Malice

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

CORBAN

Corban stood by the bridge, staring across the river at the Darkwood.

He missed Storm.

Two nights had passed at Uthandun and not knowing was finally becoming too much for him. Last night he had asked Brina if Craf had news of Storm. She had said only that the wolven was still here, prowling the fringes of the forest.

The drumming of hooves pulled his attention away from the forest, back up towards Uthandun. A group of riders were trotting down the hill, all in the grey cloaks of Ardan, apart from one red-cloaked figure at the front.

Queen Alona rode beside the red-cloak, a huntsman by the look of him, a bow and quiver strapped to his saddle. Tull towered beside them, a huge shield slung across his back. Behind them Corban saw Edana riding beside Cywen.

A score or so warriors of Ardan followed, Ronan first amongst them.

Alona’s eyes hovered on Corban as they crossed the bridge. He smiled at his sister. Ronan nodded to him and then they were riding past, people crossing the bridge standing to one side to give the riders passage. Once on the far side they branched off the giantsway, then the red-cloaked rider took them into the forest.

Taking a deep breath, Corban shouldered a small sack and strode purposefully across the bridge towards the forest, not looking back. But soon something made him turn, and he paused to look back at the bridge, one figure catching his eye. He stayed where he was, the figure getting closer, walking with a distinctive limp.

‘Why’re you following me?’ Corban said as Gar drew near.

The stablemaster blinked, cheeks reddening. ‘What are you doing, wandering off into the Darkwood?’ he said.

‘I don’t need following. I’m not a bairn,’ Corban snapped.

‘No, you’re not. A bairn gets itself into less trouble than you,’ Gar murmured.

‘So. Why are you following me?’ Corban repeated.

‘Your mam asked me to. To make sure you stay safe.’

Corban grunted.

‘What are you doing over here, then?’

Corban was silent a moment, considering his options; he could lie and return across the bridge. But he had made a decision, set his will to it, and he just could not bear to go back on it. He took a deep breath.

‘I’m trying to find Storm,’ he said.

‘What? But she’s in the Baglun.’

‘No. She’s here. Brina told me.’

Gar was silent, thinking it over. ‘We should go back. Now,’ he said eventually. He held up a hand to halt Corban’s forming protest. ‘I know you must miss her — I know I do. But, what is best for her? If you see her now, all you’ve done for her will be for nothing. They will kill her.’

‘I, just, I’ve brought her food. .’ Corban muttered. His shoulders slumped, then he shook his head and straightened his back. ‘No, Gar. She’s followed me to another realm, almost a hundred leagues. I don’t know what to do after, but I must see her.’

They stood there, branches and leaves rustling above, distant sounds from the fortress filtering across, blending with the river’s steady murmur. Gar nodded. ‘If your will is set. .’

‘It is.’

‘All right, then.’

Corban blinked, his mouth open, ready to argue on. ‘All right, then,’ he echoed. ‘Good.’

‘So, where is she?’

Corban shrugged. ‘Brina said the forest’s edge.’

‘It’s a big forest, lad.’

‘I thought it likely she’d be west, somewhere. Not too far from the fortress, if she’s followed us here.’

‘So, do you have a plan?’

‘Aye,’ Corban grinned. ‘To walk far enough into the forest that I won’t be heard at Uthandun, and start calling her.’

Gar snorted. ‘That should work.’

So they set off into the trees, Corban going first, trying to follow a fox trail through the thick undergrowth. After a while they reached a stream, mushrooms growing in clumps along its bank.

‘As good a place as any,’ Corban said, feeling suddenly nervous. He cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘Storm,’ he shouted.

He repeated the call a half-dozen more times, then sat on a stump beside the stream and waited.

It was not long before Corban heard foliage rustle, off beyond the stream, and saw a flash of white. Then Storm was there, loping towards him. She jumped the stream and powered into him, both of them falling, rolling in the damp leaves and earth.

Corban was laughing, could not stop, though tears streaked his face. Storm was bashing him with her head, whining and rubbing her muzzle against him, her breath hot in his face.

‘Whoa, girl,’ Corban said, trying to sit up, pushing her off him. She bounced away, spun in a tight circle and jumped back on him. He slipped and fell again.

Eventually he managed to stand. Storm looked up at him. He glanced at Gar, saw the stablemaster actually smiling at him. His own jaw ached from grinning. Storm was thinner than he remembered, her fur dirty and mud stained. He reached for his sack, pulled out a leg of mutton he had secreted away from last night’s meal and gave it to her. She instantly set to ripping strips of flesh from it.

Corban grinned at Gar, then dropped to his knees and buried his face in her fur.

They stayed like that a while, Storm eating hungrily, cracking bone between her powerful jaws to reach the marrow, Corban and Gar just watching her.

Suddenly Storm tensed, her head snapping up, looking over the stream. A sound filtered faintly through the forest: shouting? Screaming? the distant clash of iron.

‘Come, Ban,’ said Gar, splashing across the stream.

They struggled through thick vegetation at first, thorns snagging at their clothes, then they stumbled upon a wide track. In one direction they saw a lone rider, swaying in his saddle as he disappeared around a bend. Corban thought he wore a grey cloak. In the other direction, much closer now, was the noise that had drawn them. Beyond all mistake it was the sound of battle. Screams drifted up the track, iron clashing on iron.

‘Off this track,’ said Gar, slipping behind a tree. Corban followed, Storm beside him, her hackles raised. Slowly Gar picked his way through the forest, Corban and Storm behind him, moving parallel to the track.

The noise ahead stopped, the silence replacing it feeling heavy, oppressive. Still they made their way forwards, Corban trying to step lightly, every twig that snapped under his feet making him wince.

Then they stepped into an open glade, sunlight streaming down from above. Bodies littered the ground, men, horses, all still, blood soaking them, the grass. Crows exploded upwards as they entered the glade, squawking in protest. One stayed perched on a horse’s flank, its beak dripping red. Flies buzzed in thick clouds.

Here and there, dotted amongst the fallen, were men in red cloaks, but most of the dead by far wore the grey of Ardan.