Malice

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CORBAN

The year 1141 of the Age of Exiles, Hound’s Moon

‘That’s it!’ Corban yelled. ‘Nicely done, Dath. Now take the fight to her.’

Corban was standing in his garden with his arms folded across his chest, watching Dath and Cywen hack at one another with wooden sticks. Dath was limping slightly, and had a red mark blooming on one cheek. Cywen was unscathed.

Dath lunged forwards, swinging his stick a little wildly at Cywen’s ribs. She stepped nimbly backwards, blocked his strike and swept her own weapon whistling down towards Dath’s knee.

There was a loud crack, then Dath was rolling in the grass and Cywen was holding up what was left of her makeshift weapon.

Corban stepped in, trying not to smile. Poor Dath. It felt a little strange, teaching his friend and his sister their weapons, but there was something about it that he liked — probably being able to tell Cywen what to do with more effect than usual. And Dath had been desperate.

A warband had left Dun Carreg a moon ago, led by Pendathran, heading for Badun and then the Darkwood. It was the beginning of Brenin’s move against Braith and the Darkwood brigands. Over two hundred warriors had ridden out with Pendathran, amongst them Halion and Tarben, leaving both Corban and Dath without weapons-masters in the Rowan Field.

Tull had stayed behind, gathered all of the lads together that found themselves suddenly teacherless and taught them as a group. Dath had become more and more embarrassed pitting his sword skills against others of his own age — it had highlighted his slow progress. In a moment of shame and rage he had asked Corban to help him while Tarben was away. So he was joining in with the training sessions Corban devoted to his sister.

‘Am I the worst swordsman that has ever lived?’ Dath muttered as Corban hoisted him off the ground.

‘I’ve been teaching Cy for a while, now,’ Corban said. ‘Since before you set foot in the Field. And she’s better than most our age.’

‘Humph,’ Dath grunted, rubbing his knee.

It probably didn’t soothe his friend’s battered ego, but it was the truth. Cywen learned quickly, her balance was good and she was fast: traits that were the bedrock for any swordsman, as Gar had told him many, many times.

‘Come on, Dath. I might let you win next time,’ Cywen said, grinning. He scowled and retrieved his practice stick.

‘Don’t gloat,’ Corban said to his sister. ‘It’s not the way.’

Cywen rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out at him.

‘Be polite,’ he said, ‘or I won’t teach you any more. Mind, you could always ask Ronan for lessons.’ He had seen the glances between Cywen and Ronan, how she had watched the red-haired warrior ride out through Stonegate with Pendathran’s warband, oblivious to all else. He grinned to see her blush.

She scowled at him, selected a new stick from their collection, then set her feet for another attack.

‘If he comes back alive from the Darkwood,’ Dath said.

Cywen lunged forwards and whacked his head.

‘Ouch. What was that for?’

‘Wait,’ Corban said, ‘prepare yourselves. And no cheating.’ He walked away, stopping beside Storm, who lay spread on the grass, eyes fixed firmly on the chickens scratching at the ground on the far side of the garden. Corban sat down, and leaned into her. He took a deep breath, filling himself with the scents of the garden: flowers, grass, earth, fur, all mingled.

‘Come on, then, Cy,’ Dath said. ‘Scared?’

Corban looked up, saw his sister staring at him, her expression unreadable. She had been doing that a lot, lately. She looked as if she wanted to say something, but instead just frowned.

‘’Course not,’ she said to Dath and launched herself at him.

Corban watched as Rafe drew his arm back, held his breath, sighted along his spear’s edge, then let fly.

The spear arced through the air, a black blur in a clear blue sky, then thudded into the straw-padded target.

‘Six,’ Tull called in his deep, booming voice.

Rafe was taking his warrior tests in the Rowan Field. Many were paying it no attention, continuing with their training as always, although a small crowd had stopped to watch. Corban was one of them.

One more hit and Rafe would have completed the first part of the tests, and earned his spear. Helfach’s son strode to the target, jerked his spear loose and turned on his heel, face drawn. He counted off two score paces, turned, sighted, let fly again.

‘Seven,’ boomed Tull.

‘Huh,’ grunted Dath quietly. ‘I was hoping he’d miss.’

‘Aye,’ muttered Corban.

They were standing with a small group of lads, those whose weapons-masters had accompanied Pendathran to the Darkwood. All were watching Rafe enviously.

The huntsman’s son smiled as he pulled his spear from the target and turned to Tull, who was striding towards him, holding out a battered shield. Rafe’s smile faded.

‘The running mount next,’ Dath whispered.

As Rafe hefted his shield, adjusting his grip, Tull turned and waved to Gar, who was standing some way off, holding the reins of a tall dun mare. Rafe closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath, then nodded.

Gar clicked his tongue, set the mare into a trot and let go of the reins. He said something and the mare broke into a canter, straight towards Rafe.

He started running, pacing himself to match the mare as she reached him. For a moment they were moving side by side, then Rafe put on a burst of speed, angled closer to the horse and reached for its dark mane with his free hand, shield and spear clutched tight in the other. He gripped a handful of horsehair and launched himself into the air, legs seeking purchase on the soft hide saddle. For a moment Rafe wobbled on the horse’s back and Corban thought he was going to fall. Then he straightened and found the mare’s reins, eyes searching the crowd for his da as he punched his shield and spear into the air.

Helfach was standing alone, a fierce pride etched on his face. He raised his arm as his son looked to him, and clenched his fist.

Few of Helfach’s comrades were left in Dun Carreg, as most of Evnis’ hold had ridden out with Pendathran’s warband to help clear the Darkwood of brigands. Due to the dangers of travelling through the forest, Brenin had forbidden the handbinding of Evnis’ niece to Uthan, so Evnis hoped he and his warriors could help speed this clearance. The brothers Gethin and Evnis were none too pleased about this delay, according to Edana.

So Helfach stood alone in the Rowan Field, watching his son take the tests of a warrior. From the look on his face, though, he would not have known if he were in the midst of battle. His eyes were fixed on his son as Rafe grinned fiercely and drew the dun to a stop, turf spraying around its hooves.

Others watching cheered, banged weapons on shields, and Corban found himself joining in. Although he despised Rafe, there was something special about this moment, almost sacred.

Corban looked about, saw the hulking frame of Farrell standing on the edge of their group. He had seen the blacksmith’s apprentice a few times since that day with Rafe, but had felt uncomfortable every time, had avoided his eyes, even pretended not to see him.

He took a deep breath and sidled through the crowd until he stood next to Farrell.

‘One day we’ll be doing that,’ Corban said, looking up at Farrell, who stood about a head taller than him.

Farrell regarded him a moment. ‘Aye,’ he grunted, then turned back to watch Rafe.

They stood in silence for a while, watching Rafe dismount, move on to test his skill with a sword against Tull. Corban cleared his throat.

‘I am sorry,’ he said awkwardly. Farrell looked down at him again, but said nothing. Corban felt his neck begin to flush. ‘I meant no insult,’ he said. ‘That day with Rafe. I have been the subject of his attention, before. It just made me angry, seeing him do it to someone else.’ He stopped.

The big lad was still looking down at him. Slowly he nodded, an acknowledgement.

The sound of sparring pulled their attention back to Rafe. He was attacking Tull, Brenin’s champion standing with feet planted, fending off Rafe’s slightly frantic attack.

Tull was taking the huntsman’s son through all of the forms, testing that he knew all that an unblooded warrior should. The conflict lasted a while, Rafe circling the big man, lunging, slashing, feinting with his practice sword.

Part-way through, Tull halted Rafe, who was then handed a shield. He hefted it a moment, then the sparring began again, this time Tull pressing forwards, probing Rafe’s defences.

Eventually Tull held a hand up. ‘It is done,’ he rumbled, beckoning to Helfach.

Rafe’s father stepped forward, carrying a sheathed sword. He stood before Rafe, who sank to one knee.

‘Rafe ben Helfach,’ Tull boomed. ‘You came to the Field a boy, you are leaving it a man, a warrior. Now rise, take your sword, and hold as tight to truth and courage as you do your blade’s hilt. Take strength from all three through your Long Night: truth, courage and blade.’

Rafe stood, facing his father, Helfach holding the sword by the scabbard, hilt offered to his son. Rafe gripped it, slid the blade free and held it high.

Cheers rippled through the small crowd, loudest in a group near to Corban and Farrell where Rafe’s friends stood.

‘Now make your oath,’ Tull said, and Rafe pledged himself to Elyon, Ardan and King Brenin. He finished by cutting his palm with his sword, blood dripping onto the ground out of a clenched fist.

Helfach placed a new-made torc around his son’s neck and then embraced his son, pounding his back. Slowly the crowds began to disperse. Rafe eventually stepped out of his father’s grip and, after a few words, strode towards his gathered friends.

‘Here, I have no more need of this,’ he said, tossing his practice sword through the air to Crain.

Corban stood and watched, remembering with sudden clarity the day Rafe had taken it from him.

Rafe glanced at him and winked. Corban turned away.

Soon after, Corban and Dath were trudging through wide stone streets, making for Corban’s home, where Cywen would be waiting for them. Storm padded a few paces behind.

‘Do you think he’ll get through his Long Night?’

‘Who?’

‘Rafe. He sits his Long Night. Tonight.’

‘Oh. Aye, why not?’

The Long Night was the final seal on the warrior tests, when a boy truly became a man. Rafe would have to leave the fortress before sunset, armed with his new sword, spear and a small sack of provisions, to spend the night on his own in the open, somewhere beyond the safety of Dun Carreg and Havan. The Long Night was supposed to be spent in vigil, unsleeping; a silent, solitary contemplation of those who had raised and guarded them through childhood.

‘I don’t know,’ Dath muttered. ‘I just wish he would fail it, somehow.’

Corban shrugged.

They reached his home, Corban throwing Dath a chunk of honey-bread still warm from the oven as they passed through the kitchen. He caught a glimpse of Cywen through the window, standing at the far end of the garden near the rose-wall.

‘Go through, Dath. I’ll just get our practice sticks.’

They had collected a stockpile of sticks that they used for their training, ones that closest resembled a sword, and Corban kept them rolled in a cloth in his chamber, so they would not rot from rain and frost. As he sped down the corridor he saw his mam and da’s door was open, sunlight streaming through an unshuttered window and pouring out into the hall. He drew to a sudden stop and peeped in. His mam was sitting on the edge of her bed, her back to him. Without thinking, he stepped into the room.

His mam jumped, surprised, and twisted round. ‘Oh, it’s you, Ban,’ she murmured, wiping her cheek.

‘What are you doing, Mam?’ he asked, peering over her shoulder. She had an old piece of fabric on her lap, alongside a piece of wood. He smiled at seeing the wood — a carving he had attempted when little more than a bairn. It was supposed to be a star, he dimly remembered, though poorly done and abandoned before it was finished. He had not known his mam had kept it.

‘Just remembering,’ his mam said with a sniff. She put an arm around his waist and hugged him.

‘What’s that?’ he said, pointing at the fabric.

‘Your sister’s first effort at stitching.’

‘It’s not very good,’ Corban observed.

‘No,’ his mam agreed.

‘But. . why is it making you cry?’

His mam’s grip tightened. ‘Time passes too quickly.’ She rested her head against his waist, and he stroked her hair. ‘I love you,’ she whispered.