Camlin drew an arrow back to his ear, held his breath, and released it as the arrow sped from his bowstring. Beside him he heard the thrum of Dath’s arrow, then a succession of screams and the two of them slid back down the ridge.
‘Must’ve hit something,’ he muttered to Dath, who grinned back at him. Then they were slipping through the undergrowth. Camlin grunted approvingly as he noted how Dath moved lightly, quick on his feet, looking ahead to avoid snagging branches. He’ll make a good woodsman. Hounds barked behind them, close, from the ridge they had just left. If he lives long enough.
They ran through the woods, Camlin leading the way back to their horses, always twisting and turning, his path never straight. They mounted quickly and set off, both of them too winded to speak.
Leaving the cover of trees, they had to ride across open meadows for at least a league. Camlin glanced up, saw it was well past highsun. They had been at their deadly cat-and-mouse game in the woods since mid-morning, striking at their pursuers four times – enough to make them think there’s more’n two of us lurking in the shadows. Camlin was under no illusions, knew that they could not stop their trackers, only hope to slow them a while. They had just slipped under the shadow of a stand of pines when Camlin heard the baying of hounds rising faint on the wind.
‘They’ve found our trail,’ he called to Dath, who looked nervously back.
They spurred their horses on.
They rode all day, not stopping to rest, periodically allowing the horses to walk instead of canter. As the sun was sinking behind the mountains on the western horizon Camlin spied their companions. They were gathered in an open space of green and purple heather.
‘Why aren’t they riding?’ Dath called to him. Camlin just shook his head, wondering the same question. They should be riding on until nightfall, making the most of every daylight moment.
Close by a fire had been lit, flames crackling hungrily as the cold wind snatched at it. Camlin scowled. They are out in the open. As the dark settles, that fire will draw our trackers like flies to dung. Then he reached them and saw a figure on the ground.
Marrock.
Halion and Anwarth moved out to meet them as they slid from their saddles.
‘Marrock has a fever; he collapsed from his saddle. Brina says his wounds are rotting.’
Camlin felt a twist in his gut, like a knife turning. Did everyone he came to think something of have to die?
‘What is Brina going to do?’ Dath asked.
‘She says there is nothing left, except to take his hand. If the rot has not spread to his blood he may live.’
Camlin strode to where Edana knelt by Marrock, wiping his feverish face with a damp cloth.
They are kin, cousins, he remembered.
Brina stood by the fire, holding a knife blade in the flames. Corban hovered close to her, stirring a pot. Frequently Brina snapped orders at him, the young warrior rummaging through a large pack, pulling out stoppered jars, a roll of linen, a handful of small tools.
Is that a filing iron?
‘I don’t have the strength to do the cutting,’ Brina said. ‘Not here, without all my tools. Who will do it for me? It needs a strong arm, a sharp blade and a good aim.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Heb said. Brina looked him up and down and snorted. ‘You don’t have the strength, and if you did your eyes are so bad you’d probably take his head off, not his hand.’
Heb scowled at her.
‘I will do it,’ a voice said. Gar stepped forwards, drawing the sword from his back.
Brina strode up to him, her knife glowing red in her hand. She nodded to Farrell, who pulled taut Marrock’s arm with a leather cord. Gar swung his sword once and Marrock screamed, his body jerking, blood spraying from his wrist. Brina stepped close.
‘Hold him,’ the healer ordered. Camlin and Halion gripped the thrashing man, then Brina was holding the knife blade to Marrock’s wrist, the flesh sizzling, the stench of cooking meat filing Camlin’s nose. He held his breath, felt Marrock tense and then go limp.
‘He’s fainted,’ Halion said.
‘Best thing for him,’ Brina said as she held Marrock’s arm up, examining his wound. She looked at Gar. ‘A fine cut.’
She barked an order to Corban, who passed her the tool that resembled a filing iron, then she began rasping it across Marrock’s wrist bone.
‘What’s she doing to him,’ Dath said beside Camlin, looking as if he was about to vomit.
‘She’s taking the bone down, getting rid of any sharp edges, so the skin can be stitched over it.’
‘I don’t like that noise,’ Dath said.
When Brina had finished, Corban passed her another tool, long and thin. This time she picked around in the flesh of the wound. Blood began to seep from it.
‘She’s digging out dirt and bits of bone,’ Camlin whispered to Dath.
Dath swallowed.
After that Brina poured a skin of water over the wound and stuck her reheated knife against it, sizzling again.