Malice

by John Gwynne

  ‘Good,’ the gangly warrior said, shoulders slumping. ‘Now that’s over. You staying, big man?’ he asked Thannon.

  ‘Not today.’ Thannon hesitated. ‘He’s my son. Any problems, I’ll not be happy.’

  ‘Aye, that’s been made clear already. Have no worries,’ Tarben said quickly. ‘There’ll be no trouble in the Field while I am here.’

  Thannon grunted, slapped Corban’s shoulder and walked away.

  ‘Come on, lad, follow me,’ and Tarben set off, striding briskly towards the mass of sparring warriors.

  ‘Mounted combat over there,’ Tarben said with a wave of his arm, ‘spears and bows over there, but Tull always starts the new lads on swords. Worked well enough for him, so let’s stick with it, eh?’ They pulled up before a row of wicker bins, the hilts of practice swords of all shapes and sizes protruding from them. Tarben took a long, appraising look at Corban, then delved into one of the bins, pulled out a battered wooden sword and passed it to Corban.

  ‘How does that feel, lad?’

  Corban swung the weapon, feeling the smooth wood of the handle, worn by countless years of use.

  ‘Good enough,’ he said.

  ‘Right. This is what’s going to happen, see. First, I’ll test you out a bit, see what you can do, then I’ll set you up with a warrior that’ll train you.’ He walked into the sparring area, searching for a clear space.

  Corban followed, glancing furtively about him. Mostly the people around him were concentrating on their sparring, but here and there he spied faces turned his way, eyes focused on him. Then he found Tarben standing ready in front of him, weapon raised. Filling his lungs with a deep breath, he stepped into the first stance of the sword dance and raised his weapon, one of Tarben’s eyebrows rising.

  ‘Begin,’ said the tall warrior.

  Neither of them moved, Tarben’s eyebrows lifting again. The tall man grunted and stepped forward. Corban stood side-on, sword held high as Gar had shown him. Tarben aimed a blow at his head. Corban blocked it, clumsily, nearly losing his grip on his weapon. Tarben slashed at Corban’s ribs. He blocked it, more comfortably this time. Another swing at his thigh – blocked. Tarben lunged, sword aimed at Corban’s chest, he blocked it, sweeping the wooden blade away as he slipped into another stance from the dance, moving around Tarben, trying to expose the warrior’s left side. Then he struck at the tall man. Tarben blocked him, and so it went on: strike, block, strike, again and again, Tarben’s attacks increasing in speed, the blows falling harder and harder, making Corban’s wrists ache and his shoulder throb, then he slipped. Tarben cracked his elbow and his own weapon went spinning from his fingers. Tarben stood there staring at him, face shiny with sweat.

  ‘Tarben.’

  They both turned, saw a warrior walking quickly towards them, coming from the rowan path. It was Marrock.

  ‘Pendathran wants to see you. In the feast-hall,’ he said.

  Tarben sighed. ‘All right, give me a moment,’ he muttered, rolling his eyes. He walked away, heading towards a warrior who was standing on his own, watching the sparring. Corban saw a handful of people detach from the crowd gathered round the sparring ring. They began to walk over to him, Rafe at their head. One side of his face was mottled a dull green and he walked with a slight limp. Corban recognized some of the faces around him: Vonn, Crain, others he did not know.

  ‘So, the coward dares stand in the Field,’ Rafe said.

  Corban looked at the floor.

  ‘Well, coward? Got nothing to say? Maybe because you haven’t got your sister or da around.’

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened,’ said Corban, looking at Rafe’s bruises.

  ‘Sorry. Sorry,’ hissed Rafe, a vein throbbing in his neck. He took a step towards Corban.

  ‘What’s this?’ said a voice, not loud, but firm nevertheless. It was Halion, one of the two newcomers. The warrior looked at them, at Corban standing on his own, Rafe at the head of a handful of others, face twisted with anger.

  ‘Enough,’ said the newcomer. No one moved.

  ‘I said, enough.’ He placed himself in front of Rafe. ‘This is the Rowan Field; grudges come no further than the trees.’

  Rafe scowled at the warrior, then turned silently and walked away, the others following him.

  ‘What was that all about?’

  Corban said nothing.

  Halion sighed. ‘No business of mine, eh?’

  Corban nudged the grass with a toe.

  ‘Tarben has asked me to help you in your training. Told me a few things about you, Corban.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘That this is your first day in the Field. That you fight like you’ve been here longer.’ He had a practice sword in his hand, longer and heavier than the one Tarben had used. He dug the tip under Corban’s weapon still lying on the ground and flicked it back up to Corban.

  ‘Let’s see if I agree with him,’ he said.

  They sparred for a long while, Corban losing all sense of time as everything came down to Halion’s wooden weapon, its tip stabbing, edges slashing, testing, probing. Corban blocked and attacked as best he could, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not get close to the dark-haired, solemn-faced warrior who fought with an efficiency of movement that reminded him of Gar. Then suddenly Halion stepped back, lowered his sword and held a hand up. He leaned on his practice sword, looking intently at Corban.

  ‘Well, I’m not from these parts, but I think I must agree with Tarben.’

  Corban smiled tentatively, in between deep, ragged breaths.

  ‘So, who has trained you?’

  Corban shrugged. ‘Family, friends.’

  ‘Oh, aye, we all do that before we set foot in the Field, but there’s more than that here. You use a style I’ve never seen before. Who has trained you?’

  Corban looked at the grass a moment, then raised his eyes and met Halion’s sea-grey gaze. ‘Where are you from?’ he asked.

  Halion’s face went hard as flint. His fingers twitched, and for a moment Corban thought the warrior would strike him. Then the edges of his lips moved in the glimmer of a smile.

  ‘So it’s like that, eh? Tell me your secret and I’ll tell you mine. Well, it may seem like a fair trade to you, but I think I’ll just have to live without knowing your secret.’ He passed a hand through his thick black hair. ‘You know some, lad, but not all. So let us begin your training.’

  The next time Corban looked around, the Field was much emptier. He was sweating; his sword arm like lead.

  ‘People do not stay that long,’ said Halion, seeing Corban looking around. ‘Many have tasks – fields to tend, fish to catch, iron to forge. Some stay longer, mostly those that serve as warriors in the holds of barons here in the fortress.’

  ‘How about you? Do you need to go?’

  Halion snorted. ‘No, lad. Brenin has taken me into his warband. A good man, your King. So we only help where it is needed, and commanded. Come harvest, I imagine I’ll be spending a lot of time in the fields, my brother as well.’ He nodded towards a group of warriors still sparring. ‘But right now, there’s not so much needs doing.’

  Just then Tarben strode back into the Field, long legs quickly carrying him over to them.

  ‘How’d the boy do?’ he asked Halion, ignoring Corban.

  ‘Well enough. He has potential, I would say. With a sword, anyway. He came here knowing something, like you said, but he’s quick enough to pick up new things. Uses his head. I didn’t try him with bow or spear, though.’

  ‘Plenty of time for that. Well, if you’re willing, you may as well stick with the lad. You’re as good as any to teach him his weapons.’

  Halion nodded.

  ‘Good. That’s settled then.’

  ‘Where did you go?’ asked Corban. Tarben looked at him for the first time.

  ‘Found your voice then, boy?’ A troubled look swept across the tall warrior’s face. ‘Well, no harm in saying, I figure. I’m about to tell everyone else. Fain, E
vnis’ wife, is dead. I’m supposed to tell all of his hold that are here.’

  ‘When?’ said Corban, thinking of Brina saying how well Evnis’ wife had been doing, only a short time ago.

  ‘Earlier today. There’s other news that needs telling as well. Not so bad, though. The hunt’s on. In half a ten-night, before you ask.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  VERADIS

  Veradis gazed absently at the river as he rode along its bank, the water churning and foaming around huge grey boulders. It had not been so long ago that he had ridden the same journey in the opposite direction, with his brother Krelis and a captive Vin Thalun corsair in tow.

  It felt a long time ago. He had left Ripa looking to find his place in the world. Now he was returning, would be riding through his father’s gates beside the Prince of Tenebral. More than that, Nathair had declared him his first-sword and captain of his ever-growing warband. He suspected this was mostly based on his suicidal leap through the wall of flame, although it was becoming clear that he had risen above all competition in the weapons court, apart from Armatus, the weapons-master, of course. But whatever the reasons, he felt a warm glow of pride deep inside. He was looking forward to seeing Krelis, even though he knew his brother would most likely break his back in one of his bear hugs. It would even be good to see Ektor, his other brother.

  But most of all it was his father’s face that he wanted to see. Not out of any love shared, but because he felt that he had finally achieved something that could not be denied.

  ‘Is she pretty?’

  He looked, saw Nathair riding beside him.

  ‘You were smiling to yourself. Thinking about a girl, back home? One that you will be seeing soon?’

  ‘No, lord,’ Veradis said, shaking his head.

  ‘Lord. I thought I had told you: there will be none of that between us.’

  Veradis smiled ruefully. ‘Habit. We are nearing my home now, where I was raised to call my own father “lord”.’

  Nathair raised an eyebrow.

  ‘So no woman’s arms to return to then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You surprise me, Veradis . . .’

  He snorted. ‘I like women well enough, it’s just, they make me nervous. There was one girl, Elysia, the stablemaster’s daughter . . .’

  ‘Hah, see, I was right all along,’ Nathair said, snapping his fingers.

  ‘No, nothing came of it. She was always saying one thing but meaning another. It was confusing. Better a sword and someone to fight, I think.’

  Nathair laughed.

  ‘You may be one of the most skilled warriors in all of Tenebral, but you have much to learn, my friend.’

  ‘Aye,’ blushed Veradis. ‘But what of you, Nathair?’ He spoke quickly, trying to deflect this uncomfortable subject away from himself.

  ‘Ah, a counter-attack, I see. No. No woman, or women. Not recently, anyway. I have too much to achieve. There is little room for anything else.’

  A score of warriors rode behind them, handpicked from Nathair’s rapidly growing warband. The river Aphros tumbled ahead, widening in the distance, snaking its way into a wall of trees on its journey to the coast. The forest rolled away into the horizon, and although he could not see it yet, he knew his home lay on its far side. He felt a fluttering in his stomach as he gazed on the forest, his eyes picturing the walls of his home. Fear? Then the sensation was gone.

  Many were scared to enter the forest, with the ruins of giant-built Balara rising jagged on the horizon, standing on a bare hill to the north of the forest. Similar ruins were found throughout the Banished Lands, abandoned by the giants in their defeat. Some had been inhabited by men, as Jerolin had been, but many more had been left empty, men preferring to build in wood and thatch. Strange tales were told about the ruins of the giants’ stronghold, but he had never been scared of entering the woodland, having been raised on its fringes. He had always enjoyed his times in the forest, usually hunting with Krelis.

  Squawking, a handful of crows took flight from a stand of trees on the far bank. Veradis started, felt that brief tickling sensation in the pit of his stomach again. He stared at the copse of trees a while, mostly willows and alders, then shook his head.

  Unmanned at the thought of going home. He snorted, angry with himself, and set his eyes back on the road ahead.

  They made camp that night some distance into the forest, the river flowing glossy black beside them. At times Veradis could see the dark shadow of Balara’s jagged tower framed by the moon through the swaying treetops.

  He stamped his feet, fighting the drooping of his eyelids. A horse whinnied nearby, a twig popping on the fading fire. He paced silently along the perimeter of their camp, where trees had been cleared from the forest road that shadowed the river.

  A sound caught his attention and he picked his way carefully around sleeping forms until he was standing above Nathair.

  The Prince was mumbling in his sleep, limbs jerking. Veradis crouched, trying to hear better what he was saying.

  Sweat beaded Nathair’s face, his eyelids twitching, then suddenly they snapped open, a hand shooting out to grab Veradis by the throat. Veradis tried to prise Nathair’s fingers apart, but they were unmovable. The Prince’s eyes were wide, bulging, staring wildly at Veradis like some cornered, feral creature. He knew a moment of panic as his lungs began to burn, then suddenly Nathair’s eyes cleared. The Prince loosed his grip and fell back with a sigh.

  ‘My apologies,’ Nathair mumbled, wiping sweat from his face.

  Veradis massaged his throat. ‘You were dreaming?’

  ‘Aye.’ Nathair sat up.

  ‘You were talking, in your sleep.’

  Nathair’s eyes narrowed. ‘What did I say? Did you hear what I said?’

  ‘No. Not really. Something about – searching, I think. And something that sounded like cauldron. I am not sure.’

  Nathair stared at Veradis a moment, then shrugged. ‘I have dreams, Veradis. Troubled dreams. Often the same one.’ He smiled, hesitantly. ‘I have dreamed it as far back as I can remember, or variations of it; but of late it is becoming more urgent.’

  Veradis stepped over to the dying fire, where a clay jug of wine had been left warming. He swigged some himself, the warm, sour liquid soothing his throat, and passed it to Nathair, who gulped greedily. ‘What do you dream?’ he asked.

  Nathair looked about, checking for eavesdroppers. ‘I hear a voice, asking for my help, sometimes see the shadow of a face. A noble face, I think, although it is never quite the same, never clear. But the voice is always the same. A whisper, yet filling my head with noise.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘Always the same thing. He is searching, searching, and he asks me for aid. To find a cauldron, no, the cauldron, though why it is so important, I do not know.’ He sighed deeply.

  A memory tugged at the back of Veradis’ mind. ‘Did Meical not speak of a cauldron, during your father’s council?’

  ‘Aye. He did, though he claimed to know nothing of it when I questioned him. I do not know. But the voice is becoming more insistent.’

  ‘Have you spoken of this to anyone?’

  ‘No, you are the first. It would not do to have people think that the Prince of Tenebral is mad.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Do you . . . think me mad?’

  ‘A few moons ago, maybe I would have,’ Veradis smiled. ‘Now, with all this talk of gods, demons, weeping stones and the mother of all wars –’ he snorted – ‘dreams and strange voices seem tame.’ He smiled, but inside he was worried. He did not believe that Nathair was touched, and he had suffered unpleasant recurring dreams himself, usually about the dead mother he had never met. And even he heard voices sometimes. He always put it down to his conscience, but maybe it was more than that.

  Nathair smiled and drank some more wine. ‘It means something,’ he said. ‘Somehow, it is important.’

  They sat there in silence a while, passing the clay jug back and forth until it was
empty, the sound of insects filling the darkness, the wind sighing in the branches above them.

  ‘We could ask my brother Ektor,’ Veradis eventually said. ‘He knows his books like none other.’

  ‘No,’ Nathair snapped. ‘I would not speak of this to anyone.’

  ‘We need not tell him of your dreams. Only ask him if he knows of this cauldron. He is very learned. Arrogant, aye, and spiteful, but learned. And the tower at Ripa dates back to the giants, and holds many ancient manuscripts. I think Ektor has read every single one of them. If anyone could help, it would be my brother.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Nathair nodded thoughtfully. ‘Let me think on it in the light of day.’

  Veradis stood, Nathair laying his head back on the ground. Returning to the edge of camp, Veradis gazed into the darkness, his eyelids no longer heavy.

  Ripa appeared as the forest road spilled into a plain of rich grass, the breeze from the sea giving it an undulating fluidity. A town of timber and thatch sprawled between them and the fortress, grown large on the harvest of the sea and forest.

  The sun was high, the day warm. Sweat trickled down the back of Veradis’ leather cuirass, silver eagle standing out bright in the boiled and black-dyed leather. He rode beside Nathair at the head of their small column, women washing clothes in the river and children splashing around them stopping to stare at the warriors passing by. Veradis took a deep breath, a swarm of memories flooding him with the sounds and smells of home: gulls calling, salt on his tongue, fish laid out in the dozens of smokehouses that lined the river as it flowed languidly into the bay. Ripa was a wooden fortress that had grown up around a tower of stone, built long ago by the giants as a watchtower overlooking the bay. It was an ideal spot to guard against the raids of the Vin Thalun, as the view from the top of the tower commanded leagues across the bay and along the coast. Veradis remembered the look on his father’s face as Krelis had told him of the Vin Thalun’s plans, following his capture of the prisoner, the pride that his firstborn had unmasked such a grievous plot against the realm. He felt a brief twist in his gut, a sharp stab of jealousy. He fought it down, instantly ashamed. Krelis deserved the adulation his father lavished on him.