Malice (Faithful & the Fallen 1)

by John Gwynne

  ‘No one is taking our boy anywhere,’ rumbled Thannon. His hand reached out and covered Gwenith’s.

  ‘I am not here for that,’ Meical said, ‘though I told you, the day will come when he must leave. Go to Drassil. But not alone. With you both, and Gar, of course.’

  ‘Aye, so you say,’ Thannon said. ‘In truth, it has been so long since you came to us.’ He sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘I am only a blacksmith, and all your talk, I do not know about any of that. And it was so long ago. Until recently I had thought it all a bad dream, but things have been happening. Strange things . . .’

  ‘Yes. The darkness will be upon us soon.’

  ‘Aye. Well. Corban is a good lad. I am proud of him. I could not have asked for more in a son. And I am scared for him . . .’

  Gwenith made a sound in her throat and looked away.

  ‘We have prepared him as best we can,’ Thannon continued. ‘Taught him his letters, the histories, the benefit of hard work, truth and courage, right and wrong, I hope. And Gar has kept another pair of eyes on him, trained him, for which I’m glad.’

  ‘My thanks to you,’ Meical said. ‘Much was asked of you. Much still is.’

  ‘He is my son, my blood, my heart, my joy, my breath. No one need ask anything. I will do all that I can for him. Protect him. Fight for him. Die for him, if need be.’

  Meical grunted, nodding, then looked to Gar.

  ‘And you? I have thought of you much over the years. Not an easy burden.’

  Gar shrugged. ‘Mine is the greatest honour. I have learned not all glory comes from the battlefield.’ He shrugged. ‘It is as they say: he is bright, strong, just. He has learned his weapons well – more than well. He excels.’

  ‘Praise indeed,’ said Meical.

  ‘He had dreams,’ Gwenith added. ‘Bad dreams.’

  ‘Has he spoken of them with you?’

  ‘No. Never. He would cry out through the night. Awake sweating, fearful. But they have passed. He has not called out in his sleep for some moons now.’

  Meical smiled. ‘Good. Asroth’s search for him has not been restricted to this world of flesh. But the fallen one has been thwarted. For a time, at least. And the wolven? Tell me – how has this come to pass?’

  Gwenith raised her hands, palms up. ‘Ban saved her, as a cub. He has raised her since, regardless of all opposition.’

  ‘Huh,’ Thannon grunted.

  ‘Very good. He can never have too many guardians, and something tells me the wolven will guard him better than most. I will speak with King Brenin before I leave. I do not think we will talk again, until . . .’ He stood, chair scraping. ‘I wish I could stay with you, ease your burden, but my presence would draw attention. We must give the boy all the time we can.’ He paused, looking troubled. ‘It would be good for him to sit his Long Night here. Then he can be told. Be vigilant – things are moving at a pace that I had not foreseen. I think I must journey to Drassil, make sure all is in place.’ He looked at Gar. ‘Your father will hear of your faithfulness.’ The stablemaster straightened in his seat, his eyes lightening.

  Meical strode to the door, then paused. ‘Trust no one,’ he said. ‘Even, even if Aquilus’ own blood rides through Stonegate. Trust only Brenin.’ Then he opened the door and stepped into the streets of Dun Carreg.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CORBAN

  Corban trudged along the giantsway awhile, head bowed, returning from Brina’s. A large wain blocked his path, piled high with skins, a tall hound walking beside it.

  Corban stared at it as he walked, then suddenly quickened his pace – could it be . . .?

  Storm took a step forward, a growl growing in volume and snapped her teeth at the hound.

  This is not going well, Corban thought. ‘Are you Ventos?’ he called out, poking Storm at the same time.

  ‘What?’ said the man in the wain. ‘Aye. I am Ventos. Do I know you?’

  ‘We met last year, at the Spring Fair. I am Corban.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be . . .’ Ventos wiped a palm across his face.

  ‘Asroth’s teeth, lad, you’ve just succeeded in scaring the Otherworld out of me.’ He blew out a long breath.

  Ventos jumped down and took a few hesitant steps towards Corban before he stopped. ‘I’d invite you to walk with me, but I think my horses would bolt and scatter my wares between here and the Western Sea if your wolven came a step closer.’

  Corban nodded. ‘Away,’ he said curtly to Storm and waved his arm in a short, sharp gesture. Storm looked at him, copper eyes glinting in the fading sun, then loped away about a hundred paces, then stopped.

  Ventos raised his eyebrows, watching Storm. ‘That is one clever wolven,’ he muttered. ‘So it’s true. I’ve heard talk of you ever since Dun Cadlas, and everywhere between here and there. I didn’t believe it, of course – didn’t know it was you, either. The young warrior that tamed a wolven . . .’ he whistled.

  ‘She’s not what I’d call tame,’ Corban said, grinning. ‘Well met.’ He held his arm out. The trader took it in the warrior grip.

  ‘You’ve changed, lad. I wouldn’t have recognized you. Apart from your scruffy hair and muddied clothes, that is.’

  Ventos tried to assuage Corban’s curiosity about events beyond Dun Carreg as they walked. They stopped before they entered the village, Ventos pulling a thick leather glove onto his left hand. He drew some meat from a pouch in his cloak.

  There was a screech from above. Corban looked up, saw the shape of a bird swooping down. It circled overhead, swept low over the road and landed on Ventos’ outstretched arm.

  It was a huge hawk, head cocked to one side as it studied Corban, golden feathers flecked with blue and red catching the last rays of the sun.

  ‘It is my pleasure to introduce you to Kartala,’ Ventos said, bowing slightly, beaming.

  ‘She’s magnificent,’ Corban breathed, staring at the huge bird, eyes drawn to its curved talons gripping the leather of Ventos’ thick glove.

  ‘I won her from the Sirak,’ he said.

  ‘Sirak?’

  ‘Aye. They use hawks to hunt on their sea of grass, and are very skilled at it. Fortunate for me that they are not quite so skilled with a throw-board and dice.’ He grinned and winked. ‘She has been a good companion. Most helpful. My hound Talar can catch a hare with ease, but have you ever eaten hare all year round?’ He shivered. ‘It tends to lose its appeal. I trade for food, of course, but villages are not always where I would like them to be. Kartala has caught me all manner of game, even other birds.’

  ‘Does she eat crow?’ Corban muttered, thinking of Craf.

  ‘Crow. Why?’

  ‘No matter,’ Corban sighed. Too dangerous, he thought, Brina would poison me.

  ‘Well I’d best pay the baron of the village a visit. Torin, isn’t it? See if there’s a spot in the roundhouse for me to lay my head. Come see me on the morrow, eh?’

  ‘Aye,’ Corban said.

  Hooves thudded on the road, coming from the village. Corban looked up to see a tall, dapple-grey stallion trotting towards them. Meical rode him, and again Corban felt that tickling sensation across the back of his neck.

  Meical slowed, his gaze not leaving Corban, something fierce in his expression. He glanced at Ventos, gaze lingering on the hunting bird and then looked ahead, kicking his horse into a canter.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  VENTOS

  The air was thick and heavy in the roundhouse, smoke from the firepit swirling sluggishly around the smoke-hole above. Grey light edged the doorway, signalling dawn’s imminent arrival. Ventos pushed himself up, slowly, not wanting to wake anyone.

  An orange glow still seeped from the firepit, enough to guide his feet and reveal the forms of others – members of Torin’s hold or other travellers – huddled in sleep. He reached for his boots and picked his way carefully to the exit, slipping through the doors.

  Quickly he made his way through the village until he came to his w
ain. Talar emerged from beneath it, stretched his long limbs and nuzzled against his master’s leg. Absently Ventos stroked the hound’s head as he lifted the lid of the driver’s bench seat. He pulled out a small chest, withdrew a tiny roll of parchment, a quill and a sealed horn of ink. Carefully he broke the seal, dipped the quill and began to write.

  When done, he tapped the parchment into a small case, then looked to the brightening sky, clicking his tongue. Soon his hawk swept down and regarded him with bright, intelligent eyes. Deftly Ventos tied the case to the bird’s leg.

  ‘Fly true,’ he muttered, watching as the hawk launched herself upwards, wings a soft whisper in the air before she disappeared into the mist.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  VERADIS

  Veradis knew a moment of absolute, limb-numbing fear as he gazed at the men charging down the hill, the sound of their onslaught filling his ears. They hurtled into the press of warriors along the base of the hill, an avalanche of flesh and iron. Chaos erupted, men screaming, dying. Within moments it became clear that the new warriors were targeting Mandros’ men, not those of Tenebral. Veradis blew out a long breath he had not realized he’d been holding.

  Gundul had kept his word.

  Taken by surprise, Mandros’ men began to fall back, those that could clawing over one another in their haste to flee the swords of their enemies. Many lay dead or dying after those first frantic moments, and Peritus’ men threw themselves back into the conflict with renewed strength.

  Gundul himself flew down the hill on his black warhorse, driving towards his father.

  ‘Mandros!’ Veradis yelled, moving forwards again, slower this time, making sure he kept with the shield line. They met resistance for a few moments and continued their death-dealing.

  The treeline was only two score paces away now and the ground before it seethed with men. Veradis scanned the mass, searching for Mandros and saw him standing tall in his saddle, bringing his sword crashing down onto another rider’s helm.

  Veradis was suddenly consumed with rage. Mandros, kingslayer. Then he was charging forwards, using his shield to smash men out of his way, striking at anything between him and the King of Carnutan. Suddenly Mandros was before him, yelling wildly, trying to staunch the flow of his fleeing warriors.

  Veradis lunged, raised his sword arm, then a horse ploughed in front of him – one of Mandros’ honour guard. The warrior kicked out at him, sending him stumbling backwards. Then the mounted warrior was reaching for Mandros’ reins, dragging the King’s horse from the battle and towards the treeline, others filling the space between them. Veradis watched in fury as Mandros disappeared into the gloom of the woods, a handful of his honour guard about him. Others blocked the path, holding back Gundul and his warriors.

  Veradis turned, eyes sweeping the battlefield. Away from the entrance to the woods, most of the fighting was done. Here and there small pockets of Mandros’ warriors were still battling on, but most were dead or routed. He saw Peritus, down by the churned banks of the river and ran towards him.

  ‘Mandros has fled,’ he gasped as he reached the battlechief. ‘Horses – we must ride if we are to catch him. He cannot reach Dun Bagul.’

  Peritus nodded and wiped blood from his eyes, streaming from a shallow gash on his scalp. Within moments he had gathered a handful of mounted warriors and scouts. Veradis and the battlechief climbed into saddles, pounded up the slope of the riverbank and crashed into the battle. Mandros’ rearguard were grim faced and fighting furiously, with the abandon of those who have already embraced their death.

  Veradis grunted as he deflected a sword swing, slashed in return, opening a red line down a warrior’s thigh. Peritus’ sword stabbed forwards, under the horseman’s ribs – he swayed, toppled bonelessly from his saddle and disappeared beneath churning hooves.

  Digging heels into his horse’s side, Veradis pressed forwards.

  Then it was over, Gundul’s sword buried in the chest of the last defender.

  Veradis rode to Mandros’ son and sheathed his sword. ‘My thanks,’ he said between deep breaths.

  Gundul’s eyes were wide, still caught up in the frenzy of battle. He stared at Veradis, suddenly recognized him and grinned fiercely.

  ‘Nathair will know of this,’ Veradis said. ‘You have become a friend of Tenebral this day.’

  Gundul nodded. ‘My father—’

  ‘I know, I saw him flee. We must take him before he reaches Dun Bagul, or . . .’

  ‘He will not reach the fortress. I placed men further along the road on the far side of the wood. But my father is cunning. Now that I am revealed he may head into the woods, leave the road.’

  ‘Come then,’ said Peritus. ‘Let’s be after him. You have men that know the land?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Then lead on, with all haste.’

  Soon they were galloping along a road dappled with sunlight, trees looming around them until the column stopped for their tracker to examine the ground.

  ‘Men left the road here – not all of them, maybe a dozen,’ the tracker said, a lean, sharp-featured man. ‘The rest continued on up the road.’

  ‘We must split also,’ Gundul said.

  ‘Which way?’ Peritus growled. ‘Which way would Mandros have gone?’

  ‘I think the woods. He will suspect the road will be blocked.’

  ‘Then what are we waiting for?’ Veradis said between gritted teeth, kicking his horse towards the trees, Gundul following.

  The woodland was dense and navigating a horse rapidly turned from difficult to impossible. They dismounted and led their horses. Veradis saw that Rauca had followed him, along with Peritus and a dozen or so others. His simmering rage was fuelled by the slow going, by his fear that Mandros would escape them. He was almost glad when they abandoned their horses, and set off into the woods after Gundul’s tracker.

  The man was sure-footed, scanning the ground before him, occasionally touching a broken fern stem, scuffed moss on a boulder or tree trunk. Their group was silent, only the slap of feet on earth, grunting breaths and a growing tension charging them.

  Veradis’ thigh burned where he had been cut earlier, but he gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain. Then, as he stepped into a small glade, something crashed into him – the tracker, a spear-point buried in his chest. Veradis ducked and rolled to the side, unslinging his shield as he came to his knees, drawing his longsword as he reached his feet.

  There were a handful of men before him, their backs to a great boulder. Mandros was in their centre.

  Veradis charged forwards, a cold rage possessing him completely.

  He tried to dodge a spear, taking it square on his shield and sweeping it away from him. Swinging his blade, he saw the spearman topple backwards, a red gash across his throat.

  His momentum carried him on and he crashed into another man. They tumbled to the ground, Veradis’ sword pinned between them.

  Distantly he heard the sound of battle about him, saw booted feet as he rolled, wrestling furiously with his opponent. He butted his head forward, the iron rim of his helmet crunching into a nose. Blood spattered his face, then he was free and scrambling to his feet, reaching for his sword hilt.

  His opponent was slower to rise, blood sluicing from his nose. Veradis’ sword punched into the man’s chest before he was upright.

  There was combat all about him, the grate of iron on iron, men shouting, grunting and screaming. He glimpsed Rauca trading blows with a bull of a man, saw his friend hack into the big warrior’s knee, then he saw Mandros, slashing at a smaller man – Peritus. The battlechief was quicker, driving Mandros back with fast sweeps and lunges until the King slammed into the boulder at his back, Peritus’ sword sparking as the battlechief chopped forwards. The two stood chest to chest a moment, then Mandros brought his knee up into Peritus’ groin and clubbed him with his sword hilt. Peritus dropped to the ground, Mandros standing above him, sword raised.

  Veradis darted forwards, lunged and sank his bl
ade into Mandros’ shoulder. The King cried out and fell back against the boulder, dropping his weapon.

  With a jerk, Veradis ripped his sword free and held its blood-covered tip to Mandros’ throat.

  As quick as it had begun the battle ended. Only two of Mandros’ honour guard were still standing, but they lowered their weapons upon seeing their King taken.

  A hush settled over the small glade as all looked at Veradis, waiting.

  He was staring at Mandros, seeing only him, remembering his face as he emerged from Aquilus’ chambers and fled from the tower, remembering Nathair in a pool of blood and Aquilus’ lifeless eyes.

  ‘See that justice is done,’ Nathair had said to him, standing on a windswept quayside before he set sail.

  ‘Justice?’ Veradis had answered. ‘What exactly would that be?’

  ‘Peritus will find Mandros, help you beat him. But Peritus is a politicker. He may see uses in Mandros, advantages.’

  ‘What would you have me do?’ Veradis had asked.

  ‘A life for a life,’ Nathair had said, his voice as cold as the winter sea about them. ‘That is justice. No negotiation, no compromise.’

  ‘I will see it done,’ Veradis had sworn.

  Yet now, with his sword at Mandros’ throat, something held his arm. Do it, the voice whispered in his head, kill him. It is what he deserves. He is a traitor. It is justice.

  Peritus rose slowly, Rauca helping him. ‘Veradis,’ he said. ‘We have him. We have won. Step back, lad. You don’t want kingslaying weighing on your shoulders.’

  ‘No,’ Gundul exclaimed, taking an involuntary step forward. ‘Kill him. He deserves death.’

  The world seemed to freeze, a heartbeat becoming an eternity, then Veradis took a step back and lowered his sword.

  ‘I will not kill you,’ he said, and saw relief filling Mandros’ eyes. ‘You shall be taken to Jerolin, brought in chains before Nathair. There you shall answer for your crimes.’ No, hissed the voice in his head. He is cunning, sly, he will squirm out of his punishment. And all of Carnutan lies between here and Jerolin. He will escape. His knuckles tightened on his sword hilt, indecision making him twitch.