Malice

by John Gwynne

  CORBAN

  It was still dark when Corban rose. He dressed quickly and made his way to the paddocks.

  Gar was waiting as usual, sweat drying on him from whatever he had been doing. Corban nodded a greeting and began his routine, running around the paddock. Soon they moved inside the stables, Corban working at the exercises Gar had introduced him to.

  For almost two ten-nights now this had been his morning routine, and he was starting to feel stronger, more flexible. Finally they moved into the intricate slow dance that Gar had taught him, progressing fluidly from one position to the next, holding a stance until his muscles trembled, burned, then moving to another. When they had finished, Corban wiping sweat from his forehead, Gar called him. He turned quickly, saw the stablemaster throw something to him. He flinched but instinctively held his hand out to catch it.

  It was a practice sword.

  Finally, he thought, breath catching in his throat.

  A shadow of a smile flitted across the stablemaster’s face. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘let’s see what you can do.’

  ‘Are you ready?’ Corban asked, squaring up to Gar. The stablemaster just nodded, not even raising his weapon.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you,’ Corban said, grateful for the opportunity to show how good he was with a blade.

  Weapon raised high and resisting the urge to shout a battle-cry, Corban threw himself at Gar. A flurry of motion followed and Corban found himself on the ground, straw poking up his nose and in his eyes, his knuckles stinging.

  ‘I must have tripped,’ he muttered as he rolled over, letting the stablemaster help him to his feet.

  ‘Clearly. Come now, let us try again,’ said Gar. ‘And please, go easy on me. I am not as young as I was, and my wound slows me.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Corban.

  Three more times in quick succession Corban found himself face down in the straw, unable to figure out how he had arrived there. Gar leaned on his practice sword, chuckling. Corban felt a flash of anger and rose, scowling, but as he looked at Gar something inside him softened. The stablemaster seemed different. He realized he had never seen Gar laugh properly. It changed his face, taking away the sternness that was such a part of him.

  ‘So, my young swordsmaster. There may be a few things an old, broken warrior like me can still show?’

  ‘I think so,’ muttered Corban, ‘like how to stay on my feet.’

  The glimmer of a smile, just a brief twitching at the corners of Gar’s mouth.

  ‘All right then. You remember the slow dance, as you call it. Its correct title is the sword dance. Each position is the first stance of a sword technique. Let us begin with the first one.’ The mask was back on, all signs of humour gone.

  Corban listened avidly, soaking up all that Gar told him. They went through a series of moves based on the first stance of the dance, but this time with the sword in his hand. Then Corban hurried home to break his fast.

  Only his da was home, and he would not say where Cywen and his mam were. Instead, he put Corban’s food on the table and told him to hurry, as there was something that he wanted Corban to see. Soon they were marching across Stonegate’s bridge, Buddai following at Thannon’s heels.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Corban, not really expecting an answer.

  Thannon smiled at him. ‘Gar’s stallion has sired a foal, it was born this morning. A skewbald colt. He’s yours, if you want him.’

  His da set a fast pace, and soon they were descending the winding road to Havan. White-tipped waves crashed against the shore beneath them. Corban could taste salt in the air, the wind snapping around him, bringing with it a taste of the sea far below. In the distance a line of riders moved along the giantsway, the smudge of Baglun Forest behind them.

  ‘The warband,’ Thannon said.

  Corban felt a rush of excitement. So many. Something must have happened. He stood with his da and waited for the warband.

  Marrock rode behind Pendathran, then the newcomers, Halion and Conall, and behind them a column of warriors. Near the centre of the procession walked a number of riderless horses, Corban counted a half-dozen, and then a wain pulled by two shaggy-haired ponies. Something was piled high inside the wain, covered with a sheet of ox-hides stitched together. A wheel hit a stone and a hand and arm slipped out from beneath the hide, skin pale, the nails black with dirt.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  VERADIS

  Banners rippled on the plain before Jerolin’s black walls, all answering the call to High King Aquilus’ council. Many had come to join the sickle moon and stars that Veradis had seen arrive the day he had stood on the battlements with Prince Nathair, watching the Vin Thalun prisoner leave: the black hammer of Helveth, the bull of Narvon and the burning torch of Carnutan, as well as others that he did not recognize. A snarling wolf, a rearing horse, a red hand, a lone mountain, a broken branch. All stood rippling in the breeze amidst groups of tents erected to hold the shieldmen and entourages of these foreign kings, all come at the call of Aquilus. Veradis felt a swell of pride.

  He turned and made his way to the practice court. The fortress was crowded now, full with the Banished Land’s warriors, most looking to prove themselves on the weapons court, to earn a reputation beyond their own realms.

  Veradis was still surprised at how different so many of them looked. The local warriors were all easy to pick out, in their hobnailed sandals, tunics, leather kilts and close-cropped hair. Most of the newcomers wore boots and breeches, coming from colder lands most likely, many with long hair and beards to match. Others were dressed in loose-fitting clothes. There were variations in the colour of their skin, some as pale as morning sky, others weathered as old teak, and all the tones in between. No matter how different they appeared, though, there was one thing that bound them. Whether their hair was close-cropped like Veradis’, or long and wild, or neatly groomed and bound, all wore the warrior braid.

  Rauca was sparring, showing off the strength of Prince Nathair’s band. His opponent, stripped to the waist, wearing checked breeches, was taller and broader, thick-corded muscles rippling as he fought, but Veradis was not concerned for his friend; the person he was facing had grey-streaked hair. Big and old meant slow.

  They’d obviously been sparring for a while, both covered in a sheen of sweat. Rauca circled, forcing the older man to pivot to protect his shield side, then Rauca darted in, lunging at his opponent’s chest. At the last moment, as his opponent’s weapon was whistling to block the blow, Rauca shifted his weight, spinning around to bring his sword arcing at his now off-balance opponent’s neck. It was a perfect manoeuvre, feint and strike, except that his opponent was no longer where he was supposed to be. Somehow he had read the feint, and instead of trying to right himself he used his momentum to step forwards, avoiding the intended blow and regaining his balance at the same time. Now it was Rauca on unsteady feet, and a moment later his adversary’s sword swatted his wrist, making him drop his weapon.

  His opponent laughed, deep and loud, and slapped Rauca on the back. With a rueful smile the younger man picked up his weapon and the two left the court together, allowing two more warriors waiting on the courtyard edge to take their place.

  Veradis met his friend as the older warrior whispered in Rauca’s ear, then wrapped a grey cloak around his shoulders and strode off, the crowd parting for him.

  Veradis smiled at his friend. ‘You should have won.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Rauca muttered with a shrug.

  ‘What did he say to you?’ Veradis asked.

  Rauca pulled a sour face. ‘He said “There’s no point getting old if you don’t get cunning.”’

  Veradis chuckled. ‘He’s right enough. Who was he?’

  ‘Said his name was Tull. He came here with the shieldmen of Ardan.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘You really need to start looking at maps, Veradis. You won’t make a very good battlechief if you don’t know where you’re marchin
g your warband to.’

  ‘That’s what you are for,’ Veradis said and chuckled.

  Laughter called their attention back to the practice court, where a tall, dark-haired man was standing over another figure.

  The one on the ground tried to rise but the dark-haired man lashed out with his practice sword and knocked an arm away, sent him tumbling back to the floor. An older warrior made to enter the practice square, more grey streaking his hair than black, but he was restrained by other warriors.

  The man on the floor rolled away and rose to his feet. Veradis saw he was a thickset youth, wide shouldered but also wide at the waist. He pushed a hand through a shock of unruly red hair as he bent and retrieved his practice sword.

  The dark-haired warrior raised his sword, smiling. The red-haired man suddenly lunged forwards, surprisingly fast. He rained a flurry of blows against his opponent, causing the warrior to step backwards, although he blocked every blow easily, the smile never leaving his lips.

  They fight well, Veradis thought. Then the dark warrior blocked another lunge, twisting his wrist so that his opponent’s weapon was sent spinning, raised his sword for an overhead strike.

  It never landed.

  The red-haired warrior stepped forwards, bringing his knee up hard into the other’s groin. With a groan he sank to the ground and lay there in a curled ball. The red-haired man stood over him a moment, then stomped out of the practice court. A handful of warriors ran over to the felled man and helped him to his feet.

  A hand gripped Veradis’ shoulder and he turned to see Nathair smiling at him. The Prince signalled for Veradis and Rauca to follow him. ‘The council will begin tomorrow, the last king has arrived. Come and see.’ He turned and marched quickly towards the stables, Veradis and Rauca trotting to catch him.

  Nathair stopped just before the stables, staring at two men dismounting. Veradis almost laughed when he saw their mounts, more like ponies than horses, small and shaggy-haired; then he saw their riders and his smile vanished.

  They were both short and lean, wearing loose-fitting breeches and only a sash thrown diagonally across their torsos, but it was their faces that drew Veradis’ eyes. Their heads were shaven clean, apart from a single thick braid of dark hair, small black eyes glowering from beneath jutting brows. A latticework of crisscrossing scars covered the entirety of their clean-shaven faces, heads and upper bodies.

  ‘Close your mouth,’ Nathair said, nudging Veradis.

  ‘Who are they?’ he whispered.

  ‘Sirak,’ Nathair replied, ‘from the sea of grass.’ Veradis nodded, remembering tales his nursemaid had told him in his childhood, of betrayal and bitter rivalries between the horse-lords and the giants.

  ‘Tomorrow should be very interesting,’ he said to Nathair and Rauca.

  Veradis looked around the feast-hall, stripped now of its rows of benches, the firepit boarded over. He was standing a little behind Nathair, who was seated at a massive table of oak that stretched almost the entire length of the room. Over a score of kings or barons had come, each with at least one person accompanying them – a counsellor, a champion or both – and over four score were seated around the great table.

  Nathair was sitting beside Aquilus, a thin circlet of gold about the King’s head. Seated on the other side of Aquilus was Meical, his counsellor, jet-black hair braided and clasped at his neck with silver wire. He studied all who came into the room. Veradis’ eyes were continually drawn back to the man. He was tall, even sitting that was clear to see – possibly taller that Krelis, who was the largest man that Veradis had ever seen – and close up it was apparent that this man was no stranger to combat. Part of his left ear was missing, four clean scars running from his hairline to his chin, looking like claw marks. And his arms were strewn with more silvery scars. Even his knuckles were ridged, knobbly, looking as if he’d spent his life in the pugil-ring.

  A woman swept in, aged but straight-backed, white hair flowing across a checked cloak of black and gold, a thin band of silver around her neck. She was not the only one in the room to wear a crown around her neck, while others wore them as rings about their arms.

  Behind her paced a slim man, young, a swaggering confidence in his walk. His gaze swept the room, cold and arrogant as a hawk.

  Surely her first-sword, Veradis thought. Watch that one.

  The slim warrior pulled out a chair for the lady, who sat with a smile, filling the last chair at the table.

  A hush fell over the room as Aquilus stood.

  ‘People of the Banished Lands, whether you be king, or baron come to speak for your king, welcome to my hall.’ He went on to welcome each person individually, the tide of strange names and places soon flowing over Veradis’ head, with only a few standing out in his mind. Brenin, Lord of Ardan, because the old warrior who had bested Rauca stood behind him, and also Romar, the King of Isiltir. Two men attended him, one sitting either side – the two from the sparring court yesterday, he recognized. The red-haired one was named Kastell, the dark-haired, Jael.

  Other names rang out and the lady who had entered the hall last was named as Rhin, Queen of Cambren.

  ‘This is a momentous occasion,’ Aquilus said. ‘One that has not happened since our ancestors first set foot upon these shores, since Sokar was named high king. I am honoured that so many of you have remembered your ancestors’ oaths and come.’

  ‘It was hard to resist,’ said Mandros, King of Carnutan, ‘though a long way to come for such cryptic hints – dark times, a new age, signs and portents – I for one am intrigued. What is this all about, Aquilus?’

  A silence fell. Nathair tapped his fingers quietly on the smoothed oak of the table.

  ‘War is coming,’ Aquilus said. ‘An enemy that would conquer the Banished Lands, destroy us all.’

  ‘Who?’ a fat, red-haired man shouted out. Braster, King of Helveth.

  ‘Asroth,’ Aquilus said. ‘The God-War is coming. Asroth and Elyon will make the Banished Lands their battleground.’

  Silence. Motes of golden dust danced in the sunshine that washed through the tall windows.

  Someone laughed: Mandros. ‘You cannot be serious,’ the King of Carnutan said. ‘I have ridden a hundred leagues for this: fireside tales my mam told to make me stay in bed at night.’

  Do not trust him, a voice murmured in Veradis’ head.

  ‘There have been signs,’ Aquilus said. ‘I know you will have seen them. I do not believe my kingdom is the only one to have experienced these things.’

  ‘What things?’ Mandros snorted.

  ‘The giants, attacking in force for the first time in generations. Lawless men multiplying, raiding, killing. Creatures, beasts prowling the dark places, bolder than ever before. And worse. The giant-stones, weeping blood. Tell me you have not heard these things.’

  ‘Tales for campfires,’ Mandros said.

  ‘I have heard these things,’ another man said, a gold torc around his neck. Brenin of Ardan. ‘There are giant-stones in my realm. I have been told of blood flowing from them, like tears, seen by men I trust.’

  ‘The giants have become a plague on my borders,’ someone else spoke, a broad-shouldered man, Romar of Isiltir, Veradis thought. ‘On my journey here I was forced to battle against the Hunen, raiding out of Forn Forest. They have stolen a great relic from me, an axe. One of the seven Treasures of old. And what you say about beasts – draigs have been seen prowling my hills for the first time in generations.’

  ‘Dark tales are told in my court,’ Braster said, tugging at his red beard. ‘As you say, of giants and draigs and worse. I have had reports, sightings of white wyrms on my borders, in the mountains, and in the fringes of Forn Forest.’

  Mandros shook his head with contempt. ‘The white wyrms are straight out of our storybooks. They do not exist.’

  ‘Yes they do,’ Benin said, gesturing to his first-sword. The old warrior stood, heaved a sack up and emptied it onto the table. A head rolled out, as big as a war-shield. It was rep
tilian, with long fangs and blood red eyes, the flesh around its neck torn and stinking. Its scales were flaking, decaying, but it was clear to all that in life they must have been a milky-white.

  Gasps were heard around the table.

  ‘There has been no record of the white wyrms since the Scourging,’ Aquilus said. ‘The tales tell that they were bred by the giants, used in the War of Treasures.’

  ‘You all forget one thing,’ a new voice added, Rhin, Queen of Cambren. ‘All this talk of a God-War. For that to happen there must be gods. Elyon has turned his back on us, on all things: men, giants, the beasts of the earth, on all his creation. That is, if our loremasters speak the truth. It takes at least two sides for a battle. Elyon is the absent god. He is gone. So there can be no God-War.’

  ‘There will be a war.’ For the first time Meical spoke, Aquilus’ counsellor. His voice was clipped, precise, controlled. ‘Asroth seeks to destroy all that Elyon created. He seeks to destroy you. Every one of you. Elyon’s presence is not required for that. And you will either die meekly, fooled by him, or you will resist, fight back.’ He stared at Rhin.

  ‘A king may be absent and yet those faithful to him will still do battle for him,’ Aquilus added. ‘And Elyon will not be absent always. If our loremasters speak the truth.’

  Rhin smiled and dipped her head to Aquilus, as if acknowledging a touch on the sparring court. Her gaze drifted to Meical, the smile fading.

  ‘Even if these things are happening, which is debatable,’ Mandros said, ‘why conclude they are the forerunners of this God-War?’ His lips twisted. ‘We are not superstitious children, surely. Bad things happen sometimes, that is the way of the world. Why call them signs?’

  ‘Because of this,’ Aquilus said, gesturing to Meical.

  The counsellor pulled a book from his cloak, thick and leather-bound. ‘I found this in Drassil,’ he said. ‘It was written by Halvor, the giant, during the Scourging.’

  ‘Hah,’ Mandros burst, slapping the table, ‘you go too far now. A book over a thousand years old. Drassil, an imaginary city. Aquilus, please, you insult us.’