by John Gwynne
He came awake with a start. Rhin and Braith were still in their chairs, though they were no longer talking. They were looking at the fire. Rafe stared too, and as he watched, fresh flames curled up, wood crackling, a spark spitting out onto the stone floor.
‘What—’ Rafe began.
‘Quiet,’ Rhin snapped.
A figure formed in the fire, like the thread of a tapestry being sewn upon a fabric of flame. Slowly it became clearer: a figure sitting upon a stone floor, a chain of iron about its wrists.
The figure spoke, a crackle of flame. ‘What do you want?’ Then Rafe recognized him.
Halion.
Witchcraft. Rafe felt his body prickle with goose-bumps. He wanted to get up and run, as far and fast as he could, but his feet seemed to be frozen, his arms pinned to the leather chair he was sitting in.
Another figure appeared, moving quickly. It bent over Halion, then the shackles were falling away, clanging on the stone.
‘What are you doing?’ Halion asked.
‘Get up,’ the other figure said, a man, his back to the flames.
‘I don’t understand,’ Halion muttered.
‘Rhin’s had enough of you being alive. She’s putting your head on a spike, on the morrow.’
‘Thought that would suit you. You’ve made your choices,’ Halion said.
‘Don’t be a fool, Hal.’ The figure held out his arm for Halion. ‘You’re my brother. I can’t see that done to you.’
Conall.
‘So what is this, then?’
‘It’s an escape, you idiot – what did you think?’ Rafe could almost see the grin on Conall’s face.
Halion gripped Conall’s arm and stood slowly.
‘Come with me,’ Halion said.
‘No. I don’t want to see you dead, but that doesn’t mean I want to go back to life on the run, in a saddle. And besides, I don’t like those whom you serve.’
‘The feeling’s mutual there,’ Halion said.
‘So, I’ll take you to the tunnel in the stables, give you a horse. You’re on your own from there. Where you go is your business – and don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.’
‘But Rhin’ll have your head for this.’
‘She’ll never know.’
Rhin snorted at that.
Then they were moving, disappearing from the flames.
Silence settled in the room. Rafe stared at the fire. The flames died down, shrinking back to glowing embers.
‘How did you do that?’ Rafe whispered.
‘You don’t really want to know,’ Rhin said. ‘Suffice to say that it involved the freshly flayed skin of an enemy and some blood. Actually a lot of blood. It wasn’t easy. But then, if it was, everybody would be doing it, wouldn’t they.’
Rafe swallowed, feeling his gut churn. Wish I’d never asked.
‘Never did trust that Conall.’ Braith muttered.
‘No. It’s a shame,’ Rhin sighed.
‘Did you know he would do this?’
‘I suspected.’
‘So will it be Conall’s head on a spike alongside Halion’s on the morrow?’
‘No. Not yet, at least. I need him for the moment. I have to go – pressing needs elsewhere, and I really don’t like it here. So I’ll let him think he’s deceived me, leave him to rule Domhain for a while, see whether he can tame the dissenters. He may just get himself killed, of course, which will save me a job in the long run.’ She shrugged. ‘I can’t worry about everything.’
‘Better get moving,’ Braith said. ‘Else Halion’ll get away.’ ‘I want him to get away. And you’re going to follow him.’ Rhin said with a slow smile. ‘All the way to Edana.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
MAQUIN
Maquin crawled through the long grass, breathing in the scent of meadow flowers. Abruptly the grass parted and a wide plain dissected by a forked river opened up in front of him. We’re going to get wet. Again.
The grass rustled behind him and Fidele crawled up.
‘It’s big,’ she said.
‘Aye.’
‘I have ridden past it many times, and it never looked so daunting before.’
‘That’s because you and your honour guard could ride across a bridge that wasn’t guarded by Vin Thalun then.’
Beyond the river a forest followed the skyline into the east.
‘That is the forest Sarva, and beyond it is Ripa.’
Ripa. Our destination, and safety, according to Fidele.
And now we are nearly there. Just a river and a forest to cross.
They had been travelling for over two moons now, shadowing the main river most of the way from Jerolin. After the hounds and the jump into a river they had been carried a few leagues south. They’d hauled themselves out, shivering, battered and bruised but still alive, and gone to ground, hiding in a cave for a ten-night as they let the Vin Thalun pass them by. Since then they had avoided all pursuit, though they had glimpsed Vin Thalun corsairs patrolling the great river that flowed from Jerolin to Ripa.
Maquin scanned the plain below them. There was no bridge crossing the river, but he spied a ford. Movement on the river drew Maquin’s attention.
It was a ship’s prow, oars rising and dipping.
He recognized it as a Vin Thalun war-galley. He had spent enough time breaking his back rowing one all the way from Isiltir to the island of Panos. As he watched his hands itched, the memory of pulling at an oar triggering a host of feelings and memories. All of them unpleasant.
The Vin Thalun galley reached the ford in the river, a gangplank appearing and men swarming down it. Some carried great lengths of timber, half a dozen stripped trunks and spare masts. With an efficiency that Maquin grudgingly respected they set about portage of the ship across the ford, placing the lengths of timber in front of the ship’s prow, at the same time ropes were hurled down for men to haul the ship over the masts, warriors running to the stern of the ship to collect the timber as it rolled over it and carry it back to the prow, repeating the process until the ship was back in the water on the northern side of the ford. Then they boarded the ship and set to rowing again.
The sun was low in the sky when the Vin Thalun galley disappeared over the horizon, heading north-west.
‘They are going to Jerolin,’ Fidele said.
‘Most likely. And we’re going to Ripa. Come, let’s go get our feet wet.’
Maquin watched Fidele as she skinned a rabbit, the first rays of dawn dappling her skin through the canopy above. Her cuts were economical and precise, first gutting the dead animal, dumping the offal in the river, keeping the heart and liver, slicing a neat line all along the underbelly, then ripping the skin free in a series of fluid tugs.
She’s not useless now. Not that I thought she was before. Stubborn, pig-headed, maybe, but not useless. Over their time together Maquin had learned a quiet respect for her. She was a lady of rank and clearly not capable of surviving in the wild – well, not when I met her – but to her credit she had refused just to rely upon him. She asked more questions than an inquisitive bairn, and slowly built up a set of skills that would look after any woodsman in the wild.
The rabbit was skinned and quartered now. She pierced each piece on a long knife and set it over their small fire, a luxury Maquin would not normally have agreed to, but they were half a day from Ripa now. Fidele was focusing on turning her makeshift spit, face set in lines of concentration so as not to burn any of the meat. The last two moons had taken their toll on her. She was pale, her face gaunt, dark shadows beneath her eyes, streaks of grey in her otherwise jet hair. Yet something else had changed about her. When Maquin had led her from the arena at Jerolin there had been a rage within her, something cold and hard. Brittle. Over their journey that had changed, gradually melting away. She was relaxed in the wild, appearing more comfortable than Maquin had ever witnessed her in Jerolin.
And now I have taken her almost to safety, to Ripa. The first promise that I have not broken in a lo
ng time. He felt something at that thought, a warmth deep in his chest. The satisfaction of a task completed. I’d forgotten what it is to feel . . . good. To have honour.
And he felt something else, an echo of his life before Lykos and slavery, before Jael’s betrayal and Kastell’s death, when life had been more than just a consuming need for vengeance or survival. She has reminded me what it is like to be a man, not just a trained killer. That feels good, too.
She looked up at him, perhaps feeling his eyes upon her.
‘What?’ she said, a smile warming her face.
‘Nothing,’ he muttered and looked away.
They stepped out of the forest; the road and river left a gaping hole amongst the trees that reminded Maquin of the dark entrance to the catacombs beneath Haldis. Ripa appeared before them: a stone tower on a high hill overlooking the sea. It was guarded by a stout wooden fortress, a town of wood and thatch spilling from the hill’s slopes and down into a bay. Columns of smoke rose up into the sky. The river curled languidly towards the sea through a plain of tall grass, the smell of salt and sound of gulls in the air.
They walked on the road, which was built upon an embankment, beside them fields of tall grass swaying in a strong breeze. Maquin felt exposed and self-conscious now that they were out in the open. Vulnerable. Been in the wild too long.
As they followed the road from the forest that led to Ripa something nagged Maquin.
Where are the people? The children?
‘Something’s wrong,’ Maquin said.
As they crested a slight rise they saw what. Black-sailed ships dotted the bay – lots of them.
A blockade. Maquin stopped walking, pointed to the bay. Fidele stared, her brow creased with worry.
‘That smoke doesn’t look right,’ she said.
She was right. Even as Maquin watched thick black columns of smoke appeared, close to the harbour.
Ripa is under attack.
‘We should get back to the forest,’ Maquin said.
They turned, hurrying back. Before they’d gone a dozen strides a shape appeared in the darkness that enveloped the river’s entrance to the forest. A sharp prow emerged like a spear bursting through a body. A lean hull, low to the water, oars rising and falling in constant rhythm.
Maquin grabbed Fidele and dragged her down the embankment into the long grass that edged the road. Once under cover Fidele pulled Maquin to a halt.
‘I must see,’ she hissed at him.
‘We should leave, get away,’ he said, all his instincts screaming to run, to survive.
‘Go where? There is nowhere else to go. This is the only safe place.’ There was a tremor in her voice.
She thought her running was over, that she was safe.
He allowed her to lead him to the edge of the grass. They peered out, saw the Vin Thalun galley sail past them, sleek and fluid, others emerging from the darkness of the forest. They were close enough to see faces on the first galley’s deck, Vin Thalun warriors gathered there, staring at Ripa. Maquin’s eyes were drawn to one – dark-haired, an oiled beard. Maquin knew him just by the way he stood.
Lykos.
Fidele’s hand gripped his forearm, nails digging in as she hissed. She took a step forwards, one hand reaching for the knife at her belt. Maquin grabbed her and dragged her back, the grass around them swaying. A cry of alarm went up from the galley’s deck. He risked a glance back, saw Lykos staring hard. Lykos shouted an order and the galley swerved towards the bank. The oars were pulling out of the water, being drawn back through the oar-holes. A gangplank appeared, warriors crowding behind it.
Maquin looked to the forest, then up to Ripa on the hill. In the forest we’ll be hunted. In the fortress we’ll be trapped.
Fidele made the decision for him. She bolted away from him, through the long grass towards Ripa.
Maquin caught up with Fidele. He could hear the sound of pursuit, feet drumming on the road, the change in sound as they hit the long grass. It was hard going, the grass weaving about them as they powered through it. All Maquin could hear was his own breathing, the sound of their passage as the grass rustled and swayed. He risked a glance back, to his horror saw Vin Thalun running along the road, tracking them. And they were gaining.
Got to do something.
He grabbed Fidele and burst out of the grass and dragged her up the embankment to the road, shoved her forward, yelled for her to keep running as he turned, pulling a knife from his belt. A score of Vin Thalun were pounding up the road towards him – forty paces away, thirty – galleys alongside him flowing down the river, and to his right the long grass was rippling in the wake of those who had followed them. He flipped the knife in his hand and threw it at a warrior on the road. The man swerved and the blade punched into his shoulder instead of his neck. ‘Old Wolf,’ he heard someone call out from the river as he turned and ran, other voices taking up the cry. He didn’t stop to look.
He caught up with Fidele and together they hurtled along the road, buildings streaming past them. Sounds of battle drifted on the breeze from the bay, clouds of black smoke billowing across the road.
‘Hold your breath,’ Maquin grunted as Fidele slowed before the thick smoke. He sucked in a deep breath, grabbed her hand and plunged in. A dozen heartbeats and there was no change, his eyes stinging, forty heartbeats and he could feel the veins pounding in his head, felt like his heart was thumping out of his chest. Fifty heartbeats and the smoke thinned, and then suddenly they were through it. Fidele staggered into him, coughing, her eyes streaming.
‘Can’t stop,’ he rasped. Blurred images fought on the road ahead. He turned to his left, pulling Fidele into a huddle of buildings, led her through a twisting maze of alleys and paths. Eventually Maquin stopped, leaning against a wall. Fidele collapsed to her knees, chest rising and falling violently as she struggled for breath. Maquin realized he was still clutching a knife in one hand.
‘Got to keep moving,’ he muttered. He glanced up, saw the tower of Ripa looming above them.
‘One hard climb and we’re there,’ he said. Dragging Fidele to her feet they stumbled on, turning a corner and almost falling into a running battle, Vin Thalun trading blows with warriors of Ripa in the black and silver of Tenebral. The Vin Thalun were fewer in numbers, but more were emerging from the streets and alleys all the time. Maquin looked up the hill, saw that the gates of a tall wooden wall that ringed the tower were open – people streaming through them.
These men are the rearguard, buying time for the people of Ripa to reach safety.
‘Up the hill,’ Maquin yelled at Fidele over the din of battle. Together they ran, swerving around combat, over bodies. Two men crashed in front of them, punching, kicking, stabbing. Fidele hurdled them and stumbled on, but a hand grabbed Maquin as he leaped over them. He crashed to the ground, rolled to his feet, brandishing his knife. A Vin Thalun was climbing from the ground, short sword blooded and buckler still in his hands. Maquin didn’t wait for him to find his balance and lunged forward with his knife, at the same time drawing another. His first blade scraped along the Vin Thalun’s buckler, his second slicing low, beneath the rim of a battered cuirass. Blood and a tangle of intestines gushed out of the wound. Maquin kicked the screaming man over and turned back to Fidele a dozen paces ahead. He waved her on, sprinting after her.
The men of Ripa were trying to form a wall against the Vin Thalun, but there were too many, more surging up the hill, others flowing out of side streets, flanking the beleaguered rearguard.
They have no chance.
Then Vin Thalun were spilling into the road above them, two score at least, more appearing, blocking the road and falling on the men of Ripa.
Fidele looked at him despairingly.
There was no way back. The side streets were swarming with Vin Thalun, and besides, running that way would only delay the inevitable.
The tower gates were still open, a hundred paces up the road.
Only chance is to get through those gates.
<
br /> He stared at Fidele a moment, the worry etched upon her features, moments from their journey flashing through his mind. Strangely, he found himself smiling, remembering snippets of conversation and silence.
I think you’re worth dying for. He knew making the gates was unlikely – just too many Vin Thalun in the way, and more arriving by the heartbeat.
Death is only ever a moment away.
‘What now?’ Fidele asked.
I carve us a way to those gates, or die trying.
‘Stay behind me,’ he grunted, stepping in front of her.
The first men saw him too late, his knives bringing sudden death upon them. In a dozen heartbeats three Vin Thalun were dead, another slumped upon the ground, bleeding out from a deep gash in his groin.
Maquin pressed forward, felt Fidele behind him, knew she would have her knife in her hand.
The Vin Thalun saw him coming now, a handful moving on him together, spreading into a half-circle.
Don’t give them time. He knew from the pits that to hesitate against many was to die. With a snarl he swept forwards and to the left, one knife high, the other low, cutting, blocking, slicing, always moving. Time slowed, each heartbeat a lifetime. He felt cuts appear on his arms, his thighs, thin lines of pain burning like flame as his attackers managed to get past his guard. He stabbed, hands slick with blood. A blow high on his back staggered him and he fell to one knee, rolled forwards from it, a sword slicing a handspan from his face. He had no idea where Fidele was now. Could only hope that she was still close. He kept stabbing, every face he saw superimposed with the features of Lykos or Jael. He killed them both, countless times, a feral grin on his face. One of his knives stuck between ribs, was ripped out of his hand as his victim fell away. He pulled another blade from his boot, powered on, blood splattering his face, blurring his vision, the taste of iron in his mouth. Someone grabbed his arm; he spun on a heel, sliced a hamstring, the man falling, still clutching him, pulling him down. A blow crunched into his gut, low, above his right hip, felt like a punch. He snapped an elbow into a face, heard cartilage snap, took a step forwards and suddenly he was falling, his right leg numb, the ground rushing up to him, his head slamming onto the blood-slick ground, his knives skittering away. He pushed at the ground, tried to rise, but his legs weren’t working properly; he just managed to roll onto his back. He sucked in air, the sky a bright blue above him. Numbness pulsed out from the blow to his gut. He reached there, fingers coming away dark with blood.