John Gwynne - Malice

The sound of hooves grew behind them: the two riders Gar had seen cantering along at a ground-eating pace. They drew alongside the group. Both had large round shields strapped to their horses’ saddles, and longswords at their hips, their cloaks travel-stained. Gar nodded a greeting. One — the younger, Cywen thought — bright blue eyes sparking in a boyishly handsome face, flashed back a grin.

‘Greetings,’ he said. ‘Judging by that great pile of stone perched over there we have reached Dun Carreg.’

‘Aye,’ answered Gar. ‘You have.’

The blue-eyed man smiled at his companion and clapped him on the back. ‘You hear that, brother.’

The other sat silently on his horse, staring at the fortress. ‘We would speak with King Brenin,’ he said, black hair framing a stern, weathered face.

‘You will find him in the meadow,’ Gar said. ‘His nephew is hand-bound today.’

‘My thanks,’ the stern warrior said, and the two men urged their horses off the road towards the meadow.

Gar watched them go, a frown creasing his face, then he turned to Corban. ‘Come, the sun has almost set. Cywen, try and work some kind of glamour on your brother’s cloak while I introduce him to a bucket of water.’

KASTELL

Kastell stretched in his saddle, filling his lungs with a deep breath. The air was crisp, laced with the scent of pine from the mountain slopes they were riding towards. As his home faded behind him, the fortress Mikil, he began to feel his spirits lift. Life in the fortress had become almost unbearable of late, so when his uncle Romar, who was also King of all Isiltir, had suggested he ride in the guard of this merchant train he had accepted without hesitation.

Maquin, his shieldman, rode at his side, a tall spear cradled easily in the crook of his arm. Kastell had known Maquin longer than any other, the last remnant of his father’s hold. They were all dead ten long years, slain by the giants as they raided out of Forn Forest.

Kastell reined in his horse and looked back, brushing his red hair from his eyes. To the east was Forn Forest, oldest and most dreaded in all of the Banished Lands. Kastell looked at the brooding darkness only a few leagues away and shivered, though the sun was hot on his face. The giant trees rose like a murky bulwark, a dark undulating ocean that travelled endlessly into the northern horizon. Although Mikil lay only a few nights’ journey from the great forest, this was the first time he had really looked upon it in years. Since the slaughter of his family. Many of Isiltir’s warriors rode patrol along its borders, protecting against the beasts that would stray from within Forn’s depths: the savage Hunen giants, bent on revenge for grievances long past, packs of wolven and swarms of great bats that would drain a man of every last drop of blood.

‘I hate that forest,’ he whispered.

‘Aye. Bad memories,’ Maquin grunted beside him.

To the west he could spy Mikil, its grey walls clear in the flat plains around it. He was glad to be away from it, and his kin that lived there. One of them, at least. Jael, his cousin, whose father had been killed in a similar attack to the one that had claimed his own mam and da’s lives.

He and Jael were close enough in age to be brothers, but there was no love between them. Jael took great pleasure in humiliating Kastell. When they had been younger it had been unpleasant, almost a game, although not one that Kastell could ever remember winning or enjoying. Now, though, well past a year since they had both turned sixteen, come through their warrior trials and Long Night, and changed from boys to men, the baiting had become something deeper, something more real , and a rage was building within Kastell, simmering and bubbling, closer to exploding each time that Jael goaded him.

It’s better to be away from Mikil.

Kastell focused on the path they were following, a wide stony track that wound its way into the mountains. He kicked his horse on.

He and Maquin were at the rear of a long column, the merchant train they rode guard to twenty wains long, all heavily laden with goods bought from Mikil: rods of silver from the fortress’ famed mines, as well as vats of mead, rolls of cloth and barrels of apples. They were heading for Halstat, a mining town in Helveth. Two score warriors rode guard about the wains, a mix of mercenaries from Helveth that served the merchants in Halstat and more warriors hired from his uncle Romar, who was always quick to see profit in any situation; the giant raids were the perfect incentive for more protection, especially as the only path through the mountains to Helveth wound so close to Forn Forest.

‘How long till we reach Halstat?’ Kastell asked as they caught up with the column.

‘Twelve, fourteen nights, maybe longer at this pace,’ Maquin said. ‘Who’d have thought salt could buy so much.’

Halstat was a town grown fat on its salt mines, supplying most of Helveth and the countries around it, Isiltir included.

‘I’d like to lighten the load by a jar of mead or three,’ he added.

‘If it helps the wains move faster.’ The slow pace was chaffing at Kastell already. Better than Mikil and Jael , he reminded himself.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. They continued along the path that climbed the mountains until the sun dipped low, sending their shadows stretching out far in front. A halt was called and the travellers quickly set about making camp.

Kastell sat a little apart from the warriors and merchant crew, methodically sliding his whetstone down one side of his sword, then the other. He was lost in the rasp and rhythm of his nightly routine and his own thoughts when a pair of boots appeared on the grass before him. Looking up, he saw Maquin looming above him, carrying two cups, a skin of mead gripped under his arm. Maquin grinned.

‘Here, lad,’ the old warrior said, thrusting a cup at Kastell.

The mead was sour and strong, going some way to balance the night’s chill.

‘We could always go and sit by the fire,’ Maquin said as Kastell shivered.

‘I’m fine here,’ Kastell said. Around the fire sat warriors of Mikil, mixing with the mercenaries and merchants. Most likely poisoned against me by cousin Jael’s lies , he thought irritably.

Maquin gave him a long, measured look, but he said nothing.

A warrior appeared from amongst the wains, Aguila, captain of the mercenary guard. He wandered over and squatted in front of Maquin, offering a skin of something to the grizzled warrior. Maquin took it and drank deeply, dark liquid spilling into his beard. He coughed.

‘Better’n that horse piss you’re drinking,’ Aguila said, smiling. ‘It’ll warm you quicker, as well.’

‘I believe that,’ Maquin said, taking another gulp from the skin and then passing it back.

Aguila offered it to Kastell. He sniffed at the skin.

‘Won’t kill you, lad,’ the guard captain said.

Kastell took a long gulp, swallowed, then coughed violently. His throat and belly felt as if they were on fire. ‘What is it?’ he wheezed when he’d caught his breath.

‘Best not to ask,’ Aguila grinned. ‘It gets easier, and better.’

Kastell didn’t believe him, but took another, smaller swig, nevertheless. This time the fire didn’t burn quite so strong.

‘Good lad,’ the captain said, slapping his shoulder. ‘Glad to have you both with us.’ He eyed Kastell’s sword and whetstone.

‘It’s good to be out of Mikil for a while,’ Maquin said.

‘Aye. It’s different from the last time I was there, for sure. This time I couldn’t visit an inn for Romar’s swords getting in your face.’

‘That’s my uncle you’re talking about,’ Kastell said, his voice not as steady as he’d wish.