Malice (75 page)

She smiled, here, in the midst of the Darkwood, death breathing down their necks, and yet she felt such a rush of
joy
. She leaned forward and brushed her lips on his freckled cheek. ‘I’ll do that,’ she whispered, then set off after the others.

They ploughed on, then there was movement at the edge of her vision, the sound of drumming feet.

‘Run,’ Ronan hissed, pushing her on.

Panic consumed her and she pounded into the forest – their pursuers were closing in. All of them sped up, though soon the sounds of pursuit grew even louder behind them. Cywen checked her belt for the the hilts of her last two knives.

‘It is no good,’ said Ronan, ‘they will be on us in moments.’

Ised heard him and pulled up before a thick-trunked elm. ‘We’ll make a stand here,’ he grunted, breathing heavily.

‘Behind us,’ Ronan said. He and Ised drew their swords and stood together, facing the shadows.

Cywen pulled a knife and glanced at Queen Alona and Edana.

Movement caught her eye, a figure, coming at them fast. She aimed and hurled her knife, hearing it
thunk
into wood. She whispered a curse and drew her last knife, then all was chaos. Warriors surged out of the darkness and targeted Ised and Ronan. A man screamed and fell at Ronan’s feet, his lifeless head flopping close to Cywen. She stared at his dull eyes.

Ised grunted and dropped to one knee, then a blade chopped into his neck and he toppled sideways.

Edana screamed.

A red-cloaked warrior advanced on Ronan, others emerging from the gloom, all with swords drawn. Ten, twelve, more – Cywen counted.
We are dead
.

‘Hold,’ a voice shouted, and the man before Ronan paused, though he didn’t lower his sword.

Two stepped forward, one younger, with a scar under his eye. Cywen gasped, recognizing them both. Rhin’s champion that had duelled with Tull on Midwinter’s Eve. Morcant.
What is he doing here?
And the other man was Braith – she would never forget his face after that night at Dun Carreg.

‘We could use this one,’ Braith said to Morcant. ‘Better the message reach Brenin from one of his own warriors than one of ours.’

Morcant had a sword drawn, but held loosely. He paused.

A message. Please, Elyon, let them spare Ronan, let them send him to Brenin
.

Morcant looked between Ronan and Braith, Ronan shifting his feet, a quiver in his sword arm.

Suddenly Morcant exploded into motion, faster than Cywen could follow. Iron grated on iron, Ronan twisting and shouting, then he was sinking, blood gushing from his throat. It took a moment to register in Cywen’s mind, then she screamed and grabbed for him. She pressed a hand to his neck,trying to stem the flow, but blood poured through her fingers.
No, no, no, no, no!
she screamed inside, his weight pushing her to the ground, where she held his head in her lap. His eyes looked up into hers, blinked once and then became dull, sightless. She felt a confusion of rage and grief. Then she hurled herself at Morcant, stabbing with the knife she still clutched in one hand.

Morcant jumped back and swore as she stabbed him, the knife turning on his chainmail shirt. He clubbed her with the back of his hand and she fell to the ground, the metallic taste of blood in her mouth.

‘Bind them,’ Morcant said.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

CAMLIN

‘We’ll camp here,’ Braith called, standing before a patch of open ground.

They had walked hard until sunset, Camlin behind the three women as they travelled through the forest. Their prisoners had made no trouble and kept mostly silent, walking with heads down, apart from the one Scar had clubbed. She had stared at Scar’s back most of the time, her fury almost tangible.

Braith ordered the women to sit against a wide chestnut, where they were tied to the trunk and each other. Camlin looked around at the men making camp and failed to shake his dark mood. Out of the score of the old crew that had followed Braith out of the hills only eight remained, including him. The new lads had not fared much better, as only twelve of them moved around the fire and stream. Eight of their number lay dead in the grass back at the glade. He sat in the shadows beyond the fire’s reach, his back to a tree, and began running a whetstone over his sword’s edge. He had a bad feeling about this, a niggling sensation in his gut and a sense of dread to match. Braith had told them this was a ransom job. Kill the guards, grab the girls, wear the red cloaks of Narvon to throw anyone off their trail, then bleed a large pot of coin from King Brenin. That sounded good: plenty of coin poured onto a stiff dose of revenge. But things didn’t feel right.

Braith had not given a straight answer on who the new lads were or where they came from, and as time had passed Braith had been dipping his head more and more to Scar, as if
he
were the crew’s chief. And now, plain as day, Scar had known the big man, called him Tull. More than that, had some grudge with him. Then Queen Rhin had been mentioned. He had no axe to grind with
her
– Brenin and Owain were his problem – but taking orders from
any
king or queen sat ill with him.

He was starting to feel used, and he didn’t like that one little bit.

And then there was the bairn. The one with the knives from Dun Carreg. She was tied to a tree, glaring holes into Scar.

He’d not be killing women or bairns – and Braith knew that.

Later, when he saw Braith slip into the trees, Camlin followed silently.

Camlin changed his approach now, holding his hands up. He didn’t want an arrow in his chest.

Braith nodded a greeting but said nothing, and for a while they stood there in silence. Eventually Camlin spoke. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked. ‘I heard what the big man said, Braith, back in the glade. He knew Scar, and, that talk, about Rhin . . .’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Who
is
Scar? And why do you treat him like he’s chief? You, who’s not taken sauce from any man in all the years I’ve known you?’

Braith looked at him, his face expressionless.

‘We’ve followed you a long time, Braith.
I’ve
followed you a long time. Think you owe me some truth here.’

‘Aye, maybe so,’ Braith conceded.‘Scar is Rhin’s first-sword. His name’s Morcant.’

Camlin folded his arms, waiting for the rest.

‘You asked me back at the village what my story is, Cam.’

‘Aye. I remember.’

‘I am Rhin’s man. I always have been. Well, as long as I can remember. King Owain killed my kin, my mam and da, over a border dispute. It was Rhin’s people, in the village I took you to, that raised me. Rhin sent me here, with the task of becoming one of you.’

Camlin had wondered many things, but never this. ‘Why?’ he said, shocked now.

‘To stir things up between Brenin and Owain. She wants their land, Cam, and she’ll have it, too. Soon.’

‘So this,’ Camlin said, waving a hand back at the campsite. ‘This is about more’n just coin and vengeance?’

‘Aye. We’re starting a war here. Soon enough Ardan and Narvon will be at each other’s throats, and Queen Rhin will step in at the end of it, clean up the mess.’

After all these years of robbery, burning and murder Camlin felt he should have expected this, or at least not been surprised, but instead he felt foolish. And betrayed. Somehow he’d trusted Braith.

Somewhere in the forest a fox barked, like a bairn’s scream.

‘You could do all right out of this, Cam. You could join me. I’ll be going back, soon. Back to Rhin. You’ve a good head on your shoulders, and at a time like this there’s always need of those that can do our work.’ He waited for Camlin’s response.

‘And if I don’t . . .’ Camlin said.

‘Become chief here. For a while, at least. There should be easy pickings for a time, with both kings Brenin and Owain distracted. ’Course, once Rhin steps in, you’ll have to find a new trade. She’ll not have the likes of you roaming her land, takin’ what you want, when you want.’ He coughed, not quite a laugh. ‘Times are changing, Cam. You move with them, or get moved
by
them. We’ve been through a lot together, you an’ me. I’d be proud t’have you with me.’ He reached out and squeezed Camlin’s shoulder.

‘Huh,’ said Camlin, his mind racing, fighting the urge to shake Braith’s hand off him. He didn’t like this. The Darkwood life suited him. He had always had a chief, sure, but that was different to a king or queen pulling your strings. So that left staying in the Darkwood, becoming chief himself. He didn’t fancy that much, either – and it wasn’t exactly a long-term move, anyway, if what Braith was saying about Rhin was true. ‘So, what’s your plan, now, Braith?’ he asked, struggling to keep his voice expressionless.

‘The plan is to take the women across the river, to the village in the hills. From there deliver them to Rhin. Get paid.’ He shrugged. ‘After that, it’s up to you.’

‘So, why have you just not killed them? The women, I mean. Surely King Brenin’s wife and daughter dead in the glade would have been the quickest route to sparking a war.’

‘Rhin wants some leverage, some bargaining power, in case things don’t go her way. Whether they’re dead or not, Brenin’ll think Owain’s behind it, the red cloaks will make sure of that.’

‘Good,’ said Camlin vehemently. ‘I’ll not be part to the killing of women or bairns, Braith. I told you that back at Dun Carreg.’

‘Aye, you did.’

‘So, I’d not see any harm come to them.’

‘Let me make this clear to you, Cam,’ Braith said, an edge to his voice. ‘We’re part of something bigger here. Rhin’s champion – I’m not scared to hold up a blade ’gainst any man, but I’d not rush it with him. I’ve seen him destroy men.’ Braith stopped a moment, letting his words sink in. ‘From what I know, there’s no risk to any of them women, less they try t’run, or start screamin’ their lungs out. But my point is this, Cam. Right now you’re in no position to be giving out orders to anyone. Not yet. If you choose t’be chief, well an’ good. But right now, it’s Morcant that says what’s what around here, and after him, it’s me. Don’t go forgetting that.’

Camlin frowned in the darkness.

They said no more, and a short while later Camlin walked back to the camp. On the way he unclasped his red cloak and let it fall to the ground.

At dawn, Camlin stirred, grey light filtering hazily down to the forest floor. Mist swirled up from the stream in thick coils and crept amongst the forms of sleeping men.

He looked past the fire to the tree where the women were bound and saw the girl from the watering pool staring straight back at him, so he walked over to the captives.

‘I know you,’ the girl said as he drew close. He did not answer, just offered his water skin.

‘My hands,’ she said, raising an eyebrow.

Of course. All of the captives’ hands were bound tight, then bound again to each other and the trunk of the tree. He put the water skin to her lips. She pursed them a moment, eyes glaring at him. Looking closer he saw tear tracks streaked her grimy, bloodstained face.

‘Drink, girl. You’ll spite none but yourself.’

She glowered at him another moment, then opened her mouth and drank thirstily.

‘I know you,’ she said again when she had finished. ‘You’re not one of Owain or Uthan’s men.’

‘Best keep your observations to yourself,’ he said, moving on to the next girl, awake now too.

He gave water to all of them, finishing before the eldest. Alona, Queen of Ardan.

‘My thanks,’ she said after sipping at the water.

He grunted, stayed squatting beside her.

‘You must know, you will not get away with this,’ she said quietly.‘My husband, his anger will be great. But he would be grateful, generous to any that aided me . . . us,’ she said, her eyes flickering across the girls either side of her.

‘There’s nothing I can do, other’n give a lady a drink of water,’ he said.

‘And for that kindness I thank you,’ she smiled sadly.

‘You,’ a voice called out behind Camlin. ‘Step away.’

Camlin stood and saw Morcant striding towards him, two of his lads behind with spears in their hands. Braith followed.

‘What are you doing?’ Morcant snapped as he reached them.

‘Giving them a drink,’ Camlin said, holding up the water skin.

‘Why?’ Morcant asked, eyes narrowing.

‘Thought they might be thirsty.’ Camlin shrugged. ‘We’ve far to walk today.’

The rest of the crew were rising now. Camlin saw Cromhan wander closer, listening, Gochel setting off down the track to relieve whoever was on guard.

‘Well, you’ve done your deed, now. Get on with you.’

Camlin looked at Morcant and felt a spike of anger. ‘Last I remember,’ he said, ‘Braith was my chief.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Think I’ll be takin’ my orders from him.’ After Braith’s revelations, and the fresh sting of his betrayal, this youngster strutting about and acting the lordling was becoming difficult to bear.

Morcant’s hand twitched to his sword hilt.

‘Go on with you, Cam,’ said Braith, stepping close. They looked at each other, then Camlin nodded and walked away.