Malice

by John Gwynne

  His horse slammed into the giant, Kastell at eye-level with it. Both of them staggered. Kastell swung his sword and felt it scrape along chainmail. The giant grabbed his horse’s mane and yanked it, making the animal scream, then hefted a war-hammer. Kastell swung his sword again, but it only dented the giant’s helm. His arm went numb from wrist to elbow from the blow. Then a spear was sprouting from the giant’s throat, blood gushing dark. It tried to breathe, choked and sank to the ground. Maquin yelled something in his ear.

  Kastell ignored him. He was now at the rear of the column, so with a grunt he spurred his horse into the heart of the battle. Somewhere ahead he heard Orgull’s voice, saw him standing in his saddle, swinging his longsword in a great looping stroke. There was a jet of blood, a giant’s head spinning through the air, then the big man was gone, obscured from view.

  His horse slipped on something, a dead horse’s entrails. He dragged on the reins, managed to keep them both upright. Before him a giant swung his hammer, smashing a man from his saddle, bones crunching as his foot caught in a stirrup. Kastell hacked at the giant, managed to find the spot on the neck between chainmail and helm. Blood spurted again, the giant turning, hitting out with a fist and catching Kastell’s horse full in the mouth. It neighed and reared, hooves lashing out to send the giant crashing backwards.

  Maquin spurred his horse, appearing in front of him to grab Kastell’s reins. ‘It is no use,’ Maquin yelled over the din, ‘there are too many. Best to warn Vandil and the others at Brikan.’

  Maquin’s words made sense, but Kastell had had enough of running. From the Hunen, from Jael . . .

  Out of the crush before him a horse burst, big-boned and long-maned, carrying Orgull. ‘Ride!’ their captain shouted, digging his heels into his mount. Another warrior staggered from the ground and Orgull held out an arm, pulling him up into the saddle behind him as he sped past.

  Maquin pulled on Kastell’s reins again, turning his horse, and together they sped away from the ambush, thundering along the track beside the river. Kastell glanced back to see a handful of giants climbing into some kind of boat. They were pushing out towards the barge, where the two wyrms lay coiled. No one else moved on the deck. On the track behind, the battle was done, giants checking all the men were dead. Some of them started into a loping run, following them.

  ‘Not again,’ he muttered and leaned low to his horse’s neck.

  For a day and a night they kept moving, stopping only briefly. The giants kept coming, sometimes just a shadow behind, sometimes closer. Kastell counted at least five.

  ‘They’ll give up soon,’ Alaric said in Kastell’s ear, his breath making Kastell wince, ‘we’re getting too close to Brikan.’

  ‘Hope so,’ Kastell grunted. He was exhausted, and his legs and arse were aching worse than he’d imagined possible. Brikan was the Gadrai’s main base in Forn Forest, a broken, abandoned Hunen fortress. Kastell had never liked it, but seeing it now would bring him more joy than even news of Jael’s death.

  ‘Still over a day’s ride to Brikan,’ Orgull said, cantering beside them, ‘but I’m praying Vandil’s got a patrol out this way.’

  ‘Why’d they want that barge?’ Maquin asked Orgull.

  The bald captain shrugged. ‘It was full of tin and iron. There’s been plenty more like that on the river before, but I’ve never seen the Hunen attack in such force. Must’ve been forty or fifty of them.’

  ‘Aye. And the wyrms.’

  Orgull grimaced. ‘Been trying not to think about that.’

  They rode on in silence, Kastell fighting to keep his eyes focused on the track ahead. In the distance a draig roared, making the forest shake, but it was a long way off. Suddenly Kastell heard a pounding behind them. He twisted in his saddle, saw the giants. They were opening their stride, gaining.

  ‘They know Brikan’s close, they’re running out of time,’ Orgull shouted. ‘Ride hard now and we’ll lose them.’ He blew on his horn, a ringing blast. Crows exploded from an ancient oak, squawking as they spiralled their way higher.

  Kastell dug his heels into his horse. He could feel it trying for a burst of speed, but hardly anything happened. A shiver ran up its flank.

  ‘Come on,’ Maquin roared, keeping pace with him. Orgull was pulling away.

  Then, suddenly, Kastell was flying through the air. He crashed to the ground and rolled in crusted snow, his shoulder exploding with pain. He staggered up, dragging his sword out of his scabbard.

  His horse was trying to rise, whinnying in pain as a spear shaft poked from its flank. The giants were pounding towards them. Three of them, one female, Kastell realized, though only from its lack of moustache.

  Maquin drove his horse across the track, between Kastell and the giants, and drew his sword. Further up the path Orgull bellowed again. Then the giants were upon them.

  Maquin’s horse went down in an explosion of blood and bone, an axe blade in its skull. What happened to Maquin, Kastell did not know. He ducked under a hammer blow, hacked at a wrist and felt his blade turn on hard leather. The giant kneed him in the chest and sent him tumbling through the air. He skidded to a stop a handspan from the river, now swordless, and willed himself to rise.

  Orgull came galloping back down the track and left his sword stuck in the chest of the giant bearing down on Kastell. It collapsed onto him, pinning him to the ground, where blood gushed into his nose and mouth. Kastell choked and felt panic flutter in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He grunted, heaved, wriggled and managed to squirm out from under it, her, he realized. Then he climbed to his feet, spitting and retching.

  Maquin and Orgull were standing together, two giants before them. Then the forest was filled with horn blasts, riders galloping down the track, and men were leaping out from the trees. One of them wielded two swords, moving in a blur. Vandil, Lord of the Gadrai. He slipped under the strike of a giant, struck twice in a heartbeat, the giant collapsing as his guts spilled onto his feet. The other giant lay still under the blows of Vandil’s men.

  As quick as that it was over.

  ‘Where’s the rest of your men?’ Vandil asked.

  Orgull grimaced.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Ambush. At least forty Hunen. The barge was attacked by wyrms.’

  Men paused about him, taken aback by the mention of white serpents.

  ‘Chief, this one’s alive,’ a warrior called, nudging one of the fallen giants with his boot.

  ‘Bind him and bring him back to Brikan.’

  Brikan was a squat grey tower ringed by a vine-choked, crumbling stone wall, a Hunen border post from a time when their kingdom spread north, south and east. It was on the far bank of the river, a wide stone bridge the only crossing within the boundaries of the forest.

  The Gadrai were about four hundred swords strong, though at any given time fewer than half would be found at Brikan, the rest on patrol or escort duty.

  Kastell rode alongside Maquin again, both on horses given up by their sword-brothers. Further ahead the giant was slung on a litter between two horses, its weight too great for a single horse to bear. As far as Kastell could tell, it was still unconscious.

  Then they were over the bridge, Kastell nodding greeting to the bearskin-wrapped guards, and passed under the gate arch into a cobbled courtyard where men were gathering to stare. A giant had never been captured alive before. Vandil ordered for the unconscious captive to be bound to a training post in the courtyard.

  ‘Wake him,’ Vandil said, and a bucket of water was thrown into the giant’s face. It groaned, a cut on its temple crusted black. Kastell stared in fascination – he had never had the opportunity to study a giant properly before. Its skin was pale and grey, almost translucent in places, with dark veins visible. Thick, heavy brows jutted over small, dark eyes, its nose and cheeks all sharp angles. A black moustache drooped around thin, bloodless lips. Its eyes slowly focused and looked about. Muscles suddenly tensed as it tried its bonds, the tattoo of a vine and thorns about
one forearm rippling, and for a moment Kastell thought the chains would burst. Then the giant went limp, muttering something incomprehensible.

  ‘What do you want with the barge?’ Vandil asked. He was not an imposing figure, of average height, slim, with thinning hair and a chunk missing from the top of his right ear. Orgull towered over him, but Kastell had seen the Gadrai’s leader in battle, seen him cut down two giants in the time it had taken him to draw his own sword. Never had he seen anyone move so fast.

  ‘Mise toil abair tusa faic,’ the giant mumbled.

  ‘In our tongue,’ Vandil said. ‘I know you can speak it.’

  The giant just glowered at him.

  Vandil looked to the blacksmith that had fixed the giant’s chain and took his hammer. ‘I’ll ask you once more,’ he said to the giant. ‘That barge was carrying tin and iron. What do you want with it?’

  The giant scowled, gritted his teeth and spat.

  Vandil swung the hammer, bones snapping in the giant’s ankle. It threw its head back and howled, veins and tendons standing rigid on its neck.

  Vandil raised the hammer again and the giant thrashed on the post, snarling curses.

  ‘I’ll have an answer,’ Vandil said and swung the hammer again, this time onto the giant’s knee. There was a sickening crunch.

  Kastell winced and squeezed his eyes shut. As much as the giants were the enemy, this was difficult to watch.

  The giant screamed until he was hoarse, finally just glowering at Vandil, breathing in deep, juddering breaths.

  Vandil raised the hammer again.

  ‘Muid ga an iarann go cearta airm, ar an cogadh,’ the giant spat.

  ‘In our tongue,’ Vandil said, still holding the hammer high.

  ‘We need the iron to forge weapons, for the war,’ the giant said in the Common Tongue, though falteringly, his voice gravelly and pitched low.

  ‘What war?’

  ‘An dia cogadh – the God-War.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CAMLIN

  Camlin shuffled his feet, forest litter clumping under his boots. He was cold, cold to the bone. No chance of that changing any time soon, he thought sourly, looking up at the snowflakes filtering erratically through a latticework of leafless branches high above.

  For over a moon now they had been tramping around the Darkwood, Braith and the remnants of his crew. There had been more of them, after that day when they had finally stopped the cat-and-mouse game and faced the warband from Ardan: some had died of wounds or fever, others crept away in the night. He shrugged to himself, didn’t blame them, in a way. That was not for him, though. He’d been here too long, the thought of walking away from the Darkwood, from Braith, an impossibility.

  He heard something in the undergrowth beside the trail. Quickly he drew his sword and stabbed it into the soft earth at his feet, strung his bow, nocked an arrow and waited.

  He heard it again and saw tendrils of ivy tremble slightly. He breathed in slow, and pulled the arrow back to his ear.

  ‘Don’t shoot, Cam, s’only me,’ a familiar voice called. Braith stepped out from the undergrowth, arms raised, smiling faintly. ‘Never have been able to sneak up on you, eh?’

  ‘You should’na do that,’ Camlin muttered, wiping his sword clean and resheathing it, ‘I could’ve stuck you. Then who’d I have to blame for this mess we’re in?’

  Braith’s smile grew broader, though Camlin noticed a new gauntness to his features that he’d never seen before, no matter how spare the winter had been or how little sleep they had had.

  ‘It’s cold, right enough,’ Braith said, wiping a snowflake from his nose. ‘We’ll head for the hills on the morrow, Cam, leave the trees behind for a while. One more night in the cold, and then it’s warm beds, a roof and a fire. All of us will go – too few of us left to worry about going in shifts.’

  ‘Ah,’ exclaimed Camlin with pleasure. Every winter Braith’s crew took it in turns to shelter in a village up in the high hills. The hills began half a day’s walk from the Darkwood’s north-west edge, the village being less than a day from there.

  ‘Would’ve been welcome sooner,’ Camlin said, not quite managing to keep a smile from his face at the thought.

  ‘Couldn’t risk it, Cam; you know that. Had to be sure we’d no unwanted guests.’

  ‘Well, that’s a certainty,’ he muttered. ‘Anyone following us’d either be froze to death by now, or bored to it, the time we’ve spent wandering these woods since . . .’ He trailed off. None of them liked talking about that day.

  ‘Aye,’ Braith murmured, absently touching a raw scar across his forehead.

  Camlin remembered seeing Braith earn that scar, seeing two warriors bearing down on his chief, backing him away from Pendathran, who had leaned pale-faced against a tree, blood pouring from a gash in his arm.

  He remembered shouting, launching himself at the Dun Carreg enemy, heard others gathering behind him. He blinked and wiped his eyes, banishing the memory.

  ‘Going to the hills. That’ll be good, Braith,’ he said, reaching out to squeeze Braith’s shoulder.

  ‘Go get some rest, Cam, warm your feet by the fire,’ Braith said, smiling his famous smile. ‘I’ll take the next watch.’

  Camlin turned and made his way down the trail to their camp, unstringing his bow as he went.

  They set off before the sun came up, with an eagerness that had been missing for days. Even cold feet did not dampen Camlin’s spirits.

  Usually Camlin was one of the few that preferred to winter in the Darkwood, but even he would be glad to have a roof over his head and a bed. But more than that, he would feel safe.

  The Darkwood had been his home for more years than he could remember, and it had always felt safer than a fortress. Yet ever since returning from Dun Carreg he had felt anxious, as if someone was following him. He’d scolded himself enough times about it, cursing himself for a fool.

  He’d told himself things would be different back in the Darkwood, but he had not been able to shake a sense of doom, right up to that fateful day. They could have led Pendathran’s warband a merry dance around the forest, or just disappeared. But Braith had been tired of running, and they had not sensed Gethin and his warband sneaking up behind them.

  They walked for hours through the forest, until Braith stepped cautiously forwards, his bow loosely nocked. Camlin and the others, about a score in all, moved out of the forest into open land and then down to a river’s edge. Once there, they pulled at a mass of reeds and bracken blocking the path, revealing a dozen or so coracles neatly stacked against the riverbank.

  They rooted around for paddles. Braith pushed the first boat, with two men in it, off into the water. The coracle moved with the current, then began to cut a line across the river as the two passengers began paddling.

  ‘Next,’ Braith said.

  Before long the whole band were crossing the river, Camlin sitting behind Braith, paddling steadily for the north bank.

  Soon they were across, the coracles stowed and they were heading for the foothills. The small party climbed, steadily, the land turning soon to steep-sided hills and wooded, stream-filled vales. Nestled in one vale, between two fast-flowing streams, was the village at last. Smoke rose in a ragged line from a roundhouse, a score of smaller sod-and-turf buildings nearby.

  Waves of heat rolled out from the firepit, washing over Camlin, slowly seeping through the cold that had leached all warmth from his body. The usque he was drinking had helped speed the process, warming him from the gut outwards.

  The rest of Braith’s crew rimmed the firepit, drinking and eating with the somewhat uneasy villagers, the hunted look that had edged all of their faces over recent days slowly disappearing.

  ‘What now, Braith?’ Camlin said at last.

  There was a silence. Camlin thought he should have kept his mouth shut, not asked the question, then Braith spoke.

  ‘We’ll winter here, get our strength and spirit back.’

  Camlin took a
deep breath, deciding to plough on. ‘I mean, after that. What’s next, Braith? Will things in the Darkwood ever be . . .?’ he trailed off, not able to put his feelings into words.

  ‘The same?’ Braith said, staring at Camlin. He shrugged. ‘All things change. But we will survive. That is what men such as us do. He fell silent awhile. ‘More men will come to the Darkwood to join us,’ he said eventually. ‘They always have, eh? And then, who knows?’ His face became severe, mouth tightening beneath his fair beard. ‘Vengeance, Cam. That is what is in my heart, at least. All of us – we’ve one thing in common. The world’s done us wrong: our kin, our lords, our betters. But a man can only do so much running, hiding. Time we gave some back, I’m thinking.’ He suddenly smiled, the hard man of a moment ago gone, or veiled. ‘Besides, for men such as us, we’ve no place left to go that’s better, safer, than the Darkwood.’

  Camlin nodded. Braith was right. The battle in the Darkwood had been an eye-opener, and no mistake, but there was still nowhere safer for men such as they.

  He took another gulp from his jug of usque. Brenin had been a surprise, seeming almost good, fair. It was a shame more of Ardan’s lords were not like their King. He spat onto the fire.

  ‘You well, Cam?’ asked Braith.

  ‘Well? Aye, I suppose. As you say, I have survived.’ He smiled humourlessly. ‘I was thinking on Evnis,’ he said slowly. ‘You told me he would aid us, yet at the Baglun he betrayed us, had Goran slain and tried to kill me. And if he had not appeared with his brother’s warband behind us in the Darkwood that day, things would have turned out different, Braith.’

  ‘Aye, Cam, I know it.’ The chieftain snorted.‘That one’s got it coming, for sure. No matter whose toes I step on.’

  ‘What d’you mean, Braith? Whose toes?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Braith drank deep from his jug. ‘Sometimes it can all get complicated, what we’re doing, why we’re doing it. Confusing . . .’ He took another gulp. ‘But vengeance is simple, eh? And Asroth knows, between us all we’ve got plenty to take revenge for. Vengeance, Cam. Vengeance shall drive us now.’ He reached out and offered his arm to Camlin, who grasped it tight.