John Gwynne - Malice

Focus , he told himself. Get this wrong and he could not say what would be worse: broken bones or the humiliation of it happening before the gathered strength of Ardan.

He rubbed the sweat from his palms, and gripped the spear more tightly. Gar was watching him keenly, waiting for his signal. At his nod, the stablemaster clicked his tongue, and set Shield into a gentle trot. Gar kept pace for a few strides, then the stallion broke into a canter and headed for Corban.

Corban hefted shield and spear and set his feet as the stallion approached, hooves sending tremors beneath Corban’s feet. He began to move, then Shield drew level and Corban increased his pace, feeling the timing of the canter as his own blood and muscle pumped to match the horse’s stride. Suddenly the rhythm was right and he angled in, reaching out with his shield-hand, grabbed a fistful of the stallion’s mane, and used the horse’s momentum to launch himself into the air.

There was a heartbeat that felt like an eternity as his feet left the ground. He was completely weightless, airborne, his body arcing up, legs scissoring, then, with a satisfying thump he landed in the saddle. Shield didn’t even break stride.

He sat there a moment, feeling Shield’s muscles bunch and expand beneath him, could hear only his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, then he was punching the air with shield and spear, the cold air whipping tears from his eyes. Distantly he heard noise, looked around to see people calling out to him, cheering, banging spears on shields. His eyes searched the crowd and found his da, who was grinning till he looked like his face would split. Corban raised a clenched fist to the blacksmith, and whooped with joy, then called to Storm.

The wolven bounded away from Thannon to run alongside Shield, matching the stallion’s speed as Corban urged it into a gallop, turf spraying from its hooves. He held the reins easily, relaxing into Shield’s rhythm. His eyes searched the crowd for Gar. The stablemaster inclined his head.

Brenin marched onto the Field, accompanied by his retinue and the Tenebral guests. They stared as he galloped past, Storm loping beside him. Briefly he saw Nathair’s eyes fix in surprise on the wolven, before their eyes met. The world seemed to contract suddenly. The shadow was there again, a darkness that hovered about the King of Tenebral. Corban felt scared, suddenly, then he was past them and pulling on the reins to head back to Halion. He looked for Gar again but couldn’t see him; he refused to dwell on the words he had heard yestereve which came unbidden to his mind.

He slipped from the saddle before Halion, glowing before his approving nod, then Thannon was beckoned forward, his bulk looming over both of them. He unwound a sword from a cloth wrapping, and offered it to his son. Corban sank to one knee to complete the ceremony.

‘Corban ben Thannon,’ Halion called. ‘You came to the Field a bairn, you leave it as a warrior, as a man. Rise,’ he said, his hand touching Corban’s elbow, ‘and take your sword.’

Corban stood, took his gift and gasped as he looked closer. The pommel was dark iron, carved into the head of a snarling wolven. His eyes flickered to his da’s face, saw joy in the blacksmith’s eyes as well as tears.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered, the blade hissing as he drew it from the leather scabbard. He held up the sword, sunlight turning it momentarily into a white flame, just like in the tales.

‘Hold tight to your blade,’ Halion said, ‘and hold as tight to truth and courage. Now make your oath.’

‘I pledge my arm, my mind, my soul, my strength in service of the two: King and Kin.’ He drew his sword across his palm, dripping blood from a clenched fist onto the ground. ‘I swear this by my heart, seal it with my blood,’ Corban said.

Thannon grinned at him.

Cheers rang out from the crowd — a huge crowd now, all staring at him as if something special was happening — and then Thannon swept Corban into a bear-like embrace.

Cool shadow replaced bright sunshine as Corban rode under the arch of Stonegate, Storm an almost silent presence behind him.

The sun was dipping into the west, sending long shadows stretching out before him as Corban rode across Dun Carreg’s bridge. When he reached the giantsway he set his back to the Baglun. He was riding to find a spot to sit his Long Night, and all the land between him and the Baglun felt too familiar. He wanted it to feel new, as everything else on this day of days had been.

He rode until the world about him was grey, shrinking before the red glow of the setting sun behind him. He finally reined Shield in before a dell, a boulder of dark granite offering some shelter from the sharp wind that rolled in from the coast. He dismounted, feeling the slap of the still-unfamiliar blade on his hip as he did so, and spent a long moment admiring his weapons. After tending to Shield it was a good while later before he was settled next to a small fire, looking up at the moon, which cast a pale glow across the land.

He felt exhausted, the excitement of the day finally waning and allowing him to consider Gar’s ominous words. This talk of leaving Dun Carreg scared him. It was only at the thought of leaving it that he realized how much he loved this place and the people. His friends were here, and so was his heart. No. He was not leaving. No matter what his mam or Gar said, no matter what history Gar shared with Sumur. He was a warrior now, a man. He could do as he chose. His hand crept up to the braid that was now in his hair — his warrior braid, put there by his mam and Cywen that afternoon, bound with a thin strip of leather.

Halion had honoured him, requesting his warrior trial and Long Night be brought forward, but there was practicality in the decision, too. They were as good as at war with Rhin, and soon the warriors of Ardan would ride against Cambren. Every arm that could wield a sword would be needed.

He felt a fluttering of fear at that thought. Riding to war , but pushed it down. It would be better by far than leaving .

Instinctively he reached for the hilt of his sword and curled his fingertips around the hilt. It was a big sword, longer than was usual, with a hand-and-a-half grip. After much deliberation with his da he had decided upon this. Because of his training with Gar he favoured a two-handed blade, but that would rule out a shield, which he did not want to do. This way he almost had the reach of a two-handed sword, but — largely due to his uncounted toiling in his da’s forge, as well as his training with Gar over the last two years — he had the strength to wield it like a shorter, lighter blade, and so could use it with a shield.

Soon his eyes began to droop. But the Long Night was to be spent in unsleeping vigil. He stirred himself with another memory of the day, an unwelcome one. Nathair. All over the fortress people were gossiping about the King of Tenebral. He was both handsome and pleasant, so was becoming increasingly popular. But there was something about him that nagged at Corban. And every time he saw him there was that shadow, a presence. .

Seeing things that are not there is the first sign of madness , he chided himself, at least that’s what Brina has told me . Still, that shadow. .

He shivered.

Strange, unnerving sounds drifted on the night breeze. But Storm slept undisturbed. He blew into his cupped hands. It was cold, the sea breeze adding a bite to the already chilly air. He reached for a blanket from his pack.

I’ll just sit for a while , he thought, until the blanket chases the chill from my bones .

With a start he woke, stiff all over. It was still dark, though there was a touch of grey in the sky, the stars fainter. His small fire had long since burned out, but he could see Storm and Shield, so dawn must be close. Deciding movement was better than staying still, he quickly collected his things together and began saddling Shield up. He felt guilty at dozing off on his Long Night and wondered if he should tell Halion.