Cywen screamed and threw her knife. It flew straight at Conall’s chest, but he was so fast, he managed to twist, clubbing the leaping dog with his sword hilt while Cywen’s knife flew wide of her mark, sinking into the meat of Conall’s arm. He yelled, his sword spinning out of his grip, and ran at her while Cywen reached frantically for her second knife, hidden in the heel of her other boot.
With a snarl, Conall ploughed into her, sending them both hurtling through the air. Cywen was biting, kicking, punching to get free as Conall grabbed her wrist and knocked the knife from her grasp. Panting, she brought her knee up hard between his legs, felt his whole body go limp and scrambled out of his grip.
With a groan he staggered upright, grabbing for her again. She punched him and he backhanded her across the face; blood filled her mouth as she staggered and fell. Conall pulled a knife from his belt.
Get up. I must get up.
‘That’s the last time you try to kill me, girl,’ he spat, and Cywen felt a wave of real fear pulse through her, sharpening her senses. ‘You’re more trouble than you’re worth,’ Conall said, putting the knife to her throat.
‘I don’t think so,’ a voice said, a hand gripping Conall’s wrist and pulling him away.
Cywen blinked, her vision clearing. It was Veradis, with the giant towering at his shoulder.
‘Let me go,’ Conall snarled.
‘That depends on what you intend to do with that knife,’ Veradis said.
Conall tensed and looked as if he was about to attack Veradis, but caught sight of the giant as he shrugged his axe from his shoulders and patted one of the blades with a huge hand. Conall relaxed and let his knife drop to the ground.
Veradis kicked the knife away and released Conall, never taking his eyes from the man.
‘You’re lucky I arrived when I did,’ he said. ‘She is worth more than your life to my King.’ He took a step away from Conall, looked closely at Cywen, who had blood trickling from her nose and mouth. He frowned. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Gave as good as I got,’ she mumbled.
The giant laughed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CORBAN
‘Just believe it, Corban,’ Heb said.
That’s easier said than done.
Corban was sitting with Heb and Brina in a copse of trees, the murmur of voices from their camp filtering through to them.
‘Just a spark, Ban,’ Brina said. ‘See it in your mind, how you want it to be, then speak it.’
He was holding a stick, staring at it. In his mind he saw a wisp of smoke curl from it, a spark, then a flame.
‘Lasair,’ he said, the word feeling alien on his tongue. He held his breath. Just for a moment he thought he caught the faint smell of woodsmoke, then it was gone. He waited.
‘Nothing’s happened,’ he said eventually.
‘You have a talent for stating the obvious,’ Brina said.
‘Nothing,’ Craf agreed from a branch above them.
‘It’s early days,’ Heb said, patting Corban’s shoulder. ‘This is only your first attempt.’
It was the fourth night since Marrock had had his hand amputated, every night following the same routine. Make camp. Tend Marrock’s wound, then retreat somewhere with Brina and Heb. For the first three nights Corban had been given some rudimentary lessons in giantish. Just a handful of words, but the important ones, Brina had said. The elements that he would seek to command – fire, water, earth and air. Each day he had silently recited them in time to the pounding of his horse’s hooves. And now tonight he had attempted to make something happen.
Nothing. Is it really possible, or just another mad faery tale, like Gar imagining me to be Elyon’s chosen one.
Heb took the stick from his hand.
‘Lasair,’ the old man said. There was a popping sound, a wisp of smoke and then a flame flickered into life.
‘Fire,’ Craf squawked.
‘That’s amazing,’ Corban whispered.
Heb smiled and dropped the stick, stamping the flame out.
‘You just have to believe. But,’ he added, ‘I could attempt the same thing another time and, if I had a seed of doubt, I would fail. It is all about believing, utterly, at that moment.’
‘Drink this,’ Brina said, handing Marrock a skin of something.
‘What’s in it?’ Marrock asked.
‘Something to dull the pain. This is going to hurt. Go on, Corban.’
Marrock frowned but took a long gulp.
It was the sixth night now since Marrock’s hand had been removed. He had been gripped by a fever for the first two days and part of the third, then awoke before highsun, weak but complaining he was starving hungry. Brina had said that was a good sign. Corban had tended to his wound, under Brina’s constant supervision.
‘Stitch over an infection and we’ll kill him, sure as a blade through his heart,’ Brina had said, so while the skin and flesh was red and inflamed the wound had been left open, allowing for any pus to drain, a compress of leaves and clean bandages bound about it twice a day. Now, though, the redness had gone, and it had stopped smelling bad, so Brina had ordered the wound stitched closed.
‘Just start, Ban,’ she said.
‘Have you done this before?’ Marrock asked, his words slurred from the poppy milk Brina had given him.
‘Not exactly,’ Corban said, holding a bone needle close to the stump that was Marrock’s wrist.