Malice

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CORBAN

Corban rested a hand over his eyes, shielding them from the sun as he gazed back towards the river Tarin, where he knew his da was standing before the gathered hunters of Dun Carreg.

Corban was about half a league from where the hunt was gathering, other boys near him arranged in a long, stretched-out line, facing the forest. All of them had entered the Rowan Field but were not of an age to attempt their warrior trials.

Their task was to flush or beat the game into the path of those come to hunt. Drifting in the wind he heard the single blast of a horn, then a distant roar. His heart leaped — the hunt had begun. With a jerk he jumped forwards, seeing the beaters’ line lurch towards the forest. They reached the first trees and started banging their wooden rods together. The noise was immense. Distantly Corban heard an answering echo, the beaters on the other side of the hunters, then he was amongst the trees, the boys on either side of him flickering in and out of view.

Walk slowly, keep beating. It was easier said than done, but nevertheless, slowly, step by step, he made his way deeper into the Baglun, beating his rods together as much as possible. In a short time the line of beaters became separated by trees and undergrowth.

Some time later his belly rumbled. How long had he been walking and beating now? One thing he had learned about the forest was that time passed very quickly once you were inside it. He looked around, searching for somewhere to sit and eat. He heard the clacking of sticks, somewhere off to his right.

‘Farrell,’ he called out to a boy who had been nearest as he’d entered the Baglun, not wanting to eat on his own.

‘Aye,’ came the response, closer than he expected.

‘Over here.’ He moved in the direction of the voice. Soon they found each other.

‘Hungry?’ asked Corban.

‘Starved,’ said Farrell, the son of Anwarth, whom many called coward. Farrell was tall, broad and thick limbed, a shock of spiky brown hair framing a handsome, though sullen face. Corban had seen him in the Rowan Field, wielding a practice sword like a hammer.

He sat on a flat, moss-covered stone, Corban with his back to a thick-trunked tree.

‘Bored yet?’ asked Farrell through a mouthful of bread and cheese.

‘No. I like being in the Baglun. But how long till we turn back?’ Corban asked.

‘Oh, we’ll hear the horns. Why don’t we walk together? Line’s broken anyhow, and one of us could beat while the other uses both hands to make a path. Less blood for the thorns.’

‘Makes sense,’ said Corban with a grin, and they set off soon after. Corban took the lead, Farrell behind him. He saw deer tracks in soft earth near a stream, and further on the marks of something larger, but he could not tell what. Wolf maybe. He looked around, suddenly wary.

Deeper than I’ve ever been before, even when I got lost, Corban thought. Still, he was not alone this time; Farrell had done this before, and soon he switched with him. They came to a small stream cutting across their path. They jumped across, then Farrell pulled to a sudden stop and Corban ploughed into his back.

‘What’s wrong. .’ Corban began, then a low, deep growl silenced him.

Farrell took a step backwards, turned and bolted into the thicket, heedless of the thorns. ‘Come on!’ he yelled at Corban, grabbing his shirt and pulling. Corban staggered back and became tangled in the thorns as Farrell lost his grip. Then Farrell was splashing through a stream, leaving Corban snared, staring at what Farrell was running from.

Wolven. Half a dozen at least were in the glade before him, snarling at him, baring dagger-long teeth. Each was easily as big as a pony. One of them growled.

Terror, mind-numbing, icy-cold terror, flooded him. He opened his mouth to scream, to call for help, but nothing came out. In the distance a horn called. Hounds bayed in answer, closer.

Behind him he heard movement, felt a presence. Farrell had come back.

‘You should have kept running,’ Corban whispered.

‘What — you stand while I run? Don’t think so. I’ll not be called coward.’

‘Better than dying.’

‘Not to me.’

Before them was a small clearing, bordered heavily with thorn bushes and densely packed trees. In the centre of the glade reared the wide trunk of an ancient tree, in and about which were the wolven. Most were pacing, agitated by the sounds of the hunt, ears flat to their skulls, twitching. One was still. All were staring at him with their copper eyes. Then Corban saw movement on the ground.

Cubs.

On the forest litter, gathered together between two widespread roots, squirmed a handful of cubs. Above them stood their mother, her belly still loose, coat dull grey and striped bone white, teeth dripping saliva as she snarled at him. He looked into her copper eyes and remembered — although then she had been covered with thick black mud, and her belly had been swollen, heavy with pup. She was the wolven he had dragged from the bog. She took in a deep, long sniff, holding his scent.

Another wolven, huge and black, snarled and took a step towards Corban. Muscles bunched as it prepared to spring, but the she-wolven snapped at it, a short, staccato bark.

Corban’s eyes remained locked with the wolven standing over the cubs. Then the trees opposite exploded as hounds, men and horses poured into the clearing. Corban saw Evnis, tall on his horse, a heavy spear in his hand. Behind him rode his son. Next came Helfach the huntsman, his hounds about him. Warriors followed them: ten, fifteen — more pouring in all the time.

There was a single moment of stillness, then the wolven threw themselves at the intruders, meeting Helfach’s hounds with a snarling collision of flesh and bone.

There was blood everywhere. Corban saw a hound thrown through the air to crash against a tree, the sound of bones snapping as it slid lifelessly down the trunk. A wolven wrestled a horse to the ground, jaws clamped around its throat. Spears punctured the beast’s side, the rider screaming as his horse collapsed on him, its eyes bulging white. Elsewhere a wolven stood over a warrior’s body, canines dripping red, the man’s face and throat a red ruin. Hounds circled another of the great beasts, snapping at its hindquarters. One jumped in, squat and grey, clamping its jaws around the wolven’s throat. Razor-sharp claws opened the hound’s belly, spilling its guts. Other hounds leaped in and the wolven sank to the ground, snapping, twisting, biting, taking life even as its own bled into the forest floor. A man screamed, a wolven biting into his arm and shoulder, blood spurting as he fell, the wolven on top of him, shaking his body like a rag doll. Helfach leaped upon its back, a long hunting knife rising and falling.

Then, suddenly, it was over, the sound of a man groaning, a dog whining, everyone taking deep, ragged breaths. Evnis slid from his horse and ran to the fallen rider, still pinned beneath his dead horse. It was Vonn.

‘No,’ mumbled Evnis as he cradled his son’s head in his lap, the face pale, eyes closed. ‘I will not lose another. Come, help me.’ Men around him lurched into life to drag Vonn’s body from beneath the horse’s carcass, his leg broken.

‘There’s another,’ cried a man, and all heads turned to look where he was pointing. In between two thick roots of a tree, crouched amongst the leaves of the forest, was the last wolven. She crouched over her cubs, almost blending with the foliage around her. With a snarl, Evnis flew back into his saddle, taking up his spear, and threw his horse towards the beast. She growled and stood, then bunched her legs and sprang at the onrushing horse and rider. Her growl suddenly became a whine as Evnis’ spear pierced her, pinning her to the ground. She spasmed and then lay still. Evnis continued his charge, guiding his horse towards the huddle of cubs, trampling them, fur and blood flying around his horse’s hooves, squeals and yelps cut sickeningly short. He reached the far end of the clearing and turned his horse.

Then others were entering the clearing: Corban saw Pendathran, Marrock, many others. Amongst the matted fur that had been the wolven cubs a flicker of movement drew his eye. Before he even realized what he was doing, Corban’s feet were moving. He staggered over to the base of the tree. One cub still lived, nuzzling feebly at the body of one of the other dead pups. Instinctively Corban swept it up, cradling it like a newborn child.

Then he looked around.

All eyes were upon him. Eventually his gaze fell on Evnis, who was staring at him, his eyes narrowed.

‘Put it down, boy,’ he said quietly, though all in the glade heard him.

Corban said nothing.

‘Put the cub DOWN!’ shouted Evnis.

‘No,’ Corban heard himself say.

Evnis breathed deeply, closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Put the cub on the ground and move away, or so help me, by Elyon above and Asroth below, I shall ride you down as well.’

Corban saw movement out of the corner of his eye. A man had taken a step towards him. Gar.

Evnis clenched his reins.

‘HOLD!’ shouted a loud voice. ‘Hold, Evnis.’ It was Pendathran.

‘But these beasts may have taken my son from me. That cub must die.’

Pendathran frowned at Corban. ‘He speaks true, boy. Let it live and it will grow, maybe take more lives amongst our people. Besides, its mother is dead. It is going to die anyway. Put the cub down, lad.’

Corban hugged the cub closer to him and shook his head.

‘Do as you’re told,’ Pendathran snapped.

Corban looked frantically around the glade, but no one spoke or came to his aid. Gar watched him, his face an unreadable mask, but made no move to help. Pendathran clicked his horse forward.

‘I claim King’s Justice,’ Corban blurted, looking defiantly between Pendathran and Evnis.

Pendathran pulled his horse up, scowling. ‘You have the right, but you are only delaying the inevitable. And angering me into the bargain.’ He pinned Corban with a glowering look. ‘Are you sure?’

Corban nodded.

‘So be it,’ Pendathran growled and turned his horse away. Evnis rode back to his son, staring at Corban all the way. The wolven cub whimpered and nuzzled its nose into the crook of Corban’s arm.