“I don’t need your help,” Mansel said, his voice rising with anger. “That’s your problem, Quinn. You never trusted me. I’m not your apprentice anymore. I’m a man. I’m a warrior. I’m going to kill you and take Zollin to Gwendolyn, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“When we were on the road with Prince Wilam, you mentioned a girl,” Quinn said. He was searching frantically for anything that might break the witch’s spell. He didn’t want to fight Mansel. He would probably end up dead, or Mansel would, neither of which was an option he wanted.
“Shut up. I’ve committed myself to Gwendolyn. Don’t try to smear my honor.”
“I’m not,” Quinn said, then he coughed quietly into his hand.
“I’m sorry it has to be this way,” Mansel said.
Quinn heard the quiet hiss of a sword being drawn.
“If you had just gone away,” Mansel said, with a note of grief in his voice, “no one would have been the wiser. You could have had a long life, but now you have to die.”
“Why?” Quinn asked.
“I can’t take the chance that you might warn Zollin not to come back with me.”
“He can’t go,” Quinn said. “I can’t let that happen.”
“You can’t stop it.”
“Are you sure about that?”
At that moment a coughing fit racked Quinn. He couldn’t stop it, and he had to hold onto the stall wall to keep from falling over.
“You’re in no shape to fight Quinn,” Mansel said. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
Anger welled up Quinn. He was tired, his body ached from the constant cough, and he had given up everything to be here. He was so close to reaching Zollin, and he wasn’t going to just lie down and give up now.
“If you’ve got something to do, have at it. Otherwise, get out of my sight.”
“If that’s the way you want it,” Mansel said.
“I would have forgiven you,” Quinn told him. “But now I’m going to kill you.”
A hard look crossed Mansel’s face.
“You’re like a rabid dog, and it’s time someone put you down. I made you; I guess it’s up to me to unmake you.”
“You’re a foolish, sick, old man. Killing you will be easy,” Mansel said.
Quinn stepped out of the horse’s stall and closed the door. Then he drew his long knife and bent his knees slightly. For an instant Mansel looked unsure.
“You know I can do it,” Mansel said.
Quinn didn’t answer, he just looked at the young man he loved like a son. A shadow of grief crossed his face. He knew that Mansel wasn’t in his right mind, but he couldn’t help but feel as if he had failed Mansel somehow.
Mansel charged forward, and all the pent-up rage and frustration and fear came boiling out in a terrifying battle cry. Quinn didn’t move; he just waited for the charge. He knew he had to get inside Mansel’s reach to neutralize his sword, but Mansel would be expecting him to do just that.
Mansel feinted to his left and then swung his sword in a tight arc with his right hand. Quinn danced away from the blade and let Mansel charge past him. The young warrior spun around, expecting an attack from behind, but Quinn stood quietly. His chest was burning, his arms felt weak, and his legs were heavy, but he did his best not to let Mansel see that anything was wrong.
“You still fight with your emotions,” Quinn said. “That’s gonna get you killed.”
“Not by you.”
He raised his sword and then stepped forward, bringing the blade down in a chopping motion. Quinn ducked, and the end of the sword struck the wood of the stall door behind him, sticking fast. Quinn dove forward, slashing with his curved knife at Mansel’s stomach. The big warrior dodged back, but he wasn’t quite fast enough. The blade cut through his thick woolen pants and into the flesh of his hip. Mansel shouted in pain and staggered back.
“You bastard,” Mansel shouted. “I’ll cut your heart out.”
He drew his own daggers, one from his belt and the other from his boot, and moved forward more cautiously. Quinn knew his young enemy had the upper hand now. Quinn couldn’t even rely on his speed to give him an advantage. The sickness had sapped him of that. Even now, his eyes watered and his chest erupted in a coughing fit.
Mansel dashed forward, his daggers a blur. Quinn shimmied backward, blocking one blade with his own and ducking under the other. He spun and threw his left elbow into the side of Mansel’s head, but it only glanced off the bigger man’s skull, causing no damage. Mansel spun and Quinn dropped to the ground, scissoring his legs in an attempt to trip his protege, but the younger man anticipated the move and dove forward. Quinn felt the steel slam into his left shoulder; the pain was exquisite and caused him to cry out in pain. At almost the same time Mansel hit the floor and rolled over his shoulder, coming up on his feet. He spun around as Quinn struggled to get up. He knew he needed to get the wicked-looking knife away from his mentor, so he kicked out at Quinn’s right hand.
His survival instinct gave Quinn the speed he needed to avoid the blow. His arm darted back and then forward again, cutting a nasty gash up Mansel’s calf muscle. The top of Mansel’s boot folded down across his shin and Quinn saw the muscle, red and fibrous, bulge from the wound. Mansel hopped back, howling in pain, and Quinn staggered to his feet. He knew that now was his only chance. His left arm was worthless, but Mansel was having trouble putting weight on his wounded leg.
Quinn stepped forward and threw a kick at the side of Mansel’s good leg. Perhaps Quinn was weakened from the nasty wound to his shoulder, or perhaps he just underestimated Mansel’s strength, but the kick landed solidly without doing any damage at all. Quinn thought it was like kicking a tree, and then Mansel’s hand lashed out, the blade flashing in the light of the lantern that Quinn had hung over his horse’s stall. He dodged backward but wasn’t fast enough. Mansel’s dagger caught him in the cheek. He felt the blade puncture flesh and rattle off his teeth. Quinn fell back, dropping his blade and clutching at his wounded face. Then he felt Mansel’s weight land on him, and the muscles in Quinn’s back spasmed so hard they forced the air out of his lungs. He tried to turn as Mansel grabbed his hair and yanked his head up so that his neck was exposed. Quinn knew what was coming and threw his right hand across his throat. He felt the blade sawing through the muscles and tendons of his hand. He screamed again as Mansel released his hair.
“Fine, have it your way,” Mansel said.
Then he slammed the dagger into Quinn’s back.
Chapter 31
Zollin was in the small library of the castle. He was reading books about weather when the King came in, followed by his entourage. Zollin looked up and took in the grim look on the King’s face.
“They’ve arrived,” King Felix said. “We’re going up to the watchtower to see what we can see. Come with us.”
Zollin stood up. He would have liked to continue his study, but he had enough information for now. He followed the group of soldiers. Most were noblemen, although a life of military service was the best they could hope for. The noble families still oversaw the larger cities in Yelsia, but for the children who did not rule, the military was seen as an honorable place to earn a reputation and bring glory to the family name.
Zollin felt out of place with the men. He followed silently as they made their way up the winding staircase to the tallest tower of the castle. The youngest of the men, a commander not much older than Zollin himself, swung open the trap door that led onto the roof of the tower. The roof had a crenellated railing of stone and was large enough that all the men could stand easily on the tower’s surface. There was a cool breeze, almost chilly. They could see the dark shadows of the enemy army spreading around the city. The dark ribbon of the Tillamook ran across the south side of the city, though the city walls didn’t reach out that far.
“They’ll have us completely cut off by morning,” said General Yinnis. He was a large man, with long, dark hair that was turning gray. He still wore a sword, but he carried plans of the city under his other arm. On the front of his tunic was the image of a running boar.