Malice (87 page)

‘I shall take her out,’ Corban said through gritted teeth.

‘I’ll do it, Ban,’ his mam said.

‘Take Storm and fetch Gar,’ Thannon said quietly, looking at the warriors ranged behind Rafe. ‘We may have need of him.’

Gwenith nodded and clicked her tongue at Storm. The wolven didn’t move, stood twitching her tail at Rafe.

‘Go,’ Corban said, and reluctantly Storm followed Gwenith out of the feast-hall.

‘Watch your step, Ban,’ his da said to him, quietly. Corban did not hear. There was a battle raging inside him: anger, no,
fury
threatening to consume him, all Rafe’s taunts and insults over the years merging into one injustice.

‘I am surprised you have the stones to step in the ring,’ Helfach said as Corban entered the makeshift circle they had prepared.

‘Be silent,’ Corban said, ‘lest I send for my da, and have
him
silence you.’

Thannon grinned and patted the head of his war-hammer. Buddai growled.

‘You . . .’ Helfach spluttered and took a step towards Corban, fists bunching, Rafe and Crain moving with him.

Chairs scraped and suddenly Farrell and Dath were either side of Corban, Thannon towering behind them, and others converging from the hall’s edges – Marrock and Camlin, Evnis and Conall.

‘Enough!’ Pendathran yelled.

Corban was staring into Helfach’s eyes, almost nose to nose with the huntsman, feeling his heart pounding in his ears. The moment seemed balanced on a knife-edge.

Then the doors to the hall creaked open to reveal Nathair with Sumur, Rauca and others of his eagle-guard.

Corban stared at Nathair. The shadow about him was much clearer now. Corban shivered and almost thought he saw talons gripping the King, imagined red eyes smouldering in the shadow’s depths. Something seemed to
whisper
in Nathair’s ear. The King of Tenebral paused, looked at Corban and smiled, then Evnis called him to his table.

‘I shall not spoil my son’s moment,’ Helfach hissed at Corban. He stepped out of the circle, Crain following him.

‘Get this over with,’ Pendathran growled, and Corban and Rafe moved properly into the circle. Rafe stood half a head taller than Corban, with long, quick limbs, though Corban was broader, and most likely stronger, he hoped.

Corban looked quickly towards the King’s table and his eyes met Halion’s. His old swordsmaster put a finger to his temple and tapped it gently.

Think
, Halion was telling him.
Anger is the enemy
, he repeated to himself, feeling his heartbeat begin to slow.
Remember, Storm is at stake here
.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, only opening them when he heard the rasp of Rafe drawing his sword, then gripped his own hilt and drew it slowly. He set his feet, raised his sword over his head, high, in a two-handed grip. Waited.

‘Begin,’ Pendathran said.

Corban burst into motion, striking at Rafe’s head once, twice, three times in the blink of an eye. Rafe stumbled backwards, blocking Corban desperately.

Corban spun on his heel, was suddenly inside Rafe’s guard and cracked his elbow into Rafe’s cheek, sending him reeling back into a table. The huntsman’s son lifted his blade as Corban ploughed forwards again, but he was off-balance, one hand trying to push himself off the tabletop, and Corban just slammed his sword into Rafe’s, smashing it from his grip. Then Corban’s blade was at Rafe’s throat.

There was utter silence in the hall, only the crackle of flames from the firepit, and the ragged breaths of the combatants as Corban gazed into Rafe’s eyes, saw fear, confusion and shame there. He flicked his wrist, ever so slightly and a thin line of red appeared on Rafe’s neck.

‘First blood,’ Corban said and stepped back, sheathing his sword. Rafe remained frozen, breathing heavily, a trickle of blood running down his neck.

Corban glanced around, saw admiration in his friends’ faces, satisfaction, and something else . . .
Everyone
was staring at him. He caught the eye of Nathair’s guardian, Sumur, who was frowning, a question in his eyes. Then he was looking at the high table, Halion smiling with pride. Pendathran dipped his head.

‘Is this matter at an end?’ Corban said to Brenin, only now realizing that he felt breathless, that his chest was heaving. Suddenly, looking at the King, who still seemed – uninterested, somehow; he felt his earlier anger stirring again.

‘Aye, the matter of your wolven is now decided,’ Brenin slurred, his cup close at hand.

‘It is a shame,’ Corban said, the words gushing out before he could stop them, his anger making him reckless, ‘that a father would think so little of his daughter’s life. Storm and I deserved better than that.’

Brenin scowled, went to stand but staggered and sat down again. Corban’s eyes widened, realizing how far the King was into his cups. He turned, and took his place beside his da and friends, feeling the flame of his anger still simmering within.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

KASTELL

Kastell shivered, the sweat of battle drying in this damp, suffocating tunnel.

He had caught up with Maquin, the two of them almost running to keep pace with the bobbing torchlight up ahead that marked Romar.

The sense of relief he had felt when Veradis arrived, turning the battle against the Hunen, was quickly evaporating. It had been replaced by a growing sense of foreboding.

They had been travelling along this tunnel for a while now, ever downward, leaving the light of day far behind. There were four or five score warriors ahead of them, Romar’s honour guard, the rest mostly Gadrai. Orgull’s bald head glistened in the torchlight, only a few strides in front of him, and at least that many warriors were behind, Jael amongst them.

The tunnel they were in was wide and high, its roof hidden in darkness. Torches lined the walls, giving off flickering pools of light, small stretches of near-solid darkness between each one.

Suddenly the warriors ahead were slowing and stopping. Kastell and Maquin carried on, moving closer to the front. At first Kastell thought they had reached a dead end, a wall blocking their way, but it was actually a huge barred doorway. On the ground before it glistened a heaped grey-white mound.

Then it moved.

The body pulsed, great looping coils rippling. A reptilian head rose, displaying huge fangs set in a wide, powerful jaw. The head snapped forwards, ripping the head from a warrior close to Romar. Men yelled, some moving to circle the beast, others stumbling away. Then a great howling filled Kastell’s ears, issuing from the side tunnels, and suddenly giants were pouring out of them, screaming their fury.

Then it was all iron striking iron, screams of pain and the rumbling bellowing of giants. Kastell had a momentary view of axes swirling, tracing arcs through the air in the torchlight, and of bodies slamming into each other. The wyrm was a writhing mass somewhere ahead, head darting, and men hacking at it. But the battle obscured his view. A man flew through the air and careered into him, knocking him to the ground.

An iron-shod boot crunched into the earth a handspan from his face and he scrambled up, seeing a warrior close by smashed to the ground by the giant who had almost trampled him. He swung his blade but he was off-balance and it glanced off the giant’s leather cuirass. In return the Hunen swung his axe, but Kastell managed to turn it with his shield, sliced at the giant’s exposed forearm but hit the iron-strengthened axe haft instead, the blow shivering up his arm. Kastell winced, and shrugged his shield off before the giant could pull him off his feet. He chopped two-handed with his sword at the giant’s arm.

The giant roared, stumbled backwards into the seething mass of battle and disappeared, blood fountaining from its wrist.

Kastell sucked in a few ragged breaths, looking about. The ground was littered with the dead, the battle still raging and the wyrm wreaking havoc further up the tunnel. Behind him Maquin was trading blows with a giant, getting steadily pushed back. Kastell wiped sweat from his eyes and charged silently, swinging his sword, and together they dispatched the threat.

They moved forwards, fighting their way along the tunnel, until the wyrm lay before them, its tail twitching as it died. Giants were still all about. Orgull was fighting as he always did, his feet set wide, trading blow for blow with an axe-wielding giant. He was one of the very few that could, his size and bull-like strength making him almost a giant’s equal. Vandil was virtually his opposite, the smaller, slighter man moving in a blur, his two swords in constant motion.

In the few moments that Kastell watched, the Gadrai’s leader ducked a hammer swing and spun inside the giant’s guard, his swords moving faster than Kastell could follow, then Vandil was spinning away. The giant looked confused, not yet realizing he was dead, as blood spread across his gut and groin.

Then Maquin took a blow to the side, and the old warrior grunted in pain. Before Kastell could check his friend, a Hunen with an axe was trying to take his head from his shoulders. The giant cracked the butt-end of its axe into his head. Kastell wobbled, staggered, his vision blurring – then something was between him and the Hunen and he heard the whistle of iron through air. The giant’s snarl twisted into fear as a red gash opened across his throat. Kastell saw Vandil leaping away from him, a flash of teeth in a grin, then his lord was gone.

He looked to Maquin, and saw the Hunen that he had been fighting was now dead at his feet. There was a bemused look on his friend’s face, his shield arm hanging limp at his side.

‘Vandil . . .?’ Kastell said, and Maquin nodded.

About them the battle seemed to lull, just for a few moments, and they leaned upon each other. Maquin’s face was white, a sheen of sweat over it.

‘Your arm? You are hurt,’ Kastell said.

Maquin grinned weakly. ‘Not dead yet,’ he muttered.

They were about to step back into the battle when something happened, further back in the tunnel, a ripple running through all that fought, man and giant alike.

Kastell looked back.

Shapes appeared in the torchlight, dark figures swirling towards him, wielding long, curved swords in two-handed grips.

The Jehar, Veradis had called them.

They were systematically cutting through the Hunen, the giants falling before them. Kastell saw Alcyon, the giant, Calidus as well, fighting with surprising ferocity.

In short moments they reached him, and moved on to where Romar and the remnants of his honour guard battled.

And then, suddenly, it was over, the last giant falling to a dozen slashing swords.

Corpses were everywhere, the tunnel’s floor hardly visible. It was difficult to count numbers, but Kastell figured no more than three score of the Gadrai still stood, if that. He shook his head – three hundred had come to Haldis. Romar was talking to Calidus, Alcyon beside them, the black-clad Jehar standing silently, utterly calm, as if they had not just fought a great battle. Kastell was discomfited to see women amongst their ranks. It jarred with all he had been taught, though if he was honest, the memory of how they scythed through the Hunen troubled him most. Women fighting more skilfully than
him
, than most here, was particularly disturbing.

Romar’s voice rose, the King of Isiltir pushing past Calidus to approach the wide doors. He shouted an order and a dozen of his guard stepped forward and shouldered the bar free.

‘You still live, then,’ a voice whispered in his ear. Jael swept past him, a handful of warriors from Mikil with him.

Romar and his guard were pushing the doors open. They banged into the tunnel walls with a dull boom, then Vandil was calling the Gadrai forward, who settled about Romar protectively.

Calidus lifted a hand and led the Jehar after them.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

EVNIS

Evnis looked about the feast-hall, taking stock. Things were coming to a head. Tonight. And his rage stopped him thinking straight. A clear mind was what he needed, but Gethin’s decapitated head refused to leave his thoughts. Owain would pay, not for killing his brother, but for robbing Evnis of his triumph, of Gethin witnessing his victory. Somehow it felt empty now, and that made him angry. He kept his rage within.
Focus, or your head will be rolling, too
.