John Gwynne - Malice

Footsteps scuffed nearby and a shadow fell over him. Storm growled, a low rumble, and he looked up to see Rafe standing over him, his da behind one shoulder. More warriors from Evnis’ hold were ranged behind them.

‘I call you out, Corban ben Thannon,’ Rafe said, loudly making the formal challenge for a duel.

The murmur of voices that had filled the hall wavered, a quiet spreading out from them in an ever-widening ripple. Halion frowned and said something to Edana. She moved closer to her father and whispered in his ear.

Corban looked up at Rafe and slowly stood, stepping away from his chair.

‘Stand down, boy,’ Thannon growled at Rafe.

‘I am not a boy,’ Rafe said. ‘I am a man, and this is my right.’

Brenin had returned Rafe’s sword to him, and had done it formally in the Rowan Field, the same day that Dath and Farrell had taken their warrior trials. Every arm that could wield a sword was needed now. So Brenin had said.

‘On what grounds?’ Corban said.

‘On two counts,’ Rafe replied loudly, looking about the room. ‘The first is personal grievance. The second — breaking the word of your King.’

‘What?’ snapped Corban.

Rafe looked pointedly at Storm. ‘That beast was banned from this fortress, forbidden from ever returning, on pain of death. I know it to be true, my da was there when our King spoke it, as were many other witnesses.’ He smiled. ‘Do you deny it?’

‘Things have changed since then.’

‘Do you deny it?’ Rafe repeated, louder. ‘Do you deny that our King spoke those words?’

‘No,’ Corban said, glaring at Rafe.

‘Then let us proceed,’ Rafe said. ‘Let the Court of Swords judge our dispute.’

‘Hold,’ a voice rang out, all turning to see Pendathran standing. ‘You cannot mean to allow this?’ he said to Brenin, the King looking into his cup, swirling its dregs.

Slowly Brenin looked up, and focused with some difficulty on Corban and Rafe. ‘What does it matter?’ he muttered. ‘Proceed.’ He gave an uninterested wave. ‘But only to first blood, not to the death. I have need of every warrior.’ He chuckled to himself, little humour in its tone.

Rafe grinned and gripped his sword hilt, half-drawing it.

At this Storm snarled and leaped forwards, crouching between Corban and Rafe with teeth bared.

‘Storm. Hold ,’ Corban cried.

‘You see,’ Rafe blurted, stumbling backwards. ‘This beast is a danger. It should not be here.’ He glanced at Brenin. ‘You see, my King — your judgement was true.’

‘Aye, perhaps,’ Brenin muttered. ‘Let your swords be the judge of it.’

Corban stared at the King, and felt his chest constrict, the implications of Brenin’s words growing clearer. This had become far more serious than a grudge between childhood enemies. If he lost this the judgement would go against him. Storm could be put to death, and Rafe would surely insist upon it.

He tried to control his breathing and his suddenly racing heart.

Pendathran looked between Brenin and Corban. ‘That lad, and his wolven,’ he said, quiet but clear to all. ‘They were of great help. In the Darkwood, in the rescue.’

‘Rescue,’ snorted Brenin. ‘Aye, maybe they were, but Alona is still dead, is she not?’

‘Aye, that is so,’ Pendathran nodded slowly. ‘But your daughter is not. She lives, still, in large part due to their aid.’

The two men glared at each other a moment, then Brenin lowered his gaze and took another sip from his cup. ‘Dead. She is dead,’ he said. ‘Proceed.’

‘What about the wolven?’ Rafe said. ‘Look what it did to me.’ He pulled his linen sleeve up, revealing thick, silvery scars running almost from elbow to wrist.

‘I shall take her out,’ Corban said through gritted teeth.

‘I’ll do it, Ban,’ his mam said.

‘Take Storm and fetch Gar,’ Thannon said quietly, looking at the warriors ranged behind Rafe. ‘We may have need of him.’

Gwenith nodded and clicked her tongue at Storm. The wolven didn’t move, stood twitching her tail at Rafe.

‘Go,’ Corban said, and reluctantly Storm followed Gwenith out of the feast-hall.

‘Watch your step, Ban,’ his da said to him, quietly. Corban did not hear. There was a battle raging inside him: anger, no, fury threatening to consume him, all Rafe’s taunts and insults over the years merging into one injustice.

‘I am surprised you have the stones to step in the ring,’ Helfach said as Corban entered the makeshift circle they had prepared.

‘Be silent,’ Corban said, ‘lest I send for my da, and have him silence you.’

Thannon grinned and patted the head of his war-hammer. Buddai growled.

‘You. .’ Helfach spluttered and took a step towards Corban, fists bunching, Rafe and Crain moving with him.

Chairs scraped and suddenly Farrell and Dath were either side of Corban, Thannon towering behind them, and others converging from the hall’s edges — Marrock and Camlin, Evnis and Conall.

‘Enough!’ Pendathran yelled.

Corban was staring into Helfach’s eyes, almost nose to nose with the huntsman, feeling his heart pounding in his ears. The moment seemed balanced on a knife-edge.

Then the doors to the hall creaked open to reveal Nathair with Sumur, Rauca and others of his eagle-guard.

Corban stared at Nathair. The shadow about him was much clearer now. Corban shivered and almost thought he saw talons gripping the King, imagined red eyes smouldering in the shadow’s depths. Something seemed to whisper in Nathair’s ear. The King of Tenebral paused, looked at Corban and smiled, then Evnis called him to his table.

‘I shall not spoil my son’s moment,’ Helfach hissed at Corban. He stepped out of the circle, Crain following him.

‘Get this over with,’ Pendathran growled, and Corban and Rafe moved properly into the circle. Rafe stood half a head taller than Corban, with long, quick limbs, though Corban was broader, and most likely stronger, he hoped.

Corban looked quickly towards the King’s table and his eyes met Halion’s. His old swordsmaster put a finger to his temple and tapped it gently.

Think , Halion was telling him. Anger is the enemy , he repeated to himself, feeling his heartbeat begin to slow. Remember, Storm is at stake here .

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, only opening them when he heard the rasp of Rafe drawing his sword, then gripped his own hilt and drew it slowly. He set his feet, raised his sword over his head, high, in a two-handed grip. Waited.

‘Begin,’ Pendathran said.

Corban burst into motion, striking at Rafe’s head once, twice, three times in the blink of an eye. Rafe stumbled backwards, blocking Corban desperately.

Corban spun on his heel, was suddenly inside Rafe’s guard and cracked his elbow into Rafe’s cheek, sending him reeling back into a table. The huntsman’s son lifted his blade as Corban ploughed forwards again, but he was off-balance, one hand trying to push himself off the tabletop, and Corban just slammed his sword into Rafe’s, smashing it from his grip. Then Corban’s blade was at Rafe’s throat.

There was utter silence in the hall, only the crackle of flames from the firepit, and the ragged breaths of the combatants as Corban gazed into Rafe’s eyes, saw fear, confusion and shame there. He flicked his wrist, ever so slightly and a thin line of red appeared on Rafe’s neck.

‘First blood,’ Corban said and stepped back, sheathing his sword. Rafe remained frozen, breathing heavily, a trickle of blood running down his neck.

Corban glanced around, saw admiration in his friends’ faces, satisfaction, and something else. . Everyone was staring at him. He caught the eye of Nathair’s guardian, Sumur, who was frowning, a question in his eyes. Then he was looking at the high table, Halion smiling with pride. Pendathran dipped his head.