Malice (32 page)

Maquin and Ulfilas were still fighting back to back, standing knee deep in the stream. Then Kastell heard splashing behind him. Desperately he tugged at his sword again but it would not pull free. He let go of his blade and twisted away, pain lancing up his side as a spear-point grazed his ribs. Another fur-clad man stood in front of him. Through the chaos he heard Maquin shout his name, saw the man before him pull his spear back and set his weight for a killing thrust, saw the knuckles whiten as the man’s grip tightened on the shaft and the twitch of muscles in the shoulder as the spear jerked forwards. Then, with a soft thud, the man stopped, a black-feathered arrow sticking from his throat. His spear slipped from his fingers and he dropped to his knees in the stream, toppling backwards, surprise on his face.

More figures appeared from the treeline, faces twisted, inhuman. They wore baggy breeches, their upper bodies bare, heads shaven, apart from thick warrior braids of black hair, intricate tapestries of scars covering them.

The Sirak.

With high-pitched howls they came out of the forest, short curved swords rising and falling. The men that had attacked Kastell and his companions screamed in terror, their wall around Maquin and Ulfilas collapsing as they ran in every direction, trying to escape the sudden death flowing from the trees.

None did.

Maquin and Ulfilas still stood, exhausted, leaning against each other in the stream. Maquin’s face was covered in blood, a gash across his forehead, and Ulfilas dropped to one knee, blood seeping from a wound in his thigh.

He saw Maquin lean over one of the corpses, fingers moving quickly at the man’s belt, then a sound in the distance caused them all to turn and look.

Riders appeared: Romar and Jael at the head of a dozen warriors. Jael levelled his spear upon seeing the Sirak and spurred his mount forwards. Maquin leaped into his path waving his arms frantically, calling out, ‘
Friends, friends, they are friends
.’ Romar reined in his horse, crying out in a loud voice. Jael lifted his spear-point, pulling his horse up in a spray of forest litter and mud.

There was silence a moment, the only noise the blowing of horses, the patter of raindrops on the stream.

‘What goes on here?’ Romar growled.

‘We were set upon,’ said Maquin, wiping blood out of his eyes. ‘By these . . .’ he gestured around him at the dead bodies strewn along the stream bank. ‘We were outnumbered, then these men came to our aid. They saved our lives.’

Romar looked at the strange rescuers. One stepped forward.

‘I am Temel of the Sirak,’ he said in a guttural accent.

‘I am Romar, King of Isiltir. And I know you, from King Aquilus’ council.’ He glanced at the dead bodies all about him. ‘My thanks for your aid, here. Please, our camp is not far. Come, eat with us so we may express our thanks.’

The Sirak nodded, a sharp, economical movement. ‘We will go to our horses, meet at your camp,’ he said and turned away, the other Sirak disappearing into the darkness behind him.

‘Search their bodies,’ Romar commanded, gesturing at the dead scattered around, ‘I would know who they are.’

The attackers’ corpses were piled together; the bodies of Isiltir’s fallen warriors draped across horses. Kastell knelt by the water and washed blood from his hands. His side was throbbing. He lifted his shirt, saw a gash across his ribs, blood trickling from it. Maquin knelt beside him.

‘Still alive then, lad. Someone must be smiling on us, eh?’

‘Doesn’t feel like it,’ Kastell muttered, wincing as he doused the cut. ‘That doesn’t look good.’ He pointed at a cut on Maquin’s head.

‘It’s not deep, but I’m bleeding like a stuck pig. Scalp wounds always do. Looks worse than it is, though.’ He ripped a strip of cloth from his shirt, soaked it in the stream, wrung it out and bound it around his head. ‘Ah, by Elyon’s teeth, but it’s good to be alive.’

Romar called for them to mount up.

There were no clues amongst the corpses as to their identity.

Quickly they made their way back to the road and joined the camp. Soon the Sirak cantered in on small ponies, less than a score, Kastell counted. With Maquin and Ulfilas he went to have his wound tended.

Then, at last, he sought out meat and drink, thankful to be alive. The Sirak were sitting around a fire with his uncle and a handful of others. They had saved his life, those strange, fierce, terrifying-looking men. He wanted to give them his thanks, but he could see Jael beside Romar.

One of the Sirak rose and left the group, walking towards the fringes of the camp. Kastell watched him a moment, then stood and followed, still clutching a skin of watered wine, something he’d acquired a taste for while in Tenebral.

The Sirak stood beside an oak, relieving his bladder.

When he had finished, Kastell approached him. ‘You saved my life,’ he said. The Sirak just stared at him, black eyes gazing out under a jutting brow.

‘At the stream. You . . . saved my life . . . my thanks,’ he said haltingly, holding out the wine skin. A smile split the warrior’s many-scarred face, making him appear even more gruesome in the firelight. He took the wine and drank.

‘Bodil,’ he said, cuffing liquid from his chin. ‘My name. Bodil.’

‘Kastell. How did you find us?’

‘A strange place to meet, no?’ Bodil laughed, a short, abrupt sound. Kastell nodded.

‘We had been following those men. They were travelling same path that leads us home,’ Bodil said, passing the skin back. ‘We left Jerolin a day after you. We rode hard. We have been away from Arcona . . .’ he paused, ‘the, how would you say it, Sea of Grass. My homeland. We have been away too long.’

Kastell concentrated on the Sirak’s words, his strange accent hard to follow. The Sea of Grass was the land to the east of Forn Forest. He had heard tell of the realm that sat upon a steep-sided plateau of rock, rising high above the trees of the forest, stretching for leagues without number.

‘Not far back, maybe a league,’ Bodil said, waving his hand at the forest, ‘we saw tracks lead away from the road. My father is not very trusting, and he is not one to ignore someone else’s trouble, so we followed. The rest you know.’

Wolven howled somewhere in the forest.

A voice called out from the campfire and Bodil stiffened.

‘I must go,’ he said. ‘My father is calling.’

Kastell nodded. ‘I just wanted to say thank you, for saving my life.’

Bodil smiled again. ‘You are welcome, Kastell of Isiltir.’ He walked back towards the fire.

Kastell leaned against the oak, sipping slowly at his wine. There was not much left. Maquin loomed out of the darkness, a clean bandage tied around his forehead.

‘Here you are, lad. I’ve been looking for you.

‘I think you should see this,’ Maquin said, pulling out a pouch from inside his shirt. He shook it gently, coin chinking.

‘Where did you get that?’ asked Kastell.

‘Off one of the corpses at the stream,’ Maquin said quietly, glancing around. ‘I don’t know what you think, but they seemed a ragged gang to me, not the kind to be carrying coin like this.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Hold your hand out, lad,’ and Maquin poured some of the contents into Kastell’s open palm. They glittered in the firelight.

‘Gold,’ frowned Kastell.

‘Aye, lad, and that’s not all. Take a closer look.’

Kastell held one up, twisting it so that the light from the campfires illuminated it. ‘I don’t understand,’ he stuttered. He was looking at the imprint on the coin, a jagged bolt of lightning. It was the crest of Isiltir.

‘No? Then let me help you. We are a long way from Isiltir, are we not?’

Kastell nodded.

‘And even if we
were
in Isiltir, who would have coin like this? The King. His kin.’

‘Jael,’ whispered Kastell.

‘Aye. I don’t think what happened by the stream was an accident. Those men were paid, and paid well, to do a job.’

Kastell glanced at Maquin, face serious.

‘Joining the Gadrai looking more attractive now?’ asked Maquin.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CORBAN

‘What in Asroth’s Otherworld is the King’s Justice?’ asked Farrell as he munched on a cold leg of chicken.

Corban was sitting in the back of a large wain, bumping along the giantsway, sitting with about a dozen other boys. All of them were eyeing him – or more accurately, the bundle of fur that poked out from under his arm – with varying degrees of curiosity and caution. Farrell was the only one that had actually spoken to him since he climbed into the wain, although all of the others were listening avidly to their conversation.

‘It’s an ancient law,’ said Corban. ‘If you invoke it then your grievance can only be judged by the king.’

‘Asroth’s teeth, I’ve never ’eard of that before,’ whistled Farrell, spitting food everywhere.

‘As I said, it’s an ancient law. I don’t think it’s been used since Ard’s reign.’

‘How’d you know ’bout it, then?’

‘Brina told me.’

‘That
witch
?’ spluttered Farrell.

‘She’s a healer,’ Corban muttered distractedly. Dark clouds sat on the horizon and a strong, sharp wind was swirling about him.

Glancing down at the bundle of fur nestled in the crook of his arm, he sighed.
What am I doing
? he thought.
I must be going mad
. He remembered Evnis shouting at him in the glade and knew he had to do this.

The dead and wounded from the glade had been bound to horses and led slowly out of the Baglun, a rider sent ahead to fetch Brina and any other healers that could make it to the fortress that night. Vonn had fainted when lifted from the ground. Corban remembered his limbs hanging limply as he was carried from the glade.

‘So, what’re you going to do with it?’ Farrell said, nodding at the cub.

‘I suppose that will be for Queen Alona to decide.’

‘Aye,’ Farrell nodded. ‘I s’pose so.’

‘Thank you,’ Corban said, ‘for coming back.’

Farrell grunted.

The fortress of Dun Carreg appeared in the distance. Iron-grey clouds were sweeping in from the sea, causing the day to darken early. The taste of salt was on Corban’s lips, this far inland, and gulls were swirling along the coastline, white specks in the sky.

A storm was coming.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CYWEN

Cywen paced across the courtyard behind Stonegate. Something was wrong. Very wrong, and no one would tell her what. It was maddening.

A steady stream of riders had been returning to the fortress for a while, most of them grim faced and stern. She had rushed to the stables, leaving her self-imposed post at the gates, where she had been waiting for Corban’s return. The place was heaving with activity, horses whinnying, harness clattering, voices thrumming in low, muted conversation. That was different – usually the clamour was deafening, warriors boasting of their feats in the hunt and looking forward to the evening’s feast. As she entered the stables what little conversation there was seemed to stutter and die.

She set about unsaddling a warrior’s horse, asking politely how the hunt had gone, but received a frosty silence and a hard look in answer.

No answers were forthcoming, so soon she gave up and returned to the gates.

The line of returning riders was thicker now. Then she saw the dead and wounded draped over horses, being led by weary-looking riders. Her breath caught in her throat.
Da, Corban, Gar, where are they?
She saw her da ride through the gates on Steadfast, his huge workhorse, then Gar – stony faced as usual – upon Hammer, Buddai padding along behind. She breathed a deep sigh of relief and rushed over to them.

‘Where’s Ban?’ she said as she fell in beside them. Thannon looked down, grim beneath his beard. She took a step back.

‘He’ll be along soon enough,’ Thannon said.

‘He is well, then? When I saw some of those returning . . .’

‘Aye, Cy, he is well, for the moment.’ He passed a big, calloused hand across his face, relaxing slightly.