Malice

by John Gwynne

  Suddenly the main doors banged open, rain and cold air sweeping in.

  Evnis stood on the threshold, breathing heavily, his face glistening with sweat or rain. Shadowed figures hovered behind him.

  ‘We are under attack,’ he announced. ‘Stonegate is breached.’

  There was a moment of silence, then noise erupted. Some were shouting, questioning, as others leaped to their feet, benches scraping and falling over. Brenin just blinked owlishly and strained to focus on Evnis.

  Camlin reached for his bowstring, wrapped in a leather pouch and began calmly stringing his bow.

  Evnis rushed through the hall, towards Brenin, and shared a quick glance with Nathair, a handful of warriors and men from his hold behind him.

  The sound of a horn blowing drifted in through the open doors, the wind swirling it around the hall.

  Brenin stood, swayed and stepped out from behind his table. ‘What do you mean?’ he stuttered, a hush falling over the room as all waited to hear Evnis’ words.

  ‘Owain. Somehow the gates are open,’ Evnis said, drawing close to Brenin. The King rubbed a hand over his eyes, and tried to stand straighter. Pendathran moved to steady him.

  ‘Take Edana to her rooms,’ Brenin said to Halion, and Halion managed to steer her a dozen paces towards the hall’s back before she pulled indignantly out of his grip, and stopped to listen to Evnis.

  Camlin realized that Nathair was somehow now standing beside Evnis. About a dozen of his guards, plus the dark-clothed warrior with the curved sword, were spread in a half-circle about Nathair and Evnis, mingling with others from the fortress and village. Camlin nudged Tarben’s arm, not liking something about what he was seeing.

  ‘How . . . how has this happened?’ Brenin said, shock starting to sober him up.

  A small group burst through the main doors. Camlin glanced over to see Marrock, a handful of warriors at his back. His sword was in his hand and dark with blood. ‘Evnis is a traitor,’ Marrock roared, ‘he has opened the gates to Owain.’

  The sound of swords being drawn filled the hall. Camlin looked back to Brenin, and saw one of Nathair’s eagle-guards standing with his sword-tip levelled at the King’s chest. Slowly, so as not to draw attention, he reached down beside his chair for his quiver, and reached for a black-feathered arrow.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  CORBAN

  Corban reached for his weapons, standing in the feast-hall beside his da, a scene of utter madness overtaking the room before him. Brenin was standing with a sword-point to his chest.

  A terrible silence filled the room. Then Halion drew his sword, the familiar scraping rasp drawing all eyes to him as he began to walk towards Brenin, slowly, deliberately, his eyes fixed on the eagle-guard with a blade at Brenin’s chest. Sumur padded forwards a few paces, and stood between Halion and Ardan’s King. His hand was on his sword hilt, but he did not draw the blade on his back. Instead he raised a warning finger, as if scolding a wayward child.

  ‘Hold, Halion,’ Brenin snapped. ‘Edana is your charge now. Look to her.’

  Halion paused, conflicted, as he looked between King and daughter, then nodded.

  Pendathran shuffled closer to Brenin, and received a warning glance from Sumur.

  ‘What is it that you think you are doing, here?’ Brenin levelled at Nathair, seeming suddenly more the man, the leader. He stood straighter, resolute.

  ‘You have left me little choice,’ Nathair said. ‘Firstly, you lied to me.’ The King of Tenebral stepped closer to Brenin, his stance threatening. ‘I gave you every chance, every opportunity, but it seems that you have chosen your friends poorly. I know that you spoke to Meical. Where is he, now, eh? He ran when my father died, and is absent now . . .’ He raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Secondly, you are going to lose. Owain has beaten you, though you refuse to see it yet. If I seek strong men for my alliance, then I would not look to you. Outwitted by Rhin and Owain. Why would I choose to ally myself to the losing side?’

  ‘Right and wrong stay the same,’ Brenin maintained, unmoved.

  ‘And thirdly,’ Nathair continued, ‘you question me about Mandros – dare to call me to account, demand an inquiry. I am King of Tenebral, High King of the Banished Lands. And more. I am Elyon’s chosen, the Bright Star. You do not question me.’

  ‘It appears I chose wisely,’ Brenin said. ‘Betrayal would seem to be in your nature.’

  Sumur lunged forwards, and slapped Brenin across the face. ‘You will not speak so to the Seren Disglair.’

  Angry murmurs rippled through the hall, but no one moved, the eagle-guard’s sword-point still pressed tight to Brenin’s chest.

  ‘What do you mean, betrayal?’ Nathair hissed. ‘What did Meical say to you?’ With a struggle he mastered himself. ‘As I told you before, my friends shall be rewarded, my enemies, punished. By hindering me, refusing me your aid, you chose to become my enemy. This,’ he said, gesturing at the sword-point at Brenin’s chest, ‘is the consequence of your choice.’

  ‘A fine logic,’ Brenin snorted.

  In the distance Corban could hear the sounds of battle, coming closer.

  ‘Of course,’ Nathair continued, ‘I could not have achieved this without some assistance. Evnis, at least, is one that has exercised wisdom in his choice of friends.’

  ‘Evnis,’ said Brenin, the sting of this betrayal clear to all. ‘Why?’

  ‘Fain,’ Evnis said, his voice shaking. ‘You sealed her death sentence when you forbade my leaving the fortress. Because of your politicking.’ He spat in Brenin’s face.

  The hall was silent, stunned as Brenin wiped the insult from his cheek. ‘Fain . . . You hide your greed behind a cloak of revenge, Evnis. Power is what you seek, and will grasp it where you can. Elyon curse you both.’

  Nathair intervened, bringing the focus back to him. ‘I mean you no harm, Brenin, but you have stood in my way.’ He shrugged. ‘If your people remain calm, sensible, then there need be no bloodshed. More specifically, they need not witness your blood being shed. We shall just wait for Owain to arrive . . .’ He listened to the growing sound of combat beyond the hall’s open doors, ‘. . . which does not seem too far away. Then I shall hand you over to him and we can all be on our way.’

  ‘You use words to cast a shroud over the truth,’ Brenin said. ‘Owain means for me and my line to be extinguished. You know that. Whether by your hand or by Owain’s I shall die. But if my people fight, here, now, then at least my daughter, my line, has a chance of survival.’

  Nathair held a hand up, but Brenin suddenly lunged forwards, swiping at the sword held at his chest and slicing his arm.

  At the same moment there was a whirring sound, a wet thunk and the eagle-guard holding Brenin hostage collapsed, a black-fletched arrow sprouting from his throat.

  A stunned pause settled on all in the room, then mayhem erupted.

  Evnis leaped upon Brenin, reaching inside his cloak for something, the two of them staggering back into the table and crashing to the ground. Pendathran lunged towards Brenin, sword half-drawn, and collided with Nathair, then Sumur’s sword was whipped from its scabbard. Pendathran fell with a crash onto the table, his throat jetting dark blood. Nathair’s eagle-guards cut down Brenin’s honour guard and formed a tighter protective half-circle about Nathair and Brenin. With a shout from Rauca the eagle-warriors raised their shields and linked them into a kind of wall as fighters rushed to Brenin’s aid. Elsewhere, warriors from Evnis’ hold set upon their neighbours in the hall.

  There was another whirr, and a thud as an arrow found a gap between shields and another eagle-guard sank to the floor.

  Corban scanned the room, and saw Camlin drawing another black-fletched arrow from his quiver. Men from Evnis’ hold also spotted the woodsman and howled as they charged. But Corban was unsure where to join the melee. Brenin was fighting for his life, but Edana was also under attack, Halion was outnumbered, and his friends, Dath and Farrell, were also in danger. The hall was chaos, Evnis’ warri
ors seemingly everywhere.

  And then Thannon was howling, charging towards Brenin, who could be glimpsed still wrestling with Evnis at Nathair’s feet. The blacksmith whirled his great hammer about his head, and began literally smashing a pathway to his King. Men from Evnis’ hold were smashed to the ground, bones crushed by the hammer-wielder, with Buddai snapping and snarling by his side.

  Without thinking, Corban followed him, his passage made easy as Thannon battered a path through, leaving a wake of the dead behind him. Corban held his shield high and jabbed with his spear at any that tried to come at his da from his unprotected side. Buddai guarded the other side and slowly, like the wedge shape of a spear-tip, they neared Brenin.

  Suddenly a scream pierced the din of battle, high and shrill. Edana was screaming and staring through a gap in the crowd at her father, lying still on the ground. Evnis was astride him, his knife blooded.

  Thannon bellowed and redoubled his efforts, sending his hammer crashing into the chest of a man trying to bar his way. Buddai leaped and clamped his jaws about another man’s thigh, and the dog shook his head as Thannon swung his hammer. Corban shoved his shield forward and turned a blade aimed for Thannon’s neck, then jabbed his spear out and felt it sink deep. He tried to pull back but the spear-point was stuck. Corban cursed, knew he should finish the wounded man but could not bring himself to, instead drawing his sword and ploughing on.

  The three of them, father, son and hound, suddenly stepped into an open space, beyond it the half-circle of Nathair’s eagle-guard with Nathair and Sumur standing calmly within. A dozen or so Dun Carreg corpses lay strewn before them – those that had tried to reach Brenin.

  Everyone else was caught up in the conflict with Evnis’ men. All Corban could make out in the chaos was that Halion still stood, with a handful of men rallied behind him now. Of Dath and Farrell he could see nothing.

  Thannon strode towards the eagle-guards, one of their number stepping forward. It was Rauca, Corban realized, leader of Nathair’s honour guard.

  ‘Come no further, big man,’ he said. ‘No need to die fighting for a king already slain.’

  ‘Alive or dead, you have my King in there,’ Thannon challenged. ‘I mean to take him from you.’

  Rauca assessed Thannon, noting the great bloodstained war-hammer in the blacksmith’s hands. He shrugged. ‘We are no strangers to giants,’ he said, then stepped back into line with his men. ‘Wall,’ he shouted, and the warriors’ shields came together with a loud crack.

  Thannon swung his hammer at a shield, but it held, the force of the blow dissipated by the supporting shields either side. Scowling, Thannon swung again, and Buddai leaped forwards, sinking teeth into a warrior’s calf. There was a scream, the shield dropping slightly, and then Thannon’s hammer crashed into the warrior’s helm. He collapsed instantly and Thannon thrust into the gap in the line, but the ranks closed up too quickly, and a sword-point found Buddai. The brindle hound yelped and fell, and Thannon lunged forwards, battering at the shields to reach his hound. Corban gasped as a host of short swords suddenly jabbed forwards, seemingly from out of the shields themselves. His da grunted in shock as blades pierced him.

  Corban opened his mouth, drew breath to scream, and reached out to pull his da clear. But something slammed into his side, sending him sprawling to the floor. He managed to keep his grip on sword and shield, and looked up to see Helfach and Rafe coming at him with blades drawn.

  ‘No one to help you now, boy,’ the huntsman snarled. Corban stood, looking desperately for his da, saw the big man stagger back from the row of shields and drop to one knee. Corban took a pace towards him, then Rafe was there, blocking his view. Panic-driven anger drove him to swing wildly at the huntsman’s son, but his blade was parried easily. In his haze he almost forgot Helfach, remembering him as the huntsman slashed for his ribs. Corban caught the blow on his shield, blocked another from Rafe with his sword, and tried to draw both men in front of him. If he didn’t focus he would be too dead to help his da.

  Helfach and Rafe struck at him almost at the same time, one left, one right. Corban blocked Helfach’s blow with his shield, parried Rafe’s blade, and took a step back. They pressed forwards. Instead of stepping back, Corban smashed his shield into Helfach’s face, punching at Rafe with his sword hilt. Helfach took an unsteady step backwards, but Rafe sidestepped Corban’s blow, and hacked at Corban’s side. Hoping Helfach was incapacitated, if only for a few moments, Corban spun around and blocked the sword swipe to his ribs. He stepped forwards with his shield lifted high, swept his sword underneath and felt it chop into flesh. Rafe screamed.

  Corban saw terror in his enemy’s eyes, then there was a white pain in Corban’s shoulder and he was suddenly spinning and falling.

  He looked up to see Helfach grinning wildly, blood dripping from a ruined nose, and from his sword-tip.

  ‘This ends now, boy,’ Helfach yelled and raised his sword, then Corban heard a deep-throated snarling growl and the huntsman was gone, tumbling away in a mass of fur and snapping teeth. Wolven and man rolled to a halt, Storm on top, jaws clamped around the huntsman’s throat, his arms and legs battering futilely at her body. With a savage wrench of her neck, blood sprayed high. Helfach’s feet twitched and then were still.

  Corban staggered to his feet, pain radiating from his left shoulder where Helfach had stabbed him, and Rafe stumbled away back into the battle. But Corban only cared for his da, somehow back on his feet, though blood-drenched from many wounds.

  Nathair stepped through the ranks of his guard, Rauca beside him, a deadly short stabbing sword in his hand.

  As Corban watched, Thannon swung his hammer but the blow was slow and weak. Rauca ducked beneath it, and gave Buddai a sharp kick to the ribs. Then Nathair stepped in close and rammed his sword into Thannon’s chest. They stood there a moment, then Thannon toppled backwards.

  Corban screamed, a high wordless thing. He staggered forwards. Then a form swept past him – Gar, a curved sword strapped to his back. He was charging straight for Nathair and Rauca. The eagle-guard saw him and thrust Nathair back into the safety of the shield wall, then raised his sword to meet Gar. The stablemaster dropped beneath Rauca’s weapon, rolled, came up behind him with his sword hissing fluidly into his hands, held high in his two-handed grip. Rauca turned as Gar was bringing his blade down, slashing the guardsman from shoulder to hip, shearing through leather, chain-mail, flesh and bone.

  For a long, timeless moment the remaining eagle-guards just stared at Gar, as did Sumur and Nathair.

  Sumur took a step forward. ‘It cannot be,’ he whispered.

  A hand touched Corban’s uninjured shoulder, his mam standing beside him with the spear he’d left in someone’s ribs in her hand. He felt panic for a moment – she shouldn’t be here – then together they ran to Thannon’s side. Buddai had draped his body alongside his master’s, and was pushing at Thannon’s cheek with his muzzle. He whined as Corban and Gwenith crouched down.

  Thannon’s face was ashen, in stark contrast to his livid wounds. Corban squeezed his da’s hand, and looked on helplessly. His mam lifted Thannon’s head onto her lap.

  ‘Hold on,’ Corban whispered, grimacing at the uselessness of his words. Thannon tried to speak, but only a gargled whisper came out.

  ‘Please,’ Corban said, stroking his da’s hand. The gap between each breath grew longer, more laboured. Thannon stared back, then he was gone.

  Gwenith let out a great racking sob, and clutched her husband’s hand. Corban felt lost and suddenly found it hard to breathe. He looked up to see Nathair watching, and felt a new depth of emotion, a rage, that he’d not experienced before. Nathair returned his gaze.

  ‘I will kill you,’ Corban said.

  ‘Bring him to me,’ Nathair demanded, pointing at Corban. His eagle-guards moved, the shield wall splitting.

  ‘Get the boy out of here,’ Gar snapped, stepping to face the remaining eagle-guards as they moved on him, circling him slowly, hesitantly.r />
  ‘But where?’ Gwenith said, still in shock.

  ‘That way,’ Gar nodded towards the back of the hall, where the feast-hall’s survivors had gathered about Halion and Edana, fighting the last of Evnis’ men.

  Gwenith looked but couldn’t move, couldn’t stop the tears.

  ‘Corban is all that matters,’ Gar hissed. ‘Move. Now.’ He shuffled his feet to close off any approach to Corban and Gwenith.

  Gwenith touched Thannon’s face a moment, a goodbye, then she was standing and pulling Corban. He plucked his da’s war-hammer from the smith’s big hands. But Buddai refused to move.

  Corban looked to Gar, not wanting to leave his father’s body or the stablemaster.

  ‘Go, Ban,’ said Gar. ‘I’ll join you soon. Trust me.’

  Corban grimaced, but ran with his mam and Storm, the hall strewn with the dead. It was empty now save for Nathair and his eagle-guards circling Gar, and the continuing combat at the far end.

  The clash of iron on iron erupted behind them and Corban stopped short, realizing he’d fallen for the stablemaster’s ploy to make him leave. Of course he lied, he’s facing ten men. But he looked back to see Gar fighting more like a shadow than a man – swirling and slipping amongst Nathair’s eagle-guards. Blood sprayed as Gar’s sword swung and slashed in an elaborate, deadly dance. Within moments men were staggering away from the conflict, or fallen, Gar in constant, fluid motion.

  Then Gwenith demanded that he follow and they finally reached Halion. No more than a dozen fought with him, out of of the hundred or so that had filled the hall. Evnis’ warriors had fared little better, though: less than a score of them now fighting to reach Edana and finish the conflict. Corban hefted his da’s hammer and charged, Storm leaping ahead of him, hamstringing a warrior with one snap of her jaws.

  Two fell before he reached them, knives jutting from backs, and he remembered who had taught Cywen to throw a knife. He grunted as he swung the hammer – which was in truth too heavy for him – and connected with a man’s lower back instead of his head. That was enough, though. Corban felt bones shatter. He swung again, then his mam was beside him, stabbing a spear into someone’s shoulder and Storm was snarling, ripping, tearing.