Ruin

by John Gwynne

  Corban let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Coralen’s used that move on me a hundred times, and I eventually learned to do it back to her. Looks as if Gar’s been watching us spar.

  ‘You’re bleeding,’ Gar said. ‘Do you yield?

  It was an unorthodox move, something these Jehar would probably consider beneath them. But as Coralen always says – dead is dead.

  Akar stared up at Gar, emotions warring across his face. Then something in him softened and he nodded.

  ‘First blood is yours,’ Akar said. ‘I yield.’

  ‘The world has touched me, but it has made me stronger, not weaker,’ Gar breathed. ‘Now, give me your hand, brother.’

  Gar held his arm out.

  A moment’s hesitation and then Akar took it. A roar of approval rose up from about the ring, even the giants bellowing their approval, Corban’s voice lost in the din of it. Then Akar dropped to one knee before Gar and kissed his hand. Other Jehar dropped to the ground, Gar looking about at them with a slightly embarrassed expression upon his face.

  Now he knows how I feel.

  Hamil stood and strode to Gar, gripped Gar’s wrist and raised his arm in the air.

  ‘Garisan ben Tukul,’ Hamil cried in a great voice, ‘Lord of the Jehar.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  MAQUIN

  Maquin swayed in his saddle, holding onto his mount with his knees as his hands were bound behind his back. Twenty paces to his right the dark waters of a wide river flowed, and to the north he glimpsed snow-capped peaks, a wind swirling down from them that set the long grass whispering and brought with it the faint chill of ice. He shivered. He was riding as part of a great column, close to six thousand warriors before and behind him, the combined warbands of Veradis’ eagle-guard and Lykos’ Vin Thalun. An honour guard of Ripa surrounded Krelis, Ektor, Fidele, Peritus and Alben. Ahead of him Maquin caught a glimpse of the two giants – prisoners again, like him – their long strides keeping pace with the mounted eagleguard watching them.

  More than a moon had passed since that day in the field beyond Ripa’s walls, when the world had been turned on its end. Two warbands massed against Lykos, outnumbering him two to one – killing the Vin Thalun lord had felt inevitable.

  And then Veradis had arrived.

  As they’d stood in the rowan-meet, listened to Veradis’ proposals on behalf of Nathair, any hopes he’d had of Lykos finding justice had been burned away. And then the final straw. After all that Lykos had done to Fidele, to see him in her presence, taunting her . . .

  I thought my self-control was total. It seems that I was wrong.

  Hooves sounded behind him and Lykos came into view on his left side. Maquin stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him.

  ‘And how are you today?’ Lykos said.

  He kept his lips shut tight.

  ‘Managing to sit straight?’

  Maquin’s back and ribs were bruised purple. Each breath brought with it an ebb and flow of pain.

  One cracked rib, at least.

  And when he had emptied his bladder that morning there had been streaks of blood in his urine. He gritted his teeth, buried the pain. He would not give Lykos the satisfaction of knowing how bad it was.

  I’ve endured worse before, and I will no doubt endure worse if Lykos has anything to do with it.

  ‘This is only a taste,’ Lykos hissed, ‘of what is to come. I am watched, you see. That bitch has told tales of me to Veradis, and even though he is not in his right mind at the moment, he watches me. So, no bruises that cannot be covered by your clothing, no broken bones, no pain that keeps you from your saddle . . . Yet.’

  Lykos rode in silence beside him a while, almost as if they were old friends.

  ‘What I am really looking forward to is when I can have both you and Fidele chained in the same room. I will have her back, you see, but before we can go back to how things were, she will have to be punished. Taught the consequences of her actions.’

  Maquin’s fists clenched, an involuntary ripple that bypassed his conscious mind – he tried to stop it when he realized his body was betraying him, willed his fingers to loosen, but it was too late – Lykos had seen. He laughed, low and intimate.

  ‘You have a weakness now, Old Wolf. Fidele has charmed you, that is clear. After I have punished her and she has learned her lesson, when I have her in my bed again, perhaps I’ll let you watch.’

  I should have got her out of that tent, run with her, then and there, instead of chasing Lykos like some blood-crazed berserker.

  They crested a ridge in the road and ahead of them, upon a hill beside a lake was Jerolin, its black walls and tower gleaming in the weak sunlight.

  ‘Ah, good,’ Lykos said with a vicious grin. ‘Tonight you will have a room rather than a tent. Thick stone walls to drown your screams.’

  Not if I can help it.

  Maquin had not screamed once during Lykos’ visits. Grunted, winced, ground his teeth, bitten his tongue, but he had held his voice, regardless of Lykos’ efforts. A voice in his head told him he was being stupid – cry out and Lykos will stop, for fear of drawing attention. But he had not, because he knew the Vin Thalun were listening, waiting to hear their lord break the Old Wolf. With each night’s visit Lykos grew a little more desperate, a little more frantic, and Maquin knew what his warriors would be whispering around their campfires.

  Lykos leaned close. ‘Soon, I will break you,’ he whispered.

  Never.

  Maquin stared at the fighting arena on the plains before Jerolin, remembering the last time he had been there. Facing Orgull in the circle, the rebellion, chaos, fighting Deinon and Lykos, fleeing with Fidele . . .

  His horse was led to the stables, where hands dragged him from his saddle and led him unceremoniously into a cluster of buildings close to the keep. He was thrust into a stone room, the door clanging shut behind him.

  The shaft of sunlight through a high window edged its way across the room as highsun came and went, sliding towards sunset. Maquin heard muted voices and the slap of booted feet beyond his door, saw the orange flicker of torchlight through the gaps as twilight seeped slowly into the world, then full dark.

  No one came to his room.

  He will come.

  He felt a flutter of fear at the thought of what was to come, but immediately smothered it.

  I may as well rest until it starts.

  He lay down upon the bench and closed his eyes.

  Keys rattling in the door woke him and Lykos walked in, silhouetted by torchlight that a warrior held behind the Vin Thalun lord.

  ‘Good evening,’ Lykos said amicably, two, three shieldmen entering the room before the door was shut.

  He fears me still, even bound and beaten bloody. He felt a moment’s pleasure at that thought.

  Lykos drew a small knife from his belt, sharp and wicked looking.

  ‘Help him stand,’ Lykos said.

  Two of his shieldmen grabbed Maquin, the third standing back, holding his torch high to illuminate the room.

  Lykos cut away Maquin’s cloak and woollen layers, exposing a web of bruising and lacerations. The Vin Thalun smiled.

  ‘You will kneel to me. You will beg for my mercy. You will pledge yourself to me for all eternity,’ Lykos said grimly. ‘You remember Orgull, do you not? Your hulking friend. Do you remember seeing him broken, beaten, wishing only for death. I did that to him.’

  You did not break his spirit.

  ‘This night, you will beg; this night.’ Then, slowly, carefully, Lykos stabbed Maquin with the knife – an incision about a thumbnail deep, starting at his armpit, slowly working its way down to Maquin’s hip.

  Maquin grunted, ground his teeth, squeezed his fists together until it felt as if the bones in his hands would crack. He knew better than to writhe or try to pull away, that would only lead to greater injury, worse pain. Instead he endured, stared fiercely into Lykos’ eyes – his look a promise of death should he get free.<
br />
  Lykos stepped back, a slight scowl creasing his forehead.

  ‘I will flay you if I have to,’ he growled. ‘Or perhaps an eye . . .’ He raised the knife, rested it on Maquin’s cheek a hair’s breadth below his eyeball.

  Maquin was staring at Lykos, but in his mind he was back on the bridge of swords, the Ben-Elim standing before him with his sword of flame.

  You must make your choice, the Ben-Elim had said to him.

  I did. I came back for three people: two to kill, one to love. If I’d known it would lead me here . . .

  Fidele’s face hovered in his mind. For a brief moment he felt her lips brush his, the tickle of her breath, the faint smell of roses.

  I’d make the same choice. She is worth a lifetime of pain.

  With a snarl Lykos pulled the knife away, left a thin cut in Maquin’s cheek. Sweat stung it. Maquin blinked, saw Lykos turn away and snatch the torch from his shieldman.

  ‘Perhaps a tickle of flame will coax something more from you,’ Lykos hissed. He held the torch between them, inched it closer to Maquin’s belly. He smelt the hairs on his body burning first, heat washing him in waves, felt the almost irresistible urge to move, to step away.

  I cannot move, I am held fast. And to move, to scream, is to fail.

  Sweat beaded his brow, dripped from his nose.

  Lykos smiled and moved the flame nearer, just a fraction, but the pain surged and Maquin felt his skin start to blister. A groan escaped his mouth, a wave of pain behind it desperate to find release in screaming abandon.

  He clamped his mouth shut.

  ‘I should have tried this sooner,’ Lykos said, leaning close to Maquin, studying him. Willing him to break.

  ‘Scream, damn you,’ Lykos snarled, the frustration growing in the Vin Thalun with every passing heartbeat. He twisted a fist into Maquin’s matted hair.

  Not in this lifetime you bastard.

  A voice spoke behind Lykos. ‘My lord, burns like that may kill him; at the very least he will not be able to ride on the morrow—’

  ‘You’ll be surprised what this man can do,’ Lykos said. He took a step closer, the flame no longer a ripple of pain now, just a constant, searing agony. Maquin smelt his own flesh burning. He opened his eyes, saw Lykos’ face hovering in front of him, that hateful face, smiling, eyes bitter and full of malice.

  Maquin lunged forwards, for a moment taking his guards by surprise, too focused on holding him up to hold him back. His mouth opened, a huge roar escaping his throat, echoing around the room and then he snapped his mouth shut, teeth closing on Lykos’ face – his nose, part of one cheek.

  He bit down hard, ground his teeth into flesh, felt blood burst into his mouth, hot and salty. He shook his head like a wolven with a hare in its jaws.

  Lykos screamed, high and piercing.

  He was a lot quicker to scream than I.

  Then Maquin felt a rush of heat sear his face, flame shooting up between him and Lykos. Maquin’s lunge had squashed the torch to them both, ignited Lykos’ linen shirt.

  Good – let’s see how you like it!

  Lykos screamed again. He was sobbing and trying to pull away.

  Something crashed into the back of Maquin’s skull and his legs turned to liquid. He sagged to his knees, blood slick upon his lips and chin, saw Lykos fall backwards, dropping the torch and slapping desperately at his burning shirt.

  There was another blow across the back of Maquin’s head that knocked him to the floor. He rolled over, watching Lykos screeching in pain, saw him ripping off his shirt, standing there, chest heaving, blood sluicing his face from where Maquin had bitten him.

  Lykos was blinking and gasping heavily. He gingerly touched the blisters on his chest, felt his torn face and looked at Maquin with undisguised hatred. He drew his sword.

  ‘You . . . are more trouble than you are . . . worth,’ he breathed and raised his sword.

  Footsteps suddenly echoed in the corridor, the sound of ironshod sandals on stone.

  Lykos paused, looked at the door, Maquin following his gaze to see figures there. Men with eagles on their chests.

  ‘Put your weapons down,’ a voice ordered, harsh and commanding, but vaguely familiar. Then: ‘He is coming with me.’

  ‘No. He is my prisoner – mine,’ Lykos said, spitting a gob of blood on the floor.

  ‘Not any more. He will stand before Nathair. After that, perhaps he will be yours again, but until then I am taking him into my custody.’

  The voices started to blur in Maquin’s mind, he was unable to make much sense of them.

  ‘You keep taking prisoners from me; this is becoming a very bad habit,’ Lykos growled. ‘And I thought we were friends.’

  There was no answer, only the pressure upon Maquin’s back disappearing and firm hands gripping him. He groaned as he was hoisted from the ground, heard someone swear, then darkness closed in about him.

  He woke to pain.

  It was still dark, torchlight flickering somewhere. His torso was agony. He groaned.

  Someone was bending over him, spreading something cool across his belly. He opened his eyes to see an old face staring back at him, framed with silver hair and beard.

  ‘Alben,’ he whispered.

  ‘Hush,’ Alben said, smiling, though it didn’t clear the worry in his eyes. ‘Drink this.’ He lifted Maquin’s head and gave him sips of something bitter from a cup.

  ‘Will he live?’ a voice said behind Alben.

  Alben sighed. ‘I don’t know. He is strong, and the desire to live burns fiercely in him. But this is not a day’s healing. A moon, maybe.’

  ‘We must leave on the morrow. The mountain paths are closing.’

  ‘He cannot ride.’ There was no possibility of discussion in Alben’s tone.

  ‘A wain, then?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Alben shrugged.

  Maquin lifted his head. ‘Veradis?’ he whispered.

  Veradis stepped into his vision, his strong face with short hair and close-cropped beard lined with cares, making him seem older than his age.

  ‘I am sorry, for your father.’

  Maquin had seen the cairn as they rode out from Ripa, seen Veradis, Krelis and Ektor standing before it with heads bowed.

  Grief, raw and powerful swept Veradis’ face.

  ‘It was your fault,’ Veradis said.

  Maquin blinked at him, confused.

  ‘You attacked Lykos in the rowan-meet; pandemonium broke out, shieldmen bursting in, shouting, shoving. My father was knocked, somehow. He fell upon my . . .’

  ‘It was an accident,’ Alben said. ‘A tragic, terrible accident.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ Maquin said. I am a fool. Should have kept my knife in its sheath. ‘I am sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘So sorry.’

  Veradis ground a palm into his eyes. ‘The past is done,’ he said. ‘I am sorry, too. I was not aware that Lykos was doing . . . this.’ He gestured at Maquin’s body.

  ‘I am surprised at the friends you keep,’ Maquin whispered. The pain was more bearable now, still there, a constant throbbing, but dulled.

  ‘As am I,’ Alben echoed.

  ‘Lykos is not my friend,’ Veradis snapped, then took a long, frayed breath. ‘But he is my King’s ally. I cannot understand the things that have happened here, what he is accused of doing.’

  ‘These are not accusations – they are facts,’ Maquin said, looking at the tapestry of scars and fresh wounds upon his body. ‘He is evil, and must be stopped.’

  ‘That is not for me to decide. Nathair will hear all – I promise you that. He will decide. Until then, I will keep him from you, and Alben is the best healer I know.’ He shrugged. ‘I would do more if I could.’

  ‘It is enough,’ Maquin said.

  Veradis turned to go, but hovered by the door.

  ‘Part of me hates you,’ he said quietly. ‘Because of my da. I cannot stop it.’

  Maquin said nothing.

  ‘And you should know, I cannot save you,
even if I had a mind to. You broke our sacred law when you drew your blade. I should have executed you on the spot, and the only reason you are alive is because someone of influence has begged me to postpone your execution.’

  Fidele.

  ‘But you drew a blade in a rowan-meet; there will be no pardon, no way out from that. Once you stand before Nathair the inevitable will be decided. You will die.’ He stayed a moment more, then shook his head and left. Maquin heard his voice in the corridor, and then another figure slipped in, a shadow wrapped in a cloak.

  A muffled sob came, and then Fidele was kissing him, stroking his face, tears dropping onto him, mingling with his own tears.

  ‘Elyon, but it is good to see you,’ Maquin breathed.

  ‘What has he done to you?’ Fidele snarled, then swore in a very unqueenly way. He lifted a hand to her cheek.

  ‘I tried to get you,’ she whispered, ‘I took Alben and a few score warriors to take you back from Lykos.’

  ‘The eagle-guard stopped us, thought it would lead to war,’ Alben said.

  ‘They were probably right,’ Maquin said. ‘Veradis?’

  ‘No, one of his captains. Veradis was in mourning, had passed over command for a time.’

  The grey of dawn was creeping through windows now, and Maquin heard the sound of iron-shod feet, guards changing shifts.

  ‘You cannot linger, my lady,’ Alben said. ‘If anyone sees you . . .’

  ‘I am a prisoner too,’ Fidele said with a twist of her lips. ‘To be judged by my son on the charge of adultery.’

  ‘What!’ Maquin tried to sit up but a fresh wave of pain convinced him to stop.

  ‘Because of the farce with Lykos,’ she said.

  ‘So reports of you kissing an ex-pit-fighter will not help your cause,’ Alben said.

  ‘True enough,’ Fidele said, a smile twisting her lips.

  ‘Go,’ Maquin said. ‘This has been enough.’

  She brushed her lips against his one more time, cupped his cheek with her hand, then she was slipping away.