Malice (Faithful & the Fallen 1)

by John Gwynne

  ‘I’ll get yours,’ Ronan said, smiling at Cywen.

  ‘Father’s grumpy,’ Edana said, nodding towards a corner of the hall. King Brenin stood with a small group of men: Tull and Pendathran were there, along with Evnis and Vonn. Corban had been thankful to see little of the counsellor’s son since that day in the paddock, when Helfach’s hound had been killed. Brenin was talking to a tall, blond-haired man, his long warrior braid touched with silver. He had an open, likeable face, and was smiling at the King.

  ‘Is that . . .’

  ‘Gethin,’ said Edana, nodding.

  Corban frowned. Gethin was Lord of Badun, but he was also Evnis’ elder brother, and so Corban automatically disliked him regardless of his appearance.

  Ronan put a bowl of porridge in front of Corban, berries and cream for Edana and a plate of hot oatcakes, bacon and thick-buttered bread before Cywen. Corban looked between his bowl and the other bounty on offer, frowned. Cywen smiled a thank you at Ronan.

  ‘King Owain is here,’ Edana said quietly, ‘with his son, Uthan. The others haven’t arrived yet.’

  ‘But Midwinter’s Day is tomorrow,’ said Cywen.

  The Princess nodded. ‘That’s why Father is grumpy. He thinks Rhin plays games with him, though King Eremon has not arrived either. But he has much further to travel, all the way from Domhain, beyond Narvon and Cambren. And he is ancient, apparently.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll agree?’ Cywen said. ‘To your father’s plan?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Edana shrugged. ‘Owain should, as Braith raids his borders too, but he often likes to disagree with Father just for the sake of disagreeing. As for the others: Rhin and Eremon have less cause to commit to clearing the Darkwood. After all, Braith does not raid their lands.’

  ‘There is more to it all than clearing the Darkwood, though, isn’t there?’ Cywen said. ‘This prophecy . . .’

  Edana nodded. ‘Father said that day will become night, at highsun tomorrow, whatever that means. I cannot imagine such a thing.’ She toyed with a spoonfull of berries on her plate. ‘It is supposed to signify something about a war between Elyon and Asroth, about it being fought here in the Banished Lands.’

  ‘Who are they?’ Cywen whispered.

  Two figures had entered the hall, those that had joined them on the roadside. The man was young, pale-faced, dark rings under his eyes, a warrior braid in his hair. His eyes read the room as he ushered his companion to sit – an older woman, red-haired with streaks of grey.

  ‘I’m not sure who they are. I asked Father, but he wouldn’t tell me.’ Edana ducked her head closer, conspiratorially. ‘I think they asked Father for Sanctuary.’

  If these two had come to King Brenin seeking Sanctuary, they would not be the first to be drawn by his reputation. Halion had told him that he and his brother had done the same. The weapons-master had been most tight mouthed, though, about what exactly they were running from.

  ‘So, we must wait and see if Rhin and Eremon arrive, if your father’s hopes are to succeed.’ He pushed cold porridge round his bowl.

  ‘Aye,’ muttered Ronan.

  ‘Much depends on them,’ Edana said.

  A column of riders filed out of the Darkwood; Corban counted some four score as he stood on the wooden palisade that ringed Badun.

  ‘There’s Queen Rhin,’ Edana said, pointing, as they drew nearer to the town’s open gates. ‘There, with the white hair.’

  Rhin rode close to the front, a half-dozen warriors before her, tall spears couched upright in their saddles. A warrior rode beside her, young, handsome, exuding confidence. He laughed as the Queen commented on something, more akin to a courtier on an excursion, than guard to the Queen of Cambren. ‘I don’t see King Eremon,’ Edana muttered.

  ‘He is not come, but he sends others in his place,’ Ronan said. ‘Those on the grass – they wear the green of Domhain.’

  The rider at the front of the group, cantering ahead of the others, was old, grey hair streaming behind him. He did not wear the torc of a king about his neck, only a thin band of twisted silver around his arm. As Corban watched one of the riders with him lifted a banner bearing the outlines of black wolves on a red field.

  ‘Rath,’ Ronan breathed.

  Corban had heard of the old warrior, battlechief once to Eremon. Giants had raided out of the north, slain all in his hold. Rath had sworn vengeance, pledged himself to the defence of Domhain’s northern border, so that he might have more chance to avenge himself on the giants who had slain his kin. If the tales were true the old warrior had fulfilled his oath many times over.

  The men that rode with him, the Degad, were as famous for their prowess as he – rumoured to be as fierce and savage as the giants they hunted.

  Rhin looked up as she reached the walls, a faint smile visible as she passed from view.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  EVNIS

  It is good to be alone. Pretending to like my brother is so draining. Evnis stood with hands clasped behind his back, staring at the cairn. His mother was in there, beside his father, long dead, just bones now. His mouth twisted and he spat. He wished she still lived, so that she could see his triumph, his ascension. First he would eclipse Gethin, his fawning brother, seeking to match his daughter to Uthan, King Owain’s son. Once that would have angered him, but no longer: let him have his small victories. Greater things were in store for Evnis, of that there was no doubt. He had made his bargain, sworn his allegiance many years ago, in a dell in the Darkwood. And now he was counsellor to a king, had the earth power at his fingertips, and more . . .

  The necklace, with the black stone. It scared him, but called to him, too. He had studied it, searched the old manuscripts, even talked to that fool Heb. He was sure, now, what it was. One of the seven Treasures, Nemain’s necklace. It had great power, but how to tap it, use it . . .?

  He squeezed his eyes shut. He was tired, sleep becoming elusive of late, and when he did find it, there were always the dreams, troubling dreams that he would wake sweating and anxious from. He must keep his wits about him; there was so much to do.

  Seeing Rhin had been good, seeing her riding through the gates of Badun seemed to make all the plans and schemes real, suddenly. She had smiled at him, though not in the way she used to. That was reserved for the young warrior riding at her side. Probably for the best, he sighed. Rhin’s appetites are voracious. I doubt I could keep up, any longer. Besides, it would feel like a betrayal to Fain, even though she was dead.

  He felt the pain of her loss again, suddenly, just at the thought of her. Would it ever diminish?

  He heard voices and stepped back into the shadows of his parents’ cairn. Two men, warriors, coming closer. Halion and Conall, he realized. Two men he wished were in his service. He could always use good swords. But the elder, Halion, seemed unapproachable. He’d met the man’s like before, morally inflexible. His brother, Conall, however. Now there was a man that could be worked on. Pride is a brittle master.

  ‘I will not run and hide like some girl . . .’ Conall was saying.

  ‘Use your head, Con,’ his brother said. ‘We cannot let him see us. No one knows where we are, who we serve, and it needs to stay that way . . .’ Then they were past him, continuing their hissed conversation.

  Interesting . . .

  Evnis allowed the shadows to mask him a while longer, then started walking. I must get word to Rhin, of Brenin’s latest act of charity. She will be eager to hear about the two who rode in with Brenin, having begged him for Sanctuary. Sanctuary from Rhin.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CORBAN

  Brina had been given an empty cottage to stay in whilst they were in Badun and, after seeing the cramped sleeping quarters of most of their party, Corban was, for once, grateful to be linked to the healer. That sense of gratitude had been short lived, though, as she had made him sweep the cottage from top to bottom.

  She had told, rather than asked, Cywen and Gar to share the small cottage with her
and Corban and they were also only too happy to obey.

  Corban stepped into the night, following Gar and his sister, Brina close behind him. Corban was sure he heard a rustle of feathers and saw a black, beady eye from the raftered shadows within the cottage as the door snapped shut.

  Soon the thick wooden walls of the feast-hall loomed out of the darkness, pitch-soaked torches burning bright around the wide doors. They were some of the first to arrive, Brina keen to eavesdrop on the high table.

  The hall started to fill, people trickling in at first, then in greater numbers and soon it was thrumming with conversation and laughter. Dath rushed in and sat with Corban, as did Tull with a clutch of Dun Carreg’s warriors about him. Then those at the high table took their places, after kings Brenin and Owain.

  Rhin was the last to enter, a sable cloak about her shoulders, trimmed in white fox fur. The Queen of Cambren claimed her place at the high table, then made a show of insisting that her debonair young champion take a seat beside her. He was quick to ascend. Corban heard grumbling ripple through the hall, saw warriors frown. Champions were not supposed to sit at the high table; it was a privilege reserved for lords and their close kin.

  Ronan pushed a way through the feasting crowds, making a path for Edana. When she was seated the young warrior scanned the room, came and sat on the other side of Corban, winking at Cywen. The warrior smiled as she flushed red.

  Then movement at the back of the hall caught Corban’s attention, a hooded figure entering late, standing in shadow. Rhin’s champion rose and made his way through the hall, left with the newcomer. Suddenly a loud banging filled the hall, drawing all eyes to the high table. Lord Gethin was standing, cracking a spoon on the base of a wooden plate.

  ‘Welcome to my hall and my table,’ Gethin said in a loud voice. ‘We stand in the highest company the west has to offer, upon the eve of a momentous occasion.’ His eyes flickered to Brenin.

  ‘I have an announcement, something that will add to the joy of this gathering, I hope.’ He looked to the young woman that had followed him to the table. ‘Stand, Kyla,’ he said.

  Hesitantly she did, eyes downcast. A chair scraped further along the high table and Uthan stood also.

  ‘Today, my daughter has been betrothed to Uthan ben Owain,’ Gethin said with a grin. Many in the hall cheered, cups banging on tables. But King Brenin’s face pinched into a slight frown. Quietly Rhin’s champion returned to his chair, leaning over to whisper in the Queen’s ear. Her expression clouded.

  ‘They will be handbound in the spring. I hope their union will be a mark of closer relations with our kin in Narvon.’ Gethin looked at King Owain, who nodded.

  Beside Corban, Heb the loremaster muttered something to Brina.

  ‘Circles within circles,’ she said.

  Suddenly Rhin stood, her chair falling behind her.

  ‘Where are they?’ she hissed, pointing a clawed finger at Brenin. He looked back at her, meeting the venom in her glare, but said nothing.

  ‘Do not play me for a fool,’ Rhin said, almost spitting in her fury, ‘I knew you when you wet your bed every night.’ Chuckles sprinkled the hall. ‘Do not cross me in this. I know they are here. You will give them over to me. Now.’

  Brenin closed his eyes and blew out a slow, deep breath. When he opened them again his face was firm, resolute.

  ‘They are not your property, Rhin. And they have asked me for Sanctuary.’

  Rhin’s face was cold, almost frightening. ‘Have you granted it?’ she whispered, though all in the hall heard.

  Brenin nodded. ‘Aye.’

  There was a moment of silence, Rhin absolutely still. ‘Very well. The Court of Swords will decide this. Morcant,’ she said, glancing at her champion.

  He rose fluidly, smiling. Suddenly Tull was on his feet as well, stepping into the space between the crowd and high table.

  ‘What? No, no. Rhin, you must not do this,’ Brenin said, standing as well.

  ‘Must not? You forget yourself.’

  ‘But tomorrow – our pact . . .’

  ‘You should have thought of that,’ she snapped, cutting him off. ‘I will have what is rightfully mine. And I will not bargain or plead with you, Brenin.’

  Brenin opened his mouth, but Rhin’s tirade could not be staunched. ‘You summon us, me, like vassals to your gathering. Well, I came, but you go too far, you and your honour. You shall reap what you sow. Surely your father taught you that.’ She fastened her eyes on her champion.

  The young warrior nodded, and moved to face Tull.

  ‘The Court of Swords will decide this matter. Now,’ Rhin said.

  Brenin scowled, gripping the table. ‘So be it.’

  Tull strode forward, drew his own sword and touched it to Morcant’s waiting blade, accepting the challenge.

  Morcant laughed. Tull shrugged and stepped backwards, eyes on Rhin’s champion. The air whistled as he chopped his sword through the air, rolling his huge shoulders.

  The room exploded into noise as people jumped from their tables, forming a half-ring around the two men. Coins chinked as wagers were exchanged. Corban stood in the front row and people took care not to jostle him because of Storm, who eyed the two warriors with suspicion.

  Corban could not believe what was happening. His heart was pounding in his chest; he had never seen a duel before. Plenty of sword-crossings and sparring sessions with padded or wooden blades, but not with sharp, death-dealing swords of iron. He was suddenly scared, and excited too. Tull’s reputation was massive, and seeing him in the flesh it was impossible to imagine him ever being bested, yet there was something about Rhin’s champion. His confidence was unnerving.

  A hush fell as the two champions approached the high table. Tull bent, grabbed a handful of ash from the corner of the firepit and rubbed it into the hilt of his sword. They bowed to Rhin and Brenin, then turned to face each other.

  Corban expected them to rush each other, to beat at each other, but they didn’t. Morcant walked slowly around Tull, the older man turning with him, his sword-tip held low. Suddenly Morcant darted forwards, sword snaking out, almost faster than Corban’s eye could follow, but Tull met the lunge with little effort, turning his block into a swing of his own, his blade whistling through air as Morcant danced lightly backwards. He settled back into his slow walk around the big champion, lunging in, fast as a striking snake once more, then again.

  ‘They seek each other’s measure,’ Gar whispered to Corban. He nodded, but could not speak or move his eyes from the contest before him. Then Morcant was moving forwards, not with a single stroke as before, but a blurring combination of slashes and lunges. Tull met each one, stepping backwards until he was close to the ring’s edge. Corban could see sweat on the big man’s bare shoulders, stains on his leather vest.

  Tull grunted with each block, feet planted, then stepped nimbly aside, Morcant’s blade slicing through air. Rhin’s champion staggered forwards a half-step, and suddenly he was on the defensive, retreating before Tull’s looping, powerful strokes. Corban resisted the urge to cover his ears as the iron blades clashed and rang.

  Brenin’s champion was almost a head taller than Morcant, strong as an ox but also fast for a big man. His attack was relentless, and suddenly Morcant’s mocking smile was gone, his face drawn in concentration as he met each of Tull’s blows, every one powerful enough to gut a boar. But Rhin’s champion was quick, with an iron strength in his leaner frame. He parried an overhead slash, pushing Tull’s sword away and down, stepped close, inside the big man’s guard and spun away, cutting backwards with his blade. The tip cut into Tull’s waist, drawing the first blood of the contest. Corban gasped.

  ‘You bleed like the rest of us, then,’ Morcant said, his smile returning.

  Tull touched his fingers to his waist, drew them away red, snarled, attacked again. Morcant retreated under another withering barrage, somehow managing to fend off the flurry of great two-handed strokes. Tull slowed briefly and Morcant lunged, forcing T
ull backwards again.

  The two warriors fought back and forth across the ring, Corban losing all track of time, flickering flames from the firepit making the warriors look like fiends, like Asroth’s Kadoshim themselves. Eventually they broke away from each other, stepping back in some unspoken agreement. Both were sucking in great lungfulls of air. Tull’s waist was soaked with blood, a thin line of red ran down his shield arm, from shoulder to elbow. Morcant was unmarked.

  Tull snorted, gathered his energies. He battered Morcant backwards, then swung an overhead blow. Part-way through, he suddenly released his blade, snatched it with his left hand and slashed it diagonally instead of vertically. Somehow Morcant managed to change the angle of his block, but Tull’s blade still raked him from shoulder to navel, leaving a welling red line in its wake.

  ‘Ah-ha, old man,’ Morcant said, stepping out of range. ‘You are too famous for your own good. I have heard of all your tricks.’

  For the first time Tull seemed hesitant. Corban glanced at Brenin, tearing his eyes away from the two champions. The King’s face was taut, worried.

  Iron clashing on iron drew him back. Morcant was pressing the attack now, his sword slashing and lunging in a blur. Tull retreated, an edge of wildness, of desperation in his movements as he blocked and turned the hail of blows. Blood welled on his forearm as Morcant’s blade nicked him, then across his chest, his thigh. His back slammed into an oak pillar. Morcant slashed again, sparks flying as their swords grated until they were standing chest to chest, wrist to wrist, locked for a moment.

  ‘Soon, old man,’ Morcant grunted.

  With a heave, Tull shoved Morcant away. Rhin’s champion staggered back out of range, but Tull did not follow. Instead he leaned one hand on his thigh, braced his sword-tip into the floor, dragging in deep, ragged breaths.

  ‘I must – confess,’ he gasped, ‘you are – quite good.’