John Gwynne - Malice

Somehow, moving faster than Veradis could track, the giant swung his great blade. There was a crack, and two parts of his shattered spear spun away in different directions.

The giant made no move towards him, just stared with emotionless, black eyes. Veradis scowled and drew his sword with a hiss.

‘No, Veradis!’ Nathair shouted, but Veradis was already moving. He circled to his right, tucking behind his shield, moving in quickly. The giant swung two-handed at him, but Veradis ducked low, felt the blade whistle over his head, then lunged forwards. The tip of his sword slid off the giant’s mail shirt, no power in the blow as the giant stepped backwards. Instead of retreating out of range, Veradis carried on moving forwards, trying to stay too close for that broadsword to be used against him. He rammed his shield into the giant’s gut, chopped his sword at an ankle.

The giant grunted as his blade bit, though not deeply, and Veradis felt a moment of elation before his shield rim was grabbed by a huge hand and ripped from his arm, the leather straps snapping. There was an explosion in his chest, a blinding pain and then he was flying through the air, crunching into the ground, rolling, then his face smashed into something solid. White lights burst in his head.

‘You fight well, little man,’ the giant said as it took great strides towards him, the traces of a smile twitching its drooping moustache, voice sounding like an iron hinge rusted from lack of use.

Veradis tried to push himself up, groping blindly with his other hand for his sword hilt, which had somehow disappeared. A black fog was pushing at the edges of his vision, drawing in. He tried to focus, concentrate, knew death was a stride, a heartbeat away.

Then Nathair was there, standing over him, sword drawn.

‘Hold!’ a voice cried, somewhere beyond the giant. Veradis pushed against the ground but the pain in his head exploded with the effort, then he was falling, sinking, and he knew no more.

Pain. Rhythmic, throbbing pain. Tentatively Veradis opened his eyes, sharp knives jabbing into his skull, sending waves of nausea pulsing from his stomach.

Where am I? Nathair.

He moved, too fast, pain spiking behind his eyes. He took a deep breath, blew it out slowly and waited for the world to steady.

‘You live, then.’ It was Rauca, looming over him. The warrior put a hand under his arm and helped him semi-upright, leaning against the trunk of a laurel.

‘Nathair?’ Veradis muttered.

‘In that tent,’ Rauca nodded over his shoulder.

They were still in the dell, Veradis in the shade of laurels beside the stream. He saw warriors scattered around about, some silhouetted on the ridge-line, standing guard. The dark-haired giant stood in front of the entrance to the bright-coloured tent.

‘What happened?’

‘You mean after you tried to set yourself on fire?’ Rauca said, squatting next to him, grinning.

‘Huh,’ grunted Veradis.

‘Well, as far as I could see, you chopped away at that giant for a while, then he clumped you, sent you flying into these trees. .’

‘I remember that,’ Veradis muttered, lifting a hand to his face, his nose, which was throbbing, sticky with blood.

‘Then it looked like the giant was going to stick you with his sword, but Nathair put himself between you both.’ Rauca grinned again. ‘Weren’t you supposed to be protecting him ?’

Veradis flushed red. ‘Things didn’t go according to plan. What happened next?’

‘Well, the old man got involved then, calmed the giant down. It seems the whole thing — the flames, the giant, the sword — were about making a point.’

‘A point?’

‘Aye. That Nathair was in their power, and that if they’d wished to harm him, they could have.’

‘Oh. But they didn’t.’

‘No. As I said, that was their point. Nathair seemed convinced by it, anyway, because after he saw you were still breathing, he has spent the entire time in that tent, with the counsellor.’

Veradis looked at the tent, at the giant guarding the entrance, and grimaced. ‘What of the fire?’ He remembered it leaping up from the small cook-fire, becoming a searing wall.

‘I don’t know,’ Rauca shrugged. ‘I’ve heard tales of those that can do such things. Elementals?’ he whispered.

‘So have I,’ Veradis muttered, shivering.

Rauca helped him upright, supported him over to the stream and assisted him, with much groaning and bursts of pain, in removing his chainmail shirt. He hurt in a score of places: where he had fallen, where he had hit the tree, patches of raw skin that the flames had singed, but two spots hurt the most. There was a dense purple bruise blooming where the giant had punched him in his chest, though his mail shirt seemed to have protected him from broken bones, and his nose still throbbed where he had connected with a tree.

‘It’s broken,’ Rauca proclaimed, with too much pleasure for Veradis’ liking. ‘Shall I set it for you, or would you rather stay looking like one of Asroth’s Kadoshim?’

‘Set it,’ Veradis grunted, unclasping his leather belt and biting down on it.

Rauca placed both hands either side of the bridge of Veradis’ nose, then twisted them suddenly. There was a muffled crack. Veradis gasped and bit down hard. He cupped a handful of water from the stream and washed away the fresh blood that gushed from his nose.

‘My thanks,’ he grunted as Rauca crouched beside him.

‘You’re welcome,’ his friend grinned, patting his shoulder.

They made camp in the dell that night, Nathair not emerging as the sun dipped below the horizon and the sky slowly turned to black velvet, with stars like shards of ice.

Orcus maintained a guard on the ridge, and set another group to watch over the tent and giant all through the night.

Veradis woke stiff and sore.

Quietly the warband broke their fast, waiting for their prince. Soon after, the giant, still standing guard, lifted the tent’s entrance, Nathair and the silver-haired man emerging into the daylight.

Nathair sought out Orcus, then the warband were making ready to leave. As they did so the giant dismantled the tent, the old man standing with arms folded, eyes fixed on Nathair.

As they went about the business of breaking camp Nathair saw Veradis and marched over to him, grinning broadly.

‘I am glad you are well,’ the Prince said, gripping Veradis’ shoulder. ‘I shall never forget what you did.’

‘It was you that saved me , from what I hear,’ Veradis said.

‘That’s true,’ Nathair grinned. ‘Nevertheless, you jumped through flames for me, Veradis, did what no other even attempted. .’ The Prince shook his head. ‘It won’t be forgotten.’

In a short while all was ready. Nathair spoke with the counsellor again, taking a leather scroll-case from the silver-haired man. Veradis stood at the Prince’s shoulder, his eyes drawn to the giant, who towered half a man over them all, glowering. He was clothed in dark leather and chainmail, a tattoo of vine and thorns swirling up his left arm and part-way down his right, the hilt of his broadsword jutting over his shoulder. His face was human enough, though all sharp planes and ridges. A drooping moustache was tied with leather strips. Suddenly its black eyes fixed on Veradis. He looked away.

‘Safe journey,’ the old man said and gripped Nathair’s forearm in the warrior fashion.

‘Until we meet again.’

‘Until we meet again,’ the counsellor echoed, and then they parted, Nathair leading his warband up the steep slope and down the other side.

Soon they were mounted and riding north along the banks of the Nox, Orcus taking the lead, along with a handful of the eagle-guard. Nathair rode with his own men, Veradis and Rauca either side of him.