Malice: The Faithful and the Fallen Series Book 1

  Kastell rode alongside Maquin again, both on horses given up by their sword-brothers. Further ahead the giant was slung on a litter between two horses, its weight too great for a single horse to bear. As far as Kastell could tell, it was still unconscious.

  Then they were over the bridge, Kastell nodding greeting to the bearskin-wrapped guards, and passed under the gate arch into a cobbled courtyard where men were gathering to stare. A giant had never been captured alive before. Vandil ordered for the unconscious captive to be bound to a training post in the courtyard.

  ‘Wake him,’ Vandil said, and a bucket of water was thrown into the giant’s face. It groaned, a cut on its temple crusted black. Kastell stared in fascination–he had never had the opportunity to study a giant properly before. Its skin was pale and grey, almost translucent in places, with dark veins visible. Thick, heavy brows jutted over small, dark eyes, its nose and cheeks all sharp angles. A black moustache drooped around thin, bloodless lips. Its eyes slowly focused and looked about. Muscles suddenly tensed as it tried its bonds, the tattoo of a vine and thorns about one forearm rippling, and for a moment Kastell thought the chains would burst. Then the giant went limp, muttering something incomprehensible.

  ‘What do you want with the barge?’ Vandil asked. He was not an imposing figure, of average height, slim, with thinning hair and a chunk missing from the top of his right ear. Orgull towered over him, but Kastell had seen the Gadrai’s leader in battle, seen him cut down two giants in the time it had taken him to draw his own sword. Never had he seen anyone move so fast.

  ‘Mise toil abair tusa faic,’ the giant mumbled.

  ‘In our tongue,’ Vandil said. ‘I know you can speak it.’

  The giant just glowered at him.

  Vandil looked to the blacksmith that had fixed the giant’s chain and took his hammer. ‘I’ll ask you once more,’ he said to the giant. ‘That barge was carrying tin and iron. What do you want with it?’

  The giant scowled, gritted his teeth and spat.

  Vandil swung the hammer, bones snapping in the giant’s ankle. It threw its head back and howled, veins and tendons standing rigid on its neck.

  Vandil raised the hammer again and the giant thrashed on the post, snarling curses.

  ‘I’ll have an answer,’ Vandil said and swung the hammer again, this time onto the giant’s knee. There was a sickening crunch.

  Kastell winced and squeezed his eyes shut. As much as the giants were the enemy, this was difficult to watch.

  The giant screamed until he was hoarse, finally just glowering at Vandil, breathing in deep, juddering breaths.

  Vandil raised the hammer again.

  ‘Muid ga an iarann go cearta airm, ar an cogadh,’ the giant spat.

  ‘In our tongue,’ Vandil said, still holding the hammer high.

  ‘We need the iron to forge weapons, for the war,’ the giant said in the Common Tongue, though falteringly, his voice gravelly and pitched low.

  ‘What war?’

  ‘An dia cogadh–the God-War.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CAMLIN

  Camlin shuffled his feet, forest litter clumping under his boots. He was cold, cold to the bone. No chance of that changing any time soon, he thought sourly, looking up at the snowflakes filtering erratically through a latticework of leafless branches high above.

  For over a moon now they had been tramping around the Dark-wood, Braith and the remnants of his crew. There had been more of them, after that day when they had finally stopped the cat-and-mouse game and faced the warband from Ardan: some had died of wounds or fever, others crept away in the night. He shrugged to himself, didn’t blame them, in a way. That was not for him, though. He’d been here too long, the thought of walking away from the Darkwood, from Braith, an impossibility.

  He heard something in the undergrowth beside the trail. Quickly he drew his sword and stabbed it into the soft earth at his feet, strung his bow, nocked an arrow and waited.

  He heard it again and saw tendrils of ivy tremble slightly. He breathed in slow, and pulled the arrow back to his ear.

  ‘Don’t shoot, Cam, s’only me,’ a familiar voice called. Braith stepped out from the undergrowth, arms raised, smiling faintly. ‘Never have been able to sneak up on you, eh?’

  ‘You should’na do that,’ Camlin muttered, wiping his sword clean and resheathing it, ‘I could’ve stuck you. Then who’d I have to blame for this mess we’re in?’

  Braith’s smile grew broader, though Camlin noticed a new gauntness to his features that he’d never seen before, no matter how spare the winter had been or how little sleep they had had.

  ‘It’s cold, right enough,’ Braith said, wiping a snowflake from his nose. ‘We’ll head for the hills on the morrow, Cam, leave the trees behind for a while. One more night in the cold, and then it’s warm beds, a roof and a fire. All of us will go–too few of us left to worry about going in shifts.’

  ‘Ah,’ exclaimed Camlin with pleasure. Every winter Braith’s crew took it in turns to shelter in a village up in the high hills. The hills began half a day’s walk from the Darkwood’s north-west edge, the village being less than a day from there.

  ‘Would’ve been welcome sooner,’ Camlin said, not quite managing to keep a smile from his face at the thought.

  ‘Couldn’t risk it, Cam; you know that. Had to be sure we’d no unwanted guests.’

  ‘Well, that’s a certainty,’ he muttered. ‘Anyone following us’d either be froze to death by now, or bored to it, the time we’ve spent wandering these woods since…’ He trailed off. None of them liked talking about that day.

  ‘Aye,’ Braith murmured, absently touching a raw scar across his forehead.

  Camlin remembered seeing Braith earn that scar, seeing two warriors bearing down on his chief, backing him away from Pendathran, who had leaned pale-faced against a tree, blood pouring from a gash in his arm.

  He remembered shouting, launching himself at the Dun Carreg enemy, heard others gathering behind him. He blinked and wiped his eyes, banishing the memory.

  ‘Going to the hills. That’ll be good, Braith,’ he said, reaching out to squeeze Braith’s shoulder.

  ‘Go get some rest, Cam, warm your feet by the fire,’ Braith said, smiling his famous smile. ‘I’ll take the next watch.’

  Camlin turned and made his way down the trail to their camp, unstringing his bow as he went.

  They set off before the sun came up, with an eagerness that had been missing for days. Even cold feet did not dampen Camlin’s spirits.

  Usually Camlin was one of the few that preferred to winter in the Darkwood, but even he would be glad to have a roof over his head and a bed. But more than that, he would feel safe.

  The Darkwood had been his home for more years than he could remember, and it had always felt safer than a fortress. Yet ever since returning from Dun Carreg he had felt anxious, as if someone was following him. He’d scolded himself enough times about it, cursing himself for a fool.

  He’d told himself things would be different back in the Dark-wood, but he had not been able to shake a sense of doom, right up to that fateful day. They could have led Pendathran’s warband a merry dance around the forest, or just disappeared. But Braith had been tired of running, and they had not sensed Gethin and his war-band sneaking up behind them.

  They walked for hours through the forest, until Braith stepped cautiously forwards, his bow loosely nocked. Camlin and the others, about a score in all, moved out of the forest into open land and then down to a river’s edge. Once there, they pulled at a mass of reeds and bracken blocking the path, revealing a dozen or so coracles neatly stacked against the riverbank.

  They rooted around for paddles. Braith pushed the first boat, with two men in it, off into the water. The coracle moved with the current, then began to cut a line across the river as the two passengers began paddling.

  ‘Next,’ Braith said.

  Before long the whole band were crossing the river, Camlin sitting b
ehind Braith, paddling steadily for the north bank.

  Soon they were across, the coracles stowed and they were heading for the foothills. The small party climbed, steadily, the land turning soon to steep-sided hills and wooded, stream-filled vales. Nestled in one vale, between two fast-flowing streams, was the village at last. Smoke rose in a ragged line from a roundhouse, a score of smaller sod-and-turf buildings nearby.

  Waves of heat rolled out from the firepit, washing over Camlin, slowly seeping through the cold that had leached all warmth from his body. The usque he was drinking had helped speed the process, warming him from the gut outwards.

  The rest of Braith’s crew rimmed the firepit, drinking and eating with the somewhat uneasy villagers, the hunted look that had edged all of their faces over recent days slowly disappearing.

  ‘What now, Braith?’ Camlin said at last.

  There was a silence. Camlin thought he should have kept his mouth shut, not asked the question, then Braith spoke.

  ‘We’ll winter here, get our strength and spirit back.’

  Camlin took a deep breath, deciding to plough on. ‘I mean, after that. What’s next, Braith? Will things in the Darkwood ever be…?’ he trailed off, not able to put his feelings into words.

  ‘The same?’ Braith said, staring at Camlin. He shrugged. ‘All things change. But we will survive. That is what men such as us do. He fell silent awhile. ‘More men will come to the Darkwood to join us,’ he said eventually. ‘They always have, eh? And then, who knows?’ His face became severe, mouth tightening beneath his fair beard. ‘Vengeance, Cam. That is what is in my heart, at least. All of us–we’ve one thing in common. The world’s done us wrong: our kin, our lords, our betters. But a man can only do so much running, hiding. Time we gave some back, I’m thinking.’ He suddenly smiled, the hard man of a moment ago gone, or veiled. ‘Besides, for men such as us, we’ve no place left to go that’s better, safer, than the Dark-wood.’

  Camlin nodded. Braith was right. The battle in the Darkwood had been an eye-opener, and no mistake, but there was still nowhere safer for men such as they.

  He took another gulp from his jug of usque. Brenin had been a surprise, seeming almost good, fair. It was a shame more of Ardan’s lords were not like their King. He spat onto the fire.

  ‘You well, Cam?’ asked Braith.

  ‘Well? Aye, I suppose. As you say, I have survived.’ He smiled humourlessly. ‘I was thinking on Evnis,’ he said slowly. ‘You told me he would aid us, yet at the Baglun he betrayed us, had Goran slain and tried to kill me. And if he had not appeared with his brother’s warband behind us in the Darkwood that day, things would have turned out different, Braith.’

  ‘Aye, Cam, I know it.’ The chieftain snorted.‘That one’s got it coming, for sure. No matter whose toes I step on.’

  ‘What d’you mean, Braith? Whose toes?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Braith drank deep from his jug. ‘Sometimes it can all get complicated, what we’re doing, why we’re doing it. Confusing…’ He took another gulp. ‘But vengeance is simple, eh? And Asroth knows, between us all we’ve got plenty to take revenge for. Vengeance, Cam. Vengeance shall drive us now.’ He reached out and offered his arm to Camlin, who grasped it tight.

  ‘Aye,’ Camlin assented, holding Braith’s gaze.

  ‘What’s your tale, Braith?’ Camlin suddenly asked. ‘What drove you to the Darkwood?’

  He knew all the others’ tales, but no one knew Braith’s reasons. He had just appeared, and was well known for not wanting to discuss his own background.

  Braith stared, then smiled. ‘Now, that is complicated,’ he said. ‘Another time, Cam, I think. It’s not a short tale, and I’m for my bed.’ He suddenly turned serious. ‘I’m up and leaving before the sun on the morrow. Be away two, maybe three days. You’ll be chief while I’m gone, Cam.’

  ‘Wha—? Going? Where?’

  ‘Whisht, Cam, hold your breath now. No more questions. You’ll know soon enough when I return. But you’ll be chief till I’m back, Cam, you hear?’

  ‘Aye, Braith. If that’s what you want.’

  ‘It is.’

  Braith stood, smiled again and walked away into the shadows.

  Camlin didn’t think much of chiefhood. It might have been different if he’d been leading a raid, but nothing seemed to happen here. The first day after Braith had left things had been fine enough. Come the second day he started to feel restive, bored, and he had not been the only one. By the third day he was almost continually mediating between his edgy and increasingly unruly companions.

  On the fourth day he rose with the sun and walked restlessly to the edge of the village. There a noise drew his attention, his hand reaching instinctively for his sword.

  A line of men crested the hill: ten, twelve, more. He was about to turn and run for the roundhouse when he saw Braith with them. Steadily they filed down to the village, Braith at their fore, in deep conversation. There were a score of them, grim, hard-looking men bearing weapons. Camlin saw the glint of mail in one of the packs as the men splashed through the stream and strode past him.

  Braith stopped. The man he was speaking to–dark haired, handsome apart from a scar beneath one eye–walked on towards the roundhouse.

  ‘What goes?’ Camlin said.

  ‘Recruits,’ Braith answered, eyes following the new arrivals.

  ‘Recruits? I’d wager they’re not woodsmen, Braith. What is this about?’

  ‘It’s complicated, remember. But for you and the other lads, you need recall only one word,’ Camlin’s chief said grimly.

  ‘Vengeance.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CORBAN

  Corban ran over uneven, close-cropped grass until he reached the giantsway’s embankment, and scaled it quickly, using the practice sword he was still clutching to lever himself up.

  He stopped a moment, sucking in great ragged breaths, and checked over his shoulder to see if he was followed.

  Rain was falling in great sheets, the fortress shrouded in cloud, but he thought he could make out the copse of trees where he had just fought with Rafe as a darker smudge on the hillside.

  In his mind he could still hear Rafe screaming. He hoped Bethan was all right; he’d seen her running for Dun Carreg.

  Dun Carreg. Word would be out soon, and they would not be long in coming for Storm.

  She sat at his feet, calm, unreadable, pink spots of blood spattering her muzzle.

  ‘Come,’ he said. Setting his face to the west, towards the Baglun, he began running again, Storm loping comfortably at his heels.

  His lungs were burning, feet throbbing when next he looked up, seeing the cairn at the top of the hill where Darol’s stockade had been. He slowed but did not stop and carried on into the forest.

  Eventually the road spilt into an open glade, its stone blocks giving way to earth and grass, the oathstone rising tall and dark in the glade’s centre. He threw himself down at the slab’s foot, back against it, chest heaving. Storm scratched at the earth, turned in a circle and lay at his feet. She nudged him with her muzzle and rubbed her head against him.

  What am I going to do? he thought, staring at the wolven. He closed his eyes, and buried his face in the thick fur of her neck.

  We must run away. For a while he imagined a life in the wild, just the two of them, maybe even leaving Ardan. Perhaps he could find Ventos the trader–he was his friend, he travelled the Banished Lands, and he would welcome the protection Storm would bring. But how would he find Ventos? And then the thought of never seeing his mam and da again, or Cywen, even Gar, struck him. It almost took his breath away.

  He lay down on the wet grass and curled up against Storm, who sniffed his face and licked his cut arm. He wrapped an arm around her and closed his eyes, oblivious to the rain.

  It was still raining when he woke shivering, though the fierceness had gone out of it. The sky was darkening, the clouds above the colour of cold iron.

  Storm was sitting with her back pres
sed tight to him, looking out into the gloom of the giantsway.

  With a sudden clarity he knew what he had to do. He could not run away with her; he could not survive in the wilds on his own, or abandon his family forever, and he could not take Storm back to Dun Carreg. They would kill her for sure.

  ‘I must leave you here,’ he said, his voice trembling. He leaned into her, stroked her, fingers tracing the dark marks on her torso, standing out stark against her white fur. At least in the Baglun she would have a chance, if she made her home in its depths, and food was plentiful. He took a deep, shaky breath, felt tears suddenly fill his eyes.

  Slowly he stood, limbs stiff, using the practice sword he was still clutching to hoist himself upright. He took a few paces towards the glade’s exit, then turned. The wolven was already standing, ready to follow.

  ‘Hold,’ he said, showing her the palm of his hand. He strode quickly from the glade. A last, backward glance showed her still standing there, ears pricked forward, copper eyes fixed on him, then he turned a bend in the road and was gone from view.

  Moments later he heard the familiar thud of her paws as she ran to catch him.

  ‘Please,’ he said as she loped up to him. ‘Don’t make this harder than it already is.’

  ‘No,’ he said, louder. ‘Hold.’ He showed her his flat palm again, and obediently she stopped. This time he walked backwards, still facing her, palm out. After a hundred or so paces, when she was growing dim in his sight, just a pale blur on the road, she began to follow again.

  ‘No!’ He shouted this time, waved the practice sword at her. ‘No!’

  She paused, head cocked to one side, confused.

  ‘No,’ he shouted again and walked towards her, waving his arms, but she just stood there, watching him.

  ‘Away,’ he yelled, and she turned and walked a few paces, but as soon as he turned away she was following him again.

  ‘They’ll kill you!’ he screamed now. He poked her with the practice sword, but she still did not move. ‘Go away or they’ll kill you!’ he shouted again, tears in his eyes, and then he hit her with the practice sword.