Malice: The Faithful and the Fallen Series Book 1

  Vonn nodded his agreement, and then they began filing through the stone doorway, Corban watched his mam pass, then she paused.

  ‘Cywen,’ she whispered. ‘I cannot leave her. I must go back.’

  ‘I shall return for her, once you and Ban are away from here,’ Gar said. ‘Think, Gwenith. You cannot go back.’ His eyes flickered to Corban, then back to Gwenith. She stood there, shaking as the first tears came.

  ‘I must,’ she whispered. ‘You will not find her,’ a voice said, the last of those coming through the open doorway. It was Marrock. ‘I saw her…’

  ‘Where?’ interrupted Gwenith. ‘When?’

  ‘I saw her fall,’ Marrock said, each word slow, deliberate. ‘From the walls above Stonegate.’

  ‘What?’ said Gwenith. ‘I don’t understand?’

  ‘She was fighting, with Conall.’ Marrock looked at Halion, who turned at the mention of his brother.

  ‘Conall, you say?’ he said roughly.

  ‘Aye. He was part of Evnis’ treachery, at the gates,’ Marrock spat. ‘Cywen was throwing knives at those warriors, the ones like Sumur. Conall tried to stop her. They both fell.’ He shook his head.

  Gwenith gave a racking sob, and turned into the tunnel’s darkness, Gar following. Marrock looked at Corban. ‘Many of us will grieve after this night.’

  Corban couldn’t speak; suddenly he felt sick and bone-weary.

  ‘Come, we must be away,’ said Halion, wrestling with his own grief, and Corban pushed the stone door shut.

  The journey through the tunnels passed in a daze for Corban, haunted by memories of Cywen, almost as if she were walking beside him.

  Eventually they spilt out into the wide circular room that Corban had visited. The carcass of the snake was still there, though far more decomposed than the last time Corban had seen it. Great strips of skin were hanging loose, vertebrae gleaming beneath. And it stank.

  The group paused to stare at it.

  ‘How much longer?’ Halion asked Corban.

  ‘It is hard to measure time in here,’ Corban said, ‘but we are about halfway to the end, I think.’

  ‘Huh,’ Halion grunted. ‘And then what? Where does this tunnel lead?’

  ‘To a cave that opens onto the beach.’

  Halion looked about in wonder. ‘How has no one ever found this before?’

  ‘The entrance was concealed with a glamour. I only found it by accident.’

  ‘Lead on.’

  So Corban did.

  For a long while they marched through the high-roofed tunnels, darkness always before and behind them. No one spoke, at first, all lost in the horror of the night’s events, and also in the sheer astonishment that they were walking through tunnels far beneath their homes–tunnels that had been hidden here for untold generations. But slowly the silence lifted, people beginning to murmur amongst themselves.

  Corban remained at the front, Storm padding beside him, leading them deeper, ever downwards into the depths of the rocky outcrop. He suddenly realized that someone had been walking next to him for some time. It was his mam. Silently she reached out and held his hand. They walked like that a long while, trudging ever deeper into the depths of the hill.

  Eventually their path began to level out and soon they found themselves in the cavern that Corban remembered, wide and high, with sea rolling and swelling sluggishly through the straight-sided channel.

  Corban stopped and looked down at the dark waters as Halion came to stand at his shoulder.

  ‘The path to the cave is over there,’ Corban said, pointing. ‘It looks like a rock wall, but it’s a glamour–left by the giants, I suppose.’

  Brina and Heb hurried over to where Corban pointed, Brina thrusting her hand into the rock face. It disappeared, right up to her elbow, and she chuckled.

  ‘Excellent,’ Heb said. ‘Here all these years, and we never knew.’

  ‘We are close to the beach,’ Halion said. ‘We need to be clear on what happens next once we are out of here. We are not safe yet.’

  While they were discussing options, Corban heard something, in the water.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ he muttered, prodding Gar.

  ‘I did,’ said Gar, squinting into the gloom.

  A shape reared from the water, a solid mass in the darkness, just beyond their torchlight. Then it exploded towards them: a wyrm, grey-white scales dripping wet, fangs bared. It was bigger than the carcass in the cavern–much bigger–and lunged straight at Corban. He tried to dodge, but the beast was moving too fast. Then Storm barrelled into its neck, claws ripping into the creature’s flesh. Her momentum knocked the wyrm off-balance as her weight dragged it down. Storm’s own prodigious fangs sank deep into the wyrm and it let out a hideous noise, and spasmed on the ground. Its muscles rippled furiously, and Storm was sent hurtling through the air. She crashed into a wall, whimpered, and sagged to the ground.

  ‘No!’ Corban screamed. He would not lose another this night. He drew his sword and charged for the wyrm.

  Everyone about him seemed released from a spell by his movement, most following him to attack. The wyrm reared above them, confused by so many attackers and blows. It dispatched one fighter with a vicious bite to his neck. Then Farrell surged forwards, swinging Thannon’s hammer into the beast’s head. There was a sickening crunch; the wyrm flopped bonelessly to the ground and lay still.

  Tarben stepped forward and drove his sword into its eye. ‘You can never be too sure,’ he said to those staring at him.

  Corban rushed over to Storm. She rose unsteadily, and whimpered when Brina examined her shoulder, but apart from that she seemed uninjured.

  ‘She’ll live,’ Brina pronounced and Corban breathed a sigh of relief.

  They tended their wounds, then gathered before the glamoured wall. Halion stepped through first, leading Edana by the hand. She had said nothing since the feast-hall, and walked forwards passively now, with eyes downcast. Corban blinked as both of them disappeared into the rock. Then more were moving forwards, Marrock, Camlin and others, until he was one of only a few that remained.

  ‘Come along,’ Heb called out to him. Only Gar and his mam were left with him now, and Storm. Gar motioned for him to go first. He closed his eyes instinctively as he stepped into the rock, and almost staggered when he met no resistance, or almost no resistance. There was a building pressure, all about him, in his ears, his skin tingling, then he was through, the small company gathered on a narrow rock shelf before him.

  He heard Storm whine, looked down, saw she hadn’t come with him. For a moment he just stood there, unsure, then stepped back through.

  Storm was standing before the rock wall, ears flat to her head. She saw him and turned in a circle, whining.

  ‘She refused to go through,’ Heb said. ‘I tried to give her some assistance, but she gave me a look that left me in no doubt that she did not want my help.’

  Corban spent a while trying to coax her through, Gar and Gwenith pushing her from behind, but with no success.

  ‘Come–on,’ Corban muttered, trying to pull her through. ‘You’re–embarrassing me. Even Craf didn’t make this fuss.’

  Eventually, on Gar’s suggestion, Gwenith tore a strip of cloth from her bag, and Corban tied it around Storm’s eyes, stuffing more in the wolven’s ears.

  ‘Works with horses,’ Gar said with a shrug.

  Then they tried again.

  This time was more successful, and when Storm’s head and forequarters passed through the glamour Corban removed her blindfold. She saw the path in front of her and suddenly bounded across. Heb came last of all.

  They were in a high cave, clinging to a narrow, slippery shelf of rock that skirted the slow-churning swell of sea water. It foamed white where it battered upon jagged, crusted rocks. The sound of surf beating against the shore filled the cave, echoing about them.

  Hesitantly the small company moved off, Marrock and Camlin slipping ahead to scout. The path twisted and turned, the cave growing
wider as they moved along it. Soon Camlin returned, hissing for them to douse their torches. When they turned another twist in the path Corban saw moonlight pouring through the cave’s mouth and gleaming on the lapping water.

  Slowly they crept out of the cave’s entrance, and saw Havan’s beach not far away beyond a short expanse of shallow water. The storm had broken, thin rags of cloud scudding across the moon.

  All seemed quiet, although the dark clumps that were fisher-boats beached on the shore could have hidden many watchers. Out in the bay Corban could just make out the dark bulk of Nathair’s ship, rising and falling gently on the swell of waves.

  Halion called them all together, and soon they had a rough plan and were crossing the water towards the beach, trying not to splash. The tide was ebbing, the water cold enough to snatch Corban’s breath. Then they were picking their way over the beach, Dath and Mordwyr taking the lead, until they came to their own fisher-boat, leaning on its keel in the shingle.

  With great effort the entire party, near enough a score of them, pushed the small boat down the beach towards the water’s edge. Corban’s heart thundered with every crunch of shingle beneath feet or the boat’s sliding keel. He almost cheered when he felt waves lap across his feet, then felt the boat shift as it was gripped and tugged by the sea’s gentle sway.

  Dath and Mordwyr clambered aboard, the rest of them pushing the boat out further, then they all ran for the wooden quay a little further along the beach. Boots thudded on wood as they hurried along its length and waited for Dath and Mordwyr to bring their skiff around. Corban saw the sails unfurl and ripple as the wind caressed them, then suddenly they filled out, waves foaming white about the prow as it cut a curving line across to them.

  Of all of the moments Corban had experienced this night, right now he felt the most scared, as they waited almost defenceless at the end of the wooden quay. He glanced up at Dun Carreg, now a hulking shadow in the first grey of dawn, and saw an orange glow as the fortress burned still within its great stone walls.

  Suddenly Mordwyr’s fisher-boat loomed close, and he threw a coil of rope across. Halion caught it and others helped pull the boat in tight, then people were clambering aboard. Soon they were pushing away, most of them finding somewhere to slump exhausted on the boat’s deck, though it was a tight squeeze in a three-man craft.

  To reach the open sea they had to pass by Nathair’s black ship, as it clogged the mouth of the bay. There were lanterns lit, but again no sign of people. As they reached the closest point, when the black hull was no more than a score of paces away, Corban heard a snuffling or growling and remembered teasing Dath about so-called noises on this ship. Had it only been last night?

  Storm snarled, her ears flat to her head. Then, suddenly, a roar erupted from somewhere deep within the ship’s belly, all on the fisher-boat staring wide-eyed as they slipped past the larger vessel. Corban gazed back the whole time they were exiting the bay, expecting something to happen, but there were no further alarms. And then, suddenly, they were out in the open water just as the first rim of the sun clawed its way over the edge of the world. Corban felt his eyes roll, his eyelids suddenly heavy.

  ‘Here,’ a voice said beside him. ‘You should have this back.’ Farrell was offering him his da’s war-hammer, still caked in dried blood.

  ‘Keep it,’ Corban said. ‘It is too heavy for me. And you looked like it was made for you.’

  Farrell looked at the hammer, clearly tempted. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It is your da’s. It would not be right for me to have it.’

  Corban lifted his arm, winced as pain lanced out from his shoulder blade. He pushed the hammer back towards Farrell. ‘I mean it. I could not wield it as it was meant to be wielded. Please, I would be glad if you kept it.’

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘Aye. Only use it to avenge my da. That is all I ask.’

  Farrell considered, then managed a smile. ‘I am honoured,’ he said.

  ‘Aye. You are,’ Corban mumbled. ‘So,’ a voice called out from further up the boat. ‘Where is this fisher-boat taking us?’

  All were suddenly listening, heads swivelling to look at Halion and Marrock, sitting together in the prow of the boat, Edana between them. Marrock shrugged, and looked at Halion.

  ‘In truth, my only thought has been to get away, from there,’ Halion said, nodding towards the fortress. ‘Which we have done.’ He dipped his head to Corban, then looked at Edana. The Princess was sitting with knees drawn up to her chest, tear tracks clear on her dirty face. She gave no sign as to whether she was listening or not.

  ‘My oath, and Brenin’s last charge to me, was to protect Edana,’ Halion said. ‘But how may I best do that? Dun Carreg is overrun, Ardan’s other fortresses fallen.’ He looked weary. ‘Narvon is obviously out of the question, as is Cambren. Where else is left?’

  It sounded to Corban that Halion was voicing an internal logic that had already been minutely examined, and he remembered Gar telling him that Halion was a strategist. But Marrock must have taken it as a question, as he spoke up.

  ‘We could make for Dun Crin, the old giant ruins,’ the warrior said, others near him nodding.

  ‘I know of it,’ Halion said. ‘A ruin in the heart of a great marsh, to the far west of Ardan.’

  Marrock nodded a confirmation. ‘A good place to lie low. If word were to spread of Edana’s presence there, maybe more would rally to her, and give us a chance to strike back.’

  ‘Strike back, aye,’ Halion muttered, thinking. ‘That would be my first inclination also. But that would not be putting Edana’s safety first. If word of her presence did get out it wouldn’t only reach friendly ears. Owain would hear of it.’ He shrugged. ‘Edana needs her kingdom back, no doubt, and I mean to help her, or die in the trying. But we must decide how best to achieve that aim.’

  He looked at the small party in the boat. ‘If what we discovered in the Darkwood is true, then Rhin will soon strike at Owain. When her forces are in motion, when Owain has more to consider than securing Ardan–that would be the time for Edana to rally a warband about her. But until then she must be hidden.

  ‘I shall take Edana to my father,’ he said finally. ‘He is her kin, though more distant than those we have been speaking of.’

  ‘Who?’ said Marrock. ‘Who is your father?’

  Halion looked at him, his face unreadable. ‘I am the bastard-born son of Eremon ben Parloth, the King of Domhain,’ he said, then turned away, resuming his staring out to sea.

  Muttering rippled through the company, but no one objected to Halion’s decision. And Corban felt many things suddenly made sense about his old weaponsmaster. He shuffled to the back of the skiff and his mam came and stood beside him. She wrapped an arm around his waist, and together they looked back at Dun Carreg.

  The first rays of the sun were gleaming on its stone walls, and here and there dark plumes of smoke rose up into the pale blue sky.

  My da is in there, and Cywen. He swallowed, a lump in his throat, and tears came at last. He gripped the fisher-boat’s rail to stop his hands from shaking.

  ‘Ban, there are things we must talk about. Things I must tell you,’ his mam whispered beside him. He looked down at her, and she seemed older somehow, more careworn at this moment.

  ‘Aye, mam,’ he said, a tremor in his voice. ‘But not now. Soon, but not now.’

  ‘All right,’ she nodded, seeming relieved. ‘Soon.’

  And so they stood there, arms linked about each other, watching Dun Carreg shrink into nothing. Corban knew, beyond all measure of doubt, that from this moment things would never be the same again. His life had just changed irrevocably and forever.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  There have been many helping hands along the way. Firstly I must say a thank-you to Paul Isted, whose thumbs-up was just the encouragement I needed at a pivotal moment.

  I would also like to thank those that took the time to read my doorstep of a manuscript, when I am sure they all had
much better things to be doing. Edward Gwynne, Mark Brett, Dave Dean, Irene Gwynne, Mike Howell, Alex Harrison, Mandy Jeffrey, Pete Kemp-Tucker, and my good wife Caroline, without whom I would never have put pen to paper in the first place.

  Thanks are due to John Jarrold, my agent extraordinaire, for his belief and guidance–a true gent and a scholar, if ever I met one–and also to Julie Crisp and Bella Pagan, my editors at Tor. Their polishing skills are immense.

  Thanks also to my mate Andy Campbell for some cracking photos, affectionately referred to as The Blackadder Sessions.

  Oh, and a note to my oldest friend Sadak. Are you going to read this now?

  extras

  meet the author

  JOHN GWYNNE studied and lectured at Brighton University. He’s been in a rock ’n’ roll band, playing the double bass, traveled the USA, and lived in Canada for a time. He is married with four children and lives in Eastbourne, running a small family business rejuvenating vintage furniture. Malice is his debut novel.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed MALICE, look out for

  A DANCE OF CLOAKS

  by David Dalglish

  The Underworld rules the city of Veldaren. Thieves, smugglers, assassins… they fear only one man.

  Thren Felhorn is the greatest assassin of his time. All the thieves’ guilds of the city are under his unflinching control. If he has his way, death will soon spill out from the shadows and into the streets.

  Aaron is Thren’s son, trained to be heir to his father’s criminal empire. He’s cold, ruthless—everything an assassin should be.

  But when Aaron risks his life to protect a priest’s daughter from his own guild, he glimpses a world beyond piston, daggers, and the iron rule of his father.

  Assassin or protector; every choice has its consequences.