Camlin lifted an arrow and tried to draw his bow but pain spiked in his shoulder, black dots dancing before his eyes. He dropped his bow and drew his sword instead. Dimly he was aware of combat below him, on the sand. He shot a quick glance, saw Conall trading blows with one of Halion’s men, Halion himself standing before the steps, hacking someone down.
Braith was halfway down now. Camlin was already moving forwards; he knew better than to let Braith get his balance, the best swordsman he’d seen in the Darkwood in a score of years, the man who’d bested Rhagor, battlechief of Ardan.
And now I’m crossing swords with him, and me with an arrow in my shoulder. Not the best odds.
Their swords met in a harsh percussion of blows, Braith pressing forwards, an overwhelming force, six blows, ten, twelve, his attack not faltering. Camlin retreated, pain shooting in spasms from his injured shoulder as he twisted and turned, using everything he knew to keep himself alive a few heartbeats longer. He tried to push forwards, get inside Braith’s guard, but Braith just smiled at him – that knowing smile – stepped in to meet him and grabbed the arrow shaft in Camlin’s shoulder, twisting it.
Camlin screamed, almost fainted, lost the grip on his sword and heard it clatter to the ground. Braith gave him a scornful shove, sending him stumbling backwards. A handspan from him was Lorcan, Roisin’s lad. He groaned and stirred, his eyelids fluttering. Something else was between them, a knife, stuck in the timber.
Quinn’s knife. Poisoned.
‘Get up, Cam. At least die on your feet, not grovelling on your arse.’
With an act of will more than muscle Camlin lunged for the knife, grabbed its hilt, wrenched it from the timber and threw it at Braith, aimed straight at his heart.
The woodsman was quick, his sword moving on a reflex. Camlin heard the sound of metal connecting, the knife deflected.
It’s over. He closed his eyes a moment, tried to struggle to his feet, but only got one knee under him.
Braith strode towards him, then Camlin saw the knife hilt sticking from the woodsman’s shoulder.
‘Take more’n that t’stop me,’ Braith said. He gripped the knife and pulled it out, threw it into the sea, then levelled his sword at Camlin.
‘Any last words?’ Braith said.
‘Rot in hell.’
‘Told you to stick with me, didn’t I, Cam?’
‘You did. Told me a lot of other things, too, most of ’em lies.’
Braith paused, a ripple passing through his body.
It’s affecting him already, quicker than Halion – because the wound was so deep? Halion’s wound was only a scratch. Camlin climbed to his feet and took a step backwards.
‘Not feeling so good?’ he asked Braith.
‘What?’ Braith blinked and shook his head, his eyes becoming unfocused.
Camlin darted forwards, stooping to pick up his sword. Braith lunged at him, the blow going wide. Camlin struck at Braith then, but the woodsman seemed to rally, his eyes sharpening, and they traded blows, Camlin steadily retreating towards the steps. Even poisoned, Braith was a better swordsman than he was. They slammed in close, Braith scoring a gash along Camlin’s ribs that burned like a line of fire. Camlin managed to punch Braith in the gut and step away, then Braith swayed again, his sword-point wavering. Camlin smashed his own sword down, knocking Braith’s blade from his grip. The woodsman just stared at him, confused. Camlin swung hard, with all his strength, his blade biting into Braith’s neck. There was a spray of blood and Braith toppled backwards, off the quay into the lapping waves below.
For a moment Camlin just stood there, not quite believing he was still alive. Halion.
He turned to see Halion on his knees, leaning on his sword.
How is he still conscious?
He was circled by a ring of the dead, beyond them a crowd of warriors. Conall stood before them.
‘Give it up, Hal. You’ve lost.’
With an effort that set his limbs quivering, Halion climbed to his feet. Camlin could hear his laboured breathing.
‘Come back to me, Con. Be the man you were – my brother. Not this oathbreaker, obsessed with what? Yourself? Revenge?’
Conall sneered. ‘I was pathetic – your puppet. No longer. I’ve risen far without your help. Evnis was right: it was you who has always kept me down. Now get out of my way. I’m wanting a chat with young Lorcan.’
‘Con, listen to yourself. I know you – you’re better than this. Please . . .’
Conall hesitated, staring at Halion, a softness creeping into his eyes. He blinked, then a cold expression passed across his face. He took a step forwards and Halion raised his sword, the tip hovering in front of Conall’s chest. Conall laughed.
‘If you’ll not see reason, Con, I’ll have to stop you another way.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Hal. Look at you, you can hardly stand.’
‘I’d rather stand and die than see you become the thing we’ve both hated.’
‘Careful what you wish for, brother.’
Halion swung his blade; Conall, parrying, swept it away and down, Halion’s sword-point digging into the sand. Halion staggered forwards a pace, then punched Conall in the face.
The warrior stumbled back, wiped blood from his mouth.