John Gwynne - Malice

In time the host’s vanguard drew near, stopping two score paces before the bridge and spreading out in front of the fortress. Then Owain emerged from the mass of red-cloaked warriors.

‘Cousin,’ Owain called out, his voice ringing off the stone walls, his eyes scanning the battlements.

‘Aye,’ Brenin called back. ‘I am here.’

‘My son was more welcoming, when you visited my realm,’ Owain said, gesturing to the barred gates.

‘That is true,’ Brenin called, ‘but I was invited. You are not.’

Owain snorted. ‘Let us dispense with this. You are trapped, no means of escape. Give yourself up, along with your daughter and Pendathran. Then you will save much needless bloodshed.’

‘You are a fool, Owain. You are Rhin’s tool in this, nothing more — her puppet.’

‘Stop with your lies,’ Owain roared and thumped his saddle. ‘Marrock was seen , witnessed by many, leaving Uthan’s chambers. You ordered my son’s death. You killed him.’ His rage looked set to dominate him for a moment, before he mastered himself, and glared up at Brenin. ‘And in recompense I shall see you and your line wiped out.’

Brenin shook his head. ‘You are blind. But even so, what can you hope to achieve? Look at these walls. Your threats are empty. You can bang on my gates until Midwinter’s Day, and we shall hardly notice your presence.’

‘Maybe,’ Owain shouted up, ‘if you had food enough. I am in no hurry to be leaving. Let us see how much your people love you when they are starving, when they are dying about you. Consider my terms,’ he said. ‘I shall return at the same time on the morrow.’

He began to turn his horse, then paused. ‘Ah. I have something for you, to aid you in your deliberations.’ One of his men untied a small sack from his saddle, and emptied its contents.

A head rolled across the flagstones. The face was distorted by a rictus of pain or fear, but it was still recognizable to all close by.

Gethin, Lord of Badun.

CYWEN

Cywen muttered angrily to herself as she scraped Hammer’s hooves clean, running her knife deftly around the rim, clumps of hard-packed straw and earth coming loose. The stables were empty of people. Almost everyone was out on the walls, just watching Owain’s host, or training in the Rowan Field. That thought produced a fresh flow of expletives and she scraped more vigorously.

Two nights had passed since Owain had arrived, and Brenin had announced that anyone due to sit their Long Night before Midwinter’s Day could take their warrior trial early, to join the fight against Owain. That meant just about everyone that she knew, including Dath .

Dath, whom she had sparred with almost every day — and bested every day. And that lump, Farrell, who was as slow as an auroch.

She grimaced, imagining them all together, playing at being warriors, at being men. Ronan’s face came to mind, bright blood bubbling on his lips.

But it’s no game , she thought.

None of them understood. Except Ban. He had been there too, had seen Ronan, and had even fought . She felt a sudden rush of pride, of love for her brother, as she remembered watching him take his warrior trial. She remembered the shock she felt as she’d seen his sword trial, seen how he’d set at Halion, with a growing sense of witnessing something special filling her. And she hadn’t been the only one, going by the expressions of those about her.

The stable door opened and she blinked at the sudden burst of light flooding the darkness. And the figure silhouetted against the bright day was no less than Brenin. Evnis and his son were with him, along with Edana and Halion.

‘I am looking for Gar,’ Brenin said. ‘Is he here?’

‘No, my lord,’ Cywen said. ‘I thought he was out in the paddocks.’

‘No, he is not,’ Brenin said sharply.

‘Then I am sorry, I do not know where he is,’ Cywen said with a shrug. In truth Gar had been almost impossible to find for days, appearing only to issue a string of more commands, then disappearing again. He had been strange, ever since the day of Corban’s warrior trial, as had her mam, both of them insisting she dress for a journey but not telling her where or why. Of course, that had all changed with Owain’s siege, but still no explanation had been given, and Gar had become increasingly absent.

‘Is it something that I may help you with?’ Cywen asked.

‘Perhaps,’ Brenin said, preoccupied, clearly troubled to see Alona’s favourite mare nearby. ‘I need to know how many horses we have here — warrior mounts, not ponies.’

Cywen nodded. ‘No more than two hundred, lord. Maybe fewer. I do not know the exact number, but thereabouts. I can find out for sure. .’

‘Only two hundred?’ Brenin said quietly. ‘That is not enough.’ He shook his head, ‘Yes, yes — find out.’

Only once since the siege had begun had there been any kind of prolonged battle. The day after Owain’s arrival an assault had been made on the gates, warriors hauling felled trees capped with iron up the hill, attempting to batter the gates down. But they had been too thick, and the defenders above had let loose a constant barrage of rocks upon those wielding the battering ram. Scores had been crushed to death before Owain called his men back, with little more than scratches on the gates of the fortress to show for their efforts.

Dun Carreg seemed impregnable, but nevertheless there was a mounting tension spreading amongst those within the walls. With Gethin dead, and his warriors no doubt scattered, all hope rested on Dalgar and his warband from Dun Maen to break the siege.

Others entered the stables to join the royal group. It was Nathair with his usual companions, the black-clothed Sumur with his long curved sword on his back, and the eagle-guard, Rauca.

Cywen sidled over to Edana, who smiled at her, though her face looked strained.

‘Got a new guard?’ Cywen whispered, nodding towards Halion.

‘Conall didn’t like the job,’ Edana said.

Cywen pulled a face. ‘Why the horse count?’

‘Father would have a force ready, for when Dalgar arrives. He will be outnumbered by Owain, and will need help.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘I have been looking for you,’ Nathair said amiably, a broad smile on his face.

‘Have you?’ Brenin murmured, his attention elsewhere, still rubbing the mare’s muzzle.

‘Yes,’ Nathair said, the smile fading from his eyes. ‘For some time, now.’

Brenin looked at him finally. ‘Well, you appear to have found me. Forgive me if I have not been as available as you would have liked. These are unfortunate circumstances.’

Nathair made a dismissive gesture. ‘I am in no danger, I am sure. Owain is bound by the Old Lore, as are we all.’ The Old Lore was a set of customs that the Exiles had brought with them to the Banished Lands and included guest-rights: that a guest was safe at another’s hearth and was due the right of protection by the hold’s lord.

‘Indeed,’ said Brenin.

‘I hoped to speak with Owain, make him aware of my presence here, and perhaps reason with him over this useless war.’

‘Of course,’ Brenin said. ‘He returns to the walls each day. Speak with him then. Though I do not think you will change his mind.’

‘Yes. Thank you,’ Nathair said. ‘I regret this situation you find yourself in, but I cannot remain here indefinitely. I must return to my ship — soon.’

‘As you wish,’ Brenin shrugged. ‘I am sure that Owain would grant you safe passage. Is that what you wished to speak of with me?’

‘In part,’ Nathair said, ‘and of Meical. I have spoken with your councillors on the other matter, regarding the Benothi. They were most helpful.’ Nathair glanced at Evnis, who inclined his head.