He didn’t answer that, just took a sip from the drink in front of him.
‘I shall have to think of a way to reward you.’ Rhin’s smile deepened.
Dear Elyon in heaven, no.
‘So now we have all the rats in this trap, how are we going to finish them?’ Rhin said. ‘Eremon is the key, I think. I am told he is generally kept in hand by his wife, Roisin, and she is less popular amongst the people than Eremon. Perhaps it is time to go and talk to them, see if a few moons of empty bellies have made them more receptive to negotiation.’
‘What have you in mind?’ Veradis asked.
‘Him,’ she said, pointing a bony finger at Conall. ‘He is Eremon’s bastard – the blood of a king flows in his veins. Why not make him a king – one who will bend the knee to me, of course, High Queen of the West. He is young, handsome, strong, full of . . . vigour.’ She paused, a sly smile twitching her lips. ‘Eremon is in the twilight of his reign and his heir is only a boy – fourteen, fifteen summers?’
‘He will be fifteen now,’ Conall said.
‘I think our offer will be quite tempting to those inside the walls of Dun Taras. Not to Roisin or her brat, of course, but to most of the rest. Especially if food is part of the bargain. And peace, of course.’
Never underestimate this one. Her mind’s as sharp as any of us in this tent, probably sharper.
CHAPTER NINETY-SIX
MAQUIN
Vin Thalun warriors walked before Maquin, the crowds parting around them. Dimly he was aware of them, of the iron-grey clouds overhead, the cold air snatching at his skin. It all merged, a semi-conscious blur as his eyes focused on the space opening before him, a ring of turf churned to mud, tiered rows rising about it, crammed with shouting people. At the ring’s centre stood a tall post, iron chains hanging from it. Beside it was a basket with weapons poking from it: a spear, a sword, maybe more.
He saw a huddle of men emerge from the far side, herded by Vin Thalun behind them.
Maquin sprinted for the basket.
There were three at least, maybe more. They saw Maquin charging towards them; he registered the confusion in their eyes before they realized he was heading for the basket of weapons, not them. One started running for it, others behind him were slower.
Maquin reached the basket first. He grabbed the spear and hurled it into the baying crowd; before its flight was completed he was reaching back into the basket, pulling out the remaining sword and knife. Then he stepped past it to meet his attackers.
The first one saw he was too late and tried to slow, twisting away, his feet slithering on the muddy ground. Maquin’s sword caught him in the head as he dropped, just above the ear. The blade stuck, the weight of the lifeless body dragging it out of Maquin’s hands. He stepped over the twitching corpse, switching the knife from left hand to right.
There were three more. They spread about him cautiously. Maquin could see the raw rope wounds on their wrists – his own had healed to silver scars – recent captives, then, not long come to the Vin Thalun fighting pits.
He surged at the central man, not wanting to give the group a chance to circle him. He ducked swooping arms, a blow glanced off his shoulder; he collided with his opponent, his momentum burying his knife to the hilt in the man’s belly. He ripped up, at the same time spun away, turning to face the sound of approaching feet.
This one was almost upon him. He saw a blur of movement, dropped to his knees, a hooked punch whistling over his head. Then he rolled forwards, slashed with his knife as he passed the man. He felt it bite, came out of his roll on the balls of his feet and stood.
A thin line scored the man’s calf, blood sheeting down. Maquin advanced, the man retreating, hands held high, backing past the man whom Maquin had just gutted, lying in a pool of glistening entrails. Behind him Maquin saw another figure, stooping over the corpse that had a sword lodged in its skull.
The man before him lunged forwards, perhaps seeing Maquin’s distraction. One hand clamped around Maquin’s wrist, pinning the knife, the other reached for his throat.
Maquin pulled backwards, using the weight of his enemy’s desperate rush to send them both crashing to the ground. The man flew over Maquin’s head, helped along by his boot. With a twist of his body Maquin was rising, surging forwards. He punched his knife into the man’s chest as he slipped in the churned ground.
The last survivor was still tugging at the sword stuck in the dead man’s skull as Maquin approached him.
He was young, surely not much past his Long Night, downy wisps on his chin where a beard should be. He tugged harder as Maquin drew closer, putting a foot on the dead man’s face.