Malice

by John Gwynne

  Evnis breathed deeply, closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Put the cub on the ground and move away, or so help me, by Elyon above and Asroth below, I shall ride you down as well.’

  Corban saw movement out of the corner of his eye. A man had taken a step towards him. Gar.

  Evnis clenched his reins.

  ‘HOLD!’ shouted a loud voice. ‘Hold, Evnis.’ It was Pendathran.

  ‘But these beasts may have taken my son from me. That cub must die.’

  Pendathran frowned at Corban. ‘He speaks true, boy. Let it live and it will grow, maybe take more lives amongst our people. Besides, its mother is dead. It is going to die anyway. Put the cub down, lad.’

  Corban hugged the cub closer to him and shook his head.

  ‘Do as you’re told,’ Pendathran snapped.

  Corban looked frantically around the glade, but no one spoke or came to his aid. Gar watched him, his face an unreadable mask, but made no move to help. Pendathran clicked his horse forward.

  ‘I claim King’s Justice,’ Corban blurted, looking defiantly between Pendathran and Evnis.

  Pendathran pulled his horse up, scowling. ‘You have the right, but you are only delaying the inevitable. And angering me into the bargain.’ He pinned Corban with a glowering look. ‘Are you sure?’

  Corban nodded.

  ‘So be it,’ Pendathran growled and turned his horse away. Evnis rode back to his son, staring at Corban all the way. The wolven cub whimpered and nuzzled its nose into the crook of Corban’s arm.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  KASTELL

  It took Kastell almost a moon to reach the borders of Tenebral, even though King Romar set a fast pace and the roads were good. Slowly the oak and chestnut woodlands of Tenebral were giving way to pine and fir as they climbed higher into the mountains that marked Helveth’s border. Eventually they left the trees behind completely, cantering through lush meadows. Snow-capped peaks reared above them as the warriors rode into a narrow valley. They clattered across an ancient, time-worn bridge spanning a great chasm, a rent in the earth’s fabric. A reminder of the Scourging, Maquin muttered to him as they crossed, when Elyon’s wrath near destroyed the world. Kastell peered over the bridge, saw sheer rock disappear into darkness. How deep it was he could not tell. Not long after, they made camp for the night.

  The following day, as they rode through deep valleys and around dark lakes of Helveth’s southern border, King Romar called Kastell to ride with him. ‘Do you believe in fate, lad, destiny, the will of Elyon . . . call it what you will?’ Romar asked him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Kastell. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Good,’ Romar grunted. ‘I do. The gods, Elyon, Asroth, the coming of the Dark Sun. I could not explain it to you, but in my heart, when Aquilus spoke of these things at the council. I knew it to be true. I felt it.’

  Kastell grunted, not quite sure what to say. He had felt something, too, but he could not explain it. Did not understand it, even.

  ‘And I believe you were meant to be here, nephew. It was no accident that I found you moments from death by giants as I travelled to the council. No accident.’ He looked at Kastell and smiled, creasing his broad, lined face.

  ‘I am glad your feud with Jael is at an end. I saw it when you were young, but was loath to intervene.’ He frowned, shaking his head. ‘I was worried. So I was glad for you when you left home with Maquin. But now you are back with us, and your feud is at an end. Fate. Maybe Elyon is taking a hand, even now.’ He smiled at his nephew again. ‘I am proud of you. Not even seen your eighteenth nameday and you are a giantkiller. Your father would have been proud.’

  Kastell winced. He did not feel proud, or brave. Mostly when he thought about the giants all he remembered was terror.

  ‘There are many here named giantkiller now,’ was all he said.

  ‘That is true, lad – myself among them. Although I must confess, when I crested that ridge and saw the Hunen running at you, my guts turned to water for a moment. But we rode them down, true. But, ’tis also true that it’s easier to be brave when you’ve got four score hard men riding at your shoulder.’ He laughed loudly and Kastell could not help smiling at that. He was inclined to agree.

  Romar examined his nephew. ‘You have changed, lad. Grown. What I said to you back at Aquilus’ stronghold is true. I have plans for you. I have been talking with Braster, King of Helveth. We have agreed to strike out against the Hunen. To break the giants’ strength once and for all.’

  ‘Why now, Uncle?’

  ‘All this talk at the council, it rings true with me. The giants have been a curse since the dawn of time. Elyon should have finished them at the Scourging. To end the Hunen will be a good start. I would leave my kingdom safer for my son. Hael is only eight summers, but a king must look ahead. And, besides, they have my axe, and I want it back.’

  ‘When will you act?’

  Romar shrugged. ‘Soon. Not this year, but maybe next spring, summer. I have a mind to involve Aquilus in this. He proposed that we give each other aid, after all. If we are to venture into Forn Forest and give battle to the Hunen on their own ground, the more warriors the better, eh?’

  ‘Into Forn Forest?’

  ‘Aye, lad. I hardly think the Hunen will agree to march out and fight us on an open plain. We will have to go and root them out.’

  Kastell nodded slowly.

  ‘There are dark and dangerous times ahead, of that I have no doubt. I will need men about me that I can trust. Men that can lead, and not shrink from what must be done. You are one of those men.’

  Stunned, Kastell stared at his uncle, mouth open. King Romar laughed again. ‘Don’t worry, lad, I don’t mean today.’

  ‘But I don’t think there are many men that would be happy taking orders from me.’

  ‘You’d be surprised. You are my blood-kin. If you give orders, men will listen. Until now you have not chosen to do so, but that can change quick enough. Look at Jael – he’s been practising ever since he came to Mikil as a boy.’

  Kastell grunted.

  ‘Also, Maquin is good company for you, a more loyal shieldman you’ll never find. But he could be more. He could be a leader of men. I see it in him. You could learn much from him.’

  ‘He is my friend.’ It felt strange saying that out loud.

  ‘I know, for which I am glad.’

  They rode again in silence. Soon after, Kastell dropped back down the line, thinking over all that his uncle had said. Then, as dusk began to settle, Jael fell back, leading a packhorse laden with many empty water skins.

  ‘Making camp soon,’ he said to Maquin, ignoring Kastell completely. ‘Take the horse and some extra hands, find water, and fill the skins. And don’t take too long, I’m thirsty.’ He pressed the packhorse’s reins into Maquin’s hand and kicked his horse back to the head of the column.

  Maquin gathered a handful of riders about him, including Kastell. Turning away from the column, they rode down a gentle slope into the woods to a stream they’d spotted. Three warriors had joined him and Maquin. An owl hooted amongst the trees.

  Maquin knelt beside the stream and slipped on a moss-covered stone, falling back with a splash into the water. There was a moment’s quiet and then everyone was laughing. Maquin held a hand up.

  ‘Come, help an old man up,’ Maquin said to the nearest warrior, Ulfilas, holding a hand out.

  ‘When I called you old man I got a fist in the eye,’ the warrior said. He gripped Maquin’s forearm, hoisting him out of the stream. Maquin slapped him on the back in thanks.

  My uncle is right, thought Kastell, he is a natural leader.

  The owl hooted again, closer now, and Maquin paused, cocking his head as he stared into the twilight of the forest.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said one of the other warriors. There was a hissing sound, a thud, and a spear-point burst through the warrior’s chest. He toppled into the stream.

  The forest erupted around them, figures leaping out of the shad
ows. They were lean, desperate looking, covered in fur and leather. Iron glistened in the rain: Kastell saw spears, swords, long knives, an axe. Maquin and Ulfilas had drawn their swords, while the other warrior with them was wrestling with one of the attackers. They tumbled into the stream, arms flailing.

  There were screams, the clash of iron on iron. Kastell lurched to his feet, slipping on moss. He reached for his sword as he stumbled towards Maquin and Ulfilas. A spear-point lunged at Maquin’s side. Ulfilas swung his sword hard, chopping the spear in two, and Maquin’s sword buried itself in the spearman’s neck. He slumped to the ground, falling on top of other motionless shapes. Many others ringed them: too many to count.

  Kastell reached the two men fighting mid-stream, water foaming. He raised his sword but couldn’t make out friend from foe. Maquin yelled and he looked up – men were moving towards him, slower than the first rush, taught caution. A savage-looking man lunged at him. Kastell ducked and barrelled forwards, stabbing wildly. He felt his sword punch through leather and flesh. His momentum buried his sword up to its hilt; dark blood pumped over Kastell’s hands, the slumping weight pulling him off-balance. With a great heave, he pushed the corpse away and leaped sideways as a spear plunged into the space where he’d been. He staggered, sweat falling into his eyes, saw a blurred movement and raised his sword instinctively, catching an axe blow aimed at his skull. Sparks flew as the axe and sword grated together. His eyes cleared, a grimy face filling his vision as his attacker leaned into him, shoulder to shoulder. Sour breath washed over him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone circling him. Bellowing, he thrust the man with the axe back to the stream’s bank. The man stumbled, tripped, and Kastell’s sword hacked down, chopping between neck and shoulder. His blade stuck. He wrenched, but it would not pull free.

  Maquin and Ulfilas were still fighting back to back, standing knee deep in the stream. Then Kastell heard splashing behind him. Desperately he tugged at his sword again but it would not pull free. He let go of his blade and twisted away, pain lancing up his side as a spear-point grazed his ribs. Another fur-clad man stood in front of him. Through the chaos he heard Maquin shout his name, saw the man before him pull his spear back and set his weight for a killing thrust, saw the knuckles whiten as the man’s grip tightened on the shaft and the twitch of muscles in the shoulder as the spear jerked forwards. Then, with a soft thud, the man stopped, a black-feathered arrow sticking from his throat. His spear slipped from his fingers and he dropped to his knees in the stream, toppling backwards, surprise on his face.

  More figures appeared from the treeline, faces twisted, inhuman. They wore baggy breeches, their upper bodies bare, heads shaven, apart from thick warrior braids of black hair, intricate tapestries of scars covering them.

  The Sirak.

  With high-pitched howls they came out of the forest, short curved swords rising and falling. The men that had attacked Kastell and his companions screamed in terror, their wall around Maquin and Ulfilas collapsing as they ran in every direction, trying to escape the sudden death flowing from the trees.

  None did.

  Maquin and Ulfilas still stood, exhausted, leaning against each other in the stream. Maquin’s face was covered in blood, a gash across his forehead, and Ulfilas dropped to one knee, blood seeping from a wound in his thigh.

  He saw Maquin lean over one of the corpses, fingers moving quickly at the man’s belt, then a sound in the distance caused them all to turn and look.

  Riders appeared: Romar and Jael at the head of a dozen warriors. Jael levelled his spear upon seeing the Sirak and spurred his mount forwards. Maquin leaped into his path waving his arms frantically, calling out, ‘Friends, friends, they are friends.’ Romar reined in his horse, crying out in a loud voice. Jael lifted his spear-point, pulling his horse up in a spray of forest litter and mud.

  There was silence a moment, the only noise the blowing of horses, the patter of raindrops on the stream.

  ‘What goes on here?’ Romar growled.

  ‘We were set upon,’ said Maquin, wiping blood out of his eyes. ‘By these . . .’ he gestured around him at the dead bodies strewn along the stream bank. ‘We were outnumbered, then these men came to our aid. They saved our lives.’

  Romar looked at the strange rescuers. One stepped forward.

  ‘I am Temel of the Sirak,’ he said in a guttural accent.

  ‘I am Romar, King of Isiltir. And I know you, from King Aquilus’ council.’ He glanced at the dead bodies all about him. ‘My thanks for your aid, here. Please, our camp is not far. Come, eat with us so we may express our thanks.’

  The Sirak nodded, a sharp, economical movement. ‘We will go to our horses, meet at your camp,’ he said and turned away, the other Sirak disappearing into the darkness behind him.

  ‘Search their bodies,’ Romar commanded, gesturing at the dead scattered around, ‘I would know who they are.’

  The attackers’ corpses were piled together; the bodies of Isiltir’s fallen warriors draped across horses. Kastell knelt by the water and washed blood from his hands. His side was throbbing. He lifted his shirt, saw a gash across his ribs, blood trickling from it. Maquin knelt beside him.

  ‘Still alive then, lad. Someone must be smiling on us, eh?’

  ‘Doesn’t feel like it,’ Kastell muttered, wincing as he doused the cut. ‘That doesn’t look good.’ He pointed at a cut on Maquin’s head.

  ‘It’s not deep, but I’m bleeding like a stuck pig. Scalp wounds always do. Looks worse than it is, though.’ He ripped a strip of cloth from his shirt, soaked it in the stream, wrung it out and bound it around his head. ‘Ah, by Elyon’s teeth, but it’s good to be alive.’

  Romar called for them to mount up.

  There were no clues amongst the corpses as to their identity.

  Quickly they made their way back to the road and joined the camp. Soon the Sirak cantered in on small ponies, less than a score, Kastell counted. With Maquin and Ulfilas he went to have his wound tended.

  Then, at last, he sought out meat and drink, thankful to be alive. The Sirak were sitting around a fire with his uncle and a handful of others. They had saved his life, those strange, fierce, terrifying-looking men. He wanted to give them his thanks, but he could see Jael beside Romar.

  One of the Sirak rose and left the group, walking towards the fringes of the camp. Kastell watched him a moment, then stood and followed, still clutching a skin of watered wine, something he’d acquired a taste for while in Tenebral.

  The Sirak stood beside an oak, relieving his bladder.

  When he had finished, Kastell approached him. ‘You saved my life,’ he said. The Sirak just stared at him, black eyes gazing out under a jutting brow.

  ‘At the stream. You . . . saved my life . . . my thanks,’ he said haltingly, holding out the wine skin. A smile split the warrior’s many-scarred face, making him appear even more gruesome in the firelight. He took the wine and drank.

  ‘Bodil,’ he said, cuffing liquid from his chin. ‘My name. Bodil.’

  ‘Kastell. How did you find us?’

  ‘A strange place to meet, no?’ Bodil laughed, a short, abrupt sound. Kastell nodded.

  ‘We had been following those men. They were travelling same path that leads us home,’ Bodil said, passing the skin back. ‘We left Jerolin a day after you. We rode hard. We have been away from Arcona . . .’ he paused, ‘the, how would you say it, Sea of Grass. My homeland. We have been away too long.’

  Kastell concentrated on the Sirak’s words, his strange accent hard to follow. The Sea of Grass was the land to the east of Forn Forest. He had heard tell of the realm that sat upon a steep-sided plateau of rock, rising high above the trees of the forest, stretching for leagues without number.

  ‘Not far back, maybe a league,’ Bodil said, waving his hand at the forest, ‘we saw tracks lead away from the road. My father is not very trusting, and he is not one to ignore someone else’s trouble, so we followed. The rest you know.’

  Wolven h
owled somewhere in the forest.

  A voice called out from the campfire and Bodil stiffened.

  ‘I must go,’ he said. ‘My father is calling.’

  Kastell nodded. ‘I just wanted to say thank you, for saving my life.’

  Bodil smiled again. ‘You are welcome, Kastell of Isiltir.’ He walked back towards the fire.

  Kastell leaned against the oak, sipping slowly at his wine. There was not much left. Maquin loomed out of the darkness, a clean bandage tied around his forehead.

  ‘Here you are, lad. I’ve been looking for you.

  ‘I think you should see this,’ Maquin said, pulling out a pouch from inside his shirt. He shook it gently, coin chinking.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ asked Kastell.

  ‘Off one of the corpses at the stream,’ Maquin said quietly, glancing around. ‘I don’t know what you think, but they seemed a ragged gang to me, not the kind to be carrying coin like this.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Hold your hand out, lad,’ and Maquin poured some of the contents into Kastell’s open palm. They glittered in the firelight.

  ‘Gold,’ frowned Kastell.

  ‘Aye, lad, and that’s not all. Take a closer look.’

  Kastell held one up, twisting it so that the light from the campfires illuminated it. ‘I don’t understand,’ he stuttered. He was looking at the imprint on the coin, a jagged bolt of lightning. It was the crest of Isiltir.

  ‘No? Then let me help you. We are a long way from Isiltir, are we not?’

  Kastell nodded.

  ‘And even if we were in Isiltir, who would have coin like this? The King. His kin.’

  ‘Jael,’ whispered Kastell.

  ‘Aye. I don’t think what happened by the stream was an accident. Those men were paid, and paid well, to do a job.’

  Kastell glanced at Maquin, face serious.

  ‘Joining the Gadrai looking more attractive now?’ asked Maquin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CORBAN