Malice

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CORBAN

Corban squinted as he looked up at the cloudless sky, the sun a pale, watery, distant thing.

It was cold; his skin felt tight. Snow was coming, thick, heavy clouds gathering on the horizon beyond the distant line of the coast and out over the iron-grey sea.

This was not the weather to be travelling in, but here he was, six nights out from Dun Carreg, riding on the giantsway with King Brenin at the head of their column.

They were heading for Badun, a fortress close to the stone circle, to witness the prophecy that Edana had told him of, when day becomes night. Apparently Rhin, Queen of Cambren, as well as the kings of Narvon and Domhain would be there, come at Brenin’s call to discuss the clearing of the Darkwood, along with other issues, all related somehow to the council in Tenebral that King Brenin had attended.

They had travelled east for five nights, skirting the surf-beaten coast of steep, sharp-faced cliffs and hidden coves. Today the road had veered southwards, passing around a treacherous space of marsh and bog. As the road sloped gently downwards Corban saw the fenland spread out before him, water sparkling in the weak sunlight like a huge dew-covered cobweb laid out upon the land, a hill and broken tower standing at its centre. He glanced to his side. Brina rode next to him, saying something unpleasant — if the expression on her face was anything to go by — to Heb the loremaster, who had ridden close to her since they had set out at daybreak.

There was a dark blur on the horizon.

‘What is that?’ Corban asked.

‘That is the Darkwood,’ said Heb.

The shadow that was the Darkwood stretched from the coast across the horizon as far as he could see. Braith is in there. And Camlin, if they made it, Corban thought, gazing at the distant forest.

Instinctively his eyes sought out Marrock and found him further up the grey-cloaked column, riding beside Halion and Conall. Not much further on, King Brenin rode at their head, the hulking forms of Pendathran and Tull flanking him, his daughter Edana just behind, shadowed by Ronan as always. ‘How does your wolven cope with our journey?’ Heb asked, pulling him out of his thoughts.

He glanced down at Storm, who loped alongside him, head down, muzzle close to the ground.

‘It has been no problem to her,’ Corban said. ‘I think she likes it.’

The wolven had run alongside him every day, matching their speed effortlessly; but that did not surprise him: she was still growing, her shoulders only a few handspans below his horse’s back. He leaned in his saddle, his fingertips just brushing the coarse hairs of her neck. He was glad of her company. The nights were cold, but he was sure that he was by far the warmest every night, with Storm curled up close to him.

He shivered and pulled his cloak tighter. When Princess Edana had first told of the journey to the stone circle, he had longed to go, and had not believed his good fortune when Brina had told him she required his assistance. He was not so sure now — six nights sleeping in the cold and days in the saddle had done much to erode his enthusiasm.

Still, they were close to their journey’s end, and he was beginning to feel that first excitement spark inside again.

His mother had not wanted him to go, had forbidden him, in fact, until Brina had spoken to her. Officially Brina was going because she was King Brenin’s most renowned healer, but Corban knew that she wanted to go, so that was that. And as her apprentice he would have to accompany her. Once Brina had spoken to his mam about it, then suddenly Gar had to go, to look after Brenin’s mount, but he suspected it was more about looking after him. At least Gar coming meant that Cywen did as well. She had looked as if she’d swallowed a bee when Corban told her he was going and she was not, but the stablemaster’s sudden decision had given her just the leverage she needed. Gar in turn had gathered stablehands for the trip, and Cywen had managed to have Dath included. To Corban it felt as if half of Dun Carreg was riding to Badun.

He glanced over his shoulder at Gar on his piebald stallion, but could not see Cywen or Dath amongst the press of warriors.

The day passed slowly, snow beginning to fall, and as dusk eventually spread around them the snow grew thicker, clinging insistently to the land. It grew darker and torches were lit, Brenin choosing to ride on as their destination was close.

Suddenly there was a call from the front of the column and the line halted. There were riders in the road ahead — two? huddled closely around Brenin.

They stood there a while, snow settling on Corban’s shoulders and the cold seeping through his cloak until the column lurched forwards. The riders fell in close to Corban. One was clearly a warrior, a scabbard poking out from under his cloak. Corban saw his face briefly in his cowl, pale, with dark, sunken eyes. The other appeared to be a woman, slighter of frame. Corban caught a hint of red hair in the torchlight.

Not long after, they saw lights in the distance. Badun, last dwelling within Ardan before the Darkwood and the Kingdom of Narvon.

‘No time for that,’ Gar said to Corban as he saw him reaching for a honey-cake. ‘You can break your fast later; I need another pair of hands. If Brina can do without you for a while?’

Brina snorted, waved a hand dismissively at Corban, and so he found himself trudging through the snow, following Gar’s limping gait, Storm leaving a trail of pawprints behind them.

The fortress of Badun had grown large because of its position guarding the giantsway that led through the Darkwood into the kingdoms of Narvon and Cambren beyond.

Dath and Cywen stood at the doors to a huge barn, filling buckets of water from a barrel. Cywen smiled at Corban as they drew near.

‘You have an audience,’ she said, looking over his shoulder.

A group of children had gathered and were following at a distance, pointing and whispering.

‘Not me. Storm,’ Corban said. People had grown accustomed to the wolven at Dun Carreg and Havan, but here was a different matter. It was only because he rode with the King that he had even been allowed to enter the fortress, many warriors scowling and making the sign against evil as he had passed through the gates. Not all thought it so terrible, including most of the children that lived at Badun, apparently.

‘You are making a name for yourself,’ commented Gar.

Corban shrugged and began helping Cywen.

The feast-hall was emptying when Corban arrived with his sister. But close to the firepit sat the Princess, Ronan filling a plate for her. Edana beckoned to them.

‘I’ll get yours,’ Ronan said, smiling at Cywen.

‘Father’s grumpy,’ Edana said, nodding towards a corner of the hall. King Brenin stood with a small group of men: Tull and Pendathran were there, along with Evnis and Vonn. Corban had been thankful to see little of the counsellor’s son since that day in the paddock, when Helfach’s hound had been killed. Brenin was talking to a tall, blond-haired man, his long warrior braid touched with silver. He had an open, likeable face, and was smiling at the King.

‘Is that. .’

‘Gethin,’ said Edana, nodding.

Corban frowned. Gethin was Lord of Badun, but he was also Evnis’ elder brother, and so Corban automatically disliked him regardless of his appearance.

Ronan put a bowl of porridge in front of Corban, berries and cream for Edana and a plate of hot oatcakes, bacon and thick-buttered bread before Cywen. Corban looked between his bowl and the other bounty on offer, frowned. Cywen smiled a thank you at Ronan.

‘King Owain is here,’ Edana said quietly, ‘with his son, Uthan. The others haven’t arrived yet.’

‘But Midwinter’s Day is tomorrow,’ said Cywen.

The Princess nodded. ‘That’s why Father is grumpy. He thinks Rhin plays games with him, though King Eremon has not arrived either. But he has much further to travel, all the way from Domhain, beyond Narvon and Cambren. And he is ancient, apparently.’

‘Do you think they’ll agree?’ Cywen said. ‘To your father’s plan?’

‘I don’t know.’ Edana shrugged. ‘Owain should, as Braith raids his borders too, but he often likes to disagree with Father just for the sake of disagreeing. As for the others: Rhin and Eremon have less cause to commit to clearing the Darkwood. After all, Braith does not raid their lands.’

‘There is more to it all than clearing the Darkwood, though, isn’t there?’ Cywen said. ‘This prophecy. .’

Edana nodded. ‘Father said that day will become night, at highsun tomorrow, whatever that means. I cannot imagine such a thing.’ She toyed with a spoonfull of berries on her plate. ‘It is supposed to signify something about a war between Elyon and Asroth, about it being fought here in the Banished Lands.’

‘Who are they?’ Cywen whispered.

Two figures had entered the hall, those that had joined them on the roadside. The man was young, pale-faced, dark rings under his eyes, a warrior braid in his hair. His eyes read the room as he ushered his companion to sit — an older woman, red-haired with streaks of grey.

‘I’m not sure who they are. I asked Father, but he wouldn’t tell me.’ Edana ducked her head closer, conspiratorially. ‘I think they asked Father for Sanctuary.’

If these two had come to King Brenin seeking Sanctuary, they would not be the first to be drawn by his reputation. Halion had told him that he and his brother had done the same. The weapons-master had been most tight mouthed, though, about what exactly they were running from.

‘So, we must wait and see if Rhin and Eremon arrive, if your father’s hopes are to succeed.’ He pushed cold porridge round his bowl.

‘Aye,’ muttered Ronan.

‘Much depends on them,’ Edana said.

A column of riders filed out of the Darkwood; Corban counted some four score as he stood on the wooden palisade that ringed Badun.

‘There’s Queen Rhin,’ Edana said, pointing, as they drew nearer to the town’s open gates. ‘There, with the white hair.’

Rhin rode close to the front, a half-dozen warriors before her, tall spears couched upright in their saddles. A warrior rode beside her, young, handsome, exuding confidence. He laughed as the Queen commented on something, more akin to a courtier on an excursion, than guard to the Queen of Cambren. ‘I don’t see King Eremon,’ Edana muttered.

‘He is not come, but he sends others in his place,’ Ronan said. ‘Those on the grass — they wear the green of Domhain.’

The rider at the front of the group, cantering ahead of the others, was old, grey hair streaming behind him. He did not wear the torc of a king about his neck, only a thin band of twisted silver around his arm. As Corban watched one of the riders with him lifted a banner bearing the outlines of black wolves on a red field.

‘Rath,’ Ronan breathed.

Corban had heard of the old warrior, battlechief once to Eremon. Giants had raided out of the north, slain all in his hold. Rath had sworn vengeance, pledged himself to the defence of Domhain’s northern border, so that he might have more chance to avenge himself on the giants who had slain his kin. If the tales were true the old warrior had fulfilled his oath many times over.

The men that rode with him, the Degad, were as famous for their prowess as he — rumoured to be as fierce and savage as the giants they hunted.

Rhin looked up as she reached the walls, a faint smile visible as she passed from view.