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Not taking the bait, Cabham waited to see what Gill meant to do. Gill feinted again, then changed the line of his attack and tried an opportunistic cut at one of Cabham’s companions. The man jumped out of the way and Gill moved to close the space between them. He could see Barnot and Cabham’s other man having at one another.

The man Gill had cut at came at him, with Cabham alongside, pressing Gill. For a moment he found himself enjoying it. There had been a time when he had thrived on such challenges, and as he slipped into a flowing rhythm of parrying and riposting between the two, he could almost see himself back in those days. Almost.

The taproom was filled with the sound of clashing steel, shouts, and the stamping of feet. Gill’s shoulder started to ache and he had to grit his teeth and force it to keep moving. He was tired. Too tired. As wonderful as the Cup was, it seemed there was a personal cost to using it. Cabham sensed that Gill was slowing and pressed his attack. His comrade did the same, and Gill knew that he was fighting against time. He started looking for a way to make his life easier.

Switching from speed to force, he knocked Cabham’s sword off to the side in the hope of opening some space. As he tried to bring his blade back to defend himself against Cabham’s comrade, he realised that he had underestimated the other man’s speed. The banneret’s blade caught Gill in the same shoulder that had been injured earlier that day. As pain seared through him, he wondered how much of the Cup’s healing effect was still in operation. Judging by the pain—so intense it made him struggle for breath—it was definitely running out.

Cabham pounced. Gill pulled himself off the blade in his shoulder and parried. Suddenly the heat from the fire, which moments before had been welcoming, felt oppressive. Sweat beaded on his brow, but he managed to parry Cabham’s attack with the fatalistic satisfaction of one who knew he wouldn’t be able to pull that move off again. The second man’s attack was thrown off when he was struck on the side of the head by a barstool. Cabham’s head twitched in distraction. Not one to pass up an opportunity, even without time to reset and execute a tidy thrust, Gill cut to the right with all the force he could muster. He felt the blade make contact. Cabham let out a grunt, but Gill didn’t have time to rest on his laurels.

He pulled his blade clear, then thrust it into the second man’s throat. A vicious flick of his wrist was enough to ensure that the man wouldn’t trouble Gill again, leaving him free to make sure that he had finished the job with Cabham.

Cabham was sitting on the tavern’s floor, doing his best to hold his guts in his belly. He was dead, but his dying would be long and painful yet. Gill dispatched him with a precise thrust to the heart. Barnot was finishing with his foe, leaving Guillot time to catch his breath and press a finger against his new wound. He looked about the taproom to find the source of the stool—and received a nod from the man who had been sitting at the bar when he and Val came in.

Barnot let out a shout as he executed the killing cut, then a laugh as he sucked in lungfuls of air.

“Just like the old days, Captain!” Barnot said.

“It felt easier in the old days,” Gill said. He looked around and saw Val standing in the corner, his sword clutched in a white-knuckled grip. “You need to hold it softly, lad, like something fragile. You can put it away for now, though.”

The stranger was now leaning against the bar, his stool lying on the floor next to a corpse. Gill returned his nod and walked over.

“I owe you my thanks,” he said. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“It didn’t look like a fair fight,” the man said.

“I’m in your debt. Guillot dal Villerauvais is my name.”

“I’m Phar … ançois.”

Barnot made his way over, followed by Val.

“Honoured to make your acquaintance, François. This is Sergeant Barnot, and my squire, Valdamar.”

Gill saw François’s eyes narrow at Val’s name, and laughed. “A little ostentatious I’ll grant you, but he’s a good lad. Gaufre!”

It took some time for Gaufre to appear from a back room. He grimaced at the sight of the mess, and Gill felt a pang of guilt at the damage they’d done. Still, it wasn’t their fault.

“A bottle of brandy,” Gill said.

“That’s more like it,” Barnot said.

“Don’t get too excited. It’s for my shoulder,” Gill said.

Gaufre brought a bottle and four glasses.

“A cloth too,” Gill said.

Gaufre nodded, still not having uttered a sound since leaving his hiding place. He set a rag on the bar in front of Gill. It didn’t look too dirty, so Gill took it, doused it liberally in brandy, and pressed it to his wound.

Barnot studied the bottle and gave an approving grunt. “Can’t let a decent bottle like this go to waste,” he said, then filled a glass and slid it over to François. “The least we can do is stand you a drink, friend.” He filled another and gave it to Val. “It’ll put hairs on your chest. Take your time with it, mind.” He then filled one more glass and gave Gill an inquiring look. “Sure I can’t tempt you? A man needs something a bit stronger than water after a fight like that.”

Gill looked at the glass. His shoulder burned like the fires of hell. If nothing else, the brandy would ease the pain a little. One drink couldn’t hurt. He’d killed two dragons and as many men in the last two days. He’d stop after the first. He took a deep breath and let it whistle out between his teeth. Then he nodded. Barnot smiled and slid the glass over to him, then filled the final one for himself.

“Old friends, and new,” Barnot said. “And bad fights well won.”

They all took a drink, with Val spluttering most of his across the bar. Gill felt the welcome heat of the brandy flood down his throat into his gut, then spread through his body. He closed his eyes and revelled in the feeling. It was like welcoming home an old friend that he had not seen in far too long. It was odd—for a moment he thought he could feel the pull, but the brandy drowned it, and all the other aches, out.

“Tell me, François,” Barnot said, as Gaufre started to clean up the mess in the taproom. “Where are you from?”

The newcomer shrugged. “Here and there. Came to see a dragon with my own eyes.”

“Not to kill one and make a name for yourself?” Gill said.

François laughed. “No. Seeing one in the flesh’s enough for me.”

Gill looked down and saw that Barnot had topped up his glass. His shoulder still ached. He’d finish what was there, then refuse any more.

  CHAPTER 28

“The entire village was gone,” Gill said, with the determined precision of a man who was trying to prove he could speak without slurring. “Everything. Everyone. Ash. Nothing more.”

François nodded gravely. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Gaufre had cleared the bodies and done his best to mop up the blood, in the hope of putting the place to rights before other customers arrived. A few people had poked their heads in after Gaufre unbolted the door, but, greeted with chaos and carnage, had elected to spend their evening elsewhere. The news must have spread, for no one came near the place for the remainder of the night. Eventually Gaufre damned them all to hell and went to bed.