Malice (54 page)

The young warrior nodded, and moved to face Tull.

‘The Court of Swords will decide this matter. Now,’ Rhin said.

Brenin scowled, gripping the table. ‘So be it.’

Tull strode forward, drew his own sword and touched it to Morcant’s waiting blade, accepting the challenge.

Morcant laughed. Tull shrugged and stepped backwards, eyes on Rhin’s champion. The air whistled as he chopped his sword through the air, rolling his huge shoulders.

The room exploded into noise as people jumped from their tables, forming a half-ring around the two men. Coins chinked as wagers were exchanged. Corban stood in the front row and people took care not to jostle him because of Storm, who eyed the two warriors with suspicion.

Corban could not believe what was happening. His heart was pounding in his chest; he had never seen a duel before. Plenty of sword-crossings and sparring sessions with padded or wooden blades, but not with sharp, death-dealing swords of iron. He was suddenly scared, and excited too. Tull’s reputation was massive, and seeing him in the flesh it was impossible to imagine him ever being bested, yet there was something about Rhin’s champion. His confidence was unnerving.

A hush fell as the two champions approached the high table. Tull bent, grabbed a handful of ash from the corner of the firepit and rubbed it into the hilt of his sword. They bowed to Rhin and Brenin, then turned to face each other.

Corban expected them to rush each other, to beat at each other, but they didn’t. Morcant walked slowly around Tull, the older man turning with him, his sword-tip held low. Suddenly Morcant darted forwards, sword snaking out, almost faster than Corban’s eye could follow, but Tull met the lunge with little effort, turning his block into a swing of his own, his blade whistling through air as Morcant danced lightly backwards. He settled back into his slow walk around the big champion, lunging in, fast as a striking snake once more, then again.

‘They seek each other’s measure,’ Gar whispered to Corban. He nodded, but could not speak or move his eyes from the contest before him. Then Morcant was moving forwards, not with a single stroke as before, but a blurring combination of slashes and lunges. Tull met each one, stepping backwards until he was close to the ring’s edge. Corban could see sweat on the big man’s bare shoulders, stains on his leather vest.

Tull grunted with each block, feet planted, then stepped nimbly aside, Morcant’s blade slicing through air. Rhin’s champion staggered forwards a half-step, and suddenly he was on the defensive, retreating before Tull’s looping, powerful strokes. Corban resisted the urge to cover his ears as the iron blades clashed and rang.

Brenin’s champion was almost a head taller than Morcant, strong as an ox but also fast for a big man. His attack was relentless, and suddenly Morcant’s mocking smile was gone, his face drawn in concentration as he met each of Tull’s blows, every one powerful enough to gut a boar. But Rhin’s champion was quick, with an iron strength in his leaner frame. He parried an overhead slash, pushing Tull’s sword away and down, stepped close, inside the big man’s guard and spun away, cutting backwards with his blade. The tip cut into Tull’s waist, drawing the first blood of the contest. Corban gasped.

‘You bleed like the rest of us, then,’ Morcant said, his smile returning.

Tull touched his fingers to his waist, drew them away red, snarled, attacked again. Morcant retreated under another withering barrage, somehow managing to fend off the flurry of great two-handed strokes. Tull slowed briefly and Morcant lunged, forcing Tull backwards again.

The two warriors fought back and forth across the ring, Corban losing all track of time, flickering flames from the firepit making the warriors look like fiends, like Asroth’s Kadoshim themselves. Eventually they broke away from each other, stepping back in some unspoken agreement. Both were sucking in great lungfulls of air. Tull’s waist was soaked with blood, a thin line of red ran down his shield arm, from shoulder to elbow. Morcant was unmarked.

Tull snorted, gathered his energies. He battered Morcant backwards, then swung an overhead blow. Part-way through, he suddenly released his blade, snatched it with his left hand and slashed it diagonally instead of vertically. Somehow Morcant managed to change the angle of his block, but Tull’s blade still raked him from shoulder to navel, leaving a welling red line in its wake.

‘Ah-ha, old man,’ Morcant said, stepping out of range. ‘You are too famous for your own good. I have heard of all your tricks.’

For the first time Tull seemed hesitant. Corban glanced at Brenin, tearing his eyes away from the two champions. The King’s face was taut, worried.

Iron clashing on iron drew him back. Morcant was pressing the attack now, his sword slashing and lunging in a blur. Tull retreated, an edge of wildness, of desperation in his movements as he blocked and turned the hail of blows. Blood welled on his forearm as Morcant’s blade nicked him, then across his chest, his thigh. His back slammed into an oak pillar. Morcant slashed again, sparks flying as their swords grated until they were standing chest to chest, wrist to wrist, locked for a moment.

‘Soon, old man,’ Morcant grunted.

With a heave, Tull shoved Morcant away. Rhin’s champion staggered back out of range, but Tull did not follow. Instead he leaned one hand on his thigh, braced his sword-tip into the floor, dragging in deep, ragged breaths.

‘I must – confess,’ he gasped, ‘you are – quite good.’

Morcant smiled, stood tall. He was weary, but not as tired as Tull. ‘Ready to die, old man?’

‘Not yet,’ Tull said through gritted teeth. He flicked his wrist, his sword-point flinging rushes and earth into Morcant’s face.

Rhin’s champion grasped at his eyes, stepping backwards, raising his sword to protect his head and chest, but Tull did not strike there. He stepped forwards, swinging his sword low and hard into Morcant’s booted ankle. There was a loud crack, Morcant wobbling for a moment, then he crashed to the ground. Tull leaped forwards, trod hard on Morcant’s sword wrist and levelled his blade at the fallen man’s chest.

‘My King?’ Tull said, not taking his eyes from Morcant’s.

There was utter silence, broken only by the loud breaths of the two champions and the crackle of flames. Corban’s palms were clammy with sweat. He held his breath. All eyes turned to Brenin, knowing Tull asked his lord’s sentence.

The King of Ardan bowed his head, looked at Rhin.

‘Let him live,’ he said.

Tull was still a moment, then he shrugged, spat blood and saliva into the rushes by Morcant’s head.

‘As you wish,’ he said, lifting the tip of his sword away from Morcant’s chest. He traced a line up the man’s neck, over his chin, rested the point on his cheekbone, flicked his wrist, cutting a deep line below Morcant’s eye.

‘Here endeth the lesson,’ Tull said, then turned and limped from the hall, Tarben and a handful of warriors from Dun Carreg hastening after him.

Rhin glared at Brenin and pulled her cloak about her. ‘I seem to have lost my appetite,’ she said, and left, not even glancing at her fallen champion.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

VERADIS

Veradis brushed his horse’s flank, the slow rhythmic movement helping to calm him. He felt anxious.

It was Midwinter’s Eve. Four nights had passed since he had witnessed the confrontation between Nathair and Fidele. Nothing related to Fidele’s warning had actually
happened
since then but its potential seemed to hover over Veradis like a bad dream, always there and just out of view.

The things that Fidele had said were true, and so it was surely only a matter of time before Aquilus heard the same rumours and confronted Nathair.

The truth will out.

That was not a confrontation he wanted to witness. Nathair had said that he was going to tell Aquilus, talk to him about the Vin Thalun and their uses. He was just waiting for the right time. Veradis hoped it would be before Aquilus heard from some other source.

And then, tomorrow was Midwinter’s Day. Would the sun
really
turn black?

He had never doubted Nathair, and that included the prediction of tomorrow’s events. And of course he had
seen
Calidus transformed, although the memory of it felt distant, insubstantial, somehow, like a fading dream. And tomorrow was so central, so pivotal to everything that had happened since Aquilus’ council, as if all led to this one moment. This moment that would mark the beginning of – what? A new age, Nathair called it. Word had reached them that all over the Banished Lands kings and queens were gathering. But what if the sun did not turn black?

He had heard tales of similar omens. A blood-red star in the sky, falling to earth had supposedly heralded Elyon’s Scourging, when the world had been a different place, even a different
shape
, but that was just a tale. Over a thousand years the Exiles had dwelt in the Banished Lands, with no talk of wars between Elyon and Asroth, no unnatural signs in the sky.

He sighed and rested his head against his grey’s neck. ‘What will the morrow bring?’ he muttered. He shook himself and set to pulling knots from the horse’s mane.

What will be, will be
, he thought.
One thing is sure: come what may, I am the Prince’s man. I will follow his lead
.

The sun rose into a clear sky on Midwinter’s Day, a bitter wind blowing from the mountains, the land froze iron hard. It was mid-morning when Veradis stood in the hall outside Nathair’s chamber. He waited there a while, then straightened his shoulders and knocked on the door.

Nathair answered quickly. A sable cloak draped his shoulders, the white eagle of Tenebral standing bright on a black polished breastplate. His short sword hung at his hip.

‘Ready?’ the Prince said, grinning at Veradis.

‘Aye.’

‘Are many gathered?’

‘Some, though your father has not yet left the keep.’

‘Good. Come, then,’ Nathair said, striding down the hallway.

They found Aquilus and Fidele in the feast-hall, a small crowd gathered about them. Peritus was there, as was Armatus, the weapons-master. Although Veradis had bested him recently, the grizzled warrior was still King Aquilus’ first-sword.

King Mandros of Carnutan stood in conversation with Aquilus, a sour look etched on his face. He had arrived late the previous day and still looked worn from the journey, dark rings under his eyes. News of their first meeting had spread through the fortress, Mandros all but accusing Aquilus of setting the Vin Thalun loose on his realm. Veradis eyed him suspiciously. He did not like the thought of enemies allowed so close to Nathair and Aquilus. His gaze lingered on Mandros’ sword.

A tall figure stood beside Fidele. Meical had returned.

The King’s counsellor had been absent since before they had left for Tarbesh. It was unusual for a counsellor to be away so much, but it was Aquilus’ choice to send him on such lengthy quests. When Veradis had mentioned it to Nathair he had only replied that his father was strong minded and took little counsel anyway. It was fitting, though, that the tall man should be here today. After all, it was he who had found the book that had drawn them all to this point.

Meical leaned forward and whispered something to Aquilus as Nathair and Veradis approached. The King swung round, eyes fixing onto his son.

‘Father,’ said Nathair, bowing his head. ‘The day long awaited is finally here.’

‘Aye,’ Aquilus said curtly. ‘Come, let us find a place on the walls, the better to see it.’

They filed out of the keep, a warrior escort waiting beyond, and made their way to the battlements that ringed the fortress, climbing the wide, giant-crafted steps to look out upon the plain and lake.

Scores of people stood on the lake shore, and the battlements and streets of Jerolin were crowded, everyone looking upwards.

The sun was high now, bright in a pale blue sky. Everything looked normal.

Veradis swallowed, his mouth dry. He looked around, saw stablemaster Valyn standing further along the battlements, also staring skyward. He scratched his head, tried to stifle a yawn as he scanned the crowd, eyes coming to rest on Meical. He stood almost a head taller than anyone else in the crowd, the scars on his face silver in the daylight. Unlike most, he was not looking at the sun. He looked around the crowd, studying, measuring everything, every
one
, his eyes eventually fixing on Veradis. Seeing the warrior watching him, he returned the gaze, his expression unreadable. Veradis thought of Nathair’s words, of the part Meical had played in Aquilus’ plans.

The dark-haired man looked away, gazing upwards.

Suddenly, almost collectively, the crowd gasped. Veradis’ head jerked up, staring at the sun, shielding his eyes.

Through the glare he saw something, an indentation, on the sun’s western rim. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. The mark was still there when he looked again, appearing like a curved finger caressing the sun’s edge.

People cried out, pointing. Slowly, the black smudge grew, spreading like a stain across the disc of the sun. He shivered, blew out a long breath and saw it mist in the air before him. It was colder, dramatically more than when he had climbed the steps to the battlement.