John Gwynne - Malice

Then Gwenith demanded that he follow and they finally reached Halion. No more than a dozen fought with him, out of of the hundred or so that had filled the hall. Evnis’ warriors had fared little better, though: less than a score of them now fighting to reach Edana and finish the conflict. Corban hefted his da’s hammer and charged, Storm leaping ahead of him, hamstringing a warrior with one snap of her jaws.

Two fell before he reached them, knives jutting from backs, and he remembered who had taught Cywen to throw a knife. He grunted as he swung the hammer — which was in truth too heavy for him — and connected with a man’s lower back instead of his head. That was enough, though. Corban felt bones shatter. He swung again, then his mam was beside him, stabbing a spear into someone’s shoulder and Storm was snarling, ripping, tearing.

Evnis’ warriors tried to turn and face this new threat, but in moments Halion and his fighters had dispatched the distracted, flanked warriors. Corban checked to find Camlin, Marrock and Tarben. He felt a surge of relief when he saw a pale-faced Dath and Farrell. Others were there too, amongst them Brina and Heb at the back, beside a weeping Edana.

Flames still flickered in the firepit, and death and destruction surrounded them on every side. In a shadowed corner beside a shattered table, the sounds of grief were clear in the lull. Corban squinted through the firepit’s flames to see two men kneeling on the ground. One was Mordwyr, Dath’s da. His face was distraught, but the sobbing came from the man next to him — Vonn, cradling Bethan’s limp head in his lap.

The only other movement was at the high table, where Gar still fought, though of the ten eagle-guards only two still stood. Corban took a few paces towards Gar, a handful following, and spreading out about him. As he watched, Gar blocked an overhead strike, and sent his own blade slashing across his opponent’s throat. Then, before that man had fallen, he was sidestepping, turning, and somehow reversing his sword grip to punch it into the stomach of the last guard rushing in behind him.

Gar stood still a moment, then slid his sword free, spun it and changed the grip yet again as his opponent’s body sank to the ground. He finally turned to face Nathair and Sumur.

Sumur stepped forward, slow and graceful, still leaving his sword sheathed on his back. ‘How is it that you are here, sword-brother?’ he said.

Gar made no reply, except to shift his feet.

‘You should answer, when I ask something of you,’ Sumur continued. ‘I am Lord of Telassar, Lord of the Jehar; lord of you, am I not?’

‘Tukul is my lord,’ said Gar.

Sumur shook his head. ‘He was always misguided. Not equipped for this calling. Tell me, where is he? Here, in Dun Carreg? Ardan? Has he just abandoned you?’

‘He would not do that,’ Gar spat.

Sumur shrugged. ‘Whatever you think, your task has failed. Come, sheathe your sword, join me. Look, the Seren Disglair stands before you.’ Sumur gestured to Nathair, who stood tall, regal, and smiled warmly at Gar.

Gar assessed Nathair, contemptuously. ‘That just cannot be,’ he said and his eyes flickered, briefly, to Corban.

Sumur followed his gaze, and stared at Corban, his eyes taking in the wolven beside him. ‘We have much to speak of, you and I,’ he said. ‘Come, sheathe your sword. Join me.’

‘You were ever the honeyed talker,’ Gar said. ‘You may have fooled my father with your false tongue, become lord in his absence, but you never fooled me. Time enough for words when my spirit has crossed the bridge of swords. Until then I shall let my blade speak for me.’ He flexed his wrist, his sword-tip spinning, tracing a circle in the air.

‘So be it,’ Sumur shrugged. ‘When I am done with you I shall carve some answers from your boy and his wolven-cub.’

Faster than Corban could follow, Sumur suddenly had his blade in his hand. He heard rather than saw their first clash, iron ringing out as their swords sparked in a blurred flurry, their bodies spinning. The two men separated, neither breathing hard, and began circling, eyes measuring, assessing, probing. Sumur stopped suddenly, shifted his weight, then rushed in with his sword aloft. Gar spun from the curved blade as it slashed, was already striking at Sumur’s waist, but the warrior was gliding out of range. Again they clashed, swords connecting this time, more strikes than Corban could count, then Gar was crouching low, slashing at Sumur’s ankles, the warrior leaping and striking at Gar’s head. The stablemaster swayed to one side, Sumur’s blade missing him by a hairsbreadth. He twisted towards Sumur, chopped once, twice, then stepped gracefully away.

Sumur paused, glanced down. Two thin red lines had appeared upon him, one along his forearm, the other his chest. They were shallow cuts, of no consequence, but they showed who was the fastest, by the merest fraction.

Corban realized he was holding his breath, mesmerized by the intensity and skill of the contest he was watching. Nothing he had ever seen compared: the Court of Swords between Tull and Morcant appearing as clumsy children to this deadly, vicious offering. He glanced about, and saw all those with him equally absorbed in the life-and-death dance before them. For a moment, all thoughts of the battle still raging beyond the hall’s doors was forgotten.

Clashing iron grabbed his attention again, the two men spinning and swirling like flames. For a moment Corban was unable to tell which was which.

Then one was retreating, backing towards a shape on the floor: his da’s corpse, Corban realized. He uttered an involuntary groan as he recognized it, Buddai still maintaining his solitary guard. The warrior’s foot grazed Thannon’s arm and Buddai’s jaws snapped out and bit into his boot. For a moment, less than a heartbeat, the flutter of an eyelid, that man was off-balance. His opponent’s sword snaked out, and struck a deep gash on his shoulder, then the man was spinning away, out of range. He paused, to feel his injured shoulder and Corban gasped. It was Gar.

Suddenly Corban was terrified for Gar’s life. His confidence, his certainty in Gar’s ability drained away. Gar used a two-handed blade, used both hands, needed both arms, to wield it properly. This was a contest where the minutest change in balance would tip the scales, and both men knew it.

Gar scowled and rolled his shoulders, glancing fleetingly towards Corban. ‘Go,’ he mouthed silently, and Sumur smiled in anticipation.

Slowly Gar stepped away, in the direction of the hall’s main doors, away from Corban, but before he had moved a handful of paces Sumur was lunging forwards.

There was another burst of sword strikes and parries, this time Gar steadily retreating, blocking, not even trying to strike back. Sweat glistened on his brow, as Sumur’s attack became a blur, the warrior sensing the closeness of his victory.

Then men were pouring through the open doors, a fighting mob of both red and grey. They crashed into Gar and Sumur, sweeping them apart.

‘Gar!’ Gwenith screamed. ‘Now. Come now.’

Corban added his voice to hers, though both Gar and Sumur had disappeared from view. Maybe Gar heard them, maybe he had made the decision regardless, but, as those about Corban were preparing to fight again, Gar appeared before them.

‘We need to leave. Now,’ he said. The stablemaster was exhausted and bleeding from his shoulder still, but there was something in his expression that brooked no argument.

Corban nodded. ‘All of us,’ he added, glancing at Halion and the others. Gar just shrugged.

Battle had consumed the hall again. Sumur, Nathair and Evnis were obscured from view by a tide of red-cloaks locked in combat with grey.