Malice

CHAPTER EIGHTY

CYWEN

Cywen muttered angrily to herself as she scraped Hammer’s hooves clean, running her knife deftly around the rim, clumps of hard-packed straw and earth coming loose. The stables were empty of people. Almost everyone was out on the walls, just watching Owain’s host, or training in the Rowan Field. That thought produced a fresh flow of expletives and she scraped more vigorously.

Two nights had passed since Owain had arrived, and Brenin had announced that anyone due to sit their Long Night before Midwinter’s Day could take their warrior trial early, to join the fight against Owain. That meant just about everyone that she knew, including Dath.

Dath, whom she had sparred with almost every day — and bested every day. And that lump, Farrell, who was as slow as an auroch.

She grimaced, imagining them all together, playing at being warriors, at being men. Ronan’s face came to mind, bright blood bubbling on his lips.

But it’s no game, she thought.

None of them understood. Except Ban. He had been there too, had seen Ronan, and had even fought. She felt a sudden rush of pride, of love for her brother, as she remembered watching him take his warrior trial. She remembered the shock she felt as she’d seen his sword trial, seen how he’d set at Halion, with a growing sense of witnessing something special filling her. And she hadn’t been the only one, going by the expressions of those about her.

The stable door opened and she blinked at the sudden burst of light flooding the darkness. And the figure silhouetted against the bright day was no less than Brenin. Evnis and his son were with him, along with Edana and Halion.

‘I am looking for Gar,’ Brenin said. ‘Is he here?’

‘No, my lord,’ Cywen said. ‘I thought he was out in the paddocks.’

‘No, he is not,’ Brenin said sharply.

‘Then I am sorry, I do not know where he is,’ Cywen said with a shrug. In truth Gar had been almost impossible to find for days, appearing only to issue a string of more commands, then disappearing again. He had been strange, ever since the day of Corban’s warrior trial, as had her mam, both of them insisting she dress for a journey but not telling her where or why. Of course, that had all changed with Owain’s siege, but still no explanation had been given, and Gar had become increasingly absent.

‘Is it something that I may help you with?’ Cywen asked.

‘Perhaps,’ Brenin said, preoccupied, clearly troubled to see Alona’s favourite mare nearby. ‘I need to know how many horses we have here — warrior mounts, not ponies.’

Cywen nodded. ‘No more than two hundred, lord. Maybe fewer. I do not know the exact number, but thereabouts. I can find out for sure. .’

‘Only two hundred?’ Brenin said quietly. ‘That is not enough.’ He shook his head, ‘Yes, yes — find out.’

Only once since the siege had begun had there been any kind of prolonged battle. The day after Owain’s arrival an assault had been made on the gates, warriors hauling felled trees capped with iron up the hill, attempting to batter the gates down. But they had been too thick, and the defenders above had let loose a constant barrage of rocks upon those wielding the battering ram. Scores had been crushed to death before Owain called his men back, with little more than scratches on the gates of the fortress to show for their efforts.

Dun Carreg seemed impregnable, but nevertheless there was a mounting tension spreading amongst those within the walls. With Gethin dead, and his warriors no doubt scattered, all hope rested on Dalgar and his warband from Dun Maen to break the siege.

Others entered the stables to join the royal group. It was Nathair with his usual companions, the black-clothed Sumur with his long curved sword on his back, and the eagle-guard, Rauca.

Cywen sidled over to Edana, who smiled at her, though her face looked strained.

‘Got a new guard?’ Cywen whispered, nodding towards Halion.

‘Conall didn’t like the job,’ Edana said.

Cywen pulled a face. ‘Why the horse count?’

‘Father would have a force ready, for when Dalgar arrives. He will be outnumbered by Owain, and will need help.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘I have been looking for you,’ Nathair said amiably, a broad smile on his face.

‘Have you?’ Brenin murmured, his attention elsewhere, still rubbing the mare’s muzzle.

‘Yes,’ Nathair said, the smile fading from his eyes. ‘For some time, now.’

Brenin looked at him finally. ‘Well, you appear to have found me. Forgive me if I have not been as available as you would have liked. These are unfortunate circumstances.’

Nathair made a dismissive gesture. ‘I am in no danger, I am sure. Owain is bound by the Old Lore, as are we all.’ The Old Lore was a set of customs that the Exiles had brought with them to the Banished Lands and included guest-rights: that a guest was safe at another’s hearth and was due the right of protection by the hold’s lord.

‘Indeed,’ said Brenin.

‘I hoped to speak with Owain, make him aware of my presence here, and perhaps reason with him over this useless war.’

‘Of course,’ Brenin said. ‘He returns to the walls each day. Speak with him then. Though I do not think you will change his mind.’

‘Yes. Thank you,’ Nathair said. ‘I regret this situation you find yourself in, but I cannot remain here indefinitely. I must return to my ship — soon.’

‘As you wish,’ Brenin shrugged. ‘I am sure that Owain would grant you safe passage. Is that what you wished to speak of with me?’

‘In part,’ Nathair said, ‘and of Meical. I have spoken with your councillors on the other matter, regarding the Benothi. They were most helpful.’ Nathair glanced at Evnis, who inclined his head.

‘But I am still most keen to discover why Meical came here, where he may have been going. Anything.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Brenin said. ‘Unfortunately, my time has been in much demand of late. I am sorry, but I have discovered nothing new. As I said before, I know not why Meical came here or where he went.’

Nathair frowned, not so easily put off.

‘There must be something. .’ Nathair said. ‘He must have ridden here — an impressive stallion, a huge grey. Was he stabled here?’

He was, Cywen thought, remembering the horse clearly.

‘I don’t work in the stables,’ Brenin snapped.

Nathair frowned. ‘But there must be someone, a stable boy.’ He looked around, suddenly saw Cywen. ‘You there, do you remember the horse I speak of? A dapple grey?’

All eyes suddenly focused on her. ‘I. . I remember him — the grey, I mean. He was beautiful.’

Nathair took a step towards her. ‘Did you stable the stallion? Or speak with Meical, its rider?’

‘No, I did not. That was Gar.’

‘Gar?’

‘The stablemaster.’

‘I must speak with him. Where is he?’

Cywen shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

‘I am sure he knows nothing,’ Brenin interrupted. ‘But I will see that he is questioned, inform you if there is any news of interest.’

Nathair turned back to Brenin. ‘I would rather speak to him myself, particularly as your time is so stretched.’

‘No,’ said Brenin.

Nathair stood silent a moment. His eyes narrowed. ‘I am accustomed to speaking to someone, if that is my inclination, my wish,’ he said coldly.

‘That may well be,’ Brenin said, ‘when you are in your own hall, your own kingdom. But I would remind you that you are a guest here, not king. And in my hall, my kingdom, I will do things as I please. And it does not please me to have others question my people. That is a task I reserve for myself, or those I deem appropriate.’

Sumur shifted, the barest movement of his feet, but suddenly there was a tension in his frame, the threat of violence in the air. ‘That is discourteous,’ he said softly in his guttural accent.

Nathair held a hand up to Sumur, as if to calm him. ‘I have travelled a thousand leagues for this information,’ he eventually said, something dangerous in his voice. ‘I will not be hindered in this.’

Brenin returned his gaze impassively.

‘Maybe you do not fully understand,’ Nathair said. ‘These are momentous times. Times of change. Times where choices must be made. A new order is coming. I shall remember those that help me, and those that hinder me, when my alliance is no longer in its infancy.’

‘Your alliance? I thought it was Aquilus that birthed it?’ Brenin said, raising an eyebrow. ‘You are of a different cast, I think, from your father. And, yes, I understand very well the times we live in. I was at your father’s council. I stood with him. Remember that.

‘Allow me to give you some advice, as you are yet new to your throne. In future, try and have more care in how you choose to speak to a king, especially when he is in his own hall.’

‘Mandros said something similar,’ Nathair murmured.

Brenin scowled at Nathair. ‘Mandros. Know this, Nathair: when my current troubles are resolved I will be calling for an inquiry into Mandros’ death. Kingslaying is not lightly done, and I am unhappy with all that I have heard.’ He at last left the stables, his party following. Evnis lingered a moment, a long glance passing between him and Nathair, then he too was gone.

Nathair turned back to Cywen. ‘Tell this Gar that I would speak with him,’ he said.

Cywen said nothing, and looked at her feet.

Suddenly horns sounded, an urgency in their tone. Nathair and his own companions left, the eagle-guard flashing a smile at Cywen as he went.

Crowds were making their way to Stonegate, where the horns were blowing loudest. Cywen darted ahead, ran up the stairwell and squeezed between warriors to peer over the battlements.

A warband was camped beyond the bridge, five or six hundred swords at least, which Owain deemed enough to contain any strike from within the fortress. The rest of the war-host was camped around the base of the hill, a black mass from this distance that spread throughout Havan and into the meadows round about.

In the distance, to the south, beyond Owain’s host, there was movement on the horizon, a dark smudge moving slowly closer.

Dalgar.

She felt the tension, the hope rippling through those on the wall. Then she remembered Edana’s words — Brenin wanted mounted warriors ready to give aid to Pendathran’s son. She turned and bolted back to the stables, to find Gar organizing the chaos there as countless warriors prepared for battle. Pendathran was shouting a continuous barrage of insults at anyone he considered not moving at their fastest.

She dived in and helped saddle horses, tighten girths, strap spears to harness and a host of other things, until suddenly riders were thundering away towards Stonegate, a cloud of dust rising from their passing.

She did not pause for breath, but made her way straight back to the walls, squeezing through the crush until she had a view of the land below again.

Dalgar’s warband was much closer now, close enough to make out tiny, individual riders, a wave of countless spear-points. Nevertheless, as they drew nearer Cywen was struck by how few they were compared to Owain’s host. The King of Narvon must have emptied his realm to field such a gathering. Dalgar had maybe a quarter of what was arrayed against him. There were thousands within the fortress, evening the numbers, but they had to get across the bridge, which was only wide enough for ten or twelve mounted warriors abreast. And then there was the problem of the horses. Most mounts had been put out to pasture around Havan, as there wasn’t enough room within Dun Carreg’s walls.

Below, Dalgar and his warriors were now charging Owain’s hastily drawn up lines. It was impossible to tell what was happening from such a distance, but Cywen could see the flanks of Owain’s massed warriors curling around the smaller warband, like a huge fist closing.

Corban joined her, staring anxiously down at the battle far below. ‘You’re not joining those in the courtyard, then?’ she said to Corban.

‘What? No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Only proven warriors, on Pendathran’s order.’

‘You are proven,’ she said defensively, but then felt relief overwhelm her annoyance. She would not like to see Corban in that.

Pendathran’s voice sounded in the courtyard behind, shouting orders, and the gates creaked open, a flood of horsemen surging through them onto the bridge.

Owain’s warriors were ready for them, a thicket of spears awaiting the horsemen.

There was a great crash as the riders ploughed into this wall of spears, wood splintering, horses screaming, flesh tearing and bodies flung into the air. The end of the bridge became a seething mass of horseflesh, blood and iron.

More of Owain’s warriors were piling up behind the first rows of his spearmen. The bridge itself was crowded with Pendathran’s men, and a bottleneck of the dead and dying formed between the two camps where the bridge met the land.

Cywen saw Pendathran on his great warhorse, plunging and rearing in the mass, the battlechief striking about him with his longsword. He hacked spear shafts in two, severed heads from necks and chopped grasping hands from arms as they reached out to pull him down. Slowly but surely the enemy line gave before him. He ploughed on, becoming the tip of an arrow shape as Ardan’s warriors rallied behind him.

Then a spear sank into the chest of Pendathran’s mount, its scream rising momentarily above the din of battle. It crashed into the ranks about it, red-cloaked warriors surging forwards, and Pendathran disappeared beneath like a man drowning.

A great roar went up from the warriors of Ardan as they tried to hack their way to their battlechief, but all was chaos, the bridge a boiling mass of limbs and leather and iron and blood.

Then Corban pointed — Pendathran was there again, his huge bulk the centre of a maelstrom as he laid about him with his sword. He retreated and sank into the line of his own warriors, and for a while the two forces fought on, men dying on either side, but neither gaining any advantage. Eventually, slowly, step by step, the men of Ardan were pushed backwards across the bridge, back into the shadow of Stonegate. Warriors from above flung rocks and spears at the men of Narvon as they came within range. A gap formed between the two sides as Pendathran and his surviving warriors retreated, and then with a slam the gates closed again.

Cywen ran to the other side of the wall, and looked down into the courtyard to see Pendathran sitting, pale-faced, his head in his hands.

The battle on the plain below still raged, the conflict seething closer to the fortress, as Dalgar desperately tried to cut his way to Dun Carreg.

But they were almost completely encircled, or so it appeared, and as Cywen watched, a shiver went through the battle, reminiscent of an animal in the moment before death. Almost immediately afterwards warriors began to break away from the main press of battle, moving back across the corpse-strewn meadows. At first a trickle of ones and twos, but quickly becoming a steady stream as Dalgar’s warband was finally broken down and put to rout. Those fleeing were hounded by bands of mounted warriors. If any escaped Cywen could not tell.

In time a group of warriors rode up towards the fortress, about a score of them with Owain at their head. His eyes scanned the battlements as he reached the bridge, saw Pendathran up aloft and jeered. He reined in as he reached the carnage of the bridge battle, and warriors behind him pulled forward a horse with a body slumped across its back. Owain heaved it onto the ground and rode away.

Pendathran ordered the gates opened and made his way out across the bridge. Here he paused, but the massed warriors of Narvon made no move, no sound. He bent and lifted the abandoned corpse into his arms and carried the body of Dalgar, his son, back across the bridge.