The soldiers were twice their number and more, but they found themselves matched by the three men that opposed them. Harod held the centre, stiff and disciplined, his blade flicking here and there while his body barely moved. To either side, Keel and Garric fought savagely. Keel was formidable, but Garric married brute force with technique and was by far the superior of the two.
Aren drew his own sword uncertainly, trying to gather enough courage to join them. Before he could, Cade drew his attention. Four more soldiers were approaching down the stepped, sloping alley behind them.
His guts pulled tight. Keel, Harod and Garric were occupied with the first patrol. There was no one to defend them from these newcomers.
Fen swung around and loosed a hasty shot which thudded into the pelvis of the foremost guard, sending him tumbling with a scream. The rest kept coming and Aren ran towards them, because it was that or wait to die. A soldier loomed before him; their swords crashed together. The other two rushed past to either side, seeking other targets.
Aren parried desperately, fending off the Krodan’s hacking strokes. There was no stopping, and no surrender. He didn’t really know how to fight, so he was going to die. The terrifying finality of that swamped him, and in a moment of panic he let his guard down.
The Krodan knocked his sword aside and plunged in for the killing thrust. Aren reacted on instinct and did what he’d done a thousand times before under Master Orik’s tutelage: he stepped aside, knocked the blade down with his sword and swept it back up at his opponent’s head.
He should have hit the soldier’s throat, but he was clumsy and the tip of his sword caromed off the soldier’s cheek-guard, hard enough to ring his head like a bell. The soldier staggered back. For a heartbeat, they stared at each other in surprise.
Realisation sunk in: he’d been trained for this. All those years of the sword with Master Orik, feinting and parrying and watching his footwork, had been for this moment. So that when it came to it, he could move faster than he could think, react without question.
I can fight, he told himself, and he did.
Their blades met again and again. Aren was no longer on the back foot, but he fought carefully and defensively. With every block, his confidence grew. Every time he pushed his enemy back, he felt stronger. Panting breath, clenched teeth, sword on sword. His arm was starting to ache but it didn’t matter. They’d only fought for seconds but it seemed like an eternity.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the soldiers scream and arch his back as Grub drove a knife into his spine. He saw Orica hiding in a doorway, heard Fen’s bow again. More soldiers were coming from somewhere. He couldn’t see Cade and didn’t have time to look for him.
To overcome your enemy, you must first understand him.
Master Orik’s favourite maxim. It brought clarity out of chaos and sharpened his mind. For the first time, he saw beyond the armour to the man he was fighting, a young man hardly older than he was, with doubt in his eyes. Suddenly he knew this Krodan, this boy trying to be a man, an unwilling soldier pushed into the life of the sword. He knew as little of real combat as Aren did. Less, in fact: this was his first fight with death on the line. He’d never killed anyone. Uniform or no, Aren had been blooded where his opponent hadn’t.
I’m better than him, Aren thought in amazement, and with that he attacked.
A quick feint. The soldier lurched to defend against it. Aren went the other way, under his guard, and struck a glancing blow to his ribs, cutting between the plates of his armour into the leather and flesh beneath. The soldier screamed in pain, his guard collapsing as he stumbled back. Aren swung hard and chopped through the forearm of his off-hand. His scream became a breathless wail as he dropped his sword and clutched the stump of his arm, then tumbled onto his arse on the rainy cobbles.
Run him through, said Master Orik in his head. But his opponent was out of the fight, white with shock, and Aren didn’t have the stomach to slay a helpless man. He stepped back, chest heaving.
‘Vika!’
It was Cade’s voice. Aren whirled to see the druidess backing up as a burly soldier advanced on her. Harod had broken away from his fight and was standing with Orica; Cade had wisely stuck close to him, sheltering behind Harod’s blade rather than Aren’s. There were more soldiers lying dead, pierced by Fen’s arrows, and Grub had a man on the ground with his head pulled back, sawing at his throat with goblin glee as blood gushed out onto the cobbles.
Aren ran to help Vika but Ruck got there first, racing out of the rain to sink her teeth into the soldier’s calf. The soldier roared and tried to stab the hound; but Vika stepped forward then, dashing a handful of powder in his face. His roars became shrieks as he pawed at his eyes, Ruck still savaging his leg. By the time Aren reached him, his face was blistered and burned, tear-streaked and smoking in the rain.
Aren gritted his teeth and drove his sword through the man’s belly, up into his heart. He gargled, shuddered and went slack.
After that, there was no one left to fight. Aren looked this way and that, and saw only dead and wounded Krodans. The soldier who’d lost an arm had fallen silent, lying on his side, the stump drawn up against his chest. He was probably going to bleed out and die. Aren found he didn’t care. The brutality of battle had numbed him to sympathy and grief. Survival was the only goal.
Garric and Keel came striding over. Harod was breathlessly apologising to Orica for not being there earlier. Between them they’d killed nine.
‘There’s more coming up from the docks,’ Garric told them. ‘Keep moving.’
‘Where to?’ asked Aren.
‘Jadrell’s got a launch in his boathouse, small enough for us to sail.’ He surveyed the junction, the dead there. Then he gave Aren a rough slap on the arm. ‘You fought well,’ he said.
Aren felt a flush of pride at his words, and a grateful smile jumped onto his face. Then he remembered who he was talking to and wiped it off, angry at himself.
You do not know whether to hate or admire him, Vika had said. But couldn’t he do both?
Through thunder and storm they ran. A horn sounded behind them and they hid as a Krodan patrol hurried past in the next street. The whole garrison was on the alert now. They went up sloping lanes and stairs running with water as they climbed towards Lord Jadrell’s mansion.
Soon they saw it, perched on a cliff overlooking the Cut. Next to it was the boathouse: a stout timber construction with a thick door that opened onto the street. The door was securely padlocked.
‘Out of the way! Grub good with locks!’
The Skarl produced two thin slivers of metal, one with a hooked end, and got to work. The others took up positions watching the approaches. From where they stood, they had a good view of the way they’d come. The rainswept thoroughfare ran downhill towards the heart of the town, crossed by half a dozen others.
Some way down the hill, a patrol emerged onto the street. One of the men saw them and shouted. In moments, they were joined by a larger group, and twenty or thirty soldiers swarmed towards them.
‘Skarl! Make it fast!’ Garric said.
‘Hollow Man not helping Grub’s concentration,’ Grub muttered.
This time, when Keel, Garric and Harod formed a defensive line, Aren went with them, his blade ready. The numbers against them were greater, the street wider, their chances slim. But Aren would fight nonetheless, without thought of retreat.
Let them come.
He saw a figure on horseback riding up behind the troops and a thrill of recognition ran through him. Though he was some way off, he knew the man by his dress and his posture. He didn’t need to see beneath the broad-brimmed hat to identify the man who’d killed his father.
Harte.
A red rage swarmed behind his eyes and he was seized by the urge to charge, to hack through the enemy so he could wrap his hands around that throat. But this was no bard’s tale, and he was no hero. If he was to take revenge on his father’s murderer, it wouldn’t be today, not w
ith so many standing in his way.
There was a click from behind him, and a clanking of chain.
‘Grub done it!’
Garric turned away from the oncoming troops, wrenched the heavy door open. ‘In! In!’ he shouted, ushering the others past him.
‘Thank you, Grub! Good job, Grub!’ the Skarl grumbled resentfully as he went inside; but Aren didn’t move. He was still looking down the street. Let him see me, he thought. Let him know I’m coming for him.
As if he’d heard, Harte raised his head and their eyes met across the distance, Aren’s hot hate against the watchman’s cool arrogance.
‘Aren!’ Cade tugged at him, but Aren wouldn’t break that gaze. Not until he heard hooves clattering and three terrible figures rode into view in front of the troops.
Dreadknights.
‘Inside now!’ Garric snarled, yanking him out of the rain and into the boathouse, where Grub bolted and padlocked the door behind them.
The space inside was dominated by Jadrell’s launch, a long rowing boat with raised covered decks to fore and aft. It rested on struts a few feet off the floor, suspended from the ceiling by a cradle of ropes and pulleys. It was brightly painted in the green and yellow of Jadrell’s house, and there was a crest at the bow with leaping fish, prowling wolves and castles displaying his family’s heritage and their connections to other notable powers. It was a Krodan affectation that made Garric sneer when he saw it.
‘Aren, Cade, get the gates open. Keel and I will see to the boat.’
Keel was already working the winch that operated the overhead pulleys, tightening the ropes until they took the vessel’s weight. The others set to pulling the struts aside, to allow Keel to lower it onto the slipway.
Aren and Cade ran to the end of the boathouse, where they unlatched the wooden gates and shoved them open. The wind howled in and around them, and they found themselves overlooking the torrid grey-blue waters of the Cut. Cade leaned out and peered down the slipway.
‘Don’t reckon this is entirely safe,’ he opined.
‘Am I hearing you right?’ Aren shouted over the wind. ‘Is this the same Cade that faced a savage she-warg and lived to tell the tale?’
‘It was a wild pig,’ Cade pointed out.
‘It was a big wild pig,’ Aren replied. Cade laughed, and for a moment it felt like they were boys again, back in Shoal Point, and adventures still ended at dinner time.
Then something huge and heavy crashed against the door to the street and Grub jumped back as the chain rattled wildly through the handles.
‘Grub think it’s time to go,’ he said.
‘Get in the boat!’ Garric barked at them. ‘Harod, Grub, Keel – help me push!’
‘Why Grub always have to do the hard wor—’
‘Now!’
Keel had lowered the boat onto the slipway and was hacking away the ropes that held it while the others clambered in and Ruck was hoisted up. Garric sliced through the anchor rope, which was meant to ease the boat slowly down to the water. They wouldn’t be going slowly this time.
A second blow hit the door and the head of Ruin’s hammer smashed through it, almost taking it off its hinges. The dreadknight wrenched the hammer free, and Aren glimpsed Plague and Sorrow behind him.
‘Push!’ Garric roared, and they put their shoulders to the boat. It slid forward easily on greased rollers, and Aren felt the nauseating anticipation of the drop at the end as the boat gathered speed. Once the momentum was too great to stop, the four men who were pushing began to scramble into the moving boat. Grub was nimble enough to climb over the side without aid and Keel had little trouble, either, but Harod was wearing splint mail and needed help. Garric got his arms over the gunwale and Aren and Cade, who were nearest, reached over and started pulling him in.
The door burst apart in a blast of spinning timber as Ruin charged into the boathouse. Plague and Shadow darted in behind him. The boat, accelerating fast, jolted against a jammed roller. Harod fell into the boat, crushing Fen and Orica against the side. Cade stumbled, lost his grip on Garric and tripped over a rowing bench. Suddenly Garric was sliding back over the side of the boat, feet trailing on the ground. Aren, who had one of his arms, lunged forwards to grab the other. The muscles of his back wrenched as they took the strain.
The boat had almost reached the boathouse gates. Ruin thundered after the escaping fugitives, clanking and thumping as he ran alongside the slipway. Plague raised his bow and drew.
Garric was trying to find his feet, tripping along beside the boat as it pulled away from him. Only Aren’s grip kept him from falling behind. He looked into the eyes of the Hollow Man, the man who’d sworn to kill his father, and who, in a way, had done so. After all, the Krodans only killed Randill to get to Garric.
All Aren had to do was let him go, and the dreadknights would have their prize. It would all be over, and Cade would be safe. Without Garric, the rest of them were insignificant, not worth the chase.
In a moment of wild temptation, he thought he might do it.
But it was a moment only, and it passed. He planted his feet against the side of the boat and hauled with all his might. Garric found his footing and launched himself upwards, and then Keel was there, grabbing Garric by his belt, adding his strength to Aren’s. They all tumbled into the boat in a heap. Somewhere among the knocks and bruises and the tangle of limbs, Aren heard the snap of a bowstring. Vika grunted, folded up, fell back against the gunwale. Then the world began to tip.
‘Grab something!’ Keel yelled. Gravity took hold and the boat slithered into a headlong plunge, to the terrifying tempo of the slipway’s wooden ribs clacking past faster and faster. Fen screamed as they plummeted towards the waves, her voice drowned out by the wind.
They braced as best they could, but it was never going to be enough. As they crashed into the water, they were flung violently forward. Aren slammed against something wooden and painfully solid. He saw Cade go skidding past him, his head caroming off a supply chest, leaving him in a limp heap, unconscious or worse. Aren tried to get to him but was blinded by a wash of salty water which exploded over the bow, stinging his face and soaking him. Suddenly the boat was turning wildly, black rocks looming above it.
‘Get to the oars!’ Keel bellowed. Then he went scrambling towards the stern, stepping over Vika, who lay in a heap of hides and tangled trinkets.
Aren, too disorientated to think for himself, did as he was ordered. Others clambered onto the benches around him and fumbled oars into place. Garric yelled ‘Pull!’ and they did, clumsily at first but tightening the rhythm with each stroke. Orica was to Aren’s right, her hair a wet draggle, arms straining. Fen worked ahead of him. Grub’s biceps bulged as he applied himself to his task with the determination of the desperate. Waves surged over the side, swilling round their feet and the sliding, rolling bodies of Cade and Vika. Ruck barked in a frenzy, skidding about as she tried to summon help for her fallen mistress.
Lightning flashed, thunder boomed and the wind screamed. The horizon tilted and tipped until Aren had no idea which direction they were going. He could hardly see through the tempest. He wanted to go to Cade but didn’t dare let go of the oar.
From out of the chaos came laughter. It was Keel, hauling on the tiller atop the stern deck, skin glistening and his head thrown back.
‘Come, then, Joha!’ he screamed, madness in his voice. ‘I dare you! Crush us if you can!’
‘Pull!’ Garric shouted, and they did, hauling their way another few feet through the waves. The boat yawed and bucked. Aren’s arms and back ached and his hands sang with pain.
‘Pull!’
Again they drew on their oars, and again, until it was all Aren knew. The agony of effort became a background haze. He was taken by the same mulish trance that had got him through endless hours chipping stone in the mine. Only Garric’s voice mattered. Only the next pull, and the next.
‘Hold!’
The break in the rhythm brought Aren back to himself.
He blinked and looked about. They were out on the channel now, far from either shore, and though waves still tipped and crashed over the boat, there were no rocks to dash against. Wracken Bay was a distant cluster of lights through the rain and they were speeding westwards, carried along the coast by a fast current.
Freed from the oar, Aren staggered unsteadily across the boat to Cade. He hauled his friend from the water and sat him up against the chest. Cade had a darkening bruise on the side of his head, but he half-wakened at Aren’s urging, and though groggy he could focus his eyes with effort. Aren was relieved. He’d taken a knock, but Cade was hard-headed.
‘You’ll be alright,’ he said, more to reassure himself than Cade. ‘You’ll be alright.’
Vika wasn’t faring so well. The others had propped her up against the gunwale, her face a streaked mess of black and white paint, her eyes closed and her hair in soggy ropes. A black-feathered arrow was buried deep in her shoulder.
‘Will she live?’ Orica asked.
‘How would I know?’ Garric snapped. ‘She’s the one with the healing arts!’ He put his hand to his forehead in evident distress. ‘Let’s make her comfortable, at least.’
Ruck barked wildly as they set about it, out of her mind with anxiety. Aren looked back to the tiller, where Keel had fallen silent. His gaze was distant, turned towards the lights of the town, his expression a bleak mix of shocked grief and emptiness.
His wife, Aren thought. His son.
The boat sailed on through dark and the tempest, heading for the sea.
63
‘Which of you has the answer? Come on, speak up!’
Mara waited before the blackboard, sweeping the room expectantly with hard eyes. She was lean, with short hair the colour of brushed steel and a sharp-featured face creased with the wrinkles and folds of fifty years. Some of her pupils stared furiously past her, avoiding her gaze, trying to make sense of the sums and diagrams. The others looked down, hoping someone else would declare a solution so they wouldn’t have to.
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