John Gwynne - Malice

‘But I am still most keen to discover why Meical came here, where he may have been going. Anything.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Brenin said. ‘Unfortunately, my time has been in much demand of late. I am sorry, but I have discovered nothing new. As I said before, I know not why Meical came here or where he went.’

Nathair frowned, not so easily put off.

‘There must be something. .’ Nathair said. ‘He must have ridden here — an impressive stallion, a huge grey. Was he stabled here?’

He was , Cywen thought, remembering the horse clearly.

‘I don’t work in the stables,’ Brenin snapped.

Nathair frowned. ‘But there must be someone, a stable boy.’ He looked around, suddenly saw Cywen. ‘You there, do you remember the horse I speak of? A dapple grey?’

All eyes suddenly focused on her. ‘I. . I remember him — the grey, I mean. He was beautiful.’

Nathair took a step towards her. ‘Did you stable the stallion? Or speak with Meical, its rider?’

‘No, I did not. That was Gar.’

‘Gar?’

‘The stablemaster.’

‘I must speak with him. Where is he?’

Cywen shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

‘I am sure he knows nothing,’ Brenin interrupted. ‘But I will see that he is questioned, inform you if there is any news of interest.’

Nathair turned back to Brenin. ‘I would rather speak to him myself, particularly as your time is so stretched.’

‘No,’ said Brenin.

Nathair stood silent a moment. His eyes narrowed. ‘I am accustomed to speaking to someone, if that is my inclination, my wish,’ he said coldly.

‘That may well be,’ Brenin said, ‘when you are in your own hall, your own kingdom. But I would remind you that you are a guest here, not king. And in my hall, my kingdom, I will do things as I please. And it does not please me to have others question my people. That is a task I reserve for myself, or those I deem appropriate.’

Sumur shifted, the barest movement of his feet, but suddenly there was a tension in his frame, the threat of violence in the air. ‘That is discourteous,’ he said softly in his guttural accent.

Nathair held a hand up to Sumur, as if to calm him. ‘I have travelled a thousand leagues for this information,’ he eventually said, something dangerous in his voice. ‘I will not be hindered in this.’

Brenin returned his gaze impassively.

‘Maybe you do not fully understand,’ Nathair said. ‘These are momentous times. Times of change. Times where choices must be made. A new order is coming. I shall remember those that help me, and those that hinder me, when my alliance is no longer in its infancy.’

‘ Your alliance? I thought it was Aquilus that birthed it?’ Brenin said, raising an eyebrow. ‘You are of a different cast, I think, from your father. And, yes, I understand very well the times we live in. I was at your father’s council. I stood with him. Remember that.

‘Allow me to give you some advice, as you are yet new to your throne. In future, try and have more care in how you choose to speak to a king, especially when he is in his own hall.’

‘Mandros said something similar,’ Nathair murmured.

Brenin scowled at Nathair. ‘Mandros. Know this, Nathair: when my current troubles are resolved I will be calling for an inquiry into Mandros’ death. Kingslaying is not lightly done, and I am unhappy with all that I have heard.’ He at last left the stables, his party following. Evnis lingered a moment, a long glance passing between him and Nathair, then he too was gone.

Nathair turned back to Cywen. ‘Tell this Gar that I would speak with him,’ he said.

Cywen said nothing, and looked at her feet.

Suddenly horns sounded, an urgency in their tone. Nathair and his own companions left, the eagle-guard flashing a smile at Cywen as he went.

Crowds were making their way to Stonegate, where the horns were blowing loudest. Cywen darted ahead, ran up the stairwell and squeezed between warriors to peer over the battlements.

A warband was camped beyond the bridge, five or six hundred swords at least, which Owain deemed enough to contain any strike from within the fortress. The rest of the war-host was camped around the base of the hill, a black mass from this distance that spread throughout Havan and into the meadows round about.

In the distance, to the south, beyond Owain’s host, there was movement on the horizon, a dark smudge moving slowly closer.

Dalgar.

She felt the tension, the hope rippling through those on the wall. Then she remembered Edana’s words — Brenin wanted mounted warriors ready to give aid to Pendathran’s son. She turned and bolted back to the stables, to find Gar organizing the chaos there as countless warriors prepared for battle. Pendathran was shouting a continuous barrage of insults at anyone he considered not moving at their fastest.

She dived in and helped saddle horses, tighten girths, strap spears to harness and a host of other things, until suddenly riders were thundering away towards Stonegate, a cloud of dust rising from their passing.

She did not pause for breath, but made her way straight back to the walls, squeezing through the crush until she had a view of the land below again.

Dalgar’s warband was much closer now, close enough to make out tiny, individual riders, a wave of countless spear-points. Nevertheless, as they drew nearer Cywen was struck by how few they were compared to Owain’s host. The King of Narvon must have emptied his realm to field such a gathering. Dalgar had maybe a quarter of what was arrayed against him. There were thousands within the fortress, evening the numbers, but they had to get across the bridge, which was only wide enough for ten or twelve mounted warriors abreast. And then there was the problem of the horses. Most mounts had been put out to pasture around Havan, as there wasn’t enough room within Dun Carreg’s walls.

Below, Dalgar and his warriors were now charging Owain’s hastily drawn up lines. It was impossible to tell what was happening from such a distance, but Cywen could see the flanks of Owain’s massed warriors curling around the smaller warband, like a huge fist closing.

Corban joined her, staring anxiously down at the battle far below. ‘You’re not joining those in the courtyard, then?’ she said to Corban.

‘What? No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Only proven warriors, on Pendathran’s order.’

‘You are proven,’ she said defensively, but then felt relief overwhelm her annoyance. She would not like to see Corban in that.

Pendathran’s voice sounded in the courtyard behind, shouting orders, and the gates creaked open, a flood of horsemen surging through them onto the bridge.

Owain’s warriors were ready for them, a thicket of spears awaiting the horsemen.

There was a great crash as the riders ploughed into this wall of spears, wood splintering, horses screaming, flesh tearing and bodies flung into the air. The end of the bridge became a seething mass of horseflesh, blood and iron.

More of Owain’s warriors were piling up behind the first rows of his spearmen. The bridge itself was crowded with Pendathran’s men, and a bottleneck of the dead and dying formed between the two camps where the bridge met the land.

Cywen saw Pendathran on his great warhorse, plunging and rearing in the mass, the battlechief striking about him with his longsword. He hacked spear shafts in two, severed heads from necks and chopped grasping hands from arms as they reached out to pull him down. Slowly but surely the enemy line gave before him. He ploughed on, becoming the tip of an arrow shape as Ardan’s warriors rallied behind him.

Then a spear sank into the chest of Pendathran’s mount, its scream rising momentarily above the din of battle. It crashed into the ranks about it, red-cloaked warriors surging forwards, and Pendathran disappeared beneath like a man drowning.