John Gwynne - Malice

‘Ventos is from Helveth,’ said Dath.

‘That’s where Gar is from, isn’t it, Mam?’ Corban asked.

‘That’s right,’ his mam said, sharing a glance with Thannon.

Just then Gar limped out of the darkness. He patted Thannon on the shoulder, and sat down awkwardly, stretching one leg out in front of him. He frowned when he saw Ventos.

‘How’s the saddle?’ Ventos asked Gar.

‘A good fit.’

‘Hear you’re from Helveth,’ Ventos said.

‘Aye. What of it?’

‘Nothing. So am I, that’s all. This is a long way from Helveth. How did you end up here?’

Gar closed his eyes, and for a moment Corban thought the stablemaster was going to ignore the question again. Then he looked up and began to speak.

‘I lived in a village close to Forn Forest. One day the giants came raiding, burned out the whole village, killed almost everyone. I escaped, just, along with a handful. All my kin were dead,’ he shrugged, ‘there was nothing left to stay for, so I just kept walking. Ended up here, somehow. Brenin took me in, has been good to me.’

Thannon passed him a cup of mead. He took a long draught of it.

‘Giants, eh,’ Ventos said. ‘The Hunen are still a curse on Helveth’s arse, and getting braver of late, striking further out of Forn Forest. There is rumour of Braster, King of Helveth, raising a force to lead into the forest, to crush them once and for all.’

‘Good,’ Gar said and sipped from his cup of mead.

Corban saw Darol leading his pony harnessed up to the wain. Dylan was sitting in the back. Jumping to his feet, Corban ran over.

‘Why are you leaving so early?’ he asked Dylan, walking beside the wain.

‘Da’s tired,’ Dylan grimaced. ‘I wish we were staying, I hear Heb’s going to tell one of his tales tonight.’ He sighed. ‘Da’s in a foul mood. He won’t stay. And you still haven’t told me why you look as if you ran into a tree.’

‘I’ll come see you tomorrow,’ Corban said as the wain picked up speed. He waved as Dylan and his family faded into the darkness.

Others were leaving the field, now, drifting away into the night. Corban made his way back to the small circle of his family and sat beside his mam. Cywen had returned. He was still annoyed with her, but his mood lightened as he sat listening and laughing with the small group. He lay back, hands folded behind his head, looking up at the stars and moon in the dark blanket above, listening to the rhythmic lapping of the sea. Absently his mam reached out a hand and stroked his hair.

Some time later he heard clapping and sat up. Heb had climbed onto a table near the firepit. Groups around the meadow began to draw in closer, eager to hear one of the loremaster’s famous tales, and Corban and his family joined them.

‘What would you hear tonight?’ cried Heb.

Voices called out from amongst the crowd, but before Heb could respond, Queen Alona stepped into the light of the firepit.

‘It is tradition that Marrock should choose,’ she said, beckoning to her nephew and his bride. Heb looked enquiringly at Marrock, who gazed into the fire a while, then smiled to himself.

‘Tell us the tale of Cambros,’ he said.

‘A tale so tragic on so happy a night?’ said Heb with a raised eyebrow.

‘Any tale that tells how I came to be born in this land and so meet my bride is not a sad tale,’ he replied, looking at his wife.

‘He’s drunk already,’ a faceless voice called from the darkness, followed by a ripple of laughter.

Heb held up a hand. ‘The tale of Cambros,’ he cried, then he bowed his head and a hush fell over the meadow.

‘Our ancestors came to this land in a great fleet; the Exiles, they called themselves, banished from the Isle of Summer after a long and bloody war. They were washed ashore far south and east of here, and called this new world the Banished Lands. Sokar was our king.

‘It was not long before our ancestors discovered they were not alone, that the land was filled with giants, survivors of Elyon’s Scourging. Old hatreds run deep, and the enmity between mankind and giants had not lessened, for all the generations that had passed since the Scourging, when Elyon’s wrath had brought both men and giants close to extinction. And so the Giant Wars began, of which the tales of victory and of sadness are too great and too many to tell this night.

‘During this great war Sokar sent out his warlords. To the west he sent Cambros, the Bull, with his sons Cadlas and Ard, to fight the Benothi, those giants that dwelt even here, that built Dun Carreg.’ Heb paused, pointing at the fortress high above them. ‘The giants were defeated, pushed back, Cadlas and his warriors following them. .’

Corban closed his eyes, picturing the tale. This story was known to him, as his mam and da were often teaching him the histories. As Corban listened, Heb spoke of the campaign that defeated the Benothi giants, forcing them to retreat ever northwards.

‘Then the giants rallied for one last battle, on the slopes of Dun Vaner,’ Heb said. ‘The Benothi, in their pride — which was ever the giants’ downfall — marched out of their stronghold of stone to meet Cambros the Bull and his warband. The battle raged for two days. The battlefield was stained black with blood, the sky darkened with the gathering crows come to glut on the dead.

‘At the end of the second day,’ Heb said, ‘as the sky grew red with the fading sun, Cambros and his shieldmen broke the lines of the Benothi and he came face to face with Ruad, their king. Alone they faced each other, their shieldmen dead and strewn on the ground around them, and alone they fought. Ruad smote Cambros with his great war-axe and rent his shield. Three times Cambros drew the blood of Ruad, but eventually his blade was shattered and he was beaten down.’

Corban heard people groan around the meadow, saw his mam wiping away tears.

‘In desperation, Cambros grabbed a branch fallen from a tree. As Ruad raised his axe Cambros gave his last strength and hammered the giant’s knee a mighty blow, smashing bone and sinew. Roaring, Ruad fell. Cambros crawled upon the giant’s chest and drove his broken sword deep into Ruad’s heart. Seeing their king’s death, the will went out of the Benothi, and the battle ended.

‘And so it was that the Benothi were broken, and fled to the north, where they dwell still. And Cambros divided the conquered lands between himself and his two sons, Ard and Cadlas, and lived in peace.’ Looking at Marrock and Fionn, Heb continued. ‘And that, Marrock ben Rhagor, is how you came to be standing in this meadow in the realm of Ardan, with Fionn handbound to you.’

Marrock bowed his head in thanks, Brenin calling for a toast, the crowd standing, roaring their approval.

Corban sat in silence a long while, thinking on the story. The conversation between his companions lasted long into the night, families around them slowly drifting back to the village or to their nearby farms and holds. Fires withered and the stars grew brighter.

A murmur of voices grew behind Corban. People were staring into the distance, west, towards Baglun Forest. Corban rose and moved closer for a better look.

A red and orange light flickered far away, rising and falling, like the flame of a candle blown in the breeze.

Gar came to stand next to him.

‘What is that?’ he asked the stablemaster.

Gar was silent a moment, then cried in a loud voice, ‘To horse, to horse!’ and broke into his limping run towards the village.

‘What is it?’ Corban called after him.

‘Darol’s stockade, boy,’ Gar shouted over his shoulder, ‘it burns!’

KASTELL

Kastell’s days passed pleasantly as they wound their way towards Halstat. Often Aguila would drop back down the column and ride with him and Maquin awhile, and after the first night Kastell and Maquin sat with the rest of the travellers around a warm fire. Kastell spoke little, but nevertheless enjoyed the sense of belonging, something he had forgotten in the politicking of Mikil. On their fourth day of travel, just after dawn, a rider appeared on the track ahead, riding hard towards them. It was a lone warrior dressed in the insignia of Tenebral, a realm far to the south. He refused to stop and eat with them, saying he carried an urgent message for Romar.