John Gwynne - Malice

They had made good time travelling south of Jerolin, passing through leagues of undulating meadow splashed with patches of open woodland, and now, three nights out, Veradis spied the mountains that roughly marked the halfway point of their journey, rearing out of the land like the curved spine of a withered, crippled old man.

‘Veradis,’ Nathair called from up ahead.

Veradis touched his heels to his stallion’s ribs and drew alongside Nathair.

‘We have not yet had the conversation that I promised you,’ Nathair said, glancing at Veradis with an easy smile.

‘You have been busy, my lord,’ Veradis said.

‘Ah ah, none of that “ my lord ” talk. Remember what I told you?’

‘Apologies, my lo-’ Veradis began, then closed his mouth.

Nathair chuckled. ‘I am glad to have you in my warband. There are not many of us yet, but it shall grow.’

‘Aye.’

‘And you, I hear, are the most skilled swordsman ever to come out of Ripa. A most welcome member to my warband.’

Veradis snorted. ‘Who. .?’

‘Your brother. I spoke with him briefly, before he left. He spoke very highly of you, and of your skills.’

‘Oh,’ Veradis breathed, a smile touching his mouth.

‘Your father must be very proud.’ Nathair said.

‘Huh,’ Veradis grunted. He opened his mouth but could think of nothing to say. ‘Aye,’ he eventually mumbled.

‘Krelis. He is well liked. Has it been difficult , growing up in his shadow?’

Veradis frowned, but said nothing.

‘Forgive me if I pry,’ Nathair said, ‘only, it is a subject of interest to me.’

Veradis shrugged. In truth it had been, especially as his father only ever seemed to have eyes, praise, for Krelis. His other brother Ektor had never seemed to care, being content with his books, but Veradis had felt it like a thin sliver of iron working its way deeper and deeper into his flesh. But he loved Krelis, rarely resented him for it, and then only for a passing moment. If anyone were at fault, it was his father. He shrugged again. ‘Sometimes,’ he said.

‘I know something of what it is like, growing up in another’s shadow,’ Nathair said quietly.

Looking at the Prince, Veradis noticed his eyes were bloodshot, dark circles beneath them. ‘Are you well?’ he asked.

‘What? Oh, it’s nothing,’ Nathair said. ‘I did not sleep well, that’s all. Bad dreams.’

They rode together in silence for a while, winding their way through open woods, white campion dotting the ground about them. A handful of woodlarks burst from branches ahead and above, startled by their passing.

‘Did you see the riders that left Jerolin before us?’ the Prince suddenly asked.

‘Aye. I did.’ Over a score of warriors had left the fortress on the day Veradis had been preparing for this journey, all with extra horses, well-provisioned for long journeys. ‘I thought perhaps it was something to do with the return of Meical — he is your father’s counsellor, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, he did play a part.’ The Prince scowled a moment, then carried on. ‘The riders are messengers. My father is calling a council, summoning all of the kings throughout the Banished Lands.’

‘ All of them?’

‘Aye. A messenger has been sent to the king of every realm.’

‘Why?’

‘Ah. Of that I should not speak, not yet. It is for my father to tell, at the council.’

‘Will they come, the kings of every realm?’

‘They should, my father is high king,’ Nathair said.

‘Perhaps,’ Veradis pulled a face. Aquilus was high king, though more in name than deed. Generations gone, when the Exiles had washed ashore and begun their war against the giant clans, there had been but one king, Sokar, and after the giants had been thrown down and the Banished Lands populated by men, all had bowed to him. But that had been a long time ago; new realms had grown, and now there were many kings in the Banished Lands, though they all still recognized the sovereignty of Tenebral’s master, descended from their first king. In theory, at least.

‘Father says they will come,’ Nathair said with a shrug. ‘Between you and me, I do not really think it matters.’ He leaned closer, spoke more quietly. ‘Did you know that the giant-stones are bleeding ?’ He smiled, looking excited. ‘We are living in exceptional times, Veradis, times when we shall have much need of your famed sword-arm, I think. We are on the edge of something new. So this is a good time to be raising a warband. As I said, I am glad that you are a part of it.’

The Prince glanced back at the column behind them. ‘They are good men — brave, loyal, every one of them. But you are a baron’s son. We are more alike. You understand me?’

‘Aye, my lo-’ Veradis said. ‘Yes, I understand. And I am glad to be part of this.’ He felt his curiosity rising, his blood stirring at Nathair’s words. Some part of the Prince’s enthusiasm was infectious. And for the first time in an age he felt a glimmer of something stir deep inside. He felt of value.

The days rolled past as Veradis and the warband headed steadily southwards. For a time they hugged the mountains Veradis had seen in the distance, crossing fast-flowing, white-foamed rivers that tumbled out of the high places. As the mountains faded behind them, the land began to change: the woods and forests of sycamore and elm disappearing, replaced by leagues of rolling grassland, which in turn grew steadily thinner, paler, the colour and moisture leached from everything by the ever-increasing heat of the sun.

In time they struck the banks of the Nox. The warband crossed the river by an ancient stone bridge, built by the giants generations before. From here they followed the river south, carving a line through the ever-rockier land, until one morning, well before highsun, Veradis tasted salt on the air and heard the call of gulls in the distance.

The column of riders rippled to a stop as their captain, Orcus, held his hand up. Nathair gestured to summon Veradis and Rauca to join him.

The Prince and his eagle-guard were huddled over a scrolled map. Veradis leaned closer, frowning. He had always struggled with understanding maps, and certainly did not love them as his brother Ektor did, who would spend days in the library at Ripa, poring over the many parchments they had stored there. Some even outlined the boundaries of the giant realms that had ruled the Banished Lands before the Exiles had been washed up onto these shores.

‘We are here,’ Orcus said, finger jabbing at a spot on the map near a coastline.

‘Aye,’ Nathair said. ‘And that would appear to be the mark that the Vin Thalun prisoner spoke of.’ The Prince pointed at a tall cedar, its trunk split and charred by lightning. ‘If he spoke true, this meeting is supposed to take place about a league east of that tree.’

‘We shall see.’ Orcus rolled the map up with a snap and slid it back into a leather case.

‘Let the men know we are near,’ Nathair said to Veradis and Rauca.

The two warriors rode back along the length of the warband, spreading the word. With a wave of his arm, Nathair led them onwards, turning east with the stream.

They soon found themselves in a barren land of low hills, sharp crags and sun-baked, twisting valleys. Nathair halted them a while after midday, the sun a white, merciless thing glaring down at them.

‘We walk from here,’ Nathair called, and with a rattle of harness and iron the four score men dismounted. A dozen stayed behind with the horses, the rest picking a path into a string of low hills.

Veradis wiped sweat from his eyes and took a sip from his water skin. He was more used than most to this heat. His home, Ripa, was much further east along the coast, and almost as far south as they were now, so the climate was similar. The only thing missing was the constant breeze off the bay that seemed always present in Ripa, and here, without it, the heat felt so much worse, suffocating, burning his nose and throat with each breath.