Malice: The Faithful and the Fallen Series Book 1

  Gwenith hesitated at the doorway, looking back at Thannon. Then her expression changed. ‘Cywen.’

  Corban tried to think of the last time he had seen his sister. Where was she?

  ‘We must find Cywen,’ his mam said.

  Gar put a hand on her arm. ‘We must get Ban to safety, and hope that we find Cywen along the way. If we don’t, I will come back and find her, once Ban is safe. I promise you.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘She is brave, resourceful. If any can survive through this, it is her.’ Gar held her gaze. ‘We cannot risk Ban–the sacrifice has already been so great…’

  Gwenith stared at him. ‘You will come back for her?’

  ‘On my oath, as soon as Ban is away from here.’

  She nodded curtly.

  Dath suddenly broke away, running back into the hall where his da knelt in mourning. Corban paused a moment, then followed, with Gar and Farrell close behind.

  They caught up with Dath as he reached his da, still bent over the lifeless form of Bethan, cradled in Vonn’s arms.

  ‘Come, Da, quick,’ Dath gasped. ‘We must leave.’

  Mordwyr looked up at him. Gently Dath slipped his arms around his da and tried to lift him. Corban went to help, passing his hammer to Farrell.

  ‘Leave me here,’ Mordwyr muttered as they hoisted him up, ‘I have nothing left to live for.’

  ‘Live for me, Da,’ Dath pleaded, ‘or if not, live to avenge Bethan.’

  Vonn looked up at that and grimaced.

  Mordwyr allowed Dath and Corban to steer him back to the doorway, Vonn following wordlessly. Halion and the others were waiting for them in the dark corridor beyond. Corban and Gar were last to step through the door, Storm squeezing past him. He looked back, into the hall.

  ‘Da,’ he whispered. Gar bowed his head.

  Corban was about to turn away when a movement caught his eye. Nathair and Sumur were dragging Brenin’s corpse to the side. The two men were staring straight at Corban. Corban was caught for a moment, staring back at Nathair. Gar jerked him back and slammed the door shut, dragging a long bench over to wedge against it. ‘Time to mourn when we’re off this rock,’ he said.

  Corban nodded, and together they ran down the hallway, Storm loping along behind.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

  KASTELL

  Kastell paced down a wide, spiralled pathway, the others near him in the dark, as it wound around a black open space. He took a few shuffling paces closer to the pathway’s rim, looked over its edge and saw, far below, the glimmer of blue-tinged light.

  The company walked in silence, the only sound the tramping of feet, the creak of leather. There was a heaviness in the air, a musty, old smell, which grew stronger as they walked deeper. Kastell began to feel anxious. Would there be more giants down here? Somehow the battle in the tunnel had felt final; there had been an extra ferocity to the Hunen, as if it were their last stand. But the Hunen were unpredictable. His thoughts returned to the battle amongst the mounds, the creeping mist and ground that had turned to bog. He shivered, recalling warriors sinking to a cold, suffocating death.

  Then the ground levelled and he took in the sight ahead.

  Warriors were spread before them, giants, kneeling in two great lines. Kastell quickly hefted his sword, then felt foolish.

  They were dead. Long dead, the cadaverous warriors held upright by stiff coats of leather and chainmail, gripping axes or war-hammers that were planted into the ground, the butt-end of shafts sunk into small holes dug into the stone. Tall posts with bowls of blue flame interspersed the twinned rows of dead warriors.

  Slowly the party moved along the wide road, spreading out. Kastell saw something at the far end, marked by blue flame. He looked suspiciously at the Hunen on either side, half expecting this to be some new form of glamour. Perhaps the skeletal warriors would burst into life and attack them. His skin prickled, feeling as if they were staring at him; but there were only black, sightless holes in their papery faces where once their eyes had been. Wisps of braided hair and moustaches framed gaunt, angular skulls wrapped in taut skin, preserved for Kastell knew not how long.

  As he drew closer to the cavernous room’s end he saw Romar ahead. And Kastell finally saw what was placed there.

  Upon a wide dais sat a stone chair, a throne, and seated in it was the body of a giant. He wore a coat of iron, made of small plates shaped like leaves, each individually stitched into the leather beneath it. Eerie blue flames flickered on the dull iron, the horsehair-plumed helmet upon its head and upon its greaved boots.

  Bony hands gripped the long shaft of an axe, double bladed, with the metal looking different somehow from the iron everywhere else in the hall. It was dark, seeming to suck the torchlight into it rather than reflecting it like the other weapons in the chamber. What was more, Kastell had seen this axe before–in a hall in Mikil, guarded like treasure.

  ‘My axe,’ Romar breathed.

  Alcyon and Calidus swept past Kastell with a score of the Jehar. He looked behind him, and more of the black-clad warriors were spreading about the hall amongst the remnants of the Gadrai and the men of Isiltir.

  Alcyon and Calidus approached the dais. Calidus halted and Alcyon stepped up. He gripped the axe, then extracted it tenderly from the cadaver’s skeletal grip. He lifted it before him, a look of awe and rapture upon his face.

  ‘Hold,’ a voice called out, harsh in the almost reverent silence. ‘That is my axe.’

  Alcyon stared at Isiltir’s King, with his small, black eyes. ‘It is Dagda’s axe,’ he said, his low voice almost whispering, though his words carried throughout the hall.

  ‘Dagda? Who is, was he?’

  ‘One of the seven forefathers, wielder of the starstone axe,’ Alcyon breathed, as if reciting some ancient rote of law. ‘This axe is one of the seven Treasures.’

  ‘I know it,’ Romar said. ‘And it is mine. Give it to me.’

  ‘This belongs to Nathair,’ said Calidus. ‘I claim it, as our only spoils in this, as our reward for aid given. You would not even have reached Haldis, let alone conquered it, without our intervention.’

  ‘What?’ Romar exclaimed. ‘I think not. You have come here uninvited, joined yourself to our cause when you were not wanted, not needed, and now you seek to take for your own the greatest spoil of this war.’ Romar stepped towards the axe, his challenge clear.

  ‘I claim this axe as trophy for Nathair, King of Tenebral, our Bright Star, the Seren Disglair,’ Calidus intoned. Kastell frowned, not understanding Calidus’ last words, at the same time seeing their effect on the dark warriors about him, as they readied themselves, somehow.

  ‘Nathair,’ Romar stuttered. ‘The Seren what? He is but a pup, a kingslayer, and he shall reap no gain from this, earn no coin from our spilt blood. Now,’ he said, turning his gaze upon Alcyon, ‘give that to me.’

  ‘No,’ Alcyon growled.

  Romar placed a foot upon the dais, but Calidus stepped in front of him.

  ‘Get out of my way,’ Romar said, attempting to shoulder Calidus aside. But the thin man pulled the King round to face him.

  Romar tugged against Calidus’ grip. ‘Let go of me,’ he grunted, reaching for his sword hilt, his honour guard moving forwards.

  Romar looked up just in time to see Alcyon swinging the axe, before it slammed it into his shoulder, cleaving the King from collarbone to ribcage.

  There was a moment of absolute silence, then men were running at Calidus and Alcyon, the Jehar moving to protect them. Out of nowhere, battle was now raging all about Kastell, as fierce as when they had faced the Hunen above.

  Kastell hefted his sword and shield, and moved instinctively to Maquin, covering his friend’s wounded side as they stared, shocked by the ferocity of the fighting about them.

  Even as Kastell watched he saw his Gadrai sword-brothers cut down, their opponents faster and more graceful than any swordsmen he had ever seen, all rivalling Vandil. Orgull battled nearby, slamming one of
the Jehar to the ground by sheer brute strength, but another replaced him, easily trading blows with the bald warrior, halting his forward progress towards Romar’s body.

  Then a warrior was coming for him, a woman, Kastell realized, her sword held high. Kastell blocked her blow, but the woman used her momentum to sweep around him and swing her sword in a blow that would have hamstrung him if Maquin had not lunged forwards, turning her blade. She rounded on the wounded warrior, instantly seeing his weakness. Kastell blocked her lunge at Maquin, and then she was coming at him again, a flurry of strikes aimed at his head and throat. He fell with a crash onto his back, the Jehar’s sword whistling where his throat had been. Instead of following instinct and rolling away, he rolled towards her, crashing into her legs. She fell and was almost on her feet when his shield smashed into her shoulder, knocking her back down, and Maquin’s sword suddenly chopped into her neck. She jerked once and then was still.

  Kastell lay there a moment, grateful, and slightly surprised still to be alive.

  He hauled himself up to find battle still raging all about, broken down mostly into little knots of individuals now. Vandil was a blur, his two swords swirling and sparking against a Jehar’s long, curved blade. He spun and struck, one of his swords burying itself in his antagonist’s chest.

  The blade stuck for a moment. Vandil tugged hard, and suddenly Alcyon was there. The giant struck. Vandil saw the blow coming and swung his free sword to turn the axe, but the blow had too much power behind it and smashed into his chest, sending him flying backwards in a spray of blood and bone. The Gadrai leader slid across the flagstoned floor, came to a halt with one arm twisted underneath him. He did not move.

  ‘Come on,’ Maquin shouted, and together Kastell and Maquin ran across the chamber to their fallen leader.

  There was a crash behind them, and Kastell saw Maquin set upon by another Jehar. Then Orgull was there, the bald man ramming his blade’s tip into Maquin’s attacker’s back. All three of them tumbled into one of the giant cadavers, disappearing in a cloud of bones.

  He was about to leap after them when a figure stepped in front of him. Jael, sword in hand, and his cousin was smiling.

  ‘Out of my way,’ Kastell growled.

  ‘We need to talk,’ Jael said.

  ‘What?’ Kastell said, confused. Talk? Here, now? He pushed past Jael, then saw him move.

  He managed to block Jael’s lunge, just, but fell away with a deep gash in his arm.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he hissed, looking from his bleeding arm to his cousin.

  ‘Claiming my throne,’ Jael said, stabbing again at Kastell.

  Their swords clashed, Jael pushing forwards. Kastell blocked a blow, lunged at Jael’s chest, saw his sword turned as Jael spun inside his guard and cracked an elbow into his chin.

  Kastell staggered back a step, tasted blood, then felt a blow to his gut, as though he’d been punched. He looked down to see a sword buried deep in his stomach.

  Suddenly his legs were weak, and he felt unbearably tired. Cold.

  Jael ripped the sword free, laughing. ‘I owed you that,’ he said.

  Kastell tried to answer, but his voice wouldn’t work. He felt himself falling, vision blurred, then he felt cold earth on his cheek. The last thing he saw was Jael’s boots.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

  CORBAN

  The corridors were dark and silent, the faint noise of battle only occasionally filtering through open doorways. Corban and Gar soon caught up with the rest of the company, numbering around a score now. In near silence they ran, twisting and turning until Halion finally led them into a room.

  It was Brenin’s chamber, Corban realized, dominated by a huge, carved bed. Halion marched out onto a balcony and began helping people climb over and drop the short distance to the empty street below. Marrock and Camlin automatically went first, scouting out the street and then signalling for others to follow.

  Corban was at the back of the party, and helped his mam climb over the balcony. Gar, Farrell and Halion were all that were left.

  Suddenly a thought struck him. ‘Storm will not jump,’ he said. ‘Not over the balcony’s ledge, into something she cannot see.’

  ‘Step back,’ Farrell grunted. He yelled, ‘Move away!’ to those below and swung Thannon’s hammer, smashing a large portion of the balcony’s rail down into the street.

  Farrell grinned and shrugged sheepishly.

  Quickly the last of them climbed down, Corban having to urge Storm to follow.

  ‘Good,’ said Halion, organizing the small group. ‘Now, as quick as we can to the pool.’

  They were a ragged, unsteady mass as they headed off, Marrock leading, Corban and Storm bringing up the rear, with Gar one side of him and Farrell the other. Camlin came last of all, constantly glancing behind.

  Every now and then they would hear the clash of arms, but nothing came near enough to see. They were in the rear quarter of the fortress, most of the fighting still raging between Stonegate and the keep.

  Corban saw a black flicker behind and above as he glanced over his shoulder, the orange glow of flames from burning buildings illuminating the sky above the fortress. He saw it again, and heard the flap of wings, then saw Craf swoop low over Brina ahead. Somehow he felt relieved that the mangy old crow at least was still with them. So many had died.

  He winced as he ran, his shield rubbing on his wounded shoulder. But he could still move his arm and lift it, which was a blessing, though not without pain. Then with no warning, warriors were pouring into their path from a side street–a score, maybe more, all in the red of Narvon. They had not seen Corban’s small band, until Marrock ploughed into them. Then Halion and the warriors with him carved a path straight through the middle of the surprised enemy, Farrell roaring and swinging Thannon’s hammer as if he had been born to it. Storm leaped snarling onto a terror-stricken man, her jaws clamping around his throat and face, claws slashing at his belly. Camlin ran silently into the skirmish, sword snaking out left and right.

  With a flash of pain Corban drew his own blade, and with Gar guarding Corban’s wounded side, they joined the fray. Within moments it was over, the last man of Narvon standing pounced on by Storm, who made short work of him.

  Halion did a quick head count, and found only one of their number had fallen. However, others had been wounded. Dath’s face was covered with blood, and Tarben was limping, but nothing seemed fatal. As they regrouped, more shouting could be heard nearby.

  ‘We must move,’ Halion said quietly, ‘we made quite a noise just now. Others may have heard.’

  They set off again, but heard the dead from their recent skirmish being discovered, then they were being tracked in earnest.

  Corban had been running for a while, just focusing on the flagstones when something made him look up. He saw Brina and Heb drop back. At first he thought it was because they were struggling to keep pace, but as he reached them he realized that was not the case. They didn’t even seem to be breathing hard, then the two of them stopped and turned to face the darkness behind them.

  Corban approached Brina and Heb and opened his mouth to hurry them along, then saw that they were muttering to themselves. No, chanting or singing, in hushed tones. He glanced at Gar and looked back down the street as the sound of pursuing footsteps grew louder. Again he went to hurry them, then stopped in alarm.

  Mist was rising from the ground, like steam, but thicker. It broiled outwards, filling the street.

  Brina swayed, and Heb reached out a hand to steady her. The two looked at each other, nodded and set off after their quickly vanishing warriors. The sound of flapping wings drifted down from above.

  ‘I don’t like that,’ Farrell muttered, eyes fixed on the mist that was still expanding at an alarming rate before their eyes, boiling along the street towards them.

  ‘Me neither,’ Corban said and as one they turned and ran, chasing after Heb and Brina.

  ‘What happened? Back there?’ Corban whispered to
Brina as they all paused to catch their breath. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Surely not more questions now.’ Brina rolled her eyes and turned away from him. ‘Another time.’

  ‘Corban,’ a voice called out, Halion. ‘Come, show us this tunnel, then.’

  Corban led the company past the pool, and down the steps to the cave that led to the well. He paused just inside as he realized he had no flint to light the torches.

  After a brief conversation with Halion, Marrock and Camlin lit torches for the party from the iron sconces set in the walls, fumbling hastily at flints from their belt pouches.

  Quietly, like a mourning procession, they filed down into the cave, hope and doubt visible on their faces.

  Corban quickly knelt, lay flat, and edged out over the well’s rim, his mam crouching to hold his legs. His hand scrabbled around a moment, then he found the hollow with its cold handle within and turned it. There was a hiss and click behind him, then a collective gasp rippled through the company as the door became visible to all.

  Corban rolled back to his feet, and couldn’t help but grin at the gawping faces. He marched over to the stone door and pulled it wide, its hinges grating.

  ‘Hold,’ Halion said. ‘Who else knows of this?’

  Corban shrugged, and winced at the sharp pain in his shoulder. ‘None that I know of.’ Except Cywen.

  ‘My father knows of it. Maybe one or two in his hold,’ a voice said from amongst them, Vonn stepping forward. ‘At least, so far as I know.’

  ‘How can we believe him?’ another voice called out: Dath, glaring at Evnis’ son.

  Vonn looked at him belligerently. ‘True, my father has turned traitor. But I have not. I swore an oath to Brenin, to Ardan. I will not forsake it as easily as my father has…’ he paused, his voice almost breaking. ‘And I have lost someone, this night. Someone dear to me.’ He looked about, defiant. ‘From this night on my allegiance does not lie with my father.’

  Halion stared at him a long moment, then nodded. ‘Come with us. But know this: you will be watched, and if you prove us false you will die.’