John Gwynne - Malice

‘Nevertheless,’ Brenin said, looking about him again, ‘it is not fitting for a king of Ardan to be without his first-sword. More so in times such as these.’

Murmurs rippled around the Field as men realized where Brenin was leading.

‘One of you has risen high in my eyes, served me bravely, risked his life for my honour, proven himself in battle.’

Now silence fell again, seemed like a living thing, Corban feeling he could almost reach out and touch the tension that filled the Field.

‘Halion, come forward.’

A pathway parted for the warrior, Halion stepping out before the King, looking awkward, amazed.

‘Will you accept this charge?’ Brenin asked. ‘Become my champion, the defender of my flesh, my blood, my honour?’

Halion fell to one knee. He cried, ‘I would, my King,’ in a loud, clear voice.

‘Then give me your sword.’

Halion stood, drew his blade and slammed it into the earth between two flagstones, where it stood quivering.

Brenin pulled a knife from his belt, with a quick stroke cut his palm and held his fist over the sword, blood dripping onto the hilt, the cross-guard, running down the blade. He beckoned to Edana, who stepped forward, took the knife and did the same, her blood mingling on the sword hilt with her father’s. Then Brenin gave the knife to Halion. The warrior held it, looked from Brenin to Edana, then cut his own hand, and let his blood mix with theirs.

‘Good. It is done,’ Brenin said, as a roar went up through the Field. Corban punched the air with a fist, shouting as loud as any. He could not quite believe how Brenin had just honoured Halion, still thought of as an outlander by many. As Corban watched he saw Evnis move a few paces, and bend to whisper in Conall’s ear.

‘There is more,’ Brenin called, holding his bloodstained hand up. Slowly the crowd quieted. Brenin turned to Heb, who passed him a small basket woven of willow branches. ‘I sent a messenger to Owain, telling him of Rhin’s treachery, of my wife’s death. This is his response.’ He dipped his hand into the basket and pulled out a severed head, holding it high for all to see.

‘This is how Owain treats my messenger. Prepare yourselves for war,’ Brenin shouted. ‘Within the ten-night we will ride to battle, first with Narvon, then Cambren.’

There was more shouting, warriors yelling Brenin’s name and battle cries. Over it all the sound of horns blowing, growing louder. At first Corban thought it was part of Brenin’s call to war, but slowly those in the Field quietened. The horns still blew from the northern wall, not from Brenin’s guards.

Slowly at first, then more quickly, men began making for the northern wall, Corban, Dath and Farrell amongst them. They climbed the wide steps and looked down into the bay.

A strange-looking ship was pulling into it, long and sleek, oars dipping in and out of the water like the legs of a many-limbed bug. From one of its masts a banner snapped in the wind, a white eagle on a black field.

KASTELL

Kastell grunted as he pulled himself up the half-buried trunk of a fallen elm, clambered down the other side and looked back at Maquin as the old warrior followed him.

Eight nights they had been trudging through this cursed forest, living in different shades of gloom. He should be used to it, having served with the Gadrai for so long now, but they had spent their lives around the river Rhenus, where the trees were thinner, the sky something that was at least seen most days. Here the chance of sunlight penetrating the thick canopy above them was less than slight. The trees were dense, the branches above interwoven like some ancient, untouched loom.

Maquin slipped on the trunk, steadied himself with his spear and swore quietly.

‘Steady, greybeard,’ Kastell said, and received a black look in return. Usually Maquin would have smiled, but eight nights in the embrace of Forn were taking their toll. Men were becoming edgier, especially as word had spread that they were finally nearing Haldis, burial site of the Hunen giants.

Behind Maquin the bald head of Orgull appeared, shining with sweat. ‘Move on,’ their captain growled. They were spread out in a loose line before the main body of their host, the Gadrai acting as both van and scouts in one.

Kastell stepped into the thick foliage, glanced ahead and saw the broad back of the giant that had been leading them, Alcyon. Vandil was beside him, unmistakable with the outline of his two swords crossed upon his back.

As unnatural as it felt, the giant’s presence had been of great benefit to them. Not only was he leading them unerringly to their destination, but he had proved most valuable in beating off the Hunen attacks they had encountered so far.

All had been quiet until the third night into the forest, the only deaths being warriors on lone sentry duty, sucked dry as husks by the great bats of Forn. None of those casualties had come from amongst the Gadrai — they had lived in the forest too long and knew better than to close their eyes whilst standing guard — death’s only warning could be a whisper of wings. Then the Gadrai had walked into a thick mist, dense and high. Alcyon had called a halt, waiting for his companion, Calidus, and together they had begun to sing .

Nothing had happened at first, but then a breeze had rippled through the forest, growing quickly in strength, until it raged through the trees. The mist melted before it, revealing a score of Hunen in the forest. The giants had flung their spears and retreated, realizing they were undone.

Since then there had been constant skirmishes up and down the long line of warbands, Alcyon and Calidus blunting the Elemental edges to the attacks and giving warning of giant ambushes. Nevertheless, many had died, and their pace had been slowed by the Hunen.

Today all evidence of the Hunen had disappeared. No ambushes, concealed pits, traps or mists, and by highsun Alcyon had announced that they were within a day’s march of Haldis. ‘They will not attack this day,’ the giant had assured Vandil. ‘They will spend their time readying the defences at Haldis.’

When a break was called, Kastell was happy to rest with others of the Gadrai, until he noticed Romar, presumably heading for council with Calidus, Alcyon and Vandil, and spotted Jael among the party. His uncle glanced back at him but Kastell scowled and looked away.

Romar had sent for him when the Gadrai had first arrived at Halstat. He had felt both excited and anxious stepping into Romar’s tent, his uncle embracing him awkwardly.

‘You’ve done well, I hear,’ the big man had said, smiling.

‘Me? Aye,’ Kastell shrugged. ‘I still live. In the Gadrai that is well enough.’ A thought occurred. ‘You have me watched?’

‘Nothing like that. But I would be a poor uncle if I did not take interest in you.’ Romar had ushered Kastell into a seat and poured him a cup of wine. ‘I have heard from Vandil, that is all. You have survived giant raids, slain Hunen. You are growing into the man your father always said you would become.’

Kastell, swirled his wine, feeling uncomfortable. ‘And how are you, Uncle,’ he said, to change the subject. ‘How go your plans?’

Romar now looked perturbed, ‘Things have become complicated since you left. You have heard Tenebral’s news?’

‘Something, though I did not pay much attention.’

‘Aquilus is dead,’ Romar said. ‘His son, Nathair, is now King.’

Kastell had suddenly thought of Veradis, the Prince’s man who had stepped into the fight with Jael’s cronies and stood up for him. ‘How did Aquilus die?’

‘Murdered in his own chamber. Mandros of Carnutan did the deed, ’tis said. Though he shall never be judged for the truth of it, now. He fled, but has since been slain by a force from Tenebral.’ Romar took a long draught from his cup and poured some more. ‘He was killed by your friend. Veradis.’