Orgull was tiring now, his mouth hanging open as he fought for the breath to drive his body; Maquin could see him withering, the signs of it in the wildness of the big man’s swings, the control fading with each move, each contraction of muscle, the fibres pushed beyond the point of obedience to the will. In short moments the facade would be undone. If Maquin was going to do this, he would have to do it now.
He snarled, more at himself and what he had become than for any other reason, ducked a high blow, shuffled back, swayed to the right, then pushed forwards, dropping into a roll, slashing a knife across Orgull’s leg as he rolled past him.
He heard the grunt and the impact of Orgull’s fall before he had finished his roll.
He stood and turned slowly, saw Orgull lying face down in the mud, his axe slipped from his grasp, hands reaching blindly for it. There was a gash in one of his legs, blood pumping from the wound, and Maquin felt a stab of guilt at inflicting more pain on this man. His sword-brother, his captain, his friend.
I will make it quick.
The crowd roared as Maquin bore down on Orgull, at the last instant the big man flipping over onto his back to look into Maquin’s face. That made him pause, just for a heartbeat as they locked eyes, sharing that comradeship that can only be crafted from fighting side by side, from saving each other’s lives, from sharing the same cause.
Orgull smiled at him, just a twitch of his scarred lips, and nodded. I am ready, the smile said, and thank you.
Maquin raised a knife, paused as he looked down at Orgull.
Kill him. Else all you’ve sacrificed is for nothing.
The moment stretched, utter silence in the arena. With a snarl Maquin stood straight and dropped his knives.
‘I’ll not be killing you, my brother. Not this day; not ever.’
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWELVE
CORBAN
The land around Corban changed from rolling heather to rocky scree. They had talked long and hard about plans of approach, how exactly they were going to take Cywen from among close to two thousand Jehar.
‘She is bait to trap you, so she will be kept close to Nathair,’ Meical had said. ‘So all we need to do is find Nathair.’
‘That looks like a big fortress,’ Corban had commented.
‘Nathair is here for the cauldron. Find the cauldron and we find Nathair. Find Nathair and we find Cywen. How we shall then take her from him is another matter.’
In the end the plan was a simple one. They would abandon stealth for speed. A battle would be going on, between the giants of Murias and Nathair and his Jehar. It would be chaotic. This was their best and only opportunity. They were riding quickly at a ground-eating canter, the cliffs of Murias looming high above now, night upon them. The moon was a pale glow behind streaks of cloud. Corban glanced to either side, saw Gar and his mam, Tukul and Meical, Dath, Brina, Farrell and Coralen; Storm and Buddai loped in the shadows. Behind them spread three score Jehar warriors. His kin, his friends, others, all come to this place because of him. Their lives, their deaths – all his responsibility because of his decision.
Focus, now, as Gar’ taught me a thousand times. There is only now, this moment, and the one that follows . . .
Then he was passing the first bodies, horses and men fallen together, their flesh torn in strips, raked down to their bones. They slowed to a trot, picking their way through the human and equine detritus. Black feathers sprinkled it all, sticking to blood, floating on the breeze.
They moved past the concentration of bodies, the open gates looming closer. Corban saw movement to the left of the gates, amongst the rocks. It was a big black raven on a granite boulder, hunched by a corpse and pecking at itself, muttering.
‘Fech, is that you?’
‘Yes, I am Fech. Fech Fech Fech. I am a selfish, disloyal bird. Selfish, selfish.’ The raven resumed pecking himself. Corban saw blood welling through his charcoal feathers.
‘Stop that,’ Brina snapped as she slid from her horse and picked her way through rocks to the raven. Craf fluttered out of the sky and alighted on a boulder close by.
Tukul and the Jehar fanned out before them, protecting against any attack.
‘Don’t do that to yourself,’ Brina said, grasping the raven.
‘Deserve it, deserve it, deserve it,’ the bird muttered.
If it is possible for a bird’s voice to express an emotion then I am hearing abject misery, thought Corban.
Meical followed Brina and stared at the body on the ground. From its size it was clearly a giant, probably female from the long black hair, though otherwise it was hard to tell. It was lying with limbs splayed at unnatural angles, most of its features a pulped ruin.
‘Is that Nemain?’ Meical said.
‘Yes,’ wailed the bird. ‘Nemain, Nemain, Nemain.’
Meical looked up. Corban followed his eyes and saw a balcony high above, the curved shadow of a doorway or window behind it.
‘Nemain would not just fall,’ Meical said. ‘And someone opened the gates of Murias.’