‘I want him, this Corban. Alive and in chains before me. There are other parties that are very interested in him, which means that I am interested, too. Take as many as you need, whatever supplies, all the gold necessary, but it must be done now, quickly and quietly. You must leave now.’
Braith bowed and kissed Rhin’s hand, then turned to leave.
‘Braith,’ Rhin called as he reached the exit.
‘Remember, I want the boy alive, but you can kill the rest of them, including Edana. Actually, especially Edana.’
‘What about the wolven? Do you want that alive as well?’
‘Of course not. Kill it.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
MAQUIN
Maquin sat with his back to the wall of Dun Kellen’s stone bridge. His hands and ankles were shackled. The place where his ear had been was throbbing; a blood-stained bandage wrapped around his head stemmed the bleeding.
He was part of a group of defeated men, at least a hundred of them, the number being added to all the time. A dozen warriors — all men from the ships — stood guarding them. Further away, towards Dun Kellen, Jael’s warband was busy, organizing the clearing of the town, bringing order back where chaos had ruled. The newcomers who had arrived on the black-sailed ships were busy around the river, restocking supplies, it looked like.
Heads on spikes lined the bridge; Maquin was sitting beside one. He looked up and saw a crow perched on the head, tugging a strip of flesh from it. Further along he saw Gerda’s head, one eye already taken by these looters of the dead.
Orgull’s head was not on a spike. Not yet. The big man had laid down his axe to save him. In a way Maquin wished Orgull had kept fighting, that they had both died in that tunnel underground. But he hadn’t. As soon as Orgull’s axe had touched the ground they had both been bound and taken from the fortress. He had no idea where Orgull was.
He had failed.
Jael was alive — not only that, he had won. And Maquin had been so close. He put his head in his hands.
The only hope to cling to was that Tahir had escaped with Gerda’s son, or at least had not been captured yet. If they had been caught, surely their heads would be on spikes alongside Gerda’s. There was a glimmer of hope for Isiltir while Romar’s son still lived and that would surely tarnish Jael’s victory. That was something.
A noise caused him to lift his head. A group of riders had emerged from the town and gathered at the end of the bridge, laughing. One of them dismounted.
Jael.
He felt a shadow fall over him, refused to look up until his boot was kicked. ‘Someone’s angry,’ Jael said, smiling. ‘Ulfilas, protect me from the poison in this man’s gaze.’
Maquin lowered his eyes. Jael kicked his boot again and suddenly Maquin was lunging forwards. Even with the chains it was so fast and so unexpected that he had his fingers around Jael’s throat before anyone could react. As Jael’s eyes bulged, Ulfilas clubbed Maquin across the head with the hilt of his sword and Maquin’s legs turned to gruel. He slumped to his knees.
Jael kneed Maquin in the face. He fell backwards, the sound of his nose breaking was like a branch splitting. Blood sluiced from his nose and his head cracked against the stone wall of the bridge.
Maybe now I’ll die, he thought as he lay sprawled, staring up at Jael.
‘Help him up,’ Jael said, brushing himself down. Ulfilas grabbed Maquin under the arm and hoisted him back to his knees.
‘You’ve come a long way from Haldis,’ Jael said. ‘And survived Forn Forest. I am guessing that you are the reason that Gerda and Varick were not surprised to see me. And yet you lost. You must feel terrible.’
Maquin just looked at him, the words filtering through layers of dizziness and pain.
‘And, of course, I haven’t mentioned your greatest loss. Kastell.’
Maquin felt the world pull into focus, juddering; Jael’s face, his mouth, his lips moving, filling the entirety of his vision.
‘He died badly, you know, if you didn’t see. A gut wound. He screamed, a lot. Not very brave in the end, for all his words, his giant-killing — one of the Gadrai indeed.’ Jael spat on the ground, as if the words gave a bad taste.
‘So you are quite the failure. You failed Kastell. You have failed Gerda. Are you the worst shieldman in all of the Banished Lands? Ulfilas, remind me never to enlist this man in my service. The day when I do that I will surely lose whatever battle I am fighting.’ Laughter drifted about him, from dark places that Maquin could not see.
‘I call. .’ Maquin coughed on his words, hawked and spat. ‘I call you out,’ he said, little more than a whisper. ‘I challenge you, to the Court of Swords.’
Jael threw his head back and laughed. A deep, genuine sound. He wiped his eyes. ‘I think it is a little late for that. In case you are not clear: you have already lost.’ There was more laughter at that.
‘I challenge you to the Court of Swords,’ Maquin said again, louder. ‘I do not expect you to accept. You are afraid. A coward, dung that I would scrape from my boot.’
‘Be careful,’ Jael said, his expression hardening, ‘before your jest loses its humour.’
‘A coward — as you have always been,’ Maquin continued, aware now that others were listening, people moving closer to hear. ‘I have watched you grow, seen you pick always on the weaker man. You are a coward, a traitor, you have betrayed your own kin. Kastell you stabbed in the back, too scared to face him. I saw.’
‘I did not,’ Jael roared, angry, looking about at the gathering crowd.
‘And your victories — given to you like crumbs from your better’s table. These men — ’ he looked to those on the bridge that had come from the ships — ‘Nathair’s men? Of course they are. There are few warriors in Isiltir who would follow you.’
Jael backhanded him across the face. He swayed but managed to remain upright.
‘Put a sword in my hand. Face me, as a man. Look at me — beaten bloody — yet you are still too scared to face me.’
‘Unchain him and give him a blade,’ Jael snarled at Ulfilas as he stepped back and drew his sword.
Ulfilas moved hesitantly forwards and helped Maquin stand.
‘Why do you follow him?’ Maquin whispered. Ulfilas looked sharply at him, then looked away. He fumbled at the chains about Maquin’s wrists.
‘I have no key.’
‘Just put a sword in my hand,’ Maquin said. ‘I’ll still win.’ He knew that he would not, had seen Jael spar many times in the weapons court at Mikil. But at least he would die that much closer to his dream, not chained to an oar, a thousand leagues from home.
‘Do as he says,’ Jael yelled, spittle flying.
Maquin smiled. He had witnessed Jael goading Kastell many times over the years, Jael always with that maddening smile on his lips. It was not there now. It was nice that at the end he at least had this small victory.
A crowd had pulled in about them now. Even some amongst the chained warriors along the wall were standing, trying to see the confrontation. Some called out encouragements to Maquin, or jeered at Jael.
There was a pushing and shoving further back in the crowd, men moving to let someone through. It was the leader of the ship men: Lykos, Maquin had heard him called. Behind him strode a lean warrior, his face disfigured, part of his nose missing. He led a man by a chain. Orgull.
His friend was bleeding from a hundred cuts, all small wounds, his face bruised and swollen. He shuffled behind his captor, head bowed.
‘What’s happening here?’ Lykos asked Jael.
‘I am going to teach him some truths,’ Jael said, his rage adding a tremor to his voice.
‘What truths?’
‘That I am no coward, and that I am the better swordsman.’
‘He is in chains,’ Lykos said. ‘And close to collapse; look at him. You will prove nothing fighting him now. And besides, he is not yours to kill. He is my captive, remember?’