Malice (31 page)

Corban’s eyes remained locked with the wolven standing over the cubs. Then the trees opposite exploded as hounds, men and horses poured into the clearing. Corban saw Evnis, tall on his horse, a heavy spear in his hand. Behind him rode his son. Next came Helfach the huntsman, his hounds about him. Warriors followed them: ten, fifteen – more pouring in all the time.

There was a single moment of stillness, then the wolven threw themselves at the intruders, meeting Helfach’s hounds with a snarling collision of flesh and bone.

There was blood everywhere. Corban saw a hound thrown through the air to crash against a tree, the sound of bones snapping as it slid lifelessly down the trunk. A wolven wrestled a horse to the ground, jaws clamped around its throat. Spears punctured the beast’s side, the rider screaming as his horse collapsed on him, its eyes bulging white. Elsewhere a wolven stood over a warrior’s body, canines dripping red, the man’s face and throat a red ruin. Hounds circled another of the great beasts, snapping at its hindquarters. One jumped in, squat and grey, clamping its jaws around the wolven’s throat. Razor-sharp claws opened the hound’s belly, spilling its guts. Other hounds leaped in and the wolven sank to the ground, snapping, twisting, biting, taking life even as its own bled into the forest floor. A man screamed, a wolven biting into his arm and shoulder, blood spurting as he fell, the wolven on top of him, shaking his body like a rag doll. Helfach leaped upon its back, a long hunting knife rising and falling.

Then, suddenly, it was over, the sound of a man groaning, a dog whining, everyone taking deep, ragged breaths. Evnis slid from his horse and ran to the fallen rider, still pinned beneath his dead horse. It was Vonn.

‘No,’ mumbled Evnis as he cradled his son’s head in his lap, the face pale, eyes closed. ‘I will not lose another. Come, help me.’ Men around him lurched into life to drag Vonn’s body from beneath the horse’s carcass, his leg broken.

‘There’s another,’ cried a man, and all heads turned to look where he was pointing. In between two thick roots of a tree, crouched amongst the leaves of the forest, was the last wolven. She crouched over her cubs, almost blending with the foliage around her. With a snarl, Evnis flew back into his saddle, taking up his spear, and threw his horse towards the beast. She growled and stood, then bunched her legs and sprang at the onrushing horse and rider. Her growl suddenly became a whine as Evnis’ spear pierced her, pinning her to the ground. She spasmed and then lay still. Evnis continued his charge, guiding his horse towards the huddle of cubs, trampling them, fur and blood flying around his horse’s hooves, squeals and yelps cut sickeningly short. He reached the far end of the clearing and turned his horse.

Then others were entering the clearing: Corban saw Pendathran, Marrock, many others. Amongst the matted fur that had been the wolven cubs a flicker of movement drew his eye. Before he even realized what he was doing, Corban’s feet were moving. He staggered over to the base of the tree. One cub still lived, nuzzling feebly at the body of one of the other dead pups. Instinctively Corban swept it up, cradling it like a newborn child.

Then he looked around.

All eyes were upon him. Eventually his gaze fell on Evnis, who was staring at him, his eyes narrowed.

‘Put it down, boy,’ he said quietly, though all in the glade heard him.

Corban said nothing.

‘Put the cub
DOWN
!’ shouted Evnis.

‘No,’ Corban heard himself say.

Evnis breathed deeply, closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Put the cub on the ground and move away, or so help me, by Elyon above and Asroth below, I shall ride you down as well.’

Corban saw movement out of the corner of his eye. A man had taken a step towards him. Gar.

Evnis clenched his reins.

‘
HOLD!
’ shouted a loud voice. ‘Hold, Evnis.’ It was Pendathran.

‘But these beasts may have taken my son from me. That cub must die.’

Pendathran frowned at Corban. ‘He speaks true, boy. Let it live and it will grow, maybe take more lives amongst our people. Besides, its mother is dead. It is going to die anyway. Put the cub down, lad.’

Corban hugged the cub closer to him and shook his head.

‘Do as you’re told,’ Pendathran snapped.

Corban looked frantically around the glade, but no one spoke or came to his aid. Gar watched him, his face an unreadable mask, but made no move to help. Pendathran clicked his horse forward.

‘I claim King’s Justice,’ Corban blurted, looking defiantly between Pendathran and Evnis.

Pendathran pulled his horse up, scowling. ‘You have the right, but you are only delaying the inevitable. And angering me into the bargain.’ He pinned Corban with a glowering look. ‘Are you sure?’

Corban nodded.

‘So be it,’ Pendathran growled and turned his horse away. Evnis rode back to his son, staring at Corban all the way. The wolven cub whimpered and nuzzled its nose into the crook of Corban’s arm.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

KASTELL

It took Kastell almost a moon to reach the borders of Tenebral, even though King Romar set a fast pace and the roads were good. Slowly the oak and chestnut woodlands of Tenebral were giving way to pine and fir as they climbed higher into the mountains that marked Helveth’s border. Eventually they left the trees behind completely, cantering through lush meadows. Snow-capped peaks reared above them as the warriors rode into a narrow valley. They clattered across an ancient, time-worn bridge spanning a great chasm, a rent in the earth’s fabric. A reminder of the Scourging, Maquin muttered to him as they crossed, when Elyon’s wrath near destroyed the world. Kastell peered over the bridge, saw sheer rock disappear into darkness. How deep it was he could not tell. Not long after, they made camp for the night.

The following day, as they rode through deep valleys and around dark lakes of Helveth’s southern border, King Romar called Kastell to ride with him. ‘Do you believe in fate, lad, destiny, the will of Elyon . . . call it what you will?’ Romar asked him.

‘I don’t know,’ said Kastell. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Good,’ Romar grunted. ‘I do. The gods, Elyon, Asroth, the coming of the Dark Sun. I could not explain it to you, but in my heart, when Aquilus spoke of these things at the council. I
knew
it to be true. I felt it.’

Kastell grunted, not quite sure what to say. He had felt something, too, but he could not explain it. Did not understand it, even.

‘And I believe you were meant to be here, nephew. It was no accident that I found you moments from death by giants as I travelled to the council. No accident.’ He looked at Kastell and smiled, creasing his broad, lined face.

‘I am glad your feud with Jael is at an end. I saw it when you were young, but was loath to intervene.’ He frowned, shaking his head. ‘I was worried. So I was glad for you when you left home with Maquin. But now you are back with us, and your feud is at an end. Fate. Maybe Elyon is taking a hand, even now.’ He smiled at his nephew again. ‘I am proud of you. Not even seen your eighteenth nameday and you are a giantkiller. Your father would have been proud.’

Kastell winced. He did not feel proud, or brave. Mostly when he thought about the giants all he remembered was terror.

‘There are many here named giantkiller now,’ was all he said.

‘That is true, lad – myself among them. Although I must confess, when I crested that ridge and saw the Hunen running at you, my guts turned to water for a moment. But we rode them down, true.
But
, ’tis also true that it’s easier to be brave when you’ve got four score hard men riding at your shoulder.’ He laughed loudly and Kastell could not help smiling at that. He was inclined to agree.

Romar examined his nephew. ‘You have changed, lad. Grown. What I said to you back at Aquilus’ stronghold is true. I have plans for you. I have been talking with Braster, King of Helveth. We have agreed to strike out against the Hunen. To break the giants’ strength once and for all.’

‘Why now, Uncle?’

‘All this talk at the council, it rings true with me. The giants have been a curse since the dawn of time. Elyon should have finished them at the Scourging. To end the Hunen will be a good start. I would leave my kingdom safer for my son. Hael is only eight summers, but a king must look ahead. And, besides, they have my axe, and I want it back.’

‘When will you act?’

Romar shrugged. ‘Soon. Not this year, but maybe next spring, summer. I have a mind to involve Aquilus in this. He proposed that we give each other aid, after all. If we are to venture into Forn Forest and give battle to the Hunen on their own ground, the more warriors the better, eh?’

‘Into Forn Forest?’

‘Aye, lad. I hardly think the Hunen will agree to march out and fight us on an open plain. We will have to go and root them out.’

Kastell nodded slowly.

‘There are dark and dangerous times ahead, of that I have no doubt. I will need men about me that I can trust. Men that can lead, and not shrink from what must be done. You are one of those men.’

Stunned, Kastell stared at his uncle, mouth open. King Romar laughed again. ‘Don’t worry, lad, I don’t mean today.’

‘But I don’t think there are many men that would be happy taking orders from me.’

‘You’d be surprised. You are my blood-kin. If you give orders, men will listen. Until now you have not chosen to do so, but that can change quick enough. Look at Jael – he’s been practising ever since he came to Mikil as a boy.’

Kastell grunted.

‘Also, Maquin is good company for you, a more loyal shieldman you’ll never find. But he could be more. He could be a leader of men. I see it in him. You could learn much from him.’

‘He is my friend.’ It felt strange saying that out loud.

‘I know, for which I am glad.’

They rode again in silence. Soon after, Kastell dropped back down the line, thinking over all that his uncle had said. Then, as dusk began to settle, Jael fell back, leading a packhorse laden with many empty water skins.

‘Making camp soon,’ he said to Maquin, ignoring Kastell completely. ‘Take the horse and some extra hands, find water, and fill the skins. And don’t take too long, I’m thirsty.’ He pressed the packhorse’s reins into Maquin’s hand and kicked his horse back to the head of the column.

Maquin gathered a handful of riders about him, including Kastell. Turning away from the column, they rode down a gentle slope into the woods to a stream they’d spotted. Three warriors had joined him and Maquin. An owl hooted amongst the trees.

Maquin knelt beside the stream and slipped on a moss-covered stone, falling back with a splash into the water. There was a moment’s quiet and then everyone was laughing. Maquin held a hand up.

‘Come, help an old man up,’ Maquin said to the nearest warrior, Ulfilas, holding a hand out.

‘When
I
called you
old man
I got a fist in the eye,’ the warrior said. He gripped Maquin’s forearm, hoisting him out of the stream. Maquin slapped him on the back in thanks.

My uncle is right
, thought Kastell,
he is a natural leader
.

The owl hooted again, closer now, and Maquin paused, cocking his head as he stared into the twilight of the forest.

‘What’s wrong?’ said one of the other warriors. There was a hissing sound, a thud, and a spear-point burst through the warrior’s chest. He toppled into the stream.

The forest erupted around them, figures leaping out of the shadows. They were lean, desperate looking, covered in fur and leather. Iron glistened in the rain: Kastell saw spears, swords, long knives, an axe. Maquin and Ulfilas had drawn their swords, while the other warrior with them was wrestling with one of the attackers. They tumbled into the stream, arms flailing.

There were screams, the clash of iron on iron. Kastell lurched to his feet, slipping on moss. He reached for his sword as he stumbled towards Maquin and Ulfilas. A spear-point lunged at Maquin’s side. Ulfilas swung his sword hard, chopping the spear in two, and Maquin’s sword buried itself in the spearman’s neck. He slumped to the ground, falling on top of other motionless shapes. Many others ringed them: too many to count.

Kastell reached the two men fighting mid-stream, water foaming. He raised his sword but couldn’t make out friend from foe. Maquin yelled and he looked up – men were moving towards him, slower than the first rush, taught caution. A savage-looking man lunged at him. Kastell ducked and barrelled forwards, stabbing wildly. He felt his sword punch through leather and flesh. His momentum buried his sword up to its hilt; dark blood pumped over Kastell’s hands, the slumping weight pulling him off-balance. With a great heave, he pushed the corpse away and leaped sideways as a spear plunged into the space where he’d been. He staggered, sweat falling into his eyes, saw a blurred movement and raised his sword instinctively, catching an axe blow aimed at his skull. Sparks flew as the axe and sword grated together. His eyes cleared, a grimy face filling his vision as his attacker leaned into him, shoulder to shoulder. Sour breath washed over him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone circling him. Bellowing, he thrust the man with the axe back to the stream’s bank. The man stumbled, tripped, and Kastell’s sword hacked down, chopping between neck and shoulder. His blade stuck. He wrenched, but it would not pull free.