Ruin

by John Gwynne

  ‘We could, but I doubt we’ll lose them,’ the older man said. ‘They’ve stuck to this trail so far, and leaving it would be slow going.’ He waved his torch at the thick undergrowth. ‘And my guess is they won’t be stopping, not for a while. They’ll want to put as much space between us and them as they can.’

  ‘Don’t know about you, but I don’t like the idea of bumping into Old Wolf in the dark.’

  Other warriors muttered agreement.

  ‘There’s seven of us, damn you,’ the older warrior growled.

  ‘Aye. Still, I’ve seen what he can do . . .’

  Maquin gave a feral grin. They didn’t know the half of it.

  ‘Lykos won’t thank us for letting them escape. Who are you more scared of?’

  ‘I’m not scared of anyone,’ the young warrior snapped. ‘Just being realistic.’

  ‘We’ll go on a little further . . .’

  The old warrior stood and moved on, treading slowly, carefully, his eyes scanning the ground. The seven men filed off, the last one hesitating, glancing behind him. The others were further ahead now, on the edge of sight.

  Maquin snapped a twig and leaf, the sound masked by the rainfall, then stretched his arm out, holding his knife by its pommel, blade hanging down. He let the twig and leaf flutter down, landing upon the path immediately in front of the last warrior, who stared at the leaf, then looked up.

  Maquin let go of his knife.

  It smashed into the warrior’s face, slicing through the warrior’s eye, piercing his brain. He dropped without a sound, one leg twitching.

  Maquin slipped from the branch and landed on the path, tugged his knife free and set off after the other warriors.

  Six left.

  Maquin was surefooted and light on his feet, his training in the Vin Thalun pits having raised his strength and stamina to new levels, his reactions faster than they had ever been. He ran quickly, the flicker of torchlight ahead guiding him, and in a handful of heart-beats the Vin Thalun were in sight. They were moving in single file, the trail constricting them. Maquin slowed as he drew closer, focusing on the last warrior, who gripped a spear and was using it as a staff, his head down, concentrating on where he was putting his feet. Maquin caught up with him, silent as mist, slipped a hand about the man’s face, clamping over his mouth, in the same breath sawing his knife across the warrior’s throat. Blood jetted, the man slumped, Maquin holding him upright and lowering him gently to the floor.

  Five. His heart pounded in his head as he waited for the warrior in front to turn, but the man continued walking.

  A cry went up from further along the column, bringing the Vin Thalun rippling to a halt. Maquin saw the last warrior turn; this one held a flaming torch. He saw Maquin looming out of the darkness just in front of him and let out a cry as Maquin’s knife slammed into his belly. Both of them tumbled to the ground, Maquin using his momentum to rip the knife upwards, slicing the Vin Thalun from belly to ribs. They both screamed, crashing to the floor, blood exploding in Maquin’s face.

  Four.

  Maquin rolled to his feet, came up running, snatching at the burning torch.

  ‘It’s the Old Wolf,’ a cry went up. Maquin saw fear-filled faces but knew that these men were warriors. They were not so easily defeated. They turned to face him, drawing swords, levelling spears. Surging forwards he hurled the torch at the man trying to circle to his left, sending the warrior stumbling into the undergrowth. Maquin drew his other knife, a blade in each hand, and then he was amongst them.

  He ducked a sword swing, punched one knife into a thigh, left it there, powered on. He swayed away from a spear thrust, grabbed the shaft and pulled the warrior off balance, putting his knife in the man’s eye, the blade sticking.

  Three. Then he was through them, one dead, one injured, maybe bleeding out. Both his knives gone, he drew his sword.

  The older warrior was stood before him, short sword in one hand, torch held like a weapon in the other. The man Maquin had thrown the torch at had extricated himself from the undergrowth but was keeping his distance, eyes glancing between Maquin and the old leader. The warrior with Maquin’s knife in his thigh was upright; it didn’t look as if Maquin had hit the artery that would have put him down. They all stood, frozen for a dozen heartbeats, then thunder crackled overhead and Maquin was moving again.

  He went for the leader, covered the distance in a few strides and swung at the man’s head. His blade was blocked and he swerved right, avoiding a torch in the face. Instead it caught his shoulder, pain searing through him. He grunted, spun away, saw the warrior from the undergrowth closing in, the one with the knife in his thigh stumbling after them.

  Not good. I need to finish this quickly. The old Vin Thalun clearly had other ideas. He backed away, sword and torch raised, making time for his comrades to close on Maquin.

  Can’t just stand here waiting to be killed. Gritting his teeth, Maquin charged at the old warrior, who stepped forward to meet him, sword high, torch low.

  Knows what he’s doing. Maquin skidded, leaning back. The torch whistled over him, a trail of sparks streaming past his eyes and then Maquin’s feet were crashing into his opponent, the two of them going down together, rolling. The torch went spinning through the air, both warriors trying to bring their swords to bear, snarling and grappling. The old Vin Thalun gouged a thumb into Maquin’s burned shoulder. Maquin grunted and headbutted the man. The pressure on his shoulder disappeared.

  Wish I hadn’t left my knives in other men.

  Footsteps thudded; the other two Vin Thalun were close.

  ‘Hold him still,’ one yelled.

  ‘Trying to,’ the old man grunted.

  Maquin glimpsed a warrior standing over him, sword raised. With a burst of effort, he rolled away, dragging the old man with him. Maquin felt his sword slip from his grip. They punched, kicked, bit and clawed at each other, then a knee landed in his gut, knocking the breath from him, his limbs weakening for a moment. The old man slid away, staggering to his feet. Pain lanced along Maquin’s ribs and he saw the glint of iron. Blood sheeted his side.

  Get up, or you’re a dead man. He pushed, made it to one knee.

  ‘Finish him,’ the old man yelled at the Vin Thalun standing behind Maquin. His sword was stained red.

  ‘MAQUIN!’ a voice screamed. They all paused, looked up the trail. Lightning exploded overhead, for a heartbeat transforming the forest into a place of light and shadow.

  Fidele stood twenty paces away, spear in hand. ‘Finish him,’ the old Vin Thalun said, ‘I’ll fetch Lykos’ bitch.’ He grinned and strode towards Fidele. Then he staggered, stumbled forward, sinking into the ground. He looked back, twisting at the waist, a look of terror on his face. With a jerk he sank deeper, as if someone were tugging at his feet from beneath the ground.

  The sinking hole.

  Maquin heaved himself upright, grabbed the sword-arm of the warrior over him. They wrestled back and forth. Maquin twisted the man’s wrist, the sword dropping from his grip. They slammed against a tree. Maquin wrapped his fingers around the man’s throat and started squeezing.

  The Vin Thalun lifted his knee, connected with Maquin and suddenly he couldn’t breathe, was fighting the urge to empty his stomach. Still he would not loosen his grip. The Vin Thalun’s eyes bulged, his fists punching into Maquin’s ribs again and again.

  Then a spear stabbed into the man’s chest. Fidele stood with the spear in her hand. She stared at the dead man, her eyes fierce, breathing hard. Then she flung the spear down as if it had burned her.

  Maquin glanced about, remembering there had been another, the one with Maquin’s knife in his thigh. He saw him half a dozen paces away, lying twisted on the trail, face pale, eyes staring. Knife clipped his artery, then. Maquin gripped his blade and pulled it free.

  He put his hand to his ribs – a sword cut, not deep but bleeding heavily.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said to Fidele.

  ‘You came back,’ Fidele said to him. />
  ‘Aye. Well, seems you’re not the only fool in this forest.’

  She smiled weakly at him, then twisted away and vomited.

  ‘Help me,’ a voice cried. The old warrior in the sinking hole. He was submerged to his chest now. Maquin and Fidele walked to the hole’s edge and stood silently watching him. He begged and pleaded, offered money, his oath, safe passage through the forest. Maquin and Fidele kept their silence, just watched him as he sank deeper. They did not move or speak until his head slipped beneath the mud.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CYWEN

  Cywen rose to the sound of sparring, swords wrapped in leather to protect their edges and mute the noise of a few hundred Jehar warriors sparring with one another.

  They were camped in the fringes of a wood nestled in a wide, steep-sided valley. Mountains surrounded them, their peaks wreathed in cloud. They marked the border between Benoth, the giants’ realm, and Narvon to the south, once the realm of Owain, now ruled by Rhin – as were all the kingdoms of the west.

  Buddai lay beside her until he saw Storm, a shadow in the woods, and bounded after her. She smiled at them tumbling together, a flash of fur and teeth.

  ‘They act like pups around each other,’ Brina said from behind her. Cywen looked to see Craf was perched on her shoulder and another shape fluttered out of the sky to land on a branch close by.

  Fech.

  ‘Some bonds can never be broken,’ Cywen told her. She turned back to watch the sparring, nearly three hundred warriors in a meadow, but her eyes picked out Gar and Corban almost immediately, the two of them moving in a blur, too fast to track individual blows. By some unspoken agreement they stopped, all those around them doing the same, then moved on to new opponents. Corban turned, and Coralen, the girl from Domhain, was standing in front of him. They shared a brief smile and set at each other. It was as fast as the combat with Gar, though with more kicking and punching, Coralen always moving close, using elbows and knees to gain any advantage. It still ended with Corban tripping her and his sword at her throat.

  Cywen could relate to that, more often than not she had been in the same position when she had practised with Corban back at Dun Carreg. I remember that feeling. It’s annoying. That was until Dath had joined them, and she had started putting him on his back. But here even Dath was sparring as if he knew what he was doing. She saw him partnered against Farrell, using his size and speed to swirl around his larger friend. And Farrell was holding his own, confident blocks merging with smooth attacks. The last time I saw him he was a clumsy auroch. What’s happened to everyone? I spend the year with my hands tied together, and everyone else has become a warrior. She felt her face creasing in a scowl.

  A ten-night had passed since they had escaped Murias, each day falling into a similar routine. She had wanted to talk more with Corban, but it seemed that everyone wanted to talk to Corban. And everyone else seemed to have a role, a task that they performed in this fledgling warband. Everyone except her. She was starting to feel useless. She daren’t even spar with the rest of them, although part of her was desperate to take part. I’m not good enough. Even the worst are better than me. She felt her scowl deepening.

  ‘Careful, girl: if the wind changes, your face might stick like that,’ Brina rasped beside her.

  Cywen smiled wryly. ‘My mam used to say that to me.’

  ‘Have some of this.’ Brina held out a skin and Cywen sniffed it and wrinkled her nose. Brot. The giants’ food. Food is too generous a term.

  ‘YUK,’ Craf squawked, eyeing the skin disapprovingly.

  ‘T a s t y ,’ Fech reproved.

  The giants were gathered in the woods, just darker shadows amongst the trees. Mostly they kept themselves separate. Whilst the warband travelled they took the position of rearguard each day, always grouped together, rarely mixing with the Jehar. Sometimes the younger ones would run alongside the column, racing and tackling each other to the ground, wrestling and even laughing. The sight of it had made her smile, feeling like a taste of normality in this world gone mad.

  ‘Just a mouthful,’ Brina said, poking Cywen with a bony finger, and Cywen swallowed some brot, figuring it was easier than trying to argue. It was like porridge, but chewier, with all the pleasure taken out. It filled her stomach like a stone, but it did its job. Cywen had consumed just a mouthful each morning and had not felt hungry until the next day.

  Brina took the skin and replaced it with an empty linen bag. ‘Come help me,’ the old woman said. ‘I saw some foxgloves and elder in the woods.’

  ‘Me?’ said Cywen.

  ‘Yes, you. My old apprentice seems to have become too busy lately to help me gather plants.’

  Cywen followed Brina silently into the woods, frowning at Craf, who along with Fech flapped from branch to branch above them.

  ‘Here,’ Brina said, pointing at a bush dotted with clusters of white flowers. They’d stopped in a small glade, wildflowers opening about them in response to spring’s pale sun.

  ‘That is elder,’ Brina told her. ‘Too early for the berries, but the flowers are useful. Everything on an elder is useful, the bark, the roots.’ She pulled out a knife and started cutting stems of flowers, skinning some bark and gesturing impatiently for Cywen to hold her bag open.

  ‘We’re a long way from Dun Carreg,’ Brina said, peering over a branch at Cywen.

  ‘We are,’ Cywen agreed. A long way from home, all of us different people now. Changed by what’s happened. She felt a moment of frustrated, helpless rage, aimed mostly at Calidus and Nathair.

  ‘I don’t just mean the distance,’ Brina said.

  ‘I know,’ Cywen grunted. She looked up and saw Brina staring at her.

  ‘He’s still your brother. Just . . .’

  ‘Busy?’ Cywen finished with a sigh.

  Brina grinned at that. ‘Yes. Very busy. But he’s a good boy. A big heart, a rare loyalty to his kin and friends. And quite a good brain inside that thick skull of his, when he bothers to use it. Don’t tell him I said that,’ she added.

  ‘Your secret is safe with me,’ Cywen said.

  ‘Safe secret,’ Craf commented from above. ‘Trust.’

  It was disconcerting to have a crow joining in with the conversation. More so when it made astute observations.

  ‘I was sad to hear about Heb.’

  Brina blinked at that, sudden pain washing her face. With an obvious effort she smoothed it away.

  ‘Corban told me how he . . . about the battle in the mountains of Domhain, against giants and wolven.’

  ‘Uthas,’ Brina said.

  ‘Bad giant,’ Craf muttered.

  ‘Peck out his eyes,’ Fech added, vehemently.

  ‘What?’

  Something dark contorted Brina’s features, her eyes narrowing. ‘Uthas is the name of the Benothi giant that killed Heb. I’ve been talking to Fech.’

  ‘Ye s, s h e h a s,’ Fech confirmed.

  ‘I know Uthas,’ Cywen said. ‘He joined Rhin and Nathair. He is in league with Rhin.’ I hate him, as I hate all of my captors. Other faces swam in her mind – Alcyon, Veradis. Faces that had shown her some measure of kindness amidst the bleak horror of it all. Maybe not all.

  ‘He is a traitor to his kin,’ Fech muttered.

  ‘He killed my Heb. I’m going to kill him.’ There was no humour, no kindness in Brina’s voice now.

  ‘We ,’ Fech corrected.

  ‘Sorry, we,’ Brina smiled, a cold thing.

  ‘And then I will eat his eyes,’ Fech added.

  ‘Good,’ Cywen said fiercely. ‘Heb was very brave, standing against a giant.’

  ‘He was a fool,’ Brina said, ‘but he was my fool, and I miss him.’ Her expression softened. Craf fluttered down and landed on Brina’s shoulder, began running his beak through her hair. Brina absently scratched Craf’s wing. ‘The only other person I’ve told that to is your brother.’ She smiled at Cywen. It was very out of character.

  ‘Why are you being so nice to me?�
� Cywen asked suspiciously.

  ‘I can be nice,’ Brina snapped. ‘You’ve been through a lot. And now you’re here, back with kin and friends, and yet you feel . . .’

  ‘Out of place,’ Cywen finished for her. ‘Useless.’

  ‘Useless, useless, useless,’ Craf repeated. Cywen shot a glare at him.

  ‘You’re not, you know. Useless, or out of place,’ Brina said to Cywen. ‘You’re in the only right place – around people that care for you. You just need to find your feet again.’

  ‘Are you feeling sorry for me?’

  ‘Aach, you’re a proud one, and no mistake.’

  ‘PROUD,’ Craf screeched from Brina’s shoulder. She shooed him off, rubbing at her ear.

  ‘Not sorry for you, Cywen, I’m just one of the few that care about you, that’s all. And it just so happens that I need a new apprentice.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Cywen asked.

  ‘As you’ve pointed out, Corban is busy. He was my apprentice – I’ve taught him much of the art of healing. But he is busy, and that’s not likely to change. I need help – my guess is there’s going to be a lot of blood spilt before this is all over. Someone has to try and patch the wounded up. And I can’t do it on my own.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m asking you to help me, and as you’ve just told me that you feel useless, I’m thinking you should be saying yes to my proposition. You need something to do; I need someone to do things for me.’ She smiled, a little too sweetly for Cywen’s liking.

  Cywen felt as if she’d been neatly manoeuvred into this position, but as she thought about it, the idea of being Brina’s apprentice did not seem so bad. Apart from one thing – or two.

  ‘On one condition. I’ll not be told what to do by two crows.’

  ‘Raven,’ Fech corrected.

  ‘By a raven and a crow,’ Cywen shrugged.

  ‘You’ll have to work that out with Craf and Fech,’ Brina said.

  ‘Craf. Orders,’ the crow cawed, then clacked his beak repeatedly.

  ‘Is he laughing at me?’

  ‘Yes, I believe he is.’

  Hooves sounded then, growing closer.