Malice (Faithful & the Fallen 1)

  ‘Craf . . .?’ Corban whispered.

  ‘Cor-ban,’ the crow squawked. ‘Cor-ban.’

  ‘Asroth’s teeth,’ hissed Camlin, going pale. ‘Did that mangy crow just speak?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Corban, suddenly grinning. ‘It is Craf. Brina’s crow.’

  ‘Brina, Brina, Brina . . .’ Craf stuttered and began hoping from one foot to the other.

  ‘She must have sent him to find us.’

  ‘Follow, follow, follow, follow . . .’ the crow squawked, then flapped its wings and flew off, landing on another branch about thirty paces ahead of them. ‘FOLLOW,’ Craf screeched.

  ‘He has Brina’s patience,’ Corban said.

  Quickly the small band organized themselves and set off after Craf.

  The rest of the day followed this pattern, following the crow as he flapped in front of them, stopping regularly on branches to let them catch up. Corban lost all track of time, direction and distance, but as dusk was beginning to settle about them Camlin announced that they had covered a lot of ground and that they were nearing the giantsway.

  ‘That old crow’s not stopping,’ Marrock said, watching Craf disappear into the gloom. They carried on walking, Camlin taking the lead, and soon they stepped onto the road. There were glimpses of the sky above, dotted with the first stars of evening. Picking up their pace, they carried on in the darkness, but soon heard the sound of riders ahead. Quickly they moved off the road, then Edana was running, calling out to Brenin, at the front of the column, with Pendathran tall and wide beside him.

  Corban and the rest stepped out of the trees, Marrock and Halion carrying Alona. A score of mounted warriors swept past them, forming a line in the road. Others circled them, jumping from horses and calling out. Corban suddenly felt weary to the bone and dizzy. Then Thannon was there, pulling him and Cywen into a tight embrace. There were tears on the blacksmith’s cheeks when Corban looked up, tears in his own eyes and streaks on Cywen’s face. Thannon pulled them close again, almost cracking bones, kissing them and ruffling their hair.

  When they parted again Thannon grabbed Gar’s arm in the warrior grip, pulled the stablemaster into an embrace and pounded his back.

  Looking round, Corban saw Brina crouching beside Alona, Craf on the pommel of her saddle. Then warriors quickly lashed a stronger litter together and soon they were mounting up.

  Their rescue party had brought horses, and soon they were heading down the giantsway to refuge.

  Brina dropped back and rode alongside Corban and Cywen, smiling when she saw Storm loping along beside Shield.

  ‘Will Alona be all right?’ Corban asked.

  Brina’s smile vanished. ‘It is bad,’ the healer said, then she shrugged. ‘Maybe. If we were back at my cottage I would have more hope. We shall see. But I am glad to see you still on your feet. You seem to be developing a distinct talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  Corban pulled a face and filled her in on events.

  ‘Rhin, eh?’ Brina mused when he’d finished. ‘Well, there is more than one dice being rolled here, I think.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When we left – in a rush, I can tell you – there was something afoot within Uthandun. Lots of horn blowing. And then we were chased. Pendathran led a band that fought them off, of course, but I suspect they will come again, when King Owain has been able to gather more warriors.’

  ‘Craf helped us,’ Corban said suddenly.

  Brina smiled and scratched the crow’s neck. ‘He can be useful, occasionally.’

  With that they settled into silence, and rode into the night.

  Later, much later, Corban saw pinpricks up ahead – torches – they had caught up with the rest of Brenin’s entourage. Gwenith wept when she saw Corban and Cywen and hugged then almost as tight as Thannon had.

  Then a savage cry pierced the night. Corban looked down the column and saw Brina crouched by Alona’s litter, King Brenin cradling his wife. Edana was holding her mother’s hand again, lost in grief and sobbing.

  Alona was dead.

  The journey back to Ardan was very different from the one to Uthandun, a sense of dread and tension hovering over them all.

  No more attacks from Owain came on the road and in just over a day’s hard riding they left the Darkwood and saw the giants’ circle of standing stones, with Badun’s walls in the distance.

  Brenin took council here. Gethin pressed for reconciliation with King Owain, still hoping Kyla and his son Uthan’s handbinding could be salvaged. Brenin and Pendathran were more intent upon Queen Rhin, but agreed that Owain would be better as an ally than an enemy, so Brenin inked a scroll to Narvon’s King, detailing Alona’s death and Rhin’s part in it, then a messenger was sent back down the giantsway, into the Darkwood.

  ‘Begin mustering for war,’ Brenin commanded Gethin in parting. ‘Whether there is war or peace with Owain I will be marching on Rhin. Soon.’ Then they left for Dun Carreg.

  Spring had arrived with the Birth Moon and new life was evident everywhere, a stark contrast to the procession’s black mood.

  Corban was weary and sad when Dun Carreg came into view, high on its hill, with Havan nestled at its foot. The welcome cheers of the villagers quickly turned to mourning as news of Alona’s death spread. Corban saw Dath in the crowd, nodded a grim greeting to him and noticed eyes following Storm.

  Nothing had been said of the wolven’s return; there were more important matters filling everyone’s thoughts, but Corban expected some kind of reckoning now that they were back at Dun Carreg. Rafe and Helfach, at least, would not let the matter rest. Corban hoped Storm’s part in the finding of the captives would be enough to allow her back to the fortress, though with Brenin’s black mood nothing was certain.

  I’ll not give her up again, he thought. With a heavy heart he rode back inside the walls of Dun Carreg.

  Corban ducked under the sweep of Gar’s practice sword, pivoted on his heel and spun away, swinging a backslash at the same time. Gar effortlessly deflected it, pressing his attack. Corban parried one, two, three, four strikes, each one shivering up his arm, then he slipped on some hay and the tip of Gar’s weapon was at his throat.

  He wanted to say something, ask why Gar was pressing him so hard, but did not have the breath to form words. He wiped sweat from his eyes, walked to the water barrel and stuck his whole head in, spraying water as he pulled away.

  He leaned against the barrel, watching Gar a moment. The stablemaster was putting their practice blades away in an old box beneath a pile of harness and tack. He had been different since their return from the Darkwood, less reserved, more driven, as if something had woken in him.

  Corban blinked, thinking of the Darkwood. It was only two ten-nights ago that he had been crawling along the stream’s bank. He looked at his hand, remembered the sensation of hot blood pouring over it, and shivered.

  ‘Are you well?’ Gar asked, coming over to the barrel and sipping from a ladle.

  ‘Aye,’ Corban muttered. ‘Just remembering. The Darkwood.’

  Gar nodded slowly. ‘That’s something a man never forgets – the first time he takes another’s life in battle.’

  ‘I still see his face,’ Corban said. ‘I can even smell him, sometimes.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Gar. ‘The memory will fade, but never leave you – and it shouldn’t. Not completely. It is no small thing, to take a life.’ He sighed, ‘You did well, Ban. I was proud of you.’

  Corban blinked and flushed. He had never heard Gar talk like this.

  The stablemaster gave Corban a long, measuring look. ‘You are not the same lad that lost his practice sword at the Spring Fair.’

  Corban could not meet Gar’s gaze. ‘I feel the same, in here,’ he said, tapping his chest. ‘I was scared, at the Darkwood. Terrified. It all happened so fast. I was not brave. He was trying to kill me, what else could I do?’

  ‘What else could you do? Plenty. Let me tell you, every man in that camp fe
lt the same fear you did. I certainly did. Both the brave man and the coward feel the same. The only difference between them is that the brave man faces his fear, does not run.’ He stared at Corban with an intensity he had never shown before.

  ‘You could have run, yet you did not. You could have stayed hidden by the stream, yet you did not. You stood, did what you had to do. That is all bravery is. I would ask no more of any man, or expect any more.’ He almost smiled. ‘You did well, Ban, very well. And, most importantly, you live to tell the tale.’

  ‘I am glad about that part,’ Corban said, wryly. ‘Tell me, when we were by the stream I went to draw my sword, but you stopped me. Why?’

  ‘Ah. A sword being drawn is the most familiar sound in all the world to any warrior. If any sound would have betrayed us, that would have been it.’

  That made sense. Corban bid the stablemaster farewell, leaving to break his fast before going on to the Rowan Field. ‘Your leg seemed much improved,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘when you were running leagues through the Darkwood, battling red-cloaks at the end of it.’

  Gar stared at him a moment. ‘It comes and goes,’ the stablemaster said, face as still as stone, then winked at him.

  The Rowan Field was fuller than Corban had ever seen it before, warriors arriving from all over Ardan. Word had gone out as soon as they had returned to Dun Carreg, of what had happened in Narvon, and it had not been long before warriors began to arrive, from ones and twos to bands of thirty or forty. Everyone knew that King Brenin was mustering for war, though much else was unclear. Once Dalgar arrived from Dun Maen, bringing with him the largest warband from beyond Dun Carreg and Badun, then the greater part of Ardan’s strength would be gathered. Then, it was thought, they would ride to Cambren, avenge Alona’s death on Rhin. There had been no news from Narvon yet, the messenger Brenin had sent still not returned. Rumours flew that Owain was dead, murdered by Rhin, that Uthan was dead, that Rhin had invaded Narvon’s borders. Corban shook his head. Leave all of that for Brenin, he thought, heading for a weapons rack.

  Storm was padding beside him, many heads turning to watch her as they made their way through the Field. Nothing had been said of her return yet, but Brenin had other things on his mind. It would come, though. Corban had already heard whispers from Rafe and Helfach.

  He reached the weapons rack, selected a battered practice sword and shield and looked about for Halion. He hefted the wooden sword. Not long, now, he thought to himself.

  His nameday was just over a ten-night away. He felt nerves flutter in his stomach. His warrior trial. His Long Night. Thannon had had him working in the forge on his sword, first discussing the details: length, weight, hilt, then the harder work had begun, of smelting and forging, of hammering and cooling. It was almost finished now. Thannon had forbidden him from approaching the forge for the last two days, wanting to put the finishing touches to it himself. Thannon had set Corban at another project, as well. His da wanted a new weapon, and was fashioning a war-hammer, like the giant’s one that hung in their kitchen, but smaller. That too was almost finished.

  ‘Over here, lad,’ Halion called, raising an arm so that Corban could see him. They walked through the crowds out into a part of the Field with space enough for them. Out of the corner of his eye Corban saw Dath, practising his bow, Tarben behind him, Marrock and Camlin to one side, watching. The woodsman had just stayed, seeming even to have fashioned a friendship of sorts with Marrock.

  Storm flopped onto the ground with a sigh, her tail twitching, copper eyes watching Halion as he pointed his practice sword at Corban.

  ‘Come, then,’ Halion said, glancing at Storm. ‘I’m glad she’s learned the difference between practice and the real thing,’ he said, then began taking Corban through his forms, duelling, like Gar, with a strength and intensity that had been absent before the Darkwood.

  It was halfway to highsun when they switched to spear-work, Halion grunting approvingly at Corban’s solid thrusts and blocks.

  ‘Not long now,’ Corban said to him as they stopped to rest.

  ‘Until what?’

  ‘My warrior trial, Long Night.’

  ‘Aye,’ Halion nodded. ‘Do you feel ready?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Corban said. ‘I think so. I hope so.’ He pulled a sour face. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think you are ready. That is why I have requested your Long Night be brought forward.’

  ‘What?’ Corban was stunned. ‘Why?’

  Halion looked away, about the Field, at the countless warriors training. ‘Because we will ride from here soon. I saw you in the Darkwood, Corban. You made a difference.’ He scratched his stubbly beard. ‘And, I thought you would find it hard if you were left here, left behind. I don’t know when we will ride out, but I feel it will be soon. Maybe before your nameday.’ He looked at Corban searchingly. ‘The choice is yours, Corban, but Brenin has granted my request. You may take your warrior trial, sit your Long Night, early – if you would choose to.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘On the morrow.’

  ‘What?’

  Halion grinned. ‘Less time to fret, then.’ His smile faded. ‘Riding to war is no jest, Corban. But I have trained you, seen you grow. It was the Darkwood that sealed it for me. The way I see it, you took your warrior trial then. You faced a man, a warrior, bested him in fair combat.’ His smile flashed again. ‘I have spoken to Gar, heard what you did. You are more ready than most who sit their Long Night, Corban. More than that, you deserve it and have earned it.’ He shrugged. ‘What difference is in a few days?’

  Corban looked around the Field, warriors everywhere. How long he had dreamed of being one of them. And now the time had finally come.

  ‘Well?’ Halion said. ‘What say you?’

  ‘Aye,’ Corban said firmly. ‘Aye. And you have my thanks, Halion. You honour me.’

  ‘Good,’ Halion said, pleased. ‘Then let us make sure that you are ready, eh.’

  Suddenly horns blew, echoing around the Field. Corban saw a line of men file into the Field from the arch of rowans, Brenin at their head. Beside him marched Pendathran and Edana with Evnis and Heb behind, and half a score of Brenin’s guard following.

  Corban watched Edana. He had not seen her since their escape from the Darkwood, except at Alona’s burial. The Queen’s cairn had been raised on the hill beyond the fortress’ walls, Brenin listing aloud the dead that had been left behind. Cywen had wept silently at Ronan’s name.

  Edana looked much the same as she had then, dark shadows under her eyes, face pale apart from red streaks where she had scratched her face in her grief looking like tears of blood running down her cheeks.

  Brenin made his way to the stone court, warriors parting before him. ‘Welcome, warriors of Ardan,’ Brenin called. ‘I have come here with news to tell. But first, an overdue task.’

  Men were squashed shoulder to shoulder, listening to the King. Apart from Corban, who alone had a small ring about him where men made room for Storm – all had heard the tale of what she had done to Rafe. Corban nodded to Dath and Farrell as they squeezed into the space and stood either side of him.

  ‘Tull, my first-sword, fell in service of me, defending my beloved wife, less than a moon ago.’ There was a tremor in his voice. ‘A better man, more loyal, more fierce, there has never been, and I fear we shall not see his like again.’ He bowed his head, as silence filled the Field.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Brenin said, looking about him again, ‘it is not fitting for a king of Ardan to be without his first-sword. More so in times such as these.’

  Murmurs rippled around the Field as men realized where Brenin was leading.

  ‘One of you has risen high in my eyes, served me bravely, risked his life for my honour, proven himself in battle.’

  Now silence fell again, seemed like a living thing, Corban feeling he could almost reach out and touch the tension that filled the Field.

  ‘Halion, come forward.’

  A pathw
ay parted for the warrior, Halion stepping out before the King, looking awkward, amazed.

  ‘Will you accept this charge?’ Brenin asked. ‘Become my champion, the defender of my flesh, my blood, my honour?’

  Halion fell to one knee. He cried, ‘I would, my King,’ in a loud, clear voice.

  ‘Then give me your sword.’

  Halion stood, drew his blade and slammed it into the earth between two flagstones, where it stood quivering.

  Brenin pulled a knife from his belt, with a quick stroke cut his palm and held his fist over the sword, blood dripping onto the hilt, the cross-guard, running down the blade. He beckoned to Edana, who stepped forward, took the knife and did the same, her blood mingling on the sword hilt with her father’s. Then Brenin gave the knife to Halion. The warrior held it, looked from Brenin to Edana, then cut his own hand, and let his blood mix with theirs.

  ‘Good. It is done,’ Brenin said, as a roar went up through the Field. Corban punched the air with a fist, shouting as loud as any. He could not quite believe how Brenin had just honoured Halion, still thought of as an outlander by many. As Corban watched he saw Evnis move a few paces, and bend to whisper in Conall’s ear.

  ‘There is more,’ Brenin called, holding his bloodstained hand up. Slowly the crowd quieted. Brenin turned to Heb, who passed him a small basket woven of willow branches. ‘I sent a messenger to Owain, telling him of Rhin’s treachery, of my wife’s death. This is his response.’ He dipped his hand into the basket and pulled out a severed head, holding it high for all to see.

  ‘This is how Owain treats my messenger. Prepare yourselves for war,’ Brenin shouted. ‘Within the ten-night we will ride to battle, first with Narvon, then Cambren.’

  There was more shouting, warriors yelling Brenin’s name and battle cries. Over it all the sound of horns blowing, growing louder. At first Corban thought it was part of Brenin’s call to war, but slowly those in the Field quietened. The horns still blew from the northern wall, not from Brenin’s guards.

  Slowly at first, then more quickly, men began making for the northern wall, Corban, Dath and Farrell amongst them. They climbed the wide steps and looked down into the bay.