John Gwynne - Malice

‘No. If you are not here Alona will only have Pendathran to advise her. Between her and her younger brother I would be returning to half my barons’ heads on spikes. I am sorry, Evnis. Send for this healer — I will send an escort to speed them here.’

Evnis bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

‘There must be a way,’ he said.

‘No. I am sorry for your situation, but these are dark times. More is at stake than a pleasure trip to Badun.’

Pleasure trip. I must get her to the cauldron, somehow . ‘As my King commands,’ Evnis said. As he left the room he brushed a tear from his cheek.

CORBAN

Corban wandered in a grey, lifeless world. Visions swam before him, wraiths in the mist, made of the mist. He saw the oathstone weeping fat tears of blood, startlingly red; he saw snakes, coiling, writhing, surging, feeding on flesh. Up above, warriors with great feathered wings were fighting with sword and spear against a horde of others, their wings dark, leathery. He saw a tree, its trunk thicker than the keep at Dun Carreg, its roots burrowing deep beneath a never-ending forest.

Then he was sitting by a pool, trailing his fingers in the water. A figure was walking towards him, sword at hip. A man with a close-cropped beard and yellow eyes. He smiled at Corban, sparking a memory.

‘I know you,’ Corban said.

‘Yes. We will be friends, you and I,’ the man said with a smile. He sat beside Corban and threw a stone in the pool, waves rippling out.

‘Such is your life. Impacting many things, people, realms, events.’

‘I don’t understand?’ Corban said.

‘Help me. I need your help. Find the cauldron, bring it to me.’

‘Why?’

‘To avert disaster, more terrible than you can imagine.’ The man fixed Corban with his yellow eyes. ‘The God-War is coming. All will fight, it is only a matter of choosing what side you will fight for.’

‘Are you the All-Father, Elyon?’ Corban breathed, feeling his blood stir at this strange man’s words, his pulse quickening.

‘He is gone from us,’ the man said, shaking his head. Sadness swept his face, infecting Corban with the emotion. ‘But the war goes on. There is a hole in your heart, an empty space. You must fill it with meaning . You need a cause to live for, to fight for, perhaps to die for.’

‘Where am I?’ Corban whispered.

‘Choose me,’ the man said.

‘Who are you?’

‘You know, in here.’ The man poked Corban in his chest, over his heart. Something rippled through him, a shock of power. ‘Time stands still for no one. Make your choice, before it is too late.’

Corban gasped, lurching awake in his bed. It was still dark outside, though he could hear the call of gulls. It will be dawn soon . His dream flitted on the edge of memory. Something about it made him shiver. He dressed quickly and slipped quietly out of the house. The sky was greying with the approaching dawn now, the familiar smell of the stables reaching him. He ran around them, pulling to a halt and leaning against the wooden rail that ringed the paddock behind.

A footfall sounded inside the paddock. He thought he had been alone, but Gar was standing in the deeper shadows behind the stables. His face was slick with sweat, long black hair plastered to his temples and neck.

‘Well, here I am,’ said Corban.

‘So I see.’

‘So, um, what should I do?’

‘Run.’

‘Run?’

‘Aye. Start running around the paddock.’

Corban took a breath to protest, then thought better of it and set off slowly. He did one lap and came to stand by Gar, who was performing some strange movements, almost like a dance, but much slower.

‘What?’ said Gar.

‘I’ve run around the paddock, as you asked.’

‘Again,’ Gar grunted.

‘Again?’

‘Yes, again. I will tell you when to stop.’

Corban sighed, bit his lip and set off. A while later, Corban was unsure how long, Gar raised a hand and called him as he reached the stables. Thankful, he leaned against the paddock rail, sweat dripping from him.

‘How — does — this — stop — me — from — being — scared?’ he asked between ragged breaths.

‘To train the mind you must train the body. Follow me.’ Corban did as he was told, scowling.

Inside the stable, Gar jumped up, caught hold of one of the roof beams and began pulling his chin to the beam, then lowering himself. He did this something between two- and three score times — Corban lost count — then dropped back to the ground.

‘Your turn,’ he said to Corban, who looked dubiously at the beam, jumped up and grabbed it. With a groan he pulled himself up, the muscles in his back stretching and contracting, feeling as if his skin was about to tear. When he lowered himself his grip slipped and he fell to the floor. He stood, dusting himself off.

‘Again,’ said Gar.

‘But I can’t. You saw.’

‘I will help you. Again.’

So Corban tried again, straining to raise himself with very little effect. Just as he was about to give up he felt Gar’s hands grip his ankles, lifting him. He strained again and reached the beam. With Gar’s help he lowered himself in a more controlled fashion, then repeated the process eight or nine more times before Gar allowed him to drop back to the floor, where he stuck his palm in his mouth and tried to pull a splinter with his teeth. Immediately Gar set Corban to another equally painful exercise, and then another. Eventually the stablemaster called a halt.

‘Why am I doing this?’ wheezed Corban, none too happily.

‘As I said, to train the mind you must train the body. Right now this may seem pointless to you, but your body is only a tool, a weapon. One that you must learn to master. Fear is no different from your other emotions — anger, distress, joy, desire — they can all overwhelm you. You must learn to recognize and control them. A strong, disciplined body will help. It is not the whole answer, and today is only the first step. Depending on your progress, we may try putting a blade in your hand, at some point.’

‘When?’ said Corban, brightening.

‘That’ll depend on you. Now, to finish, copy me. This is an exercise about control. Most battles are not won by brute force, no matter what your da tells you.’ Then he set about showing the intricate set of movements that Corban had glimpsed as he had been running around the paddock. It was much harder than it appeared, having to hold still in unusual positions until his muscles trembled.

‘You see, lad, this is about control as well. Your body will do as you tell it,’ Gar said to him with a rare grin. Corban grunted, concentrating too hard to be able to answer.

‘My thanks,’ Corban muttered when Gar declared the session over. ‘Your leg,’ he added with a nod, ‘it did not seem to pain you as much. Is it getting better?’

‘My leg? No. Some days it is a little better than others. Now, be on your way, before these stables get busy. I’ll see you here at sunrise on the morrow.’

Corban walked home, the fortress beginning to come to life around him. His limbs felt heavy, and the morning air felt cool on his body as his sweat dried.

The courtyard that spread wide before Dun Carreg’s great gates thrummed with activity and noise. Four score warriors sat upon horses, Tull, the King’s champion standing before them, holding his horse’s reins. He was clothed in wool and boiled leather, grey-streaked hair pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck, his longsword strapped to his saddle. Pendathran stood next to him, holding the reins of King Brenin’s roan stallion.

A cheer went up as Brenin strode into their midst, his Queen Alona beside him. The King swung into his saddle and looked around the gathered crowd.