Malice: The Faithful and the Fallen Series Book 1

  ‘Well, I’m not from these parts, but I think I must agree with Tarben.’

  Corban smiled tentatively, in between deep, ragged breaths.

  ‘So, who has trained you?’

  Corban shrugged. ‘Family, friends.’

  ‘Oh, aye, we all do that before we set foot in the Field, but there’s more than that here. You use a style I’ve never seen before. Who has trained you?’

  Corban looked at the grass a moment, then raised his eyes and met Halion’s sea-grey gaze. ‘Where are you from?’ he asked.

  Halion’s face went hard as flint. His fingers twitched, and for a moment Corban thought the warrior would strike him. Then the edges of his lips moved in the glimmer of a smile.

  ‘So it’s like that, eh? Tell me your secret and I’ll tell you mine. Well, it may seem like a fair trade to you, but I think I’ll just have to live without knowing your secret.’ He passed a hand through his thick black hair. ‘You know some, lad, but not all. So let us begin your training.’

  The next time Corban looked around, the Field was much emptier. He was sweating; his sword arm like lead.

  ‘People do not stay that long,’ said Halion, seeing Corban looking around. ‘Many have tasks–fields to tend, fish to catch, iron to forge. Some stay longer, mostly those that serve as warriors in the holds of barons here in the fortress.’

  ‘How about you? Do you need to go?’

  Halion snorted. ‘No, lad. Brenin has taken me into his warband. A good man, your King. So we only help where it is needed, and commanded. Come harvest, I imagine I’ll be spending a lot of time in the fields, my brother as well.’ He nodded towards a group of warriors still sparring. ‘But right now, there’s not so much needs doing.’

  Just then Tarben strode back into the Field, long legs quickly carrying him over to them.

  ‘How’d the boy do?’ he asked Halion, ignoring Corban.

  ‘Well enough. He has potential, I would say. With a sword, anyway. He came here knowing something, like you said, but he’s quick enough to pick up new things. Uses his head. I didn’t try him with bow or spear, though.’

  ‘Plenty of time for that. Well, if you’re willing, you may as well stick with the lad. You’re as good as any to teach him his weapons.’

  Halion nodded.

  ‘Good. That’s settled then.’

  ‘Where did you go?’ asked Corban. Tarben looked at him for the first time.

  ‘Found your voice then, boy?’ A troubled look swept across the tall warrior’s face. ‘Well, no harm in saying, I figure. I’m about to tell everyone else. Fain, Evnis’ wife, is dead. I’m supposed to tell all of his hold that are here.’

  ‘When?’ said Corban, thinking of Brina saying how well Evnis’ wife had been doing, only a short time ago.

  ‘Earlier today. There’s other news that needs telling as well. Not so bad, though. The hunt’s on. In half a ten-night, before you ask.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  VERADIS

  Veradis gazed absently at the river as he rode along its bank, the water churning and foaming around huge grey boulders. It had not been so long ago that he had ridden the same journey in the opposite direction, with his brother Krelis and a captive Vin Thalun corsair in tow.

  It felt a long time ago. He had left Ripa looking to find his place in the world. Now he was returning, would be riding through his father’s gates beside the Prince of Tenebral. More than that, Nathair had declared him his first-sword and captain of his ever-growing warband. He suspected this was mostly based on his suicidal leap through the wall of flame, although it was becoming clear that he had risen above all competition in the weapons court, apart from Armatus, the weapons-master, of course. But whatever the reasons, he felt a warm glow of pride deep inside. He was looking forward to seeing Krelis, even though he knew his brother would most likely break his back in one of his bear hugs. It would even be good to see Ektor, his other brother.

  But most of all it was his father’s face that he wanted to see. Not out of any love shared, but because he felt that he had finally achieved something that could not be denied.

  ‘Is she pretty?’

  He looked, saw Nathair riding beside him.

  ‘You were smiling to yourself. Thinking about a girl, back home? One that you will be seeing soon?’

  ‘No, lord,’ Veradis said, shaking his head.

  ‘Lord. I thought I had told you: there will be none of that between us.’

  Veradis smiled ruefully. ‘Habit. We are nearing my home now, where I was raised to call my own father “lord”.’

  Nathair raised an eyebrow.

  ‘So no woman’s arms to return to then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You surprise me, Veradis…’

  He snorted. ‘I like women well enough, it’s just, they make me nervous. There was one girl, Elysia, the stablemaster’s daughter…’

  ‘Hah, see, I was right all along,’ Nathair said, snapping his fingers.

  ‘No, nothing came of it. She was always saying one thing but meaning another. It was confusing. Better a sword and someone to fight, I think.’

  Nathair laughed.

  ‘You may be one of the most skilled warriors in all of Tenebral, but you have much to learn, my friend.’

  ‘Aye,’ blushed Veradis. ‘But what of you, Nathair?’ He spoke quickly, trying to deflect this uncomfortable subject away from himself.

  ‘Ah, a counter-attack, I see. No. No woman, or women. Not recently, anyway. I have too much to achieve. There is little room for anything else.’

  A score of warriors rode behind them, handpicked from Nathair’s rapidly growing warband. The river Aphros tumbled ahead, widening in the distance, snaking its way into a wall of trees on its journey to the coast. The forest rolled away into the horizon, and although he could not see it yet, he knew his home lay on its far side. He felt a fluttering in his stomach as he gazed on the forest, his eyes picturing the walls of his home. Fear? Then the sensation was gone.

  Many were scared to enter the forest, with the ruins of giant-built Balara rising jagged on the horizon, standing on a bare hill to the north of the forest. Similar ruins were found throughout the Banished Lands, abandoned by the giants in their defeat. Some had been inhabited by men, as Jerolin had been, but many more had been left empty, men preferring to build in wood and thatch. Strange tales were told about the ruins of the giants’ stronghold, but he had never been scared of entering the woodland, having been raised on its fringes. He had always enjoyed his times in the forest, usually hunting with Krelis.

  Squawking, a handful of crows took flight from a stand of trees on the far bank. Veradis started, felt that brief tickling sensation in the pit of his stomach again. He stared at the copse of trees a while, mostly willows and alders, then shook his head.

  Unmanned at the thought of going home. He snorted, angry with himself, and set his eyes back on the road ahead.

  They made camp that night some distance into the forest, the river flowing glossy black beside them. At times Veradis could see the dark shadow of Balara’s jagged tower framed by the moon through the swaying treetops.

  He stamped his feet, fighting the drooping of his eyelids. A horse whinnied nearby, a twig popping on the fading fire. He paced silently along the perimeter of their camp, where trees had been cleared from the forest road that shadowed the river.

  A sound caught his attention and he picked his way carefully around sleeping forms until he was standing above Nathair.

  The Prince was mumbling in his sleep, limbs jerking. Veradis crouched, trying to hear better what he was saying.

  Sweat beaded Nathair’s face, his eyelids twitching, then suddenly they snapped open, a hand shooting out to grab Veradis by the throat. Veradis tried to prise Nathair’s fingers apart, but they were unmovable. The Prince’s eyes were wide, bulging, staring wildly at Veradis like some cornered, feral creature. He knew a moment of panic as his lungs began to burn, then suddenly Nathair’s eyes clear
ed. The Prince loosed his grip and fell back with a sigh.

  ‘My apologies,’ Nathair mumbled, wiping sweat from his face.

  Veradis massaged his throat. ‘You were dreaming?’

  ‘Aye.’ Nathair sat up.

  ‘You were talking, in your sleep.’

  Nathair’s eyes narrowed. ‘What did I say? Did you hear what I said?’

  ‘No. Not really. Something about–searching, I think. And something that sounded like cauldron. I am not sure.’

  Nathair stared at Veradis a moment, then shrugged. ‘I have dreams, Veradis. Troubled dreams. Often the same one.’ He smiled, hesitantly. ‘I have dreamed it as far back as I can remember, or variations of it; but of late it is becoming more urgent.’

  Veradis stepped over to the dying fire, where a clay jug of wine had been left warming. He swigged some himself, the warm, sour liquid soothing his throat, and passed it to Nathair, who gulped greedily. ‘What do you dream?’ he asked.

  Nathair looked about, checking for eavesdroppers. ‘I hear a voice, asking for my help, sometimes see the shadow of a face. A noble face, I think, although it is never quite the same, never clear. But the voice is always the same. A whisper, yet filling my head with noise.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘Always the same thing. He is searching, searching, and he asks me for aid. To find a cauldron, no, the cauldron, though why it is so important, I do not know.’ He sighed deeply.

  A memory tugged at the back of Veradis’ mind. ‘Did Meical not speak of a cauldron, during your father’s council?’

  ‘Aye. He did, though he claimed to know nothing of it when I questioned him. I do not know. But the voice is becoming more insistent.’

  ‘Have you spoken of this to anyone?’

  ‘No, you are the first. It would not do to have people think that the Prince of Tenebral is mad.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Do you… think me mad?’

  ‘A few moons ago, maybe I would have,’ Veradis smiled. ‘Now, with all this talk of gods, demons, weeping stones and the mother of all wars–’ he snorted–‘dreams and strange voices seem tame.’ He smiled, but inside he was worried. He did not believe that Nathair was touched, and he had suffered unpleasant recurring dreams himself, usually about the dead mother he had never met. And even he heard voices sometimes. He always put it down to his conscience, but maybe it was more than that.

  Nathair smiled and drank some more wine. ‘It means something,’ he said. ‘Somehow, it is important.’

  They sat there in silence a while, passing the clay jug back and forth until it was empty, the sound of insects filling the darkness, the wind sighing in the branches above them.

  ‘We could ask my brother Ektor,’ Veradis eventually said. ‘He knows his books like none other.’

  ‘No,’ Nathair snapped. ‘I would not speak of this to anyone.’

  ‘We need not tell him of your dreams. Only ask him if he knows of this cauldron. He is very learned. Arrogant, aye, and spiteful, but learned. And the tower at Ripa dates back to the giants, and holds many ancient manuscripts. I think Ektor has read every single one of them. If anyone could help, it would be my brother.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Nathair nodded thoughtfully. ‘Let me think on it in the light of day.’

  Veradis stood, Nathair laying his head back on the ground. Returning to the edge of camp, Veradis gazed into the darkness, his eyelids no longer heavy.

  Ripa appeared as the forest road spilled into a plain of rich grass, the breeze from the sea giving it an undulating fluidity. A town of timber and thatch sprawled between them and the fortress, grown large on the harvest of the sea and forest.

  The sun was high, the day warm. Sweat trickled down the back of Veradis’ leather cuirass, silver eagle standing out bright in the boiled and black-dyed leather. He rode beside Nathair at the head of their small column, women washing clothes in the river and children splashing around them stopping to stare at the warriors passing by. Veradis took a deep breath, a swarm of memories flooding him with the sounds and smells of home: gulls calling, salt on his tongue, fish laid out in the dozens of smokehouses that lined the river as it flowed languidly into the bay. Ripa was a wooden fortress that had grown up around a tower of stone, built long ago by the giants as a watch-tower overlooking the bay. It was an ideal spot to guard against the raids of the Vin Thalun, as the view from the top of the tower commanded leagues across the bay and along the coast. Veradis remembered the look on his father’s face as Krelis had told him of the Vin Thalun’s plans, following his capture of the prisoner, the pride that his firstborn had unmasked such a grievous plot against the realm. He felt a brief twist in his gut, a sharp stab of jealousy. He fought it down, instantly ashamed. Krelis deserved the adulation his father lavished on him.

  His eyes swept the dockyard, snapping back to the unmistakable outline of a Vin Thalun galley moored alongside the other ships, sleek and low, like a wolf amongst unwary sheep. He was halfway to drawing his sword and turning his mount before he realized what he was doing. Even though King Aquilus had made a peace of sorts with the Vin Thalun–they had even been seen trading in Jerolin, Nathair riding out to welcome them–it was strange to see them walking amongst the people of Tenebral, stranger still to see one of their ships moored here, where they had only ever been the enemy.

  They finally rode into a hard-packed courtyard before the steps of a wooden hall. Veradis smiled at the gathering faces as he jumped from his horse, recognizing many. A lean, almost skeletal man stepped forward, Alben, his weapons-master. Veradis ran and embraced the man, who pounded his back in return. After a moment he stepped back, a wide smile sending more wrinkles bunching around the corners of his mouth and eyes.

  ‘Welcome home, Veradis ben Lamar,’ he said formally, looking the young warrior up and down. ‘You have much to tell me, I think.’

  ‘Well met, Alben. There is some to tell, aye, but later.’ He moved to the side, allowing Nathair to be seen, and spoke loudly. ‘I am sent with Nathair, Prince of Tenebral, to relay news from our King to my father. Where is he, Alben?’

  ‘Your father is within, awaiting you,’ the white-haired warrior gestured at the doors of the wooden hall. ‘Greetings Nathair, Prince of Tenebral. Lamar, Baron of Ripa and Keeper of the Bay, bids you welcome.’

  ‘My thanks,’ replied Nathair, smiling warmly.

  ‘My lord has commanded me to speed you to him, you and your first-sword.’ Alben glanced at Veradis, who felt a warm burst of pride in his chest at the words. He knows. So too then must Father.

  They were led up stairs to a circular room where two men were poring over a large parchment. Then Lamar, Lord of Ripa, looked up. Even stooped by age as he was, he was a big man. Age had had its way, though, in a fashion that Veradis had not noticed before. The skin of his face had a papery quality, hanging in places like melted wax, and, although still broad at the shoulders, his wrists and hands looked frail and bony, almost brittle. His eyes were bright still, sharp as a hawk’s, just as he remembered them.

  Beside him stood a slight man, much younger, pale-faced with dark greasy hair hanging in clumps. Ektor, his brother. He watched Veradis and Nathair enter the room, as a child would study insects caught in a jar.

  Veradis froze for a long moment, daunted by his father’s gaze, then he walked forward and dropped to one knee.

  ‘Lord,’ he said.

  ‘Rise,’ Lamar boomed in his deep voice. That, at least, was still unravaged by time.

  ‘My Prince,’ the ageing lord said.

  ‘Lord Lamar,’ Nathair replied, ‘my father sends his greetings, and more. He has bade me inform you of the recent events at Jerolin. Of the council, of its conclusions.’ His eyes shifted from Lamar to Ektor, who returned the gaze, unblinking, and gave a stiff bow.

  The sound of heavy footfalls drifted from beyond the doorway, growing louder. In a flurry, the door burst open, filled almost completely by the frame of a huge man who rushed into the room and swept Veradis up into an embrace. r />
  ‘Put–me–down–Krelis,’ wheezed Veradis, bones clicking in his back.

  ‘It is good to see you too,’ Krelis chuckled, looking Veradis up and down.

  ‘See here, Father, my baby brother has changed. You’ve had your nose broken–a good thing.’ He ran a finger down the battered ridge of his own nose. ‘I have heard tales about you: giant fighting? Are they true?’

  ‘Aye,’ mumbled Veradis, eyes flickering to his father.

  ‘More than that,’ Nathair said. ‘He leaped through a wall of fire, fought a giant single-handed to save me, followed me where none other dared.’

  Krelis dragged him into another embrace.

  ‘I knew it, little brother. You are the best of us. Destined for great things.’ He released Veradis, a huge smile splitting his black beard, moisture filling his eyes. ‘Still can’t grow a beard worth a damn, though.’ He winked as he tugged at the straggly whiskers Veradis had grown during the journey south.

  ‘Enough of your foolery, Krelis,’ said Lamar, ‘Prince Nathair brings us news from Jerolin. But, come, Nathair, unless you bring tidings of invasion, and I need muster my warband now, I bid you rest, wash away the dust of your journey. Eat with us this eve, and then tell us of your news.’

  ‘That I will be happy to do.’

  ‘Good, it is settled then. Alben will show you to your rooms.’

  Veradis turned to follow Nathair, then stopped. ‘Should I await your call, lord?’

  Lamar frowned. ‘Maybe on the morrow.’

  Veradis nodded sharply, hiding his hurt and followed Nathair’s fading footsteps down the tower staircase.

  The rest of the day passed quickly, and all was well with the horses and men, so Veradis and Alben took a skin of wine, some clay cups and sat on the stairs to the hall, basking in the hot sun.