Malice

CHAPTER FIVE

CORBAN

As Corban drew closer to the river the ground began to level out. To his right he saw the salmon weir.

He looked at the trees that dotted the far bank; they quickly became dense and thick, marking the boundary of the forest. The same tingle of excitement that he always felt whenever he was near the Baglun rippled through him.

He rode his pony across the ford, hooves splashing and cracking on stones, up the other bank and into the embrace of the forest.

The giantsway continued into the Baglun, its stones slick with moss. Latticed branches above cast the world in twilight. Somehow the shadows eased his mood, soothed him.

He allowed the pony to walk at its own pace, imagining himself a great huntsman like Marrock, tracking a band of lawless men come raiding from the Darkwood on the northern border. He had heard as much from his da. Thannon liked to talk as he worked, and had told many a tale of the Banished Lands, the continent upon which they lived. He had also spoken of their realm of Ardan, as it was now, of the growing distance between King Brenin and Owain, King of neighbouring Narvon, and the sudden increase of lawless men roaming the Darkwood that separated their realms. Thannon had told of a band of these men raiding into Ardan, burning crofters’ homesteads and robbing travellers along the way. He said they might even be heading for the Baglun.

Corban felt his stomach clench and his eyes grow wider as he looked about, imagining outlaws lurking behind bushes, ready to waylay him. But who would be fool enough to set up camp within sight of Brenin’s own fortress?

Nothing to fear.

The forest grew much closer here, thickets of thorn bushes dense between the trees. Just ahead, the giantsway spilled into an open glade, sunlight dappling the ground as the canopy above grew thinner. Corban trotted into the glade, bluebells carpeting the ground, rolling up to the oathstone.

It towered over the clearing: a single slab of dark rock scribed with runes in a language long forgotten, another remnant of the giants that had dwelt here once. The stone was still used for the solemnizing of some occasions, but it had not been visited officially since Brenin had taken up his father’s sword and become King of Ardan, over fifteen years ago. It felt old, solitary. Corban liked it here.

He dismounted and strode closer to the stone. It looked different: somehow wet, dark streaks staining the rock, trickling from the deep-carved runes. He reached out and touched the stone. Suddenly the glade darkened, clouds rolling across the sun, and he shivered. He pulled his hand away, his fingertips stained red. Was that blood?

He realized his heart was pounding, the noise filling his ears. Then his vision blurred and he was falling.

Corban blinked into consciousness and looked around.

He was in the glade of the oathstone, leaning against the great slab, but something was different. Wrong. Everything was pale, as if all colour had been leached from the world. He looked up. Dark clouds boiled above him, bunching and flowing like an angry sea. And it was so quiet. Too quiet. No birdsong or insects, no sounds of the forest; just the hiss of wind amongst branches.

Then suddenly, footsteps, the crunch of forest litter, so loud in the silence. A figure emerged from the thickets about the glade, a man with a sword at his hip, his cloak travel-stained. Seeing Corban, he paused, bowed his head, then marched towards him.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ the man said, squatting in front of Corban.

Corban could not place his age. There were creases about his eyes, his mouth, though a close-cropped beard hid most of those. His hair was dark, dusted with grey. Then Corban looked into his eyes, yellow like a wolf’s, and old. No, more than old. Ancient. And wise.

‘Why?’ Corban asked.

The man smiled, warm and welcoming, and Corban felt himself smile in return.

‘I need help. I have a task to complete, and I cannot do it alone.’ He pulled an apple from a pocket in his cloak, startlingly red in this bleached world, and took a bite, juice dripping. The man’s nails were cracked, broken, dirt caked in their grain.

‘Why me?’ Corban muttered.

‘A direct mind,’ the man observed, smiling again. He shrugged. ‘It is a difficult task, dangerous. Not all are able, capable of helping me.’ He inhaled, long and deep, closing his eyes. ‘But there is something about you. Something of value. I feel it.’

Corban grunted. He had never felt particularly special, never been told it, except by his mam, of course.

‘What is the task?’

‘I must find something. Let me show it to you,’ the man said, placing a hand over Corban’s eyes.

Then Corban was standing in a stone room, arched windows black against torchlight, the darkness outside seeming to suck the light into nothingness.

In the centre of the room sat a great cauldron, a squat mass of black iron, taller and wider than a man. A scream burst from the cauldron’s mouth, echoing around the room. It rose in pitch, containing an anguish that had Corban covering his ears, then suddenly silence fell, broken only by the soft crackle of the torches. Pale fingers reached out from within the cauldron, grasping the black rim. A body heaved itself upwards and spilled out onto the stone floor. Slowly it stood: a man dressed only in loose woollen breeches, long dark hair unbound except for the warrior braid falling across broad shoulders. His skin was a pale grey, thin and stretched, and things seemed to be moving beneath it, as if trying to find a way out. Veins stood proud, bulging and purple against the pallid tissue, forming an intricate spider web on the man’s body.

Then he turned and looked at Corban.

Eyes as black as night, no pupil, no iris, stared at him. The mouth creased in a grisly smile, a thin line of blood trickling from its corner. A droplet gathered, dripped to the floor.

Corban took a step backwards. The figure mirrored him, taking a step forwards. Corban was about to turn and run but froze abruptly, sensing a presence behind him. He told himself to turn but his body would not obey, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

The thing before the cauldron paused as well, face contorting as the black eyes stared past Corban. There was movement from behind. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw two great, white-feathered wings sweep about him. The figure in front grimaced, raising its arms as if to ward off a blow. It hissed at him, threw back its head and howled, a high, piercing cry. Corban looked at the wings, felt his panic and fear draining away and a sense of peace taking its place, even though the creature was still howling its ululating cry. Slowly the room faded and all was darkness again.

With a gasp his eyes snapped open. His back was wet with sweat. He shook his head, still hearing the inhuman howling from his quick-fading dream. Willow was stamping the ground, hoof gouging the earth. As Corban came fully awake the howling did not fade but grew clearer, taking on a different tone from his dream, and suddenly he realized that Willow could hear it too.

He leaped to his feet and tried to soothe the animal. Willow snorted, slowly quietened, even though the howling continued to ring through the forest. Corban stood for a moment, listening.

‘Whatever that is,’ he murmured, ‘it sounds scared.’ He patted the pony’s neck a while longer, then made a decision and led the pony in the direction of the howling.

Within heartbeats the forest became a twilight world. The branches were too low for him to mount Willow, but he moved easily enough between the trees, although he had to pay attention to where he put his feet, the forest floor thick with vines that snared his boots.

Small shallow streams crossed his path and the ground became spongier, Willow’s hooves making sucking noises as they sank into and pulled free of the damp earth.

I should turn back, he thought. Dylan had warned him of the deadly bogs within the Baglun, appearing as firm ground at first, which would suck you down and smother the life from you. He stopped. The howling began again, and it sounded so close.

Just a little longer. He stepped forward and the howling suddenly stopped.

Corban walked around a dense stand of trees, elbowing red ferns aside and pulled abruptly to a halt.

Not more than twenty paces in front of him was the head and shoulders of a wolven, jutting from the ground. Its canines gleamed, as long as his forearm and sharp as a dagger. Corban could not believe it. They were fearsome pack hunters, bred by the giant clans during the War of Treasures, if the tales were true. They were wolf-like but bigger, stronger, and with a sharp intelligence. But they were rarely seen here, preferring the south of Ardan, regions of deep forest and sweeping moors, where the auroch herds roamed. For a moment boy and beast stared at each other, then the wolven’s jaws snapped, froth bubbling around its mouth. One of its paws scrabbled feebly at the ground. It looked close to death, weak and thin. There was a squelching sound and the animal sank a little deeper into the earth, as if someone was tugging on its hind legs. The ground around it looked firm enough, covered in the same vine, but Corban knew the wolven was caught in one of the Baglun’s treacherous bogs.

He stood in silence a while, not knowing what to do. Crouching, he stared at the creature’s head, grey flecked with white, spattered with black mud.

‘What am I going to do?’ he whispered. ‘You’d eat me, even if I could get you out.’ The beast stared back with its copper eyes.

He looked about, picked up a long branch, thrust it at the ground before his feet and began tentatively to edge his way forwards, Willow watching disapprovingly. Suddenly the branch disappeared into the ground, his left leg sinking up to the knee before he could stop. He knew a moment of panic, tried to pull out and felt the mud firm up around his leg, gripping him in an airless embrace. He shifted his weight and leaned back, slowly freeing his leg, which was covered in viscous black mud. He fell backwards.

Slick with sweat, he just lay there a moment. There was a gurgling sound and he looked up, saw the wolven sink deeper. He stood up and strode back to Willow, suddenly knowing what he must do, at the same time knowing it was foolish. He patted Willow, the pony’s eyes rolling white. She was close to flight. When she had calmed a little he pulled Gar’s rope out of the saddlebag and tied one end to his saddle, slowly coaxing the pony to walk closer to the sinking mud. He looped the other end of the rope as Cywen had taught him and cast it towards the beast. His second attempt fell across the animal’s head and shoulder. Gently he lifted the rope and slowly, ever so slowly, he began to pull. The rope tightened and held fast. Corban led the pony away from the bog. The rope creaked, shuddering under the strain as Willow took up the slack. The wolven whined, snapping at the air as the rope bit into its skin, then with a great sucking sound it began to pull free of the mud. Willow took a step forward, then another. . and within moments the creature was lying on its side at the edge of the bog, panting and slick with mud. It staggered to its feet, head bowed.

Corban could not help but marvel at it, even in its bedraggled state. It stood not much shorter than Willow, its coat a dull grey, streaked with bone white stripes. Slowly it raised its head, its jaws snapping as it sliced through the rope about it. Then it howled. Willow neighed, reared and bolted. Corban wanted to move but could not, his eyes fixed on the wolven’s long, curved canines.

Then Corban was aware of movement, a presence around him, of deeper shadows pacing. Eyes gleamed out of the darkness, many eyes.

Its pack has come. I’m dead, he thought. Before him, slow and deliberate, the wolven he had saved padded towards him, thick muscles bunching about its neck and shoulders. Its belly swayed from side to side, full and heavy.

‘You’re in pup,’ he whispered.

It circled him, stopped in front of him, copper eyes locking with his, then took in a great sniff and pressed its muzzle into his groin, snuffling. He resisted the urge to leap back, knew his life hung on a thread. The beast lifted its head, still sniffing, tracing his abdomen, his neck, his jaw. Hot breath washed over him, the scent of damp fur heavy in his throat. The wolven’s muzzle pushed against his skin, its teeth cold, hard. Corban felt his bladder loosen. Then the beast took a step back, turned and bounded away, disappearing into the darkness of the forest.

The eyes in the shadows faded and Corban let out a huge breath, slumping to the ground.

What have I just done?

He lay upon the damp ground awhile, waiting for his racing heart to calm, then he rose and walked away from the bog. The forest looked different now, darker. It was difficult going, constantly having to focus on the ground in front of him to avoid tripping in the dense vines that carpeted the forest floor. Some time had passed before he realized he had not seen any of the small streams that he had crossed earlier. He stamped his foot on the ground, which was no longer spongy, but hard under the forest litter.

‘Oh no.’ Frantically he looked around, searching for some familiar sign, but recognized nothing. Diffuse sunlight filtered through the treetops, giving no glimpse of where the sun lay in the sky. With a deep breath he began walking again. Just have to keep going, he thought. Look for a stream that will take me back. He shuddered, trying to control the panic starting to bubble inside him. He knew full well that he stood little chance of surviving a night in the forest, and to find his way out he had to think clearly. Just keep walking, he told himself, and hope I’m not travelling deeper into the forest. He quickened his pace, glancing constantly back and forth between the floor at his feet and his chosen path.

His feet were sore, toes numb when he finally stopped. It seemed that he had been walking for an age, and still no sign of a stream. Looking around, he selected a tall elm, then began to climb. The higher he got, the thinner and wider apart the branches became. He reached a point where even balancing on the tips of his toes he could not reach the next branch above. If I can just reach the top I should be able to see Dun Carreg. Then at least I’ll know if I’m walking in the right direction. Desperation fuelling him, he crouched slightly and jumped. Both hands gripped the branch he was aiming for and he hung there a moment, suspended, swinging slightly as the tree’s limb flexed. Then one of his hands slipped. He windmilled wildly, desperately clinging on, then he was falling. After colliding with a number of branches, he blacked out, to find himself in a heap on the forest floor. He sat up, groaning and then heard a faint sound. It was distant, but the forest was mostly silent, not even a breeze rustling the trees. He strained, almost certain he could hear a voice, someone calling. He jumped up, forgetting his exhaustion and ran. When he stopped there was silence for a moment, then he heard the voice again, much closer now. It was calling his name.

‘HELLO!’ he called back, cupping his hands to his mouth. He set off again, calling. Soon he saw a tall figure step from behind a tree, leading two horses, a large piebald and a pony. The figure limped.

‘Gar,’ cried Corban, running wildly now, tears streaming down his face as he threw himself onto the stablemaster. At first the dark-haired man stood there, still as a statue. Then, stiffly, he put his arms about the boy and patted his back.

‘What are you doing here?’ Corban asked shakily.

‘Looking for you, of course, you idiot. Willow knows his way home, even if you don’t,’ replied Gar, stepping back to look at Corban. ‘What has happened to you? You looked bad enough when I saw you last, but now. .’

Corban looked down at himself, covered in mud and leaves, with scrapes on his skin and holes in his cloak and breeches.

‘I was. .’ Corban paused, knowing how stupid he was about to sound. ‘I just wanted some quiet, to be alone. .’ he said sheepishly, looking at the floor. ‘I got lost.’ The look on Gar’s face convinced him that this would not be a wise time to mention the wolven.

The stablemaster looked at the bedraggled boy in front of him, took a sniff, and sighed deeply.

‘You can thank your sister. She insisted I come and find you when Dath told her about Rafe.’

‘Oh. She knows,’ said Corban, shoulders sinking.

‘Aye, lad, but never mind that now, let’s get you home. If you can keep up with me we should still be able to get back for the hand-binding. At least that way I won’t have saved you just for your mam to kill you.’

‘I think she’s going to kill me anyway,’ Corban said, looking at his torn and tattered cloak.

‘Well, let’s go and find out,’ said Gar, turning his horse and walking away.