Malice

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

CORBAN

The Year 1141 of the Age of Exiles, Reaper’s Moon

Corban ducked under the paddock rail and took a deep breath. The air was fresh, sharp, a chill to it that set his skin tingling, even though the sky above was blue and the sun bright. Summer was slipping away, autumn creeping in.

‘Come on, Ban,’ called Cywen.

She was standing in the meadow near the lone oak, Gar beside her. The stablemaster was holding the reins of his great piebald, Hammer, who had an extra saddle strapped to his flank. Shield was galloping around the meadow, turf spraying, showing off to his sire.

‘Are you ready, lad?’ Gar asked him.

‘Aye.’

‘Good.’ Corban then unstrapped the spare saddle from Hammer and called his colt over, gently putting the saddle on Shield’s back, then quickly hooking the bridle over his ears.

Shield stood calmly through the process, Corban having accustomed him to bearing the saddle. Today would be different, though. Today Corban would ride him.

‘Up you get, then, Ban,’ Gar said, tightening the girth.

Slowly he swung his leg over Shield’s back, eased himself upright and took the reins from Cywen. He clicked his tongue.

‘Walk on,’ Gar said, pulling firmly at Shield’s bridle. The colt resisted a moment, took a stiff step forwards, then another and another, until he was walking comfortably again.

After a while Corban got lost in the rhythm of it, the rise and fall, the constant movement of muscles beneath him. They were walking parallel to the giantsway now, a thin plume of smoke marking Brina’s cottage.

Beside him Gar made a clicking sound and sped into a limping jog, moving Shield into a trot. ‘You ready?’ he asked Corban, glancing at him.

‘Aye.’

Gar let go his grip of Shield, and Shield sped Corban away. Haltingly at first, but then with increasing confidence as they circled the paddock, to return to Gar.

‘Do you hear that?’ Gar said, his head cocked to one side.

‘What. .?’ Then Corban did hear it: a distant rumbling. They both stared down the giantsway.

Slowly riders came into view, a wide column filling the road. Two men rode at the column’s head, both large and broad, black haired and bearded.

One was Pendathran, his sword arm strapped in a bloodstained sling.

It was the warband returned from the Darkwood.

The man riding next to Ardan’s battlechief was strikingly similar, but with no grey flecking his black beard — Dalgar, Pendathran’s son. They both looked over as they drew near, Pendathran nodding sternly to Gar.

In the column that followed, single warriors led groups of riderless horses. Many riderless horses. Corban saw Halion and raised his hand to his swordsmaster. Halion smiled back, though he looked weary, pale, a raw scar on his cheek.

In silence they watched the rest of the warband pass by, heading for the winding road that led back to Dun Carreg.

The sun was dipping into the west, shadows lengthening in Dun Carreg, as Corban stepped out of his da’s forge and headed for the stables. Storm fell into step behind him.

He was itching to hear news of Pendathran’s warband, but little had been clear when he’d returned home yestereve, other than that far fewer warriors had returned than had ridden out. Making things worse, his da had kept him busy in the forge all day, much to his annoyance.

Cywen will know something, he thought. Working in the stables, she hears all of the news first.

He stretched, muscles aching after his day with hammer and anvil. A sharp sea breeze cut through the lingering heat of the forge, and he was tugging his cloak tighter before the stables came into view.

Cywen was hovering by a water barrel, huddled in close conversation with Edana and Ronan.

Perfect, Corban thought. Having a spy in the keep is most useful.

‘Oh, hello, Ban,’ his sister said. He nodded to her and smiled at Edana and Ronan. The young warrior looked gaunt, black shadows under his eyes.

‘Edana and Ronan were telling me about the Darkwood,’ Cywen said quietly, looking over her shoulder for Gar. The stablemaster would not be impressed if he saw her standing around. ‘Many died.’

‘I saw the empty saddles. What happened?’

‘We were outmanoeuvred,’ Ronan said, his face bleak. ‘For many nights we beat a path through that forest, our party split into three forces. It was a simple plan — we were all to push to the centre of the Darkwood, meet in the middle and catch Braith between us.’

He paused, reliving bad memories. ‘Somehow Braith managed to swing around our flank. It would have been much worse if not for Marrock and Halion. They caught wind of it somehow, gave us a chance to pull shields and draw blades before the arrows started flying. Many died. More would have — we were pinned down — but that madman. .’ He snorted, shaking his head. ‘That madman Conall ran at them. He jumped off his horse, lifted his shield and just ran, blind as my boots at a wall of trees and brigands, all trying to fill him full of arrows.’ He laughed. ‘That was all we needed. Pendathran went behind him, then Dalgar; it was like a dam breaking. Those brigands are courageous enough behind trees with a bow in their hands, but they were not so brave when it came to iron against iron.’

‘Did they fight you, then?’ asked Cywen. ‘You know, hand to hand, I mean.’

‘Oh, aye,’ Ronan said, ‘though some fought harder than others. Most of them are used to thieving from holds, or ambushing outnumbered warriors. There were still more of them than us, though, once we closed with them. At least, until Gethin and Evnis arrived, and Uthan, not long behind them.’

‘Oh, they did play a part, then?’ Corban said.

‘Of a fashion,’ Ronan grunted. ‘Depends who you ask. Anyone from Evnis’ warband would tell you they won the battle.’ He snorted. ‘Ask me, I’ll tell you they arrived when it was all but over. We would have fought longer, maybe lost a few more swords, but the outcome would have been the same.’

‘What of Braith?’ Corban asked, thinking of the man that had made an oath to him in this very fortress. And kept it.

‘Braith? He was there. Plenty were looking to take his head. Pendathran got to him first.’ The young warrior looked about, lowering his voice. ‘Only by Elyon’s grace he’s still with us,’ he muttered. ‘That Braith can swing a blade.’

‘What happened then?’ said Edana. ‘Not even Father has told me.’

‘Braith sliced Pendathran’s sword arm, was about to finish him, but those two brothers ran at him — Halion and Conall. Both went swinging at Braith like they were Asroth’s Kadoshim.’

‘Don’t say that,’ muttered Edana. She made the sign against evil.

‘It’s true,’ Ronan shrugged. ‘They did. If not for them we’d have brought Pendathran’s corpse back.’

‘Did they kill him? Braith, I mean,’ pressed Corban.

‘Nay. Some others fell in with Braith, held the brothers off. Halion told me after that one of them was the brigand we had here, the one they caught in the Baglun.’

Corban glanced at Cywen and swallowed. Somehow he felt relieved that Braith had survived.

‘Anyway, that was when Gethin and Evnis arrived. The fight went out of most of the brigands, then and there. Braith got away, a few with him. But not many. We’ll not be having trouble from them again, I’d wager. Not for a few years, at least — if ever.’

‘Good,’ Corban said with feeling.

‘Were you hurt?’ Cywen asked.

‘Me? Not really. A few scratches. It was the first time I have killed a man. But I was not injured. More than I can say for many.’

Cywen reached out, tentatively, and brushed Ronan’s arm with her fingertips. He took her hand, and squeezed it.

‘So the Darkwood is clear, then,’ said Corban, frowning at his sister.

‘Aye. As clear as it will ever be.’

‘Evnis was almost skipping,’ Edana said disapprovingly.

‘Why?’ said Cywen.

‘Because now there is nothing stopping his niece marrying Uthan. Poor Kyla.’

‘What’s wrong with Uthan?’ asked Corban.

‘Oh, it’s not so much him. It’s his father, Owain. Ugh.’ She shivered. ‘And it’s given Evnis new vigour in trying to match me with Vonn.’ She scowled again.

‘When will they be handbound?’ Cywen asked.

‘Spring, I think,’ Edana said. ‘It is too close to winter, now.’

‘So long as Braith does not fill the Darkwood again by spring,’ said Corban.

Ronan shook his head. ‘Winter is hard enough anywhere, but living rough in that forest. . No. As I said, it would take years to restore the kind of numbers we slew. Their power is broken.’

Cold, stinging rain blew into Corban’s face. He lowered his head, pulled his cloak tighter and trudged on, grumbling to himself. The Crow’s Moon was not a good time to live by the Western Sea.

He had just finished helping Brina and was making his way home, images of hot bread and stew filling his mind. His pace quickened.

Brina had been different, of late — less harsh or abrupt, if not actually pleasant. And she had been giving him more interesting things to do: preparing poultices, mixing herbs and remedies, getting him to use the information that she had been bombarding him with over the last year.

Storm was padding in the grass, some fifty or so paces away, matching his speed. He glanced up, saw Havan getting closer, the fortress above obscured by rain and cloud.

The streets of the village were all but deserted, the only people around scurrying for their hearths as he and Storm passed through. He had just set his foot on the winding road that led to the fortress when a familiar voice called out behind him.

‘Hello, Ban,’ Bethan said as she reached him.

‘Oh, hello,’ he said, recognizing Dath’s sister. ‘Where are you off to?’

‘Back up there. Going to see someone.’ She nodded to the cloud-shrouded fortress above them. ‘I’ve been helping in the smokehouse. Walk with me?’

Corban sniffed and wrinkled his nose. ‘Been in the smokehouse too long, I think,’ he said with a smile, pinching his nose. ‘I’ll walk with you — not too close though.’

She pulled a face at him.

‘Who are you going to see?’

‘I can’t say,’ she said, blushing red.

‘Oh ho,’ Corban said, ‘that sounds interesting. Is someone courting you?’

‘Perhaps,’ she was smiling now. ‘Won’t be long, everyone will know. He has to talk to his da first, though.’

‘Come on, Bethan, who is it? I won’t tell.’

She just smiled.

They were about a third of the way up to the fortress, approaching a twist in the road. Suddenly Storm stopped, ears pricked forward. She was staring to their left, past a boulder, at a copse of dense, wind-beaten hawthorns. Corban strained, thought he heard voices though the wind and rain snatched them away. He stared at the copse, thought he saw movement within the trees.

Bethan heard it too and stepped off the path towards the hawthorns. Slowly they made their way closer, into the shelter of the copse, the sound of raised voices growing clearer as the trees shielded them from the full brunt of the weather.

Corban stopped behind a tree, holding a flat-palmed hand up to Storm. He peered into a small clearing, branches knotted overhead.

Three figures were standing there: Rafe and Crain, brandishing a practice sword — his practice sword — and Farrell. Rafe said something, arms waving, then spat in Farrell’s face.

The big lad lunged forwards, hands reaching for Rafe’s throat, but Rafe jumped back. Farrell barrelled after him, swung a fist and caught Rafe a glancing blow across the cheek. Rafe staggered and Farrell grabbed him. Then Crain clubbed Farrell across the back with his wooden sword, sending the big lad tripping over a root, sprawling to the ground. Instantly, Rafe and Crain were kicking and beating him, the practice sword rising and falling.

Corban felt his fists clench, teeth grind, but something stopped his feet from moving. Walkaway, a voice whispered in his head. There’s nothing you can do. They’ll only hurt you again, shame you again.

He glanced at Bethan, saw her mouth open in horror. She took a step forwards.

Corban grabbed her arm. She looked at him then, eyes full of compassion, of pity, and suddenly he felt his feet moving.

‘Stay here,’ he said, ‘and hold Storm. Don’t let her follow me.’ He showed the wolven his flat palm again.

Then he was running forwards, threw himself shoulder-first into Crain’s back, sending him flying into a tree. Crain’s head made a loud crack against the trunk: he fell to the ground and did not move. There was a shocked silence as Rafe stared at him. Corban balled his fists and waded into Rafe, throwing punches, connecting with ribs and chin. Rafe swayed a moment, fell to one knee.

‘You’re going to pay now,’ Rafe snarled, jumping up and swinging a wild hook at Corban’s head.

Corban said nothing, well past talking. He ducked, stepped in close and sank a fist into Rafe’s gut that doubled him over, sent a chopping right hook into his temple. Rafe dropped to the floor, rolled away, staggered back to his feet, shaking his head.

‘You’re the one that’s going to pay,’ Corban yelled, over a year’s worth of pent-up rage boiling over in him. ‘You’re a warrior! Not to touch younglings. Tull will take your blade for this.’

‘Not if he doesn’t find out,’ Rafe snarled, pulling his sword from its scabbard. Corban stepped back, wide-eyed. Rafe swung at Corban, but the strike was clumsy, Rafe still feeling the effects of Corban’s blows. Corban jumped backwards. Rafe swung again, this time the tip of the blade leaving a red line on Corban’s forearm. Suddenly pain exploded in his back and he was falling, leaves and damp earth filling his face. He rolled, saw Crain standing over him. Crain swung the practice sword at Corban, but somehow Corban caught hold of it, wrenched it out of Crain’s hands.

Rafe put a boot on Corban’s chest, pushed him flat and lifted his sword high.

I’m going to die, Corban thought, opening his mouth but nothing coming out.

Then a thunderbolt of fur and snapping teeth slammed into Rafe’s chest.

‘No! Storm,’ Corban cried, levering himself to his feet with the practice sword still in his hand, pain pulsing in his back. Storm and Rafe were rolling on the ground. Farrell was trying to rise, blood sheeting into his eyes from a gash on his head. Bethan ran into the clearing, eyes fixed on Storm.

‘I tried to stop her. .’ she cried.

‘Storm, HERE!’ Corban shouted, but with no effect. ‘Run, Beth, get help,’ he yelled, pushing her towards the path. She looked back once and then was off.

Rafe screamed as Storm’s claws raked his leg, then Storm’s teeth fastened on his arm. He screamed again, higher in pitch, and Storm shook her head. There was a wet tearing sound as Rafe rolled free.

‘No,’ whispered Corban.

Storm stood before him, legs splayed, strips of flesh hanging from her jaws.

Rafe staggered upright. His arm was a mess of blood and fabric and flesh. Corban saw the glint of bone. Rafe sucked in a lungful of air and screamed.

Corban lurched forwards, grabbed Storm by the fur of her neck, shook her. ‘With me,’ he commanded, then turned and ran from the glade, branches and thorns scratching him, Storm loping beside him, panic pounding in his head like a drum.

He burst from the trees, rain and wind whipping at him, turning the blood staining Storm’s jaws pink.

‘What have you done?’ he whispered. ‘They’ll surely kill you now.’ He squeezed his eyes shut, breathed deep as Gar had taught him, then began to run again, down the hill, away from Dun Carreg.

Storm followed, Rafe’s screams fading slowly behind them.