Malice

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CORBAN

Corban clung to Gar as they rode down the giantsway. He could hear more than he could see, as his face was filled with the stablemaster’s billowing cloak. An orange glow flickered about them, light from the torches that many had lit on the way to Darol’s hold, but nevertheless the journey in the dark was slow and tedious and he had no way of knowing how much longer it would take them to reach the stockade, for the company rode in grim silence. All he could hear was the thud of hooves on the ancient road. Still, at least I’m here, he thought, remembering how he had pleaded with Gar to take him.

‘How far?’ he said into Gar’s back, not for the first time, but the stablemaster was silent. He repeated himself, a little louder.

‘Not long,’ Gar grunted, ‘and I swear, if you ask me that question again, I shall throw you from my horse.’

Corban pulled a sour face but chose to say nothing. Dylan’s face flashed into his mind again, where it had been almost permanently since he had seen the hold burning. Many had run to the stables at Gar’s call, and Corban was riding in a party at least two score strong, including Brenin the King. He sighed and clung tighter to Gar.

After what seemed an eternity he felt Gar’s piebald, Hammer, turn and begin to climb a slope. They had arrived. The sky around him grew lighter, and at first he thought that dawn had crept up unannounced, but then he heard the crackling of flames, smelt the smoke and realized that the light was from Darol’s hold, burning.

The riders pulled to a halt and Corban slipped off, gasping as he looked around. Tongues of flame licked the stockade walls, curling into the dark sky above. A dark hole gaped amidst the flames, billows of black smoke issuing from the open gateway.

Brenin marched up the remainder of the hill, shieldmen rushing to form a half-circle before him.

‘Try not to call attention to yourself, you’re not supposed to be here,’ Gar whispered. Corban nodded, knowing that only those who had come through their warrior trials and the Long Night should have ridden with the King. Not even the likes of Rafe, who now trained in the Rowan Field, had been permitted to join them.

Clouds of smoke enveloped him as he stepped through the open gateway. Mingled with the smell of burning wood was a sweeter, sicklier scent that stuck at the back of his throat. Buildings within the stockade were not burning as fiercely, little left of them but charred beams where the feast-hall and stables had once been.

Brenin knelt in the middle of the yard, a handful of warriors about him. Then the King stood and strode on. Corban sidled forward to see what had held Brenin’s attention.

A figure lay on the floor. It was Darol. A dark stain spread around his stomach. His fingers, bloody and twisted, were fixed in the earth, grasping, gouging.

There was a call from up ahead. A warrior was standing next to a black mound in what had been the feast-hall, prising it apart with the butt end of his spear. Someone else went to help, one of the brothers that had ridden into the village the night before, then others were crowding round, obscuring Corban’s view. He forgot about not calling attention to himself, and shoved his way through the massed warriors until he stood starring at the dissected mound, his boots blackened with soft ash.

On the ground before him were figures, black and twisted from the fire. The smell hit Corban like a blow and snatched his breath away, stomach lurching. He counted five, all of them burned beyond recognition, one much smaller than the rest: Frith. He couldn’t tell which one was Dylan, but he knew his friend was there. His stomach lurched again and tears sprang to his eyes. He rubbed them away, dimly aware he was standing amidst the pride of Dun Carreg’s warriors. He turned and stumbled away, falling to his knees, and vomited onto the ash-covered yard.

A hand rested on his shoulder. He blinked away stinging tears and saw Thannon. His da lifted him effortlessly from the ground. ‘You shouldn’t be here, Ban,’ he growled.

‘Dylan. .’ Corban mumbled, then Thannon pulled him close. He couldn’t seem to stop his shoulders shaking. They stood like that a while, warriors moving about the enclosure, sifting through the ash. Eventually Corban pulled away. Gar joined them as Corban rubbed his eyes, smearing ash across his face.

‘Brenin has just sent people to scout around the hill, see if they can find any clues as to what happened here.’

‘What do you think happened?’ Corban asked.

‘Blood-feud or thievery, what else?’ growled Thannon.

‘My guess is lawless men,’ said Gar. ‘There have been rumours that some of Braith’s outlaw band from the Darkwood have travelled east, burning and thieving on their way. The Baglun is not as large as the Darkwood, but it is still a tempting place for them to dwell.’

‘Apart from the wolven, and being so close to Brenin,’ said Thannon.

Gar shrugged. ‘There are wolven in the Darkwood too. Do you think this is the result of a blood-feud? Do you think Darol had enemies that would do this?’

Thannon sighed, shaking his head. ‘Just don’t like the thought of it: lawless men so close to home.’

Noise drifted up from beyond the gates. A string of wains had arrived, filled with people from the village and fortress. Many were carrying tools of some description, from buckets to shovels. Corban spotted his mam and sister hurrying up the hill towards them. Gwenith ran to him and took his hand.

‘Dylan’s dead. .’ he mumbled, feeling a lump swell in his throat, fresh tears forming. Gwenith tried to pull him into an embrace as villagers passed them by, but he stepped away.

The newly arrived villagers set to work, pilling up charred timber, shovelling ash, sifting through the debris. The rest of the morning passed quickly. Corban climbed onto the back of Gar’s piebald again and went with the stablemaster to the river, where many were already hard at work, including Brenin. They tore down Darol’s salmon traps and piled wains high with rocks from the riverbed to build a cairn.

Back at the stockade the stones were unloaded from the wains, a large stone cairn built around the bodies of Darol and his family on the brow of the hill. The final stones were laid in place as the sinking sun began to melt into the horizon. Then Brenin stepped forward.

‘Most here knew Darol and his family. They were good people, they and their children. Lawless men struck here last night.’ He beckoned to Marrock.

‘We found two sets of tracks,’ the huntsman said, ‘one set coming from the forest, one set returning, about a dozen horses strong. Some climbed the wall and opened the gate for the others, I believe. Darol heard and came out and was slain. The others were killed inside the feast-hall. We followed their trail a way into the Baglun before it disappeared.’ He grimaced and beckoned to the crowd. One of the brothers that Corban had met on the road the night before, the older, sterner one, stepped forward.

‘Halion found this.’ Marrock nodded to the man, who held his arm out, showing them a pearl necklace that Corban had seen worn by Elin, Dylan’s sister.

Brenin drew his sword. ‘A dark thing has been done here,’ he growled. ‘This I pledge: I will not allow thieves and murderers to do as they please in Ardan, let alone on my very doorstep. Darol and his family will have justice. Blood will be shed by the guilty; I swear it on my father’s sword, and seal it with my blood.’ He clenched his fist around the blade, a thin red line running down its edge, then slammed the sword back into its scabbard.

The next morning, Corban woke and for a moment felt normal, then the weight of memory fell upon him. Dylan. The fire. Tears formed in his eyes and he would have turned over and tried to sleep again but Gwenith must have heard him moving, for she bustled into his room and pulled his blanket off. She sat beside him, running her fingers through his hair, leaned over and gently kissed his cheek. ‘Come and break your fast.’

Corban picked at a honey-cake and a mug of milk for a while. ‘Where’s Cywen?’ he asked.

‘At the stables with Gar.’ His mam looked at him out of the corner of her eye. ‘Your da said he needs you in the forge today.’

Corban stood with a sigh. ‘I’ll go and find him.’

Thannon told him that he was not needed until highsun. Corban made for Dath’s home. Bethan answered when he knocked.

‘Dath’s out with Da,’ she said.

‘Huh,’ he muttered, shuffling his feet.

‘They sailed with the tide, just after sun-up,’ Bethan offered.

‘Oh,’ said Corban, and began to walk away.

‘Corban,’ she called after him, ‘you were close, to Darol’s family, weren’t you?’

‘I was.’

She took a step closer and squeezed his hand. ‘Brenin will catch them,’ she said.

With a sigh he walked away.

The meadow that had been so full of people and noise two days before was almost empty. Corban saw a tall figure with a large hound on the far side of the meadow, loading up a wain.

Talar’s ears pricked forward as Corban ran over to Ventos, who was hefting a large sheepskin bundle.

‘You’re going, then,’ Corban said.

‘Aye, lad, I have goods to sell. I hope to have travelled most of Ardan before midsummer. A sad business yesterday. You knew the family well?’

‘Aye. Especially Dylan. Darol’s son.’ His eyes misted. ‘Thank you for helping.’

‘This is a good place,’ Ventos grunted. ‘Good people. It’s not everywhere in the Banished Lands that you would see so many help as they did yesterday.’

‘Murder does not happen, here,’ Corban mumbled. He had heard of the crimes of lawless men, knew that holds had been torched closer to the Darkwood, but living at the fortress, things like that were always a tale, something never seen.

Ventos nodded. ‘You have a good king, keeping such things at bay. Much worse happens elsewhere. I do not doubt he will catch and judge those that committed this crime. Come, help me finish loading.’ He wiped sweat from his face.

After they had piled up the wain, the trader climbed into the bench seat at the front. A sturdy-looking pony was harnessed to the wain, and another, heavily loaded, was roped to the tailgate.

‘Stay clear of the Baglun,’ Corban said as the trader picked up his driving reins.

‘Don’t fear for me, lad; I have Talar to look after me.’ He cracked the reins and the pony pulled away, Ventos flashing a wide smile and waving as he rode towards the giantsway, Talar trotting steadily alongside. Corban stood watching as the trader disappeared into the horizon. Then he looked up at the sun and cursed, breaking into a run towards the fortress.

Buddai raised his head to look at Corban as he ran up, jumped over the hound and through the forge’s doorway. He leaned against the timber frame and drank great gulps of air, chest rising and falling much like the bellows being pumped by Thannon’s hand.

‘You’re late,’ his da said, the glow of the furnace illuminating him in a stark contrast of shadow and light. He was stripped to the waist, an auroch-hide apron covering his bull chest and stomach. The smell of burning hair lingered in the air, where sparks had leaped from his hammer and singed either his beard or thick forearms.

‘Sorry, Da,’ Corban managed in between ragged breaths.

‘No matter. Although a man should do as he says,’ Thannon said with a stern look. ‘I need you to strike for me. Torin has asked for half a dozen scythes.’ He looked at Corban, who was still leaning against the doorframe. ‘Now, lad. We have to draw this iron out before it cools.’

Corban slipped his pitted leather apron on and took the hammer that Thannon was waving at him. A thick length of iron was held in long tongs on the anvil, glowing white hot, a dark honeycomb running through it. Corban knew what to do, and the hammer began to ring as he beat the metal, incandescent sparks flying as impurities were slowly coaxed and beaten from the iron.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of heat and ringing noise, and occasionally frozen moments of the previous day would form in his mind. It was a shock when he found his raised arm enveloped by Thannon’s huge paw of a hand.

‘Ban, we’re finished for the day,’ his da was saying, looking at him with a worried expression. Corban blinked, hung the hammer with the other tools and began to rake out the furnace, banking the day’s half-burned charcoal around the edges.

As the two of them left the forge, the cool air of early evening making Corban’s sweaty skin tingle, a horse and rider clattered up the cobbled path that led towards the fortress’ stables. On the rider’s shield was an emblem Corban had never seen before.

A white eagle on a black field.