Malice

by John Gwynne

  Then Corban was aware of movement, a presence around him, of deeper shadows pacing. Eyes gleamed out of the darkness, many eyes.

  Its pack has come. I’m dead, he thought. Before him, slow and deliberate, the wolven he had saved padded towards him, thick muscles bunching about its neck and shoulders. Its belly swayed from side to side, full and heavy.

  ‘You’re in pup,’ he whispered.

  It circled him, stopped in front of him, copper eyes locking with his, then took in a great sniff and pressed its muzzle into his groin, snuffling. He resisted the urge to leap back, knew his life hung on a thread. The beast lifted its head, still sniffing, tracing his abdomen, his neck, his jaw. Hot breath washed over him, the scent of damp fur heavy in his throat. The wolven’s muzzle pushed against his skin, its teeth cold, hard. Corban felt his bladder loosen. Then the beast took a step back, turned and bounded away, disappearing into the darkness of the forest.

  The eyes in the shadows faded and Corban let out a huge breath, slumping to the ground.

  What have I just done?

  He lay upon the damp ground awhile, waiting for his racing heart to calm, then he rose and walked away from the bog. The forest looked different now, darker. It was difficult going, constantly having to focus on the ground in front of him to avoid tripping in the dense vines that carpeted the forest floor. Some time had passed before he realized he had not seen any of the small streams that he had crossed earlier. He stamped his foot on the ground, which was no longer spongy, but hard under the forest litter.

  ‘Oh no.’ Frantically he looked around, searching for some familiar sign, but recognized nothing. Diffuse sunlight filtered through the treetops, giving no glimpse of where the sun lay in the sky. With a deep breath he began walking again. Just have to keep going, he thought. Look for a stream that will take me back. He shuddered, trying to control the panic starting to bubble inside him. He knew full well that he stood little chance of surviving a night in the forest, and to find his way out he had to think clearly. Just keep walking, he told himself, and hope I’m not travelling deeper into the forest. He quickened his pace, glancing constantly back and forth between the floor at his feet and his chosen path.

  His feet were sore, toes numb when he finally stopped. It seemed that he had been walking for an age, and still no sign of a stream. Looking around, he selected a tall elm, then began to climb. The higher he got, the thinner and wider apart the branches became. He reached a point where even balancing on the tips of his toes he could not reach the next branch above. If I can just reach the top I should be able to see Dun Carreg. Then at least I’ll know if I’m walking in the right direction. Desperation fuelling him, he crouched slightly and jumped. Both hands gripped the branch he was aiming for and he hung there a moment, suspended, swinging slightly as the tree’s limb flexed. Then one of his hands slipped. He windmilled wildly, desperately clinging on, then he was falling. After colliding with a number of branches, he blacked out, to find himself in a heap on the forest floor. He sat up, groaning and then heard a faint sound. It was distant, but the forest was mostly silent, not even a breeze rustling the trees. He strained, almost certain he could hear a voice, someone calling. He jumped up, forgetting his exhaustion and ran. When he stopped there was silence for a moment, then he heard the voice again, much closer now. It was calling his name.

  ‘HELLO!’ he called back, cupping his hands to his mouth. He set off again, calling. Soon he saw a tall figure step from behind a tree, leading two horses, a large piebald and a pony. The figure limped.

  ‘Gar,’ cried Corban, running wildly now, tears streaming down his face as he threw himself onto the stablemaster. At first the dark-haired man stood there, still as a statue. Then, stiffly, he put his arms about the boy and patted his back.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Corban asked shakily.

  ‘Looking for you, of course, you idiot. Willow knows his way home, even if you don’t,’ replied Gar, stepping back to look at Corban. ‘What has happened to you? You looked bad enough when I saw you last, but now . . .’

  Corban looked down at himself, covered in mud and leaves, with scrapes on his skin and holes in his cloak and breeches.

  ‘I was . . .’ Corban paused, knowing how stupid he was about to sound. ‘I just wanted some quiet, to be alone . . .’ he said sheepishly, looking at the floor. ‘I got lost.’ The look on Gar’s face convinced him that this would not be a wise time to mention the wolven.

  The stablemaster looked at the bedraggled boy in front of him, took a sniff, and sighed deeply.

  ‘You can thank your sister. She insisted I come and find you when Dath told her about Rafe.’

  ‘Oh. She knows,’ said Corban, shoulders sinking.

  ‘Aye, lad, but never mind that now, let’s get you home. If you can keep up with me we should still be able to get back for the hand-binding. At least that way I won’t have saved you just for your mam to kill you.’

  ‘I think she’s going to kill me anyway,’ Corban said, looking at his torn and tattered cloak.

  ‘Well, let’s go and find out,’ said Gar, turning his horse and walking away.

  CHAPTER SIX

  VERADIS

  Veradis flexed his shoulders, trying to readjust his chainmail shirt. His skin was chafed raw even through the linen tunic underneath, made worse by the rhythm of his horse as he rode a dozen paces behind Nathair.

  Should have worn it more often, he thought, but he had felt uncomfortable. Only a handful of warriors had owned chainmail shirts in Ripa: his brother Krelis of course, as well as his father. Also Alben, the fortress’ weapons-master, and two or three of the local barons’ sons. The few times he had worn it in public he had felt different, set apart, and he’d had more than enough of that feeling already, without adding to it. So the chainmail shirt had remained boxed in his room for the most part.

  Nevertheless, he treasured it. Mostly because Krelis had given it to him after his Long Night, the final seal on his warrior trial, when he had passed from boy to man, but also because of the truth in what his brother had told him. Leather may turn a weak or glancing blow, but this will turn a strong one. Treat it like a good friend. And he had, taking it out every night from a wooden chest, oiling it, scouring it, then folding and putting it away again.

  Aquilus had granted Nathair’s request, allowing him to lead the warband sent to interrupt Lykos’ meeting, the self-proclaimed king of the corsairs. So Veradis had only slept two nights in Jerolin before climbing back into his saddle again.

  He glanced over his shoulder. He was riding near the head of a short column, three abreast, around four score of them, though only half of that number were Nathair’s own recruits in his fledgling warband. The others were picked from Aquilus’ eagle-guard, insisted upon by Fidele, Nathair’s mother.

  Either side of him rode Nathair’s followers: Rauca on his left, the third son of a local baron, likeable, easy natured and quick in the weapons court; on the other side Bos, son of one of Aquilus’ eagle-guard. He was thick necked, broad shouldered, with arms like knotted oak.

  They had made good time travelling south of Jerolin, passing through leagues of undulating meadow splashed with patches of open woodland, and now, three nights out, Veradis spied the mountains that roughly marked the halfway point of their journey, rearing out of the land like the curved spine of a withered, crippled old man.

  ‘Veradis,’ Nathair called from up ahead.

  Veradis touched his heels to his stallion’s ribs and drew alongside Nathair.

  ‘We have not yet had the conversation that I promised you,’ Nathair said, glancing at Veradis with an easy smile.

  ‘You have been busy, my lord,’ Veradis said.

  ‘Ah ah, none of that “my lord” talk. Remember what I told you?’

  ‘Apologies, my lo—’ Veradis began, then closed his mouth.

  Nathair chuckled. ‘I am glad to have you in my warband. There are not many of us yet, but it shall grow.’

  ‘Aye.’


  ‘And you, I hear, are the most skilled swordsman ever to come out of Ripa. A most welcome member to my warband.’

  Veradis snorted. ‘Who . . .?’

  ‘Your brother. I spoke with him briefly, before he left. He spoke very highly of you, and of your skills.’

  ‘Oh,’ Veradis breathed, a smile touching his mouth.

  ‘Your father must be very proud.’ Nathair said.

  ‘Huh,’ Veradis grunted. He opened his mouth but could think of nothing to say. ‘Aye,’ he eventually mumbled.

  ‘Krelis. He is well liked. Has it been difficult, growing up in his shadow?’

  Veradis frowned, but said nothing.

  ‘Forgive me if I pry,’ Nathair said, ‘only, it is a subject of interest to me.’

  Veradis shrugged. In truth it had been, especially as his father only ever seemed to have eyes, praise, for Krelis. His other brother Ektor had never seemed to care, being content with his books, but Veradis had felt it like a thin sliver of iron working its way deeper and deeper into his flesh. But he loved Krelis, rarely resented him for it, and then only for a passing moment. If anyone were at fault, it was his father. He shrugged again. ‘Sometimes,’ he said.

  ‘I know something of what it is like, growing up in another’s shadow,’ Nathair said quietly.

  Looking at the Prince, Veradis noticed his eyes were bloodshot, dark circles beneath them. ‘Are you well?’ he asked.

  ‘What? Oh, it’s nothing,’ Nathair said. ‘I did not sleep well, that’s all. Bad dreams.’

  They rode together in silence for a while, winding their way through open woods, white campion dotting the ground about them. A handful of woodlarks burst from branches ahead and above, startled by their passing.

  ‘Did you see the riders that left Jerolin before us?’ the Prince suddenly asked.

  ‘Aye. I did.’ Over a score of warriors had left the fortress on the day Veradis had been preparing for this journey, all with extra horses, well-provisioned for long journeys. ‘I thought perhaps it was something to do with the return of Meical – he is your father’s counsellor, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he did play a part.’ The Prince scowled a moment, then carried on. ‘The riders are messengers. My father is calling a council, summoning all of the kings throughout the Banished Lands.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Aye. A messenger has been sent to the king of every realm.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Ah. Of that I should not speak, not yet. It is for my father to tell, at the council.’

  ‘Will they come, the kings of every realm?’

  ‘They should, my father is high king,’ Nathair said.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Veradis pulled a face. Aquilus was high king, though more in name than deed. Generations gone, when the Exiles had washed ashore and begun their war against the giant clans, there had been but one king, Sokar, and after the giants had been thrown down and the Banished Lands populated by men, all had bowed to him. But that had been a long time ago; new realms had grown, and now there were many kings in the Banished Lands, though they all still recognized the sovereignty of Tenebral’s master, descended from their first king. In theory, at least.

  ‘Father says they will come,’ Nathair said with a shrug. ‘Between you and me, I do not really think it matters.’ He leaned closer, spoke more quietly. ‘Did you know that the giant-stones are bleeding?’ He smiled, looking excited. ‘We are living in exceptional times, Veradis, times when we shall have much need of your famed sword-arm, I think. We are on the edge of something new. So this is a good time to be raising a warband. As I said, I am glad that you are a part of it.’

  The Prince glanced back at the column behind them. ‘They are good men – brave, loyal, every one of them. But you are a baron’s son. We are more alike. You understand me?’

  ‘Aye, my lo—’ Veradis said. ‘Yes, I understand. And I am glad to be part of this.’ He felt his curiosity rising, his blood stirring at Nathair’s words. Some part of the Prince’s enthusiasm was infectious. And for the first time in an age he felt a glimmer of something stir deep inside. He felt of value.

  The days rolled past as Veradis and the warband headed steadily southwards. For a time they hugged the mountains Veradis had seen in the distance, crossing fast-flowing, white-foamed rivers that tumbled out of the high places. As the mountains faded behind them, the land began to change: the woods and forests of sycamore and elm disappearing, replaced by leagues of rolling grassland, which in turn grew steadily thinner, paler, the colour and moisture leached from everything by the ever-increasing heat of the sun.

  In time they struck the banks of the Nox. The warband crossed the river by an ancient stone bridge, built by the giants generations before. From here they followed the river south, carving a line through the ever-rockier land, until one morning, well before highsun, Veradis tasted salt on the air and heard the call of gulls in the distance.

  The column of riders rippled to a stop as their captain, Orcus, held his hand up. Nathair gestured to summon Veradis and Rauca to join him.

  The Prince and his eagle-guard were huddled over a scrolled map. Veradis leaned closer, frowning. He had always struggled with understanding maps, and certainly did not love them as his brother Ektor did, who would spend days in the library at Ripa, poring over the many parchments they had stored there. Some even outlined the boundaries of the giant realms that had ruled the Banished Lands before the Exiles had been washed up onto these shores.

  ‘We are here,’ Orcus said, finger jabbing at a spot on the map near a coastline.

  ‘Aye,’ Nathair said. ‘And that would appear to be the mark that the Vin Thalun prisoner spoke of.’ The Prince pointed at a tall cedar, its trunk split and charred by lightning. ‘If he spoke true, this meeting is supposed to take place about a league east of that tree.’

  ‘We shall see.’ Orcus rolled the map up with a snap and slid it back into a leather case.

  ‘Let the men know we are near,’ Nathair said to Veradis and Rauca.

  The two warriors rode back along the length of the warband, spreading the word. With a wave of his arm, Nathair led them onwards, turning east with the stream.

  They soon found themselves in a barren land of low hills, sharp crags and sun-baked, twisting valleys. Nathair halted them a while after midday, the sun a white, merciless thing glaring down at them.

  ‘We walk from here,’ Nathair called, and with a rattle of harness and iron the four score men dismounted. A dozen stayed behind with the horses, the rest picking a path into a string of low hills.

  Veradis wiped sweat from his eyes and took a sip from his water skin. He was more used than most to this heat. His home, Ripa, was much further east along the coast, and almost as far south as they were now, so the climate was similar. The only thing missing was the constant breeze off the bay that seemed always present in Ripa, and here, without it, the heat felt so much worse, suffocating, burning his nose and throat with each breath.

  They were climbing a hill, spread out in a long line behind Nathair and Orcus, the hobnails in the leather soles of Veradis’ sandals scratching on the rock-littered ground. The two leaders stopped, heads close together. Orcus signalled for the small warband to spread out into a loose arc before carrying on up the hill.

  Veradis used his spear as a staff, shrugged the shield slung across his back into a more comfortable position and laboured up the hill behind Nathair. Before the Prince reached the top of the slope he ducked down onto his belly and crawled the rest of the way. The warband followed, and soon they were ringed about a long ridge, Veradis one side of Nathair, Rauca the other. Cautiously, Veradis peered over the ridge.

  The ground dropped steeply away for forty or fifty paces before it levelled out, a stream cutting a gully through a flat-bottomed bowl of stony ground. A small stand of scraggy laurels clustered along the stream’s edge.

  Before the trees, in the shade of a huge boulder, was a man. An old man, judging by his silvery hai
r, pulled back and tied neatly with a leather cord at his nape. He was squatting beside a fire, prodding sparks from it with a stick, something spitted across the flames. He was humming. Behind him, to the left of the laurels, was a brightly coloured tent.

  Veradis glanced at Nathair’s frowning face, then back to the old man.

  He seemed alone, though it was impossible to be certain. There could be men hiding behind many of the scattered boulders, perhaps hidden in the stand of laurels, and the tent could have concealed at least a dozen more.

  ‘What do we do?’ Veradis whispered to Nathair.

  The Prince shrugged. ‘Wait,’ he muttered.

  So they did, the sun beating down on the warband spread along the ridge, Veradis feeling as if he was slowly roasting inside his shirt of mail. The old man in the dell continued to cook and eat whatever it was that he had spitted over the fire. He licked his fingers contentedly when he had finished, cuffed a neatly cropped silver beard and washed his hands in the shallow stream before staring up at the ridge, to where Nathair was crouched.

  ‘You might as well come down,’ the old man called. ‘I’d rather not have to climb all the way up to you.’

  Veradis froze, appalled. He looked at Nathair, who appeared as shocked as he was. The old man repeated his invitation, shrugged, then sat with his back against the boulder.

  ‘I am going down,’ Nathair whispered. ‘Veradis, Rauca, with me. All else will wait here. He may only have spied one of us moving.’

  The Prince stood and slithered down the slope, Veradis and Rauca behind him. Veradis scanned the dell for lurking enemies.

  The old man smiled as he rose, waiting for Nathair to draw closer. There was a scuffing sound behind them; Veradis then saw Orcus sliding down the ridge to join them.