Malice (20 page)

Camlin had been too scared to move, huddled shaking while the raiders emptied their house and barn of everything of value and rode back to the Darkwood in a cloud of dust.

Eventually he crept out into the yard, knelt beside his mam and brother and shed uncounted tears. A terrible rage consumed him, fed brighter by his shame at hiding. He fetched a pony from the pasture and rode after the raiders.

He was not a warrior, not being of age yet, but his da had taught him much about the ways of wood and earth. It had taken him half a day to catch up with the raiders, who were riding carelessly through the Darkwood. He followed them two more days, out of the Darkwood and into Ardan, saw his mam and brother’s killers pass through the gates of Badun.

After that he had made his way back to his burned-out home, then taken his news to the lord of the nearest village, but the man had not been interested. Camlin was not of age to hold a spear or come from a family of high blood. The next day warriors had ridden from the village to see if there was anything left worth taking from his home. When Camlin had shouted at them and cursed them as cowards they had laughed, then chased him. He fled into the Darkwood, wandering there days until he was found by the brigands that lived there.

They took Camlin in, taught him the way of the wood, and slowly but surely he had risen through their ranks.

And so here he was. He snorted.
Done well for myself
.

He awoke with a start, had to blink repeatedly to remove the picture of his mam’s dead eyes from his mind.

Dawn’s shadow-light was seeping into the forest. He leaned up on one elbow, rubbed his eyes, saw movement in the shadows. He squinted and stared. Something glinted.

‘Awake!’ cried Camlin, his voice hoarse with sleep. He leaped to his feet, dragging his sword from its scabbard.

The forest came to life around him. He kicked Goran to speed him to his feet, heard footfalls to his left. Stepping backwards, he wobbled on the edge of the rock face, saw a blade pass through the space that his head had just occupied. He rammed his sword into the chest of an onrushing warrior, pulling it free with a spray of blood, stepped over a body slumped at Goran’s feet.

There were enemies everywhere, all a chaos of tangled limbs, battle-cries and screams. Couldn’t be sure, but it looked as if his lads were doing badly. Another warrior lunged at him and he blocked the sword blow, punched the man in the mouth, sending him tripping over a corpse.

Suddenly a high keening filled the air, more warriors rushing out of the mist, bare iron in their fists.

‘Time to leave,’ Camlin grunted to Goran, who was fighting beside him. Camlin ran for the edge of the rock face, leaping off the ledge. With a splash he fell into the stream and dropped to his knees, gashing them on slick stones in the stream bed.
No time for pain
, he told himself, lurching forwards into the stream’s shallows. Behind him he heard another splash and hoped it was Goran.

He followed the stream’s edge for a long time, until he could not force his legs to pump forwards any longer. He heard splashing, growing louder. He gripped his sword hilt, then the hulking figure of Goran came into view.

The two men set off quickly, shadowing the stream, the forest growing lighter around them. Before long the foliage began to thin. ‘What are we going to do?’ Goran whispered as they approached the fringes of the forest. An open plain lay before them, with occasional stands of trees breaking up the horizon.

‘Follow this stream all the way to the marshes is my bet,’ said Camlin. ‘If they tracked us this far they’re not going to just let us get away now. The only place we can hope to lose them is the marshes.’

‘If we get there.’

‘Aye, if we get there. But that’s not going to happen standing here. Come on.’

They checked the plain once more and then burst from the forest, running for a stand of alders in the distance. When they were halfway to the trees, Camlin heard rumbling somewhere behind. Three warriors were riding towards them. The trees ahead were too far. He glanced at Goran and they both nodded. Stopping, they drew their swords and spun to face the approaching warriors. The middle horseman dismounted, his nose swollen and red, looking as if it had recently been broken.

‘You are safe,’ the man said. ‘Quickly now, let’s get out of the open. We will take you to safety.’

Camlin’s shoulders slumped as he sheathed his sword, relief flooding him. Goran did the same. The other two riders slid to the ground. Then suddenly branches crashed from the forest. Camlin and Goran turned to see men pour from the trees. He heard the whisper of a blade being drawn behind him – surely Goran preparing for a last stand. Then his comrade crashed lifeless to the grass beside him.

‘Don’t kill them,’ a voice cried faintly from the warriors running out of the forest. As he began to turn, a searing pain lanced into his side. His legs were suddenly weak, his vision blurring as he slumped to the ground.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CORBAN

It was still dark when Corban rose. He dressed quickly and made his way to the paddocks.

Gar was waiting as usual, sweat drying on him from whatever he had been doing. Corban nodded a greeting and began his routine, running around the paddock. Soon they moved inside the stables, Corban working at the exercises Gar had introduced him to.

For almost two ten-nights now this had been his morning routine, and he was starting to feel stronger, more flexible. Finally they moved into the intricate slow dance that Gar had taught him, progressing fluidly from one position to the next, holding a stance until his muscles trembled, burned, then moving to another. When they had finished, Corban wiping sweat from his forehead, Gar called him. He turned quickly, saw the stablemaster throw something to him. He flinched but instinctively held his hand out to catch it.

It was a practice sword.

Finally
, he thought, breath catching in his throat.

A shadow of a smile flitted across the stablemaster’s face. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘let’s see what you can do.’

‘Are you ready?’ Corban asked, squaring up to Gar. The stablemaster just nodded, not even raising his weapon.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you,’ Corban said, grateful for the opportunity to show how good he was with a blade.

Weapon raised high and resisting the urge to shout a battle-cry, Corban threw himself at Gar. A flurry of motion followed and Corban found himself on the ground, straw poking up his nose and in his eyes, his knuckles stinging.

‘I must have tripped,’ he muttered as he rolled over, letting the stablemaster help him to his feet.

‘Clearly. Come now, let us try again,’ said Gar. ‘And please, go easy on me. I am not as young as I was, and my wound slows me.’

‘Of course,’ said Corban.

Three more times in quick succession Corban found himself face down in the straw, unable to figure out how he had arrived there. Gar leaned on his practice sword, chuckling. Corban felt a flash of anger and rose, scowling, but as he looked at Gar something inside him softened. The stablemaster seemed different. He realized he had never seen Gar laugh properly. It changed his face, taking away the sternness that was such a part of him.

‘So, my young swordsmaster. There may be a few things an old, broken warrior like me can still show?’

‘I think so,’ muttered Corban, ‘like how to stay on my feet.’

The glimmer of a smile, just a brief twitching at the corners of Gar’s mouth.

‘All right then. You remember the slow dance, as you call it. Its correct title is the
sword dance
. Each position is the first stance of a sword technique. Let us begin with the first one.’ The mask was back on, all signs of humour gone.

Corban listened avidly, soaking up all that Gar told him. They went through a series of moves based on the first stance of the dance, but this time with the sword in his hand. Then Corban hurried home to break his fast.

Only his da was home, and he would not say where Cywen and his mam were. Instead, he put Corban’s food on the table and told him to hurry, as there was something that he wanted Corban to see. Soon they were marching across Stonegate’s bridge, Buddai following at Thannon’s heels.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Corban, not really expecting an answer.

Thannon smiled at him. ‘Gar’s stallion has sired a foal, it was born this morning. A skewbald colt. He’s yours, if you want him.’

His da set a fast pace, and soon they were descending the winding road to Havan. White-tipped waves crashed against the shore beneath them. Corban could taste salt in the air, the wind snapping around him, bringing with it a taste of the sea far below. In the distance a line of riders moved along the giantsway, the smudge of Baglun Forest behind them.

‘The warband,’ Thannon said.

Corban felt a rush of excitement.
So many. Something must have happened
. He stood with his da and waited for the warband.

Marrock rode behind Pendathran, then the newcomers, Halion and Conall, and behind them a column of warriors. Near the centre of the procession walked a number of riderless horses, Corban counted a half-dozen, and then a wain pulled by two shaggy-haired ponies. Something was piled high inside the wain, covered with a sheet of ox-hides stitched together. A wheel hit a stone and a hand and arm slipped out from beneath the hide, skin pale, the nails black with dirt.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

VERADIS

Banners rippled on the plain before Jerolin’s black walls, all answering the call to High King Aquilus’ council. Many had come to join the sickle moon and stars that Veradis had seen arrive the day he had stood on the battlements with Prince Nathair, watching the Vin Thalun prisoner leave: the black hammer of Helveth, the bull of Narvon and the burning torch of Carnutan, as well as others that he did not recognize. A snarling wolf, a rearing horse, a red hand, a lone mountain, a broken branch. All stood rippling in the breeze amidst groups of tents erected to hold the shieldmen and entourages of these foreign kings, all come at the call of Aquilus. Veradis felt a swell of pride.

He turned and made his way to the practice court. The fortress was crowded now, full with the Banished Land’s warriors, most looking to prove themselves on the weapons court, to earn a reputation beyond their own realms.

Veradis was still surprised at how different so many of them looked. The local warriors were all easy to pick out, in their hobnailed sandals, tunics, leather kilts and close-cropped hair. Most of the newcomers wore boots and breeches, coming from colder lands most likely, many with long hair and beards to match. Others were dressed in loose-fitting clothes. There were variations in the colour of their skin, some as pale as morning sky, others weathered as old teak, and all the tones in between. No matter how different they appeared, though, there was one thing that bound them. Whether their hair was close-cropped like Veradis’, or long and wild, or neatly groomed and bound, all wore the warrior braid.

Rauca was sparring, showing off the strength of Prince Nathair’s band. His opponent, stripped to the waist, wearing checked breeches, was taller and broader, thick-corded muscles rippling as he fought, but Veradis was not concerned for his friend; the person he was facing had grey-streaked hair. Big
and
old meant slow.

They’d obviously been sparring for a while, both covered in a sheen of sweat. Rauca circled, forcing the older man to pivot to protect his shield side, then Rauca darted in, lunging at his opponent’s chest. At the last moment, as his opponent’s weapon was whistling to block the blow, Rauca shifted his weight, spinning around to bring his sword arcing at his now off-balance opponent’s neck. It was a perfect manoeuvre, feint and strike, except that his opponent was no longer where he was supposed to be. Somehow he had read the feint, and instead of trying to right himself he used his momentum to step forwards, avoiding the intended blow and regaining his balance at the same time. Now it was Rauca on unsteady feet, and a moment later his adversary’s sword swatted his wrist, making him drop his weapon.