by John Gwynne
Jael.
He stood facing Maquin, one arm around Fidele’s throat, resting his sword-blade against the pulse in her neck, his other hand holding a knife tight to her ribs.
‘Follow me and she’s dead,’ Jael said calmly. He shuffled backwards, dragging Fidele with him. She saw Maquin appear from the crowd, their eyes touching. She did not appear scared, if anything, she looked angry.
An emotion I know well.
A warrior beside Maquin took a step forwards and Jael moved; a line of blood trickled from the blade at Fidele’s throat. Maquin grabbed a fistful of the warrior’s shirt and held him still.
‘That’s better,’ Jael said, a smile twitching his lips. How Maquin hated that smile. ‘I’m going to walk away. Have no fear, I’ll not harm this lady. I know who she is; Fidele of Tenebral. She will be safe with me; but she will stay with me. And if any of you should follow . . .’
He prodded Fidele in the ribs with his knife, making her grimace. She was still staring at Maquin.
Trust me, Maquin mouthed, then stepped out from the crowd.
The muscles in Jael’s sword arm tensed, then he recognized Maquin and paused.
‘Not you again,’ Jael sighed. ‘Don’t you ever give up?’
Maquin took a pace forwards.
‘Do you wish to be responsible for the death of Fidele, Lady of Tenebral?’ Jael snapped, resuming his slow shuffle back down the road.
‘Kill her,’ Maquin growled, taking another step forwards, focused on Jael’s eyes.
‘Stay back,’ Jael said, his voice rising in pitch, ‘or she dies.’
‘Did you not hear me?’ Maquin said, taking another step. ‘Kill her. I care not. Either way, this is where you die. Nothing will change that now.’ He took another pace forwards, and another, closing the gap between them. Jael stumbled backwards, dragging Fidele with him.
‘Are you mad? She is the mother of Nathair, she is the First-Lady of Tenebral. Her warband is standing behind you. Harm her and they will gut you.’
Maquin shrugged. ‘Once you’re dead they can do what they like to me.’
‘Stop!’ Jael screeched, his knife hand pulling back.
Maquin stopped. ‘I have an offer for you,’ he said as he slowly bent his knees, laid his sword and knife on the ground.
‘An offer?’
‘Aye.’ Maquin reached over his shoulder and drew his other sword, laid that on the ground too, unsheathed a knife from his belt, another from a shoulder strap, one from the back of his boot, laying them all upon the ground.
‘Let her go. I’ll fight you unarmed. Keep your sword, and your knife.’ He stood straight and raised his hands, started walking forwards again.
‘You’re insane,’ Jael snorted, eyes glancing from Maquin to the pile of weapons on the ground.
‘Maybe,’ Maquin shrugged. ‘You murdered my ward, my friend. Kastell was as a son to me. I will see you dead, even if I have to do it with my bare hands.’ He could see the indecision in Jael’s eyes. The man was tempted – that was clear, and why not? He was a master with the sword, with any blade, and had both sword and knife in his hands, against an unarmed man.
‘You’ve more knives hidden away.’
‘No,’ Maquin shook his head. ‘You’re just afraid to fight me.’
Jael snorted, but stopped his backward shuffling.
‘You’re afraid,’ Maquin said, louder. ‘You, Jael, murderer and usurper, a coward as well.’
A moment’s pause, Jael’s eyes narrowing, then he was lifting his sword arm to club Fidele across the back of the head. In that breath she stamped on his foot and drove an elbow into his ribs, spinning around and driving her knee into his groin. Jael staggered and rocked backwards and then Fidele was leaping away from him.
‘Bitch,’ Jael snarled, moving after her, but clumsily. In a heartbeat Maquin was standing in front of her.
‘Go,’ Maquin breathed as he squeezed Fidele’s hand. Dimly he was aware of silence settling behind him. ‘Go,’ he said, firmer, and heard her footsteps pad a dozen or so paces away.
Jael paused, looking at Maquin’s empty hands.
‘You really don’t have any more weapons?’ he said. Another smirk. ‘You actually are insane. I’m going to enjoy this.’
‘Don’t need my own blade,’ Maquin said, ‘I’ll just take one of yours.’
He strode forwards, swayed away from Jael’s diagonally chopping sword, pivoted past a stab of Jael’s knife, stepped in close and punched Jael in the ribs, making him cry out; another punch, to the sword-cut on Jael’s leg, elicited a grunt of pain.
‘For Kastell,’ Maquin said close to Jael’s ear, then he was spinning away.
Jael cursed, visibly mastered his pain, set his stance and came at Maquin, carefully, sword held high, knife low.
Maquin stepped in to meet Jael, palm of his hand slapping the blade of Jael’s sword away as he attempted a straight lunge, grabbed Jael’s knife wrist and headbutted the man full on the bridge of his nose. Jael spluttered, blood gushing, Maquin shoving him back.
‘For Kastell,’ Maquin growled.
Jael spat, cuffed blood from his face, danced forwards, swinging his sword. Maquin ducked, air whistling over his head. He twisted, felt a hot pain lance along his ribs, heard shouting behind him, punched Jael on his injured leg again as he spun out of range, heard another cry of pain.
‘For Kastell,’ he breathed.
Jael looked at a red line that his knife had scored through the leather of Maquin’s jerkin.
‘Bleed like the rest of us, then.’
Maquin ignored him and darted forwards, weaved past a sword thrust, kicked out at Jael’s ankle, connecting, hand chopping at Jael’s throat, grabbing his knife hand and twisting. Jael squawked in pain, his knife clattering to the road, Maquin kicking it away and darting out of range.
‘For Kastell,’ he said as he spun away again.
‘Stop saying that!’ Jael yelled at him, spittle flying, then ran at him, more of a hobble. Maquin stooped to sweep up the fallen knife, twisting away from Jael’s sword, slashed once with the knife. Jael cried out with pain as he stumbled on, almost falling. He regained his balance and backed away from Maquin, limping as blood ran down the back of his leg. Maquin strode at him, for the first time seeing fear in Jael’s eyes.
‘Do you remember, in the tomb beneath Haldis?’ Maquin said, not breaking his stride.
‘It was a fair fight,’ Jael said, pleading, shuffling away, leaving a trail of blood from his wounded leg.
‘He was your kin, and you betrayed him; you murdered him,’ Maquin said, exploding into movement, leaping forwards, dancing to the side around Jael’s sword, a slice at Jael’s arm – a yell and the sword was falling. They crashed into each other, limbs tangled, fell to the ground, rolled, Jael finding new strength as he punched, kicked and bit at Maquin. Maquin grabbed one of Jael’s arms, pinned it as they rolled together, inched his knife blade up, towards Jael’s throat. Jael’s efforts redoubled: his free fist punching at Maquin’s head, his gut, anywhere, everywhere. Maquin grunted but did not let go. Jael was grabbing at Maquin’s wrist, unable to stop it moving remorselessly upwards. They rolled to a halt, Maquin squeezed, twisted, and Jael’s pinned arm cracked. Jael screamed, high and long as a stuck boar, the fight draining from him. Then Maquin’s knife was at Jael’s throat, tip pressing into the soft flesh at the base of the jaw.
‘Please,’ Jael sobbed.
‘For Kastell,’ Maquin whispered, then he shoved the blade up with all his strength.
Jael made a choking sound, gurgling on dark blood that welled from his mouth, dribbled down his chin. He struggled but Maquin pushed the blade deeper, on, into his skull, kept pushing until the knife’s hilt was tight to Jael’s flesh. Jael’s eyes bulged, then he spasmed, legs kicking, slowed, became still.
Maquin rolled away, slowly stood and looked down upon Jael. He grimaced, part snarl, felt suddenly weak and dropped to his knees, then sat and stared at Jael’s corpse.
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You are avenged, Kastell; you who were like a son to me.
He felt his shoulders begin to shake, tears blur his vision, and then a hand was stroking his head, a warm body beside him pulling him into an embrace. He laid his head upon Fidele’s breast and wept.
He didn’t know how long he remained like that, but in time the world opened up from that small pinpoint of grief and he became aware of voices. He looked up and saw the warband of Ripa gathered in a half-circle about him: Veradis, Krelis, Alben, Alcyon and so many others, hundreds of them, all watching him.
‘Well, that was a cracking fight and no denying,’ Krelis said, nodding to Maquin, lifting a skin of mead to his lips and drinking deep. ‘What now?’
Fidele answered.
‘Now we march on Drassil.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CYWEN
Cywen stood in the great courtyard before the gates of Drassil alongside her fellow prisoners.
Calidus walked down the staircase that led to the battlements where he had announced his challenge to Corban, as he did each and every morning.
‘Save the lives of your people. Stop their torture.’
As always, Corban did not come, and now Calidus began the second half of each day’s ritual. Choosing a prisoner to be impaled within the courtyard.
Almost a moon had passed since Drassil had fallen so unimaginably quickly, a moon of heartache and pain.
Although she was a prisoner, Cywen had been allowed to take charge of the makeshift hospice that she and Brina had spent so long stocking and preparing, choosing a few staff to help her from amongst the more able-bodied prisoners. She was permitted to heal the captured only if she also looked after those of Nathair’s army who had been wounded in the battle. Much as Cywen despised doing so, she knew it was the only way to help her own people.
Calidus stopped a dozen steps up from the courtyard and looked at the gathered prisoners.
‘It seems that your Bright Star has better things to do than save your lives,’ he said, voice laced with anger.
Cywen shivered involuntarily at the thought of what was to come, of the screams. She was no stranger to death now, but nothing could make her immune to the horror she witnessed each morning.
Corban, come and save us.
With each passing day it seemed more impossible. For the first few days she had been practically convinced that her brother would somehow return with a warband and win back Drassil, defeat their enemy. But with each scream-filled morning that hope had withered.
Calidus gave a curt nod and a Kadoshim stepped out from the shadows of the stable-blocks, moving amongst the prisoners, dragging one forwards. As always Cywen’s heart seemed to freeze, feeling as if it swelled to fill her chest as a single Kadoshim walked down the line that she was standing in. It was the figure that was always surrounded by billowing clouds of flies.
It paused before her, one fist grabbing her chin and lifting it to stare into her eyes, though there was nothing there; its eyes were black, soulless wells. A lunatic grin twisted its mouth and a black tongue flickered out from its mouth, thick and swollen, and slowly licked her cheek. She retched from its foul breath, but the Kadoshim held her immovable while flies crawled over her face, up her nose.
‘One day, soon,’ it whispered in her ear. ‘I will crush your skull and suck the jelly from your eyes.’
Then it released her, grabbing the man beside her, one of those who had been saved from the Vin Thalun oar-benches, and dragged him towards a stake. He began to plead, then wail. It did no good, and soon his horrific screams were ringing out, a cacophony of torment.
There was no hiding from it. The sound climbed, sweeping over the walls and on, out over the plains surrounding the fortress, into the silent trees of Forn.
Have Corban and the survivors fled, or retreated?
Calidus strode down from the battlement steps and with an irritable wave of his hand signalled for the surviving prisoners to be taken away. The warriors of Tenebral, in black and silver, herded Cywen and the others out of the courtyard. She wrinkled her nose as they passed the stables, the stench of Nathair’s draig clawing up her nose. She’d smelt a lot of bad things in her time, but nothing like the smell of draig dung.
She heard a horse neigh as they moved past the stables.
Shield?
When Drassil had fallen to Calidus and Nathair’s warband the stables had been full of horses, great warhorses that the Jehar rode, a whole herd that had been saved from the destruction of Gramm’s hold. They were still there, and created another task that the prisoners were used for – stable duty, tending to the horses. Every time that Cywen was picked she had managed to get close to Shield, Corban’s stallion.
As they left the courtyard and entered a wide street shouts rang out from the wall, then horns sounded. The great bars across the gates were drawn back and the gates opened with a juddering creak.
Figures filled the open gates, silhouettes with the sun behind them. They became clearer as they spilt into the courtyard: Vin Thalun, a score, two score, maybe more. Many of them were wounded.
So, something is out there, then, hidden within the trees of Forn. Something with teeth of iron.
As she was marched away from the courtyard Cywen felt a seed of hope glimmer, deep inside. It was faint and fragile, and it wasn’t helped much by what she saw around her on her way back to the hospice. Kadoshim were prowling the streets, moving like shadows, their heads twitching at every sound. All around her she saw a host of eagle-guard in their black and silver, manning gates and walls, filling once-abandoned buildings, working at forge and barn, and the Vin Thalun were everywhere. Many of them were half-drunk and fighting, loitering on street corners, sitting in impromptu circles and throwing dice of bone. The numbers of her enemy seemed vast, far more than Corban’s warband had ever been, even at full strength.
Could we ever have won?
The dead from the battle had mostly been cleared from the streets now, here and there a dark stain on a flagstone acting as a stark reminder. As Cywen turned a corner she saw a dog sniffing at a heaped rubbish pile. The dog was small and white; a ratter.
I know that dog! It was Haelan’s. What happened to him? She looked at the dog as she was marched past it. It was skinny and half-starved, ribs visible. Haelan must be dead. He loved that dog. Pots, he called him.
Just like my poor Buddai. What happened to him? She had not seen him since before the battle. Perhaps he had been killed, or maybe fled, though deep in her heart she doubted that.
He was too loyal, would not have left me like that.
She drew level with the white dog and clicked her tongue, reached inside a pocket in her cloak and pulled out a chunk of bread. The dog lifted its head, sniffing, and after a moment’s cautious indecision, darted over to her. She dropped the piece of bread and it caught it deftly, then it was gone. She watched it scamper away, turn a corner and disappear. For a moment she thought she saw something waiting for it, moving in the shadows.
Guards ushered her and the other prisoners into the hospice, less than three hundred of them now because of Calidus’ morning ritual. The building was large enough to accommodate their numbers, with a lower floor made of two interlinking chambers. Part of it had been partitioned off for the care of the injured, the rest turned into a makeshift prison for the others. Only one guard came into the hospice, the rest sitting out in the courtyard. Cywen heard the sound of dice on a throw-board.
Automatically she went into the adjoining chamber and checked on the injured – not many of them left now. There had been a lot more after the battle, but many had died, Cywen being unable to do little more for them than ease their passing across the bridge of swords. Now only a score remained in here – although, from what she’d just seen, she expected that her skills would now be required for the injured Vin Thalun. Frankly, she’d rather poison them than heal them . . .
Do not give up, she told herself, remembering her time as a prisoner with Nathair a
nd Calidus. All had seemed hopeless, then. That time, Corban had come out of nowhere and rescued her. Although Mam died in the undertaking. I’ll not let that happen again – people dying for my saving. I’ll not wait around to be rescued. I will make my own fortune. Whatever the cost.
Cywen opened her eyes.
After counting a hundred heartbeats and not hearing anything else but the usual snoring, she turned her head to check on their Vin Thalun guard. As expected, he was asleep. Beyond the doors she heard the muted sound of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter; the rest of their guards sitting in the courtyard, drinking and gambling.
At first their guards had been vigilant, and rightly so, because there had been a smattering of Jehar amongst the captives and they did not take well to being made prisoners. On the first night two had attempted escape, killing eight guards, maiming three more and setting fire to another. Eventually they had both been subdued and executed in the courtyard the next day. Since then no more escapes had been attempted, and over time the guards had become correspondingly less vigilant.
Cywen padded slowly from the room, making her way to a set of stairs leading up to a balcony that looked down upon the main hall, with a dozen rooms opening off it. Almost silently she passed into one of those rooms. There was one large window that let in a wide beam of moonlight, shockingly bright in the darkness.
Cywen traced a familiar path to a cupboard, opened the door, shifted a loose board inside and lifted out a package.
She shuffled over to the window, sat with her back to the wall, facing the dark silhouette of the open doorway. She opened the old linen she’d wrapped round it, to reveal a book, leather-bound and worn. She opened it towards the back and started reading the spidery script.
Rud eigin lomhara a garda. A guarding spell. A caitheadh an seal. Boiling water, worm-root, flayed skin . . .
She paused there, a shiver goose-bumping her flesh. What did I expect from a book of giant spells? She pulled a face, fear and revulsion. It depends who the skin belonged to, I suppose. If it came from Calidus, or Nathair, or Lykos, Morcant, or Rhin . . . The list grew in her mind of enemies she’d like to do terrible things to.
