Malice (86 page)

Pendathran’s voice sounded in the courtyard behind, shouting orders, and the gates creaked open, a flood of horsemen surging through them onto the bridge.

Owain’s warriors were ready for them, a thicket of spears awaiting the horsemen.

There was a great crash as the riders ploughed into this wall of spears, wood splintering, horses screaming, flesh tearing and bodies flung into the air. The end of the bridge became a seething mass of horseflesh, blood and iron.

More of Owain’s warriors were piling up behind the first rows of his spearmen. The bridge itself was crowded with Pendathran’s men, and a bottleneck of the dead and dying formed between the two camps where the bridge met the land.

Cywen saw Pendathran on his great warhorse, plunging and rearing in the mass, the battlechief striking about him with his longsword. He hacked spear shafts in two, severed heads from necks and chopped grasping hands from arms as they reached out to pull him down. Slowly but surely the enemy line gave before him. He ploughed on, becoming the tip of an arrow shape as Ardan’s warriors rallied behind him.

Then a spear sank into the chest of Pendathran’s mount, its scream rising momentarily above the din of battle. It crashed into the ranks about it, red-cloaked warriors surging forwards, and Pendathran disappeared beneath like a man drowning.

A great roar went up from the warriors of Ardan as they tried to hack their way to their battlechief, but all was chaos, the bridge a boiling mass of limbs and leather and iron and blood.

Then Corban pointed – Pendathran was there again, his huge bulk the centre of a maelstrom as he laid about him with his sword. He retreated and sank into the line of his own warriors, and for a while the two forces fought on, men dying on either side, but neither gaining any advantage. Eventually, slowly, step by step, the men of Ardan were pushed backwards across the bridge, back into the shadow of Stonegate. Warriors from above flung rocks and spears at the men of Narvon as they came within range. A gap formed between the two sides as Pendathran and his surviving warriors retreated, and then with a slam the gates closed again.

Cywen ran to the other side of the wall, and looked down into the courtyard to see Pendathran sitting, pale-faced, his head in his hands.

The battle on the plain below still raged, the conflict seething closer to the fortress, as Dalgar desperately tried to cut his way to Dun Carreg.

But they were almost completely encircled, or so it appeared, and as Cywen watched, a shiver went through the battle, reminiscent of an animal in the moment before death. Almost immediately afterwards warriors began to break away from the main press of battle, moving back across the corpse-strewn meadows. At first a trickle of ones and twos, but quickly becoming a steady stream as Dalgar’s warband was finally broken down and put to rout. Those fleeing were hounded by bands of mounted warriors. If any escaped Cywen could not tell.

In time a group of warriors rode up towards the fortress, about a score of them with Owain at their head. His eyes scanned the battlements as he reached the bridge, saw Pendathran up aloft and jeered. He reined in as he reached the carnage of the bridge battle, and warriors behind him pulled forward a horse with a body slumped across its back. Owain heaved it onto the ground and rode away.

Pendathran ordered the gates opened and made his way out across the bridge. Here he paused, but the massed warriors of Narvon made no move, no sound. He bent and lifted the abandoned corpse into his arms and carried the body of Dalgar, his son, back across the bridge.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

CORBAN

Corban leaned against the battlement wall skirting the Rowan Field, watching the sinking sun turning the sky to molten copper.

‘A storm’s coming,’ Dath said beside him.

They had both taken their evening meal in the feast-hall, but the mood was dour in there after the previous day’s events; Dalgar’s defeat and death were still too fresh.

‘So,’ Corban said, to distract them both, ‘we are both warriors now.’

‘Aye,’ said Dath, touching his warrior braid. ‘For the most part,’ he added. ‘It doesn’t feel complete, until I sit my Long Night.’

Or sleep through it, like I did through mine
, Corban thought. ‘Don’t think Owain will let you ride past his war-host for that.’

‘No,’ Dath agreed. ‘It is a good feeling, eh, passing the warrior trial?’

‘It is that.’

In truth Dath had only just got through his trial: his spear-casting had been good, but his sword-work was hesitant, and how he had not ended up on his backside in the mud during his running mount Corban could not explain.

If bow-craft were part of the trials it would have been another matter. Marrock had already marked Dath as a future huntsman, he and Camlin having taken the youth on long forays into the Baglun. Even now Dath was leaning on an unstrung bow, gifted to him by Marrock and Camlin.

‘What happens now, do you think?’ Dath asked him.

‘I don’t know. Cywen’s been talking to Edana, and it doesn’t sound good. There was much hope resting on Dalgar . . .’ Corban trailed off. ‘Now that has failed . . .’ he shrugged, thinking of Pendathran, of his pale, grief-stricken face as he had carried his son from the bridge.

‘Owain will just sit outside the walls, wait for us to run out of food,’ he continued, ‘which, by all accounts, won’t be too long. Too many mouths and no warning of Owain’s coming.’

‘There’s enough warriors here to defeat Owain,’ Dath growled, ‘if only we could get past that bridge. They have us bottled in here like rats in an usque jug. If only there was another way out.’

Corban was silent, remembering the tunnels beneath the fortress. They could forage for food, lead surprise attacks on Owain. But what about the carcass they had found – the wyrm? What if there were more of them? He resolved to talk to Halion about this, suddenly feeling some hope.

‘What about that king?’ Dath said, jolting him from his thoughts.

‘What king?’

‘That Nathair, from Tenebral. I’ve heard he has a warband on his ship.’

Corban scoffed. ‘If he has, it can’t be many. Three score, four score swords? What could that do?

‘Huh,’ Dath said. ‘There’s more’n just warriors on that ship.’

‘Eh?’

Dath glanced down at the ship in the bay, lights winking into existence on it even as they looked.

‘I was tending to Da’s boat, on the beach,’ Dath said. ‘After I saw you riding out for your Long Night.’ He pulled a face.

‘And?’ Corban prompted.

‘And I heard
things
. Noises. From that ship,
strange
noises.’

‘What do you mean? What like?’

‘Like a beast. Like nothing I’ve ever heard before,’ Dath went on. ‘I’ve heard Storm growl before, and howl.’ He glanced at the wolven, sitting on one of the giant steps on the stairwell. ‘And that’s enough to give me shivers. But this was worse – much worse.’

Corban chuckled. ‘Dath, you’re the one that told me Brina would steal my soul, remember? And the one that turned white when Craf squawked at you.’

Dath scowled. ‘There’s something on that ship,’ he insisted. ‘Something that’s not human. That Nathair, he could use it to help us.’

‘Even if there was a creature from the Otherworld sitting comfortably on
that
ship, why would Nathair choose to fight Owain? He is safe, covered by the Lore.’

Strong gusts of wind were sweeping in from the sea, now, swirling up the cliff face and fortress walls, bringing with it the taste of salt and rain. It was almost full-dark, but no stars or moon could be seen above; there were clouds scudding remorselessly towards the fortress, bloated and heavy.

‘Best get off this wall,’ Dath muttered, frowning at the sky as a fat raindrop landed on Corban’s nose. ‘It’s going to be a bad one.’

‘Aye, come on, then,’ Corban said. Dath might have a fanciful imagination, but Corban trusted his friend’s word completely when it came to weather. He picked up his shield and spear – he carried them everywhere since Owain’s attack – and together they half-ran down the stairwell and across the empty Rowan Field, Storm with them.

The feast-hall was emptier than it had been, but still busy, and tucked away in the shadows were his mam and da, sitting with Farrell and his da, Anwarth.

Corban made his way over, Dath following.

‘Hello, Ban, Dath,’ Farrell said.

Corban nodded to the blacksmith’s apprentice, and noticed the newly bound warrior braid in the big lad’s hair too.
Look at us
, he thought, chuckling to himself,
all warriors now
.

Corban sat and listened idly to his friends for a while, Dath in the grip of some anecdote as his mind wandered. He leaned back in his chair and looked about the hall. His eyes fell on Evnis and Vonn, having a serious discussion, judging by the frown on Vonn’s face. He had often wondered whether Vonn would fulfil his threat to him. So much had happened since that day in the paddocks, when Shield had killed Helfach’s hound. Others came in for shelter, Tarben and Camlin, wrapped in dripping cloaks. They passed by Corban’s table, both of the men nodding to him and Dath, and made their way to sit with a handful of warriors.
Strange
, Corban thought,
how one act can change so much
. Cywen had told him of how the woodsman had defended her, back in the Darkwood,
saved
her. ‘Truth and courage,’ he whispered to himself. His da was right. Truth and courage did matter, did make a difference.

Footsteps scuffed nearby and a shadow fell over him. Storm growled, a low rumble, and he looked up to see Rafe standing over him, his da behind one shoulder. More warriors from Evnis’ hold were ranged behind them.

‘I call you out, Corban ben Thannon,’ Rafe said, loudly making the formal challenge for a duel.

The murmur of voices that had filled the hall wavered, a quiet spreading out from them in an ever-widening ripple. Halion frowned and said something to Edana. She moved closer to her father and whispered in his ear.

Corban looked up at Rafe and slowly stood, stepping away from his chair.

‘Stand down, boy,’ Thannon growled at Rafe.

‘I am not a boy,’ Rafe said. ‘I am a man, and this is my right.’

Brenin had returned Rafe’s sword to him, and had done it formally in the Rowan Field, the same day that Dath and Farrell had taken their warrior trials. Every arm that could wield a sword was needed now. So Brenin had said.

‘On what grounds?’ Corban said.

‘On two counts,’ Rafe replied loudly, looking about the room. ‘The first is personal grievance. The second – breaking the word of your King.’

‘What?’ snapped Corban.

Rafe looked pointedly at Storm. ‘That beast was banned from this fortress, forbidden from ever returning, on pain of death. I know it to be true, my da was there when our King spoke it, as were many other witnesses.’ He smiled. ‘Do you deny it?’

‘Things have changed since then.’

‘Do you deny it?’ Rafe repeated, louder. ‘Do you deny that our King spoke those words?’

‘No,’ Corban said, glaring at Rafe.

‘Then let us proceed,’ Rafe said. ‘Let the Court of Swords judge our dispute.’

‘Hold,’ a voice rang out, all turning to see Pendathran standing. ‘You cannot mean to allow this?’ he said to Brenin, the King looking into his cup, swirling its dregs.

Slowly Brenin looked up, and focused with some difficulty on Corban and Rafe. ‘What does it matter?’ he muttered. ‘Proceed.’ He gave an uninterested wave. ‘But only to first blood, not to the death. I have need of every warrior.’ He chuckled to himself, little humour in its tone.

Rafe grinned and gripped his sword hilt, half-drawing it.

At this Storm snarled and leaped forwards, crouching between Corban and Rafe with teeth bared.

‘Storm.
Hold
,’ Corban cried.

‘You see,’ Rafe blurted, stumbling backwards. ‘This beast is a danger. It should not be here.’ He glanced at Brenin. ‘You see, my King – your judgement was true.’

‘Aye, perhaps,’ Brenin muttered. ‘Let your swords be the judge of it.’

Corban stared at the King, and felt his chest constrict, the implications of Brenin’s words growing clearer. This had become far more serious than a grudge between childhood enemies. If he lost this the judgement would go against him. Storm could be put to death, and Rafe would surely insist upon it.

He tried to control his breathing and his suddenly racing heart.

Pendathran looked between Brenin and Corban. ‘That lad, and his wolven,’ he said, quiet but clear to all. ‘They were of great help. In the Darkwood, in the rescue.’

‘Rescue,’ snorted Brenin. ‘Aye, maybe they were, but Alona is still dead, is she not?’

‘Aye, that is so,’ Pendathran nodded slowly. ‘But your daughter is not. She lives, still, in large part due to their aid.’

The two men glared at each other a moment, then Brenin lowered his gaze and took another sip from his cup. ‘Dead. She is dead,’ he said. ‘Proceed.’

‘What about the wolven?’ Rafe said. ‘Look what it did to me.’ He pulled his linen sleeve up, revealing thick, silvery scars running almost from elbow to wrist.