Malice: The Faithful and the Fallen Series Book 1

by John Gwynne

  ‘What happened?’ Corban repeated, firmer.

  ‘Your colt, Ban. He just raced past us, from nowhere, threw himself into the hound. He killed it, Ban, defending you.’ She blew out a breath and shook her head. ‘I’ve never seen the like before. I’ve heard tales, of full-grown horses doing things like that, warhorses, but never seen, never heard of a colt doing such a thing.’

  Corban nodded, walked forward unsteadily. Storm nuzzled his hand. He wrapped his good arm around the colt’s neck and laid his head against it.

  ‘I shall call you Shield,’ he whispered.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  VERADIS

  Veradis smiled as he crested a gentle rise in the land and saw Jerolin rise out of the plain before him, its central tower of black rock pointing to the sky like a scorched, accusatory finger.

  Small figures were busy on the lake shore, beneath the fortress, the day’s catch being unloaded from scores of fisher-boats. The sky was clear, a deepening blue as dusk settled around them.

  He looked over his shoulder, saw the warband spread across the slope and plain behind him; he took a deep breath of the cold, sharp air.

  ‘It is good to be back, eh?’ he said to Nathair and Rauca, who were sitting their horses beside him. Rauca gripped Nathair’s standard in leather-gauntleted hands, the eagle pennant snapping in the wind.

  ‘Good to be back,’ Nathair echoed, shifting his weight in his saddle.

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Rauca, a grin splitting his face and short dark beard.

  Without another word, Nathair spurred his horse on, cantering down the gentle slope. Veradis and Rauca followed him, the warband spilling over the rise behind them.

  The journey home had been quick and uneventful. The memory of finding hidden Telassar, of Calidus’ revelation, of the Jehar warriors swearing their allegiance to Nathair was all blurred, somehow. Since that moment everything seemed to have changed, to have fallen into place. Seeing Calidus unveiled had sealed everything, although he had reverted to the bowed old man before they had left Sumur’s chambers, swearing them all to secrecy. Veradis knew now, beyond all doubt, that Nathair was Elyon’s chosen, that he rode with a man who would change the world. Just the thought made his heart swell with pride. They had ridden from Telassar with Sumur’s promises ringing in their ears, that he would gather the Jehar’s might, prepare them for war and then march for Jerolin.

  Within a ten-night of leaving Telassar, Veradis and Nathair had rejoined their warband, finding them camped in a bay on the coast. Lykos had been there too, waiting with a fleet to ferry them back to Tenebral.

  Their passage home had been swift, although the weather was changing for the worse, so enfeebled warriors clustered the ships’ rails. Veradis had walked amongst them, thanking Elyon for his upbringing on the coast and berating his giantkillers for letting the weather cow them where giants and draigs had not.

  Alcyon had left them before they had boarded Lykos’ ships, bowing to Nathair and nodding a farewell to Veradis. It was strange; he felt that he almost missed the giant’s company.

  He snorted to himself, laughing quietly.

  Lykos had returned them to the same quiet bay where they had first met him. Since then they had ridden another ten-night, a mounting excitement and desire for speed amongst the warband. Now they were back, Nathair ordered horns to be blown, announcing his return, an answering blast echoing from Jerolin’s battlements. Veradis felt his back straighten when they entered the crowded courtyard to cheering, a smile spilling across his face. This was something indeed.

  Valyn was at the stables, armed with a host of stablehands to help warriors tend their mounts. He grinned at Veradis and pulled him into an embrace.

  ‘I’m glad you’re back, lad, and in one piece.’ The stablemaster stepped back. ‘You’ve some tales to tell, I’d wager.’

  Veradis just nodded, smiling broadly. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed the stablemaster.

  ‘Well, enough of that,’ Valyn said, ‘I’ve work that needs tending. We’ll talk, eh? Later?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Veradis. ‘Later.’

  Veradis set to, stripping down his horse’s saddle and tack, but he was only part-way done when a hand gripped his shoulder.

  ‘Come,’ Nathair said to him, ‘I am eager to see my father, and I would have you beside me.’

  Veradis had found a stable boy to tend his horse and followed Nathair to the keep. As Nathair and Veradis crossed the empty feast-hall, footsteps echoing, a door opened. King Aquilus hurried through, Fidele just behind.

  The King saw Nathair, crossed the room in several strides, almost running, and grabbed Nathair in a crushing embrace. Queen Fidele joined them, arms about them both, smiling, stroking Nathair’s face, his hair, tears glistening on her cheeks.

  Veradis looked away, feeling as if he were trespassing. He thought of his own father and felt a stab of something, deep inside. Jealousy? The feeling shifted rapidly into shame, edged with anger. He stared at the stone floor.

  Eventually the three figures parted, Nathair’s cheeks colouring, a hesitant smile flitting across his face.

  ‘I am back,’ he said.

  ‘So we see,’ Aquilus laughed. ‘Come. You must have much to tell.’

  Nathair nodded, still smiling.

  Soon they were seated in a room in the tower, a platter of food and a jug of wine on the table they were sitting around.

  ‘Rahim sends his greetings. And his thanks,’ Nathair said.

  ‘I am sure he does,’ said Aquilus, looking at Nathair proudly. ‘How many were in this giant warband?’ he asked, not for the first time.

  ‘Four score,’ Veradis mumbled, his mouth full of salty cheese.

  ‘And they were mounted. On draigs?’

  ‘Aye,’ Nathair said. ‘Veradis drew them onto a valley slope, weathered the brunt of their attack. You should have seen him, Father,’ the Prince added, squeezing Veradis’ shoulder. ‘He has earned his title, thrice over.’

  Veradis coloured under the approving looks of King Aquilus and his Queen.

  ‘I charged them from behind,’ Nathair continued. ‘Veradis was the anvil, I the hammer.’ He slammed his hand against the table with a crack, making his cup of wine jump.

  Aquilus shook his head. ‘Son, if I had known how many–and draigs. I never would have sent you.’

  ‘No, you would not,’ Fidele said, scowling at her husband.

  ‘You have surpassed my hopes,’ Aquilus continued. ‘Well, the plan was for you and your warband to cut your teeth. I think we have accomplished that.’

  ‘Ah, you remind me, Father,’ Nathair said, reaching into a pouch at his belt. He held his hand out. A long, curved tooth sat there, longer than his palm was wide. ‘It is a draig’s tooth. A memento, Father, of the first campaign that you entrusted me to lead.’

  Veradis’ hand crept to his hip, a finger tracing the tooth that Nathair had given to him, set now in his sword hilt. The prince had given them to all of his warriors, the night before they had boarded Lykos’ ships and left Tarbesh. Somehow it bound them even tighter to Nathair–if that was possible–filling them with a fierce pride. At the same time Nathair had sworn them all to secrecy concerning the Vin Thalun fleet.

  Aquilus took the tooth, holding it up before him. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured.

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Enter,’ Fidele called. Peritus swept into the room, smiling at them all. Aquilus gestured to a chair, and the battlechief sat. Veradis returned the greeting, but less warmly, remembering the doubts Peritus had voiced the day he had viewed the warband training. Nathair was colder still.

  The King told Peritus of the campaign, the battlechief nodding and grunting as the tale unfolded.

  ‘So, you see,’ Aquilus said, ‘your doubts were unfounded.’

  ‘Aye. And I am glad they were,’ Peritus said. ‘I was only concerned for your safety,’ he said to the Prince.

  Nathair snorted. ‘When is battle ever sa
fe?’

  ‘True enough. We can never know what may befall us in battle. But there are sureties that we can seek. That is Elyon’s gift to us, no? Intellect. Choice. But, regardless, I have been proved wrong, and am glad about it.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ Nathair murmured. ‘The man has not been born who is right all of the time.’

  Laughter rippled around the room.

  ‘I am surprised, though, at your speed. I had not reckoned on your return for at least another turn of the moon.’

  ‘I was eager to return,’ Nathair said. ‘I drove my men hard, perhaps harder than I should have, but they are none the worse for it.’ He stood and groaned, stretching. ‘I am for some hot water,’ he said. ‘Strip this dirt from my skin.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Aquilus.

  ‘Come, Veradis,’ said Nathair, turning and walking to the door. Veradis followed him.

  ‘Nathair,’ Aquilus called out; the Prince stopped, turned his head. ‘I am most proud of you.’

  Nathair stood there, eyes closed a moment, savouring this praise. ‘Thank you, Father,’ he said, then left.

  Veradis walked quickly away from the weapons court, fastening his cloak around his shoulders as he went. A thin layer of snow now crunched under his boots and he pulled the cloak tighter. He was still sweating, blood pumping and various aches and pains only now making themselves known. He took a deep breath, slowly calming after his exertions on the court and touched a knuckle to his cheek, the skin swollen.

  He ducked through the doors to the keep and slammed them shut on the snow, a blast of hot air hitting him as he walked into the feast-hall, carrying the smell of roasting meat, gravy, wine, sweat. It was always busy of late, the fortress filling with people gathering for Midwinter’s Day. Where had the time gone? Three turns of the moon had passed already since Tarbesh; only six more nights until Midwinter and all that brought with it.

  Quickly he filled a plate and found a space to sit alone with his back to the entrance.

  The room grew noisier as more people came in. He heard footsteps, felt a slap on the shoulder and Rauca dropped onto the bench opposite him.

  ‘There’s a crowd still standing in the weapons court, freezing their knackers off, waiting to congratulate you,’ the warrior said.

  ‘Huh,’ grunted Veradis.

  ‘Why’d you sneak off?’

  ‘I was cold, hungry, didn’t see a reason to stay.’

  ‘No reason to stay,’ said Rauca, leaning forward. ‘You just bested Armatus, man. I couldn’t think of a better reason to stay. He’s been weapons-master since I was twelve years old, and unbeaten long before that.’

  Veradis shrugged. ‘He’s past his best, and this cold slows and stiffens old bones.’

  Rauca shook his head. ‘Past his best or no, there’s no one else in all of Tenebral that’s able to put a sword-tip to the man’s throat. You should be enjoying your newfound glory, not looking like you’re about to start weeping into your plate.’

  ‘Aye,’ Veradis sighed. Rauca was right, he knew, but something about the whole contest had tasted rotten.

  Since Nathair’s return to Jerolin there had been a growing, unvoiced tension between the Prince and Peritus, and this had spilt into their warbands. Armatus, the weapons-master, was a childhood friend of Peritus and had spoken out a few times against Nathair’s new methods of training. Nathair had steered today’s sparring contest between Armatus and Veradis, and although there had been no official recognition of the bout, almost every warrior within a five-league ride of the fortress had tried to view it.

  Veradis would do anything for Nathair, give his own life, but there was something about this that he had not liked. He had felt manoeuvred. And, besides, he liked Armatus, and had felt little joy in beating him.

  He raised a hand to his cheek and probed where Armatus had struck him. ‘He gave about as good as he got,’ he winced.

  ‘No,’ Rauca said firmly, shaking his head. ‘I don’t think so.’ He winked at Veradis. ‘You’ll have a reputation to defend now. Every warrior that thinks himself handy with a blade will be wanting to make a name against you.’

  Veradis grunted again, not liking where that thought took him.

  A door banged nearby and he looked up. King Aquilus strode through the hall, stern faced, weary looking, the skin under his eyes tinged grey, the lines in his face more pronounced.

  ‘Much rests on Midwinter’s Day,’ Rauca muttered, watching the King pass through the hall.

  ‘Is there word of Mandros yet?’ Veradis asked. The King of Carnutan had been invited back to Tenebral, to be in Aquilus’ company for the witnessing of Meical’s prophecy.

  Rauca shrugged. ‘I’ll believe he’s coming when I see him before me.’

  Veradis nodded. He was not sure he wanted Mandros in the same place as Nathair, anyway, not with this talk of Mandros being a servant of Asroth…

  ‘If he does come, I’m sure he’ll be well guarded,’ Rauca said, ‘not that his shieldmen would be a problem to you.’

  Veradis shook his head. ‘Have you received a blow to the head? I am not one of the Ben-Elim.’

  Rauca rocked in his chair, spluttering laughter. ‘My friend, I do not think you see yourself as you really are. True, you are not as handsome as me…’

  Veradis snorted.

  ‘… and that broken nose you sport has not helped you there. But…’ Rauca leaned forward now and gripped Veradis’ wrist. ‘Something happens to you when you draw a blade, even if it is only made from wood. You become fearsome.’ His face grew more serious, intense. ‘There is no one I would rather stand beside in battle, living or dead, than you.’

  Veradis looked away.

  ‘Asroth’s teeth, man, you even stood your ground against a charge of angry draigs. I almost wet my trews, and I was only sneaking up behind them and prodding them with my spear.’

  ‘I was too scared to move,’ Veradis said, smiling a little. ‘Besides, I was one of four hundred men. We all did what we had to do.’

  ‘Aye, aye,’ Rauca said, leaning back in his bench and shaking his head. ‘You are a rare man indeed, Veradis ben Lamar. If I was you, I’d be standing on this table, proclaiming my greatness to all who would listen, and enjoying the attentions I’d won.’

  ‘Then ’tis good you are not me,’ Veradis said, smiling now.

  ‘Aye, you are probably right.’ Rauca bit into a leg of lamb, tore a strip of meat, juices trickling into his beard.

  ‘So, where would you rather go?’ he mumbled, mouth full.

  ‘Go?’

  ‘In the spring. To fight giants in Forn Forest or outlaws in… Where are they?’

  ‘Ardan,’ Veradis said.

  ‘Yes, Ardan. Well?’

  Veradis shrugged. ‘I’ll go wherever Nathair chooses.’

  Rauca snorted. ‘I know that. But where would you rather go? Forn is the darker campaign, eh? More giants. A harder task than rooting out brigands hiding in treetops.’ He slurped from a cup of wine. ‘But more glory fighting giants than men, I would guess.’

  ‘Aye. I suppose so. I would not mind going to Forn Forest, though. I grew up beside the Sarva–one forest is much like another, I would think. And I made some friends who came from Isiltir, during the council. It would be good to see them again. You?’

  Rauca shrugged. ‘Remember that old man who taught me a lesson on the weapons court?’

  ‘Aye. How could I forget.’

  ‘He was from Ardan. Tull. I’d like a chance to even the score with him.’

  ‘You sure you can?’

  Rauca laughed.

  ‘No point worrying about it,’ Veradis said. ‘We’re warriors. We’ll go where we’re pointed.’

  ‘Aye, true enough.’ Rauca stood and cuffed his mouth. ‘Talking of warriors, there’s a fair few waiting for us. Time we went and knocked some more sense into our Prince’s warband, eh?’

  Veradis nodded, rose, chair legs scraping on the stone floor. The two friends walked from t
he hall into the soft-falling snow.

  ‘You did well today,’ said Nathair, reclining in an oak chair, torch-light flickering on the dark, shiny wood.

  ‘I… thank you,’ Veradis said, not meeting Nathair’s eyes. He looked around instead.

  They were in Nathair’s chamber, a large stone room situated in Jerolin’s tower, unshuttered windows looking out over the lake and plain. Night had fallen, lights from the village reflecting a faint glow from the snow-covered plain.

  Long tapestries hung on Nathair’s walls, from roof to floor. There was little furniture, other than an ornately carved bed, the two chairs they were sitting in, and a table with a platter of nuts and a jug of warmed wine standing on it.

  ‘I have been unhappy with how Peritus has been disrespecting my warband. We have earned respect, have we not?’ The Prince’s hand rose to the long draig’s tooth that hung on a leather cord about his neck.

  ‘Aye, we have,’ said Veradis.

  ‘It would have been unseemly for me to stand against Armatus, or any of Peritus’ supporters, but something had to be done. A statement had to be made. And what a statement.’ The Prince took a handful of nuts from the bowl in front of him.

  A silence grew between them, Nathair looking out of the window, systematically cracking nuts and eating them. ‘Much will change after Midwinter’s Day,’ he eventually said. ‘Once the prophecy has been fulfilled, things will be set in motion, choices made, and only half a ten-night away…’

  ‘Is there news of Mandros?’ Veradis asked.

  Nathair sneered. ‘No. He may come, he may not. I care little either way. I do not understand why Father runs after him, seeking his approval.’

  ‘It worries me,’ Veradis said, ‘what Calidus said about him–serving Asroth, the Black Sun…’

  ‘Maybe it is better that he come here. Friends close and enemies closer, isn’t that the saying?’ The Prince shrugged, worried. ‘I have thought often of our time in Telassar and Mandros’ behaviour.’

  Veradis nodded. ‘As have I.’

  ‘The Jehar spoke of another that had come to them, making claims. Do you remember?’

  ‘I do. But they spoke of sword-brothers deceived, of men that left Telassar. Looking for the Bright Star, I suppose. Looking for you.’