Malice (90 page)

Corban saw terror in his enemy’s eyes, then there was a white pain in Corban’s shoulder and he was suddenly spinning and falling.

He looked up to see Helfach grinning wildly, blood dripping from a ruined nose, and from his sword-tip.

‘This ends now, boy,’ Helfach yelled and raised his sword, then Corban heard a deep-throated snarling growl and the huntsman was gone, tumbling away in a mass of fur and snapping teeth. Wolven and man rolled to a halt, Storm on top, jaws clamped around the huntsman’s throat, his arms and legs battering futilely at her body. With a savage wrench of her neck, blood sprayed high. Helfach’s feet twitched and then were still.

Corban staggered to his feet, pain radiating from his left shoulder where Helfach had stabbed him, and Rafe stumbled away back into the battle. But Corban only cared for his da, somehow back on his feet, though blood-drenched from many wounds.

Nathair stepped through the ranks of his guard, Rauca beside him, a deadly short stabbing sword in his hand.

As Corban watched, Thannon swung his hammer but the blow was slow and weak. Rauca ducked beneath it, and gave Buddai a sharp kick to the ribs. Then Nathair stepped in close and rammed his sword into Thannon’s chest. They stood there a moment, then Thannon toppled backwards.

Corban screamed, a high wordless thing. He staggered forwards. Then a form swept past him – Gar, a curved sword strapped to his back. He was charging straight for Nathair and Rauca. The eagle-guard saw him and thrust Nathair back into the safety of the shield wall, then raised his sword to meet Gar. The stablemaster dropped beneath Rauca’s weapon, rolled, came up behind him with his sword hissing fluidly into his hands, held high in his two-handed grip. Rauca turned as Gar was bringing his blade down, slashing the guardsman from shoulder to hip, shearing through leather, chain-mail, flesh and bone.

For a long, timeless moment the remaining eagle-guards just stared at Gar, as did Sumur and Nathair.

Sumur took a step forward. ‘It cannot be,’ he whispered.

A hand touched Corban’s uninjured shoulder, his mam standing beside him with the spear he’d left in someone’s ribs in her hand. He felt panic for a moment – she shouldn’t be here – then together they ran to Thannon’s side. Buddai had draped his body alongside his master’s, and was pushing at Thannon’s cheek with his muzzle. He whined as Corban and Gwenith crouched down.

Thannon’s face was ashen, in stark contrast to his livid wounds. Corban squeezed his da’s hand, and looked on helplessly. His mam lifted Thannon’s head onto her lap.

‘Hold on,’ Corban whispered, grimacing at the uselessness of his words. Thannon tried to speak, but only a gargled whisper came out.

‘Please,’ Corban said, stroking his da’s hand. The gap between each breath grew longer, more laboured. Thannon stared back, then he was gone.

Gwenith let out a great racking sob, and clutched her husband’s hand. Corban felt lost and suddenly found it hard to breathe. He looked up to see Nathair watching, and felt a new depth of emotion, a rage, that he’d not experienced before. Nathair returned his gaze.

‘I will kill you,’ Corban said.

‘Bring him to me,’ Nathair demanded, pointing at Corban. His eagle-guards moved, the shield wall splitting.

‘Get the boy out of here,’ Gar snapped, stepping to face the remaining eagle-guards as they moved on him, circling him slowly, hesitantly.

‘But where?’ Gwenith said, still in shock.

‘That way,’ Gar nodded towards the back of the hall, where the feast-hall’s survivors had gathered about Halion and Edana, fighting the last of Evnis’ men.

Gwenith looked but couldn’t move, couldn’t stop the tears.

‘Corban is all that matters,’ Gar hissed. ‘Move. Now.’ He shuffled his feet to close off any approach to Corban and Gwenith.

Gwenith touched Thannon’s face a moment, a goodbye, then she was standing and pulling Corban. He plucked his da’s war-hammer from the smith’s big hands. But Buddai refused to move.

Corban looked to Gar, not wanting to leave his father’s body or the stablemaster.

‘Go, Ban,’ said Gar. ‘I’ll join you soon. Trust me.’

Corban grimaced, but ran with his mam and Storm, the hall strewn with the dead. It was empty now save for Nathair and his eagle-guards circling Gar, and the continuing combat at the far end.

The clash of iron on iron erupted behind them and Corban stopped short, realizing he’d fallen for the stablemaster’s ploy to make him leave.
Of course he lied, he’s facing ten men
. But he looked back to see Gar fighting more like a shadow than a man – swirling and slipping amongst Nathair’s eagle-guards. Blood sprayed as Gar’s sword swung and slashed in an elaborate, deadly dance. Within moments men were staggering away from the conflict, or fallen, Gar in constant, fluid motion.

Then Gwenith demanded that he follow and they finally reached Halion. No more than a dozen fought with him, out of of the hundred or so that had filled the hall. Evnis’ warriors had fared little better, though: less than a score of them now fighting to reach Edana and finish the conflict. Corban hefted his da’s hammer and charged, Storm leaping ahead of him, hamstringing a warrior with one snap of her jaws.

Two fell before he reached them, knives jutting from backs, and he remembered who had taught Cywen to throw a knife. He grunted as he swung the hammer – which was in truth too heavy for him – and connected with a man’s lower back instead of his head. That was enough, though. Corban felt bones shatter. He swung again, then his mam was beside him, stabbing a spear into someone’s shoulder and Storm was snarling, ripping, tearing.

Evnis’ warriors tried to turn and face this new threat, but in moments Halion and his fighters had dispatched the distracted, flanked warriors. Corban checked to find Camlin, Marrock and Tarben. He felt a surge of relief when he saw a pale-faced Dath and Farrell. Others were there too, amongst them Brina and Heb at the back, beside a weeping Edana.

Flames still flickered in the firepit, and death and destruction surrounded them on every side. In a shadowed corner beside a shattered table, the sounds of grief were clear in the lull. Corban squinted through the firepit’s flames to see two men kneeling on the ground. One was Mordwyr, Dath’s da. His face was distraught, but the sobbing came from the man next to him – Vonn, cradling Bethan’s limp head in his lap.

The only other movement was at the high table, where Gar still fought, though of the ten eagle-guards only two still stood. Corban took a few paces towards Gar, a handful following, and spreading out about him. As he watched, Gar blocked an overhead strike, and sent his own blade slashing across his opponent’s throat. Then, before that man had fallen, he was sidestepping, turning, and somehow reversing his sword grip to punch it into the stomach of the last guard rushing in behind him.

Gar stood still a moment, then slid his sword free, spun it and changed the grip yet again as his opponent’s body sank to the ground. He finally turned to face Nathair and Sumur.

Sumur stepped forward, slow and graceful, still leaving his sword sheathed on his back. ‘How is it that you are here, sword-brother?’ he said.

Gar made no reply, except to shift his feet.

‘You should answer, when I ask something of you,’ Sumur continued. ‘I am Lord of Telassar, Lord of the Jehar; lord of you, am I not?’

‘Tukul is my lord,’ said Gar.

Sumur shook his head. ‘He was always misguided. Not equipped for this calling. Tell me, where is he? Here, in Dun Carreg? Ardan? Has he just abandoned you?’

‘He would not do that,’ Gar spat.

Sumur shrugged. ‘Whatever you think, your task has failed. Come, sheathe your sword, join me. Look, the Seren Disglair stands before you.’ Sumur gestured to Nathair, who stood tall, regal, and smiled warmly at Gar.

Gar assessed Nathair, contemptuously. ‘That just cannot be,’ he said and his eyes flickered, briefly, to Corban.

Sumur followed his gaze, and stared at Corban, his eyes taking in the wolven beside him. ‘We have much to speak of, you and I,’ he said. ‘Come, sheathe your sword. Join me.’

‘You were ever the honeyed talker,’ Gar said. ‘You may have fooled my father with your false tongue, become lord in his absence, but you never fooled me. Time enough for words when my spirit has crossed the bridge of swords. Until then I shall let my blade speak for me.’ He flexed his wrist, his sword-tip spinning, tracing a circle in the air.

‘So be it,’ Sumur shrugged. ‘When I am done with you I shall carve some answers from your boy and his wolven-cub.’

Faster than Corban could follow, Sumur suddenly had his blade in his hand. He heard rather than saw their first clash, iron ringing out as their swords sparked in a blurred flurry, their bodies spinning. The two men separated, neither breathing hard, and began circling, eyes measuring, assessing, probing. Sumur stopped suddenly, shifted his weight, then rushed in with his sword aloft. Gar spun from the curved blade as it slashed, was already striking at Sumur’s waist, but the warrior was gliding out of range. Again they clashed, swords connecting this time, more strikes than Corban could count, then Gar was crouching low, slashing at Sumur’s ankles, the warrior leaping and striking at Gar’s head. The stablemaster swayed to one side, Sumur’s blade missing him by a hairsbreadth. He twisted towards Sumur, chopped once, twice, then stepped gracefully away.

Sumur paused, glanced down. Two thin red lines had appeared upon him, one along his forearm, the other his chest. They were shallow cuts, of no consequence, but they showed who was the fastest, by the merest fraction.

Corban realized he was holding his breath, mesmerized by the intensity and skill of the contest he was watching. Nothing he had ever seen compared: the Court of Swords between Tull and Morcant appearing as clumsy children to this deadly, vicious offering. He glanced about, and saw all those with him equally absorbed in the life-and-death dance before them. For a moment, all thoughts of the battle still raging beyond the hall’s doors was forgotten.

Clashing iron grabbed his attention again, the two men spinning and swirling like flames. For a moment Corban was unable to tell which was which.

Then one was retreating, backing towards a shape on the floor: his da’s corpse, Corban realized. He uttered an involuntary groan as he recognized it, Buddai still maintaining his solitary guard. The warrior’s foot grazed Thannon’s arm and Buddai’s jaws snapped out and bit into his boot. For a moment, less than a heartbeat, the flutter of an eyelid, that man was off-balance. His opponent’s sword snaked out, and struck a deep gash on his shoulder, then the man was spinning away, out of range. He paused, to feel his injured shoulder and Corban gasped. It was Gar.

Suddenly Corban was terrified for Gar’s life. His confidence, his
certainty
in Gar’s ability drained away. Gar used a two-handed blade, used both hands,
needed
both arms, to wield it properly. This was a contest where the minutest change in balance would tip the scales, and both men knew it.

Gar scowled and rolled his shoulders, glancing fleetingly towards Corban. ‘Go,’ he mouthed silently, and Sumur smiled in anticipation.

Slowly Gar stepped away, in the direction of the hall’s main doors, away from Corban, but before he had moved a handful of paces Sumur was lunging forwards.

There was another burst of sword strikes and parries, this time Gar steadily retreating, blocking, not even trying to strike back. Sweat glistened on his brow, as Sumur’s attack became a blur, the warrior sensing the closeness of his victory.

Then men were pouring through the open doors, a fighting mob of both red and grey. They crashed into Gar and Sumur, sweeping them apart.

‘Gar!’ Gwenith screamed. ‘Now. Come now.’

Corban added his voice to hers, though both Gar and Sumur had disappeared from view. Maybe Gar heard them, maybe he had made the decision regardless, but, as those about Corban were preparing to fight again, Gar appeared before them.

‘We need to leave. Now,’ he said. The stablemaster was exhausted and bleeding from his shoulder still, but there was something in his expression that brooked no argument.

Corban nodded. ‘All of us,’ he added, glancing at Halion and the others. Gar just shrugged.

Battle had consumed the hall again. Sumur, Nathair and Evnis were obscured from view by a tide of red-cloaks locked in combat with grey.

They were standing close to the rear of the hall, Halion and his small band of survivors curled protectively around Edana. So far, the renewed battle had not touched them.

‘We must get Edana out of here,’ Halion said, overhearing their words, looking at Gar curiously, as if seeing him for the first time.

‘Aye,’ Corban said. ‘But how?’

‘There is no path through that,’ Halion pointed out, nodding at the battle in the hall, and looked back at the doorway leading into the keep.

‘And no path beyond,’ Marrock said. ‘Most of the fortress between here and Stonegate is the same. And Owain holds the gate and bridge.’

All realized what that meant. There was only one known route in or out of Dun Carreg.

‘I know a way,’ Corban blurted, suddenly remembering the tunnels beneath the fortress.

‘You are sure?’ Halion asked.

‘Aye. A secret way.’

‘I say let us go and see,’ said Marrock, ‘not stand here debating its likelihood.’

Halion nodded and galvanized them into action. He gave orders to his remaining fighters, hurried over to the door at the back of the hall, and led the small party through.

Gwenith hesitated at the doorway, looking back at Thannon. Then her expression changed. ‘Cywen.’

Corban tried to think of the last time he had seen his sister. Where was she?

‘We must find Cywen,’ his mam said.

Gar put a hand on her arm. ‘We must get Ban to safety, and hope that we find Cywen along the way. If we don’t, I will come back and find her, once Ban is safe. I promise you.’

‘But . . .’

‘She is brave, resourceful. If any can survive through this, it is her.’ Gar held her gaze. ‘We cannot risk Ban – the sacrifice has already been so great . . .’