Malice (13 page)

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!’

CHAPTER TEN

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.

Early on the sixth day, one of the mercenary guards cantered back down the column, to Kastell and Maquin’s customary position.

‘Chief wants you to ride up front with him,’ the warrior said.

‘What will you both do, once we reach Halstat and this job is done?’ Aguila asked them when Kastell and Maquin joined him.

‘Head back to Mikil, I suppose,’ Kastell said. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘If you are not ready to go back, then I could always find work for you, riding with my band.’

‘I don’t know,’ Kastell said, surprised. He had not really thought past Halstat, but the thought of returning to Mikil did not fill him with joy. Life on the road, life without Jael’s presence, was good. ‘Maybe we will take you up on that offer,’ he said, glancing at Maquin.

‘I’m in no rush to go back to Mikil,’ his shieldman shrugged at him.

Their path had run parallel to Forn Forest for some days. Now it curved back, forced by a sharp-sloped spur that cut a groove towards the forest. Kastell gazed up at the mountains looking like jagged, chipped teeth against the rising sun. Legend told that this range had been formed in the ruin of Elyon’s Scourging, when the land was broken and remade. Far to the north, beyond the borders of Forn, it was said that there was league upon league of devastation, fields of ash and great rents in the land itself, chasms that had no end.

The wains followed the path as it inched closer to Forn, until Kastell could make out individual branches swaying in the wind.

Aguila pointed. ‘Once we pass that spur, the path turns away from the forest, heads straight into the mountains. We will follow the Danvius from there, as it cuts a road right through to the gates of Halstat.’

‘Good,’ Kastell said with some feeling, and both Maquin and Aguila chuckled.

As they drew closer to the mountain spur, rising sharp and jagged into the clouds high above, the road dipped into a dell skirting its base. ‘This is likely as close to Forn as we’ll ever get,’ said Maquin as the caravan began the descent into the dell. ‘Unless you join those that guard the Dal Gadrai.’

‘This is close enough for me,’ said Kastell. The Dal Gadrai was a valley cut by a river through Forn Forest, on the eastern borders of their homeland. A group of warriors, all volunteers – as none was ever
sent
there – patrolled the river’s edge as it wound through Forn, mostly to guard merchant ships that used the river, but also to act as a bulwark against any forest-dwellers tempted to wander into Isiltir. Only those that had killed one of the Hunen, the giant clan that dwelt still within Forn Forest, were allowed to join the Gadrai, as their troop came to be called. Warriors of the Gadrai often went on to serve as shieldmen of Romar, King of Isiltir.

The road dropped steeply, mist rolling up to meet them, swirling around their horses’ hooves. Kastell turned in his saddle, saw it creeping up the wheels of the wains behind. He shivered, suddenly cold.

They rode in silence for a while, the ground levelling beneath them, engulfed by the mist, sound muted. Kastell could only hear the jangle of his own horse’s harness, the creak of a wheel behind him, and, more faintly, the trickle of the stream somewhere up ahead.

‘I don’t like this,’ he muttered to himself. Maquin and Aguila were dim forms either side of him.

‘Aye, lad,’ Maquin grumbled. ‘Neither do I.’ He dug his heels into his horse’s side.

Suddenly there was a hissing sound all about them and, with a wet
thunk
and a blur of motion, Aguila disappeared from his saddle. Screams erupted all around, Maquin and Kastell spinning on their mounts, ducking low, searching for Aguila.

They found him, a spear shaft as thick as Kastell’s wrist jutting from his chest. His eyes stared sightlessly, dark blood pooling around his back, running from his mouth. Kastell fell to his knees beside the fallen warrior.

‘Quickly, lad!’ Maquin shouted. ‘You can’t help him now.’ He spurred his horse towards a cluster of shadows behind them.

Kastell followed, the thought of being left alone in this cursed mist setting a fire beneath his feet.

He burst upon a scene from a nightmare. A horse harnessed to a wain was pinned by a spear to the ground, screaming, eyes rolling white, blood frothing from its mouth. More dead bodies were strewn on the floor, merchants and warriors caught in the rain of spears. Then, out of the dense whiteness came huge shadowy figures. The Hunen. Kastell saw a giant, at least half a man taller than him. Black braided hair framed a snarling, angular face, eyes sunken to dark pits. Kastell gasped as he realized it was a woman, breasts wrapped tight in strips of leather. She came howling into their midst, an axe whirling above her head. Blood sprayed and another man fell to the floor, head and body rolling in different directions. Maquin pulled his arm back and threw, his spear piercing black leather armour, sinking into the giant’s shoulder, spinning her. She straightened, plucked it out, looking more angry than injured.

Maquin rode at the giant, slashing with his sword. There was a crash of iron as the Hunen blocked Maquin’s strike and lunged forwards with the head of her axe, hurling Maquin from his saddle. Kastell hefted his spear, thought better of it, dug his heels into his horse’s flanks instead and charged straight at the massive warrior as she raised her axe above Maquin. Too late she heard the thud of hooves. Kastell held tight to the reins as his horse reared, hooves lashing out, catching the giant in the face, turning it to bloody ruin, sending her crashing to the floor like a felled tree. Kastell stabbed down hard with his spear and Maquin scrabbled on the prone figure, sword rising and falling in a red arc.

Kastell caught Maquin’s horse, shook the reins at him. The old warrior was standing over the giant’s corpse, nostrils flaring, matted blood making his grey hair dark and slick. He blinked as Kastell thrust the reins into his hand, then shook his head and climbed into his saddle. They were alone again, the sounds of battle still all around, but could see nothing.

‘We must find higher ground,’ Maquin muttered. Kastell nodded and they struck out together, hoping that they were moving in the right direction. Very soon the land steepened and in a few more moments they burst into sunlight, turning to look back into the dell.

The entire hollow was filled with the treacherous mist, dim figures moving here and there within it. Looking beyond it there was an open space of sunlit meadow before the forest. A handful of men burst from the dell into this space, heading for the treeline, but giants lumbered out of the gloom and fell howling upon them, hacking until none was left standing.

‘We must leave,’ Maquin said quietly. ‘And quickly, before we are seen. Our horses can outrun the Hunen in a sprint, but they are like hounds. If they spot us and decide to chase they could follow us for nights without end.’

‘But . . .’ Kastell began. Every sense within him screamed to run, to turn his horse and gallop as fast as he could from this place of madness and blood, but something kept him from doing it. ‘But we were supposed to protect them.’

‘Aye, lad,’ Maquin growled, ‘but there is no one left
to
protect down there. Listen.’

He was right, the sounds of battle were gone. Kastell heard the whinny of a dying horse, the squawking of crows that circled greedily above, smelling blood even if they could not see it, but nothing else. The silence was almost as frightening as the earlier sounds of battle. He nodded and they wheeled their horses, kicking them towards the track they had ridden in on.

A fierce baying caused Kastell to rein his horse in and stare back down into the dell.

The mist was evaporating now, the bodies of horses and men scattered about the wains in bloody ruin, the stream flowing a sickly pink. Giants were clustered about a wain, hacking at the crates piled upon it. Suddenly a great cry rose up from them, one reaching into the crate, pulling something out and brandishing it in the air. It glinted in the sunlight.

Maquin hissed. ‘The starstone axe.’

‘What? How?’ Kastell gasped.

‘Damned if I know,’ Maquin said.

A strange-sounding horn blast rose from the dell, and a cold shaft of fear spiked into Kastell’s gut. They had been seen: at least a score of the Hunen breaking into a loping run up the mountain track after them.

Kastell exchanged a glance with Maquin and they wheeled their horses and spurred them up the path.

‘Careful!’ Maquin shouted over the drum of their horses’ hooves. ‘If we press for the gallop our mounts will be blowing before highsun. This pace is faster than the Hunen can manage, so stick to it, put some distance between us and them, hope they give up the chase.’

‘But, you said . . .’

‘I know what I said, boy,’ Maquin growled back.

Kastell breathed deep, holding the panic at bay and focused on the track in front of him.

They rode in silence, the only sound the drumming of hooves and the blasts of air blowing from the horses’ nostrils. As the sun passed its highest point they splashed into a stream that ran across their path. They reined in their horses and climbed out of their saddles, filling their water skins, giving the horses a chance to drink and rest.

Maquin drank deeply. He stood staring at the road behind them, then suddenly sprang towards his horse.

‘On your feet, the Hunen are coming.’

The old warrior was not someone to be argued with, particularly as he appeared now, with giant’s blood drying black on his hair and face. Kastell looked towards the horizon and saw a mass of lumbering shapes come into view. Quickly he mounted up, sweat drying salt-white in his horse’s coat and set off again.