Malice (Faithful & the Fallen 1)

by John Gwynne

  He raised a hand to his cheek and probed where Armatus had struck him. ‘He gave about as good as he got,’ he winced.

  ‘No,’ Rauca said firmly, shaking his head. ‘I don’t think so.’ He winked at Veradis. ‘You’ll have a reputation to defend now. Every warrior that thinks himself handy with a blade will be wanting to make a name against you.’

  Veradis grunted again, not liking where that thought took him.

  A door banged nearby and he looked up. King Aquilus strode through the hall, stern faced, weary looking, the skin under his eyes tinged grey, the lines in his face more pronounced.

  ‘Much rests on Midwinter’s Day,’ Rauca muttered, watching the King pass through the hall.

  ‘Is there word of Mandros yet?’ Veradis asked. The King of Carnutan had been invited back to Tenebral, to be in Aquilus’ company for the witnessing of Meical’s prophecy.

  Rauca shrugged. ‘I’ll believe he’s coming when I see him before me.’

  Veradis nodded. He was not sure he wanted Mandros in the same place as Nathair, anyway, not with this talk of Mandros being a servant of Asroth . . .

  ‘If he does come, I’m sure he’ll be well guarded,’ Rauca said, ‘not that his shieldmen would be a problem to you.’

  Veradis shook his head. ‘Have you received a blow to the head? I am not one of the Ben-Elim.’

  Rauca rocked in his chair, spluttering laughter. ‘My friend, I do not think you see yourself as you really are. True, you are not as handsome as me . . .’

  Veradis snorted.

  ‘. . . and that broken nose you sport has not helped you there. But . . .’ Rauca leaned forward now and gripped Veradis’ wrist. ‘Something happens to you when you draw a blade, even if it is only made from wood. You become fearsome.’ His face grew more serious, intense. ‘There is no one I would rather stand beside in battle, living or dead, than you.’

  Veradis looked away.

  ‘Asroth’s teeth, man, you even stood your ground against a charge of angry draigs. I almost wet my trews, and I was only sneaking up behind them and prodding them with my spear.’

  ‘I was too scared to move,’ Veradis said, smiling a little. ‘Besides, I was one of four hundred men. We all did what we had to do.’

  ‘Aye, aye,’ Rauca said, leaning back in his bench and shaking his head. ‘You are a rare man indeed, Veradis ben Lamar. If I was you, I’d be standing on this table, proclaiming my greatness to all who would listen, and enjoying the attentions I’d won.’

  ‘Then ’tis good you are not me,’ Veradis said, smiling now.

  ‘Aye, you are probably right.’ Rauca bit into a leg of lamb, tore a strip of meat, juices trickling into his beard.

  ‘So, where would you rather go?’ he mumbled, mouth full.

  ‘Go?’

  ‘In the spring. To fight giants in Forn Forest or outlaws in . . . Where are they?’

  ‘Ardan,’ Veradis said.

  ‘Yes, Ardan. Well?’

  Veradis shrugged. ‘I’ll go wherever Nathair chooses.’

  Rauca snorted. ‘I know that. But where would you rather go? Forn is the darker campaign, eh? More giants. A harder task than rooting out brigands hiding in treetops.’ He slurped from a cup of wine. ‘But more glory fighting giants than men, I would guess.’

  ‘Aye. I suppose so. I would not mind going to Forn Forest, though. I grew up beside the Sarva – one forest is much like another, I would think. And I made some friends who came from Isiltir, during the council. It would be good to see them again. You?’

  Rauca shrugged. ‘Remember that old man who taught me a lesson on the weapons court?’

  ‘Aye. How could I forget.’

  ‘He was from Ardan. Tull. I’d like a chance to even the score with him.’

  ‘You sure you can?’

  Rauca laughed.

  ‘No point worrying about it,’ Veradis said. ‘We’re warriors. We’ll go where we’re pointed.’

  ‘Aye, true enough.’ Rauca stood and cuffed his mouth. ‘Talking of warriors, there’s a fair few waiting for us. Time we went and knocked some more sense into our Prince’s warband, eh?’

  Veradis nodded, rose, chair legs scraping on the stone floor. The two friends walked from the hall into the soft-falling snow.

  ‘You did well today,’ said Nathair, reclining in an oak chair, torchlight flickering on the dark, shiny wood.

  ‘I . . . thank you,’ Veradis said, not meeting Nathair’s eyes. He looked around instead.

  They were in Nathair’s chamber, a large stone room situated in Jerolin’s tower, unshuttered windows looking out over the lake and plain. Night had fallen, lights from the village reflecting a faint glow from the snow-covered plain.

  Long tapestries hung on Nathair’s walls, from roof to floor. There was little furniture, other than an ornately carved bed, the two chairs they were sitting in, and a table with a platter of nuts and a jug of warmed wine standing on it.

  ‘I have been unhappy with how Peritus has been disrespecting my warband. We have earned respect, have we not?’ The Prince’s hand rose to the long draig’s tooth that hung on a leather cord about his neck.

  ‘Aye, we have,’ said Veradis.

  ‘It would have been unseemly for me to stand against Armatus, or any of Peritus’ supporters, but something had to be done. A statement had to be made. And what a statement.’ The Prince took a handful of nuts from the bowl in front of him.

  A silence grew between them, Nathair looking out of the window, systematically cracking nuts and eating them. ‘Much will change after Midwinter’s Day,’ he eventually said. ‘Once the prophecy has been fulfilled, things will be set in motion, choices made, and only half a ten-night away . . .’

  ‘Is there news of Mandros?’ Veradis asked.

  Nathair sneered. ‘No. He may come, he may not. I care little either way. I do not understand why Father runs after him, seeking his approval.’

  ‘It worries me,’ Veradis said, ‘what Calidus said about him – serving Asroth, the Black Sun . . .’

  ‘Maybe it is better that he come here. Friends close and enemies closer, isn’t that the saying?’ The Prince shrugged, worried. ‘I have thought often of our time in Telassar and Mandros’ behaviour.’

  Veradis nodded. ‘As have I.’

  ‘The Jehar spoke of another that had come to them, making claims. Do you remember?’

  ‘I do. But they spoke of sword-brothers deceived, of men that left Telassar. Looking for the Bright Star, I suppose. Looking for you.’

  ‘Well, they have not found me,’ Nathair said with a smile. ‘But it troubles me. Warriors of the skill of the Jehar, loose in the Banished Lands, serving someone else.’ He sighed. ‘We need to find them.’

  ‘We must talk to Calidus,’ Veradis said.

  ‘Aye. But he is not here, and my father, with his feelings about the Vin Thalun, means that it would not be wise to bring Calidus here, at this moment.’

  ‘Nathair, perhaps you could speak of this with your father?’

  Nathair shook his head, a single, curt movement.

  ‘But, why not? Surely it would make things easier on you. It is you that he is waiting for, after all, he just does not know it yet. Tell him.’

  ‘No.’

  Nathair drew in a deep breath, his body tense. ‘I spoke to you once, of living under someone else’s shadow. Do you remember?’

  ‘Aye. On the journey when we met Calidus.’

  ‘Yes. That shadow was, is, my father’s imagining of the Bright Star. This fabled person that he has spent his life waiting for, preparing for.’ He smiled. ‘Ironic, don’t you think, that it is me?’

  ‘Tell him,’ Veradis urged again.

  ‘No. I cannot. Father has believed for so long that this person is a stranger, that he will come to us. He would not believe me. Things are good between us, better than they have ever been. I have longed for him to look at me as he does now . . .’ he trailed off. ‘I would not risk that. Not yet . . .’

&n
bsp; Veradis could understand that, thought suddenly of his own da. He had felt just as Nathair, once. No longer, though. His feelings for his father were buried deep, complex and without joy.

  ‘But, he is wrong. It is you that Elyon has chosen; you that Elyon speaks to.’

  Nathair shrugged. ‘Aye. But he must realize this in his own time. The truth will out – as he is so fond of saying.’

  ‘Yes, including how we travelled to Tarbesh. The men have kept your secret so far, but how much longer? It would be better if he heard these things from you, surely. And, Nathair, things would be so different if he realized, if he knew that you are the Bright Star.’

  Nathair held a hand up. ‘He has been set in this a long time, Veradis. There is time. I will give him time, before I need assert my station.’

  A gust of cold air blew through the open window. Torchlight flickered across Nathair’s face, sheets of darkness and light sweeping the contours of his features.

  Veradis thought of Meical, his pale, enigmatic face, his dark eyes. The King’s counsellor. He was the key to Aquilus’ stance on the prophecy.

  A soft tapping on the door startled them both.

  ‘Enter,’ Nathair called.

  Fidele opened the door, closing it quietly behind her. She paused when she saw Veradis.

  ‘I had hoped to speak with you,’ she said to Nathair.

  ‘Of course, Mother. I was just sharing a jug of warm wine with Veradis.’ He smiled. Veradis stood and offered Fidele his chair.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said. There was a tightness in her voice and face.

  ‘What is it, Mother?’ Nathair said. ‘What troubles you?’

  Fidele glanced at Veradis. ‘I thought I would find you alone,’ she said.

  ‘Whatever you would say to me, you can say in front of Veradis. He is as a brother to me.’

  ‘Very well, then,’ she said, with the slightest of shrugs. ‘I have heard unsettling things. Rumours.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Nathair.

  ‘Of your campaign, in Tarbesh.’

  Nathair remained silent, waiting.

  The Queen drew in a breath. ‘I have heard talk of sorcery, of giants, numbered amongst your warband; talk of enchanted mists, of a mysterious fleet of ships. I have heard the Vin Thalun spoken of.’

  Mother and son stared at each other.

  ‘Who has said these things?’ he said. ‘Peritus? You know he seeks to undermine me, fears my growing authority.’

  ‘It matters not where I heard these rumours,’ Fidele snapped. ‘Are they true?’

  ‘Where did you hear these things?’ Nathair repeated. ‘If there was truth in these, these tales, why are they whispered behind my back? I would see my accuser.’

  Doubt touched Fidele’s eyes. ‘So, you deny them?’ she said, her voice less firm. Hopeful.

  ‘I deny nothing. I am a man grown now, a prince. A child no longer. I will make judgements, decisions as I see fit. And I would know who seeks to slander me, who seeks to drive a wedge between my father and me.’

  The queen shook her head. ‘Nathair, do not forget all that I said to you, before you left. If you have any involvement, any ties with the Vin Thalun, lay them aside. It will go ill with you, if, when your father knows the truth of it.’ She stood tall, queenly now and cold. ‘You are prince, not king. A son, not a father. Obey your King, obey your father in this. Do not seek to test him. These times are heavy enough on him without his own son . . .’ She looked troubled. ‘Do what is right,’ she said, almost pleading now, then left.

  ‘I shall,’ Nathair whispered to the closed door.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CORBAN

  Corban squinted as he looked up at the cloudless sky, the sun a pale, watery, distant thing.

  It was cold; his skin felt tight. Snow was coming, thick, heavy clouds gathering on the horizon beyond the distant line of the coast and out over the iron-grey sea.

  This was not the weather to be travelling in, but here he was, six nights out from Dun Carreg, riding on the giantsway with King Brenin at the head of their column.

  They were heading for Badun, a fortress close to the stone circle, to witness the prophecy that Edana had told him of, when day becomes night. Apparently Rhin, Queen of Cambren, as well as the kings of Narvon and Domhain would be there, come at Brenin’s call to discuss the clearing of the Darkwood, along with other issues, all related somehow to the council in Tenebral that King Brenin had attended.

  They had travelled east for five nights, skirting the surf-beaten coast of steep, sharp-faced cliffs and hidden coves. Today the road had veered southwards, passing around a treacherous space of marsh and bog. As the road sloped gently downwards Corban saw the fenland spread out before him, water sparkling in the weak sunlight like a huge dew-covered cobweb laid out upon the land, a hill and broken tower standing at its centre. He glanced to his side. Brina rode next to him, saying something unpleasant – if the expression on her face was anything to go by – to Heb the loremaster, who had ridden close to her since they had set out at daybreak.

  There was a dark blur on the horizon.

  ‘What is that?’ Corban asked.

  ‘That is the Darkwood,’ said Heb.

  The shadow that was the Darkwood stretched from the coast across the horizon as far as he could see. Braith is in there. And Camlin, if they made it, Corban thought, gazing at the distant forest.

  Instinctively his eyes sought out Marrock and found him further up the grey-cloaked column, riding beside Halion and Conall. Not much further on, King Brenin rode at their head, the hulking forms of Pendathran and Tull flanking him, his daughter Edana just behind, shadowed by Ronan as always. ‘How does your wolven cope with our journey?’ Heb asked, pulling him out of his thoughts.

  He glanced down at Storm, who loped alongside him, head down, muzzle close to the ground.

  ‘It has been no problem to her,’ Corban said. ‘I think she likes it.’

  The wolven had run alongside him every day, matching their speed effortlessly; but that did not surprise him: she was still growing, her shoulders only a few handspans below his horse’s back. He leaned in his saddle, his fingertips just brushing the coarse hairs of her neck. He was glad of her company. The nights were cold, but he was sure that he was by far the warmest every night, with Storm curled up close to him.

  He shivered and pulled his cloak tighter. When Princess Edana had first told of the journey to the stone circle, he had longed to go, and had not believed his good fortune when Brina had told him she required his assistance. He was not so sure now – six nights sleeping in the cold and days in the saddle had done much to erode his enthusiasm.

  Still, they were close to their journey’s end, and he was beginning to feel that first excitement spark inside again.

  His mother had not wanted him to go, had forbidden him, in fact, until Brina had spoken to her. Officially Brina was going because she was King Brenin’s most renowned healer, but Corban knew that she wanted to go, so that was that. And as her apprentice he would have to accompany her. Once Brina had spoken to his mam about it, then suddenly Gar had to go, to look after Brenin’s mount, but he suspected it was more about looking after him. At least Gar coming meant that Cywen did as well. She had looked as if she’d swallowed a bee when Corban told her he was going and she was not, but the stablemaster’s sudden decision had given her just the leverage she needed. Gar in turn had gathered stablehands for the trip, and Cywen had managed to have Dath included. To Corban it felt as if half of Dun Carreg was riding to Badun.

  He glanced over his shoulder at Gar on his piebald stallion, but could not see Cywen or Dath amongst the press of warriors.

  The day passed slowly, snow beginning to fall, and as dusk eventually spread around them the snow grew thicker, clinging insistently to the land. It grew darker and torches were lit, Brenin choosing to ride on as their destination was close.

  Suddenly there was a call from the front of the column and the line halted. There we
re riders in the road ahead – two? huddled closely around Brenin.

  They stood there a while, snow settling on Corban’s shoulders and the cold seeping through his cloak until the column lurched forwards. The riders fell in close to Corban. One was clearly a warrior, a scabbard poking out from under his cloak. Corban saw his face briefly in his cowl, pale, with dark, sunken eyes. The other appeared to be a woman, slighter of frame. Corban caught a hint of red hair in the torchlight.

  Not long after, they saw lights in the distance. Badun, last dwelling within Ardan before the Darkwood and the Kingdom of Narvon.

  ‘No time for that,’ Gar said to Corban as he saw him reaching for a honey-cake. ‘You can break your fast later; I need another pair of hands. If Brina can do without you for a while?’

  Brina snorted, waved a hand dismissively at Corban, and so he found himself trudging through the snow, following Gar’s limping gait, Storm leaving a trail of pawprints behind them.

  The fortress of Badun had grown large because of its position guarding the giantsway that led through the Darkwood into the kingdoms of Narvon and Cambren beyond.

  Dath and Cywen stood at the doors to a huge barn, filling buckets of water from a barrel. Cywen smiled at Corban as they drew near.

  ‘You have an audience,’ she said, looking over his shoulder.

  A group of children had gathered and were following at a distance, pointing and whispering.

  ‘Not me. Storm,’ Corban said. People had grown accustomed to the wolven at Dun Carreg and Havan, but here was a different matter. It was only because he rode with the King that he had even been allowed to enter the fortress, many warriors scowling and making the sign against evil as he had passed through the gates. Not all thought it so terrible, including most of the children that lived at Badun, apparently.

  ‘You are making a name for yourself,’ commented Gar.

  Corban shrugged and began helping Cywen.

  The feast-hall was emptying when Corban arrived with his sister. But close to the firepit sat the Princess, Ronan filling a plate for her. Edana beckoned to them.