She reached down and squeezed his shoulder. ‘I do not doubt that.’
Rath called out from the front of their column. ‘Dun Taras. Dun Taras is in sight.’
Edana kicked her heels against her horse and rode to the front. Halion followed as quickly as he could on foot, Marrock lingering.
Camlin looked at the warrior’s arm, where a bandage covered the stump of his wrist.
‘How is it?’ Camlin asked him.
Marrock raised his left arm, gazing at the stump.
‘It itches,’ he said. ‘Or at least, it feels like my fingers itch. And they’re not there.’
‘I’ve heard similar said before. Comrade of mine lost an ear, but was always trying to scratch it.’
‘I’ll live,’ Marrock said, ‘though it’s hard getting used to the idea I’ll never draw a bow again.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m alive, so I’ll not complain.’ He looked hard at Camlin then. ‘I’m grateful to you, Camlin, for all that you’ve done. Edana’s right: we’d not be here if not for you.’
Camlin walked along in silence as they crested a rise in the road, the grey walls of Dun Taras appearing in the distance. He did not pay too much mind to it; he was too busy smiling.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
MAQUIN
Maquin pulled on his oar. He had lost track of time, had no idea how many nights had passed since Dun Kellen had fallen and he had been herded onto this ship. A ten-night? Twenty? It had merged into one long, hellish slog, each day the same: kicked awake at dawn, sitting and pulling on the oar, hour after hour, all marked by the constant beating of a rower’s drum, the only marker of time that seeped into his awareness. He’d thought he was fit and strong, with a warrior’s stamina that could last all day on the battlefield, and recently he had done just that, but nothing had prepared him for this. The muscles in his back and shoulders, neck and arms burned, felt as if they were ripping, tearing apart with each stroke of the oar. And his hands – they were bandaged now, the palms crusted with oozing blood and pus where they had blistered and burst and blistered again. His wrists were the same, the skin and flesh worn by the ill-fitting chains that bound him to the other rowers on his bench. Each day would end with the coming of night, a bowl of something closer to vomit than food, and then sleep – instant, exhausted, dreamless sleep.
He had picked up the technique of rowing well enough – he’d pulled an oar a few times with the Gadrai, along the dark tree-shrouded waters of the Rhenus. He’d done better than others, anyway. Some of them were dead now, unable to master the technique, whipped until their backs were a shredded mess; some the fever took, others just collapsed with exhaustion. Regardless, they all went the same way, tipped unceremoniously over the side and fed to the river.
Orgull was still alive, a few benches in front of him. He was not in good shape, though. The warrior with the ruined nose made a point of visiting Orgull each day, giving him a taste of a whip or cudgel. One time he clubbed Orgull unconscious, then had him dragged down the centre isle and doused with a few buckets of water, then clubbed some more. Orgull took the torture in silence, his only response being to stare at his tormentor, which seemed to incite the man to greater acts of violence. Maquin was surprised even Orgull could survive the beatings he was taking, and manage the torture of rowing every waking hour.
Part of him just wanted to lay down his oar, to tell these pirates to go to hell, and smile as they sent him across the bridge of swords; part of him would welcome that. But there was a stubbornness in him that refused to quit, that refused to admit the battle was over. And one thought above all others kept him going. Jael. Each day he remembered the smile on Jael’s face as Maquin had been dragged onto the ship, remembered the man’s mocking laughter drifting after him. He fantasized about killing Jael, quickly, slowly, painfully, every conceivable way, and those thoughts stoked the fire in him, kept him pulling, league after league after league.
A shadow fell across him and looking up he saw Lykos, his captor and the leader of these corsairs staring down at him, arms folded across his chest. His face was unreadable, a sharp intellect dancing in his eyes. The pirate captain regarded him a long while.
‘You still live, then,’ Lykos said. Maquin was unsure whether it was a statement or a question.
‘Clearly,’ Maquin said, focusing on his rowing.
‘I mean in here,’ Lykos said, tapping Maquin’s chest. ‘The death wish is on you, I can see it plainly, but there is more to you than that – something deeper. A will to live.’
Maquin said nothing.
‘Most of your comrades with the death wish, they’ve gone over the side, food for fish by now. Yet you’re still here.’
Maquin shrugged.
‘I’m glad of that, my friend.’