A burst of white light smashed into the ground near him. Mage fire. And so his father was with the mage. Marith spurred his horse in the direction the mage fire had come from, charging against the tide of the men. One of them went down under his horse’s hooves. Should have got out of the way then, you fool, he thought.
Another burst of mage fire. Aimed at him this time. Marith pulled the horse up short. It let out a scream as the ground around it exploded. He shouted angrily, spurred the horse on hard over the burnt earth. Flickers of white flame darted around its legs.
A man came rushing towards him, howling something, armed with sword and knife. One of the few who still tried to fight him, hadn’t yet seen him, seen what he was. He warded off a blow from the man’s sword. The knife came up too, trying to stab at his leg or at the horse’s flank. He felt a sudden shriek of pain rip up his side. Another man, behind him, smashing at him through his armour, a hard vicious blow to his hip and another to the small of his back. The horse screamed. Reared up so that he almost lost control of it. Thrashing about maddened with pain, one leg limp.
He forced it to run on, brought it round in a circle. They couldn’t kill him. Nothing could kill him. It wasn’t fair that they’d hurt him. Another burst of green fire shot up over his head and despite everything he stopped a moment to watch it land. The wall of the keep swayed, its stones hissing, sweating flame.
‘Destroy it!’ he screamed.
He struck one of his assailants hard on the side of the head, hitting down to the bone. The blade stuck: he had to kick the man and the body fell back off the sword with its head all in pieces like it was a dead pig being made into brawn. The horse was still screaming, its leg flopping about. It shouldn’t be up any more. Should be collapsed in a heap with him cutting its throat. He pulled it round again, slashing at the first man, aiming again at the head. An explosion of white light, everything so bright he could see through it. The horse shrieked and tried to twist away.
Rethnen Jurgis. The man who’d run at him jerked back with his helm knocked askew and his skin burning, and Marith saw Rethnen Jurgis’s face staring, all angry and weeping and fervent. He’d killed Kam. Cut his face to pieces and ridden his horse over him. So now he’d kill Rethnen, Kam’s father, too. Rethnen howled as he swung at Marith. Marith cut back at him, catching his blade on Rethnen’s armour, the metal screeching and Rethnen flinched. Hacked down again, harder and angrier. The horse shrieked, its leg going, bleeding now where one of their blades had caught its flank. Weak. Weak thing. Stupid thing of flesh and bone. Thalia had been frightened of horses. Too big, she’d whispered. Her lips close to his face. Too big. How do you control it? Know it won’t run? Another explosion of mage fire, dancing over Marith, filling his vision, beautiful as stars. Rethnen was burning, lit up and filled with light. Closed his eyes and he could still see, liquid silver and the man’s figure black against it, see Rethnen’s heart red and beating, failing, breaking in the heat of the fire. Opened his eyes and the world was shadows, pale and jagged and raw. He got Rethnen again in the shoulder, smashing with the flat of the blade, watching the man stumble back a pace. Spurred the horse and Rethnen stumbled and the horse crashed into him and he went spinning and falling backwards dropping his sword, blood welling at the shoulder joint, back and down, stupid weak thing like the horse.
No point staying to see if he died. Marith kicked the wounded horse on and galloped looking for his father, thinking how to kill him.
Found him by one of the trebuchets, guarded by a troop of soldiers and the mage. They’d killed several men who’d tried to take them. Good. His father was for him and him alone.
Illyn’s guards drew up around him. And the mage. The horse paced and snorted. Just like Sorlost, the king cowering behind some stupid magician, thinking that might keep him alive. He cut down the soldiers. So small and helpless they seemed. Their swords nothing. They came at him together in a rush, striking at him. You shouldn’t be fighting me, he thought. You’re fools. He got one in the chest, through the armour, seeing the look of shock on the man’s face that the bronze didn’t protect him. Another in the head, a good sound it made as his sword smashed into the skull, cracked it open and crushed it. His blade like hands tearing things apart. Breaking them. Rending them down.
White fire crashed over him as he fought, great white waves of it like breakers. Swimming in light. The horse was bleeding in a thousand places, leaching blood, hacked open and black as cinders, its heart beating slow, its head flopping and moving like a toy horse. Not real. Not real any more. Nothing’s real, apart from death. He turned on the mage who was screaming and howling at him. A glorious thing, magic. A wonder. A marvel. But it can’t stop a man dying in pain. He struck home and the mage was bleeding. Hacking and slashing in wild strokes. White fire blazing on everything, lit up so bright he can’t see. Swimming in light. Shattered glass and stars and snow. Everything dying. Everything burning. Nothing but death in all the world. In his mind. He hits and cuts and stabs and the horse is screaming and the mage is screaming and he laughs and shouts and hits out again, everything’s white, so brilliant it’s like his heart’s singing, he can see everything even with his eyes closed and he kills and kills. His skin is hurting from the light, it feels like salt water on a wound, I will not burn he thinks, the mage is burning with fire hissing out of him, his skin is hurting now from the light, I will not burn and he strikes harder, and the light is so bright, the world’s fading, he’s almost frightened for a moment, his sword hurts in his hand, I will not burn, I will not burn, striking harder and harder even as he’s tired, just killing, just kill them, and then onwards and onwards and everything will die and he’ll be king. Killing and killing and killing. Death and death and death. He’s blind and the light’s too bright and he’s tired and everything’s bleeding and everything’s burning and his heart is so full of joy.
The scent of wild thyme and wild garlic in the hedgerows. The song of a blackbird in the west gardens where the may tree grows. Eating apples straight from the tree in the orchard, the juice running down his chin, then washing his hands in the little stream that flows there, thick with yellow irises and bulrushes that leave their down on his clothes. Hoarfrost crunching beneath his feet on the uplands, the sky white with coming snow. Riding through a meadow when the hay is being cut. Riding through green summer trees. Reading a book by the fireside. Swimming in the sea.
I know what I am, he thought. And I know what I’ve given up. Sometimes I even wonder why.
And he stops, and the soldiers are dead, and the mage is dead, and his father is dead, face down in the dust and broken apart.
Death! Death! Death!
Chapter Sixty