Malice (19 page)

‘When?’ said Corban, brightening.

‘That’ll depend on you. Now, to finish, copy me. This is an exercise about control. Most battles are not won by brute force, no matter what your da tells you.’ Then he set about showing the intricate set of movements that Corban had glimpsed as he had been running around the paddock. It was much harder than it appeared, having to hold still in unusual positions until his muscles trembled.

‘You see, lad, this is about control as well. Your body
will
do as you tell it,’ Gar said to him with a rare grin. Corban grunted, concentrating too hard to be able to answer.

‘My thanks,’ Corban muttered when Gar declared the session over. ‘Your leg,’ he added with a nod, ‘it did not seem to pain you as much. Is it getting better?’

‘My leg? No. Some days it is a little better than others. Now, be on your way, before these stables get busy. I’ll see you here at sunrise on the morrow.’

Corban walked home, the fortress beginning to come to life around him. His limbs felt heavy, and the morning air felt cool on his body as his sweat dried.

The courtyard that spread wide before Dun Carreg’s great gates thrummed with activity and noise. Four score warriors sat upon horses, Tull, the King’s champion standing before them, holding his horse’s reins. He was clothed in wool and boiled leather, grey-streaked hair pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck, his longsword strapped to his saddle. Pendathran stood next to him, holding the reins of King Brenin’s roan stallion.

A cheer went up as Brenin strode into their midst, his Queen Alona beside him. The King swung into his saddle and looked around the gathered crowd.

‘I shall return before Midsummer’s Day,’ he cried, raised his hand in salute and nudged his horse into a trot towards the arch of Stonegate. Behind him rode the messenger from Tenebral and Heb the loremaster, whom Corban thought looked decidedly ill-tempered, a frown knitting his bushy eyebrows. Then the warriors lurched into motion. They rode across the bridge to the mainland, the sea crashing against rocks far below. Corban and Cywen stood, watching the column of riders shrink into the distance.

Princess Edana was standing with Queen Alona and Pendathran. She saw Corban with Cywen and called them over. Queen Alona smiled warmly, her eyes lingering on Corban.

‘Cywen works with Gar, mother,’ Edana said. ‘She has a way with horses – you should see her ride.’

‘Anyone who learns from Gar is likely to have a way with horses. Gar has a gift from Elyon, I think,’ said Alona, smiling at Edana. ‘I remember when he first came here. You had only just seen your first nameday.’

As they walked into the fortress, a figure stepped into view. Evnis, his son Vonn still with him.

‘There is a matter I would discuss with you. A private matter,’ Evnis said to Alona.

Alona frowned.

‘It’s all right,’ her daughter said. ‘I’ll wait here.’

Alona nodded and walked on briskly, Evnis falling in beside her. Pendathran kept pace with them.

Vonn turned and winked at Edana, as he followed his father.

Edana scowled. ‘Look at him: he thinks he’s Elyon’s gift.’

‘Well, he
is
fine looking,’ said Cywen.

‘What makes it worse,’ Edana continued, choosing to ignore Cywen’s remark, ‘is that he’s got it into his head that he and I will be wed.’

‘Why does he think that?’ asked Cywen.

‘Evnis has been hinting at it for years. Father has never given him a definite answer, but I think they just take it for granted now.’

‘So you don’t
want
to be bound to him,’ said Corban.

Edana glared at him. ‘No. I am not some slab of meat to be sold at market.’

The group in front of them stopped, Pendathran’s voice raised.

‘No, Evnis. You cannot go,’ they heard the battlechief say.

‘I was under the impression that it’s the Queen of Ardan who makes the decisions whilst the King is away,’ Evnis responded coldly.

‘I am sorry,’ Alona said. ‘Under other circumstances of course, but Pendathran will be leaving on the morrow, and my King has made it most clear to me that he wishes your counsel to be at hand during this time.’ Her face softened. ‘I really am sorry. Tell Fain I shall visit her tonight.’

‘Visit,’ Evnis repeated, a tremor in his voice. ‘This is because of Rhagor, is it not? You still blame me for your brother’s death. Petty vengeance.’

‘What?’ Alona said. ‘No . . .’

‘Do not mention his name,’ Pendathran growled. ‘Not ever.’

Evnis stood a moment, trembling. He inclined his head, turned swiftly and strode away, Vonn almost running to keep up with him.

A ten-night later, Corban was making his way down to the village, thinking to find Dath, when he saw a rider in the distance, galloping up the giantsway.

It was Marrock, whom he’d last seen at his handfasting. He had ridden out to the Baglun Forest with Pendathran’s warband, the day after King Brenin had left. Corban ran as fast as he could to the keep, his target the feast-hall as Marrock’s most likely destination.

Marrock was standing before the Queen, who was sitting in an ornately carved oak chair, Evnis at her shoulder.

‘What have I missed?’ Corban whispered to his sister.

‘They have picked up a trail in the forest, found a corpse of a man, half-eaten by wolves or wolven, and they think he was one of the brigands. Marrock has come back for more warriors. Pendathran wants them to patrol the western border of the forest in case he and his warband flush the brigands out and they attempt to flee.’

‘I will see to it at once, my lady,’ Evnis said and hurried from the hall.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CAMLIN

Camlin’s feet ached. He had been walking all day, trying to force a way through this cursed forest. Blood trickled in thin lines down his arms and cheeks where thorns had snagged at him, the cuts stinging as sweat mingled with them.

It was Braith, Lord of the Darkwood that had put him in charge of this crew.
Braith, Lord of the Darkwood. Lord of a rabble of cut-throats, more like
. Still, Camlin had been happy enough about his promotion, back in the Darkwood. Fourteen men had followed him into Ardan, into the Baglun Forest; only nine walked behind him now. They were entering a dense part of the forest, as thick with thorns and foliage as any he had ever seen. He did not like the Baglun. Although the Darkwood was so much bigger, it had been his home for more years than he could count. He was the wrong side of thirty, and more than half of those years had been spent living in woodland, but a sense of unease had been growing in him ever since he had arrived here. He sighed. They had left the Darkwood and Braith full of pride and excitement: the first chosen to found a new lair deep in the heart of Ardan. How had they come to this? And so quickly: discovered and hunted by a warband, and worse, one led by Pendathran, who bore a personal grudge against Braith and all who rode with him.

Still, they must have lost them now, or at least put more distance between them. They had entered a part of the forest so dense it could only be travelled through on foot, and that with great difficulty, and the warband hunting them had been mounted.

Camlin and his crew trudged on in silence, the only sound their laboured breathing, the occasional
snap
of a twig or the flick of a branch. In time Camlin heard the sound of running water. The ground began to slope downward, became spongier under foot, and suddenly they walked into a shadowy dell, the trees and foliage opening a little around them. At its far edge was a sharp drop to a stream. It was almost dark now.

‘We’ll stop here for the night,’ he declared. His crew unslung their packs and began making camp. Camlin drank deeply from his water skin and pulled his boots off.

‘Hey, Cam,’ called Goran, a bull of a man that had been with Braith almost as long as he had, ‘put your boots back on. Your stinking feet are making my guts churn.’ Laughter rippled. Camlin forced himself to smile good-naturedly. A few nights back he’d come close to putting a knife in Goran’s gut,
should
have. He hadn’t done it, had allowed Goran to break his order and done nothing about it. Now, the lads were low, on edge and, worse, unsure of him. He could feel it unspoken between them – mutiny. Gutting Goran now would most likely tip them over that edge.

‘At least I can wash my feet,’ he said. ‘Besides, they cover the stench of your breath. What did you break your fast with? Dung?’

More laughter.

Goran scowled at him, then winced as his skin creased an angry-looking cut running from his left eye down to his lip.

They ate a poor meal as Camlin would allow no fire, but they all knew the sense of it. Then Camlin sent a couple of the lads back up the path to watch their backs.

‘Covered a lot of ground today,’ he grunted. ‘Don’t think Brenin’s lot’d leave their horses, march in here after us. And even if they did, they’d do it a lot slower than us.’

‘An’ louder. We’d hear ’em coming half a league away,’ threw in Goran.

Camlin tried to grin, to look confident for the lads, but he was not so easily cheered. All in their small band were woodsmen, had spent years living in the Darkwood. That was one of the reasons why they had been chosen for this task. And he was not the only one in the small circle that did not smile. He knew some must blame him for the situation they were in. Things had started well enough. They’d burned out a dozen holds and reached the Baglun Forest without any problems, then he’d made contact with Braith’s man from Dun Carreg and been given his first job. Personally, he thought the hold had been too close to the fortress for the first strike – but the contact had insisted, and he knew the idea was to stir things up with Brenin quickly, lure him out of his stone walls. Why, he didn’t know, but over the years he’d become used to following orders and keeping his head down, so he’d just shrugged and got on with it.

That was when things had started to go wrong. He’d climbed the hold’s wall, opened the gates for the lads and put a sword in the belly of the first man to hear them. A couple more had put up a fight, but two against fifteen was never good odds. They’d rounded up the women and a young lad, but Goran had knocked the lad around and, the next thing, one of the women had a knife out, had cut Goran from eye to mouth. ’Course Goran hadn’t taken that well, all hell had broken loose, and before Camlin could do anything about it the two women and the lad were dead. He’d not been happy about that. The whole crew knew he wouldn’t have the killing of women and bairns. Not that he had the morals of the sainted Ben-Elim, far from it: he’d lied, cheated and murdered as much as any lawless man, but he drew the line at women and bairns. He had his reasons. It had never been a problem before, in many ways it had been better. Braith wanted word to spread of who was doing the burning and killing, and survivors told a better tale than the dead.

He’d wanted so badly to kill Goran for that, had felt the blood-rush, even had his knife out before he’d realized what he was doing. Maybe he
should
have killed him. Braith had warned him not to give an order he wasn’t prepared to gut a man for. He sighed; no point worrying about
should haves
. He’d hoped that’d be the end of the bad luck, but it was only the beginning. A couple of nights later he’d lost a man on watch to one of the Baglun’s bogs, and the next day lost four men to wolven. And then they’d heard about Pendathran’s warband hunting them, so had fled deeper into this cursed forest.

And now here they were, sitting on a cold, hard shelf of rock, no fire, an angry warband close behind.

‘So, what next, chief?’ Goran asked him, a sour twist to his mouth.

‘We lie low. Either they will miss us or they won’t.’ Camlin picked at a blister on his foot. ‘If the worst does happen, then we’ll break east, head for the marshes. They’d never find us in there.’ He looked around at the dark expressions.

‘We’ve been in tight spots before and come through. This’ll be no different.’

‘That was with Braith as chief,’ he heard Goran whisper.

Camlin stared at the big woodsman, fingers twitching for his knife.
Half the warriors of Ardan wouldn’t be hunting us if you hadn’t started killing children
. The boy’s face appeared in his mind, screaming over the corpse of a woman – his sister, his mam? It reminded him of another child, crying over another woman. He blinked. More than twenty years, yet still he could remember his brother Col and his mam as if it were yesterday.

It was the year after the wasting disease had taken his da. He had been fifteen summers old, and was repairing one of the walls on their farm, piling stone upon stone. Then he had heard his mam scream, high and shrill.

He had run, seeing smoke bloom around their hold, crept to the edge of their barn, peering around to see his mam lying still on the hard-packed ground before his home. A blond-haired warrior sitting on a roan stallion towered over her body, other riders holding spears or drawn swords milling about the yard. Then Col had burst into the yard, his older brother by two years, waving a spear. The raiders had spurred their mounts at Col and cut him down.