That’s comforting.
Camlin was limping, using his bow as a staff. His face was grime streaked, blood caking a cut on his scalp. Corban remembered the first time he’d seen him in Dun Carreg, King Brenin’s prisoner. Then again in the Darkwood, an outlaw working for Braith, part of the attempt on Queen Alona’s life. But something had made Camlin turn then, and Corban had seen him protecting Cywen, standing against Morcant, Rhin’s own champion. So much has changed since then. They would have been dead a dozen times over if not for Camlin, probably more.
‘Thank you,’ Corban said, not realizing he’d spoken out loud.
‘What?’ Camlin said.
‘I was just thinking,’ Corban stuttered. ‘You’ve saved my life, our lives. Much more than once. We wouldn’t be here if not for you.’
Camlin looked at him a few moments, looking as if he thought Corban was mocking him. ‘This isn’t the best place to be, y’know.’
‘I mean we wouldn’t have made it this far.’
Camlin’s face softened. He smiled. ‘You’re welcome, lad. Though I think I may have used all my luck up, now.’
‘That doesn’t matter. I don’t believe in luck,’ Corban said.
‘Do you not? What do you believe in, lad.’
Corban thought about that. ‘This.’ He touched the hilt of his sword. ‘Him,’ pointing to Dath. ‘Her,’ a hand ruffling Storm’s fur. ‘Us,’ a gesture taking them all in.
‘Good answer,’ Camlin said.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
VERADIS
Veradis walked along the hill, the sinking sun sending a long shadow stretching far behind. He was checking the line of bodies that lay before him. Twelve of his men, slain in the battle. It was a good number by any standard, but still it upset him. They had been good men, brave and loyal. Three he recognized from having been with him since the beginning – from the battle in distant Tarbesh against giants who rode draigs. He did not doubt that somewhere on their bodies they would have a draig’s tooth. He stroked the one Nathair had presented to him, embedded now in his sword hilt. And something else gnawed at him. Their wounds. All of them had injuries on their lower legs – cuts and gashes on ankles and shins. Not killing wounds, obviously, but nevertheless, it bothered him. Any chain was only as strong as its weakest link, and if this weak link was getting his men killed, then he needed to do something about it. He looked down at his own feet, bound in leather sandals, the soles iron shod, cords of leather wrapped about his calves. An idea began to form in his mind.
Owain had not been found yet, but the battle was over. The defeated dead had been stripped of their precious things – weapons and armour, torcs and rings, any silver or gold – and been piled high and soon their bodies would be burned. The victorious dead were laid out separately, ready to have a cairn raised over them. Rhin had set up a tent at the top of the hill, and was sitting on a huge wooden chair draped with furs, celebrating. Veradis turned and looked over the woodland to the west, rolling away in shades of green into the twilight as night crept upon them. He strained his ears, listening, and thought he heard something on the breeze – shouting? Perhaps they’ve found Owain. Woodland was not a place he would choose for battle – he had had enough of trees in Forn. Just stepping into these woods earlier had brought those memories flooding back. He hadn’t been in these woods long, though. Just long enough to find the girl, Cywen, and bring her back. And only just in time. Veradis had taken command of watching the girl, given her to Bos with a stern warning to watch her closely. Even though Conall had beaten her bloody she had been more worried about her horse, and how to get that arrow out of it. So the first thing he had done upon their return was to take her to the paddocks in search of Rhin’s horsemasters. He had bumped into Akar, who was overseeing the care given to the Jehar’s mounts, and to Veradis’ surprise Akar had said that he would help. Together they had tied the stallion to a series of posts, securing him as tightly as they could. Akar had called other Jehar to help, one of them attaching something to the soft flesh around the horse’s nostrils, tightening it until the stallion’s head had drooped, had seemed beyond calm, close to sleep even. Then a poultice had been placed around the wound – Akar said it would open the flesh a little and numb it – then with a sharp tug he had pulled the arrow out. The horse had jumped, eyes rolling, but it was over so quickly it settled almost immediately. Veradis had left them tending the wound, Cywen looking with interest over their shoulders despite her obvious mistrust of them all.