Free Malice (Faithful & the Fallen 1) by John Gwynne Page B

Prince.’
    ‘Understandable, I think, under the circumstances,’ Nathair said.
    ‘Indeed, indeed. Well, for now perhaps the short version, then. Lykos wishes there to be an understanding between us.’
    ‘Us?’ Orcus snapped.
    ‘The mainland of Tenebral and the Islands. A truce, an alliance, even.’
    ‘Pfah,’ spat Orcus, but Nathair just stared at Lykos’ counsellor.
    ‘Father would never agree. He hates the Vin Thalun islanders.’
    ‘Yes, we are aware of Aquilus’ disposition,’ the counsellor said. ‘That is, in part, why I am speaking to you, Nathair. But, more than that, you are the future of
Tenebral, and of any treaty between us. You.’
    ‘My father is king, not I.’
    ‘At present, true. But that will not always be so.’ The old man smiled, as if talking with an old friend. ‘The older you get, the more likely you are to become fixed in your
ways, in your opinions. Sometimes fresh blood is needed to guide the way. These are exciting times, as I would think your father has discussed with you. Perhaps
your
opinion,
your
guidance, is of worth.’ He looked intently at the Prince.
    Nathair snorted, but did not look away from the counsellor’s gaze. ‘Even if I were to agree that there may be some value in an alliance between us, how would
I
ever trust
you?’ the Prince said. ‘A people that have preyed upon those weaker than themselves, that burn and steal, that, until now, have not even been able to maintain a truce amongst
themselves?’
    ‘Back to that again,’ the counsellor frowned. ‘Trust. A most important foundation to any relationship. I could smother you with words, promises, but they are easily spoken. I
do not think you would be swayed by them. The old man took a step towards his cooking fire. ‘Perhaps a more
practical
demonstration of trust is required here.’
    ‘Demonstration of what?’ Orcus said suspiciously.
    ‘Alcyon, join us,’ the counsellor called out, and out of the laurels strode a huge form, black braided hair and a drooping moustache framing a weathered, deep-lined face. Swirling
blue tattoos coiled up massive arms and disappeared under a coat of chainmail. The hilt of a great broadsword jutted over one shoulder.
    ‘Giant,’ Rauca spat like a curse, and, as one, Nathair’s three companions drew their swords.
    At the same time the counsellor dipped his head and muttered something. The flames of the cook-fire suddenly sprang up, higher than a man and leaped forwards, cutting a line between Nathair and
his companions, leaving the Prince on the wrong side, alone with the giant and counsellor.
    Orcus took a step towards the flames and staggered back as they flared in his face, the heat searing.
    Veradis heard the scuffling of feet as the rest of their warband poured over the ridge behind him. On the far side of the flames he could see the blurred figures of the giant, Nathair and the
counsellor. The giant had drawn his huge sword and was levelling its tip at Nathair.
    Veradis sucked in a deep breath, ducked his head behind his shield and ran at the flames.

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    CYWEN
     
     
     
     
    Where are they?
thought Cywen as she ran her hand down the foreleg of a large roan colt – Gar had asked her to check over a number of horses while he was gone.
She grunted as her fingers found a small lump on the underside of the horse’s hoof.
    ‘What’s wrong?’ asked the horse trader who owned the colt.
    ‘He’s lame,’ she said with a shrug, absently pushing back a strand of dark hair fallen from her pin.
    ‘What?’ said the trader, eyes narrowing, staring at Cywen down a long, thin nose.
    ‘He’s lame,’ Cywen repeated.
    They were standing in a roped-off section of the meadow amongst rows of horses brought for the Spring Fair. Cywen was having the time of her life. First Gar had asked her to help him choose and
haggle for the new stock that Brenin wanted bought in, and on top of that he had asked her to aid him with the King’s horses. It