John Gwynne - Malice

‘Craf. .?’ Corban whispered.

‘ Cor-ban ,’ the crow squawked. ‘ Cor-ban .’

‘Asroth’s teeth,’ hissed Camlin, going pale. ‘Did that mangy crow just speak?’

‘Aye,’ said Corban, suddenly grinning. ‘It is Craf. Brina’s crow.’

‘ Brina, Brina, Brina. . ’ Craf stuttered and began hoping from one foot to the other.

‘She must have sent him to find us.’

‘ Follow, follow, follow, follow. . ’ the crow squawked, then flapped its wings and flew off, landing on another branch about thirty paces ahead of them. ‘ FOLLOW ,’ Craf screeched.

‘He has Brina’s patience,’ Corban said.

Quickly the small band organized themselves and set off after Craf.

The rest of the day followed this pattern, following the crow as he flapped in front of them, stopping regularly on branches to let them catch up. Corban lost all track of time, direction and distance, but as dusk was beginning to settle about them Camlin announced that they had covered a lot of ground and that they were nearing the giantsway.

‘That old crow’s not stopping,’ Marrock said, watching Craf disappear into the gloom. They carried on walking, Camlin taking the lead, and soon they stepped onto the road. There were glimpses of the sky above, dotted with the first stars of evening. Picking up their pace, they carried on in the darkness, but soon heard the sound of riders ahead. Quickly they moved off the road, then Edana was running, calling out to Brenin, at the front of the column, with Pendathran tall and wide beside him.

Corban and the rest stepped out of the trees, Marrock and Halion carrying Alona. A score of mounted warriors swept past them, forming a line in the road. Others circled them, jumping from horses and calling out. Corban suddenly felt weary to the bone and dizzy. Then Thannon was there, pulling him and Cywen into a tight embrace. There were tears on the blacksmith’s cheeks when Corban looked up, tears in his own eyes and streaks on Cywen’s face. Thannon pulled them close again, almost cracking bones, kissing them and ruffling their hair.

When they parted again Thannon grabbed Gar’s arm in the warrior grip, pulled the stablemaster into an embrace and pounded his back.

Looking round, Corban saw Brina crouching beside Alona, Craf on the pommel of her saddle. Then warriors quickly lashed a stronger litter together and soon they were mounting up.

Their rescue party had brought horses, and soon they were heading down the giantsway to refuge.

Brina dropped back and rode alongside Corban and Cywen, smiling when she saw Storm loping along beside Shield.

‘Will Alona be all right?’ Corban asked.

Brina’s smile vanished. ‘It is bad,’ the healer said, then she shrugged. ‘Maybe. If we were back at my cottage I would have more hope. We shall see. But I am glad to see you still on your feet. You seem to be developing a distinct talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

Corban pulled a face and filled her in on events.

‘Rhin, eh?’ Brina mused when he’d finished. ‘Well, there is more than one dice being rolled here, I think.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When we left — in a rush, I can tell you — there was something afoot within Uthandun. Lots of horn blowing. And then we were chased. Pendathran led a band that fought them off, of course, but I suspect they will come again, when King Owain has been able to gather more warriors.’

‘Craf helped us,’ Corban said suddenly.

Brina smiled and scratched the crow’s neck. ‘He can be useful, occasionally.’

With that they settled into silence, and rode into the night.

Later, much later, Corban saw pinpricks up ahead — torches — they had caught up with the rest of Brenin’s entourage. Gwenith wept when she saw Corban and Cywen and hugged then almost as tight as Thannon had.

Then a savage cry pierced the night. Corban looked down the column and saw Brina crouched by Alona’s litter, King Brenin cradling his wife. Edana was holding her mother’s hand again, lost in grief and sobbing.

Alona was dead.

The journey back to Ardan was very different from the one to Uthandun, a sense of dread and tension hovering over them all.

No more attacks from Owain came on the road and in just over a day’s hard riding they left the Darkwood and saw the giants’ circle of standing stones, with Badun’s walls in the distance.

Brenin took council here. Gethin pressed for reconciliation with King Owain, still hoping Kyla and his son Uthan’s handbinding could be salvaged. Brenin and Pendathran were more intent upon Queen Rhin, but agreed that Owain would be better as an ally than an enemy, so Brenin inked a scroll to Narvon’s King, detailing Alona’s death and Rhin’s part in it, then a messenger was sent back down the giantsway, into the Darkwood.

‘Begin mustering for war,’ Brenin commanded Gethin in parting. ‘Whether there is war or peace with Owain I will be marching on Rhin. Soon.’ Then they left for Dun Carreg.

Spring had arrived with the Birth Moon and new life was evident everywhere, a stark contrast to the procession’s black mood.

Corban was weary and sad when Dun Carreg came into view, high on its hill, with Havan nestled at its foot. The welcome cheers of the villagers quickly turned to mourning as news of Alona’s death spread. Corban saw Dath in the crowd, nodded a grim greeting to him and noticed eyes following Storm.

Nothing had been said of the wolven’s return; there were more important matters filling everyone’s thoughts, but Corban expected some kind of reckoning now that they were back at Dun Carreg. Rafe and Helfach, at least, would not let the matter rest. Corban hoped Storm’s part in the finding of the captives would be enough to allow her back to the fortress, though with Brenin’s black mood nothing was certain.

I’ll not give her up again , he thought. With a heavy heart he rode back inside the walls of Dun Carreg.

Corban ducked under the sweep of Gar’s practice sword, pivoted on his heel and spun away, swinging a backslash at the same time. Gar effortlessly deflected it, pressing his attack. Corban parried one, two, three, four strikes, each one shivering up his arm, then he slipped on some hay and the tip of Gar’s weapon was at his throat.

He wanted to say something, ask why Gar was pressing him so hard, but did not have the breath to form words. He wiped sweat from his eyes, walked to the water barrel and stuck his whole head in, spraying water as he pulled away.

He leaned against the barrel, watching Gar a moment. The stablemaster was putting their practice blades away in an old box beneath a pile of harness and tack. He had been different since their return from the Darkwood, less reserved, more driven, as if something had woken in him.

Corban blinked, thinking of the Darkwood. It was only two ten-nights ago that he had been crawling along the stream’s bank. He looked at his hand, remembered the sensation of hot blood pouring over it, and shivered.

‘Are you well?’ Gar asked, coming over to the barrel and sipping from a ladle.

‘Aye,’ Corban muttered. ‘Just remembering. The Darkwood.’

Gar nodded slowly. ‘That’s something a man never forgets — the first time he takes another’s life in battle.’

‘I still see his face,’ Corban said. ‘I can even smell him, sometimes.’

‘Aye,’ said Gar. ‘The memory will fade, but never leave you — and it shouldn’t. Not completely. It is no small thing, to take a life.’ He sighed, ‘You did well, Ban. I was proud of you.’

Corban blinked and flushed. He had never heard Gar talk like this.

The stablemaster gave Corban a long, measuring look. ‘You are not the same lad that lost his practice sword at the Spring Fair.’