Malice (Faithful & the Fallen 1)

by John Gwynne

  The sound of hooves drew his attention. Two riders were heading towards him – one an older man, grey streaking once black hair, the other much younger, a mop of unruly red hair escaping an iron helm. Veradis suddenly recognized them and smiled.

  ‘Maquin, Kastell,’ he called out. ‘Well met.’

  ‘We heard a rumour an ugly, broken-nosed bairn was leading the warband from Tenebral,’ Maquin said. ‘Kastell said it had to be you.’

  Veradis grinned at them.

  ‘So you’ve come to try your hand at giantkilling.’ Maquin glanced at Alcyon.

  ‘I heard you needed the help,’ Veradis said, thinking of the draig tooth embedded in his sword hilt.

  ‘Unusual company you keep, given our task,’ Maquin murmured. ‘Can he be trusted?’

  Veradis sighed and explained again how Alcyon had fought beside him in Tarbesh against the Shekam. He realized he was becoming so used to the giant’s company that it no longer struck him as strange. More than that, though, he was starting to feel defensive of Alcyon, to think of him as more than just a travelling companion. He was starting to think of him as a friend.

  ‘So, how is life in Mikil? Have you both avoided any more hidings from your cousin, Jael?’ he said, wanting to change the subject.

  A brief look passed between Maquin and Kastell.

  ‘We have moved on from Mikil,’ Maquin said. ‘We are part of the Gadrai, now.’

  ‘Why?’ frowned Veradis, remembering Romar’s reaction in the tent, when he had spoken of Kastell.

  ‘I fought, with Jael,’ Kastell muttered. ‘Things became serious. I thought it better to move on. Besides, the Gadrai are good to us. And it is every warrior’s dream, to join them, in Isiltir, at least.’

  Veradis looked at Kastell a little closer, saw he was leaner than he remembered, having lost the layer of fat he had possessed, his jaw firmer, his gut trimmer. But more than that, there was something new about him, a surety in how he sat his horse. He looked like a warrior, now, everywhere except his eyes. They seemed somehow sad, hesitant, still those of a youth rather than a man.

  ‘I met your leader, Vandil,’ Veradis said. ‘So you live in Forn Forest now, protect Isiltir’s borders from the forest’s inhabitants.’

  ‘Aye, just so,’ Maquin said.

  ‘But you are riding with Romar and Jael now? I have seen them both.’

  ‘In a way, though we ride with the Gadrai, Romar is still our king,’ Maquin said.

  ‘Are things uncomfortable with Romar and Jael, then?’

  ‘You could say that,’ Kastell looked dour. ‘With Jael, anyway. Romar would ride with anyone if they would help him get his special axe back.’

  Calidus straightened in his saddle and rode closer to them. ‘Axe?’ he said.

  ‘Aye. He calls it his axe, but it is a relic, from before the Scourging. A Treasure of the giants, if you believe the tales. Whatever it is, Romar wants it back. Pilgrims would travel from all over the Banished Lands to see it – it kept gold flowing into Isiltir like a river. Until the Hunen stole it.’

  ‘And they definitely have it?’ Calidus asked. ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘I saw them take it,’ Kastell said, wincing as if recalling a painful memory.

  Calidus shared a look with Alcyon. ‘They are preparing indeed,’ he said to the giant.

  ‘It is good,’ Alcyon replied, ‘they do our work for us. Now we will just take it back.’

  Calidus grinned, nodded to Maquin and Kastell, twitched his reins and rode closer to the giant, whispering to him.

  ‘You ride in unusual company, Veradis,’ said Maquin.

  ‘You are not the first to point that out,’ Veradis said.

  ‘Giants, and he . . .’ the old warrior pointed at Calidus. ‘He is no man of Tenebral, I’d wager. And then, there are rumours in our camp, of others with you: dour, black-clothed warriors with curved swords, women amongst them?’

  ‘Aye,’ Veradis said, smiling at their shock, remembering feeling it himself.

  ‘Well? Who are they?’ Kastell asked.

  ‘They call themselves the Jehar. We found them in Tarbesh, while on a campaign to tackle another giant menace. You are right – they are unusual. But fierce. And loyal.’

  ‘But why do they ride with you?’ pressed Maquin.

  ‘Forces are gathering,’ Veradis said with a shrug, ‘as King Aquilus predicted at his council. They have chosen to stand with Nathair.’ He suddenly remembered Calidus at Telassar, wings spread, unveiled. He longed to tell his friends of it, but Calidus had sworn him to secrecy, for now. But he worried for Maquin and Kastell – good men potentially caught on the wrong side, if his suspicions about Romar were correct. ‘Make sure you ride under the right banner, my friends.’ He frowned. ‘A king bent on greed – on going to war for gold – that I would be worried about. Especially at times like this. All will fight, Nathair says: it is just a question of who for. So just be sure who it is that you serve.’

  ‘Well, I serve Kastell, and more often than not he just serves his belly,’ Maquin said, slapping Kastell in the gut.

  ‘What? All you do is steal my food,’ Kastell complained, grinning.

  They rode on together for a while, the three of them laughing and talking. As their path began to slope downward Maquin and Kastell cantered back to the head of the column. It was not much longer before Veradis saw his first glimpse of Forn in the distance: a huge wall of trees disappearing into the north, seemingly without end.

  The sun was sinking, shadows of the trees stretching across the meadow when Veradis led his men out of the foothills. A base camp had been erected before the forest edge, from which to mount the assault, and the column passed wearily through the gates of its stockade.

  ‘When we are close to Haldis we must spread out, attack from the front and both flanks,’ Alcyon said to the gathered leaders at first light the following day. ‘But until then we must travel in a column. Even then the going will be difficult.’

  ‘Aye. That is as we planned,’ Braster said.

  ‘How many nights, until we reach Haldis?’ Vandil asked.

  ‘Five, maybe six,’ Alcyon considered. ‘I could walk it in two, but this many men,’ he looked across the meadow, covered in the massing ranks of their warriors, and shrugged, ‘we shall see.’

  ‘Aye. But I do not want our warriors running out of food, having to turn back before we reach this place,’ Romar said.

  ‘Then tell your men to walk fast,’ Alcyon grunted.

  ‘Maybe we should take wains with our provisions. It will be slower going, but then we would not be ruled by time, and my men would be happier. It is the way we have always done such things.’

  ‘No,’ Alcyon said. ‘Speed is vital. We must not give the Hunen a chance to gather their full strength. And the longer they have to prepare the more their Elementals will be able to lay traps for us. I shall take us as fast as you can manage.’

  Romar scowled.

  With much blowing of horns the warbands formed up, Vandil and the Gadrai at the head of the wide column, all grim, tough-looking warriors. Alcyon was with them, many glancing warily at him.

  Veradis reached the front ranks of his warband. ‘It is time,’ he said and strapped his iron helm on, checked the straps of his shield slung across his back and the pack beneath it carrying his provisions. He felt a flutter of excitement in his belly, knowing they were on the brink of battle again as he stroked the tooth buried in his sword hilt.

  Calidus was standing with the Jehar, waiting for him.

  Horns blew and they lurched into motion, the forest looming dark and tall before them.

  ‘All went well?’ Calidus asked him.

  ‘Aye. Romar grumbled, but Braster holds his leash, I think. Alcyon leads us.’

  ‘Good. Romar troubles me,’ Calidus said. ‘His loyalties . . .’

  ‘Aye, me too,’ Veradis agreed.

  Calidus looked wary, thinking. ‘He is a thorn in our flesh, Veradis. He opposes Nathair, re
sents our presence here. And, like a thorn in the flesh, he will not just get better. He will work his way deeper, cause infection, division.’

  ‘If he opposes the Seren Disglair,’ Akar of the Jehar said, his clipped accent prominent, ‘then perhaps his head should be separated from his shoulders.’

  Veradis snorted and smiled at Akar, thinking it a joke, though the thought had some appeal. But Akar just stared back at him with eyes cold and unreadable. Veradis’ smile faded.

  Calidus chuckled. ‘I shall reason with him,’ the Vin Thalun said, ‘before we consider anything more drastic. Besides, he has the Gadrai protecting him.’

  Akar snorted contemptuously.

  Veradis looked between Calidus and Akar, remembering Nathair’s words concerning them. ‘They have licence,’ Nathair had said, ‘to do as they see fit in my service. You command my warband, Veradis, but I have given the Jehar to Calidus. You are a warrior, Veradis, not a politicker. Fight the Hunen for me, let Calidus worry about the alliance. You shall both do what you have to do.’

  Romar was trouble, of that he was growing more certain, but a traitor? Of that he was not yet convinced. And Maquin and Kastell rode with him. He frowned, worried. But Calidus was one of the Ben-Elim, a servant of Elyon – surely he would do what was right? As he stepped under the shadow of the trees, Veradis felt a sense of foreboding, taking his first steps into Forn Forest.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CYWEN

  Cywen heard a whirring sound, a thunk like an axe splitting wet wood, and the guide tumbled from his saddle, a black-fletched arrow sprouting from his chest.

  ‘Shields!’ roared Tull, shrugging his from his back, then bellowed as an arrow sank into his leg, another piercing his horse’s chest.

  All was chaos. Cywen stared frantically around the glade. Warriors were shouting, crying out in pain, horses neighing, screaming as arrows tore into them from all directions. Half of the warriors had already fallen, either with arrows in their flesh or dragged down by their mounts. The rest were surging to Queen Alona, Cywen and Edana, trying to cover them with their shields, herding them back the way they had come.

  There was another burst of arrows, more horses screaming. Then red-cloaked men were pouring from the trees all about, a line of them barring the track they had ridden in on, others blocking the exit at the far side of the glade, still more converging on the huddle of grey in the glade’s centre.

  Two of those still on horseback charged the exit. One fell immediately, his horse’s legs slashed from under him, but the other crashed through, though he swayed in his saddle as his horse galloped away. Arrows skittered after him, Cywen not seeing if they found their mark or not.

  The gap in the line closed up instantly.

  ‘No use,’ Tull shouted above the din, standing beside Alona’s mount and holding his shield before her. ‘Back this way,’ he said, pulling the Queen’s mount towards the edge of the glade, between the two exits.

  A knot of their attackers suddenly crashed into them, some with spears. Tull roared, hacked at a shaft that pierced a gap in the shields and sank into the belly of Alona’s mount. He grabbed Alona around the waist as the horse reared and fell backwards. Gently he set the Queen down, then threw himself at their attackers. In moments two had fallen, one’s face smashed by Tull’s iron-bossed shield, the other clutching at a gaping wound in his gut.

  All of the horses were down now, Tull and a half-dozen others surrounding the women, backing away from their enemies. Cywen searched her protectors for Ronan, felt a surge of relief when she saw him holding a shield before Edana. She resisted the urge to reach out and touch him. Beyond Ronan there were grim-faced, snarling men all about them, circling the tight-pressed bodies of those trying to protect her. Men slammed into them. Iron clashed on iron and she heard the crack of bone, the thwack of iron cleaving flesh and men screaming, but still their small circle held. It moved back and left a handful of their attackers lying still on the churned grass.

  ‘I want the women alive!’ Cywen heard someone yell. Peering through the wall of her defenders, she saw at least a score of men around their few. Then the red-cloaked attackers were coming at them once more.

  Again there was a short, furious clash, Tull in the middle of it, roaring a battle cry. Cywen remembered her knives suddenly, fumbled one from her belt and hurled it at a face in a red cloak – saw him fall backwards, clutching at his throat.

  Then they were at the glade’s edge, a wide tree at their back.

  Tull and four other warriors in grey were still standing, one of them Ronan. Queen Alona, Edana and Cywen huddled behind them. She counted the knives at her belt. Three more.

  Their attackers had fallen back, but had penned them in. They outnumbered the men of Ardan, but none was keen to be the first to charge. Others still hovered at the glade’s exits, barring escape.

  ‘We cannot turn and run,’ Tull muttered, glancing over his shoulder into the forest. ‘As soon as we were amongst the trees they’d be on our backs.’ He paused briefly, thinking.

  ‘Right, listen close, we’ve only a few moments while they catch their breath, gather their courage. This is the way it is going to be,’ he said, fixing Alona with his gaze. ‘Ronan, Ised, when I give the nod you are to lead the girls into the forest. Ised, you’re the van; Ronan, rearguard.’ Both warriors grunted.

  ‘Me, Alwyn and Taren here, we’re going to buy you some time.’

  ‘No, Tull . . .’ Alona blurted.

  ‘It’s the only way. They’ll take you otherwise,’ he said. ‘And the rest of us’ll still be dead.’ He reached out and covered her hand with his. ‘If you run, live, then our deaths will have worth.’

  They looked at each other a moment, then Alona nodded.

  ‘Good,’ Tull said soberly. ‘You might want to throw another of those knives tucked in your belt, girlie,’ he said to Cywen. ‘With me, lads.’

  Then he was gone.

  He charged forwards, no roaring battle cry this time, the enemy seeming almost inattentive. A rush had been the last thing they expected. Taren and Alwyn, both older warriors like Tull, followed the first-sword of Ardan. They ploughed into their attackers, swords and shields swinging, smashing men to the ground.

  ‘Now, quickly,’ Ronan hissed, tugging at Cywen’s cloak.

  She freed another knife from her belt and cast it at a man poised to hamstring Tull. The man howled, staggered backwards, trying to reach the blade lodged in his back.

  Ronan grabbed her hand, squeezed it. ‘Please, come,’ he exhorted, one eye on Tull. She realized he was crying. She nodded and then they were dashing into the trees, branches whipping at their faces, following Edana’s cloak into the twilight. Cywen looked over her shoulder once, heard Tull roar his defiance, caught a flash of red cloaks at the centre of the glade, then she could see no more.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CAMLIN

  Camlin could not believe his eyes. The maniac with an arrow in his leg was charging them from across the glade.

  He had been distracted, seeing amongst the female faces one he thought he recognized. He knew for sure when she threw a knife, knew her as one of the bairns that had been present at his escape from captivity, back at the fortress of Dun Carreg.

  Then the keening of a blade slicing through air had registered, and he had seen that maniac charging at their line, other warriors following. Camlin stood at the end of the line they had formed around their almost-captives, saw the big man smash into the centre and Digased reel back, blood spurting from his throat. Then someone else, one of the new lads, collapsed, one side of his face ruined by a shield boss. There was confusion and shouting, the line he was part of pulling in to encircle the remaining Ardan warriors.

  Camlin moved in cautiously, shield held high. He had learned quickly how dangerous this big man was, at least half a dozen of their crew having been slain by his hand alone. Then Braith was running from one of the glade’s exits, sword in hand. The new lads’ chief ran beside him, s
houting something urgently, screaming it, with eyes wide, but Camlin could not hear him over the din of battle.

  Then one of Ardan’s grey-cloaks was down, still alive, though not for long. He clutched feebly at the grass, a red stain in the centre of his back. Then another grey-cloak fell, Cromhan’s sword in his belly.

  The big man roared, spun in a circle and threw his battered shield into a face. He swung his sword in great, two-handed sweeps until a space, a wide, blood-soaked ring formed around him. He grinned suddenly, face spattered with other men’s blood. ‘Who’s next?’ he roared, nostrils flaring.

  Braith and his companions had reached them now, the man with him still yelling.

  ‘. . . getting away!’ the man shouted, pointing.

  Camlin looked back and the women had disappeared. He saw a flash of movement amongst the trees, a pale face looking back at him, then it was gone.

  ‘All scared of an old man,’ the warrior at the centre of the glade panted. ‘Best all run back to your mothers.’

  One of the new lads stepped forward, a hard-faced, cold-eyed youth. He wore a coat of mail beneath his red cloak, looked like he knew what he was doing with a blade.

  The Ardan warrior nodded to him.

  They set at each other in a blinding flurry, the larger man moving shockingly fast. When they parted, his opponent had a gash in his thigh.

  The big man attacked again, his blade sweeping high, then low. He pushed inside his adversary’s guard, head-butted him right on the bridge of the nose. Red-cloak stumbled back, then his head was spinning through the air.

  The big man smiled at the corpse, rested a hand on his leg and gulped in deep breaths. He was cut in a dozen places, a broken arrow sticking from a thigh, his sword notched, but he seemed undaunted. He straightened, held his arms out wide and turned slowly.

  ‘Who’s next?’ he said again, spitting blood on the trampled grass.

  Not likely, thought Camlin.

  Then the big man’s eyes fell on the new chief. Scar, they called him, after the white gash on one cheek.