Often during training Maquin would see groups of men, shackled hand and foot, led past them, towards the entrance to the underground chambers. They all had a look about them that he knew too well. Half starved, desperate, but still a glimmer of hope in most eyes. They were the latest captives brought in from various ships, more fodder for the fighting pits. Not yet gone through the horror and torture of that first push into darkness.
It was evening, almost a moon since the last pit-fight. Maquin sat on his cot, knees drawn up, dipping dark bread into a spicy soup. Their chambers reminded Maquin of the great stables at Mikil. Each room a stable, sharing a communal yard that was fenced in with iron bars. Beyond those bars was their training ground, further off a town. People would often come to look at them through the bars, even to speak sometimes; they were mostly children, play-acting champions of the pits. Some of the ten liked it, would go and talk and laugh with the visitors. Maquin didn’t. Whenever he saw movement at the bars he would retreat inside his cell, into the shadows.
There was a rattling at the gates and Maquin rose to see who was coming in, soup and bread still in his hand.
It was Herak, flanked by two guards.
‘Wanted to tell you, it’s your last night on the island,’ he said. ‘You’ll all be getting something to remember Nerin by soon. Food, wine, women.’
A cheer went up from most of the men.
‘Where are we going?’ Javed, of course.
Herak smiled viciously. ‘Tenebral.’
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
CORBAN
Corban stumbled again; hands reached out to steady him.
‘Keep moving,’ a voice growled close to his ear.
Corban was exhausted. They had been walking a day and a night since he had heard the wolven howl in the distance. He was sure it was Storm, although other wolven prowled these mountains.
Do I just want to believe so hard that I will not accept anything else? No. It was her.
There was little hope of him making an escape. Corban had counted fifteen grim-faced men in Braith’s employ, though there were never more than twelve about him at any one time – the others scouting ahead or behind. There was also a brace of hounds – two tall, rangy things, skinny with matted hair. They loped ahead, close to one of Braith’s men, himself tall and long-limbed, beard and hair a tangled mess.
Whether they thought Storm was behind them or not, they kept a fast pace, determined to outpace her and any of his companions who might be following behind. Mam’ll skin me, getting caught like this. All the worry I’m giving her.
It was still dark and bitterly cold. As a jagged horizon began to edge in grey Corban realized it was snowing, the flakes looking like slow-falling leaves. They were moving out of the narrow ravines that had marked their passage through the mountains, onto wider paths, ever downwards now.
We must be almost through, nearly into Cambren by now.
Braith was up ahead. Corban saw him send a man back along the path they had travelled. Corban had noticed him doing that throughout their journey, rotating the scouts to front and rear. Soon whoever had been on rearguard would join them. Braith broke up a biscuit and threw it to the hounds. They snapped at each other over the crumbs.
The snow fell more heavily now, a cold wind sending it swirling about them, thickening beneath Corban’s boots, muting sound. Corban was bustled to the centre of the group. Each breath and the pounding of his blood seemed to grow in volume, filling his head.
After a while Corban realized that the rearguard had not joined them. Braith must have noticed too, for he was looking over his shoulder. They were moving through pine trees now, the branches dipping with the weight of snow, an eerie world of white stillness. A tension seemed to have crept amongst them; Corban could see it in the set of shoulders and faces, the twitching glances all about. The way their pace had increased.
A shadow flitted across Corban’s path, merging with the shadows of tree and branch. He looked up, saw a black shape moving above the treetops, flitting in and out of view. He gave a cold smile.
One of the hounds up ahead stopped and turned, ears twitching. Heads peered back, searching through the trees, through the curtain of snow. Then Corban saw her, an off-white blur, bounding out from between the trees, mouth open, teeth bared.
Storm.
Behind her other forms, wolven in shape, more upright. Corban blinked. One was carrying a war-hammer.
Farrell and Coralen in their wolven pelts.
Storm hit the first of Braith’s men, the two of them ploughing through the snow, a great fountain of blood exploding as they rolled. They came to a rest, Storm standing, her jaws dripping red. The man did not move.
Braith yelled orders, reached for Corban and started dragging him on. The hounds ran back, throwing themselves at Storm. A few men hung back; the rest ran on.
He heard snarling and shouting behind, the yelp of a dog, then the clash of weapons – Farrell and Coralen.
‘No!’ Corban yelled, lurching to the side, his feet clumsy in the snow, his bound hands not helping his balance, then he was tumbling to the ground, his face hitting snow and pine needles.