Malice

by John Gwynne

  On the ground before him were figures, black and twisted from the fire. The smell hit Corban like a blow and snatched his breath away, stomach lurching. He counted five, all of them burned beyond recognition, one much smaller than the rest: Frith. He couldn’t tell which one was Dylan, but he knew his friend was there. His stomach lurched again and tears sprang to his eyes. He rubbed them away, dimly aware he was standing amidst the pride of Dun Carreg’s warriors. He turned and stumbled away, falling to his knees, and vomited onto the ash-covered yard.

  A hand rested on his shoulder. He blinked away stinging tears and saw Thannon. His da lifted him effortlessly from the ground. ‘You shouldn’t be here, Ban,’ he growled.

  ‘Dylan . . .’ Corban mumbled, then Thannon pulled him close. He couldn’t seem to stop his shoulders shaking. They stood like that a while, warriors moving about the enclosure, sifting through the ash. Eventually Corban pulled away. Gar joined them as Corban rubbed his eyes, smearing ash across his face.

  ‘Brenin has just sent people to scout around the hill, see if they can find any clues as to what happened here.’

  ‘What do you think happened?’ Corban asked.

  ‘Blood-feud or thievery, what else?’ growled Thannon.

  ‘My guess is lawless men,’ said Gar. ‘There have been rumours that some of Braith’s outlaw band from the Darkwood have travelled east, burning and thieving on their way. The Baglun is not as large as the Darkwood, but it is still a tempting place for them to dwell.’

  ‘Apart from the wolven, and being so close to Brenin,’ said Thannon.

  Gar shrugged. ‘There are wolven in the Darkwood too. Do you think this is the result of a blood-feud? Do you think Darol had enemies that would do this?’

  Thannon sighed, shaking his head. ‘Just don’t like the thought of it: lawless men so close to home.’

  Noise drifted up from beyond the gates. A string of wains had arrived, filled with people from the village and fortress. Many were carrying tools of some description, from buckets to shovels. Corban spotted his mam and sister hurrying up the hill towards them. Gwenith ran to him and took his hand.

  ‘Dylan’s dead . . .’ he mumbled, feeling a lump swell in his throat, fresh tears forming. Gwenith tried to pull him into an embrace as villagers passed them by, but he stepped away.

  The newly arrived villagers set to work, pilling up charred timber, shovelling ash, sifting through the debris. The rest of the morning passed quickly. Corban climbed onto the back of Gar’s piebald again and went with the stablemaster to the river, where many were already hard at work, including Brenin. They tore down Darol’s salmon traps and piled wains high with rocks from the riverbed to build a cairn.

  Back at the stockade the stones were unloaded from the wains, a large stone cairn built around the bodies of Darol and his family on the brow of the hill. The final stones were laid in place as the sinking sun began to melt into the horizon. Then Brenin stepped forward.

  ‘Most here knew Darol and his family. They were good people, they and their children. Lawless men struck here last night.’ He beckoned to Marrock.

  ‘We found two sets of tracks,’ the huntsman said, ‘one set coming from the forest, one set returning, about a dozen horses strong. Some climbed the wall and opened the gate for the others, I believe. Darol heard and came out and was slain. The others were killed inside the feast-hall. We followed their trail a way into the Baglun before it disappeared.’ He grimaced and beckoned to the crowd. One of the brothers that Corban had met on the road the night before, the older, sterner one, stepped forward.

  ‘Halion found this.’ Marrock nodded to the man, who held his arm out, showing them a pearl necklace that Corban had seen worn by Elin, Dylan’s sister.

  Brenin drew his sword. ‘A dark thing has been done here,’ he growled. ‘This I pledge: I will not allow thieves and murderers to do as they please in Ardan, let alone on my very doorstep. Darol and his family will have justice. Blood will be shed by the guilty; I swear it on my father’s sword, and seal it with my blood.’ He clenched his fist around the blade, a thin red line running down its edge, then slammed the sword back into its scabbard.

  The next morning, Corban woke and for a moment felt normal, then the weight of memory fell upon him. Dylan. The fire. Tears formed in his eyes and he would have turned over and tried to sleep again but Gwenith must have heard him moving, for she bustled into his room and pulled his blanket off. She sat beside him, running her fingers through his hair, leaned over and gently kissed his cheek. ‘Come and break your fast.’

  Corban picked at a honey-cake and a mug of milk for a while. ‘Where’s Cywen?’ he asked.

  ‘At the stables with Gar.’ His mam looked at him out of the corner of her eye. ‘Your da said he needs you in the forge today.’

  Corban stood with a sigh. ‘I’ll go and find him.’

  Thannon told him that he was not needed until highsun. Corban made for Dath’s home. Bethan answered when he knocked.

  ‘Dath’s out with Da,’ she said.

  ‘Huh,’ he muttered, shuffling his feet.

  ‘They sailed with the tide, just after sun-up,’ Bethan offered.

  ‘Oh,’ said Corban, and began to walk away.

  ‘Corban,’ she called after him, ‘you were close, to Darol’s family, weren’t you?’

  ‘I was.’

  She took a step closer and squeezed his hand. ‘Brenin will catch them,’ she said.

  With a sigh he walked away.

  The meadow that had been so full of people and noise two days before was almost empty. Corban saw a tall figure with a large hound on the far side of the meadow, loading up a wain.

  Talar’s ears pricked forward as Corban ran over to Ventos, who was hefting a large sheepskin bundle.

  ‘You’re going, then,’ Corban said.

  ‘Aye, lad, I have goods to sell. I hope to have travelled most of Ardan before midsummer. A sad business yesterday. You knew the family well?’

  ‘Aye. Especially Dylan. Darol’s son.’ His eyes misted. ‘Thank you for helping.’

  ‘This is a good place,’ Ventos grunted. ‘Good people. It’s not everywhere in the Banished Lands that you would see so many help as they did yesterday.’

  ‘Murder does not happen, here,’ Corban mumbled. He had heard of the crimes of lawless men, knew that holds had been torched closer to the Darkwood, but living at the fortress, things like that were always a tale, something never seen.

  Ventos nodded. ‘You have a good king, keeping such things at bay. Much worse happens elsewhere. I do not doubt he will catch and judge those that committed this crime. Come, help me finish loading.’ He wiped sweat from his face.

  After they had piled up the wain, the trader climbed into the bench seat at the front. A sturdy-looking pony was harnessed to the wain, and another, heavily loaded, was roped to the tailgate.

  ‘Stay clear of the Baglun,’ Corban said as the trader picked up his driving reins.

  ‘Don’t fear for me, lad; I have Talar to look after me.’ He cracked the reins and the pony pulled away, Ventos flashing a wide smile and waving as he rode towards the giantsway, Talar trotting steadily alongside. Corban stood watching as the trader disappeared into the horizon. Then he looked up at the sun and cursed, breaking into a run towards the fortress.

  Buddai raised his head to look at Corban as he ran up, jumped over the hound and through the forge’s doorway. He leaned against the timber frame and drank great gulps of air, chest rising and falling much like the bellows being pumped by Thannon’s hand.

  ‘You’re late,’ his da said, the glow of the furnace illuminating him in a stark contrast of shadow and light. He was stripped to the waist, an auroch-hide apron covering his bull chest and stomach. The smell of burning hair lingered in the air, where sparks had leaped from his hammer and singed either his beard or thick forearms.

  ‘Sorry, Da,’ Corban managed in between ragged breaths.

  ‘No matter. Although a man should do as
he says,’ Thannon said with a stern look. ‘I need you to strike for me. Torin has asked for half a dozen scythes.’ He looked at Corban, who was still leaning against the doorframe. ‘Now, lad. We have to draw this iron out before it cools.’

  Corban slipped his pitted leather apron on and took the hammer that Thannon was waving at him. A thick length of iron was held in long tongs on the anvil, glowing white hot, a dark honeycomb running through it. Corban knew what to do, and the hammer began to ring as he beat the metal, incandescent sparks flying as impurities were slowly coaxed and beaten from the iron.

  The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of heat and ringing noise, and occasionally frozen moments of the previous day would form in his mind. It was a shock when he found his raised arm enveloped by Thannon’s huge paw of a hand.

  ‘Ban, we’re finished for the day,’ his da was saying, looking at him with a worried expression. Corban blinked, hung the hammer with the other tools and began to rake out the furnace, banking the day’s half-burned charcoal around the edges.

  As the two of them left the forge, the cool air of early evening making Corban’s sweaty skin tingle, a horse and rider clattered up the cobbled path that led towards the fortress’ stables. On the rider’s shield was an emblem Corban had never seen before.

  A white eagle on a black field.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  VERADIS

  Searing heat flashed all about Veradis as he leaped through the wall of flames and rolled into the shallow stream, smelling burned hair, leather, flesh. He was dripping, steam smoking from patches all over him. He did not pause to assess the damage done by the flames, just hurled his spear straight at the chest of the giant that was still holding a sword to Nathair.

  Somehow, moving faster than Veradis could track, the giant swung his great blade. There was a crack, and two parts of his shattered spear spun away in different directions.

  The giant made no move towards him, just stared with emotionless, black eyes. Veradis scowled and drew his sword with a hiss.

  ‘No, Veradis!’ Nathair shouted, but Veradis was already moving. He circled to his right, tucking behind his shield, moving in quickly. The giant swung two-handed at him, but Veradis ducked low, felt the blade whistle over his head, then lunged forwards. The tip of his sword slid off the giant’s mail shirt, no power in the blow as the giant stepped backwards. Instead of retreating out of range, Veradis carried on moving forwards, trying to stay too close for that broadsword to be used against him. He rammed his shield into the giant’s gut, chopped his sword at an ankle.

  The giant grunted as his blade bit, though not deeply, and Veradis felt a moment of elation before his shield rim was grabbed by a huge hand and ripped from his arm, the leather straps snapping. There was an explosion in his chest, a blinding pain and then he was flying through the air, crunching into the ground, rolling, then his face smashed into something solid. White lights burst in his head.

  ‘You fight well, little man,’ the giant said as it took great strides towards him, the traces of a smile twitching its drooping moustache, voice sounding like an iron hinge rusted from lack of use.

  Veradis tried to push himself up, groping blindly with his other hand for his sword hilt, which had somehow disappeared. A black fog was pushing at the edges of his vision, drawing in. He tried to focus, concentrate, knew death was a stride, a heartbeat away.

  Then Nathair was there, standing over him, sword drawn.

  ‘Hold!’ a voice cried, somewhere beyond the giant. Veradis pushed against the ground but the pain in his head exploded with the effort, then he was falling, sinking, and he knew no more.

  Pain. Rhythmic, throbbing pain. Tentatively Veradis opened his eyes, sharp knives jabbing into his skull, sending waves of nausea pulsing from his stomach.

  Where am I? Nathair.

  He moved, too fast, pain spiking behind his eyes. He took a deep breath, blew it out slowly and waited for the world to steady.

  ‘You live, then.’ It was Rauca, looming over him. The warrior put a hand under his arm and helped him semi-upright, leaning against the trunk of a laurel.

  ‘Nathair?’ Veradis muttered.

  ‘In that tent,’ Rauca nodded over his shoulder.

  They were still in the dell, Veradis in the shade of laurels beside the stream. He saw warriors scattered around about, some silhouetted on the ridge-line, standing guard. The dark-haired giant stood in front of the entrance to the bright-coloured tent.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You mean after you tried to set yourself on fire?’ Rauca said, squatting next to him, grinning.

  ‘Huh,’ grunted Veradis.

  ‘Well, as far as I could see, you chopped away at that giant for a while, then he clumped you, sent you flying into these trees . . .’

  ‘I remember that,’ Veradis muttered, lifting a hand to his face, his nose, which was throbbing, sticky with blood.

  ‘Then it looked like the giant was going to stick you with his sword, but Nathair put himself between you both.’ Rauca grinned again. ‘Weren’t you supposed to be protecting him?’

  Veradis flushed red. ‘Things didn’t go according to plan. What happened next?’

  ‘Well, the old man got involved then, calmed the giant down. It seems the whole thing – the flames, the giant, the sword – were about making a point.’

  ‘A point?’

  ‘Aye. That Nathair was in their power, and that if they’d wished to harm him, they could have.’

  ‘Oh. But they didn’t.’

  ‘No. As I said, that was their point. Nathair seemed convinced by it, anyway, because after he saw you were still breathing, he has spent the entire time in that tent, with the counsellor.’

  Veradis looked at the tent, at the giant guarding the entrance, and grimaced. ‘What of the fire?’ He remembered it leaping up from the small cook-fire, becoming a searing wall.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Rauca shrugged. ‘I’ve heard tales of those that can do such things. Elementals?’ he whispered.

  ‘So have I,’ Veradis muttered, shivering.

  Rauca helped him upright, supported him over to the stream and assisted him, with much groaning and bursts of pain, in removing his chainmail shirt. He hurt in a score of places: where he had fallen, where he had hit the tree, patches of raw skin that the flames had singed, but two spots hurt the most. There was a dense purple bruise blooming where the giant had punched him in his chest, though his mail shirt seemed to have protected him from broken bones, and his nose still throbbed where he had connected with a tree.

  ‘It’s broken,’ Rauca proclaimed, with too much pleasure for Veradis’ liking. ‘Shall I set it for you, or would you rather stay looking like one of Asroth’s Kadoshim?’

  ‘Set it,’ Veradis grunted, unclasping his leather belt and biting down on it.

  Rauca placed both hands either side of the bridge of Veradis’ nose, then twisted them suddenly. There was a muffled crack. Veradis gasped and bit down hard. He cupped a handful of water from the stream and washed away the fresh blood that gushed from his nose.

  ‘My thanks,’ he grunted as Rauca crouched beside him.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ his friend grinned, patting his shoulder.

  They made camp in the dell that night, Nathair not emerging as the sun dipped below the horizon and the sky slowly turned to black velvet, with stars like shards of ice.

  Orcus maintained a guard on the ridge, and set another group to watch over the tent and giant all through the night.

  Veradis woke stiff and sore.

  Quietly the warband broke their fast, waiting for their prince. Soon after, the giant, still standing guard, lifted the tent’s entrance, Nathair and the silver-haired man emerging into the daylight.

  Nathair sought out Orcus, then the warband were making ready to leave. As they did so the giant dismantled the tent, the old man standing with arms folded, eyes fixed on Nathair.

  As they went about the business of breaking camp Nathair saw V
eradis and marched over to him, grinning broadly.

  ‘I am glad you are well,’ the Prince said, gripping Veradis’ shoulder. ‘I shall never forget what you did.’

  ‘It was you that saved me, from what I hear,’ Veradis said.

  ‘That’s true,’ Nathair grinned. ‘Nevertheless, you jumped through flames for me, Veradis, did what no other even attempted . . .’ The Prince shook his head. ‘It won’t be forgotten.’

  In a short while all was ready. Nathair spoke with the counsellor again, taking a leather scroll-case from the silver-haired man. Veradis stood at the Prince’s shoulder, his eyes drawn to the giant, who towered half a man over them all, glowering. He was clothed in dark leather and chainmail, a tattoo of vine and thorns swirling up his left arm and part-way down his right, the hilt of his broadsword jutting over his shoulder. His face was human enough, though all sharp planes and ridges. A drooping moustache was tied with leather strips. Suddenly its black eyes fixed on Veradis. He looked away.

  ‘Safe journey,’ the old man said and gripped Nathair’s forearm in the warrior fashion.

  ‘Until we meet again.’

  ‘Until we meet again,’ the counsellor echoed, and then they parted, Nathair leading his warband up the steep slope and down the other side.

  Soon they were mounted and riding north along the banks of the Nox, Orcus taking the lead, along with a handful of the eagle-guard. Nathair rode with his own men, Veradis and Rauca either side of him.

  Nathair had not spoken since leaving the dell. ‘I have negotiated a peace,’ he said suddenly, startling Veradis.

  Rauca frowned at the Prince.

  ‘I know it will be a shock for most, but its impact will be significant, I think.’

  ‘Shock. Many will struggle, Nathair.’ Veradis had grown up along the coast, and although the Vin Thalun had been quiet for over a decade, their reputation remained. And recently the raiding had begun again.

  ‘Nevertheless, it is for the greater good,’ Nathair said.