Malice (38 page)

Camlin froze. Suddenly there was a whistling sound and then two arrows were sprouting from the nameless guard – one from his throat, the other his chest. Blood fountained outwards, spraying Camlin’s face. The warrior plucked feebly at a feathered shaft, then fell forwards.

Marrock twisted as more arrows flew from out of the shadows. One caught him high in the left shoulder, sending him spinning, crashing to the floor. Figures appeared: one, two, both wearing dark cloaks with hoods drawn. Dark iron was in their hands.

Marrock lurched to one knee, reaching awkwardly to pluck the arrow from his shoulder. With a grunt it pulled free and he dropped it clattering on the stones, grasped his sword hilt.

What is this?
Camlin thought,
Rescue attempt or an assassination?
All of a sudden, death on the morrow looked far more appealing than death
now
.

One of the hooded men reached Marrock, kicked his sword-arm viciously, the weapon flying out of his grip as he fell backwards, hitting the stones. The hooded warrior stood over him, sword raised and placed a foot on Marrock’s chest.

‘Stop,’ cried a voice behind Camlin. He spun on his heels. Two lads and a pup stood on the far side of the pool. No – one lad, one lass. He blinked, shook his head. And it wasn’t a pup, it was a wolven-cub. This night was getting stranger by the moment. If not for the sense of death breathing down his neck he would have laughed.

The hooded men shared a look, unsure what to do. The lass reached to her belt, a knife appearing in her hand.

One of the hooded men strode forward, pushed his hood back. ‘You’re skinny as an ice-hare, Cam,’ he said.

Camlin’s mouth moved but nothing came out. The man that had spoken to him was tall, fair-haired, a neat scar running from eyebrow to chin.

‘Braith,’ Camlin breathed. ‘Why have you come?’

‘To save your fool hide, of course. What else? Heard you’d got yourself into a spot o’ trouble.’ They both grinned.

The lad, lass, and cub were still standing in the same spot, the other hooded warrior training an arrow on them.

‘Can’t have any witnesses,’ Braith said.

Fear sparked in the boy’s eyes, but nevertheless he stepped in front of the lass.

‘Hold,’ Camlin heard himself saying, moving between Braith and the lad.

‘What, man? We can’t just walk away. If you’d forgot, we’re in the middle of Dun Carreg. And we’ve still got a fair bit to go ’fore we can breathe safe. It’s the only choice.’

The faces of his mam and Col swam before Camlin’s eyes, along with the crofter and his family. ‘No more innocent blood,’ he said.

‘This is not the time to grow a conscience, Cam,’ Braith grunted, his companion’s arm starting to quiver under the pressure of his drawn bow. ‘Just look away.’

‘No, Braith.’ He drew a ragged breath. ‘I am thankful for your coming, more than I can ever show, but I’d rather walk right back to my cell and face the headsman on the morrow than see their blood spilt.’

‘Braith?’ muttered their companion, his arrow still trained on the lad.

‘Leave it,’ snarled Braith, lowering his own bow. ‘So what would you suggest we do?’ he asked Camlin in clipped tones.

‘Good question. You there,’ said Camlin, walking towards the youths. ‘Seems we have a situation here,’ he said quietly, for only their ears. They were both staring wide-eyed at him. ‘I’m about to leave here pretty sharpish with my friends, see. And they’re not inclined to believe that you’re just going t’walk away, not say a word to anyone ’bout what’s gone on here.’

‘You’re not supposed to leave,’ said the lad, still standing in front of the lass, though he’d had to put an arm out to hold her there. ‘You killed Dylan. You’re to be judged.’

‘Hush, lad,’ said Camlin, raising a hand. ‘Talk like that’ll get you killed.’

A long, drawn-out groan filled the courtyard. It was Marrock. He was crawling towards his sword, face pale, blood pumping steadily from the wound in his shoulder. Instantly Braith and the other woodsman trained arrows on the wounded warrior.

‘No.’ This time it was the lad, stumbling forward, arms waving.

‘That there’s Marrock,’ Camlin said, low and quiet to Braith. ‘Marrock – Rhagor’s boy.’

Braith eased the draw on his bow slightly. Camlin felt the stirrings of a plan.

‘Let’s take him.’

Braith just looked at him, waiting for him to say more.

‘Marrock, as hostage. He’s held in high regard here. Rhagor’s son, nephew to Alona and Pendathran.’

Braith nodded slowly, the idea growing in his mind. ‘Aye. Might be useful, ’specially if we find ourselves in a tight spot. Sometimes, Cam, you surprise me.’ He lowered his bow, covered the ground between him and Marrock speedily, lithely, like a cat. ‘Bind and gag him,’ he ordered his companion. ‘And treat his wound quick, ’fore he bleeds to death.’

‘Aye, chief.’ Camlin moved to help as well, checking behind him as Braith approached the lad and lass.

‘Boy,’ said Braith, ‘you know this man?’

‘Of course,’ nodded the dark-haired lad.

‘I will have your silence, or his death will be on your hands,’ Braith said, gesturing towards Marrock. ‘I want your word on it. If you hold your silence, I will release him.’

‘Alive?’

‘Aye. Alive.’

‘When?’ said the boy, bracing himself before the larger man.

Braith’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re in no position t’haggle, boy. If it weren’t for my friend’s attack o’ morals I’d have killed you already.’

‘When?’ the boy repeated, trying to hide the tremor in his voice.

Braith rolled his eyes. ‘When we are far enough from this cursed place. By sunrise ought t’do it.’

The lad looked between all gathered there. The wolven-cub was still at his feet, regarding Braith with fierce copper eyes. Eventually the lad sighed, knowing he had little choice.

‘You have my word.’

‘Good.’ Braith spat onto the palm of his hand, stared at the lad, who looked at him blankly a moment, then spat into his own palm and gripped the woodsman’s outstretched hand.

Braith smiled. ‘It’s a bargain,’ he said, ‘Darkwood style. Break it an’ you’ll have Asroth snapping at your heels, along with all the dread legions of his Kadoshim.’

The boy went pale and Braith smiled again, not kindly. ‘I’ll see you again,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

It was dark now, as Braith, Camlin and the other woodsman steered Marrock into a side street. ‘You sure you only came back for me?’ Camlin said to Braith, who glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. Suddenly, quick as a viper, Braith had Camlin pinned against a wall, knife pricking under Camlin’s chin.

‘What have you said, Cam? What’ve you told – about me, the Darkwood?’

‘Nothing, Braith. Nothing, I swear. Nothing they don’t know, anyway.’

‘Have you told who my contact is here in the fortress?’ Braith’s eyes were cold, suddenly dead, a killer’s eyes.

‘No.’ He tried to shake his head, felt the knife cut into his flesh, felt blood trickle down his neck.

‘If I find out you’re lying to me, you know it’ll go bad with you. Best all round if you tell the truth now.’

‘I swear it, Braith.’

‘Have you been put to the question?’

‘No. Think that may’ve been coming later tonight. Brenin’s only just returned.’

‘I know.’ Braith took a step back, sliced open Camlin’s tunic, checked his torso. He lifted Camlin’s hands, counted fingers, looked for fresh scars or burn marks. Then, suddenly, he smiled. ‘Had to ask, Cam,’ he said. ‘Come on then, we haven’t got all night.’

‘How do we get off this rock?’ Camlin whispered with relief, his fear receding.

‘The fun is only just beginning,’ Braith said, flashing a smile. Braith often won men over with that first smile. It said
you are the only
person here
, and seemed to hold all the charm and power of a blood-oath. Camlin found himself smiling in return. ‘Fortunately for you, I have friends in unlikely places. We’ve got a long walk in the dark ahead.’ Braith gripped Camlin’s shoulder. ‘You know, my friend,’ he whispered, ‘sometimes you can be a great deal of trouble.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

VERADIS

Veradis whistled through clenched teeth. He was standing in the main stable block at Jerolin, huge pillars of black stone rising high above him, braced by lengths of timber wider than two men standing back to back. Birds flittered in and out of view, chasing each other around the beams.

He was with Nathair, both of them staring admiringly at a huge white stallion, which reared and neighed, ears back. A tremor passed through the floor as its hooves thudded down to the ground.

‘He’s fair, I’ll say that,’ said Valyn the stablemaster.

‘Fair,’ laughed Nathair. ‘Tell me he’s not the finest animal you’ve ever laid eyes on.’

‘Not many could match him,’ the stablemaster admitted, ‘though one that equals him is stabled here right now. Not as big-boned, mind, but a little taller, and faster, I’d wager.’

‘What?’ said Nathair, genuinely shocked.

‘Aye. Belongs to your father’s friend. That Meical.’ He nodded towards a stable. Veradis could see the glimmer of a silvery mane, but nothing more.

‘Even
he’s
not this stallion’s better, though,’ Valyn said, seeing Nathair’s face darken. ‘And in truth, apart from Meical’s horse, I don’t think I’ve ever seen this animal’s equal.’ He stepped forward, held his hand out for the stallion to sniff, a decidedly flustered-looking stable boy holding on to its bridle.

‘So, come on, Nathair, how have you come by him?’ said Veradis. ‘He wasn’t bred hereabouts.’

‘He’s a gift. From Jael of Isiltir.’

Veradis was blank a moment, then a dark-haired, handsome face appeared in his mind’s eye. ‘Ah, the nephew of King Romar. I remember him.’ He thought of Kastell, kneeing the man in the knackers in front of the best warriors in the Banished Lands. He smiled, but did not share his memory. ‘You must have made an impression on him,’ he said instead.

Nathair smiled. ‘It would seem so.’

‘Easy, lad,’ said Valyn, resting a hand on the stallion’s chest, running the other down its foreleg, coaxing him to lift his hoof.

He did, but as Valyn bent low for a closer look the stallion’s head darted back, Valyn only just managing to jump out of reach of its snapping teeth.

He was laughing as he rejoined Nathair and Veradis. ‘Well, he’s got spirit, that’s for sure.’

‘You’re not going to let him get away with that?’ said Veradis. He prided himself on his knowledge of horses, and backbiting was one habit he’d always been taught to master as soon as it appeared.

‘I’ve a mind to let him off,’ said Valyn. ‘He’s come a long way, new surroundings – the best of us act up sometimes. Besides, attitude like that can suit what you’re looking for,’ he said to Nathair. ‘I think you’ve found yourself a warhorse. The best ones aren’t often the most easygoing. Time’ll be the judge.’

Valyn’s attention shifted, Veradis and Nathair following the stablemaster’s gaze.

Meical was standing in the stable entrance, a dark form outlined by the sunshine. He nodded to Valyn, strode towards where his horse was boxed.

‘Can I help you?’ Valyn called. Meical shook his head, then he saw Nathair.

‘Your father has sent runners for you. He wishes to see you in his chambers. Now.’

Nathair walked across the stable, following Meical. ‘Veradis, make sure there are no ears, nearby. I would have some privacy with Meical.’

Nathair opened the box; inside, Meical was adjusting a saddle-rug on a tall dapple-grey horse. Its dark, liquid eyes regarded the Prince. Valyn was right, the animal
was
impressive – regal, almost, more fine-boned than the white stallion from Isiltir. Veradis positioned himself by the open gate, with a good view of the stable as well as Nathair and Meical. There was something about Aquilus’ counsellor that he did not like.

Meical paused as the Prince entered the box, eyes flickering across Veradis, then back to Nathair. Not for the first time Veradis was struck by the counsellor’s height.
He must be taller even than Krelis
, he thought,
though not so wide
, and he had thought Krelis easily the largest man he had ever seen in all of Tenebral. He remembered his father’s and brother’s questions about Meical, back in Ripa, and Ektor asking the colour of Meical’s eyes. He looked, but the stable light was poor. They were dark, of that he was sure, but he could not tell more.

‘How goes it with the giant’s book?’ Nathair asked.

Meical stared at Nathair. His face was clean shaven, battle scarred, though otherwise unlined. Something about him whispered
age
. Long black hair was pulled back from his face, tied with silver wire high at the back of his head.

‘Slowly,’ Meical said.

‘Do you know who the Black Sun is yet? Where he will strike from?’

Meical regarded him with his dark, liquid eyes. ‘I cannot say, yet.’

‘Cannot, or will not? I am the Prince of Tenebral, your ally. You can talk to me of these things.’

‘Aye, you are prince, not king. Your questions are best asked of your father.’