Malice

by John Gwynne

  ‘You think I should go, then?’

  ‘Aye, lad. But not you: we.’

  Kastell shook his head. ‘I cannot take you from your home. Romar spoke to me of you, as well, Maquin. He told me you are a “leader of men”. He has plans for you, also. Great plans. I would not see you throw it all away to hold my hand, to protect me.’

  Maquin raised a hand to his chin, rubbing his close-cropped beard. ‘You insult me,’ he said quietly. ‘I have been your shieldman since before you could walk, swore an oath to your da, on our blood. And you tell me to abandon you, to walk away.’ He grimaced, his eyes suddenly wet, and brushed angrily at them. ‘You are like a son to me, and I fear for you. Let me make one thing clear.’ He pointed a finger at Kastell. ‘The only thing that will part me from you is death.’ He stood there in silence a long moment, then dropped his hand and looked away. ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘the Gadrai has been a dream for me too, you know.’ He looked over his shoulder, back towards Mikil, though it was hidden from view. ‘This place seems different, since we returned. Smaller.’

  ‘I’d agree with you there.’

  ‘It’s about time for a change.’ He closed his eyes a moment, the lines in his face deepening. ‘My Reika crossed the bridge half a score years ago now. We had no children. I have no ties here, no reason to stay. This would be good for me, too. Better’n growing old and stiff inside those cold walls.’ He waved a hand over his shoulder.

  ‘I don’t know, Maquin,’ Kastell sighed. ‘You make it sound so simple. I’ll think on it some more.’ He looked at the ground. ‘I’ve had a mind to go and see Jael. Talk to him about this. See if it can be settled calmly.’

  Maquin snorted. ‘Stranger things have happened. But have a care. Keep your wits about you, and a leash on your temper. He’s crafty.’ He sucked in a deep breath, eyes drawn briefly to the cairn. ‘Well, I’m for heading back, lad. Coming?’

  Kastell nodded. ‘I think I will.’

  Kastell paced through Mikil’s streets, long shadows cast by the sinking sun.

  After returning to the fortress, he and Maquin had swiped a skin of mead from the feast-hall and sat on the outer wall. It had been good just to look at the sinking sun and drink, to talk and even laugh a little with Maquin, for a while forgetting the dark shadow that seemed to hang over most of his waking moments. Too soon, though, the feeling had returned and Kastell had excused himself, returning to his cold cell in the complex that Romar had given him as his hold. Only Maquin and a serving lady filled the cold rooms, whereas Jael had filled his complex with servants and followers. Kastell sat there long into the evening, thinking on Maquin’s words in the dell.

  The old warrior was right, it was time to do something, right or wrong, instead of just waiting for the hammer to drop.

  He passed through a tall, wide archway into the weapons court.

  It was almost empty, a few men sparring, others clustered in small groups, watching. The weapons racks stood full with wooden swords and spears. Kastell paused a moment, then saw the man he was searching for.

  Jael stood with a small group of men, three or four, all watching two warriors sparring. Kastell breathed deep, straightened his back and strode towards them.

  Jael heard him approaching, and his hand moved nearer his sword hilt.

  ‘Jael,’ said Kastell as he reached them.

  Jael just stared, his companions turning now. One of them was Ulfilas, the warrior that had fought with him by the stream, also the one Maquin had heard spreading rumours. He nodded to the tall man, who grunted, eyes flitting to Jael.

  ‘Jael. I would speak with you.’

  Jael snorted. ‘What is this? Some ruse?’ he said, much louder than necessary. ‘All know that you bear me ill will, resent me.’

  ‘What?’ said Kastell, frowning. He felt a muscle twitching in his jaw. ‘I would speak with you, alone,’ he repeated.

  ‘Very well,’ said Jael, smiling graciously. ‘Walk with me.’ He strolled leisurely away, not looking to see if Kastell followed.

  ‘We must talk,’ Kastell said softly, walking quickly to catch up with his cousin.

  ‘Must?’ said Jael.

  ‘Aye. Must,’ said Kastell. ‘This rift between us. I would put it behind us.’

  ‘Rift? I know not of what you speak.’

  Kastell felt his fist clench involuntarily. This is going to be harder than I thought. With a slow breath he unclenched his fingers.

  ‘Come, Jael. Let us not play games. I know that you mean me harm, that you hired those men, by the stream, in Helveth.’

  Jael’s head swung around, studying Kastell with heavy-lidded eyes. ‘You have no proof,’ he eventually said.

  ‘I have a bag of Isiltir gold with Romar’s crest on it,’ Kastell retorted.

  ‘Pfah. That means nothing.’

  ‘If that is so, then it would do no harm for me to share my information with Romar.’

  ‘Do as you wish. I care not.’

  They walked in silence a short distance, then Kastell stopped. Jael turned, hands clasped behind his back, that maddening false smile still fixed on his face.

  Briefly, out of the corner of his eye, Kastell saw Ulfilas and the men with him. They were watching him closely.

  ‘I know not why you dislike me so,’ Kastell said. ‘If I have wronged you, I am sorry.’

  ‘Sorry. Wronged me,’ hissed Jael, still somehow managing to maintain his smile. ‘Aye, you have wronged me. And it is too late for sorry. Too late by far.’

  ‘What is it that you think I have done?’ Kastell said, frowning.

  ‘You shamed me, Kastell,’ Jael said quietly. ‘Before the greatest warriors in all of the Banished Lands; before kings, before the champions of kings and before the sons of kings. Surely you do not think I would let that just pass?’

  ‘But, this grudge against me. It did not begin in Jerolin.’

  ‘True, true,’ said Jael, waving a hand. ‘But then I was merely repaying you for your father’s transgressions. Now, well, it is an entirely different matter, and a far more serious one. You shamed me before Nathair, the future King of Tenebral. He saw what you did to me, and I cannot let him perceive me as weak.’

  ‘My father’s transgressions? What do you mean?’ Kastell growled, feeling his temper rise. This was moving far too quickly. But his da had been mentioned.

  Jael frowned, looking at him intently, then laughed. ‘You really don’t know? Well, I do not think that now is the time to talk on that subject.’

  Kastell breathed deep. Things were going off track. But his da. What did Jael mean? He blinked hard, shook his head, with an effort recalled the things he had wanted to say. ‘Romar has plans,’ he said. ‘For next year, fighting the Hunen. Those plans involve both of us. For the sake of Isiltir, we must lay our grudges aside.’

  Jael clapped gently, slowly. ‘For the sake of Isiltir,’ he chuckled. ‘Isiltir does not need you. My uncle does not need you. He just pities you.’

  A rage burned inside Kastell now, flushing his neck and face. He felt his fists bunch. A distant voice in his head whispered that Jael was goading, provoking him, and with an effort of will he forced himself to breathe deeply, to smile, even though it came out more like a grimace.

  ‘You are a useless, ugly, slow-witted idiot, Kastell,’ Jael continued, smiling broadly now, ‘just like your da.’

  Kastell took an involuntary step forward, realized what he was doing, forced himself to stand still. ‘No, Jael,’ he growled. ‘I am no longer a bairn that you can play like a puppet. Pull this string and he will do this, pull that string and he will do that. No more.’ He wiped sweat from his face.

  Anger clouded Jael’s eyes, contorted his mouth, just for a moment, then the smile was back.

  ‘I see. Well, when the puppet does not respond to the master’s will, then the puppet’s strings are cut and it is thrown on the fire.’ Jael took a pace forward and leaned close to Kastell. ‘Make no mistake,’ he whispered, ‘I am the master here. And, I
promise you, one day soon, your strings will be cut, and you will burn.’ He paused, sniffed. ‘And, I fear, those close to you will be burned by the same flames.’

  ‘What? What do you mean?’ said Kastell.

  Jael smiled. ‘Work it out, halfwit. You only have one friend. Poor judgement can lead to an early grave, you know.’

  He speaks of Maquin.

  With a snarl, Kastell found himself lunging forwards. He grabbed Jael and heaved him backwards, throwing him into a stone wall. Jael grunted and then Kastell was on him again, hands around Jael’s throat. There was a roaring sound in his ears, his vision distorted so that he saw Jael as if through a mist, eyes bulging, ineffectually swatting at his arms, but nothing could move him. Distantly he heard shouting, felt a sharp pain in his back, hands pulling at him. Jael’s legs gave way, and his cousin began to sink slowly to the floor, Kastell still squeezing. Somewhere behind him a voice filtered through the red fog.

  ‘. . . him go, you’ll kill him, fool, let him go, or die.’

  He saw his hands open slowly, releasing Jael, who slumped to the ground, gasping, retching, sucking in deep, ragged breaths. Men rushed forwards, lifting Jael.

  Stepping back, Kastell felt the pain in his back again and turned to see Ulfilas with a knife in his hand, the tip, about half a finger long, stained with blood.

  What have I done?

  Jael pushed his helpers away, standing unsteadily on his own. ‘You . . .’ he rasped, pointing. ‘This is the end for you.’

  Kastell grimaced, turned and stumbled away. Men shouted, reaching for him.

  ‘No,’ creaked Jael. ‘Let him go. My uncle will deal with him now.’

  Kastell thumped on Maquin’s door, trying to control the panic that was bubbling inside him.

  He’d checked Maquin’s favoured haunts but there was no sign of his friend.

  Eventually he tried Maquin’s cell in his hold, although he knew it was still much earlier than his friend usually liked to retire. He banged on the door again, harder, and heard footsteps. The handle rattled and pulled open, Maquin’s frowning face staring out at him.

  ‘Asroth’s teeth, lad, what’s wrong with you?’

  Kastell threw himself at the old warrior, hugging him tight. Maquin grunted, then Kastell suddenly released him and stepped back, looking at the floor.

  ‘You’re – alright, then.’

  ‘Aye, lad,’ said Maquin, his expression hovering between frown and smile. ‘Shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘I’ve been to see Jael.’

  ‘Ah. Good. How did it go?’

  ‘Not well,’ Kastell mumbled. He dragged in a deep breath, stood straighter, meeting Maquin’s eyes. ‘I’m for the Gadrai. If you still wanted to ride with me, I’d be happy.’

  Maquin grinned and slapped Kastell’s shoulder. ‘Well done, lad.’ He peered into Kastell’s eyes. ‘No reconciliation with your cousin, then?’

  ‘No,’ grunted Kastell.

  ‘I didn’a hold much hope. Still, at least you tried, lad.’ He scratched his chin. ‘So, when do you wish to leave?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘What? But, we’ve things to arrange. What about Romar? You should speak with your uncle, surely.’

  ‘I already have,’ said Kastell. His uncle had not been happy. Far from it. Kastell would have felt better if Romar had raged at him, but instead he had just looked at him, disappointment writ plainly on his features.

  ‘Why?’ Romar had asked. ‘Why would you leave, when you know my plans for you?’

  Kastell had known that Jael would be pounding on Romar’s door soon, telling him of what Kastell had done in the weapons court, so he had tried to explain. It had come out confused, serving only to harden Romar’s attitude.

  In the end his uncle had taken a quill to parchment, sealed it with hot wax, and stamped an imprint of his ring into it. ‘Give this to Vandil. He is lord of the Gadrai, or Orgull, his captain. No one else. Do you understand me, boy?’ Romar had said. Kastell just nodded. Romar had hugged him tight, crushing the air from his lungs, then opened the door and ushered him out.

  Maquin frowned. ‘There’s more to this tale than you’re telling.’

  ‘Aye, there is. Come, I’ll tell you while you pack.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CORBAN

  Corban shivered and pulled his cloak tighter about him, waiting for Cywen. He looked up, towards the giantsway as a rider appeared out of the rain, draped in a sodden red cloak. Another messenger from Narvon.

  Ever since the day Edana had told them of her father’s plans about Braith and the Darkwood, and of this prophecy, of a war, the giantsway had been thick with messengers.

  Time had passed since then, the Reaper’s Moon turning to the Hunter’s and then the Crow’s Moon. The last day of summer was marked by Samhuin, already a ten-night gone. Brenin’s messengers had left soon after Edana had told them of the King’s request, inviting fellow rulers to the stone circle on Midwinter’s Day. Most messengers had returned already. According to Edana, all the kings had assented, even Eremon, the ruler of distant Domhain.

  ‘All well at Brina’s?’ Cywen said cheerily as she approached.

  ‘Aye,’ he muttered. He hated the rain: hot, cold, snow, he took in his stride, liking something of all of them, but the rain. ‘Must we do this today?’ he grumbled.

  Cywen frowned but did not stop, ducking under the paddock rail. ‘Horse training doesn’t heed the weather, Ban,’ she said, sounding annoyingly like Gar.

  ‘Huh,’ he said, not entirely agreeing, but following her anyway.

  Storm rose silently and padded at his heels. Cywen stopped a score of paces into the field, waiting for them to catch up. She rested a hand on Storm’s neck, sinking her fingers into the wolven’s fur. She did not need to bend to reach Storm now. The wolven could hardly be called a cub any more, so rapidly had she grown – a shade taller than Buddai already, her head level with Corban’s waist. She had lost her puppy fur, her coat coarser, thicker, dark blazes running jaggedly down her torso, looking like claw marks on pale flesh.

  ‘Here,’ Cywen said to him, holding out a rope halter. ‘Remember, take your time. Are you sure you remember what to do?’

  Corban ignored her. ‘Come, boy,’ he called, clicking his tongue.

  ‘Isn’t it about time you named him?’ Cywen said quietly.

  He ignored her.

  His colt was standing beside its mother, taking shelter from the rain under an oak that dominated the centre of the field. He neighed and trotted towards them.

  Corban reached into his cloak, pulled out a slice of apple and held it out. Crunching the apple, the colt bent its neck and sniffed Storm’s head. The wolven stood still, not looking at the young horse. Corban chuckled – she’d had a kick a few moons back, when she used to chase everything that moved. The colt had tolerated that, thinking he had a new playmate, but when she started nipping at his heels Storm had received a hoof-shaped warning. Since then she had just ignored the colt.

  Slowly, he raised the halter. The colt eyed it suspiciously. Corban had done this many times at the fortress, but this was different. It was his horse’s first time with a halter, and he knew how important it was that he did this right. He gently slipped the halter over its head. The colt jerked back sharply, ears flat, but the job was already done. It danced backwards, startled by the unfamiliar halter rope, which bounced against its flank. The colt broke into a gallop around the field, bucking as it ran.

  ‘Don’t worry, Ban,’ Cywen said, coming up beside him. ‘That was well done; he’ll come around soon. Be patient.’

  They headed back towards the shelter of a small clump of hawthorns, near the paddock rail. Corban heard a call and looked up.

  Three riders were on the giantsway. Corban squinted, wiping rain from his face, then the front rider pushed the hood of his cloak back. It was Vonn, Evnis’ son. He spurred his horse off the road and down the steep embankment, cantering to the paddock. His two companions followed.
>
  Corban sighed, his mouth suddenly feeling dry.

  Vonn had never made good on his threat in Brina’s cottage to find Corban and teach him a lesson, not after Tull’s words in the Rowan Field that day. No one wanted their head cracked by Brenin’s first-sword. In fact, things had been much better for Corban since then. Even Rafe had confined himself to angry glares and the occasional harsh word.

  But they were quite a way from the fortress and village now, with no one around. Corban felt worry stirring deep in his gut.

  ‘Ho there, wolven-boy,’ Vonn called out, his face stern. He reined in his horse, dismounted and ducked under the paddock rail. His two companions followed. Corban groaned as he recognized them – Helfach and Rafe. The huntsman’s hound, Braen, padded at their heels.

  The three of them filed across the paddock, stopping a dozen or so paces away from Corban and Cywen. Storm shifted beside Corban, her weight nudging against his leg.

  ‘Well, well,’ said Vonn, his expression hard, ‘I have long hoped for an opportunity to talk with you, privately.’ He looked around, emphasizing his point. ‘Elyon must favour me.’

  Corban just stared at him.

  ‘What, nothing to say, now that I am not confined to my bed? I remember you being more vocal, at the healer’s.’

  ‘What is it that you want?’ Corban said, pronouncing each word slowly, so that his voice would not shake.

  ‘Want? Now there is a question,’ said Vonn, a grim, humourless smile flickering across his lips. ‘Merely to remind you of our words at the healer’s.’

  ‘I remember them well enough,’ Corban said.

  ‘Do not think that I spoke lightly, or in the grip of some fever. I mean to fulfil my promise to you. Even if I have to wait until you have sat your Long Night, and we can speak differently, as warrior to warrior.’

  Corban sighed. ‘I had hoped your words came from your fever. I would be happy to lay them aside.’

  Vonn laughed, little humour in it. ‘I am sure that you would. But I, however, am not happy to lay them aside.’ He reached down and rubbed his knee. ‘My leg still aches, more in this rain, because of you.’