Malice (The Faithful and the Fallen, #1)

by John Gwynne

The air was fresh, sharp, a chill to it that set his skin tingling, even though the sky above was blue and the sun bright. Summer was slipping away, autumn creeping in.

He lay down on the wet grass and curled up against Storm, who sniffed his face and licked his cut arm. He wrapped an arm around her and closed his eyes, oblivious to the rain.

He closed the door and threw himself on his cot, then the tears came again, his body shaking, wracked by great, muffled sobs as he thrust his face into his blankets. All he could hear was Storm’s howl as he had run from her.

Live by truth and courage and Elyon will see you through.’

‘He has told me of a wolven that tracks us, just out of sight. A white wolven with dark stripes on its body.’

Corban was laughing, could not stop, though tears streaked his face. Storm was bashing him with her head, whining and rubbing her muzzle against him, her breath hot in his face.

Both the brave man and the coward feel the same. The only difference between them is that the brave man faces his fear, does not run.’

‘Corban ben Thannon,’ Halion called. ‘You came to the Field a bairn, you leave it as a warrior, as a man. Rise,’ he said, his hand touching Corban’s elbow, ‘and take your sword.’

The pommel was dark iron, carved into the head of a snarling wolven.

‘I pledge my arm, my mind, my soul, my strength in service of the two: King and Kin.’ He drew his sword across his palm, dripping blood from a clenched fist onto the ground. ‘I swear this by my heart, seal it with my blood,’ Corban said.

Anger is the enemy,

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.

He's come so far in his training

Rain lashed her, winds swirling and pulling.

‘You use words to cast a shroud over the truth,’