged on the thick oak door of his cell. ‘What’s happening?’ he called.

  No answer.

  He resumed his banging, paused and then called out again.

  ‘Be silent,’ a muffled voice shouted from the other side of the door, none too pleasantly. He smiled to himself and pummelled the door some more, pausing periodically to call out.

  There were no more answers, so he sat back down on his cot, set his eyes back on the tiny channels of water gathering into droplets on the stone. ‘One,’ he breathed out as the first droplet plummeted to the floor. You had to do something in this cursed room of rock to aid the time in its passing.

  It was still daylight when the door to his room rattled and creaked open. Inside his cell it was semi-darkness, torchlight making his eyes sting. He resisted the urge to leap up, and forced himself to remain lying on his back, his only movement to link his hands behind his head.

  A hulking shape was first through the door. He recognized the man immediately.

  Pendathran. He had visited before, soon after the fever had left him. Camlin had answered none of the big man’s questions, and he had left soon after, cursing and splintering the doorframe as he punched it on his way out.

  Next through the door was Conall, the man who had felled two of his men back in the Baglun. Nevertheless, he respected the man and he had been one of Camlin’s regular guards on walks around the fortress.

  Light and air, the healer had said, and he needs to move, or he’ll die before you have a chance to try him.

  One last figure stepped through the doorway, tall and broad, though not so much as Pendathran, fair hair bound in a single warrior braid. Apart from a thick gold torc twisted around his neck, he was dressed simply in a white linen shirt and breeches.

  This man was a leader. Camlin knew it immediately; the way Pendathran and Conall fell in behind him, the way the man stood and looked at him, blue eyes clear and piercing, there was something of Braith about him, although they looked nothing alike.

  This must be Brenin.

  ‘Stand before your king,’ growled Pendathran. Camlin turned his head to look at the bear of a man and rolled up into a sitting position, trying to hide the effort it required, and looked intently at his thumbnail, picking at imaginary dirt.

  ‘He’s no king of mine,’ he said.

  Pendathran stepped forward, pulled his arm back. Camlin tensed for the blow, but it did not come. Looking up, he saw Brenin had laid a restraining hand on the bear’s arm.

  ‘True enough,’ said Brenin, ‘but I am still ruler of this land, and all that choose to enter it. And now you find yourself in the heart of my power. In a cell, surrounded by my shieldmen.’

  Camlin leaned back on his cot and said nothing.

  ‘I will not deceive you. On the morrow you will be tried before my people. The likely outcome is that you will die soon after.’ Brenin stared intently at Camlin, and the world seemed to shrink to just the two of them. ‘I would have answers from you. It is your choice whether you cross the bridge of swords and meet your maker with honest words or falsehood upon your lips. And let this be a further incentive for you to tell the truth. You have not felt the questioner’s tools because my
healer has deemed you too weak to take the strain of it. That is no longer the case. If I am not convinced that you are answering true then you will be put to the question tonight. You’ll still die on the morrow, but it is yet to be decided how you will spend your last night.’

  So then, an execution. And before that, torture. He had known it was likely, and that each day of breath was a gift, but still, hearing it spoken aloud, he felt cold.

  ‘What would you know?’ he said, glad that his voice remained firm, did not betray the fear gnawing in his gut.

  ‘Is Braith your lord?’

  Camlin drew a deep breath, the word ‘No,’ forming on the tip of his tongue. But Brenin’s words had sunk deep. He did not want to meet Elyon branded a deceiver. He had done things, aye, hard things, but right oft depended on whose side you were on. His chief gave orders, he followed them: there was no more to it than that. And no shame. He owed Braith his life.

  ‘Aye, Braith is my lord. But know this,’ he said, raising a hand, ‘I will tell you nothing that may bring him harm.’ For over ten years now Braith had ruled in the Darkwood, built them up into something much more than just masterless men waylaying travellers in a wood. He could remember clearly the day Braith had appeared, brought in by scouts, Casalu still their chief back then.

  Braith had been popular from the first, having a way of making men feel special, as if they counted. It had not been long before the camp had started to split, Braith’s supporters growing steadily. Casalu had got wind of a change and started sending Braith on the most dangerous jobs, but he had kept coming back.

  Eventually Braith had challenged Casalu. They decided it the Darkwood way, tied to each other’s wrist in a knife-fight. Braith became something different when he fought, something cold, savage. He had near taken Casalu’s head off. No one had challenged him as chief in all the years from then till now.

  ‘I thank you for your honesty,’ Brenin said, dipping his head to Camlin. ‘Your lord tried to kill me.’

  Camlin raised an eyebrow.

  ‘In the hills that border Carnutan and Ardan. Yester-eve.’

  Camlin shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Braith does not take me into his counsel. Though how are you sure?’

  ‘They were woodsmen, like yourself. It was an ambush, using bows.’

  ‘Cowards,’ muttered Pendathran.

  ‘But, as you can see, they failed.’

  ‘How do you know it was Braith?’ Camlin repeated.

  ‘We captured one of them. Tull – no doubt you have heard of my first-sword – can be very persuasive when he sets his will to it. The captive confessed.’

  ‘Aye. Well, what of it? You have been trying to kill Braith for years. Only fair he gives like for like.’

  ‘True. But do not think to judge us the same,’ said Brenin, an edge of iron in his voice. ‘I have hunted him only because he raids my lands, steals from my people, burns their homes, murders men, women, children. Would you accuse me of the same? Could you?’ Brenin’s eyes bored into him. Camlin tried to meet them, but found that he could not, and looked away.

  ‘A good man, Braith, you say. Well, maybe to those that follow him. But he has little honour.’

  Camlin wanted to answer, his dead mam’s face flashing through his mind, his murdered brother, but he could find no words, so he just glowered at the King.

  ‘Why did you come to the Baglun Forest?’

  ‘The Darkwood is getting crowded. Me an’ some of the lads fancied a change of scenery.’

  Brenin’s eyes narrowed. ‘Please, answer fair or not at all.’

  Strangely, Camlin felt a flush of shame. ‘Answer’s obvious,’ he muttered, looking at the floor. ‘Braith told us to come here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s truth in the answer I just gave. Darkwood’s filling up. Braith’s band has grown of late. Too many mouths to feed. So he decided it was time to branch out. We’re woodsmen, and the Baglun is the nearest large span o’ trees to the Darkwood.’ He shrugged. There was more to it than that, much more, but he would be damned if he would betray Braith. Not now, not ever.

  ‘There’s more you’re not telling me, woodsman,’ said Brenin.

  ‘Like I told you, Braith does not take me into his counsel. If there was more, he did not tell me.’ This time Camlin raised his chin, met Brenin’s gaze and did not look away. Finally Brenin sighed and nodded.

  ‘One last thing, then. There was someone, either here or in the village, that was helping you. Who?’

  Camlin’s mind raced. Brenin could not know for certain, yet he did not feel inclined to lie to this man. Half-truths were well and good, but not outright lies, not after this man in front of him had put the fear of Elyon into his bones.

  ‘There was someone. But I don’t know who it was.’

  ‘Is there anything you can tell me about this contact? It is likely to be in your favour. They may not be happy that you are still breathing, you being someone that could incriminate them.’

  Camlin thought of the men that had ridden up to him in the meadow, the one with the broken nose. He thought of Goran, stabbed in the back by them. He should not have died like that. But these were Braith’s contacts. It was for Braith to deal with their betrayal.

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I know that. But you’re going to do their work for them. If I lose my head on the morrow, you’ll most likely be putting smiles on their faces.’

  ‘So I should keep you alive, you think, to cause them sleepless nights?’ The King’s lips twitched at the edges,some amusement lurking there.

  ‘I’ve heard worse ideas, now that you mention it,’ Camlin answered.

  Brenin’s face changed, became stern. ‘You played a part in killing, murdering, people under my care. Men, women, lads too young to sit their Long Night.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I think the morrow will be your last day of breath.’

  The words stung. He had known what he had done, and this was not the first time he had done it. But it was part of a cause. A necessary evil. Many such evils were undertaken in war, for the greater good. But it still did not sound right, hearing it said so straight and clear. And he had not ordered the deaths of women and children. That had been an accident. No point saying any such thing, though. As if these men would believe him. He’d made his choice a long time ago, right or wrong, the day Col and his mam had died. He’d take the consequences. He gave a curt nod.

  Brenin rubbed his face, looking suddenly tired. ‘My thanks for your help.’ He looked around the cell. ‘You have been treated well?’

  ‘Aye,’ grunted Camlin. ‘Well enough. On your healer’s orders I even get walked once a day. I’ve the makings of a good hound.’

  Only Conall smiled.

  ‘Have you walked today?’ asked Brenin.

  ‘Nay.’

  Brenin looked at Conall.

  ‘They should be coming for him soon enough; my watch is almost up,’ said the warrior.

  Brenin looked back at Camlin. ‘Enjoy it,’ he said, leaving the rest unsaid but clear enough. It will most likely be your last.

  Camlin sniffed and Brenin swept from the chamber, Pendathran following, giving Camlin one last glower. Conall winked at him as he pulled the door too, the key rattling as it turned.

  Camlin sighed and lay back on his cot. So that was Brenin. He’d heard much about the man, growing up in a village in Narvon within sight of the Darkwood, and then joining Braith’s crew, back in the days when there were only a handful of them. Not much of what he’d heard of Brenin had been good. Couldn’t say he’d seen anything to fault just now, but they’d only shared a few words. Still, he’d always prided himself on being a fair judge of men and he hadn’t seen anything that stood up false in Brenin. Not liking that thought, he chose not to pursue it, instead rising and pushing his body to more exercise. Work the body, rest the mind, he told himself.

  Not long after, he heard the slap of footsteps in the corridor outside, then muffled voices.

  ‘Ready for our stroll
?’ he said to the man in front of him. It was Marrock, nephew to Pendathran, he knew that much. Camlin knew the procedure by now. He fell into step behind Marrock, hearing the footsteps of the other warrior, one that he had not seen before, echoing softly behind him.

  Soon they were outside the keep as dusk fell, walking a road that Camlin had come to know very well. He took a deep breath, tasting salt on his tongue. The street before him twisted and turned, the sounds of people in the fortress fading. Finally the stone courtyard with the great pool opened up before him. The courtyard was silent, as always.

  ‘Got your King back from the Baglun, then?’ he said to Marrock as they paced around the edge of the court, mostly just to break the silence.

  ‘Aye. No thanks to you,’ grunted Marrock.

  ‘I can’t take the praise for that, not as I’ve been enjoying your hospitality here.’

  ‘You and your kind is my meaning, which you well know,’ said Marrock, giving Camlin a sour look.

  Camlin was near to the pool now, so he took the final steps needed to reach it, scooped up the ice-cold water in cupped hands and splashed water in his face. As he blinked he saw the shadow of a movement behind a building. Frowning, he took a step towards it.

  ‘Stand, woodsman,’ Marrock snapped, ‘or you will feel my blade, no matter what the morrow has in store. And I promise you, there will be a lot more pain involved than you will feel from the headsman’s weapon.’

  Camlin froze. Suddenly there was a whistling sound and then two arrows were sprouting from the nameless guard – one from his throat, the other his chest. Blood fountained outwards, spraying Camlin’s face. The warrior plucked feebly at a feathered shaft, then fell forwards.

  Marrock twisted as more arrows flew from out of the shadows. One caught him high in the left shoulder, sending him spinning, crashing to the floor. Figures appeared: one, two, both wearing dark cloaks with hoods drawn. Dark iron was in their hands.