They rode through broken woodland all day, the land changing from meadows and wide valleys to rolling hills, the trees turning to pine as they rose steadily higher. In the distance, to the north-west, Corban could see a dark smudge on the horizon: mountains. Corban kept checking over his shoulder, hoping for Dath and Camlin’s return.
At highsun they stopped briefly to rest their mounts, then set off again. The afternoon passed. As the sun dipped into the horizon they were strung in a line behind Halion, who was keeping the horses cantering, making the most of the soft pine-needles that covered the ground, allowing a good speed.
We’ve made good time, covered a lot of ground. Surely we’ve widened the gap between us, Corban thought. But where are Camlin and Dath?
Then Marrock fell from his saddle, sliding like a sack of grain onto the pine-covered ground.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
MAQUIN
As the sun rose, Maquin stared down into the streets of Dun Kellen. Bodies buzzing with flies littered the ground.
The night had been long and hard fought, Jael’s warband assaulting Dun Kellen’s walls with growing desperation. There had been a dozen moments when Maquin expected to hear horns call the retreat to the keep, but somehow they still held the outer wall. Orgull had played no little part in that. Jael’s assaults had focused on the parts of the wall that had been rebuilt, a patchwork of timber and stone. Wherever the fighting was fiercest Orgull was there, dealing death with his giant’s axe, and Maquin had been glad to follow, his hatred of Jael fuelling his body well beyond its limits. As he snatched some rest now he felt muscles and tendons complaining, his shoulder throbbing, blood and sweat stinging his eyes. Not dead yet. His thoughts drifted to Kastell and he felt his stomach knot, his eyes drifting to the streets, searching for Jael.
Warriors were busy at work amongst the streets, chopping timber from houses, constructing makeshift ladders and battering rams. More than one of those lay discarded at the fortress’ gates, surrounded by corpses. Even as Maquin scoured the enemy lines a knot of men stepped forward, Jael emerging from amongst them. He stopped a distance from the gates, mindful of spear throws, and cupped his hands to his mouth.
‘Is there any of a rank left to speak with me?’ he called.
Muttering swept the battlements and Gerda came forward, dressed now in an ill-fitting cuirass, a short sword in her hand. Maquin smiled. She had grown in his estimation during the night, refusing to leave the wall, fierce in her exhortations to her warriors, terrifying in her cursing of Jael and his men. She had even charged forwards and swung blows at one point, when men had threatened to breach the wall. Warriors flanked her now, holding their shields ready as she approached the wall, no doubt remembering Varick’s fate.
Maquin felt a presence at his shoulder – Tahir, moving up to view the street. He had a cut on his cheek, a gash in his chainmail, but he seemed free of serious injury. He smiled at Maquin. ‘Still standing, then.’
‘Just,’ Maquin said, looking back to Jael.
‘What do you want?’ Gerda shouted down.
‘Are you all that Dun Kellen has left?’ Jael said, laughing. ‘No lord, no battlechief, just a fat old woman?’
‘Who are you calling a woman?’ Gerda yelled back, her warriors laughing at that. ‘Not too old or too fat to teach you a few lessons in warfare, you snot-nosed brat.’
Even Maquin laughed at that. He saw Jael scowl as laughter rippled along the battlements, even some from behind Jael, within his own ranks.
‘If there is anyone up there with rank to treat with me, I will gladly do so,’ Jael yelled. ‘If there is only a woman left to lead you, then Dun Kellen has fallen far already. Let me make this clear to any with intelligence enough to hear. Gerda and her son Haelan are the walking dead. This is only the van of my warband – more are coming. You cannot win, and I will have their heads on spikes before the next moon rises. Hand Gerda and her brat over and I will let you live, even welcome you into my own warband. Fight on and I will kill every last one of you. Not just you: your wives, your women, your children too. There will be no captives – no surrender.’
‘He talks a good talk,’ Orgull muttered, moving up beside Maquin and Tahir.
Maquin glanced along the battlements, saw fear amongst the warriors there.
‘Hard words break no bones, as my old mam used to say,’ Tahir shouted down.
‘Well said,’ Gerda laughed.