John Gwynne - Malice

Everything was done, Corban just slipping his spear into its leather couch on his saddle when Storm suddenly lifted her head, looked down the slope and growled.

Corban froze and followed the wolven’s gaze.

A rider burst from the trees, splashed across the stream and galloped for the giantsway. He reined in when he saw Corban, turning his frothing mount in a tight circle.

‘Have any others got through?’ he said, his voice hoarse, almost a whisper.

‘What do you mean?’ Corban asked, hand gripping the hilt of his sword.

‘Messengers from Badun,’ the man grunted.

‘No. No one.’

The man swore, spat on the ground and glanced over his shoulder. ‘You must ride, they cannot be far behind,’ the man urged. ‘Badun has fallen.’

‘What? But. .’ Corban said.

‘Ride. There is no time ,’ the man snapped, then dug his heels into his horse, spurring it on.

Corban watched the rider disappear over the ridge, then noise from the valley bottom drew his attention.

Mounted figures emerged from the woodland, a dozen or so, warriors, by their couched spears. Corban frowned. There was something wrong about their movements, something furtive.

Then there was movement on the ridge of the far slope, perhaps a league away, maybe less. A dark line appeared on the giantsway: riders, a wide column, framed by a pale strip of light that preceded the coming sun. They were moving quickly towards him. Either side of the road more figures spilt over the ridge, moving like a dark stain across the land, spears and rippling banners silhouetted briefly against the lightening sky.

Corban just stared, watching. Then the rim of the sun appeared on the horizon and a host of spear-tips caught the first rays, sparking into light like a thousand candles. A war-host crawled across the slope towards him, a sea of red-cloaked warriors, the bull of Narvon snapping on countless banners.

Owain had come.

CORBAN

Corban mounted Shield and guided the horse up the embankment to the giantsway. He looked once more at the host creeping towards him, his gaze flickering to the scouts picking their way down the slope towards the stream. As he watched, one of them signalled to the others, and pointed at him. His heart lurched as he kicked Shield into a gallop, voices rising behind him and the sound of hooves splashing through water.

He rode Shield hard, his heart pounding, and panic building.

Eventually Brina’s cottage came into view, Dun Carreg a tall blur on the horizon in the still hazy light of dawn.

He reined Shield in, the horse blowing great gouts of breath in the cold morning air. Further ahead he saw a dust cloud marking the rider he had spoken to entering the village. He urged Shield towards Brina’s cottage.

The healer was bent over her herb patch, tugging at a clump of hawkweed as Corban pounded up to her.

‘Quick!’ he cried. ‘We must go.’

‘What?’ Brina snapped, scowling at the hawkweed that clearly did not want to leave the ground. ‘Has one night alone in the dark unhinged your mind completely?’

‘Owain’s war-host, thousands coming,’ Corban uttered breathlessly. ‘A league or so back, but his scouts are not far behind me.’

Brina stared at him a moment, then shoved herself to her feet and bustled inside her cottage, calling to Craf.

‘Hurry!’ Corban yelled, and in moments Brina appeared in her doorway, a sack over her back, the crow flapping behind her, squawking a protest.

Surprising Corban with her agility, Brina pulled herself up behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist and then Shield was moving through the alder glade. Corban looked to the east and saw a line of riders strung across the road, moving quickly, more than the dozen scouts he had seen earlier.

He dug his heels into Shield’s ribs, Craf a black smudge in the sky above him, and Storm running at his side. He cut across meadow to join the giantsway and set his face to Havan, bent low in the saddle, urging Shield on.

When he reached the village he shouted a warning as he rode through the streets to the roundhouse. But the rider had already spread the word and there were people everywhere, most of them making for the road that led up to the fortress. Corban made his way to Dath’s home, jumped from his saddle and pounded on the door. Bethan pulled it open, a scowl on her face, but her words failed when she saw Corban’s expression.

‘What’s wrong?’ she said.

‘Owain is attacking, you don’t have long. Where’s Dath?’

‘Here, Ban,’ his friend said, appearing behind his sister.

‘We have to go.’ Corban grabbed Bethan’s shoulder, but she pulled back.

‘Da. .’ she said.

‘Where is he?’

‘Back there,’ Dath said, nodding into his home.

‘Show me.’

Mordwyr was snoring in his cot, a jug of usque in his arms. It proved impossible to rouse him, until Brina pushed her way in and emptied a jug of cold water over his head. That and her scolding served to wake Mordwyr enough that he could stagger from their home, Corban leading him, and Dath balancing him from behind.

Corban told Brina and Bethan to take Shield and ride on ahead. He and Dath led the staggering fisherman through the village and joined a growing line of people making their way up the steep path to Dun Carreg. They paused a little way up, to look back over the village.

Smoke was rising from Brina’s cottage, black, billowing clouds of it. Further away, at the edge of sight, Owain’s host was a creeping smudge on the horizon. Closer, between the village and Brina’s cottage, riders milled about on the giantsway, Owain’s advance scouts. ‘Come on,’ Corban said, and turned towards Dun Carreg. When they were halfway up the steep slope, Mordwyr protesting all the way, there was a rumble of hooves ahead. Pendathran rode past them, with scores of warriors at his back. They continued down to the village and fanned out, protecting the villagers from Owain’s advance scouts.

Then Gar was there, riding his great piebald stallion towards them.

‘Is it true?’ Gar said when he reached them. Corban just pointed at the land behind him, at the dark tide of warriors swarming across the meadows.

Gar stared a while as Corban eyed the packs tied to Hammer’s side, the full water skins, a long object wrapped in leather strapped to the saddle. ‘Going somewhere?’ he asked.

‘I was,’ he said. ‘Not now, though. Come, let’s get you inside the fortress walls.’

With great difficulty, they hoisted Mordwyr into Gar’s saddle, and made much quicker time up the slope. Corban’s mam and Cywen met them in the courtyard, both dressed for a journey, he noted, in thick leathers and cloaks. Thannon stood beside them, scowling, his newly made war-hammer in his hands.

‘Shield is at the stables — I’ve tended him,’ Bethan said to Corban as she took Hammer’s reins, guiding her da into the fortress. The rest of them made their way up the stone stairs to stand on the battlements.

The village was overrun now, the land about the base of the hill teeming with marauders, the dark mass beginning to swarm up the slope towards the fortress. The last of the villagers were crossing the bridge, Torin with them, driving a wain piled high with sacks and barrels, Pendathran and his few score warriors riding behind. When they were all across the bridge the iron-bound doors of Stonegate slammed shut, bars ramming home. Everywhere was the shocked murmur of voices. King Brenin emerged into the courtyard, with Halion and a clutch of other warriors about him, Heb and Evnis trailing. Behind them came the Tenebral visitors.

Brenin conferred with Pendathran a few moments, then climbed the stairwell. He positioned himself on the walkway above Stonegate, staring down at the bridge that spanned the chasm between Dun Carreg and the mainland.