Malice (Faithful & the Fallen 1)

by John Gwynne

  Dylan was only a hundred or so paces away, now. Corban pulled Willow to a halt and waited. Darol nodded as he drove the wain past Corban, Dylan peeling away from the cart and strolling over to him.

  ‘Hello, Ban,’ he said, then frowned as he saw Corban’s bruised face. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I fell,’ said Corban. ‘I was coming to see you, maybe help with the salmon. Looks like I’m too late.’

  ‘Da had it all sacked up by sunrise. And we’ve got to get the food to Havan in time to prepare it for the feast. Another time, eh?’

  Just then Frith ran up behind Dylan and, with a loud crack, kicked him in the ankle. He giggled and turned to run but Dylan, hopping on one leg, grabbed the youngster and hoisted him into the air, legs pumping as if he were still running. When he realized escape was futile he went limp and grinned. Dylan swung him higher to sit upon his shoulders.

  ‘You’re getting too old for this – it’s your ninth nameday soon.’

  ‘But I like it up here,’ Frith protested.

  ‘Very well, if it keeps you out of trouble.’ Dylan turned back to Corban. ‘Come with us? I can’t wait to have a look round the fair.’

  ‘No thanks. I’ve just come from there.’

  ‘All right, Ban, but you’ll be back for the handbinding, won’t you?’

  Corban nodded.

  ‘Good, then you can tell me all about this fall.’

  ‘Argh,’ Dylan yelled as Frith gripped his ears and gave them a mighty tug. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘You’re my horse. Charge!’ Frith shouted, pulling Dylan’s ears again. Dylan grabbed his nephew’s hands in his and trotted after the wain, calling goodbyes to Corban over his shoulder.

  Frith grinned at Corban, who raised his fist and shook it, trying not to laugh.

  For a while he just sat on Willow, watching the wain dwindle into the distance as he wondered what to do. Then his eyes turned back to the Baglun and with a click of his tongue he urged Willow on down the road.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  EVNIS

  Evnis took the skin of mead from Helfach, his huntsman. He unstoppered it and drank, the taste of honey sweet, the alcohol warming his gut.

  ‘It’s good, eh?’ Helfach said.

  ‘Huh,’ grunted Evnis. He had more important things on his mind than the quality of the mead he was drinking. So many years had passed since he’d sworn his oath to Asroth and become accomplice to Rhin, Queen of Cambren. And now he had risen far, was counsellor to Brenin, King of all Ardan. That night in the Darkwood Forest seemed like another life. It had been terrifying, but intoxicating as well. He felt some of that now: fear and excitement mixed as the consequences of that oath were emerging from the past.

  They were sitting in a dell on the southern fringe of the Baglun Forest, almost half a day’s ride from Dun Carreg. Further south a great herd of auroch trampled the moorland, the ground vibrating at their passing. A dust cloud hovered above the herd, marking them like some enormous predator.

  ‘Where is he?’ Evnis murmured.

  Helfach looked up, shading his eyes. ‘You said highsun, so should be any time now.’

  ‘I hate waiting,’ Evnis growled. He wanted to get back to Fain, his wife. She was unwell, needed him. The worry of it chewed at him.

  Helfach grinned. They sat in silence, passing the skin between them. Then Evnis’ horse lifted its head, ears twitching.

  ‘There,’ said Helfach, pointing.

  A figure slipped between trees and made its way towards them.

  ‘Hood up,’ Evnis said, pulling his own to cover his face.

  The figure drew closer and Evnis rose, strode towards the newcomer. He was tall, an unstrung bow in his hand, a face full of lines and creases. And cold eyes. Evnis thought he was younger than he looked.

  ‘This is for you.’ The man held out a leather cylinder.

  Evnis pulled the parchment out, cracked the wax seal and read in silence. After long moments he grimaced, rolled the parchment and slipped it into his cloak.

  ‘Your mark is a hold to the north-east of the Baglun,’ he said, ‘on a hill just beyond the river. Stockaded wall.’

  ‘That sounds close to Dun Carreg.’

  ‘It is.’

  The man grunted. ‘How many.’

  ‘A family of six.’

  ‘How many able to hold a blade?’

  ‘Two men, one boy that’s started in the Rowan Field. The rest are women and a bairn.’

  ‘I’ll not be killing women or bairns.’

  Evnis squinted. ‘Has Braith picked the right man for this job?’

  ‘He’s not complained so far.’

  Evnis shrugged. ‘Do it tonight. There’s a wedding feast at the fortress, so if you need corpses to make your point you will have to wait for them to return home. Make sure their hall burns bright.’

  ‘Aye,’ the man grunted and strode back into the trees.

  ‘We done here?’ Helfach asked.

  Evnis pulled the parchment out from his cloak and read it again:

  Greetings, faithful one. Braith is well placed, now, his position strong. Use his men well. Stir Brenin from his lair, as quickly as you can. The time approaches. On the matter that you contacted me, if your wife’s ailment is beyond the healers, you must use the earth power. Find the book. You know where it is. Find the door and you shall find the book. Uthas says it will help you, though nothing will save her except the cauldron. Take her to it if you can.

  Remember the cause, remember your oath.

  He hawked and spat, then lit a taper and burned the message.

  ‘We’d best get back,’ he said, swinging into his saddle. ‘If I do not make it to the handbinding Alona will curse me for a traitor and petition Brenin for my head on the block.’ Traitor. If only she knew the depth of my treason.

  Helfach snorted. ‘Let the bitch try: you have Brenin’s ear.’

  ‘Aye, but so does she, and more. And she hates me, will always blame me for her brother Rhagor’s death.’ And rightly so, he thought.

  In silence they rode their mounts out of the dell, through a thin scattering of trees and back onto the road for Dun Carreg. With the wind in his face, Evnis’ thoughts returned to the letter. ‘The time approaches . . . remember your oath.’ How could he forget? To make Rhin high queen, to bring about the God-War, and Asroth made flesh. He grimaced. Had it really been eighteen years since that night in the Darkwood? Sometimes it felt like a dream, sometimes he wished it had been a dream. Things had seemed much simpler then.

  See it through, he told himself. No other choice now. His thoughts drifted to Fain, as they were always wont to do, given enough time. One thing for sure, I must find that book.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CORBAN

  As Corban drew closer to the river the ground began to level out. To his right he saw the salmon weir.

  He looked at the trees that dotted the far bank; they quickly became dense and thick, marking the boundary of the forest. The same tingle of excitement that he always felt whenever he was near the Baglun rippled through him.

  He rode his pony across the ford, hooves splashing and cracking on stones, up the other bank and into the embrace of the forest.

  The giantsway continued into the Baglun, its stones slick with moss. Latticed branches above cast the world in twilight. Somehow the shadows eased his mood, soothed him.

  He allowed the pony to walk at its own pace, imagining himself a great huntsman like Marrock, tracking a band of lawless men come raiding from the Darkwood on the northern border. He had heard as much from his da. Thannon liked to talk as he worked, and had told many a tale of the Banished Lands, the continent upon which they lived. He had also spoken of their realm of Ardan, as it was now, of the growing distance between King Brenin and Owain, King of neighbouring Narvon, and the sudden increase of lawless men roaming the Darkwood that separated their realms. Thannon had told of a band of these men raiding into Ardan, burning crofters’ homesteads and robbing tra
vellers along the way. He said they might even be heading for the Baglun.

  Corban felt his stomach clench and his eyes grow wider as he looked about, imagining outlaws lurking behind bushes, ready to waylay him. But who would be fool enough to set up camp within sight of Brenin’s own fortress?

  Nothing to fear.

  The forest grew much closer here, thickets of thorn bushes dense between the trees. Just ahead, the giantsway spilled into an open glade, sunlight dappling the ground as the canopy above grew thinner. Corban trotted into the glade, bluebells carpeting the ground, rolling up to the oathstone.

  It towered over the clearing: a single slab of dark rock scribed with runes in a language long forgotten, another remnant of the giants that had dwelt here once. The stone was still used for the solemnizing of some occasions, but it had not been visited officially since Brenin had taken up his father’s sword and become King of Ardan, over fifteen years ago. It felt old, solitary. Corban liked it here.

  He dismounted and strode closer to the stone. It looked different: somehow wet, dark streaks staining the rock, trickling from the deep-carved runes. He reached out and touched the stone. Suddenly the glade darkened, clouds rolling across the sun, and he shivered. He pulled his hand away, his fingertips stained red. Was that blood?

  He realized his heart was pounding, the noise filling his ears. Then his vision blurred and he was falling.

  Corban blinked into consciousness and looked around.

  He was in the glade of the oathstone, leaning against the great slab, but something was different. Wrong. Everything was pale, as if all colour had been leached from the world. He looked up. Dark clouds boiled above him, bunching and flowing like an angry sea. And it was so quiet. Too quiet. No birdsong or insects, no sounds of the forest; just the hiss of wind amongst branches.

  Then suddenly, footsteps, the crunch of forest litter, so loud in the silence. A figure emerged from the thickets about the glade, a man with a sword at his hip, his cloak travel-stained. Seeing Corban, he paused, bowed his head, then marched towards him.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ the man said, squatting in front of Corban.

  Corban could not place his age. There were creases about his eyes, his mouth, though a close-cropped beard hid most of those. His hair was dark, dusted with grey. Then Corban looked into his eyes, yellow like a wolf’s, and old. No, more than old. Ancient. And wise.

  ‘Why?’ Corban asked.

  The man smiled, warm and welcoming, and Corban felt himself smile in return.

  ‘I need help. I have a task to complete, and I cannot do it alone.’ He pulled an apple from a pocket in his cloak, startlingly red in this bleached world, and took a bite, juice dripping. The man’s nails were cracked, broken, dirt caked in their grain.

  ‘Why me?’ Corban muttered.

  ‘A direct mind,’ the man observed, smiling again. He shrugged. ‘It is a difficult task, dangerous. Not all are able, capable of helping me.’ He inhaled, long and deep, closing his eyes. ‘But there is something about you. Something of value. I feel it.’

  Corban grunted. He had never felt particularly special, never been told it, except by his mam, of course.

  ‘What is the task?’

  ‘I must find something. Let me show it to you,’ the man said, placing a hand over Corban’s eyes.

  Then Corban was standing in a stone room, arched windows black against torchlight, the darkness outside seeming to suck the light into nothingness.

  In the centre of the room sat a great cauldron, a squat mass of black iron, taller and wider than a man. A scream burst from the cauldron’s mouth, echoing around the room. It rose in pitch, containing an anguish that had Corban covering his ears, then suddenly silence fell, broken only by the soft crackle of the torches. Pale fingers reached out from within the cauldron, grasping the black rim. A body heaved itself upwards and spilled out onto the stone floor. Slowly it stood: a man dressed only in loose woollen breeches, long dark hair unbound except for the warrior braid falling across broad shoulders. His skin was a pale grey, thin and stretched, and things seemed to be moving beneath it, as if trying to find a way out. Veins stood proud, bulging and purple against the pallid tissue, forming an intricate spider web on the man’s body.

  Then he turned and looked at Corban.

  Eyes as black as night, no pupil, no iris, stared at him. The mouth creased in a grisly smile, a thin line of blood trickling from its corner. A droplet gathered, dripped to the floor.

  Corban took a step backwards. The figure mirrored him, taking a step forwards. Corban was about to turn and run but froze abruptly, sensing a presence behind him. He told himself to turn but his body would not obey, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

  The thing before the cauldron paused as well, face contorting as the black eyes stared past Corban. There was movement from behind. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw two great, white-feathered wings sweep about him. The figure in front grimaced, raising its arms as if to ward off a blow. It hissed at him, threw back its head and howled, a high, piercing cry. Corban looked at the wings, felt his panic and fear draining away and a sense of peace taking its place, even though the creature was still howling its ululating cry. Slowly the room faded and all was darkness again.

  With a gasp his eyes snapped open. His back was wet with sweat. He shook his head, still hearing the inhuman howling from his quick-fading dream. Willow was stamping the ground, hoof gouging the earth. As Corban came fully awake the howling did not fade but grew clearer, taking on a different tone from his dream, and suddenly he realized that Willow could hear it too.

  He leaped to his feet and tried to soothe the animal. Willow snorted, slowly quietened, even though the howling continued to ring through the forest. Corban stood for a moment, listening.

  ‘Whatever that is,’ he murmured, ‘it sounds scared.’ He patted the pony’s neck a while longer, then made a decision and led the pony in the direction of the howling.

  Within heartbeats the forest became a twilight world. The branches were too low for him to mount Willow, but he moved easily enough between the trees, although he had to pay attention to where he put his feet, the forest floor thick with vines that snared his boots.

  Small shallow streams crossed his path and the ground became spongier, Willow’s hooves making sucking noises as they sank into and pulled free of the damp earth.

  I should turn back, he thought. Dylan had warned him of the deadly bogs within the Baglun, appearing as firm ground at first, which would suck you down and smother the life from you. He stopped. The howling began again, and it sounded so close.

  Just a little longer. He stepped forward and the howling suddenly stopped.

  Corban walked around a dense stand of trees, elbowing red ferns aside and pulled abruptly to a halt.

  Not more than twenty paces in front of him was the head and shoulders of a wolven, jutting from the ground. Its canines gleamed, as long as his forearm and sharp as a dagger. Corban could not believe it. They were fearsome pack hunters, bred by the giant clans during the War of Treasures, if the tales were true. They were wolf-like but bigger, stronger, and with a sharp intelligence. But they were rarely seen here, preferring the south of Ardan, regions of deep forest and sweeping moors, where the auroch herds roamed. For a moment boy and beast stared at each other, then the wolven’s jaws snapped, froth bubbling around its mouth. One of its paws scrabbled feebly at the ground. It looked close to death, weak and thin. There was a squelching sound and the animal sank a little deeper into the earth, as if someone was tugging on its hind legs. The ground around it looked firm enough, covered in the same vine, but Corban knew the wolven was caught in one of the Baglun’s treacherous bogs.

  He stood in silence a while, not knowing what to do. Crouching, he stared at the creature’s head, grey flecked with white, spattered with black mud.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ he whispered. ‘You’d eat me, even if I could get you out.’ The beast stared back with
its copper eyes.

  He looked about, picked up a long branch, thrust it at the ground before his feet and began tentatively to edge his way forwards, Willow watching disapprovingly. Suddenly the branch disappeared into the ground, his left leg sinking up to the knee before he could stop. He knew a moment of panic, tried to pull out and felt the mud firm up around his leg, gripping him in an airless embrace. He shifted his weight and leaned back, slowly freeing his leg, which was covered in viscous black mud. He fell backwards.

  Slick with sweat, he just lay there a moment. There was a gurgling sound and he looked up, saw the wolven sink deeper. He stood up and strode back to Willow, suddenly knowing what he must do, at the same time knowing it was foolish. He patted Willow, the pony’s eyes rolling white. She was close to flight. When she had calmed a little he pulled Gar’s rope out of the saddlebag and tied one end to his saddle, slowly coaxing the pony to walk closer to the sinking mud. He looped the other end of the rope as Cywen had taught him and cast it towards the beast. His second attempt fell across the animal’s head and shoulder. Gently he lifted the rope and slowly, ever so slowly, he began to pull. The rope tightened and held fast. Corban led the pony away from the bog. The rope creaked, shuddering under the strain as Willow took up the slack. The wolven whined, snapping at the air as the rope bit into its skin, then with a great sucking sound it began to pull free of the mud. Willow took a step forward, then another . . . and within moments the creature was lying on its side at the edge of the bog, panting and slick with mud. It staggered to its feet, head bowed.