Malice (68 page)

They rooted around for paddles. Braith pushed the first boat, with two men in it, off into the water. The coracle moved with the current, then began to cut a line across the river as the two passengers began paddling.

‘Next,’ Braith said.

Before long the whole band were crossing the river, Camlin sitting behind Braith, paddling steadily for the north bank.

Soon they were across, the coracles stowed and they were heading for the foothills. The small party climbed, steadily, the land turning soon to steep-sided hills and wooded, stream-filled vales. Nestled in one vale, between two fast-flowing streams, was the village at last. Smoke rose in a ragged line from a roundhouse, a score of smaller sod-and-turf buildings nearby.

Waves of heat rolled out from the firepit, washing over Camlin, slowly seeping through the cold that had leached all warmth from his body. The usque he was drinking had helped speed the process, warming him from the gut outwards.

The rest of Braith’s crew rimmed the firepit, drinking and eating with the somewhat uneasy villagers, the hunted look that had edged all of their faces over recent days slowly disappearing.

‘What now, Braith?’ Camlin said at last.

There was a silence. Camlin thought he should have kept his mouth shut, not asked the question, then Braith spoke.

‘We’ll winter here, get our strength and spirit back.’

Camlin took a deep breath, deciding to plough on. ‘I mean, after that. What’s next, Braith? Will things in the Darkwood ever be . . .?’ he trailed off, not able to put his feelings into words.

‘The same?’ Braith said, staring at Camlin. He shrugged. ‘All things change. But we will survive. That is what men such as us do. He fell silent awhile. ‘More men will come to the Darkwood to join us,’ he said eventually. ‘They always have, eh? And then, who knows?’ His face became severe, mouth tightening beneath his fair beard. ‘Vengeance, Cam. That is what is in my heart, at least. All of us – we’ve one thing in common. The world’s done us wrong: our kin, our lords, our
betters
. But a man can only do so much running, hiding. Time we gave some back, I’m thinking.’ He suddenly smiled, the hard man of a moment ago gone, or veiled. ‘Besides, for men such as us, we’ve no place left to go that’s better, safer, than the Darkwood.’

Camlin nodded. Braith was right. The battle in the Darkwood had been an eye-opener, and no mistake, but there was still nowhere safer for men such as they.

He took another gulp from his jug of usque. Brenin had been a surprise, seeming almost good, fair. It was a shame more of Ardan’s lords were not like their King. He spat onto the fire.

‘You well, Cam?’ asked Braith.

‘Well? Aye, I suppose. As you say, I have survived.’ He smiled humourlessly. ‘I was thinking on Evnis,’ he said slowly. ‘You told me he would aid us, yet at the Baglun he betrayed us, had Goran slain and tried to kill me. And if he had not appeared with his brother’s warband behind us in the Darkwood that day, things would have turned out different, Braith.’

‘Aye, Cam, I know it.’ The chieftain snorted.‘That one’s got it coming, for sure. No matter whose toes I step on.’

‘What d’you mean, Braith? Whose toes?’

‘Nothing.’ Braith drank deep from his jug. ‘Sometimes it can all get complicated, what we’re doing, why we’re doing it. Confusing . . .’ He took another gulp. ‘But vengeance is simple, eh? And Asroth knows, between us all we’ve got plenty to take revenge for. Vengeance, Cam. Vengeance shall drive us now.’ He reached out and offered his arm to Camlin, who grasped it tight.

‘Aye,’ Camlin assented, holding Braith’s gaze.

‘What’s your tale, Braith?’ Camlin suddenly asked. ‘What drove
you
to the Darkwood?’

He knew all the others’ tales, but no one knew Braith’s reasons. He had just appeared, and was well known for not wanting to discuss his own background.

Braith stared, then smiled. ‘Now, that is complicated,’ he said. ‘Another time, Cam, I think. It’s not a short tale, and I’m for my bed.’ He suddenly turned serious. ‘I’m up and leaving before the sun on the morrow. Be away two, maybe three days. You’ll be chief while I’m gone, Cam.’

‘Wha—? Going? Where?’

‘Whisht, Cam, hold your breath now. No more questions. You’ll know soon enough when I return. But you’ll be chief till I’m back, Cam, you hear?’

‘Aye, Braith. If that’s what you want.’

‘It is.’

Braith stood, smiled again and walked away into the shadows.

Camlin didn’t think much of chiefhood. It might have been different if he’d been leading a raid, but nothing seemed to happen here. The first day after Braith had left things had been fine enough. Come the second day he started to feel restive, bored, and he had not been the only one. By the third day he was almost continually mediating between his edgy and increasingly unruly companions.

On the fourth day he rose with the sun and walked restlessly to the edge of the village. There a noise drew his attention, his hand reaching instinctively for his sword.

A line of men crested the hill: ten, twelve, more. He was about to turn and run for the roundhouse when he saw Braith with them. Steadily they filed down to the village, Braith at their fore, in deep conversation. There were a score of them, grim, hard-looking men bearing weapons. Camlin saw the glint of mail in one of the packs as the men splashed through the stream and strode past him.

Braith stopped. The man he was speaking to – dark haired, handsome apart from a scar beneath one eye – walked on towards the roundhouse.

‘What goes?’ Camlin said.

‘Recruits,’ Braith answered, eyes following the new arrivals.

‘Recruits? I’d wager they’re not woodsmen, Braith. What is this about?’

‘It’s complicated, remember. But for you and the other lads, you need recall only one word,’ Camlin’s chief said grimly.

‘Vengeance.’

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

CORBAN

Corban ran over uneven, close-cropped grass until he reached the giantsway’s embankment, and scaled it quickly, using the practice sword he was still clutching to lever himself up.

He stopped a moment, sucking in great ragged breaths, and checked over his shoulder to see if he was followed.

Rain was falling in great sheets, the fortress shrouded in cloud, but he thought he could make out the copse of trees where he had just fought with Rafe as a darker smudge on the hillside.

In his mind he could still hear Rafe screaming. He hoped Bethan was all right; he’d seen her running for Dun Carreg.

Dun Carreg. Word would be out soon, and they would not be long in coming for Storm.

She sat at his feet, calm, unreadable, pink spots of blood spattering her muzzle.

‘Come,’ he said. Setting his face to the west, towards the Baglun, he began running again, Storm loping comfortably at his heels.

His lungs were burning, feet throbbing when next he looked up, seeing the cairn at the top of the hill where Darol’s stockade had been. He slowed but did not stop and carried on into the forest.

Eventually the road spilt into an open glade, its stone blocks giving way to earth and grass, the oathstone rising tall and dark in the glade’s centre. He threw himself down at the slab’s foot, back against it, chest heaving. Storm scratched at the earth, turned in a circle and lay at his feet. She nudged him with her muzzle and rubbed her head against him.

What am I going to do?
he thought, staring at the wolven. He closed his eyes, and buried his face in the thick fur of her neck.

We must run away
. For a while he imagined a life in the wild, just the two of them, maybe even leaving Ardan. Perhaps he could find Ventos the trader – he was his friend, he travelled the Banished Lands, and he would welcome the protection Storm would bring. But how would he find Ventos? And then the thought of never seeing his mam and da again, or Cywen, even Gar, struck him. It almost took his breath away.

He lay down on the wet grass and curled up against Storm, who sniffed his face and licked his cut arm. He wrapped an arm around her and closed his eyes, oblivious to the rain.

It was still raining when he woke shivering, though the fierceness had gone out of it. The sky was darkening, the clouds above the colour of cold iron.

Storm was sitting with her back pressed tight to him, looking out into the gloom of the giantsway.

With a sudden clarity he knew what he had to do. He could not run away with her; he could not survive in the wilds on his own, or abandon his family forever, and he could not take Storm back to Dun Carreg. They would kill her for sure.

‘I must leave you here,’ he said, his voice trembling. He leaned into her, stroked her, fingers tracing the dark marks on her torso, standing out stark against her white fur. At least in the Baglun she would have a chance, if she made her home in its depths, and food was plentiful. He took a deep, shaky breath, felt tears suddenly fill his eyes.

Slowly he stood, limbs stiff, using the practice sword he was still clutching to hoist himself upright. He took a few paces towards the glade’s exit, then turned. The wolven was already standing, ready to follow.

‘Hold,’ he said, showing her the palm of his hand. He strode quickly from the glade. A last, backward glance showed her still standing there, ears pricked forward, copper eyes fixed on him, then he turned a bend in the road and was gone from view.

Moments later he heard the familiar thud of her paws as she ran to catch him.

‘Please,’ he said as she loped up to him. ‘Don’t make this harder than it already is.’

‘No,’ he said, louder. ‘Hold.’ He showed her his flat palm again, and obediently she stopped. This time he walked backwards, still facing her, palm out. After a hundred or so paces, when she was growing dim in his sight, just a pale blur on the road, she began to follow again.

‘No!’ He shouted this time, waved the practice sword at her. ‘No!’

She paused, head cocked to one side, confused.

‘No,’ he shouted again and walked towards her, waving his arms, but she just stood there, watching him.

‘Away,’ he yelled, and she turned and walked a few paces, but as soon as he turned away she was following him again.

‘They’ll kill you!’ he screamed now. He poked her with the practice sword, but she still did not move. ‘Go away or they’ll kill you!’ he shouted again, tears in his eyes, and then he hit her with the practice sword.

She yelped, a whimper, crouched down, her ears back. Then he turned and ran.

He looked over his shoulder and she took a hesitant step after him, so he stopped, threw the sword at her, turned and ran again, tears clouding his vision.

At first all he could hear was the pounding of his heart, his own sobs. Then, somewhere behind, Storm howled. It rang long and melancholy through the forest, the sound cutting him like a blade, but he ran on, sobbing, stumbling, until he was clear of the forest, splashing through the ford.

As he passed Darol’s hill a figure appeared on the road ahead, a rider, the dark shadow of a hound by the horse’s legs. The figure dismounted as he approached.

‘Ban? Is that you, son?’ a familiar voice called out.

He threw himself into the open arms of his da and stood there long moments, Buddai sniffing him, Thannon just holding him, big hands stroking his wet hair.

‘Where is she?’ Thannon said after a while.

‘Sh-she’s gone,’ he mumbled. In the distance another howl cut through the night, long and mournful.

‘Come, lad,’ Thannon said. ‘I must take you to Brenin.’ He picked Corban up, set him gently on his great horse, climbed up behind him and together they began the ride back to Dun Carreg.

The feast-hall was more or less empty as Corban followed his da through it, the stripped carcass of a deer being taken from the burned-out firepit.

Thannon led him through a series of corridors, stopping outside a wide door, a warrior standing before it.

‘You ready for this, Ban?’ his da asked. Corban took a deep breath.

Brenin and Alona were the first people he saw, sitting in high-backed chairs. Tull and Pendathran stood behind them. Before them stood a small crowd: Cywen was there, tried to smile at him, his mam beside her, face strained and pale. He saw Bethan and felt a flush of relief at the sight of her.

Evnis was staring at him, along with Helfach and Crain. Quickly he looked away, fixing his eyes on the King and Queen.

A hush fell as he stepped into the room, the bulk of Thannon filling the doorway behind him. King Brenin frowned as he looked at Corban and ushered him forward.

‘How, how fares Rafe?’ Corban said quietly, head bowed.

‘Brina tends him. She tells us he will live,’ said Alona.

Corban blew out a long breath. ‘Good,’ he mumbled.

‘No thanks to you,’ a voice said behind him. Crain, he thought, though he did not turn to look.

‘Silence,’ Brenin said. ‘All will have a chance to speak, but in your place. Otherwise I shall evict you all, call you back one at a time.’ He stared over Corban’s shoulder, eyes sweeping the small crowd.

‘Corban,’ he said. ‘What has happened is grievous. Rafe is seriously injured, could have lost his life, on account of a creature that was in your care, your responsibility, as decreed by my wife in this very room. I would know the details of how this event came to be, before I pass my judgement, and for that purpose all here have been gathered. Now, tell me. What happened?’