John Gwynne - Malice

For a moment Kastell sat there, thoughts swirling through his mind in an exhausted jumble, then he shook his head and climbed off his horse. ‘Can’t get rid of me that easily,’ he mumbled.

Maquin smiled grimly. ‘Then give me your spear at least. I left mine in a giant, and you could’na hit the broadside of a ship at ten paces.’

Kastell grinned. He passed his spear to Maquin, unstrapped his shield. His horse was exhausted, certainly no use in the fight to come. He slapped it hard on the flank, sending it trotting up the incline and disappearing over the ridge.

The men stood shoulder to shoulder as the Hunen crested the ridge they had just crossed. Kastell felt a stab of fear in his belly, his bowels turning to water as the giants saw them and began howling strange, ululating cries. Then they fell silent, their iron-shod feet thudding on the ground. Kastell tried to count them. At least a score, maybe more, it was hard to tell; the women amongst them only discernible by the lack of moustaches and beards. Sunshine glinted on iron as they pulled axes and hammers from straps on their backs.

He heard a whisper beside him, saw Maquin, eyes closed, lips moving. Then his eyes snapped open, arm drawing back, whipping forwards, Kastell’s spear flying into the air. It rose and fell in a fluid arc. A giant stumbled, fell and did not rise again.

Kastell’s sword hissed from its scabbard. With a blade in his hand he felt a different person, no longer clumsy. He vowed to take at least one of these monsters with him across the bridge of swords. In the distance behind him he heard a rumble, as of thunder, and glanced up at the sky, but it was a clear blue. The giants were close enough to make out individual features. Black leather armour covered them, wrapped about them in strange patterns. Tattoos spiralled their arms, dark eyes glowered in pale faces, all framed with braided black hair, the males with long drooping moustaches.

The giants swept around Maquin’s fallen horse. Kastell muttered a last prayer to Elyon and raised his sword. Thunder sounded again, louder. This time, instead of fading, it grew, and suddenly Maquin was shoving him out of the track. He fell and rolled in the gravel, cursing a protest. The rumbling grew until the ground shook, and Kastell realized it was not coming from the sky, but from beyond the ridge behind them. Horses suddenly crested it, sweeping down like a great wave, and riding at their head, in a coat of gleaming mail, was his uncle. Like an avenging angel from the time before the Scourging, Romar had come.

CORBAN

Corban clung to Gar as they rode down the giantsway. He could hear more than he could see, as his face was filled with the stablemaster’s billowing cloak. An orange glow flickered about them, light from the torches that many had lit on the way to Darol’s hold, but nevertheless the journey in the dark was slow and tedious and he had no way of knowing how much longer it would take them to reach the stockade, for the company rode in grim silence. All he could hear was the thud of hooves on the ancient road. Still, at least I’m here , he thought, remembering how he had pleaded with Gar to take him.

‘How far?’ he said into Gar’s back, not for the first time, but the stablemaster was silent. He repeated himself, a little louder.

‘Not long,’ Gar grunted, ‘and I swear, if you ask me that question again, I shall throw you from my horse.’

Corban pulled a sour face but chose to say nothing. Dylan’s face flashed into his mind again, where it had been almost permanently since he had seen the hold burning. Many had run to the stables at Gar’s call, and Corban was riding in a party at least two score strong, including Brenin the King. He sighed and clung tighter to Gar.

After what seemed an eternity he felt Gar’s piebald, Hammer, turn and begin to climb a slope. They had arrived. The sky around him grew lighter, and at first he thought that dawn had crept up unannounced, but then he heard the crackling of flames, smelt the smoke and realized that the light was from Darol’s hold, burning.

The riders pulled to a halt and Corban slipped off, gasping as he looked around. Tongues of flame licked the stockade walls, curling into the dark sky above. A dark hole gaped amidst the flames, billows of black smoke issuing from the open gateway.

Brenin marched up the remainder of the hill, shieldmen rushing to form a half-circle before him.

‘Try not to call attention to yourself, you’re not supposed to be here,’ Gar whispered. Corban nodded, knowing that only those who had come through their warrior trials and the Long Night should have ridden with the King. Not even the likes of Rafe, who now trained in the Rowan Field, had been permitted to join them.

Clouds of smoke enveloped him as he stepped through the open gateway. Mingled with the smell of burning wood was a sweeter, sicklier scent that stuck at the back of his throat. Buildings within the stockade were not burning as fiercely, little left of them but charred beams where the feast-hall and stables had once been.

Brenin knelt in the middle of the yard, a handful of warriors about him. Then the King stood and strode on. Corban sidled forward to see what had held Brenin’s attention.

A figure lay on the floor. It was Darol. A dark stain spread around his stomach. His fingers, bloody and twisted, were fixed in the earth, grasping, gouging.

There was a call from up ahead. A warrior was standing next to a black mound in what had been the feast-hall, prising it apart with the butt end of his spear. Someone else went to help, one of the brothers that had ridden into the village the night before, then others were crowding round, obscuring Corban’s view. He forgot about not calling attention to himself, and shoved his way through the massed warriors until he stood starring at the dissected mound, his boots blackened with soft ash.

On the ground before him were figures, black and twisted from the fire. The smell hit Corban like a blow and snatched his breath away, stomach lurching. He counted five, all of them burned beyond recognition, one much smaller than the rest: Frith. He couldn’t tell which one was Dylan, but he knew his friend was there. His stomach lurched again and tears sprang to his eyes. He rubbed them away, dimly aware he was standing amidst the pride of Dun Carreg’s warriors. He turned and stumbled away, falling to his knees, and vomited onto the ash-covered yard.

A hand rested on his shoulder. He blinked away stinging tears and saw Thannon. His da lifted him effortlessly from the ground. ‘You shouldn’t be here, Ban,’ he growled.

‘Dylan. .’ Corban mumbled, then Thannon pulled him close. He couldn’t seem to stop his shoulders shaking. They stood like that a while, warriors moving about the enclosure, sifting through the ash. Eventually Corban pulled away. Gar joined them as Corban rubbed his eyes, smearing ash across his face.

‘Brenin has just sent people to scout around the hill, see if they can find any clues as to what happened here.’

‘What do you think happened?’ Corban asked.

‘Blood-feud or thievery, what else?’ growled Thannon.

‘My guess is lawless men,’ said Gar. ‘There have been rumours that some of Braith’s outlaw band from the Darkwood have travelled east, burning and thieving on their way. The Baglun is not as large as the Darkwood, but it is still a tempting place for them to dwell.’

‘Apart from the wolven, and being so close to Brenin,’ said Thannon.

Gar shrugged. ‘There are wolven in the Darkwood too. Do you think this is the result of a blood-feud? Do you think Darol had enemies that would do this?’

Thannon sighed, shaking his head. ‘Just don’t like the thought of it: lawless men so close to home.’