‘Where are they?’ it called.
Veradis saw his eagle-guard part for Conall. He too carried a sword and knife in his hands, both blades red with blood. Other warriors followed him – Rhin’s men.
‘Where are they, Uncle?’ Conall said as he stood before the old man.
‘You’ll have to earn that knowledge,’ Rath said.
‘Drop your weapons, Uncle. You can’t win.’
‘Sometimes it’s not about the winning, Con. It’s about how you lose.’
‘It’s always about the winning,’ Conall said.
‘That’s always been your mistake,’ the old man said, shaking his head sadly.
‘Last chance,’ Conall said. ‘Give the old man and his brat up. Be my battlechief.’
‘He was my brother, Con; your da. How can you be doing this?’
‘Was?’ Conall frowned, then he was moving, almost too fast for Veradis to follow. There was a flurry of ringing clashes, sparks, both men chest to chest, ridged veins mapping their arms as they strained against each other. Then Rath had a foot behind Conall’s leg, was pushing him back. Conall stumbled, somehow regained his balance, used his momentum to slip out of range as Rath’s knife whistled where his throat had been.
Rath taught him, Veradis realized, and instantly it was obvious, from the preference of sword and knife to the way they held their balance, the angles of their attacks, the way they were in constant motion, defence flowing into attack after attack. Conall’s knife snaked forwards, Rath blocked, at the same time both swords whistling through the air, clashing. Rath ducked and spun in close, stabbed. There was a thud, a grunt, then the two men parted. Conall only held his sword now.
His knife hilt stood from Rath’s chest.
There was a silent moment as the two men regarded one another, then, with a rattling sigh, Rath sank to the ground.
The other defenders at the doorway leaped forwards then, but Veradis’ eagle-guard and Conall’s warriors intercepted them before they could reach Conall. There was a flurry of hard combat, and then these last defenders were overwhelmed and cut down.
Conall opened the door they had been guarding and walked into an adjoining room. Veradis followed him, saw the warrior staring at a bed. A smell hit Veradis’ throat, sweet and rotten. Decay.
King Eremon lay upon the bed, hands crossed over his chest. He was dead and, from the smell, had been for a while. Conall walked up to the bed, staring at his father – no expression in his eyes.
‘It looks as if Domhain is now yours,’ Veradis said.
‘Not until I have Lorcan’s dead body before me.’ Slowly the chamber was cleared, the injured tended to, the dead moved. Veradis felt a knot of grief swelling in his chest, but breathed deep and buried it, at least for a little longer.
Later, he told himself.
The heavy tramp of many feet sounded in the corridor and Rhin entered the room, her shieldmen about her. Another was with them, a young man, dirty and bruised. Veradis realized it was Rafe, the lad they had brought from Ardan to help them in the hunt for Corban.
Rhin gave Eremon’s corpse a disdainful glance, then approached Conall.
‘We have some information,’ she said, beckoning for Rafe to be brought forward.
‘I’ve been housed with other prisoners, in a building block close to the stables,’ Rafe said. ‘Last night, late, I heard some noise, looked out through a gap in the shutter. I saw Edana go into the stables. Halion was with her,’ his eyes flickered to Conall, ‘and a lot of others – warriors, another woman – dark hair, a young lad with her—’
‘Roisin and Lorcan,’ Conall breathed. ‘It must be. Which way did they go?’
‘I don’t know. They never came out,’ Rafe said.
Veradis took Bos’ body out of the fortress, laid it in a wain along with their other fallen brothers. A cairn was built over them out on the plain. The eagle-guard gathered in a half-circle about the cairn as Veradis spoke of their sword-brothers, stories about their individual honour and courage, valour and loyalty. He drew his sword and saluted the dead, his brothers-in-arms. And his friend. Behind him his warriors did the same, the sound like a wave breaking. His thoughts spiralled about Bos, a fragmented patchwork of memories – recalling the day they’d met on the weapons court in Jerolin, Bos alongside Rauca, Bos’ great appetite, his easy-going nature, his loyalty as a friend. Both of them were dead now, first Rauca and now Bos, gone from this earth. Both in aid of Nathair’s cause. He felt tears fill his eyes and looked away, to the walls of Dun Taras.