John Gwynne - Malice

Someone thought to sound a warning but the storm snatched the sound away as soon as it was made. It couldn’t have carried much further than the courtyard. Men of Ardan stumbled from buildings around the open space, clutching swords and spears. Many of these fell quickly as they were still unprepared, thinking Owain had sent a sortie against the gates, but soon the courtyard was a seething hive of battle.

Marrock had gathered a handful of men about him from the wall, and was leading them down a stairwell, to aid those guarding the gate. The gate-guards were fighting with the desperation of the cornered, but the greater skill of the black-clad warriors was telling. If help did not come soon, the gates would be lost.

Cywen remembered her knives, and hurled one at the warriors attacking the gate-guards. A man fell backwards with her blade in his chest. She aimed another into the massed enemy and another fell. The next blade was for one of those blocking Marrock’s way down the stairwell and the next saw another enemy on the stairwell collapsing. Then she snatched another blade from her belt and was cursing under her breath, scanning the crowd for a clear target.

She became aware of noise behind her and turned, to witness the beginning of the end.

Men were streaming across the bridge, weapons in hand, hundreds of them, and behind them more than she could count, their lines fading into the sheeting rain. Owain’s host had somehow crept up to the fortress in the darkness, and waited for this moment.

She screamed, but no one paid any heed, either not hearing or too busy fighting for their lives. None except Marrock, who was being forced step by step back up the stairwell by a dozen black-clad warriors.

With horror Cywen realized the gate was lost. Even as she looked, the enemy were shouldering the great iron-bound bar from its seating. She sent a knife into them, but it didn’t stop the bar from tumbling to the ground and the gates swinging open with a crash.

All in the courtyard seemed to pause for an eye-blink, staring at the gaping gateway. Then, with a huge roar, Owain’s warriors poured through the open arch.

‘Get to Brenin, along the wall — he must know,’ Marrock shouted to her. Cywen stared, numbed by the shock of what she was seeing. Then Marrock was looking past her, shouting a warning.

She recognized Conall striding towards her, sword in hand, his face dark with menace.

Without thinking she hurled her knife at him. But he flicked his wrist, his sword sending the iron blade spinning away into the night. Cywen tripped as she tried to run.

‘Get back, lass, out of my way,’ she heard someone yell behind her, Marrock, trying to get at Conall.

She took a step but suddenly she did not want to get away, let others fight in her stead, again. She sprang at Conall, trying to avoid his sword hand. He was so surprised that his infamous speed failed him, just for a moment, and then she was inside his guard, kicking, punching, scratching, biting. Conall stumbled backwards, and tried to grab her, but she ducked and rammed her head into his belly. He w hoofed , but one hand managed to grab her hair, hold her close. Instead of pulling away she pushed, with all of her strength and weight. Conall was already off-balance, so he staggered backwards, a heel slipping out over the wall’s edge. He teetered there a moment, still gripping a handful of Cywen’s hair, flailed an arm, then fell, dragging Cywen with him.

Together they hurtled towards the stone courtyard, towards a sea of warriors locked in combat. Cywen heard Marrock shout her name, somewhere behind and above, then, suddenly, all was darkness and she knew no more.

CAMLIN

Camlin gulped a last mouthful of mead from his cup, and shook his head when Tarben offered him more.

The feast-hall was quieter now, many having left for their own hearths and beds. There were still more than a few score, though, Camlin noted as he glanced around the room — mostly warriors, others in small clumps dotted elsewhere. The flames from the firepit were slowly sinking, sending flickering ripples of light and shade around the room. Camlin thought he could just make out that healer’s crow, who led them out of the Darkwood, gripping a beam in the far corner. He could almost feel its strange beady eyes staring at him.

He glanced at Brina, sitting hunched in conversation with old Heb. As much as she scolded the loremaster at every opportunity, he could see there was an ease in their relationship. Torin and many from the village were also still here. And further away, in a dark corner, laughing, were Corban and his friends. They had been quick to support him, those two, when Corban had been threatened. Something about that scene had touched him. Friends that would guard your back in a fight were rare.

Something still lingered in the air after that Court of Swords, a tension, an excitement. There was certainly something about that Corban.

He chuckled to himself, looking at his own companions. He had gone from prisoner to warrior, most of those sitting with him now having served time as his guard. And even Marrock was one — he’d just left the hall to stand his watch on the wall — a good man, a good friend, a bitter enemy. Friend . He was still amazed by the turn his life had taken. Much as he preferred wood and sky to stone walls, he was glad he was here. It felt good, as if he were doing something right, instead of just what was right for him . Even though a good end to this siege was beginning to look more and more unlikely, he didn’t care.

Suddenly the main doors banged open, rain and cold air sweeping in.

Evnis stood on the threshold, breathing heavily, his face glistening with sweat or rain. Shadowed figures hovered behind him.

‘We are under attack,’ he announced. ‘Stonegate is breached.’

There was a moment of silence, then noise erupted. Some were shouting, questioning, as others leaped to their feet, benches scraping and falling over. Brenin just blinked owlishly and strained to focus on Evnis.

Camlin reached for his bowstring, wrapped in a leather pouch and began calmly stringing his bow.

Evnis rushed through the hall, towards Brenin, and shared a quick glance with Nathair, a handful of warriors and men from his hold behind him.

The sound of a horn blowing drifted in through the open doors, the wind swirling it around the hall.

Brenin stood, swayed and stepped out from behind his table. ‘What do you mean?’ he stuttered, a hush falling over the room as all waited to hear Evnis’ words.

‘Owain. Somehow the gates are open,’ Evnis said, drawing close to Brenin. The King rubbed a hand over his eyes, and tried to stand straighter. Pendathran moved to steady him.

‘Take Edana to her rooms,’ Brenin said to Halion, and Halion managed to steer her a dozen paces towards the hall’s back before she pulled indignantly out of his grip, and stopped to listen to Evnis.

Camlin realized that Nathair was somehow now standing beside Evnis. About a dozen of his guards, plus the dark-clothed warrior with the curved sword, were spread in a half-circle about Nathair and Evnis, mingling with others from the fortress and village. Camlin nudged Tarben’s arm, not liking something about what he was seeing.

‘How. . how has this happened?’ Brenin said, shock starting to sober him up.

A small group burst through the main doors. Camlin glanced over to see Marrock, a handful of warriors at his back. His sword was in his hand and dark with blood. ‘Evnis is a traitor,’ Marrock roared, ‘he has opened the gates to Owain.’

The sound of swords being drawn filled the hall. Camlin looked back to Brenin, and saw one of Nathair’s eagle-guards standing with his sword-tip levelled at the King’s chest. Slowly, so as not to draw attention, he reached down beside his chair for his quiver, and reached for a black-feathered arrow.