Malice (Faithful & the Fallen 1)

by John Gwynne

  A strange-looking ship was pulling into it, long and sleek, oars dipping in and out of the water like the legs of a many-limbed bug. From one of its masts a banner snapped in the wind, a white eagle on a black field.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  KASTELL

  Kastell grunted as he pulled himself up the half-buried trunk of a fallen elm, clambered down the other side and looked back at Maquin as the old warrior followed him.

  Eight nights they had been trudging through this cursed forest, living in different shades of gloom. He should be used to it, having served with the Gadrai for so long now, but they had spent their lives around the river Rhenus, where the trees were thinner, the sky something that was at least seen most days. Here the chance of sunlight penetrating the thick canopy above them was less than slight. The trees were dense, the branches above interwoven like some ancient, untouched loom.

  Maquin slipped on the trunk, steadied himself with his spear and swore quietly.

  ‘Steady, greybeard,’ Kastell said, and received a black look in return. Usually Maquin would have smiled, but eight nights in the embrace of Forn were taking their toll. Men were becoming edgier, especially as word had spread that they were finally nearing Haldis, burial site of the Hunen giants.

  Behind Maquin the bald head of Orgull appeared, shining with sweat. ‘Move on,’ their captain growled. They were spread out in a loose line before the main body of their host, the Gadrai acting as both van and scouts in one.

  Kastell stepped into the thick foliage, glanced ahead and saw the broad back of the giant that had been leading them, Alcyon. Vandil was beside him, unmistakable with the outline of his two swords crossed upon his back.

  As unnatural as it felt, the giant’s presence had been of great benefit to them. Not only was he leading them unerringly to their destination, but he had proved most valuable in beating off the Hunen attacks they had encountered so far.

  All had been quiet until the third night into the forest, the only deaths being warriors on lone sentry duty, sucked dry as husks by the great bats of Forn. None of those casualties had come from amongst the Gadrai – they had lived in the forest too long and knew better than to close their eyes whilst standing guard – death’s only warning could be a whisper of wings. Then the Gadrai had walked into a thick mist, dense and high. Alcyon had called a halt, waiting for his companion, Calidus, and together they had begun to sing.

  Nothing had happened at first, but then a breeze had rippled through the forest, growing quickly in strength, until it raged through the trees. The mist melted before it, revealing a score of Hunen in the forest. The giants had flung their spears and retreated, realizing they were undone.

  Since then there had been constant skirmishes up and down the long line of warbands, Alcyon and Calidus blunting the Elemental edges to the attacks and giving warning of giant ambushes. Nevertheless, many had died, and their pace had been slowed by the Hunen.

  Today all evidence of the Hunen had disappeared. No ambushes, concealed pits, traps or mists, and by highsun Alcyon had announced that they were within a day’s march of Haldis. ‘They will not attack this day,’ the giant had assured Vandil. ‘They will spend their time readying the defences at Haldis.’

  When a break was called, Kastell was happy to rest with others of the Gadrai, until he noticed Romar, presumably heading for council with Calidus, Alcyon and Vandil, and spotted Jael among the party. His uncle glanced back at him but Kastell scowled and looked away.

  Romar had sent for him when the Gadrai had first arrived at Halstat. He had felt both excited and anxious stepping into Romar’s tent, his uncle embracing him awkwardly.

  ‘You’ve done well, I hear,’ the big man had said, smiling.

  ‘Me? Aye,’ Kastell shrugged. ‘I still live. In the Gadrai that is well enough.’ A thought occurred. ‘You have me watched?’

  ‘Nothing like that. But I would be a poor uncle if I did not take interest in you.’ Romar had ushered Kastell into a seat and poured him a cup of wine. ‘I have heard from Vandil, that is all. You have survived giant raids, slain Hunen. You are growing into the man your father always said you would become.’

  Kastell, swirled his wine, feeling uncomfortable. ‘And how are you, Uncle,’ he said, to change the subject. ‘How go your plans?’

  Romar now looked perturbed, ‘Things have become complicated since you left. You have heard Tenebral’s news?’

  ‘Something, though I did not pay much attention.’

  ‘Aquilus is dead,’ Romar said. ‘His son, Nathair, is now King.’

  Kastell had suddenly thought of Veradis, the Prince’s man who had stepped into the fight with Jael’s cronies and stood up for him. ‘How did Aquilus die?’

  ‘Murdered in his own chamber. Mandros of Carnutan did the deed, ’tis said. Though he shall never be judged for the truth of it, now. He fled, but has since been slain by a force from Tenebral.’ Romar took a long draught from his cup and poured some more. ‘He was killed by your friend. Veradis.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Kastell, feeling suddenly more interested in this tale.

  ‘Aye. He has risen far, your friend. He is now the first-sword of Tenebral. You will see him soon. He is to lead Tenebral’s offering in this campaign.’

  Kastell grinned. Veradis had been a friend to him when friends had been in short supply. Then he’d noticed Romar’s face. ‘Why so troubled?’ he asked. ‘Veradis is a good man.’

  ‘Aye . . .’ Romar shrugged, ‘I thought so, too. But I feel uncomfortable; this shift in power sits badly with me. This has been ill handled, with Mandros not being judged. I am reconsidering the alliance with Tenebral.’

  Kastell shrugged. Once the alliance had been of interest to him, when Romar had first spoken of it. But no more. He had a new family now, the Gadrai was all that mattered to him, and Tenebral seemed a long way away.

  Romar then spoke his mind. ‘Come back to me, Kastell,’ he had said.

  ‘What? I do not think that would be wise.’

  ‘Times are turbulent,’ Romar had said. ‘I need people about me that I can trust. You are my kin, my brother’s son.’

  ‘You have Jael,’ Kastell replied, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice.

  ‘Aye,’ Romar said. ‘Jael. He is eager, for this campaign, for the alliance with Tenebral. Sometimes I think too eager . . .’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Romar had waved a hand impatiently. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Jael aside, it would be good if you were with me. You are close to this Veradis, eh? That could be of benefit to me. I need someone close to Nathair’s inner circle. Things are not as they were with Aquilus. This slaying of Mandros – I shall call for a trial into Mandros’ death. Nathair must account for his actions, and something about this feels ill omened.’

  ‘So you want me to spy for you,’ Kastell had said.

  Romar shrugged. ‘In a way. We all have interests to protect, Kastell. For one, I want my axe back, and would reward handsomely any that help me.’ He had then reached out and gripped Kastell’s wrist. ‘You have proved yourself with the Gadrai, but they are not your kin. We are blood. Come back to me.’

  Kastell remembered Romar’s look, almost pleading. It seemed so out of place; his uncle had always been so decisive, a leader of men.

  He wanted to say yes, but memories of Jael flooded his mind. ‘Jael said things. About my da,’ he said instead.

  Romar had frowned, but said nothing.

  ‘He spoke of my da’s transgressions . . .’

  Romar was angry now but still he said nothing.

  ‘But what did he mean?’ Kastell pressed.

  ‘I will not speak of it,’ Romar said.

  ‘Then I will not come back,’ Kastell had snapped, suddenly furious. He had stood and stalked from the tent, his uncle glowering at him.

  An argument up ahead distracted him from these thoughts, and he could just see Alcyon’s bulk. Beside the giant someone was waving their arms, almost shouting, hi
s gesticulations aimed at Calidus.

  Kastell frowned and craned to see better.

  The angry figure suddenly broke away, others following. It was Romar, his face flushed and his posture stiff with rage.

  Calidus was watching Romar’s departure, then turned to another figure to murmur an aside. Kastell squinted and saw that the man was Jael.

  Sunset had come and gone, and there were small campfires flickering between trees as far as Kastell could see. He was sitting staring at the flames as great moths flapped around them, sending shadows dancing across his fellow warriors gathered about the fire.

  A twig snapped in the darkness and a figure stepped into the firelight. Vandil nodded to them all and crouched down, Orgull offering him the wine skin. ‘We’re all set,’ he said, wiping his mouth. ‘Tomorrow’s the last dawn the Hunen will ever see.’

  ‘A big day for the Gadrai,’ Maquin said.

  ‘Aye,’ said Vandil, looking into the flames. ‘One I never thought to see.’ He grinned, teeth flashing red in the firelight. ‘A good time to be alive.’

  ‘What is next?’ Kastell asked, pausing the rhythm of his whetstone.

  ‘Next?’

  ‘After the Hunen.’

  ‘Let’s see if we live through the morrow, first,’ Vandil shrugged. ‘Have this conversation then, eh?’

  ‘What about Drassil?’ Suddenly all eyes were on Kastell.

  ‘It probably doesn’t exist. Men have tried to find it, searched for the treasure rumoured to be there. None ever came back. Shouldn’t be filling your head with thoughts of that fool’s gold,’ Vandil warned. ‘’Specially when you’ll need all your wits to keep your head from parting with your shoulders on the morrow.’ He stood, took another draught of the wine and handed it to Orgull. ‘Sharp swords ’n’ clear heads, lads.’

  ‘Aye,’ the men around the fire assented as Vandil walked away, disappearing quickly into the gloom.

  Soon after, Veradis found his way to their circle.

  ‘Come, sit,’ Maquin said. ‘Share some wine with us.’

  ‘No, I cannot,’ said Veradis. ‘I would speak with you both, though.’

  Kastell sheathed his sword and pocketed the whetstone he’d been using to sharpen it. Veradis turned and led them into the darkness. They followed into the shadows, where Veradis’ features were silver-edged with moon-glow.

  ‘Are you well?’ Maquin asked.

  ‘Me? Aye,’ Veradis muttered, not meeting their gaze. He seemed uneasy, then finally looked at them. ‘We are friends, you and I, are we not?’

  ‘Aye,’ Maquin said slowly. Kastell just nodded.

  ‘That is rare,’ Veradis murmured, almost to himself. ‘Something of value.’

  ‘What is troubling you?’ Maquin said, softly but firmly.

  ‘Your oath, first – that my words stay between us.’

  ‘Aye,’ they both said, Maquin frowning.

  ‘Be careful who, or what, you trust, over the coming days,’ Veradis said. ‘Be on your guard, and not just from giants,’ he added, almost a whisper.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Kastell asked.

  Veradis looked at them both. ‘Romar – he is making an enemy of Nathair. You would be wise to find a new lord.’

  ‘Romar is my kin,’ Kastell said. ‘He took me in. Is there more that you are not saying, Veradis?’

  ‘Just watch your backs,’ Veradis said. ‘That is all I can say, more than I should have,’ then he turned and slipped into the night, before Kastell or Maquin managed to speak.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ Kastell said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Maquin murmured, ‘but it sounds like trouble to me.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  CYWEN

  Grass tickled Cywen’s neck as she lay near the cliff’s edge, looking down into the bay, watching the newly arrived ship. She was supposed to be helping Gar in the stables and knew she would get a tongue-lashing for her absence, but she didn’t care.

  Ever since the Darkwood, since she had held Ronan as he died, nothing felt important. The only thought that sparked a reaction was that of using her knives on Rhin’s champion. She hated him, spent her time dreaming of revenge, then wept bitter, frustrated tears as the unlikelihood of that revenge consumed her.

  Warriors were now disembarking from the ship, still flying its eagle banner. She was suddenly restless to be gone, running back to the fortress to join the growing crowd of those eager to greet the newcomers.

  Then Storm was padding towards her, followed by Corban, with Dath and Farrell only just managing to keep up.

  ‘Cywen, Cywen, you won’t believe what’s happened to me,’ he said as he reached her, his words almost falling over themselves.

  ‘What?’ He seemed very excited about something, so she tried to appear interested.

  ‘I am to take my warrior trial on the morrow – sit my Long Night.’

  ‘What?’ That did get her attention. ‘Are you ready?’ she said and saw his face drop, excitement melting into doubt.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said honestly.

  ‘What I meant to say,’ she interrupted, ‘is do you feel prepared? Of course you are ready – we’ve the bruises to prove it, haven’t we, Dath?’ She nudged their friend.

  ‘Oh aye,’ he nodded enthusiastically.

  Amongst the crowd now surrounding them, Cywen saw Gar. She tried to duck behind the bulk of Farrell, but too late, and a frown formed on Gar’s brow as he limped over to them.

  ‘Where have you been? You’ve been needed at the stables.’

  She just looked at him and tried to think of something to say, but couldn’t.

  Gar’s frown deepened. He opened his mouth – to say something unpleasant, no doubt – when the crowd about them suddenly grew louder. The new arrivals were entering the courtyard now, their horses’ hooves clattering on stone. Cywen just stared, and promptly forgot about Gar.

  A dozen or so warriors rode into the courtyard, looking fine in chainmail and black-polished leather, silver-edged eagles carved on their breastplates. But Cywen’s eyes were drawn to the two who rode at their head. They both sat tall in their saddles, one dressed similarly to the other warriors, riding a spirited white stallion, two swords hanging from his belt. He was a young man with dark, curly hair framing a weathered, handsome face, bright blue eyes scanning the crowd. He smiled, at no one and everyone; Cywen felt suddenly as if he was looking at her alone.

  She pulled her gaze away with an effort to look at the man riding beside him. She gasped as she saw his horse, a palomino of such quality as she had never seen before. It was lighter boned than the other horses, longer in the leg, almost dancing as it crossed the courtyard, a picture of grace and power. The man on its back was older, also dressed as a warrior, but this man was clearly not like the others. He had long, jet-black hair, bound with a strip of leather at the nape and a long, curved sword strapped across his back. There was something about him that reminded Cywen of Storm. He sat gracefully in his saddle, exuding a sense of strength and barely contained violence, a wildness about him.

  She went to say something to Corban and noticed Gar disappearing into the crowd. Corban himself was pale faced, staring intensely at the curly-haired warrior.

  ‘Corban,’ she said and squeezed his arm. ‘Corban, are you well?’

  Her brother started but nodded, his colour returning a little. ‘Aye, it’s nothing,’ he said.

  Then King Brenin stepped out of the crowd with Pendathran, Halion behind them, looking uneasy in his new role.

  ‘Well met, Nathair,’ Brenin said, gripping the curly-haired man’s arm as he leaned in the saddle. The noise of the crowd obscured the rest of what was said and soon after the party headed for the keep.

  Much later Cywen was on her own in the hall after the feasting. Corban had been swept out by Thannon, eager to talk through the final details of the morrow. Edana slumped down in an adjacent chair, the outline of a warrior beyond her. Cywen expected to see Ronan for a moment
, but it was Conall.

  ‘Hallo,’ Edana said, still gaunt from their recent experiences.

  Cywen nodded. ‘Haven’t seen you, for a while,’ she said.

  ‘No.’ Edana shook her head. ‘Since my mam . . .’ She looked away. ‘Father worries for me. More so since the news of Uthan. He fears reprisals,’ she sighed.

  Word had reached Dun Carreg about a ten-night ago of Owain’s son’s death, rumour following the news like crows following blood. All that could be agreed upon was that Uthan was dead and that Owain held Brenin responsible.

  ‘So Conall is your guard now?’ Cywen said, wanting to break the growing silence.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How is your da?’

  ‘Grieving. Angry. Very angry. The thought of revenge consumes him.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Me?’ Edana said. ‘I cannot believe my mam is gone . . .’ She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘I miss her. I want her back, wish that I had said things to her. And I want to be strong, for Da, but he doesn’t seem to notice.’

  ‘Have you spoken to your da? Told him how you feel?’

  ‘No. He has been so inconstant – sometimes so sad, others, so angry. He scares me.’

  ‘But he loves you, and if he knew how you felt he’d be sorry.’

  Edana looked weary, then nodded. ‘You’re right. I will talk to him. But it would help if I had you near.’

  Cywen sat there, wanted to say no, but Edana looked so pleading that she rose and followed the Princess through the keep.

  Edana knocked at a familiar door and swept in, not waiting for a reply. King Brenin was sitting in his high-backed chair, discussing something with Evnis and Heb. Halion stood behind the King, hand on his sword hilt. Cywen’s eyes flickered across the empty chair beside Brenin, where Alona had sat.

  ‘Father, I . . .’ Edana began, then halted, the stern faces of those in the room daunting her.

  ‘What is it?’ Brenin asked, looking annoyed at the interruption.