‘Uthas,’ Fech spat. ‘Uthas killed her. Uthas the betrayer. Peck his eyes out and eat them. Should have returned sooner. Sooner, sooner.’ He tried to peck himself again, but Brina gripped his beak. Craf flew over, landing on the same boulder as Fech. He peered at the raven, then shuffled closer and began running his beak through Fech’s ruffled feathers.
Is Craf grooming him? Is he being nice?
‘Will you help us?’ Corban said.
‘How?’ Fech asked when Brina let go, cocking his head to one side.
‘We need to find the cauldron,’ he said. ‘Take us to it.’
‘Cauldron is bad,’ Fech said. ‘Why go there?’
‘Because that is where Nathair will be, and he has my sister. We have come to save her.’
‘I know,’ Fech muttered. ‘Save Cywen. Fech remembers.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Will you help us?’
‘Help me kill Uthas.’
‘He will probably be with Nathair,’ Meical said.
‘Nathair’s at cauldron,’ Fech croaked. ‘I take you to cauldron, you find sister, we kill Uthas.’
‘Agreed,’ said Corban. He didn’t want to become embroiled in hunting and killing anyone right now, but if it meant finding Cywen quickly, then it was worth doing.
‘Come,’ Fech squawked and flapped into the air, flying towards the open gates of Murias.
They followed Fech through the open gateway. A wall of sound hit them. Battle was raging, though mostly at the far end of a cavernous chamber. Clearly many had fallen. Closer to them, bodies littered the floor, men and giants and horses, all bleeding into the dark stone. Corban saw Gar and Tukul tense as they saw Jehar locked in battle with giants.
‘Too many. Can’t go that way,’ squawked Fech as he flew back from the far end of the hall. Follow me, come, come,’ and he winged away towards the edges of the room. He took them to a wide stairwell that spiralled up. No one made a move towards them; if any saw Corban and his followers they were too busy to do anything about it. In seconds they were all dismounted and running up the stairs, trying to keep up with the bird. Corban drew his sword and flexed the wolven claws strapped to his other arm.
Cywen, we are coming.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN
CAMLIN
Camlin reined in his horse.
‘There it is,’ Roisin cried, pointing.
The sail of a ship had come into view, poking above a ridge in the road. The sea churned behind it, an undulating blanket melting into the horizon. Camlin was glad to see it; a ten-night of hard riding south-west to the coast had set muscles aching that he didn’t know he had. Their column set off again, fifty or so riders. Camlin hung back a little, saw Edana’s fair hair up ahead, flanked by Marrock and Vonn. Though this is no end. Just the beginning of the next race. At least it will give us some breathing space, though. He glanced over his shoulder, looking for the tell-tale signs of their pursuers.
For three days now he had glimpsed riders following them, a cloud of dust marking them that suggested many more than their fifty horses. Now though, green hills behind hid anyone from view, and the clouds were low and thick, masking any dust trail.
They’re back there somewhere, but we just need long enough to jump onto a ship and row away. He dipped his body low against his horse’s neck and willed it to gallop faster.
He had told Marrock and Halion of the pursuit, and they had in turn told Edana and Roisin, the word spreading through the warriors. A bleakness had settled over them that night, the knowledge of pursuit suggesting that Dun Taras had fallen. Baird had picked a fight with one of Quinn’s men, knocking the man cold for little more than a lingering glance. Halion had had to step in before Baird had taken on a dozen others. Quinn had challenged Baird, of course, but Halion had forbidden it, saying they were all on the same side, and to save their anger for the enemy, if they ever caught up. Camlin suspected that Quinn had not really meant the challenge, anyway; he had backed down too easily, although he had glowered at Halion’s back afterwards. Camlin had not liked that. He’d heard the man was proud and arrogant, and nothing he’d witnessed during their journey had dissuaded him of the notion. Besides that, anyone with the title of first-sword didn’t take well to being told what to do by another warrior.
Later that night Camlin had watched Quinn as he’d cleaned and sharpened his blades – a longsword and two knives laid out before him. At the end he had poured a dark liquid over them, working it into the iron.
‘What’s that?’ Camlin had asked.
‘Just an extra bite,’ Quinn had said. ‘Something to slow a man down a little.’ He’d smiled.
Camlin hadn’t liked that either. A memory rose in his mind of the night Farrell had arm-wrestled Quinn in the feast-hall, a cut on the back of Farrell’s hand. ‘Best be careful not to cut yourself by accident, then,’ he’d said.
‘I never cut anyone by accident.’
‘Doesn’t look exactly honourable,’ Vonn said, who had been sitting close by, silent as usual.
‘Honourable’s for bairns’ bedtime tales,’ Quinn said. ‘Me, I’m all for winning and living.’