Malice (8 page)

‘What am I going to do?’ he whispered. ‘You’d eat me, even if I could get you out.’ The beast stared back with its copper eyes.

He looked about, picked up a long branch, thrust it at the ground before his feet and began tentatively to edge his way forwards, Willow watching disapprovingly. Suddenly the branch disappeared into the ground, his left leg sinking up to the knee before he could stop. He knew a moment of panic, tried to pull out and felt the mud firm up around his leg, gripping him in an airless embrace. He shifted his weight and leaned back, slowly freeing his leg, which was covered in viscous black mud. He fell backwards.

Slick with sweat, he just lay there a moment. There was a gurgling sound and he looked up, saw the wolven sink deeper. He stood up and strode back to Willow, suddenly knowing what he must do, at the same time knowing it was foolish. He patted Willow, the pony’s eyes rolling white. She was close to flight. When she had calmed a little he pulled Gar’s rope out of the saddlebag and tied one end to his saddle, slowly coaxing the pony to walk closer to the sinking mud. He looped the other end of the rope as Cywen had taught him and cast it towards the beast. His second attempt fell across the animal’s head and shoulder. Gently he lifted the rope and slowly, ever so slowly, he began to pull. The rope tightened and held fast. Corban led the pony away from the bog. The rope creaked, shuddering under the strain as Willow took up the slack. The wolven whined, snapping at the air as the rope bit into its skin, then with a great sucking sound it began to pull free of the mud. Willow took a step forward, then another . . . and within moments the creature was lying on its side at the edge of the bog, panting and slick with mud. It staggered to its feet, head bowed.

Corban could not help but marvel at it, even in its bedraggled state. It stood not much shorter than Willow, its coat a dull grey, streaked with bone white stripes. Slowly it raised its head, its jaws snapping as it sliced through the rope about it. Then it howled. Willow neighed, reared and bolted. Corban wanted to move but could not, his eyes fixed on the wolven’s long, curved canines.

Then Corban was aware of movement, a presence around him, of deeper shadows pacing. Eyes gleamed out of the darkness, many eyes.

Its pack has come. I’m dead
, he thought. Before him, slow and deliberate, the wolven he had saved padded towards him, thick muscles bunching about its neck and shoulders. Its belly swayed from side to side, full and heavy.

‘You’re in pup,’ he whispered.

It circled him, stopped in front of him, copper eyes locking with his, then took in a great sniff and pressed its muzzle into his groin, snuffling. He resisted the urge to leap back, knew his life hung on a thread. The beast lifted its head, still sniffing, tracing his abdomen, his neck, his jaw. Hot breath washed over him, the scent of damp fur heavy in his throat. The wolven’s muzzle pushed against his skin, its teeth cold, hard. Corban felt his bladder loosen. Then the beast took a step back, turned and bounded away, disappearing into the darkness of the forest.

The eyes in the shadows faded and Corban let out a huge breath, slumping to the ground.

What have I just done?

He lay upon the damp ground awhile, waiting for his racing heart to calm, then he rose and walked away from the bog. The forest looked different now, darker. It was difficult going, constantly having to focus on the ground in front of him to avoid tripping in the dense vines that carpeted the forest floor. Some time had passed before he realized he had not seen any of the small streams that he had crossed earlier. He stamped his foot on the ground, which was no longer spongy, but hard under the forest litter.

‘Oh no.’ Frantically he looked around, searching for some familiar sign, but recognized nothing. Diffuse sunlight filtered through the treetops, giving no glimpse of where the sun lay in the sky. With a deep breath he began walking again.
Just have to keep going
, he thought.
Look for a stream that will take me back
. He shuddered, trying to control the panic starting to bubble inside him. He knew full well that he stood little chance of surviving a night in the forest, and to find his way out he had to think clearly.
Just keep walking
, he told himself,
and hope I’m not travelling deeper into the forest
. He quickened his pace, glancing constantly back and forth between the floor at his feet and his chosen path.

His feet were sore, toes numb when he finally stopped. It seemed that he had been walking for an age, and still no sign of a stream. Looking around, he selected a tall elm, then began to climb. The higher he got, the thinner and wider apart the branches became. He reached a point where even balancing on the tips of his toes he could not reach the next branch above. If I can just reach the top I should be able to see Dun Carreg. Then at least I’ll know if I’m walking in the right direction. Desperation fuelling him, he crouched slightly and jumped. Both hands gripped the branch he was aiming for and he hung there a moment, suspended, swinging slightly as the tree’s limb flexed. Then one of his hands slipped. He windmilled wildly, desperately clinging on, then he was falling. After colliding with a number of branches, he blacked out, to find himself in a heap on the forest floor. He sat up, groaning and then heard a faint sound. It was distant, but the forest was mostly silent, not even a breeze rustling the trees. He strained, almost certain he could hear a voice, someone calling. He jumped up, forgetting his exhaustion and ran. When he stopped there was silence for a moment, then he heard the voice again, much closer now. It was calling his name.

‘
HELLO!
’ he called back, cupping his hands to his mouth. He set off again, calling. Soon he saw a tall figure step from behind a tree, leading two horses, a large piebald and a pony. The figure limped.

‘Gar,’ cried Corban, running wildly now, tears streaming down his face as he threw himself onto the stablemaster. At first the dark-haired man stood there, still as a statue. Then, stiffly, he put his arms about the boy and patted his back.

‘What are you doing here?’ Corban asked shakily.

‘Looking for you, of course, you idiot. Willow knows his way home, even if you don’t,’ replied Gar, stepping back to look at Corban. ‘What has happened to you? You looked bad enough when I saw you last, but now . . .’

Corban looked down at himself, covered in mud and leaves, with scrapes on his skin and holes in his cloak and breeches.

‘I was . . .’ Corban paused, knowing how stupid he was about to sound. ‘I just wanted some quiet, to be alone . . .’ he said sheepishly, looking at the floor. ‘I got lost.’ The look on Gar’s face convinced him that this would not be a wise time to mention the wolven.

The stablemaster looked at the bedraggled boy in front of him, took a sniff, and sighed deeply.

‘You can thank your sister. She insisted I come and find you when Dath told her about Rafe.’

‘Oh. She knows,’ said Corban, shoulders sinking.

‘Aye, lad, but never mind that now, let’s get you home. If you can keep up with me we should still be able to get back for the hand-binding. At least that way I won’t have saved you just for your mam to kill you.’

‘I think she’s going to kill me anyway,’ Corban said, looking at his torn and tattered cloak.

‘Well, let’s go and find out,’ said Gar, turning his horse and walking away.

CHAPTER SIX

VERADIS

Veradis flexed his shoulders, trying to readjust his chainmail shirt. His skin was chafed raw even through the linen tunic underneath, made worse by the rhythm of his horse as he rode a dozen paces behind Nathair.

Should have worn it more often
, he thought, but he had felt uncomfortable. Only a handful of warriors had owned chainmail shirts in Ripa: his brother Krelis of course, as well as his father. Also Alben, the fortress’ weapons-master, and two or three of the local barons’ sons. The few times he
had
worn it in public he had felt different, set apart, and he’d had more than enough of that feeling already, without adding to it. So the chainmail shirt had remained boxed in his room for the most part.

Nevertheless, he treasured it. Mostly because Krelis had given it to him after his Long Night, the final seal on his warrior trial, when he had passed from boy to man, but also because of the truth in what his brother had told him.
Leather may turn a weak or glancing blow, but this will turn a strong one. Treat it like a good friend
. And he had, taking it out every night from a wooden chest, oiling it, scouring it, then folding and putting it away again.

Aquilus had granted Nathair’s request, allowing him to lead the warband sent to interrupt Lykos’ meeting, the self-proclaimed king of the corsairs. So Veradis had only slept two nights in Jerolin before climbing back into his saddle again.

He glanced over his shoulder. He was riding near the head of a short column, three abreast, around four score of them, though only half of that number were Nathair’s own recruits in his fledgling warband. The others were picked from Aquilus’ eagle-guard, insisted upon by Fidele, Nathair’s mother.

Either side of him rode Nathair’s followers: Rauca on his left, the third son of a local baron, likeable, easy natured and quick in the weapons court; on the other side Bos, son of one of Aquilus’ eagle-guard. He was thick necked, broad shouldered, with arms like knotted oak.

They had made good time travelling south of Jerolin, passing through leagues of undulating meadow splashed with patches of open woodland, and now, three nights out, Veradis spied the mountains that roughly marked the halfway point of their journey, rearing out of the land like the curved spine of a withered, crippled old man.

‘Veradis,’ Nathair called from up ahead.

Veradis touched his heels to his stallion’s ribs and drew alongside Nathair.

‘We have not yet had the conversation that I promised you,’ Nathair said, glancing at Veradis with an easy smile.

‘You have been busy, my lord,’ Veradis said.

‘Ah ah, none of that “
my lord
” talk. Remember what I told you?’

‘Apologies, my lo—’ Veradis began, then closed his mouth.

Nathair chuckled. ‘I am glad to have you in my warband. There are not many of us yet, but it shall grow.’

‘Aye.’

‘And you, I hear, are the most skilled swordsman ever to come out of Ripa. A most welcome member to my warband.’

Veradis snorted. ‘Who . . .?’

‘Your brother. I spoke with him briefly, before he left. He spoke very highly of you, and of your skills.’

‘Oh,’ Veradis breathed, a smile touching his mouth.

‘Your father must be very proud.’ Nathair said.

‘Huh,’ Veradis grunted. He opened his mouth but could think of nothing to say. ‘Aye,’ he eventually mumbled.

‘Krelis. He is well liked. Has it been
difficult
, growing up in his shadow?’

Veradis frowned, but said nothing.

‘Forgive me if I pry,’ Nathair said, ‘only, it is a subject of interest to me.’

Veradis shrugged. In truth it had been, especially as his father only ever seemed to have eyes, praise, for Krelis. His other brother Ektor had never seemed to care, being content with his books, but Veradis had felt it like a thin sliver of iron working its way deeper and deeper into his flesh. But he loved Krelis, rarely resented him for it, and then only for a passing moment. If anyone were at fault, it was his father. He shrugged again. ‘Sometimes,’ he said.

‘I know something of what it is like, growing up in another’s shadow,’ Nathair said quietly.

Looking at the Prince, Veradis noticed his eyes were bloodshot, dark circles beneath them. ‘Are you well?’ he asked.

‘What? Oh, it’s nothing,’ Nathair said. ‘I did not sleep well, that’s all. Bad dreams.’

They rode together in silence for a while, winding their way through open woods, white campion dotting the ground about them. A handful of woodlarks burst from branches ahead and above, startled by their passing.

‘Did you see the riders that left Jerolin before us?’ the Prince suddenly asked.

‘Aye. I did.’ Over a score of warriors had left the fortress on the day Veradis had been preparing for this journey, all with extra horses, well-provisioned for long journeys. ‘I thought perhaps it was something to do with the return of Meical – he is your father’s counsellor, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, he did play a part.’ The Prince scowled a moment, then carried on. ‘The riders are messengers. My father is calling a council, summoning all of the kings throughout the Banished Lands.’

‘
All
of them?’

‘Aye. A messenger has been sent to the king of every realm.’

‘Why?’

‘Ah. Of that I should not speak, not yet. It is for my father to tell, at the council.’

‘Will they come, the kings of every realm?’

‘They should, my father is high king,’ Nathair said.

‘Perhaps,’ Veradis pulled a face. Aquilus
was
high king, though more in name than deed. Generations gone, when the Exiles had washed ashore and begun their war against the giant clans, there had been but one king, Sokar, and after the giants had been thrown down and the Banished Lands populated by men, all had bowed to him. But that had been a long time ago; new realms had grown, and now there were many kings in the Banished Lands, though they all still recognized the sovereignty of Tenebral’s master, descended from their first king. In theory, at least.