Malice (4 page)

‘But he will.’

Dath glanced at Corban and suddenly lunged at him, knocking him off the rock they were sitting on. He snatched up his new practice sword and stood over Corban, imitating the scene they had just witnessed. Corban rolled away and climbed to his feet, edging slowly around Dath until he reached his own wooden sword.

‘So, you wish to challenge the mighty Tull,’ said Dath, pointing his sword at his friend. Corban laughed and ran at him, swinging a wild blow. For a while they hammered back and forth, taunting each other between frenzied bursts of energy.

Passers-by smiled at the two boys.

After a particularly furious flurry of blows Dath ended up on his back, Corban’s sword hovering over his chest.

‘Do – you – yield?’ asked Corban between ragged breaths.

‘Never,’ cried Dath and kicked at Corban’s ankles, knocking him onto his back.

They both lay there, gazing at the clear blue sky above, too weak with their exertions and laughter to rise, when suddenly, startling them, a voice spoke.

‘Well, what have we here, two hogs rutting in the mud?’

CHAPTER TWO

VERADIS

Veradis shifted in his saddle, trying to ease his aching muscles. He prided himself on being a good rider, smiled as he remembered his sixteenth nameday and his warrior trial, where he had become a man. He had executed a near-perfect running mount in front of his father’s gathered warband, all those days of youth and practice summed up in one moment, and although over two years had passed, he could still recall every detail: how he had clicked the grey stallion into a trot when his turn had arrived, run alongside it, his shield gripped in his left hand. The sound of hooves thudding on the ground, merging with the beating of his heart. Time had seemed to stand still as he grasped a handful of mane and launched himself from the ground, landing perfectly in the saddle in one fluid move. He remembered tears streaming from his eyes, the soaring sense of elation as dimly he heard the roaring of his father’s warband shouting their approval, clashing spears on shields. Even his father, Lamar, Baron of Ripa, had risen to his feet and cheered him.

He leaned forward and scratched his knee, the worn leather strips of his kilt plastered to his leg. Absently he patted the neck of the grey he was riding, a gift from his brother Krelis after his Long Night. Then he grimaced, shifting his weight again. Twelve nights straight in the saddle would test anyone, no matter how accomplished a horseman they were.

‘Sore arse, little brother?’ he heard a voice say behind him.

‘Aye. A little.’

Krelis urged his horse forward so that they rode side by side. ‘You’ll get used to it,’ he said, his black beard splitting in a smile. ‘Anyway, I’d wager your pains are nothing compared to his.’ He gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. ‘The only thing
he’s
ever ridden before is a ship’s deck.’

Veradis twisted in his saddle to look at the prisoner they were escorting to Jerolin. Iron rings in the man’s beard clinked gently with the rhythm of their pace as he looked straight ahead, blue eyes like chips of ice in his weathered face. He was covered in a lattice of scars, Veradis’ eyes drawn to the man’s nose, or what was left of it, its tip missing. Although his hands were bound behind his back, half a dozen warriors from Krelis’ warband still encircled the prisoner.

‘Do you really think he’s going to tell the King anything?’ asked Veradis.

His brother shrugged. ‘Father thinks so. And so does our precious brother, although he was too unwell to make this journey.’

‘Ektor is always unwell.’

Krelis smiled again. ‘Aye, little brother, he is a sickly thing. But his mind is sharp, as Father always reminds me. He will be my counsellor one day, when I am Baron of Ripa.’

Veradis looked up at his older brother, towering above him on his great black warhorse.
You will make a good lord
, he thought. Krelis, Lamar’s firstborn, had always been larger than life, leading men with an unconscious ease.

‘And you,’ said Krelis with a grin. ‘You will become my battlechief, no doubt. Why, if you were a few handspans taller and wider I might be scared of you myself.’ He clapped Veradis across the shoulder, nearly knocking him from his horse.

Veradis smiled. ‘You don’t have to resemble a mountain to wield a sword, you know.’

‘Maybe not that little pin
you
like to call a sword,’ Krelis laughed, ‘but anyway, battlechief of Ripa is for another day. Let us see what our King Aquilus makes of you first, and what he turns you into.’

Veradis walked into the great hall of Jerolin, huge black stone columns rising up and disappearing into the shadowed darkness of the vaulted ceiling. Great tapestries hung along the walls of the chamber, sunlight pouring through narrow windows dissecting the hall. Warriors lined either side of the room, wearing gleaming silver helms, hooked nose-bars giving them a raptor-like appearance. Silver eagles were embossed on black leather breastplates; even the leather strips of their kilts shone, polished and gleaming. They gripped tall spears, longswords hanging at their hips.

His steps faltered and the warrior behind trod on his heel. He balanced himself and quickened his pace to keep up with Krelis, who was striding purposefully towards the far end of the hall, his iron-shod sandals cracking out a quick rhythm on the stone floor. People were gathered in clumps about the hall, waiting on their king – servants tending to those in the court, barons come to petition Aquilus on border disputes, no doubt, crofters, all manner of people seeking the King’s justice on a host of matters.

People parted before Krelis and the warrior leading them. ‘Armatus,’ Krelis had whispered to him, a grizzled, knobbly-armed man, his skin looking like the bark of an ancient tree. He was weapons-master of Jerolin, King Aquilus’ first-sword, a man whose reputation with a blade was known to all.

They made their way quickly through the hall, a handful of Aquilus’ eagle-guard striding behind Veradis, the Vin Thalun prisoner somewhere amongst them. Veradis passed through an open doorway, a spiral staircase before him. Without pause, Armatus led them down wide stone steps, then the floor levelled and they were marching along a narrow corridor.

Armatus turned off the corridor and stepped through a doorway into a large, bare room: no furniture, no windows, flickering torches the only light. Iron rings were sunk into the stone of the walls and floor, rusted chains and manacles hanging from them.

Three figures stood at the far end of the room, a man and woman standing in the light, the vague form of someone else shrouded in the shadows behind them.

Aquilus and Fidele, King and Queen of Tenebral. Veradis recognized them vaguely from the last time they had visited Ripa, half a dozen years gone, attending the barons’ council. Fidele looked much the same, pale and perfectly beautiful, though Aquilus looked older, more creases around his eyes and mouth, more silver in his close-cropped hair and stubbly beard.

‘Krelis,’ King Aquilus said with a nod. ‘Where is this man?’

Krelis had been ushered into Aquilus and Fidele’s presence as soon as they had arrived at the black-stoned fortress, leaving Veradis and their warriors to guard the prisoner. Krelis had not been gone long, though, returning with orders to present the prisoner immediately.

‘Here, my King,’ Krelis said, stepping aside so that the eagle-guard could herd the captive forward. He stood before Aquilus with head bowed, hands shackled. In the flickering torchlight his many battle-scars stood out like dark tattoos. One of the eagle-guards grabbed a chain fixed to the floor and locked it to the man’s bonds.

‘I have not seen your kind for many a year,’ the King said. ‘How is it that a Vin Thalun raider is in my realm, in my keep?’

‘He was part of a raiding galley, lord, looking for plunder. They burned more than one village along the coast, but they sailed too close to Ripa . . .’

Aquilus nodded, starring thoughtfully at the man, whose head was still lowered, eyes fixed on the iron ring sunk into the floor that he was chained to.

‘And I am told that you have information for me. Is this so?’

The man did not respond, stayed perfectly still.

With a snort, Krelis leaned over and cuffed the prisoner, bringing his head up with a snap, eyes flashing, teeth bared for an instant. The iron rings woven into braids in his beard chinked together, one for each life he had taken.

‘Let us start with something easier,’ Aquilus said. ‘What is your name?’

‘Deinon,’ the Vin Thalun muttered.

‘Where did you come by so many scars, Deinon?’

‘The Pits,’ said the warrior with a shrug.

‘The Pits?’

‘The fighting pits. There’s one on each of the islands,’ Deinon said, glancing at the scars on his arms. ‘Long time ago,’ he said dismissively.

Veradis shuddered. When the Vin Thalun raided they took people for plunder as well as food and wealth. Veradis had heard tales that the boys and men taken were forced to fight for the Vin Thalun’s pleasure, the fiercest being given a chance to earn their way out of the pits, and a spot pulling an oar on a Vin Thalun ship. This man had done well to graduate to warrior.

‘And is what Krelis says true? That you were part of a corsair galley, raiding my lands?’

‘Aye.’

‘I see. But you raided too close to Ripa, and Krelis caught you. And now here you are.’

‘Huh,’ grunted the corsair.

‘And you know the sentence for what you have done is death? But you have some information that I may wish to hear?’

‘Aye,’ the man muttered.

‘Well?’

‘My information in return for my life. That is what
he
told me.’ The Vin Thalun nodded at Krelis.

‘That would depend on the information. And if it is truth.’

The prisoner dipped his head, licking his lips. ‘Lykos has a meeting planned, here in Tenebral.’

‘Lykos,’ Aquilus said, frowning.

Years ago, when Veradis was a child, the Vin Thalun had been a scourge along the coasts of Tenebral, even raiding deep into the realm, travelling up the rivers that flowed like arteries through the land, striking at Tenebral’s heartland, stealing, burning. But something had happened. There had been a great raid on Jerolin itself, beaten off with many casualties on both sides. After that things had gone quiet, the inland raids stopping, even the coastal ones becoming rarer. Around the same time the name of a man amongst the Vin Thalun had begun to be heard: Lykos, a young warlord. Over the years he had risen high in their ranks, one by one subduing the three islands, Panos, Nerin and Pelset, defeating their warlords, uniting the Vin Thalun for the first time in their history. The last great sea-battle amongst them had been less than a year ago. Since then the raiding had begun to grow again, although mostly still along the coast.

‘Tell me of this Lykos,’ Aquilus said.

‘He is our king,’ the corsair shrugged. ‘A great man.’

‘And he is the sole leader of the Vin Thalun, now?’ Aquilus pressed.

‘Our
king
; he is more than a leader. Much more.’

Aquilus frowned, mouth a tight line. ‘So, why is he planning to set foot on my land.’

‘A meeting with one of your barons. I know not who, but the meeting is south of here, close to Navus.’

Veradis heard gasps around the room.

‘How do you know this?’ Aquilus snapped.

Deinon shrugged. ‘I hear things. My brother, he’s Lykos’ shieldman. His tongue flaps after a jug of wine.’

‘When?’

‘Soon. The last night of the Wolf Moon. If I saw a map I could show you where.’

Aquilus stared long moments at the prisoner. ‘How can I trust you, a corsair who would turn on his own?’

‘Loyalty doesn’t seem so important, when you’re faced with that walk across the bridge of swords,’ the corsair muttered.

‘Aye, mayhaps,’ Aquilus said quietly. ‘And if you lie, you would only have delayed your journey. Your head would soon be parted from your shoulders.’

‘I know it,’ Deinon mumbled.

‘We must send a warband, Father,’ a voice said from the shadows behind Aquilus and Fidele; a figure stepping forward. It was a man, young, little older than Veradis. He was tall, weathered by the sun, a shock of dark curly hair framing a handsome face. Veradis had seen him once before. Nathair, the Prince of Tenebral.

‘Aye. I know,’ Aquilus muttered.

‘Send me,’ Nathair said.

‘No,’ snapped Fidele, taking a step closer to her son. ‘We do not know the risk,’ she said, more softly.

Nathair scowled, moving away from her. ‘Send me, Father,’ he said again.

‘Perhaps,’ the King muttered.

‘You cannot allow this meeting to take place,’ Nathair said, ‘and Peritus is off chasing giants in the Agullas Mountains. The last night of the Wolf Moon is less than a ten-night away: barely time enough to get to Navus if I left on the morrow.’ Nathair glanced at his mother, who was frowning. ‘And this Lykos will hardly be riding at the head of a great warband. Not to a secret meeting in his enemy’s land.’

Aquilus rubbed his stubbly chin, skin rasping. ‘Perhaps,’ he said again, with more conviction this time, though his eyes flickered to his wife. ‘I will think on this, make my decision later. First, though, I shall send for someone to question our guest a little more thoroughly.’ He looked at Armatus, his first-sword. The grizzled warrior nodded and left the room.