Malice

  He sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. ‘Come, then,’ he said. ‘It’s a long walk to Dun Bagul.’

  They had chosen against bringing horses – Lykos could only muster two score ships, and horses took up more space than warriors, so they had sacrificed speed on land for stealth. Besides, wains set the pace, and most warriors preferred fighting on foot to a horse’s back, Veradis’ warband more so. He was looking forward to forming a wall of shields against other men instead of draigs and giants.

  ‘Aye,’ muttered Peritus. ‘To Dun Bagul, and vengeance.’

  ‘We are discovered,’ Peritus said grimly as Veradis entered the battlechief’s tent, Rauca slipping in before the hide flapped shut and closed out the night.

  Peritus stood bent over a table, a parchment spread before him.

  ‘We have done well to come so far,’ Veradis shrugged. They could not see the old fortress of Dun Bagul yet but it was close now, no more than a day’s march.

  ‘Aye. But now is the knife-edge. Mandros will have a warband about him, at least equalling our numbers, likely more.’

  ‘Good. Then he may be tempted to leave his fox hole to fight us.’

  ‘He will send word for aid.’ Peritus jabbed a finger at the parchment before him. ‘His nearest strongholds are Raen in the east, Iska in the west. We do not have the numbers to stop some of them getting through but if our Vin Thalun allies are right, their garrisons are low, most of their warriors sent east to await our expected passage through the mountains.’ The battlechief stretched wearily. ‘We must prise him from his lair, bring him to battle before aid can reach him.’

  ‘Aye,’ grunted Veradis. ‘If he does not march out to meet us on the field I will shame him before his men, shout of what he did . . .’ he paused a moment, a tremor running through him. Murderer, whispered a voice in his head. ‘I shall challenge him to the Court of Swords – anything to get him out from behind his walls.’

  ‘We could storm Dun Bagul,’ Peritus said. ‘It is not impregnable, but it would be costly, both in men and in time. Mandros is no fool, and until now has been no craven, either. Our best chance lies here.’ He prodded at the parchment again, Veradis and Rauca coming closer, looking at the map spread on the table. Peritus traced a line across it. ‘This river lies between us and Dun Bagul. There is no bridge, only a ford, unless we would walk half a ten-night out of our way. The ford is bordered by woodland on one side, hills on the other. It is a most excellent site to ambush us. Mandros will know this, and if he considers our numbers at least even, then I think it likely that he will seize his chance.’

  Veradis smiled grimly. ‘Let me lead the vanguard across the river.’

  Peritus frowned. ‘Even expecting an ambush, prepared for it, that will be a most unhealthy spot to be standing.’

  Rauca laughed, a harsh sound that did nothing to break the mood. ‘We are accustomed to unhealthy spots now. At least we won’t have murderous draigs and giants tearing at us.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Peritus said. ‘I am not inclined to return to Tenebral without our new King’s first-sword.’

  ‘You’ve seen our warband train,’ Veradis said hotly. ‘You know we are best suited to this task, to bear the brunt of any ambush, any charge – our wall of shields is made for just such a position.’

  ‘Maybe so.’ Peritus suddenly grinned. ‘You have something of your brother in you, it would seem.’

  Veradis grunted, unsure of what to say. Krelis had become firm friends with Peritus during his time at Jerolin – and he had spoken frequently of Aquilus’ wily battlechief.

  ‘All right, you cross first, as our vanguard. We shall march at dawn, take our time reaching the river and just hope Mandros acts on the information his scouts bring him this night.’

  There was a tapping on the tent hide and a voice called through – Peritus’ guard.

  ‘Enter.’

  Two warriors stepped into the tent, a man between them. He was dressed in worn leather, a dark cloak pulled about him. He pushed back his cowl, revealing a broad, plain face, ruddy cheeks and nervously darting eyes.

  Veradis heard Peritus exclaim under his breath. He had seen this man at Aquilus’ council.

  It was Gundul, Mandros’ son, staring nervously back at him.

  Veradis stepped into the shallow water of the river, ice-cold water swirling about his legs, seeping through his boots and numbing his feet. A loose row of some three score men stretched either side of him. Gravel shifted under his feet and he swayed, feeling the weight of the shield on his back.

  Before him, too far away, was the far bank of the river. Then there was a gentle slope leading up into woodland.

  He tried not to stare at the trees, to search for the glint of sunlight on iron, and kept his eyes on the water. Risking a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw most of his warband had entered the river, Peritus’ warriors spread in a more disorganized crush behind them.

  ‘Can’t go back now,’ Rauca muttered beside him. ‘Who’s fool idea was it to march us first across this river, anyway?’

  ‘Huh,’ grunted Veradis, a grin tugging at his mouth, despite the fluttering weightlessness he felt somewhere deep inside.

  His eyes swept forward again, drawn inexorably to the treeline half a hundred paces from the river’s edge. If Mandros was in there, he would wait until the warband was partially out of the river so that they could be charged from both flank and front. A head-on charge would keep them in the river, but a surprise charge to the flank usually wreaked more damage. It could even decide the outcome.

  Mandros. The thought of Carnutan’s King banished all doubts. Mandros was clearly a servant of the Black Sun. The traitor had grabbed Nathair’s own dagger, stabbed King Aquilus through the throat, then plunged it into the Prince’s side. He should not have let Mandros into that room. Justice, whispered the voice in his head. Justice would be done this day: dark, merciless, bloody justice.

  Over halfway across now, forty paces left till they reached the far bank, thirty, twenty . . .

  Suddenly a cry erupted from beyond the trees, a keening, deafening war cry. Men swarmed into the daylight, iron flashing as weapons were drawn, feet thundering as they charged down the slope towards Veradis and his men.

  Veradis shrugged his shield from his back, yelling, ‘Shield wall!’ He drew his short stabbing sword, hefted his shield and felt it connect with a satisfying thud to Rauca’s on his left and Bos’ on his right. He had just a moment to set his feet on the unstable riverbed and glance over his shield rim at the onrushing tide of men. They looked confused at this tactic. Battle was not fought like this. His warband should have been charging for the riverbank to meet the enemy, the battle quickly fragmenting into a chaotic melee of individual conflicts. If not for the weakness in his knees he would have laughed.

  Then the screaming onslaught slammed into the wall. Hundreds of shields crashed into each other, a thunderous cacophony. The wall trembled but held, the mass of charging men pushing their first rows into a compressed, seething mass of limbs.

  Veradis bent his knees, shoulder against shield and grunted at the enormous weight of bodies. He stabbed beneath his shield’s edge, time and time again. His blade bit into muscle, sinew, raked bone. Hot blood gushed onto his hand, his arm, and men screamed, bodies held upright before him only by the crush of men behind them. To either side of him his warriors did the same, dealing out death with deadly efficiency.

  He shouted a command over his shoulder, heard the warrior behind him pass it on, and in moments there was a horn blast. All in the front line of the shield wall stepped forwards, shoving the press of men before them, then another and another. Sand and shingle underfoot changed to flesh, leather and wood as the dead were trampled. The river ran red about them, piles of bodies marking the tide-line where the wall of shields had held. Slowly, inexorably, Veradis and his warband ground their way forwards. Some in the front ranks fell, stumbling over the dead or dragged from the line by sheer weight of numbers, but th
e gaps were filled instantly. Then Veradis felt the ground change beneath him, becoming more solid, and the riverbank also turned to red as men fell before the unbreachable wall of wood and iron.

  Suddenly the pressure on his shield lessened. He saw the front ranks of his enemy had retreated up the bank: fear now in their eyes. Battles were often won in the battle-fury of the first charge, when the blood was up. This should have been a slaughter, catching an outnumbered foe floundering knee-deep in a swirling river. Instead it was overwhelmingly Mandros’ warriors that had fallen.

  Veradis felt new strength fill his limbs and advanced with renewed vigour, his warriors following.

  It was easier going now. The ground was more solid underfoot, the warriors before him less wild in their onslaught. More of Mandros’ men swarmed the flanks of his line as Peritus’ men now emerged from the river, returning with relief to their usual combat style.

  Heedless, Veradis’ warband ploughed onwards. Then a wild shouting filtered slowly through the clamour of battle. He looked up to see a mounted figure near the treeline and blinked with surprise to see the woodland so close. The figure was Mandros himself, screaming a mixture of fury and panic, eyes wild as he urged his men on. Kill him, the voice growled in his head. A cluster of mounted warriors milled about Mandros, faces grim and focused.

  He pressed forwards, stabbing furiously, outpacing his comrades-in-arms. Pain punched his side as a blade thrust behind his guard, but was turned by his shirt of mail. It slid down, bit into his thigh and blood sluiced down his leg. He stumbled, suddenly weak, then arms were grabbing him, lifting and pulling him back. He saw Mandros and swore, spat blood onto the ground at his feet. He was so close.

  There was a baying of horns, high and to the right. For a moment the battle seemed to lull, all eyes following the sound.

  Lines of warriors were forming on the rim of the hill that edged the battle, most of them on foot, a score or so mounted at their rear. Veradis saw one of them draw a sword and hold it aloft. Gundul, son of Mandros, gave a great war cry and his warriors surged down the hill, screaming as they came.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CORBAN

  Corban blinked, staring at the man standing with Gar. ‘Meical, you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cywen grunted, turning her attentions back to the horse in her grip. ‘He’s only just ridden in. I’m in love with his mount – look at him. I wager he’s the fastest horse I’ve ever laid eyes on.’

  Corban glanced at the stallion behind the dark-haired man: a dapple-grey, tall, fine boned, but almost immediately his eyes were drawn back to this Meical. Before he realized it, his feet were moving, taking him towards the stablemaster and his companion. Storm followed a pace behind.

  Gar was saying something, but he trailed off as Corban approached them.

  ‘Ban?’ the stablemaster said to him.

  Corban just stood there, unsure of what to say or do now that he was here. He could not quite understand why he had walked over in the first place.

  ‘Ban, you want something?’

  ‘I, uh, you have a fine horse,’ he mumbled, staring at Gar’s companion.

  ‘Thank you,’ the newcomer said. He was tall, very tall, the sun behind framing him as a dark silhouette. There was something familiar about this man, tickling Corban’s memory like a spider crawling across his neck. They stood there regarding each other, the silence growing.

  ‘This is Meical,’ Gar finally said, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable.

  ‘Well met,’ said Meical, a hint of a smile touching his lips.

  Corban just nodded.

  The silence grew again as they stared at each other. Meical’s eyes were dark, seeming to pin him to the spot; not just looking at him, but into him, measuring him somehow. But then he smiled.

  ‘You keep unusual company.’ Meical looked down to Storm.

  The wolven was standing pressed tight to Corban’s hip and leg, as she often did when he was anxious or troubled. Her ears were pricked up, hackles standing as she stretched her head forward, sniffing. Meical squatted down, looking the wolven in the eyes, and offered his hand for her to smell. Her long canines, protruding at least a handspan from beneath her lip, touched his fingers, but he did not pull away. After a moment Storm snorted and scratched at the earth, then lay at Corban’s feet.

  ‘Her name is Storm,’ Corban said.

  ‘A good name.’ Meical rose quickly, then swayed on his feet.

  ‘Your pardon,’ he said. ‘I have ridden long and hard.’

  ‘Come,’ said Gar, ‘let’s stable your horse, he looks as weary as you.’

  Gar glanced at Corban. ‘Are you to Brina’s?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Best you be on your way, then, before I find work round the stable for you to do.’

  ‘Huh,’ grunted Corban, but stood where he was a little longer, that nagging memory again crawling across his skin.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CYWEN

  Cywen wiped sweat from her eyes. The air was cold, crisp, a constant, sharp wind blowing off the sea, but she had been working hard. She’d spent most of the morning and well into the afternoon breaking a colt to saddle.

  Gar grunted when she reported her tasks done for the day. He seemed distant.

  ‘I need Hammer brought up from the paddocks,’ he said to Cywen. ‘If you leave now you’ll be back in good time for the evening meal.’

  Cywen frowned. It was a long walk to the paddocks. If she’d known earlier she would have asked Ban to wait, but he was long gone. She shrugged.

  ‘Go on then, girl, be off with you,’ Gar said, marching away. Cywen set off for Stonegate.

  Part-way to the bridge she remembered she had forgotten to harvest vegetables before the evening meal. Her mam would not be happy, so, muttering to herself, she changed direction and ran home. It was empty, not even Buddai warming himself before the fire.

  Quickly she started gathering greens, her mind drifting to Ronan, and his increasingly distracting smile. And he was always looking at her, though he tried not to let her see. She felt her own smile spreading . . .

  A noise came from the kitchen – the garden door opening.

  Instinctively Cywen ducked behind a tree. She glimpsed her mam peering into the garden, then the door clicked shut again.

  What am I doing? she thought, frowning as she headed for the kitchen. But then footsteps sounded as several people entered the room, but quietly, which seemed strange. There was no greeting, only the scrape of chair legs, the sound of drinks being poured.

  She peeked through the crack between shutter and wall and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. Her mam was standing at one end of the table, looking almost scared. Sitting before her were Thannon, Gar, and the man who had ridden in earlier, Meical.

  Gwenith drank from her cup, a tremor in her hand, and a tense silence grew.

  ‘Where is the boy?’ a rich, lilting voice asked – this Meical.

  ‘At Brina’s. She is a healer,’ Gar said. ‘Her dwelling is beyond the village.’

  ‘And your daughter?’

  ‘She is not here, I have checked. We are alone,’ Gwenith said.

  ‘Good,’ grunted Meical.

  ‘Why? Why have you come?’ Gwenith finally said, breaking the quiet.

  ‘King Aquilus is dead.’

  Cywen could not see her da’s face, but Gwenith’s mouth fell open. Gar just stared.

  ‘How?’ Gwenith gasped.

  ‘Slain. Murdered in his own chamber.’ Meical bowed his head. ‘It is a grievous loss.’

  ‘Who?’ said Gar.

  Meical rubbed his eyes. ‘I was told Mandros, King of Carnutan. He openly opposed Aquilus, was proud, arrogant. And he fled. But I suspect there is more to it. Asroth’s hand is in this.’

  ‘More to it? What do you mean?’ Gwenith asked.

  ‘I cannot say, yet. Perhaps I should have stayed longer at Jerolin, but when it happened, a terror fell upon me, such as I have never know
n. I had to see the boy.’

  ‘But you said we would not see you again, until the time. The danger – what if you were followed?’ Gwenith said, her voice rising.

  ‘Peace,’ Meical muttered, holding a hand up. ‘I know your concerns. I felt them myself, but I had to see him – to know he was safe. And I have been careful: the passes through the Agullas closed soon after I travelled them, and no one can match Miugra’s pace. I rode him harder than he has ever known, and I took precautions. I will not be tracked.’ He leaned back in his chair, his face relaxing. ‘The boy looks well.’

  Gwenith smiled at that. ‘He is. He is a good boy.’

  Cywen could not believe what she heard as she eavesdropped, her legs stiff from standing still so long, trying even to breath quietly. She felt at sea: talk of Aquilus, Jerolin, Carnutan. Did they mean the Aquilus – the one who had called King Brenin to a council?

  Suddenly, though, something had become clear. For some reason they were talking about Ban. Her Ban.

  ‘How go things with him?’ Meical said.

  Gwenith just nodded and smiled, glancing between Gar and Thannon. ‘He is special, of course – he is my boy. But ever since you came to us, told us . . .’ She paused and grimaced. ‘I have watched him, tried to watch him, with objective eyes. He is sharp-witted, strong, honest, for the most part. Kind. And he is happy, I hope. You are not here to take him?’ she said suddenly. ‘I will not allow that.’ A fierceness crept into her voice.

  ‘No one is taking our boy anywhere,’ rumbled Thannon. His hand reached out and covered Gwenith’s.

  ‘I am not here for that,’ Meical said, ‘though I told you, the day will come when he must leave. Go to Drassil. But not alone. With you both, and Gar, of course.’

  ‘Aye, so you say,’ Thannon said. ‘In truth, it has been so long since you came to us.’ He sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘I am only a blacksmith, and all your talk, I do not know about any of that. And it was so long ago. Until recently I had thought it all a bad dream, but things have been happening. Strange things . . .’