Malice

by John Gwynne

  ‘They are come,’ Alcyon whispered.

  Veradis felt a faint tremble in the earth beneath him, then the muted sound of – drums? Surely not. The mist was immediately below him now, spreading on towards the village, like broiling storm clouds driven by a gale.

  ‘That mist . . .’ he mumbled.

  ‘Do not fear, little man. Be ready,’ Alcyon said. He began whispering, so low that Veradis could pick out no words, just a constant droning. He looked over his shoulder, saw his warriors, faces pale, anxious, all looking at him. In the valley the mist slowed as if hitting a barrier, churning sluggishly, then stopped. The drumming sound he had heard was closer now, a little louder, but still muted. It came from within the mist.

  The sun had risen, spreading across the horizon, a molten half-circle joined to the land. The mist below began to bubble and seethe, like boiling water, then it thinned, evaporating into the air, revealing huge shapes within. Alcyon dug his fingers into the ground, clenching handfuls of dirt. Wisps of smoke or steam curled up from his hands. He had not stopped whispering. As the mist thinned, his voice rose sharply, then abruptly fell silent. He slumped to the ground, face pale, glistening with sweat.

  ‘Strike now, Prince’s man,’ he grunted. ‘I will join you soon.’

  Veradis stumbled back to his horse and leaped into the saddle. Raising an arm, he dug his heels into his mount’s ribs, broke for the ridge, four hundred mounted warriors following him.

  His breath caught in his chest as he crested the rise. He had heard old men tell tales of draigs and seen drawings of them, but never viewed one in the flesh. The tales were no exaggeration.

  The beasts were huge, reminiscent of the lizards that he had seen sunning themselves on walls at Rahim’s fortress, but a thousand times larger. Their bellies were low to the ground, four bowed legs holding them up, splayed feet with curved claws like the swords of Rahim’s warband. Long, wide tails flicked behind them, but it was to their heads that Veradis’ gaze was drawn. Broad, flat skulls, long, square-tipped jaws full of razored teeth, the eyes small, dull, black. On their backs rode giants, dwarfed by the great beasts.

  The valley floor seethed with them, like a nest of snakes, almost impossible to count. Alcyon had said at least three score had crossed the river. Surely there were more here.

  He took a deep breath, squeezed his eyes tight. Remember the plan. He heard Nathair’s last words echo in his mind. The ants, remember the ants. He pulled hard on his reins. His horse reared, neighed wildly, and he joined his own voice to it, screaming with all his might.

  ‘N ATHAIR!’

  The call was taken up behind him as he thundered down the slope.

  In the valley below, shouts of surprise rang out, then came strange-sounding horn blasts. Draigs roared, setting the very ground trembling as the giants and their mounts turned to meet their attackers.

  Only a few hundred paces between them now, then a horn blew out behind Veradis, this time a call he recognized. He turned his horse to run parallel to the giants. A quick glance saw those behind do the same; somewhere there was a crash, a horse shrieked.

  He reached for his spear, hoping all those behind him would be doing the same, found its smooth, worn shaft couched below his saddle. He cast it arcing into the air, followed by hundreds of others. They rose high, seemed to hang suspended a long moment, then plummeted to the valley floor. Many bounced from the thick-scaled hides of the draigs, or stuck quivering in leather-padded armour, but many more found their mark.

  There was screaming such as he had never heard before. A great cloud of dust rose up from the valley floor, shapes rose and fell, giants tumbled from the backs of draigs, draigs crashed to the ground, some roaring in agony, others silent.

  He dug his heels into his horse, urging her to climb the slope, racing away from the valley floor. Before he reached the crest of the ridge he leaped from his horse, slapped her hindquarters to make her run on, then turned, pulling his great round shield from his back, tugged his short sword from its scabbard, warriors all about him doing the same.

  Dragging in a deep breath, trying to slow the pounding of his heart, he gazed into the valley.

  Many draigs and giants were down. A few of the great lizards, riderless, were charging on down the valley towards the village, bellowing. Voices drifted up in the harsh, guttural tongue of giants. Draigs with riders scuttled forward, surprisingly fast for their bulk, forming a crude line that swept up the slope towards him – more than a score of them. Too many. Behind them he glimpsed giants on foot, taking great loping strides, pulling axes and great war-hammers from their backs. Tremors passed from the ground into his boots, up his legs.

  ‘SHIELD WALL!’ he screamed, taking a few steps forwards, trying to place himself at the front and centre of his men. All about him bodies pressed close, shields slamming together with dull thuds.

  So far the plan had worked perfectly. Many giants had been felled, with no warriors of their own down. Nathair was right. Using ranged weapons and staying alive was much better than looking a giant in the eye and dying. Still plenty of chance for that, though, he thought.

  Now was the time of telling.

  The draigs seethed up the slope, bowed legs powering their huge bulk forwards, raking claws sending great sprays of gravel and dirt arcing into the air.

  Three hundred paces between them and his wall of shields and men. He could feel, smell, the fear leaking from those around him, from himself. His guts churned and his legs felt weak, empty of all strength. Every instinct within him screamed to turn and run.

  ‘Now, Nathair, now,’ he muttered.

  Two hundred paces. The ground was shaking, the oncoming draigs a great tidal wave approaching them. He could make out minute details: a chipped tooth in a draig’s gaping mouth, speckled green and brown scales on another’s neck, swirling tattoos on giants’ arms – their Telling, he thought. Where is Alcyon? Where is Nathair? He tried to swallow but his mouth was dry; he coughed instead.

  One hundred paces. Horns blew, somewhere in the distance, a great roaring, like the sea whipped by a storm. It must have been loud for him to hear it over the charge of the onrushing draigs. Many of the great lizards faltered, slowed, the giants in their saddles turning. The noise behind them grew: weapons clashing on shields, the roar of warriors’ voices, frantic horn blasts. Veradis peered over his shield rim, glimpsed through the enemy Nathair’s warband streaming over the ridge on the far side of the valley.

  You will be the anvil, I the hammer, Nathair had said to him. Giants struggled to turn their mounts, realizing the trap they were plunging into – to be ensnared in the shield wall and then charged by horsemen from the rear. Harsh voices called out, then many of the great lizards turned and thundered back down the slope to meet Nathair’s charge. A handful of draigs still powered up the hill, bent on the foe in front of them, giants on foot following behind.

  Veradis grimaced. He had hoped more would turn. All, in fact. He sucked in a deep breath, braced his feet and waited for the storm to hit.

  Draigs ploughed into the wall, sending a concussive explosion rippling through the massed men. Bodies, shields, blood, all flew through the air wherever draigs connected with the wall. Veradis felt terror threaten to overwhelm him. Nathair was wrong. The shield wall was not enough to turn the draigs.

  The great lizards smashed through the wall, scattering men, trampling them into unrecognizable heaps of flesh and bone, giants seated on huge saddles, lashing about them with long-shafted hammer and axe, then the lizards were through the other side of the wall, their momentum carrying them across the ridge.

  ‘REGROUP,’ yelled Veradis, although he was not sure if anyone heard him above the screams of dying and injured warriors. The lizards were on the far side of the ridge, no doubt turning to wreak more death amongst his men, but he could do nothing about that. More pressing were the score or so of silent, grim-looking giants charging up the slope towards him.

  ‘SHIELD WALL!’ he screamed, and at
least those about him heard, for he felt men draw close, then the giants were upon them.

  Bodies slammed into the wall. The line wavered around Veradis, men grunting, setting their feet, leaning against the great pressure of giant flesh and bone. An axe slammed into the shield of the man next to Veradis, splintered wood spraying into their faces, then the warrior was gone, dragged forwards as the giant wrenched on his axe. Another warrior moved up and filled the gap.

  A huge blow smashed into Veradis’ shield, numbing his arm and making his legs buckle. He glanced over the rim of his shield, saw small, fierce eyes set in a giant’s angular face towering above him, heaving a huge war-hammer over his head, readying it for another blow.

  Veradis lifted his shield, blindly stabbed with his short sword under the iron rim, heard a howl, felt hot blood gush over his hand. The giant’s grip on his war-hammer loosened, the weapon dropping to the ground as fingers clutched frantically over its thigh, trying to staunch the jet of blood. With a thud the giant fell to his knees and Veradis stabbed again, his blade sinking into the giant’s throat. He pulled it out as his foe toppled backwards. He snarled wordlessly and hefted his shield. Another giant loomed before him, chopped at his shield with a great double-bladed axe. The blade stuck, Veradis gripping his shield with all his might, blinking at the axe blade’s edge, only a handspan from his eye. There was a pushing and shoving behind him now, men shouting. Panic stung him: was that a giant’s voice behind him? Were the draigs back? Then the giant in front of him heaved on his axe, pulling him stumbling forwards, out of the shield wall. He slipped in blood, fell to one knee, lifted his short sword in a vain attempt to block the axe-swing he knew would be coming. There was a chopping sound, a gurgle, and then a giant’s head rolled in the dirt before him.

  ‘Here, little man,’ a voice rumbled behind him. He twisted round, saw Alcyon standing above him, his great longsword in his hand, blood dripping from its blade.

  ‘The b-battle . . .’ Veradis panted.

  ‘Is all but done,’ Alcyon said. ‘Look.’

  Veradis passed a hand over his eyes, wiping blood and sweat away. Alcyon was right. The shield wall had held against the giants’ charge, over a score of the huge warriors dead along its length. Further away, the sounds of battle still raged. He walked to the ridge of the valley, Alcyon following.

  The draigs that had burst through his shield wall to such devastating effect were fleeing, a dust cloud rising about them. Even as he watched, they were dwindling into the distance.

  Turning, Veradis looked down to the valley’s floor. Some of the giants and draigs were retreating back down the valley; the few standing and fighting were beset by a flowing tide of warriors on horseback. Remember the ants, Nathair had said, and from here the draigs and horsemen looked strangely similar to the ants he had seen that day in the glade, swarming over the dog.

  His eyes picked out one warrior, gripping Nathair’s standard. Rauca still lives, then. Good. Then he saw Nathair, unmistakable on his great white stallion, thrusting a spear into the mouth of a draig. The beast roared, reared backwards, crushing a handful of riders in its ruin. And as suddenly as it had started, the battle was over. He breathed a great sigh of relief. Nathair had been right – the surprise, the tactics, their own Elementals – all had combined to win the battle. But it had been so close, balancing on a knife’s edge. If the giants and draigs had turned, attacked his shield wall from the rear instead of fleeing . . .

  But they hadn’t. The battle was won, the victory theirs.

  Veradis looked along the slope, saw warriors looking at him, others on their knees, tending comrades, weeping, groaning, the wounded calling out. Many more were strewn about the ridge, unnaturally still. He felt his whole body begin to tremble and looked down at his hands. He still gripped his short sword, blade, hilt and hand black with drying blood. Thrusting it into the air, he screamed a victory yell. Those about him looked, did the same, more and more joining, like ripples from a rock cast into water. The shouting changed, became a chanted name.

  ‘NATHAIR, NATHAIR, NATHAIR . . .’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CYWEN

  Cywen gritted her teeth, sweat trickling into her eyes, stinging, making her blink. She shook her head, trying to clear her vision, and felt Corban’s weapon thump into the join between neck and shoulder. Not that it was really a weapon, but a branch that they had tried to shape to resemble a practice sword.

  She scowled, flung her own stick to the ground and held a hand up.

  ‘One moment,’ she muttered, trying to catch her breath.

  Corban nodded, a smirk twitching at his mouth as he took a step back.

  They were in their garden. The sky was a searing blue, cloudless, the sun high, hot, even though Midsummer’s Day was long past. She wiped sweat from her face and sat with a thump in the grass. Storm was nearby, oblivious to her, a coiled spring of soft fur as she stalked a clump of grass and goldenrods. Ears pricked forward, hugging the ground, she pounced. A toad leaped into the air, through her clumsy paws, and disappeared into more grass.

  Corban tapped a skin of water against Cywen’s arm. She scowled at him again, but took the skin and gulped thirstily.

  ‘You’re supposed to be grateful,’ he said, standing above her.

  ‘For what? A new bruise?’ She rubbed her shoulder.

  ‘No. For teaching you the ways of a warrior.’ He spoke as if talking to a child.

  ‘Warrior,’ she snorted, raising an eyebrow at him.

  He pulled a face at her.

  ‘I am grateful,’ she grinned, holding out a hand for him to help her rise. ‘It’s just annoying. How easily you beat me.’

  ‘It makes a nice change for me,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ve more than enough of my own bruises.’

  It was frustrating, feeling that you were learning something, progressing, becoming better, yet never getting closer at touching her pretend blade to any part of Corban. In fact, if anything, the gap between them was growing wider.

  He must actually be learning something, she thought, looking him up and down.

  He’s changing. The thought struck her suddenly, as she stood there. Not just his shape, although that was obvious – arms growing thicker, shoulders broader, face more angular. But in other ways, inside. Even today. He had returned from the Rowan Field quiet, thoughtful, but less troubled than she had seen him for some time. His smile seemed different, deeper.

  ‘Come, then,’ he said, setting his feet and raising his stick.

  She retrieved her own, then looked up. Taking a few paces backwards and to her left, she set her back to the rose wall, stood in the shade of a squat tower that loomed over the garden, the sun behind her.

  Corban chuckled, knowing she was trying to use the sun to blind him, as he had taught her, and attacked her anyway.

  She did better this time, remembering how Corban had told her to use her feet, to keep her balance when lunging, how to avoid overstretching. She still didn’t touch him with her pretend weapon, though, not even coming close, but she did avoid being whacked for longer than the last time.

  That must count for something.

  Eventually, though, the frustration became too much. She rushed him, certain that she had him . . . only to end up face first in the grass with dirt up her nose and laughter rising behind.

  She turned her head, a curse forming, but Storm bounded over, sniffed her ear with a wet nose and pawed her face.

  ‘You let your emotions rule you,’ Corban said.

  ‘Idiot,’ Cywen muttered.

  He turned away and looked up at the sun, shading his eyes. ‘Enough for today. Keep practising, Cy. You’re doing well.’

  ‘Ban . . .’ she said, following him, but he ignored her, walking quickly towards their house.

  Their da was in the kitchen, helping himself to a slice of meat and a cup of mead.

  ‘Da, I wanted to ask you something,’ said Corban.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Why did
you not stop me from taking Storm to the Field this morning? After you had forbidden me for so long?’

  Thannon swung his gaze onto Corban, was silent awhile. Then he shrugged.

  ‘I judged you ready,’ he said. ‘I knew it would not go easy on you, so you had to want it. Really want it.’ He smiled. ‘You had a look in your eyes this morning.’

  Corban frowned, eyes crinkling. ‘Is that why you came? With Gar.’

  ‘You saw us, then?’

  ‘Aye – spying in the shadows.’

  ‘It was not like that, Ban.’ Thannon reached out a huge hand to ruffle Corban’s hair, but stopped halfway. ‘It was something you had to do. And I’m proud of you, lad. But sometimes, these things can get out of hand right quick. If we’d walked with you into the Field, how would you have felt?’

  Corban thought about that a while. ‘Like a bairn.’

  Thannon nodded. ‘Some things a man has to do by himself. But I wanted to be there, watch you. And that way, if things had got out of hand. Well . . .’

  Corban smiled. ‘Not the power of words again.’

  Thannon chuckled. ‘Something like that.’

  Cywen looked from face to face, frowning. ‘What’s going on? What are you two talking about? What happened in the Field today?’

  Corban just smiled at her. ‘I’ll see you after,’ he said, and Thannon stepped out of the way.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Cywen called after him.

  ‘Think I’ll go and see Dath. It was his first day in the Field today.’

  Cywen ran her thumb along the tip of her knife, pulled it back over her shoulder, focusing on the wooden post. A moment later the knife blade was deep in the post, its hilt vibrating with the force of her throw. She smiled, pleased with the accuracy, drew another knife from her belt and did it again. And then again.

  Someone clapped behind her. She spun around, pulling another knife.

  It was Princess Edana, Ronan at her shoulder.