John Gwynne - Malice

They were climbing a hill, spread out in a long line behind Nathair and Orcus, the hobnails in the leather soles of Veradis’ sandals scratching on the rock-littered ground. The two leaders stopped, heads close together. Orcus signalled for the small warband to spread out into a loose arc before carrying on up the hill.

Veradis used his spear as a staff, shrugged the shield slung across his back into a more comfortable position and laboured up the hill behind Nathair. Before the Prince reached the top of the slope he ducked down onto his belly and crawled the rest of the way. The warband followed, and soon they were ringed about a long ridge, Veradis one side of Nathair, Rauca the other. Cautiously, Veradis peered over the ridge.

The ground dropped steeply away for forty or fifty paces before it levelled out, a stream cutting a gully through a flat-bottomed bowl of stony ground. A small stand of scraggy laurels clustered along the stream’s edge.

Before the trees, in the shade of a huge boulder, was a man. An old man, judging by his silvery hair, pulled back and tied neatly with a leather cord at his nape. He was squatting beside a fire, prodding sparks from it with a stick, something spitted across the flames. He was humming. Behind him, to the left of the laurels, was a brightly coloured tent.

Veradis glanced at Nathair’s frowning face, then back to the old man.

He seemed alone, though it was impossible to be certain. There could be men hiding behind many of the scattered boulders, perhaps hidden in the stand of laurels, and the tent could have concealed at least a dozen more.

‘What do we do?’ Veradis whispered to Nathair.

The Prince shrugged. ‘Wait,’ he muttered.

So they did, the sun beating down on the warband spread along the ridge, Veradis feeling as if he was slowly roasting inside his shirt of mail. The old man in the dell continued to cook and eat whatever it was that he had spitted over the fire. He licked his fingers contentedly when he had finished, cuffed a neatly cropped silver beard and washed his hands in the shallow stream before staring up at the ridge, to where Nathair was crouched.

‘You might as well come down,’ the old man called. ‘I’d rather not have to climb all the way up to you.’

Veradis froze, appalled. He looked at Nathair, who appeared as shocked as he was. The old man repeated his invitation, shrugged, then sat with his back against the boulder.

‘I am going down,’ Nathair whispered. ‘Veradis, Rauca, with me. All else will wait here. He may only have spied one of us moving.’

The Prince stood and slithered down the slope, Veradis and Rauca behind him. Veradis scanned the dell for lurking enemies.

The old man smiled as he rose, waiting for Nathair to draw closer. There was a scuffing sound behind them; Veradis then saw Orcus sliding down the ridge to join them.

‘Welcome, Nathair ben Aquilus,’ the old man said, bowing low.

Veradis scanned the old man for weapons, but could see none. There was a strength, a sense of energy about him, his bare arms wiry with lean muscle. His face was deeply lined, a hint of good humour dancing in his eyes, which looked strange . Were they tinged with yellow?

‘King Lykos?’ Nathair said, stopping half a dozen paces before the man, Veradis, Rauca and Orcus spreading either side of him, a pace behind.

‘Me? Lykos?’ the man said, still smiling. ‘Sadly, no. I wish it were true, I envy his youth and vigour. I am but a servant of Lykos. He bid me apologize for his absence.’

‘Where is he?’ Nathair asked, eyes flitting amongst the boulders.

‘He has been unavoidably detained,’ the old man replied. ‘So he sent me, instead.’

‘And you are?’

‘I am the counsellor of the Vin Thalun, adviser to Lykos, King of the Three Islands and the Tethys Sea,’ the old man said, bowing again. Orcus snorted.

Veradis noted that the man had not actually given his name.

‘And the baron that you are to meet?’ Nathair said.

‘Ah, yes.’ The old man tugged at his short beard. ‘You must understand, Lykos and I were very eager to meet you. The rendezvous with a baron was an. . elaboration. It seemed the best way to ensure your presence.’

‘What? But, how did you know I would come?’

The counsellor smiled. ‘Well, it is common knowledge that Peritus your father’s first-sword is leading a campaign against the giants, dragging the bulk of Jerolin’s warband around the Agullas Mountains, so that rules him out. Then, as suspicion has been cast on one of your father’s other barons, Aquilus would be most unlikely — in fact, foolish — to send one of them on this task. Who else was left that your father could trust? And it is no secret that you are, uh, overdue , in leading a campaign.’

Nathair scowled, flushing red. ‘So all of this,’ he said, waving a hand around the dell, ‘it was just a ruse ?’

‘Aye, although that would not be my word of choice. As I said, I was very eager to meet you.’

‘Why?’

‘Now that is a very good question. Right to the heart of the matter,’ the old man said. ‘A question that requires a detailed answer. Perhaps you would care to step into my tent? There are chairs, wine, fruit. A more fitting environment for a long conversation.’

Nathair frowned, eyes narrowing.

‘Not quite ready for that yet,’ the counsellor shrugged. ‘I can detect a distinct lack of trust in you, Prince.’

‘Understandable, I think, under the circumstances,’ Nathair said.

‘Indeed, indeed. Well, for now perhaps the short version, then. Lykos wishes there to be an understanding between us.’

‘Us?’ Orcus snapped.

‘The mainland of Tenebral and the Islands. A truce, an alliance, even.’

‘Pfah,’ spat Orcus, but Nathair just stared at Lykos’ counsellor.

‘Father would never agree. He hates the Vin Thalun islanders.’

‘Yes, we are aware of Aquilus’ disposition,’ the counsellor said. ‘That is, in part, why I am speaking to you, Nathair. But, more than that, you are the future of Tenebral, and of any treaty between us. You.’

‘My father is king, not I.’

‘At present, true. But that will not always be so.’ The old man smiled, as if talking with an old friend. ‘The older you get, the more likely you are to become fixed in your ways, in your opinions. Sometimes fresh blood is needed to guide the way. These are exciting times, as I would think your father has discussed with you. Perhaps your opinion, your guidance, is of worth.’ He looked intently at the Prince.

Nathair snorted, but did not look away from the counsellor’s gaze. ‘Even if I were to agree that there may be some value in an alliance between us, how would I ever trust you?’ the Prince said. ‘A people that have preyed upon those weaker than themselves, that burn and steal, that, until now, have not even been able to maintain a truce amongst themselves?’

‘Back to that again,’ the counsellor frowned. ‘Trust. A most important foundation to any relationship. I could smother you with words, promises, but they are easily spoken. I do not think you would be swayed by them. The old man took a step towards his cooking fire. ‘Perhaps a more practical demonstration of trust is required here.’

‘Demonstration of what?’ Orcus said suspiciously.

‘Alcyon, join us,’ the counsellor called out, and out of the laurels strode a huge form, black braided hair and a drooping moustache framing a weathered, deep-lined face. Swirling blue tattoos coiled up massive arms and disappeared under a coat of chainmail. The hilt of a great broadsword jutted over one shoulder.

‘Giant,’ Rauca spat like a curse, and, as one, Nathair’s three companions drew their swords.