Malice (25 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CORBAN

The sun was just a line on the horizon as Corban stepped carefully amongst the trees surrounding Brina’s cottage. The sound of running water drifted through the alder grove, a breeze rustling branches above him, all else quiet and still.

She is only a healer
, he told himself, not for the first time since he had left his companions and headed towards the cottage.

How did I get myself into this?
he thought, but then Rafe’s sneer flashed in front of his eyes. He took a deep breath, pushed down his fear and peered out from behind a tree at Brina’s cottage. Green turf capped the wattle-and-daub building, a thin line of smoke climbing faint against the darkening sky from its single chimney. A light flickered from an open window, spreading a warm orange glow into the twilight.

A shadow passed across the brightly lit window and Corban ducked behind a tree, holding his breath. When he had counted two score and ten he dared to look out again.

She must be in the room with the light in. So, I just need to climb through one of the dark windows, grab something and go. Without losing my soul.
He shuddered.

He scurried across an open space of grass and wildflowers, throwing himself to the ground underneath the window. Eventually he steeled himself, gently tested the shutters and breathed out in relief when they opened. Quickly he climbed over the rim and slithered to the floor on the other side.

On the far side of the room he saw a small wooden bed. Next to it was a low table with dark objects scattered about, indistinct in the darkness. A thin rim of light outlined a doorway on the far wall.

He scuttled lightly across the floor, stooping, reached the low table next to the bed and grabbed the first thing that he found. Holding it up he saw it was a bone comb. Quickly he stuffed it inside his shirt.

‘
STEALER
,’ a voice rasped behind him.

Corban spun around. Footsteps thumped, and before he could make his legs move, the door flew open, flooding the room with light. Brina stood outlined in the doorway.

Corban felt hot and cold all at once, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

‘What are you doing?’ Brina asked in a low, terror-inducing voice.

Corban opened his mouth but nothing came out. Then something moved next to Brina. Corban squinted and suddenly realized it was a huge black crow jumping up and down on a perch beside the door.

‘
STEALER, STRANGER, STEALER, STRANGER
,’ it croaked repeatedly.

‘Thank you, Craf,’ Brina said, stroking the bird’s ruffled feathers. Slowly the bird’s squawking subsided, but it still shifted its weight from one foot to the other, beady black eyes staring at Corban suspiciously.

‘Now, boy, what are you doing in my house?’

‘I-I am sorry,’ Corban blurted.

‘I did not ask you how you feel,’ the healer snapped. ‘What. Are. You. Doing. In. My. House?’ She took a step closer with each word, until she stood almost nose to nose with Corban, who had backed away until his legs collided with Brina’s bed.

Corban tried to say something, to explain, but all that came out was ‘Dare’, in a raspy voice.

‘You sound like my crow,’ the healer said.

‘
Death
,’ muttered the crow, drawing a squeak from Corban.

‘Not yet, Craf. It is not sensible to rush into something quite so permanent.’ She fixed Corban with her eyes. ‘Well?’

‘I’m here on a dare,’ he managed to say this time, trying to take deep breaths as Gar had counselled him when panic threatened to overwhelm.

‘Explain,’ she said.

So Corban did, haltingly at first, but soon the words came tumbling out. Brina stood there, arms folded, listening to him talk about his colt, and Rafe, and his practice sword, and eventually the dare. When he had finished, the two of them stared at each other. Brina tapped her foot on the floor.

‘
Death
,’ rasped the crow again, staring balefully at Corban, who gulped.

‘I think not, my bloodthirsty friend,’ she eventually said. ‘Not this time, anyway. But w
hat
to do, eh, that is the question.’

‘
Wrong, wrong, wrong
,’ uttered the crow, beginning to hop from one leg to the other again.

‘Yes, you are right, Craf, he
has
done wrong, and he
should
make recompense. You do agree, boy, don’t you?’

Corban nodded, a little uncertainly.

Brina laughed. ‘Don’t worry, boy, I won’t turn you into a toad, or take your soul. Nothing quite so dramatic. I was thinking more along the lines of chores.’

‘Chores?’ repeated Corban.

‘Yes, chores. You’re not slack-witted, are you?’ she frowned, leaning forward and peering intently at him.

He shook his head.

‘Good. Well then, chores. The collecting of herbs, plants, roots, various items that a healer needs. And maybe some tidying up too. The days seem to be so busy and I often run out of time.’

Corban just stared at her.

‘Well?’ she snapped. ‘Are you prepared to do this, as a means of making amends for the terrible upset that you have caused?’

Corban nodded. ‘Yes,’ he eventually managed, overjoyed that he was not going to die, suffer some lingering torment or spend the rest of his days hopping around and eating flies.

‘Good. Then be here at highsun tomorrow. Now, I think you had better go. We’ve all had enough excitement for one evening.’

Corban looked around for a way out.

‘Perhaps you should use the door this time,’ Brina said.

He nodded again and she ushered him out. As he stepped across the threshold he stopped, fumbled inside his shirt, pulled out the bone comb and offered it to Brina. She looked at it for a moment and then shook her head.

‘Bring it back tomorrow, I think.’

‘I will,’ he said. He stepped out of the house, then paused. ‘Thank you.’

‘Go on, be off with you,’ the healer snapped.

He managed to walk calmly for a few steps, but then broke into a run and sprinted into the alder grove, heart beating fast.

A figure rose and ran towards him as he drew closer, and then Cywen threw herself on him, hugging him fiercely.

‘I was scared for you,’ she whispered.

‘No need,’ he grinned at her, and together they walked back to the rest of the group.

Dath and Edana hurried over to him first, Rafe and Crain following more slowly.

‘Well, the hero returns,’ brayed Rafe. He held the practice sword in one hand, the jug of usque in the other. ‘Or
is
he a hero? Maybe you just sat in the woods and waited a while. How would we ever know?’

‘You asked him to bring back a trophy,’ said Crain.

‘That’s right, so I did,’ said Rafe. ‘Well, where is it then?’

Slowly, dramatically, Corban reached inside his shirt. He gripped the bone comb and pulled it out with a flourish, holding it high before him so that all could see, a look of supreme satisfaction on his face.

Dath gasped, as did Cywen. Edana just smiled at him.

‘That’s not the witch’s comb, it’s your sister’s,’ Rafe said, scowling. ‘
She
gave it to you just now, when she ran to you. You both had this planned all along. Don’t think you can fool me with your cowardly ways.’

‘It
is
Brina’s comb. I did as I was asked,’ Corban insisted. ‘Now give me my practice sword.’

Rafe’s scowl deepened, looking from Corban to the wooden sword in his hand. He drank from the jar and passed it to Crain.

‘If you want it, come and take it.’

Not again
, Corban thought, fear tugging at him, a coiled, icy snake flexing in his gut.

‘Just give him his sword,’ snapped Dath.

Rafe sneered at Dath and, quick as could be, backhanded him across the mouth.

Something changed in Corban then; he
felt
it. The ice melted in a blast of heat that flushed his face and bunched his fists. He lunged forwards clumsily, forgetting everything that Gar had taught him, and threw a fist at Rafe’s head.

Rafe sidestepped, a little sluggishly, and Corban’s fist swung through empty air. At the same time Rafe raised and snapped the practice sword out, catching Corban in the back of the knee, sending him sprawling face-first in the grass. With an animal snarl, Corban launched himself at Rafe, his sheer speed and ferocity catching the older boy by surprise, hoisting him into the air and hurling him to the ground. Corban stood over Rafe a moment, then a noise seeped through the blood pounding in his ears and he looked around. Dath was laughing, pointing at Rafe’s surprised expression, and the others quickly began to chuckle. Only Crain did not laugh. In fact he looked furious. Then Corban heard a rustling, looked back at the empty spot where Rafe had been and instinctively ducked. The wooden sword whistled through the air where his head had been. He threw himself at Rafe. This time he was not so lucky. The practice sword, catching him on the right shoulder, knocked him off balance, and then Rafe’s fist connected with Corban’s face, striking him high on the cheek, just under the eye. His legs turned to porridge and he fell, pain exploding in his head. Rafe took a step towards him, sneering, raising the wooden sword high. Then, with a soft
thunk
a knife flew into the ground just in front of Rafe’s boot.

‘Not another step,’ Cywen said, with another knife held high, arm bent back to her ear.

‘You wouldn’t dare,’ sneered Rafe.

‘Take another step and you’ll find out,’ she said, eyes glinting in the moonlight.

There was a frozen moment.

The tension went out of Rafe’s shoulders and he laughed.

‘Sister coming to your rescue again, coward,’ he said to Corban, then turned and strode away, swaying slightly, Crain following behind him.

‘Here, Ban,’ said Dath, offering his hand and pulling Corban from the ground.

‘You dropped this,’ Edana said, holding out the healer’s comb. He took it with a rueful smile. ‘Let me see your face,’ she said, and Corban winced as her fingers probed his skin.

‘I’m sorry, Ban, please don’t be angry with me, I thought he was really going to hurt you,’ Cywen said.

‘It’s all right.’ He was angrier with himself for being beaten again, but at least this time he had fought back,
and
he had managed to knock Rafe down. Also, Edana’s face was extremely close to his as she examined his cheek, and he was finding it hard to concentrate on anything else.

‘I think you’ll live,’ Edana said with a smile.

‘Very good,’ said Cywen sarcastically, ‘you should think about becoming a healer.’

After his morning training, as Corban drank thirstily from the water barrel, Gar asked him about the bruise on his cheek. ‘Rafe did it. We had a disagreement, last night.’

Corban went on to tell him about the dare, Brina’s comb and the fight. ‘I know I lost,’ he said, ‘but at least I didn’t just stand there, too scared to move. And I felled him once.’

‘That’s something, lad. But
lost
as a youth often means a bruised face and some wounded pride.
Lost
after your Long Night usually means
dead
. And you felt anger this time, you say, more than fear. Well, letting your anger rule you will most likely kill you as quickly as fear. There are some that can fight in a kind of red haze of rage. I knew someone like that, once. As it goes, his rage always looked after him. But most likely anger will just flood your mind and make you clumsy, unable to think.’

‘But how can I ever hope to win? Surely you would be inhuman to not feel
anything
.’

‘That’s right, lad, but it’s about
control
. About who is the master. All men feel fear, all men feel anger. Use it. Harness it like a packhorse to give you strength, but don’t let it cloud your mind and rule your limbs. Do you understand?’

‘Aye,’ nodded Corban slowly, ‘I think so.’

‘Good. When
you
control your emotions you can still think, and that saves lives. Part of a warrior’s skill is assessing combat before you are caught up in it. Can you beat Rafe?’

‘Not yet,’ grunted Corban. ‘Though I think I’d stand a better chance with a sword in my hand, after all that you have shown me. But anyway, I had no choice. Honour demanded I fight him.’

‘You always have a choice. Sometimes it is possible to retreat
and
keep your honour intact. You can duel with words as well as with swords or fists, you know. Words have a power all their own. Still,’ he added, seeing Corban’s downcast face, ‘he is older, bigger, much further along his training than you. You did well. Save for your wound. Your mam will be none too pleased about that.’

‘I know,’ said Corban ruefully.

‘What happened to you?’ Gwenith said as Corban sat down to break his fast, hands on her hips.

His da was staring at him, Cywen gazing into her bowl of porridge. ‘I fell, Mam. It looks worse than it is.’

‘I hope so,’ said Thannon, ‘for it looks very bad indeed.’

A large bruise surrounded an angry-looking gash on Corban’s cheekbone, a brown-black scab not quite covering the cut yet.

Gwenith laid a plate of honey-cakes on the table, then gently touched Corban’s cheek.

‘Don’t fuss, Mam, it’ll be fine,’ Corban mumbled.

‘You fell?’ she said.

‘Aye, Mam. I was on the rocks down by the beach, with Dath. It was wet. I slipped.’

Gwenith stroked his face. ‘You must take more care.’

‘Aye, Mam.’ Corban did not look up for a while. When he did, Thannon was staring at him.

‘I could use your help in the forge, just for the morning,’ his da said. Corban nodded, and soon they were walking the stone streets of Dun Carreg. When they reached the forge they silently fell into their normal routine, the hound Buddai draping himself across the open doorway.

Corban banked the edges of the fire, so the heat would be turned in on itself, then set to starting a flame, striking sparks from his flint into a small pile of kindling – twigs, straw, some dried moss and slivers of wood. When the spark took, he gave a steady, gentle pull on the bellows, flames springing up hungrily.