‘You go, Cam, get Lorcan back to the ship, take a few from here to finish Quinn’s men. The rest of us will stay and hold Con a while, give you a chance to get away.’ Halion looked at the men with him, each one nodding.
‘Don’t think I’ll be leaving you in a fix like this,’ Camlin said, reaching into his quiver and grabbing a fistful of arrows. One by one he stabbed them into the soft timber of the quay.
A tremor shook Halion and he swayed, resting his sword-point against the floor, leaning on it.
‘Quinn’s blade was poisoned; it may just have been a drug, a sedative that may pass. If not . . .’ Camlin shrugged. ‘Either way you’re no good here – go back to the ship.’
‘I’ll not run from Conall. He’ll never let me forget it.’ Halion attempted a smile.
Camlin just stared at him.
‘I need to look him in the eye,’ Halion said. ‘He’s my brother, and there’s good in him yet.’
‘If there is he’s buried it good ‘n’ deep.’
‘I have to try.’
Camlin shrugged. ‘You won’t have long to wait.’
Conall was only a few hundred paces away now, galloping along the beach, at least a hundred warriors trailing behind him. Halion shuffled closer to the stairs that led down from the quay to the beach, the warriors with him spreading in a half-circle.
Only ten or twelve steps, but it’s a good place to hold them, anyway. Camlin plucked an arrow from the timber, nocked it and drew it back to his ear.
Chop off the head, kill the body. He aimed for Conall’s chest, held his breath and released.
Conall’s horse dipped down a ridge in the sand, the arrow flying high, taking someone behind in the throat. The warrior was hurled backwards over his saddle in a spray of blood.
Damn.
Conall was less than two hundred paces away now, the sound of his approach drowning out the sea and sounds of battle along the quay. Camlin reached for another arrow, went through the same automatic ritual, centring the arrowhead on Conall’s chest again, holding his breath, releasing.
This time Conall rode up a sandbank, the arrow sinking with a wet slap into his horse’s chest. It screamed, reared and toppled backwards in an explosion of sand.
Hope it crushed him. Camlin reached for another arrow, drew it back, held his breath, released. This time it punched through a warrior’s cuirass and flung him from his saddle. Then warriors were at the quay, yanking on reins, jumping from saddles, drawing swords, running at the steps. The first one climbing up got Halion’s sword in the neck, a blow that almost severed the man’s head. Halion put a boot on the man’s shoulder and pushed, sending him flying back into those below.
Camlin fired an arrow into the milling warriors, drew and fired again.
It’s like fish in a barrel.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Halion sway, men either side of him reaching out to steady him.
He glanced back towards the ship, saw Marrock frantically fighting, trying to cut through the warriors that barred the way.
More men were climbing the stairs now, trying by force of numbers to push through. There was a lot of sword swinging and screaming, men or parts of men falling back into the crowd gathering at the bottom of the steps. Others were spreading either side, jumping to hang on the timber and pull themselves up. Halion’s men chopped at fingers, stamped on hands.
Halion stabbed a man through the chest. The dead man toppled backwards, Halion pulling on his sword. For a moment his strength seemed to leave him and he stumbled, then fell off the quay. Some of his comrades leaped after him, hacking wildly. Camlin drew and fired, drew and fired, the consistency of his shots forcing warriors to retreat. Then he saw Halion, standing, swinging his sword in two-handed blows, a few men about him, fanning out from the steps. Others jumped down from the quay, until a group of five or six stood about Halion. Their attackers hung back, gathering their courage for a final rush, then Conall forced his way through them.
Third time lucky, thought Camlin, nocking another arrow and taking aim.
I’ve got you now.
A force slammed into Camlin’s left shoulder, spinning him, sending his arrow skittering away. He staggered, almost fell, looked at his shoulder.
An arrow shaft protruded from it. As if brought on by the sight of it, pain suddenly bloomed, radiating outwards in great waves. He looked up, working out the direction of the arrow’s flight. Up the slope before the quay, onto the hill. A figure stood at its top, part sliding down the slope, a bow in one hand.
Braith.
‘Good t’see you, Cam, you traitorous runt.’
‘Always knew you couldn’t shoot an arrow worth a damn,’ Camlin shouted.
‘Be fair now – I’m sliding down a mountain.’