Malice: The Faithful and the Fallen Series Book 1

  Corban took a deep breath.

  ‘Because I was scared, ashamed. And I don’t want you to think me weak, a coward.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Thannon, iron in his voice.

  He told his da the full tale, from Rafe taking his practice sword at the Spring Fair through to their encounter the night before. When he had finished Thannon just sat looking at him.

  ‘Do you think your mam would love you less for knowing this, or me?’

  ‘Love me less? No, but, think less of me, somehow, yes. Why not? I do.’

  ‘Come, boy, it is time for a lesson. Let me teach you the power of words,’ Thannon said, walking from the forge, Buddai following.

  His da set a fast pace, marching through the stone streets of the fortress.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Corban said, trotting to keep up, a sick feeling growing in his stomach. As they marched past the stables Cywen spotted him, and in a quick glance over his shoulder he saw his sister and stablemaster Gar following behind.

  The streets twisted and turned as they walked past the feast-hall, people looking at Corban and his dripping hair. Thannon eventually stopped before a large gateway.

  Corban suddenly realized where they were.

  Evnis’ hold.

  Most of the warriors were in the Rowan Field, so only one warrior stood guard in the courtyard. It was the man that had fought Tull in the sword-crossing at the Spring Fair. He was leaning against one of the gate columns. When he saw Thannon he stood straighter and gripped his spear more firmly. A red line ran across his nose where Tull had broken it.

  Beyond the guard and the gateway was a small open courtyard, then a short set of wide steps leading up to a squat-looking tower. Corban peered around his da, saw Evnis standing on the steps, talking to Brina the healer.

  The guard stepped in front of them. ‘What is your business?’ he asked, looking up at Thannon.

  ‘I would speak with one of your hold. Helfach, the huntsman.’

  Brina rode out of the yard, Corban trying to hide from the healer behind his da. Evnis saw them at his gates and walked over. Cywen and Gar caught up with them, his sister whispering in his ear.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Being given a lesson in the power of words,’ he muttered, receiving a blank expression from Cywen, a faint smile from Gar.

  ‘Stand down,’ said Evnis as he reached the gate. ‘Thannon, have you come for payment, for your dousing oil?’

  ‘That can wait,’ Thannon said, ‘I would speak to your huntsman. We have business to talk over.’

  ‘Really? Certainly, then.’ Evnis sent the guard in search of Helfach and disappeared inside his tower.

  Moments later Helfach appeared, a tall, thickset hound at his side, the guard behind him. Thannon strode forward to meet the huntsman, Corban reluctantly following.

  Helfach was tall, although not as tall as Thannon, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He had a wide, flat face with pale, watery eyes.

  ‘Come to see which of my hounds will begin the next hunt? Most likely Braen here,’ he said amiably, patting the grey hound’s wide back.

  ‘No, Helfach. I would talk with you about Rafe.’

  ‘What of him.’

  ‘It seems he has had a disagreement, with my son.’ He gripped Corban’s shoulder in his big hand and pulled him forward so that Helfach could see Corban’s marked face.

  The huntsman stared a moment, then shrugged.

  ‘So?’

  Thannon took a deep breath and carried on. ‘This is not the first time it has happened. Your son has seen almost two more namedays than Ban. He has had almost two years in the Rowan Field where Ban has not had one day.’

  The huntsman said nothing, just stared back.

  Thannon grunted. ‘Your son is bringing dishonour on himself and your hold. It should end.’

  ‘You should not involve yourself in children’s squabbles,’ said Helfach. He turned to walk away. Thannon’s hand shot out, gripping the huntsman’s arm. With a snarl, Helfach spun, wrenching himself free.

  ‘Do not touch me, blacksmith. Your hound is chosen to lead one hunt and next you think you can come here, in Evnis’ own court, and seek to lord it over me.’ He spat on the ground at Thannon’s feet. ‘Go back to your iron and your ash.’

  Buddai gave a low, rumbling growl and then Thannon’s fist crashed into Helfach’s face. He staggered back, falling to one knee.

  Chaos erupted.

  Everything happened at once. The two hounds leaped at each other, rolling away in a twisting, snapping mass of teeth and spittle. Helfach launched himself at Thannon, landing a heavy blow under the smith’s ribs, making him grunt. There was a flurry of movement and a crashing sound behind Corban. He turned to see Gar with his boot resting on the guard’s chest, the warrior lying prone on the floor with Gar holding the guard’s spear.

  Turning back to his da, Corban saw Thannon grab Helfach by his shirt with one hand and his breeches with the other, lift the huntsman over his head, ignoring the blows raining on him, and throw Helfach against the courtyard wall.

  The huntsman crashed to the ground, slowly began to rise. Thannon stepped quickly over to him and threw a heavy hook at his jaw. This time Helfach fell and lay still.

  Corban filled a bucket from a water barrel and threw it over the frenzied hounds. Thannon leaned in and pulled Buddai away by his thick collar. The grey hound limped over to Helfach, nuzzled him, then Evnis burst from his tower, staring around his courtyard.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demanded.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Thannon said, frowning. ‘I did not intend for this to happen.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘The power of words,’ muttered Corban and Gar threw his head back and laughed.

  Brina opened the door of her cottage as Corban rapped on it. She glanced up at the sun and ushered him in.

  ‘Welcome,’ she said as he delved inside his shirt, pulled out her comb and placed it on the table.

  ‘My thanks,’ he mumbled.

  ‘STEALER,’ squawked a voice in Corban’s ear, making him start. Craf was sitting in a dark alcove, beady eyes shining as he ran his beak through coal-black feathers.

  ‘No, Craf, you are mistaken. He is returning my comb, so stealer is incorrect. Borrower might be more appropriate.’

  ‘BORROWER,’ the bird repeated.

  ‘Yes, well. Did it serve its purpose?’ Brina said to Corban.

  ‘Not really,’ said Corban, still eyeing the crow.

  ‘But I thought it was required, as evidence.’

  ‘Yes, it was. But some people only believe what they want to believe,’ Corban said, touching his cheek.

  ‘Ah, I see. Well, be that as it may, now that you are here, let’s put you to work. Do you know your plants?’

  He looked at her blankly.

  ‘Plants, boy, plants. Can you tell the difference between vervain and foxglove, between hare’s foot and wormwood?’

  ‘Worm what?’

  Brina gave an exasperated sigh.

  ‘Useless,’ muttered the crow.

  ‘Today I shall show you. I hope that you have a brain in that battered skull, because next time you shall have to do it alone.’

  ‘Next time? Alone?’

  ‘Yes, boy!’ she yelled. ‘Next time. You don’t think that one fleeting afternoon is all that is required to atone for breaking into my home and attempting to rob me? Do you?’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Good,’ she snapped, and Craf opened and closed his beak with a loud crack, making Corban twitch.

  ‘And can you please stop repeating what I say. You’re behaving alarmingly like my crow.’

  ‘Alarmingly,’ said the crow.

  Soon they were out in the alder grove, Brina pointing to various plants, talking in an almost constant flow as she plucked leaves or pulled them up whole, roots and all.

  ‘… silverweed…’ she said as she passed a plant to Corban, who carefu
lly placed it in a hemp bag that the healer had supplied him with.

  ‘… even though its flower is yellow,’ she explained. ‘It is named after its leaves, which are green, but, see these fine hairs on the leaves? Well, they give the appearance that the leaves are edged in silver, and hence the name.’

  ‘I see,’ said Corban, nodding sagely, trying to give his best impression of being interested.

  ‘And this is bittersweet. It has a small purple flower and red berries. Very good for old bones like mine.’

  ‘Why were you at Evnis’ hold?’ Corban said, finally gathering the courage to ask one of the many questions hovering in his mind.

  ‘His wife is ill. Very ill. I took him some seed of the poppy to help ease her pain. Surprised me, though,’ she said, almost to herself. ‘She looked better. Not healed, mind you, but better than the last time I saw her. And that does not usually happen to people in her condition.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Corban. ‘But I thought you were at the fortress to see to the outlaw from the Baglun.’

  ‘I was. But I can see more than one person in a day, you know. After all, I am a healer, so I try to heal people, when I can.’

  ‘He’s still alive, then?’

  ‘Yes, boy. For now. And if he can avoid another blade in the back. Do you always ask so many questions?’

  ‘Mam says I do,’ he answered quickly.

  ‘Well, that is not such a bad thing, I suppose. Annoying, but not bad.’ And so the afternoon continued, Brina educating Corban on the appearance and properties of plants, Corban asking questions, not usually related to plants in any way, whenever Brina paused for breath. Eventually they returned to the cottage and Brina set Corban to sweeping, which took him a while to get the hang of, but it did not stop him asking questions.

  As the sun was setting, Brina told Corban that he could go home.

  ‘When shall I come back?’ he asked.

  ‘Let me see,’ she said, tapping a tabletop with a long, bony finger. ‘Once every seventh night should be enough. Give the dust a chance to build up for you. And allow me time to gather my strength for your barrage of questions.’

  Corban smiled hesitantly, not sure if she was joking or serious. He nodded to her and walked away, heard Craf flutter onto Brina’s shoulder as she stood in the doorway.

  ‘Annoying,’ squawked the crow.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ he heard Brina say. ‘But in a pleasant kind of way.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  KASTELL

  Kastell walked through the open gates of Jerolin into the wide plain that surrounded it. Already it was beginning to empty, banners furled, patches of yellow grass where tents had stood. Many had left for home the day before.

  Home. That was a strange thought. He’d been away from Mikil for only a few moons, but so much had happened since he’d left, it felt more like years.

  Maquin belched in his ear.

  ‘Always good t’break your fast, lad, an’ that was the best we’ll have for a while, I’m thinking. Best make ready for the journey home, eh? Wouldn’t want to be last in the saddle, give your cousin something else to moan about.’

  Kastell snorted. Things had not been going well with Jael. He had avoided the practice court since his run-in with his cousin, but Jael had still managed to root him out, and more of the usual had followed–goading, mocking. Somehow, and only by the slimmest of margins, Kastell had managed to keep his anger in check.

  ‘He left early this morning, again, hunting with his new friend, the Prince of Tenebral.’ Kastell hawked and spat. ‘They make a fine pair.’

  Maquin laughed. ‘Come, lad, you sound jealous. Anyway, Prince Nathair can’t be all bad, not if his man Veradis is anything to go by.’

  ‘Aye, true enough.’ They had spent some time with the young warrior since meeting him in the forest glade, usually over a skin of wine, Kastell experiencing the strange new sensation of making a friend.

  They headed towards their tents.

  ‘So what now? Back to Mikil?’ Maquin looked sidelong at Kastell.

  ‘What else is there?’

  ‘Plenty, for one with your skills, giantkiller.’

  ‘Joining the Gadrai’s a nice thought, if giantkilling gives entry to their band, but if it means fighting more of those Hunen, I think I’ll take my chances with Jael.’

  ‘You’d rather carry on like this, then?’

  ‘As I said, what else is there?’

  ‘Well, I’m not one for telling a man what he should be doing…’ Kastell snorted.

  ‘… but no good is going to come of this. There’s trouble brewing between you and your cousin. Real trouble. Neither of you are bairns any more.’

  Kastell sighed, but said nothing. How could he argue with the truth? They finished their walk to King Romar’s encampment in silence.

  As the tents were slowly dismantled and packed away a sound filtered through Kastell’s thoughts. He looked up to see a handful of riders spill from the forest. Nathair was at their head, the carcass of a deer draped across his saddle. Jael rode close behind. With a loud farewell to the Prince, Jael rode into Romar’s encampment, sneering at Kastell as he passed by.

  Kastell looked away.

  Another rider detached itself from the hunting party and headed towards Kastell and Maquin.

  It was Veradis. He smiled as he approached them, slid from his horse, letting it graze freely on the meadow grass.

  ‘Making ready to leave?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘You’re back earlier than I thought,’ said Kastell. ‘Didn’t think Jael would return here until all of the work was done.’

  ‘Does he not like hard work?’ said Veradis.

  ‘Careful,’ muttered Maquin, glancing around, ‘remember where we are.’ They were hidden from view behind a half-collapsed tent, but the sound of others labouring nearby was still clear.

  ‘Well, Nathair has put in a good morning’s work, I think. Caught a deer and charmed the sons of some kings a little more.’

  ‘Work? What do you mean?’ asked Maquin.

  ‘Nathair works hard for this realm. He is championing his father’s cause–Tenebral’s cause. I know he is right, but I find it wearisome. Politicking is not my favourite pastime.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t mind the hunting so much, though.’

  ‘Politicking?’ Maquin said.

  ‘Nathair is trying to win more support for his father. You were there,’ he said to Kastell, ‘you’ve told Maquin about the council?’

  ‘Of course,’ Kastell grunted. His shieldman had been sceptical when he had told him of King Aquilus and Counsellor Meical’s claims. He was sceptical. The gods Asroth and Elyon, the Kadoshim and Ben-Elim brotherhood, suns and stars. It was a lot to ask any man to believe. Still, Kastell had felt strange, almost excited, as that ancient book was being read. And those things it spoke of–the stones weeping, the white wyrms. They had happened.

  ‘It is quite a claim,’ said Maquin thoughtfully. ‘Asroth’s God-War against Elyon, here, amongst us. Do you believe it to be true?’

  Veradis flushed at the neck. ‘My King tells me it is so. There is no more.’

  Maquin held up a hand. ‘I mean no insult to you or your King. There is no disloyalty in having an opinion of your own.’

  Veradis grunted, his shoulders easing slightly. ‘Aquilus is a good king,’ he said slowly. ‘He is wise, has ruled Tenebral well for more years than I have drawn breath. I have not been close to him for long, but my father, who is critical of most that walk this earth, has only ever praised Aquilus. And if that is not enough there is Nathair. He I do know well, and trust with my life. He believes these things are happening, so I have no doubt that they are.’

  ‘Good enough,’ said Maquin. ‘Dark times ahead indeed, then. Let us hope that Prince Nathair’s efforts bear fruit.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Veradis, relaxing. ‘Talking of Nathair, I told him I would not be long. I just wanted to see you both before you left, to wish you safe journey.’
r />   Kastell gripped Veradis’ wrist. ‘If this alliance works the way you tell it, maybe we’ll ride together one day.’

  ‘That would be good,’ said Veradis. ‘Until then, watch out for that cousin of yours. And you stay out of trouble, grey-hair.’ He grinned.

  ‘Look to your own hide, pup. I’ve had some practice at caring for mine.’

  Kastell watched as Veradis walked away. So many years without a friend, and now I’m making them in all kinds of places. He shrugged and set back to the packing.

  ‘Here he is, lads,’ a voice said behind him. Before he could turn, he was grabbed by the shoulder and spun around. A fist sank into his gut and he doubled over.

  ‘Stay out of this, old ma—oof,’ he heard through ringing ears. Maquin stood over another man, fists bunched. Others were rushing around the side of the tent, closing quickly, all faces he knew, faces from Jael’s hold. Some fell upon Maquin, two running past the grizzled warrior to throw themselves at Kastell. He ducked a blow, sidestepped, managed to connect his own fist with a jaw and send the man on the end of it crashing to the ground. Doing quite well, considering, he thought, then he was grabbed from behind, someone pinning his arms.

  ‘Jael sends his greetings,’ a voice whispered in his ear and someone began raining solid blows into him. His vision blurred and stars burst in his head, then he heard shouting, then that unmistakable sound of a sword hissing from its scabbard. Suddenly he was falling, the arms that had gripped him gone. He crunched jarringly to his knees, toppled slowly to the side.

  More shouting and his eyes fluttered open. Booted feet were everywhere, other figures lying near him, one of them rising slowly–Maquin, he realized, blinking to clear his vision. Holding onto a tent pole, he pulled himself up, looking around.

  Two men lay unmoving on the floor, two more stood together, facing Maquin, fists raised. One stood alone, a sword-tip at his throat.

  Veradis was holding the sword.

  Kastell staggered over to Maquin’s side. Other men ran around the tent now, more of King Romar’s warriors. They snarled as they saw their friends, some drawing weapons.

  ‘Halt,’ cried a loud voice. Romar himself cleared the part-collapsed tent, Jael at his heels. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he bellowed. An awkward silence fell. Romar repeated his question, this time aimed only at Veradis.