Malice (57 page)

Corban grunted. For some reason he did not like that thought at all.

Brina raised an eyebrow. ‘Imagine that, Evnis’ son married to a queen, Gethin’s daughter married to a king. Not a great leap for their blood to be sitting on two thrones, eh?’

Corban nodded slowly.

‘People are such selfish little creatures,’ Brina sighed. ‘Always seeking to further their own position, no matter how small or petty.’

‘Not all are like that,’ Corban said, feeling somehow offended.

‘No? Well, maybe you are right. But look about you, Corban. Once you are aware of the particular shape and stink of human greed you will not fail to recognize an abundance of such behaviour. It can be quite depressing.’

‘People see what they want to see,’ Corban proclaimed, feeling almost wise.

Brina looked at him sharply. ‘And where did you hear that particular gem of wisdom? Heb?’

‘Aye,’ Corban admitted begrudgingly. Brina just huffed and looked ahead.

They were on the journey home to Dun Carreg, Badun three days behind them now. A cold wind had blown down from the north on Midwinter’s Day, and had not left, freezing the land, ice crystals in the snow sparkling around them. It was so cold that Corban’s ears ached.

He was still in awe of all that he had seen at Badun. The duel between Tull and Morcant had taken his breath away, leaving him feeling both sick and elated, and then Midwinter’s Day had come.

He wished he had seen more of it, from what Cywen had told him it had been amazing – and it was embarrassing that he had fainted. He was not looking forward to Rafe getting hold of that information. Somehow, though, he felt
different
, stronger. He had strange flashes of memory, as if something significant had happened to him, however unlikely it seemed.

He didn’t know what had occurred between King Brenin and the other rulers – although Rhin had left soon after the sun had returned to normal. And now they were bound for Dun Carreg early the next day, the mysterious couple that had begged King Brenin’s Sanctuary travelling with them.

Their journey back to Dun Carreg was uneventful, and Gwenith grabbed him and Cywen before they had even fully entered their kitchen, the smells of home assailing them. She hugged them long and hard, Thannon stepping in and wrapping his broad arms about them all, then she insisted on hearing every detail of their journey. ‘Welcome home,’ his mam said when they had finally finished. ‘No more journeying for a while, I hope.’ She hugged them both again.

Frost-stiffened grass crunched under his feet as Corban followed Halion to the edge of the sparring court.

‘Shield-work, Corban, is not all about defence,’ Halion said, gesturing at two men facing up to spar on the stone. ‘Watch a while, and you will learn more than I can teach you with words.’

Conall was on the court, dark hair pulled tight at his neck and a grin on his face, shield and wooden sword held ready. He faced Marrock, who was taller, leaner, the scar on his face looking red and livid against his pale skin. The huntsman also held a shield and practice sword. They nodded to each other and Conall instantly lunged forwards, Marrock retreating hastily.

‘You see,’ Halion said quietly, ‘how my brother uses his shield? Not just to block Marrock’s blade. He seeks to knock him off balance, to open his guard.’

Corban nodded. As he watched, Conall caught a downswing on his shield, pushed up and back, shoving his shield’s boss at Marrock’s face. The huntsman jumped back, swinging his own shield into Conall’s side as the warrior surged forwards, unsteadying him.

Halion grunted approvingly. ‘The shield can be a weapon too. In battle it would be iron rimmed, iron bossed. Strike your enemy with it and you may end it all there. Shield-work limits your choice of sword, though. Some men prefer a longer, heavier blade, which must be wielded two-handed. That will give you extra reach, more weight to your blows. To use a shield you must wield a lighter blade, unless the man is an ox like your da, or Tull. Such as they can have the best of both worlds.’ Halion looked Corban up and down, slapping his shoulder. ‘Your labour in Thannon’s forge will serve you well – strong arms and shoulders. You’ll not be as big as your da, I think, but you’ll be stronger than many.’ He stopped. Halion did not usually say much, except when talking of sword-craft.

‘Why did you stay away from the feast at Badun?’ Corban asked, remembering they had not been present during the feast and duel.

‘What? That was moons ago.’

‘So?’ shrugged Corban. ‘Everyone was there, and you missed the duel. I wanted to talk to you about it.’

‘I had my reasons,’ Halion said, his mouth tight. ‘Now pay attention.’ He turned back to the contest between Marrock and his brother.

The two men were trading blows now, huge sweeps and fast lunges, blocking and striking repeatedly.

‘Marrock is well matched against my brother,’ Halion said. ‘He is a strategist, while my brother is a force of nature. If he weren’t so good his anger would have got him killed a long time ago. Some men are like that, Corban, you can see it in their eyes. That can be a weapon too. Men make mistakes when they are angry.’

‘I know.
Anger is the enemy
, as G—’ Corban paused. Halion glanced at him, but said nothing.

‘Would Conall
choose
to fight with a shield?’ Corban asked.

‘Sometimes. If the situation dictates it. He favours using two swords, or a sword and a knife.’ He grinned. ‘As I said, he’s not a patient man. He
is
fast, though, the fastest I’ve ever seen.’

As if to prove Halion’s point, Conall increased the momentum of his attack, his sword arm blurring in Corban’s eye. He swept forwards, lunging with his shield, tucked his sword tight behind it, hidden from Marrock’s view. He swung his blade at Marrock’s ribs, checked the strike as Marrock moved to block, angled his sword down in a half-circle, beneath Marrock’s shield rim, then up, the tip of his blade digging into the huntsman’s gut.

Marrock paused, looking slightly confused, then realized the contest was over. He dipped his head to Conall, who was grinning again.

‘Many think swordplay is about who is the strongest,’ Halion said, ‘and often I suppose that is true. But for the masters – those that plan to live the longest – swordplay is about
deception
. About making your opponent think you will strike from the left and then striking from the right, making him think you will slash but lunging instead.
Deception
. That is how Conall just defeated Marrock: his sword was not where he had made Marrock think it was going to be, so Marrock’s guard, his weight, his
focus
was elsewhere. And he used his shield to aid the deception. You see?’

‘I . . . yes, I do.’

‘The duel you mentioned at Badun between Tull and Morcant, well, even though I didn’t see it I heard about every blow.’

Corban nodded enthusiastically. How could he ever forget?

‘Tull won that through deception, remember, flicking the rushes into Morcant’s face. He has a keen mind, Tull, as sharp as his blade. People think he just overwhelms his opponents because he is big, but that is not the case. He
thinks
. That is no small task when you are fighting to stay alive. Come, lad, now you’ve seen how a shield
can
be used, let’s see how you get on.’

Corban followed Halion to the weapons racks. He had tried shield-work in plenty, but still did not feel wholly comfortable with it. His training with Gar was always with a two-handed practice sword. That was the favoured weapon of the stablemaster, and so that was what he felt most at ease with.

He glanced around the Field as he crunched across frozen grass, saw Tull standing tall before a handful of warriors that he was working with.

His mam had been different since his return from Badun. He would often catch her staring at him, an unreadable expression on her face. And she was touching him more; not that she had never shown him affection before his journey, but now she would gravitate towards him whenever they were in the same room, even if it was just her fingertips brushing the back of his hand. Maybe it was because of his fainting.

But she was not the only one paying him more attention. Wherever he was, he would see his da or Gar. When at Brina’s performing his chores, which had somehow settled into a permanent arrangement, Gar would be nearby working with horses in the paddocks; and if not in the forge with his da he would often feel the big man’s presence nearby, even when he was spending his meagre free time with Dath around the village. It was starting to annoy him.

‘Make sure your grip is good; it can make the difference between a broken arm or no,’ Halion said as Corban hefted an old, battered shield. Then they set to, Halion pushing Corban to think about every move, making him pay with a new bruise for every thoughtless mistake. It was not long before Corban’s arm was numb, his shoulder throbbing from the blows that had soaked through the shield into his arm. Halion grinned wolfishly at him. ‘That’ll do for the day, lad.’

‘Good,’ Corban grunted, sweat stinging his eyes.

‘You’re doing well. More than well with a blade, and your shield-work is not bad, either. We need to focus on bow and spear, though.’

‘Huh,’ grunted Corban. ‘A sword’s good enough for me.
Warriors
don’t use a bow – why do I need to learn?’

‘Because warriors need to eat,’ said Halion. ‘You won’t have food caught by other people for you all of your life. You will need to play your part. And, who knows? Maybe one day you’ll have to bring down your own meals. You’ll be glad of time spent with bow and spear then.’

Corban didn’t answer. He knew there was sense in Halion’s words, but he was hungry to learn with a blade. There was just no
honour
in a bow, unless you were a huntsman like Marrock. He had already tried it, with Halion standing behind him, and done quite poorly. He’d taken the skin off his forearm with more than one mistimed shot.

He glanced over to the ranges at the far end of the Field, saw the tall, gangly frame of Tarben, the small, distinctive outline of Dath beside him, straight-backed, launching arrows unerringly at straw targets. The fisherman’s son had taken remarkably well to the weapon, although he was not overly happy with his newfound ability – he longed to be a
swordsman
. That was the only way he’d be taken into a baron’s hold as a warrior, and that was his secret dream: to escape his da’s boat, fishing, the sea, and to carve a warrior’s life for himself.

‘Not today, though, lad,’ Halion said, seeing Corban’s sour expression. ‘We’re done for the day. I’ll see you on the morrow.’

Corban trudged out of the Field, Storm rising from beneath the first tree of the rowan lane as he approached.

Others were leaving the Field, walking on their own or in small groups. Corban paid them little attention until he heard Storm growl quietly. He looked up, saw Rafe with his usual companion, Crain. They were stooping as they walked, snatching up handfuls of gravel and stones and throwing them at someone in front.

Corban sped up, trying to see better what was going on.

In front of Rafe a tall, broad figure strode, head bowed as small stones ricocheted off his back.

Rafe was laughing. ‘Just like his da,’ the huntsman’s son was saying. ‘There’s no room in the Field for cowards, or the sons of cowards, you know.’

The figure in front suddenly stopped and turned. It was Farrell, son of Anwarth, the warrior rumoured to have feigned his wounding in the Darkwood when Rhagor had been killed. Farrell’s fists were bunched, face red and pinched. Tears stained his cheeks.

‘What?’ said Rafe, sauntering up to him.

Farrell was shaking. ‘Just – stop,’ he said, a tremor in his voice. He was younger than Corban, but he stood as tall as Rafe, and broader.

Crain stepped up beside Rafe.

‘No,’ Rafe said, ‘I don’t think I will. The Rowan Field is for the training of
warriors
. Why don’t you spend your days at the village? Try gutting and washing fish with the other women.’

‘W-why are you . . .?’ Farrell stammered.

Corban reached the group. A deep, burning sensation was spreading outwards from his gut. ‘Leave him alone,’ he heard himself say.

‘Oh ho,’ said Crain, turning. ‘Where are all these cowards coming from?’

Rafe just scowled at him.

Storm took a step forward, snarling, teeth bared. A line of spittle dripped from her mouth. Rafe and Crain took an involuntary step backwards.

‘I don’t think she likes your tone,’ said Corban, touching her flank lightly.

‘Think you’re the
hero
now, rushing to the rescue of other cowards?’ Rafe said. ‘You two could form your own warband, only cowards accepted. Walk on, blacksmith’s boy – you’ll have yours coming, but you’ve a while yet. Two moons from now I sit my Long Night. Not even Tull will be able to save you once you’ve sat
your
Long Night. I’ll be waiting for you.’

Corban shrugged. ‘Leave him alone,’ he said again, glancing at Farrell, who was staring at him. He tried to smile reassuringly and took a step closer to the big lad. Suddenly Farrell’s hands were on his shoulders, spinning him around, hoisting him a handspan off the ground.

‘Stay out of it,’ the broad-shouldered lad said, vehemently, scowling at Corban.

Without thinking, Corban kicked both his feet, cracking Farrell in the shins. He was suddenly dropped and staggered back. ‘I’m trying to help you,’ Corban stuttered.

Farrell just glared at him, eyes screwed up, then he turned and ran, lumbering away.

Rafe and Crain laughed, walking on. ‘You must try harder at making friends,’ Rafe called over his shoulder, still chuckling.

Corban stood there a while, shocked, angry. He had only wanted to help – he knew what it was like to have Rafe single you out for attention. He set off, kicking his heels against the shingle. Then he remembered how he had felt when Rafe had first hit him during the Spring Fair, how scared, how angry, how
ashamed
that he’d done nothing. And then Cywen had stood up for him.
He
hadn’t been too grateful at the time, either. He thought about that for a while. Maybe he’d try and talk to Farrell, apologize.