‘Where is he?’ Fidele gasped. Terror and loathing swept her face. ‘He still lives,’ she said.
‘Aye, maybe.’ She did not look as if she wanted to be found by Lykos. ‘Best get you out of here,’ Maquin said. He pulled on Orgull’s axe and placed it on his friend’s chest, fixing it in his grip.
‘Take that across the bridge of swords with you. And walk tall, brother. You’ve earned it.’
Then he was leading Fidele by the hand, being swept by the crowd as they flowed towards the exits, out into the meadow. Once there, Maquin saw the extent of the uprising that was taking place. Nowhere was safe, battle spreading across the field. More Vin Thalun were pouring from the gates of Jerolin, others from the lake town, still more boats rowing towards shore from the ships on the lake. Maquin paused and sucked in a great lungful of air.
Free air. I am free, a slave no longer. The thought made him dizzy. He grinned fiercely, then turned and led Fidele away, the two of them heading towards the trees that bordered the meadow.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN
CAMLIN
Camlin stared at Halion, then at the red gash across his shoulder. A handful of warriors stood with them, men Rath had entrusted to escort Roisin and Lorcan.
Quinn’s blade was poisoned. I saw what it did to the man he fought. At the very least it’s going to put him on his back, and soon. At worst it may kill him.
‘Get back to the ship,’ Camlin said. They looked along the quay. Lorcan was sprawled unconscious where Quinn had dropped him; beyond the lad the last of Quinn’s men were still fighting, separating Camlin from his comrades. He glimpsed Baird and Marrock. He heard his friend call his name.
The drumming of hooves grew. Conall and his men were reaching the beach, galloping hard, sand spraying.
‘You go, Cam, get Lorcan back to the ship, take a few from here to finish Quinn’s men. The rest of us will stay and hold Con a while, give you a chance to get away.’ Halion looked at the men with him, each one nodding.
‘Don’t think I’ll be leaving you in a fix like this,’ Camlin said, reaching into his quiver and grabbing a fistful of arrows. One by one he stabbed them into the soft timber of the quay.
A tremor shook Halion and he swayed, resting his sword-point against the floor, leaning on it.
‘Quinn’s blade was poisoned; it may just have been a drug, a sedative that may pass. If not. .’ Camlin shrugged. ‘Either way you’re no good here — go back to the ship.’
‘I’ll not run from Conall. He’ll never let me forget it.’ Halion attempted a smile.
Camlin just stared at him.
‘I need to look him in the eye,’ Halion said. ‘He’s my brother, and there’s good in him yet.’
‘If there is he’s buried it good ‘n’ deep.’
‘I have to try.’
Camlin shrugged. ‘You won’t have long to wait.’
Conall was only a few hundred paces away now, galloping along the beach, at least a hundred warriors trailing behind him. Halion shuffled closer to the stairs that led down from the quay to the beach, the warriors with him spreading in a half-circle.
Only ten or twelve steps, but it’s a good place to hold them, anyway. Camlin plucked an arrow from the timber, nocked it and drew it back to his ear.
Chop off the head, kill the body. He aimed for Conall’s chest, held his breath and released.
Conall’s horse dipped down a ridge in the sand, the arrow flying high, taking someone behind in the throat. The warrior was hurled backwards over his saddle in a spray of blood.
Damn.
Conall was less than two hundred paces away now, the sound of his approach drowning out the sea and sounds of battle along the quay. Camlin reached for another arrow, went through the same automatic ritual, centring the arrowhead on Conall’s chest again, holding his breath, releasing.
This time Conall rode up a sandbank, the arrow sinking with a wet slap into his horse’s chest. It screamed, reared and toppled backwards in an explosion of sand.
Hope it crushed him. Camlin reached for another arrow, drew it back, held his breath, released. This time it punched through a warrior’s cuirass and flung him from his saddle. Then warriors were at the quay, yanking on reins, jumping from saddles, drawing swords, running at the steps. The first one climbing up got Halion’s sword in the neck, a blow that almost severed the man’s head. Halion put a boot on the man’s shoulder and pushed, sending him flying back into those below.
Camlin fired an arrow into the milling warriors, drew and fired again.
It’s like fish in a barrel.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Halion sway, men either side of him reaching out to steady him.
He glanced back towards the ship, saw Marrock frantically fighting, trying to cut through the warriors that barred the way.
More men were climbing the stairs now, trying by force of numbers to push through. There was a lot of sword swinging and screaming, men or parts of men falling back into the crowd gathering at the bottom of the steps. Others were spreading either side, jumping to hang on the timber and pull themselves up. Halion’s men chopped at fingers, stamped on hands.
Halion stabbed a man through the chest. The dead man toppled backwards, Halion pulling on his sword. For a moment his strength seemed to leave him and he stumbled, then fell off the quay. Some of his comrades leaped after him, hacking wildly. Camlin drew and fired, drew and fired, the consistency of his shots forcing warriors to retreat. Then he saw Halion, standing, swinging his sword in two-handed blows, a few men about him, fanning out from the steps. Others jumped down from the quay, until a group of five or six stood about Halion. Their attackers hung back, gathering their courage for a final rush, then Conall forced his way through them.
Third time lucky, thought Camlin, nocking another arrow and taking aim.
I’ve got you now.
A force slammed into Camlin’s left shoulder, spinning him, sending his arrow skittering away. He staggered, almost fell, looked at his shoulder.
An arrow shaft protruded from it. As if brought on by the sight of it, pain suddenly bloomed, radiating outwards in great waves. He looked up, working out the direction of the arrow’s flight. Up the slope before the quay, onto the hill. A figure stood at its top, part sliding down the slope, a bow in one hand.
Braith.
‘Good t’see you, Cam, you traitorous runt.’
‘Always knew you couldn’t shoot an arrow worth a damn,’ Camlin shouted.
‘Be fair now — I’m sliding down a mountain.’
Camlin lifted an arrow and tried to draw his bow but pain spiked in his shoulder, black dots dancing before his eyes. He dropped his bow and drew his sword instead. Dimly he was aware of combat below him, on the sand. He shot a quick glance, saw Conall trading blows with one of Halion’s men, Halion himself standing before the steps, hacking someone down.
Braith was halfway down now. Camlin was already moving forwards; he knew better than to let Braith get his balance, the best swordsman he’d seen in the Darkwood in a score of years, the man who’d bested Rhagor, battlechief of Ardan.
And now I’m crossing swords with him, and me with an arrow in my shoulder. Not the best odds.
Their swords met in a harsh percussion of blows, Braith pressing forwards, an overwhelming force, six blows, ten, twelve, his attack not faltering. Camlin retreated, pain shooting in spasms from his injured shoulder as he twisted and turned, using everything he knew to keep himself alive a few heartbeats longer. He tried to push forwards, get inside Braith’s guard, but Braith just smiled at him — that knowing smile — stepped in to meet him and grabbed the arrow shaft in Camlin’s shoulder, twisting it.