Slasher bounded towards them and leapt, turning in midair as he sailed over their heads and landed in the centre of the circle. A gap appeared in their ranks barely a second later, the hound tearing through flesh and bone as his pack raced towards the hole he had carved. Frentis raised his sword and charged in their wake, the fighters following as the Kuritai’s cohesion shattered. He hacked a man’s legs from under him, reversed the blade and stabbed down through his chest, the fighters racing past to join in the slaughter. The Kuritai fought to the end of course, no sign of panic or fear as they were hacked down or torn apart by fang and claw, claiming ever more fighters and hounds before the last finally disappeared under a dozen slashing blades.
Frentis did a count as the fighters staggered around in the aftermath of the carnage. No more than fifty left, he surmised. At least a third of those wounded.
Janril was still amongst the living, hacking at something concealed beneath the ferns with slow methodical strokes of his sword. He stopped and bent down to retrieve his prize, holding it up as blood gushed from the stump of its neck. The former minstrel laughed as he shook the head up and down, the mouth opening and closing in a grotesque parody of speech. Frentis found himself shamed by the realisation he had hoped Janril would have found his end today. There will never be peace for one such as him.
A high-pitched yell came from the rear, Davoka instantly hefting her spear and running towards it. Illian.
Frentis followed, seeing Master Grealin up ahead, the big man moving with surprising speed once more as he raced through the undergrowth. Beyond him Frentis could see Arendil battling two Kuritai, his long sword moving in fluid arcs as he turned aside their short swords, twisting and ducking as they tried to close. He could see Illian standing amidst the branches of an oak above the fight, hands spread helplessly. No more bolts.
Arendil was forced to back away at speed as the Kuritai redoubled their efforts, one slashing low the other high. The boy’s feet found a tree root and he stumbled, falling flat on his back, the Kuritai closing, swords raised.
Master Grealin stopped twenty yards short, lowering his sword and raising his free hand, fingers spread wide . . . And the Kuritai flew.
It was as if some great invisible fist swept down to batter them from their feet. One colliding with the trunk of the oak, wrapping around it with enough force to shatter his spine. The other glanced off the branch where Illian was perched, the girl uttering a yelp as he spun from the impact to land some ten yards away.
Davoka paused to stare at Grealin for an instant, a palpable fear and distaste on her face. “Rova kha ertah Mahlessa,” she said in a low voice before running on to check on the young folk.
Frentis walked to Grealin’s side, seeing an expression of sombre regret on his face, his skin clammy and pale, as if he had suffered a great pain. “I thought I had imagined it,” Frentis said. “The Volarian impaled on the branch. A feverish vision. Any other surprises for me, Master?”
Grealin gave a slight smile. “Actually, my correct title is Aspect.”
He sent Janril after the Renfaelin hunters along with ten of their most capable remaining fighters. As instructed they killed the dogs to erase the memory of their scent and kept one of the hunters alive for questioning. His defiance didn’t last long, a few moments in Thirty-Four’s company proving sufficient persuasion to fully loosen his tongue.
“Our lord is convinced his son resides in this forest,” the man said, a lean fellow of middling years with the weathered look of a professional tracker. The fingers of his left hand dripped blood continually from where Thirty-Four had thrust rose thorns under his nails. “We were promised ten golds to bring him back, twenty if he was still alive. He paid for the slaves out of his own pocket, bought them from the Volarian general.”
“You hunt your own people for gold?” Janril asked him in an expressionless tone.
“I do as I’m told,” the man whined, staring up at them from the tree root to which he had been bound. “Always have. Fief Lord Darnel is not a man to cross, not if you want to stay healthy.”
“Neither am I,” Frentis said. “Tell him that when you see him.”
“You’re letting him go?” Janril asked, following as he walked towards where Arendil was helping with the wounded.
“Leave him bound where he is when we move the camp,” Frentis said. “I assume Lord Darnel will have a just reward for his failure.”
“He deserves a traitor’s death, brother,” Janril insisted, an uncharacteristic heat colouring his tone.
“Not seen enough death for one day, Sergeant?”
“When it comes to scum like him, I’ll never have seen enough.”
Frentis paused, meeting Janril’s gaze squarely. “Does it help? All the killing and the torture, does it take away the sight of her death?”
Janril’s eyes were bright and pale beneath his lowered brow. “Nothing will ever do that. What I do I do in her name, I honour her with blood.”
“Her name? What was it? I’ve yet to hear you speak it.”
The sergeant just stared at him, only a faint uncertainty in his eyes, barely glimpsed beneath the burgeoning madness. “Leave the hunter where he is and get ready to move,” Frentis ordered. “If you can’t follow my commands, then take yourself off and do all the killing you want out of my sight.”
Arendil was helping Davoka bind a bandage around Draker’s arm. The Lonak woman was the only one amongst them with any appreciable healing skill. “Thought I’d clubbed the life from the bugger then he stabs me,” the big man said through gritted teeth. “Finished him then though. Didn’t stop till I saw his brains.”
Davoka tied off the bandage and they moved away, speaking softly. “Ten will die tonight. The rest will heal with enough time.”
“Time is not something we have,” he replied. “We move within the hour.”
She gave a sombre nod then cast a wary glance at where Grealin sat alone beside a small fire, huddling in his cloak as if chilled to the bone. “He comes too?”
“He’s an Aspect of my Faith and leader of this group. Can’t very well leave him behind.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Leader?”
Frentis chose to ignore her and turned to Arendil, beckoning the boy over. “So, how well do you know your father?”
“Twenty golds?” Arendil pursed his lips in surprise. “And Grandfather always said the Fief Lord was too cheap to pay a tavern whore.”
“What does he want you for?” Frentis asked.
“I’m his heir. The only issue of his filthy seed.” The boy’s discomfort was obvious, his gaze averted as he shifted from foot to foot. “I’ve never even met him but I feel as if he’s always been there, a hateful shadow. And I know his mind, his need to claim me has become something beyond reason or sense. Sometimes I would see Mother looking at me with a strange frown and I knew she wasn’t seeing me, she was seeing him.” He stopped shuffling, raising his head to meet Frentis’s eye. “I won’t be taken by him, brother. I will die first.”
Cut off a finger and send it to the Fief Lord with the hunter. Provoke him into even rasher action. It was not his thought, he knew that. It was her. The stain of their union went deep, all the way into his soul. “I swear to you that won’t happen,” he told Arendil, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You fought well today. Go help her ladyship with gathering the weapons, will you?”
There was a brief flash of pride on the boy’s face before he ran off to find Illian.