Malice

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CORBAN

It was still dark when Corban rose. He dressed quickly and made his way to the paddocks.

Gar was waiting as usual, sweat drying on him from whatever he had been doing. Corban nodded a greeting and began his routine, running around the paddock. Soon they moved inside the stables, Corban working at the exercises Gar had introduced him to.

For almost two ten-nights now this had been his morning routine, and he was starting to feel stronger, more flexible. Finally they moved into the intricate slow dance that Gar had taught him, progressing fluidly from one position to the next, holding a stance until his muscles trembled, burned, then moving to another. When they had finished, Corban wiping sweat from his forehead, Gar called him. He turned quickly, saw the stablemaster throw something to him. He flinched but instinctively held his hand out to catch it.

It was a practice sword.

Finally, he thought, breath catching in his throat.

A shadow of a smile flitted across the stablemaster’s face. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘let’s see what you can do.’

‘Are you ready?’ Corban asked, squaring up to Gar. The stablemaster just nodded, not even raising his weapon.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you,’ Corban said, grateful for the opportunity to show how good he was with a blade.

Weapon raised high and resisting the urge to shout a battle-cry, Corban threw himself at Gar. A flurry of motion followed and Corban found himself on the ground, straw poking up his nose and in his eyes, his knuckles stinging.

‘I must have tripped,’ he muttered as he rolled over, letting the stablemaster help him to his feet.

‘Clearly. Come now, let us try again,’ said Gar. ‘And please, go easy on me. I am not as young as I was, and my wound slows me.’

‘Of course,’ said Corban.

Three more times in quick succession Corban found himself face down in the straw, unable to figure out how he had arrived there. Gar leaned on his practice sword, chuckling. Corban felt a flash of anger and rose, scowling, but as he looked at Gar something inside him softened. The stablemaster seemed different. He realized he had never seen Gar laugh properly. It changed his face, taking away the sternness that was such a part of him.

‘So, my young swordsmaster. There may be a few things an old, broken warrior like me can still show?’

‘I think so,’ muttered Corban, ‘like how to stay on my feet.’

The glimmer of a smile, just a brief twitching at the corners of Gar’s mouth.

‘All right then. You remember the slow dance, as you call it. Its correct title is the sword dance. Each position is the first stance of a sword technique. Let us begin with the first one.’ The mask was back on, all signs of humour gone.

Corban listened avidly, soaking up all that Gar told him. They went through a series of moves based on the first stance of the dance, but this time with the sword in his hand. Then Corban hurried home to break his fast.

Only his da was home, and he would not say where Cywen and his mam were. Instead, he put Corban’s food on the table and told him to hurry, as there was something that he wanted Corban to see. Soon they were marching across Stonegate’s bridge, Buddai following at Thannon’s heels.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Corban, not really expecting an answer.

Thannon smiled at him. ‘Gar’s stallion has sired a foal, it was born this morning. A skewbald colt. He’s yours, if you want him.’

His da set a fast pace, and soon they were descending the winding road to Havan. White-tipped waves crashed against the shore beneath them. Corban could taste salt in the air, the wind snapping around him, bringing with it a taste of the sea far below. In the distance a line of riders moved along the giantsway, the smudge of Baglun Forest behind them.

‘The warband,’ Thannon said.

Corban felt a rush of excitement. So many. Something must have happened. He stood with his da and waited for the warband.

Marrock rode behind Pendathran, then the newcomers, Halion and Conall, and behind them a column of warriors. Near the centre of the procession walked a number of riderless horses, Corban counted a half-dozen, and then a wain pulled by two shaggy-haired ponies. Something was piled high inside the wain, covered with a sheet of ox-hides stitched together. A wheel hit a stone and a hand and arm slipped out from beneath the hide, skin pale, the nails black with dirt.