Farrell wiped blood from the back of his hand, a cut during the brief skirmish, then gripped Quinn’s hand.
‘Begin,’ Maeve declared and instantly both arms were straining. The crowd around them roared to life, shouting encouragements, making wagers, some singing. Quinn was the bigger man, his arms bulkier, slabs of meat for biceps, but Farrell’s strength had been honed in the forge, like Corban’s, with years of hammer-pounding packing every fibre with strength. For a long time both arms remained fixed, immovable, then, slowly, a tremor appeared in Quinn’s forearm. His face was contorted with strain, jaws clenched, eyes bulging. His arm moved, just a fraction, and the crowd around them hushed, sensing the end.
Quinn’s arm moved again, a downward jerk this time. He checked it somehow, a handspan from the table, pausing the flood.
It’s over, Farrell’s won. Corban felt a grin slipping onto his face.
Then Farrell grunted, a shiver running through him. His head lolled and Quinn’s arm slowly rose again, their fists back at midpoint. Farrell shifted, his head coming up, glaring at his arm as if it had betrayed him. Long moments passed, frozen in time, then Farrell’s head dipped again, and suddenly Quinn’s arm was forcing Farrell’s back, ever lower. With a final roar, the strength seemed to drain from Farrell and Quinn was punching the air in victory.
Farrell just sat there, staring at his hand, clenching and unclenching his fingers.
Quinn caught hold of Coralen, who had stayed nearby. He pulled her close, kissing her hard. She struggled in his grip, stamped on his foot and elbowed him in the face.
Farrell lunged across the table, grabbing Quinn’s wrist.
‘Let her go,’ Farrell growled.
Quinn let go of Coralen and swung a fist at Farrell, catching him high on the temple.
Corban leaped forwards, vaulting the table as Farrell sagged to the ground. He crashed into Quinn, sending him stumbling backwards.
‘Stay behind me,’ he said to Coralen and pushed forwards, fists raised.
Don’t punch at all if you can help it, he heard his father’s voice, clear as if he were standing next to him, but if you must, punch first and punch hardest.
Quinn swung at him and Corban ducked, still moving forwards, slammed a fist into Quinn’s belly and sent a hook to his chin. The big man staggered and a straight right sent him toppling backwards.
That should do it.
Quinn climbed to his feet, blood running from his nose.
‘So it’s a fight you’re wanting,’ he said, his fists bunching. He spat blood.
Oh dear.
Then men were moving everywhere, some gathering about Quinn, others closing beside Corban – Gar, Halion, Dath, Vonn. Others. A sound rose over them all, silencing the clamour. A deep rumbling.
Storm, growling.
Corban felt her brush past him, place herself in the space between Corban and Quinn, teeth bared, slavering. Quinn took an involuntary step backwards. His hand moved to his sword hilt. There was a moment when all was still, violence hanging in the air. Then a figure stepped between them – Rath, a handful of his giant-killers with him.
‘Best save it for Rhin,’ he said. ‘And you’d better calm that beast down.’
Corban touched Storm and she stopped growling.
Quinn wiped blood from his face, then grinned. ‘These southerners are too serious; and that one can’t take his drink.’ He waved at Farrell, then turned and walked into the crowd.
‘Well, aren’t you the brave one?’ a voice said. Corban turned and Maeve was there, standing uncomfortably close. ‘You just put the first-sword of Domhain on his arse. Think that deserves a kiss.’
She pressed her lips to his, her arms wrapping around his waist, and for a moment the world went blank, shrinking to the taste of wine on Maeve’s breath, the sensation of her lips against his. Then someone was pulling him. He spun to see Coralen glaring at him. She slapped him hard across the face.
‘I’m no maiden to be saved; I can look after myself,’ she spat at him.
‘I know you can,’ he spluttered.
‘So why did you do that? Fight my fight?’
Because . . .’ He shrugged. Why did I do that? ‘The same reason they were all at my side.’ He gestured to Gar and the others. ‘We look after each other. Because you’re a friend.’
That stopped her a moment, her mouth open but nothing coming out. Then her eyes slipped to Maeve.
‘Enjoy your victory,’ she said with a sneer and walked away.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
MAQUIN
Maquin sat at a table brimming with food and drink: bowls of fruits – oranges, figs, plums – olives, meats, as well as eels and squid and anchovies, warm flatbread and jugs of watered wine to wash it all down with. Maquin had tasted wine like it when in Jerolin and hadn’t liked it. Now, though, after his months of gruel whilst chained to an oar, it all tasted like a feast made for kings.