Malice

CHAPTER SEVENTY

CYWEN

Cywen blinked sweat from her eyes and staggered over a tree root. Ronan reached out and steadied her.

‘Keep moving,’ the young warrior said, glancing back over his shoulder. The forest behind them was empty, at least it appeared empty. They had been running for what seemed an eternity, Cywen losing all track of time, but she was sure the forest had grown darker, the shadows deeper, so it must be approaching sunset? They would be safer once it was darker. Harder to track, surely? She looked at Ronan, his red hair sweat soaked and plastered to his head, face gaunt with worry. She nodded and forced her legs to move, her lungs burning. Edana was only a little ahead, flitting amongst thick foliage, so she tried to increase her speed.

Her world shrank to the space in front of her, focusing on every step, avoiding every moss-covered boulder, concentrating on not losing her companions.

She could not believe what had happened. What was King Owain thinking? Was this a bid to conquer Ardan? And what about those still at Uthandun — King Brenin, her mam and da, Corban, Gar. .

The idea of them dying, of her not seeing them again, hit her hard. She felt sick to her stomach and staggered. The figures she was following slowed, then stopped. Like Cywen, they were all too breathless for speech.

Ronan and the other warrior — Ised, she remembered — conferred in sharp whispers, Ised pointing into the forest.

‘Do you. . think. . they. . will. . follow us?’ Edana said, between gasps for breath.

Ronan bit back an answer.

‘Of course,’ Queen Alona said. ‘Owain has crossed a line. He will not just give up, now. Darkness is our best hope — if we can keep ahead of them, reach the road. .’

Birds squawked in the forest, back the way they had come.

‘Better be moving,’ Ronan said. ‘Ised is a woodsman, best if he leads us. I’d only get us lost.’ He smiled, weakly. ‘I’ll watch our backs.’

Ised set off, Alona and Edana close behind him. As Cywen gathered her breath and her will Ronan gripped her wrist. ‘If it comes to a fight, stay close to me. I am oathsworn to Edana, but I. .’ He looked down. ‘I would see no harm come to you. Stay close to me.’

She smiled, here, in the midst of the Darkwood, death breathing down their necks, and yet she felt such a rush of joy. She leaned forward and brushed her lips on his freckled cheek. ‘I’ll do that,’ she whispered, then set off after the others.

They ploughed on, then there was movement at the edge of her vision, the sound of drumming feet.

‘Run,’ Ronan hissed, pushing her on.

Panic consumed her and she pounded into the forest — their pursuers were closing in. All of them sped up, though soon the sounds of pursuit grew even louder behind them. Cywen checked her belt for the the hilts of her last two knives.

‘It is no good,’ said Ronan, ‘they will be on us in moments.’

Ised heard him and pulled up before a thick-trunked elm. ‘We’ll make a stand here,’ he grunted, breathing heavily.

‘Behind us,’ Ronan said. He and Ised drew their swords and stood together, facing the shadows.

Cywen pulled a knife and glanced at Queen Alona and Edana.

Movement caught her eye, a figure, coming at them fast. She aimed and hurled her knife, hearing it thunk into wood. She whispered a curse and drew her last knife, then all was chaos. Warriors surged out of the darkness and targeted Ised and Ronan. A man screamed and fell at Ronan’s feet, his lifeless head flopping close to Cywen. She stared at his dull eyes.

Ised grunted and dropped to one knee, then a blade chopped into his neck and he toppled sideways.

Edana screamed.

A red-cloaked warrior advanced on Ronan, others emerging from the gloom, all with swords drawn. Ten, twelve, more — Cywen counted. We are dead.

‘Hold,’ a voice shouted, and the man before Ronan paused, though he didn’t lower his sword.

Two stepped forward, one younger, with a scar under his eye. Cywen gasped, recognizing them both. Rhin’s champion that had duelled with Tull on Midwinter’s Eve. Morcant. What is he doing here? And the other man was Braith — she would never forget his face after that night at Dun Carreg.

‘We could use this one,’ Braith said to Morcant. ‘Better the message reach Brenin from one of his own warriors than one of ours.’

Morcant had a sword drawn, but held loosely. He paused.

A message. Please, Elyon, let them spare Ronan, let them send him to Brenin.

Morcant looked between Ronan and Braith, Ronan shifting his feet, a quiver in his sword arm.

Suddenly Morcant exploded into motion, faster than Cywen could follow. Iron grated on iron, Ronan twisting and shouting, then he was sinking, blood gushing from his throat. It took a moment to register in Cywen’s mind, then she screamed and grabbed for him. She pressed a hand to his neck,trying to stem the flow, but blood poured through her fingers. No, no, no, no, no! she screamed inside, his weight pushing her to the ground, where she held his head in her lap. His eyes looked up into hers, blinked once and then became dull, sightless. She felt a confusion of rage and grief. Then she hurled herself at Morcant, stabbing with the knife she still clutched in one hand.

Morcant jumped back and swore as she stabbed him, the knife turning on his chainmail shirt. He clubbed her with the back of his hand and she fell to the ground, the metallic taste of blood in her mouth.

‘Bind them,’ Morcant said.