Malice

by John Gwynne

  ‘Aye,’ Camlin assented, holding Braith’s gaze.

  ‘What’s your tale, Braith?’ Camlin suddenly asked. ‘What drove you to the Darkwood?’

  He knew all the others’ tales, but no one knew Braith’s reasons. He had just appeared, and was well known for not wanting to discuss his own background.

  Braith stared, then smiled. ‘Now, that is complicated,’ he said. ‘Another time, Cam, I think. It’s not a short tale, and I’m for my bed.’ He suddenly turned serious. ‘I’m up and leaving before the sun on the morrow. Be away two, maybe three days. You’ll be chief while I’m gone, Cam.’

  ‘Wha—? Going? Where?’

  ‘Whisht, Cam, hold your breath now. No more questions. You’ll know soon enough when I return. But you’ll be chief till I’m back, Cam, you hear?’

  ‘Aye, Braith. If that’s what you want.’

  ‘It is.’

  Braith stood, smiled again and walked away into the shadows.

  Camlin didn’t think much of chiefhood. It might have been different if he’d been leading a raid, but nothing seemed to happen here. The first day after Braith had left things had been fine enough. Come the second day he started to feel restive, bored, and he had not been the only one. By the third day he was almost continually mediating between his edgy and increasingly unruly companions.

  On the fourth day he rose with the sun and walked restlessly to the edge of the village. There a noise drew his attention, his hand reaching instinctively for his sword.

  A line of men crested the hill: ten, twelve, more. He was about to turn and run for the roundhouse when he saw Braith with them. Steadily they filed down to the village, Braith at their fore, in deep conversation. There were a score of them, grim, hard-looking men bearing weapons. Camlin saw the glint of mail in one of the packs as the men splashed through the stream and strode past him.

  Braith stopped. The man he was speaking to – dark haired, handsome apart from a scar beneath one eye – walked on towards the roundhouse.

  ‘What goes?’ Camlin said.

  ‘Recruits,’ Braith answered, eyes following the new arrivals.

  ‘Recruits? I’d wager they’re not woodsmen, Braith. What is this about?’

  ‘It’s complicated, remember. But for you and the other lads, you need recall only one word,’ Camlin’s chief said grimly.

  ‘Vengeance.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CORBAN

  Corban ran over uneven, close-cropped grass until he reached the giantsway’s embankment, and scaled it quickly, using the practice sword he was still clutching to lever himself up.

  He stopped a moment, sucking in great ragged breaths, and checked over his shoulder to see if he was followed.

  Rain was falling in great sheets, the fortress shrouded in cloud, but he thought he could make out the copse of trees where he had just fought with Rafe as a darker smudge on the hillside.

  In his mind he could still hear Rafe screaming. He hoped Bethan was all right; he’d seen her running for Dun Carreg.

  Dun Carreg. Word would be out soon, and they would not be long in coming for Storm.

  She sat at his feet, calm, unreadable, pink spots of blood spattering her muzzle.

  ‘Come,’ he said. Setting his face to the west, towards the Baglun, he began running again, Storm loping comfortably at his heels.

  His lungs were burning, feet throbbing when next he looked up, seeing the cairn at the top of the hill where Darol’s stockade had been. He slowed but did not stop and carried on into the forest.

  Eventually the road spilt into an open glade, its stone blocks giving way to earth and grass, the oathstone rising tall and dark in the glade’s centre. He threw himself down at the slab’s foot, back against it, chest heaving. Storm scratched at the earth, turned in a circle and lay at his feet. She nudged him with her muzzle and rubbed her head against him.

  What am I going to do? he thought, staring at the wolven. He closed his eyes, and buried his face in the thick fur of her neck.

  We must run away. For a while he imagined a life in the wild, just the two of them, maybe even leaving Ardan. Perhaps he could find Ventos the trader – he was his friend, he travelled the Banished Lands, and he would welcome the protection Storm would bring. But how would he find Ventos? And then the thought of never seeing his mam and da again, or Cywen, even Gar, struck him. It almost took his breath away.

  He lay down on the wet grass and curled up against Storm, who sniffed his face and licked his cut arm. He wrapped an arm around her and closed his eyes, oblivious to the rain.

  It was still raining when he woke shivering, though the fierceness had gone out of it. The sky was darkening, the clouds above the colour of cold iron.

  Storm was sitting with her back pressed tight to him, looking out into the gloom of the giantsway.

  With a sudden clarity he knew what he had to do. He could not run away with her; he could not survive in the wilds on his own, or abandon his family forever, and he could not take Storm back to Dun Carreg. They would kill her for sure.

  ‘I must leave you here,’ he said, his voice trembling. He leaned into her, stroked her, fingers tracing the dark marks on her torso, standing out stark against her white fur. At least in the Baglun she would have a chance, if she made her home in its depths, and food was plentiful. He took a deep, shaky breath, felt tears suddenly fill his eyes.

  Slowly he stood, limbs stiff, using the practice sword he was still clutching to hoist himself upright. He took a few paces towards the glade’s exit, then turned. The wolven was already standing, ready to follow.

  ‘Hold,’ he said, showing her the palm of his hand. He strode quickly from the glade. A last, backward glance showed her still standing there, ears pricked forward, copper eyes fixed on him, then he turned a bend in the road and was gone from view.

  Moments later he heard the familiar thud of her paws as she ran to catch him.

  ‘Please,’ he said as she loped up to him. ‘Don’t make this harder than it already is.’

  ‘No,’ he said, louder. ‘Hold.’ He showed her his flat palm again, and obediently she stopped. This time he walked backwards, still facing her, palm out. After a hundred or so paces, when she was growing dim in his sight, just a pale blur on the road, she began to follow again.

  ‘No!’ He shouted this time, waved the practice sword at her. ‘No!’

  She paused, head cocked to one side, confused.

  ‘No,’ he shouted again and walked towards her, waving his arms, but she just stood there, watching him.

  ‘Away,’ he yelled, and she turned and walked a few paces, but as soon as he turned away she was following him again.

  ‘They’ll kill you!’ he screamed now. He poked her with the practice sword, but she still did not move. ‘Go away or they’ll kill you!’ he shouted again, tears in his eyes, and then he hit her with the practice sword.

  She yelped, a whimper, crouched down, her ears back. Then he turned and ran.

  He looked over his shoulder and she took a hesitant step after him, so he stopped, threw the sword at her, turned and ran again, tears clouding his vision.

  At first all he could hear was the pounding of his heart, his own sobs. Then, somewhere behind, Storm howled. It rang long and melancholy through the forest, the sound cutting him like a blade, but he ran on, sobbing, stumbling, until he was clear of the forest, splashing through the ford.

  As he passed Darol’s hill a figure appeared on the road ahead, a rider, the dark shadow of a hound by the horse’s legs. The figure dismounted as he approached.

  ‘Ban? Is that you, son?’ a familiar voice called out.

  He threw himself into the open arms of his da and stood there long moments, Buddai sniffing him, Thannon just holding him, big hands stroking his wet hair.

  ‘Where is she?’ Thannon said after a while.

  ‘Sh-she’s gone,’ he mumbled. In the distance another howl cut through the night, long and mournful.

  ‘Come, la
d,’ Thannon said. ‘I must take you to Brenin.’ He picked Corban up, set him gently on his great horse, climbed up behind him and together they began the ride back to Dun Carreg.

  The feast-hall was more or less empty as Corban followed his da through it, the stripped carcass of a deer being taken from the burned-out firepit.

  Thannon led him through a series of corridors, stopping outside a wide door, a warrior standing before it.

  ‘You ready for this, Ban?’ his da asked. Corban took a deep breath.

  Brenin and Alona were the first people he saw, sitting in high-backed chairs. Tull and Pendathran stood behind them. Before them stood a small crowd: Cywen was there, tried to smile at him, his mam beside her, face strained and pale. He saw Bethan and felt a flush of relief at the sight of her.

  Evnis was staring at him, along with Helfach and Crain. Quickly he looked away, fixing his eyes on the King and Queen.

  A hush fell as he stepped into the room, the bulk of Thannon filling the doorway behind him. King Brenin frowned as he looked at Corban and ushered him forward.

  ‘How, how fares Rafe?’ Corban said quietly, head bowed.

  ‘Brina tends him. She tells us he will live,’ said Alona.

  Corban blew out a long breath. ‘Good,’ he mumbled.

  ‘No thanks to you,’ a voice said behind him. Crain, he thought, though he did not turn to look.

  ‘Silence,’ Brenin said. ‘All will have a chance to speak, but in your place. Otherwise I shall evict you all, call you back one at a time.’ He stared over Corban’s shoulder, eyes sweeping the small crowd.

  ‘Corban,’ he said. ‘What has happened is grievous. Rafe is seriously injured, could have lost his life, on account of a creature that was in your care, your responsibility, as decreed by my wife in this very room. I would know the details of how this event came to be, before I pass my judgement, and for that purpose all here have been gathered. Now, tell me. What happened?’

  So Corban began to talk, falteringly at first, but then more clearly, feeling almost detached from all that was happening. He had cried quietly all the way back to the fortress, trying not to let Thannon see, and now he felt numb, empty. He concentrated on keeping his thoughts fixed on the recounting of the tale, kept them from slipping towards Storm, alone in the Baglun.

  When he finished, Brenin called forward Crain and heard a very different version of the story, of how Farrell had waylaid him and Rafe, then how Corban had set Storm on them. After Crain others were called to give testament: Bethan, Farrell, finally Helfach, who had been the first back to the copse with Bethan. Queen Alona interrupted them all a number of times, asking probing questions.

  When all had finished there was a long silence, Brenin serious as he thought.

  ‘There are two matters here,’ the King said, breaking the silence. ‘One is my judgement on Corban and this wolven.’ He paused again, frowning. ‘The truth, as I see it, is that this Storm acted much as any hound would have, though with direr consequences. Is that not so, Helfach?’

  The huntsman shuffled his feet. ‘I suppose so,’ he muttered.

  ‘If the animal was still here,’ Brenin continued, ‘it would have to be destroyed, for it has shown itself unsuited for life amongst us. But it is not here. The Baglun is a fitting place for a wolven, and, so long as it does not return here, I shall take no further action against it.’

  ‘What?’ blurted Helfach.

  ‘Your son was part of something dishonourable, Helfach. He has brought shame on your family. Granted, he did not deserve such an injury. What has happened is a tragedy and you and your kin have my sympathy. Nevertheless, I see no fault in any that are gathered here.’

  ‘Dishonourable? Only if you believe him,’ Helfach said, pointing at Corban, ‘and discount all that Crain has told you.’

  ‘I do not believe Crain,’ Brenin said coldly. ‘Corban’s tale is supported by two witnesses, Bethan and Farrell. That cut on Corban’s arm was made by a blade, and Farrell bears the marks of many blows, more than one person could have given.’

  Helfach snorted but said nothing more.

  ‘My lord,’ Evnis said. ‘A question.’

  Brenin waved a hand.

  ‘Do I understand it that this wolven does not have your protection?’

  ‘Protection? A wolven? Of course not,’ Brenin said shortly.

  ‘Then it would be of no matter to you if I chose to hunt it. As some recompense to Helfach, to Rafe?’

  Brenin frowned but nodded. ‘You may do as you see fit. What you choose to hunt in the Baglun is your affair, as long as it walks on four legs, not two.’

  Evnis gave a curt nod.

  Corban felt something twist inside, like a hand gripping his heart. Hunt Storm.

  ‘The other matter is Rafe,’ Brenin continued. ‘He has drawn a blade on those who have not sat their Long Night, nor taken their warrior tests. All know that is forbidden, that the skills taught in the Rowan Field are for a purpose: to defend our people, those that cannot defend themselves – women, children, the old.’ Brenin fell silent. ‘Rafe’s blade and spear are taken from him. I shall return them when, if, I see fit.’

  ‘Aye,’ muttered Helfach. ‘My King,’ he added.

  ‘Good. Then let this be an end to it.’ Brenin slapped the arm of his chair. ‘Now be gone.’

  The room emptied quickly. Brenin called Corban as he was about to leave.

  ‘Yes, my King.’

  ‘Do not stray too far from the fortress, for a while. And stay away from the Baglun. I would not hear of any hunting accident that had befallen you.’

  ‘Yes,’ Corban gulped.

  ‘That is all, lad.’

  ‘Th-thank-you,’ Corban mumbled, then left the room.

  His family were waiting in the corridor for him. Cywen took his hand, squeezing it. Then they walked in silence through the keep, out into the rain, all the way to his home.

  Corban sat in his kitchen, let his mam make him a cup of broth. He drank some, though it stuck in his throat. After a while he begged tiredness and went to his room. He closed the door and threw himself on his cot, then the tears came again, his body shaking, wracked by great, muffled sobs as he thrust his face into his blankets. All he could hear was Storm’s howl as he had run from her.

  Badun appeared in the distance, a stark outline upon a hill, the smudge of the Darkwood filling the horizon behind it. Three moons had passed since the day Corban had left Storm in the Baglun, leaving only six nights until the Birth Moon. He still felt her loss, as if part of him was missing. He would still think he saw her in the corner of his eye, following him, but the pain that he had felt at first had dulled. It had taken some time. He had cried himself to sleep for over a ten-night, holding his tears inside until he had shut his bedroom door, been sure he was alone. He had resisted the urge to wander to the Baglun, knew that if he had seen her again then it all would have been for nothing, and it had not helped that some nights he had heard her howling, somewhere beyond the walls of Dun Carreg. Dath had told him that Storm had been seen beyond Havan in the dead of night, howling up at the fortress.

  Evnis had ridden out every day, taking warriors from his hold, along with Helfach and their hounds, to hunt Storm. Every day they had returned empty-handed and as time passed they had ridden out less and less frequently, and had all but given up by Midwinter’s Day.

  Rafe had recovered, his arm deeply scarred, but healed. Corban had seen him rarely, had felt uncomfortable on those occasions, his mind always flashing back to that moment amongst the trees. Rafe had been beating Farrell, had tried to do the same to him, yet Corban felt mostly sadness.

  He shifted in his saddle, absently patting Shield’s neck. This was his horse’s longest journey. Corban could feel the energy beneath him, Shield longing to gallop, but he had kept him steady, matching the pace of the great, grey-cloaked column he rode with, which stretched away before and behind.

  Brenin and his court were travelling to Narvon, to witness the handbi
nding of Uthan ben Owain and Kyla ap Gethin. And more than that – to witness the binding of their two realms, or so Evnis kept saying to any that would listen.

  Gar had advised against Corban riding Shield, had said he was still too fiery, but Corban had refused to go unless Shield carried him. After losing Storm it had just felt too much to be parted from Shield as well. Gar had eventually relented, though perhaps his mam’s dark looks had played a part.

  A horn blew somewhere ahead, Corban stretching to peer up the column. Marrock, who rode with Pendathran, blew the horn again, a long, clear note, and after a moment they heard an answer from Badun.

  The town was much closer now, Corban able to make out figures lining the wooden walls. He saw the gates open, a line of riders issue out, Gethin with his daughter and an honour guard.

  The two groups joined on the road, the column stopping for a while, then lurching into motion again. They followed the road past the huge stone circle, the great slabs rising above them; then they were past, following the giantsway under the first branches of the Darkwood.

  As before, Corban rode in the company of Brina, as he was officially on the journey as Brina’s apprentice, though he was still not wholly comfortable with that idea. In truth, though, most needed little excuse to join the small host. Even his mam and Thannon had come, riding somewhere behind him.

  One night had already been spent in the Darkwood, now, and they were quickly approaching the second sunset. Thoughts of the Baglun Forest brought Storm instantly to the front of his mind.

  He sighed.

  ‘Do you feel safe here?’ he asked Brina.

  ‘Safe? Of course. Well, as safe as anywhere else, at least.’ She glanced at him with one narrowed eye. ‘Pendathran, though a clumsy, tactless oaf, has his uses. He is King Brenin’s faithful hound, and when set on a task, particularly one that involves stabbing people, he proves himself remarkably efficient.’ She looked around at the forest. ‘This place is safe, or at least Pendathran judges it so, or he would not allow Brenin to ride through it.’