Is this death? He felt no pain, just weariness settling upon him like a heavy cloak, his limbs suddenly filled with lead.
A face loomed over him, blotting out the sky, a Vin Thalun beard thick with iron rings, face twisted in a snarl, iron glinting. He thought about moving, fingers twitching to find one of his knives, but it was all too much effort. Then the face was falling away, Fidele replacing it. She dropped to her knees, shook him, face contorted with fear.
‘Run, you idiot,’ he said, though he wasn’t sure how loud he said it, or even if the words had passed his lips at all.
Hands gripped his head, Fidele lifting him onto her lap. Tears stained her cheeks, dropped onto his face. He tasted the salt on his lips. Her fingers brushed at his hair, wiped blood from his eyes. Her mouth was moving, her voice filling his head, but he couldn’t distinguish the words.
‘It’s all right,’ he tried to say. His eyes fluttered closed.
‘Live, damn you!’ she screamed at him, a fist pounding his chest. His eyes snapped open. He heard that.
I’m trying, but it’s not as easy as you’d think. In truth just staying focused on her face was proving difficult; a dark nimbus formed around the periphery of his vision, the urge to close his eyes over-whelming. So tired.
A noise grew, filling his head: pounding, rhythmic, growing louder. Hooves? Shadows were all around him now, a flash of hooves stamping. Arms reached down and grabbed Fidele, pulling her away and his head thumped onto the earth.
She fought them, shouting, reaching out, pointing at him.
Then hands were gripping him, lifting him high. A new face appeared, a man, thick black beard on a weathered face. He grinned, which Maquin thought was strange at a time like this.
‘Welcome to Ripa,’ the face said, and then the darkness surged in and Maquin knew no more.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
LYKOS
Lykos stood on deck and stared up at the tower of Ripa. Gulls circled and screeched and absently Lykos spied a sea-eagle, sailing the currents high above the flocks of gulls.
He is like me. Striking without warning. But I did not strike quickly enough. The tower still stands, its walls and gates closed against me.
He tried to focus on strategy, on finding a way to end this, but his mind kept looping back to Maquin and Fidele. For a moment he had not believed his own eyes, not believed that his fortune could be quite so good. Two moons he had waited for word of their capture, had become increasingly frustrated with every passing day. Eventually word reached him that their trail had been found, only for them to disappear again. And then, nothing.
Until today, when he saw them staring straight at him from a sea of undulating grass.
And again they have escaped me.
‘Your boat is ready,’ a voice behind him said. Kolai, his shieldman. Lykos had hand-picked another dozen men, a mixture of pit-fighters and corsairs, more than he had ever felt the need for before. But a knife in the back had convinced him of his mortality. Better too many than too few.
Lykos made his way across the ship’s deck and swung nimbly over the side, climbed down a rope net into a rowing boat bobbing on the swell. The wound in his back was as good as healed, though he could sense a weakness there, an ache when he exerted himself. His twelve shieldmen were already in the boat, half of them sitting at the oars. Each one of them had a grapple hook and rope wound about one shoulder. Kolai dropped into the boat behind him and they set off, cutting across the bay to the harbour.
They skirted the burning galleys of Ripa, larger, heavier and slower than any Vin Thalun galley. Lykos smiled at the sight, knowing how many ships the Ripa fleet had cost him while defending their coastline against Vin Thalun raiders before the pact with Nathair and Aquilus. It was very satisfying.
They moored the boat and climbed stone steps to the harbour. A group of Vin Thalun was standing on a pier, a hundred men, maybe more. Lykos walked up to one who stood before them, black-haired, beard oiled and clinking with iron like any self-respecting Vin Thalun. A scar ran from the corner of his mouth to his left ear.
‘Demos, it is good to see you, you old pirate.’ Demos was the closest thing to a friend that Lykos had. He had no interest in politicking, or in power, just lived for the thrill of riding the waves, of hunting on the deep blue. He was a shark, a predator, and a friend.
‘Less of the old,’ Demos grinned, ‘I’m younger than you.’ He held Lykos by the shoulders and stared at him. ‘Being a lord is taking its toll, I think.’
‘Aye. That and being stabbed in the back,’ Lykos said grimly.
‘Think you can do this?’ Lykos asked him, looking at the cliffs that Ripa’s tower was built upon.
‘Only one way to find out,’ Demos grinned.
‘I’ll go and draw their eyes,’ Lykos said. They gripped forearms and then Demos was jumping into a long rowing boat, one of five that were moored beside the pier.
Lykos strode into the town. He did not rush. Dead littered the streets, warriors of Ripa stripped of anything useful – weapons, armour, boots, cloaks. Vin Thalun gathered about him as he passed through the town, until a few hundred were massed at his back. As he climbed the hill to the tower he looked back out over the bay.
Vin Thalun galleys filled it, at least a score used in this strike on Ripa. Most had sailed around the coast and blocked the bay, burning the ships that were moored in Ripa’s harbour. An attacking force had landed as Lykos had sailed his own men down the river, another ten shallow-draughted galleys. Fifteen hundred swords, and another thousand crew on the ships, reserves if need be. His sources told him that old Lamar had no more than eleven hundred men at his disposal, and judging by the corpses on the street a good few of them wouldn’t be lifting a sword against him.
So I have the manpower to finish this. Lykos felt a worm of worry burrowing through his belly. He was overstretched and he knew it. He’d sent a fleet north-west at Calidus’ request: fifty ships, including a score of transporters for horses and wains, all under the command of Alazon. Calidus had not expressly ordered Lykos to sail with the fleet, although he knew it had been presumed. But for Lykos only one thing dominated his mind, filling it, which was why he was here now.
Fidele. He had never felt like this about a woman before, always took what he wanted, with rarely a second thought. No doubt he had enough bastards scattered about the Three Islands to one day crew a galley. But Fidele was different. She’s the only one who’s stabbed me, for a start. He chuckled to himself, Kolai glancing at him. I will have her back.
Besides, this rebellion needed to be crushed before it spread. Peritus is in Ripa and so he has Lamar’s backing, and Lamar commands the largest warband in Tenebral after my own.
And he did not want Calidus finding out what level this rebellion had escalated to, at least not until after Lykos had dealt with it.
The road steepened and he saw the tower looming above him, black gates closed before it. The walls bristled with men and iron. No matter. A fortress is only as strong as its weakest man. Bodies were thicker upon the ground now, and to his annoyance Lykos saw a number of Vin Thalun faces amongst the dead. He paused again, turning; his position gave a fine view of the surrounding countryside. To the north and west the forest of Sarva stretched, a green, undulating ocean of bough and leaf. In its fringes a hill reared, broken walls and towers jagged on the horizon. Balara, the giant ruin. He had been there only yester-eve, making sure that his secret was guarded and safe.
Not so secret now, since Fidele and Maquin saw them. He had considered sending his giants back to Pelset, but decided in the end that keeping them close was the safest answer. He faced the tower and gates, stepped over the last of the dead that clogged the road and walked on a dozen paces, stopping within hailing distance of the barred gates.
‘Close enough for a good spear throw from their wall,’ Kolai observed.
Lykos shrugged. He was more careful since his injury, but some things smacked of cowardice, and he had not become Lord
of the Vin Thalun by being a coward. Or by being cautious.
He gave his orders and shortly a few warriors returned carrying a wooden table and a chair. They positioned it in the road before Lykos. He sat, theatrically nonchalant as bread and cheese were placed before him, a cup of wine. He began to eat. Men were led before him now, warriors of Ripa roped together. With kicks and punches they were forced to their knees on the road before Lykos.
‘Kill them,’ Lykos said, crumbs of cheese spilling from his mouth. He washed it down with wine as the prisoners’ throats were cut.
The row of warriors upon the wall watched it all in stony-eyed silence.
‘Should have their attention now,’ Lykos said as he stood and the table was carried away. He belched.
‘You up there,’ he shouted. ‘Anyone worth talking to?’
His voice rebounded from the black walls.
‘I don’t expect someone my equal – no deities amongst you, I would guess. But Lamar, maybe even Krelis, or Peritus the cowering worm, of course. Any of you will do.’
‘I’m going to enjoy killing you,’ a voice called back, a large man appearing above the gate. Very large, towering at least a head over any others around him. Lykos recognized him. Hated him.
‘Well met, Krelis,’ Lykos called back. ‘A beautiful day, no?’ Krelis was Ripa’s beating warrior-heart. He had led the shipbuilding and then defence of the bay and coastline surrounding Ripa. His ships had not been as sleek and deadly at sea as Lykos’ own galleys, but they were big enough and fast enough to consistently spoil Vin Thalun raids on villages along the coast.
‘It’ll be a better day when your head no longer graces your shoulders.’
Lykos pulled a face. ‘A little too aggressive a start for a peace talk, I think.’
‘This is no peace talk. Look what you’ve done to my town.’
As if to prove Krelis’ point, black smoke billowed across the road, obscuring the view for a few moments.
‘Wine,’ Lykos called, and Kolai passed him a skin. He drank deep and smacked his lips.
When the smoke cleared, Lykos spread his arms.
‘There is nothing damaged that cannot be repaired. I needed to make a point.’
‘And how will I repair my slain warriors? My murdered people?’ Lykos could hear the hatred in Krelis’ voice, barely contained.
Good. Anger is always the best enemy. It blinds, cloaks, distorts.
‘You are harbouring an enemy of the realm. Peritus. He is guilty of treason. Murder. Inciting rebellion.’ Lykos shook his head, tutting. ‘To protect such as he, well, there are consequences.’
‘You are not the law-giver in Tenebral. You are a pirate, usurping power. And Peritus is battlechief of Tenebral, a better man than you could ever hope to be.’
‘He is an outlaw, stripped of his titles and sentenced to death by Fidele, Regent of Tenebral in Nathair’s absence. And incidentally my wife, by the way.’
‘She is not your wife.’
‘I think she is. I was there. Any who says different is a liar.’
‘She says different,’ Krelis called out.
Lykos froze at that. She is in there, then. He felt something cold clench in his belly. ‘Will you give Peritus up to me?’
‘I will not,’ Krelis said.
‘Is he brave enough to talk to me? Or will he continue to hide behind you, his puppet?’
‘Krelis is no puppet,’ a voice called out, older.
Ah, Peritus; good. I did not think you would keep yourself from this.
‘So, you have found someone stupid enough to take you in,’ Lykos called. ‘And I cannot help but notice that you are all scared to meet me in combat, else you would not be hiding behind your walls.’ He was starting to enjoy this now. ‘What say you, Peritus? Care to test your blade against mine?’
‘I’d like nothing more,’ Peritus called down. ‘But I do not trust you – I’ve tasted your justice and hospitality before, remember. I think if I came out to fight you that your shieldmen would fall upon me. You are a liar, a man of no honour.’
‘I am hurt,’ Lykos said, putting a hand to his heart. ‘Well then, it would appear we have a problem to resolve. How would you suggest we go about that?’
‘Nothing springs to mind,’ Peritus called back. ‘This is the end for you now, Lykos. To openly attack Lamar – you have made a mistake, after your years of schemes and lies, to be so impulsive at the end. I thought you a more worthy adversary. The other lords of Tenebral will act now. Your farce of a marriage will aid you not one bit.’
‘It was no farce,’ Lykos screamed, spittle flying, venting a sudden rush of rage. He was taken aback by it and had to take a few moments to control his breathing and wait for the red mist to fade a little. He plays me at my own game.
‘We have only to wait here, let word spread,’ Peritus continued. ‘That tower behind me is dug deep into the rock, has huge supplies of grain, fresh water. If your plan is to starve us out you’ll be waiting a very long time. You could always try to take us by storm. Please do. That way we may still get to test each other’s blades. I think I’d win.’
So confident. I’ll cut the smile from his face. He has a point, though. I can’t afford a long siege, even beyond the fact that I hate waiting.
Shouting drifted from beyond the tower walls, the clash of arms somewhere behind it. Movement rippled through the warriors above the gates, sudden and startled.
Good job then that I have a plan of my own. He drew his sword and charged forwards, a thousand Vin Thalun roaring as they followed behind him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
FIDELE
Fidele splashed water on her face, then dipped her hands into the bowl before her. The water turned pink. Events since her rescue by Krelis were a blur.
In a seeming hurricane of movement she had been swept through the gates and into a hard-packed courtyard, hands lifting her from a horse’s back to others that checked her for wounds, half-dragging her up wooden steps into a feast-hall, through it into the giant’s tower. She remembered cold stone beneath her feet. Eventually she had pulled herself from the gripping hands and demanded to see Maquin.
It turned out they were being taken to the same place. A series of rooms on a lower level of the tower that were being used as an infirmary for the injured from the town.
Well, she was wounded – a score of cuts and bruises all over her body – but nothing serious. Maquin, however, was a different matter. He had been stabbed, slashed, kicked. A memory filled her mind – him striding forward into the massed Vin Thalun, carving his way through them like some untouchable demon, always moving, always striking. She had seen the blow that felled him, seen him kill the attacker – his body failing as even then he tried to force a path for her to the tower – saw him collapse. She’d killed the Vin Thalun standing over him, recalled the sensation with a shudder: she had plunged her knife into him, punching through leather into the body beneath. Twice, now, I have killed in Maquin’s defence. Her hands shook as she put them back into the bowl, scrubbing at them with a hard-bristled brush.
‘Will he live?’ she asked as she turned away from the bowl. Maquin lay upon a cot in a stone room with white walls. A row of large windows were open, shutters flung wide, letting in streaming sunshine and a strong breeze that diluted the cloying scent of blood and sweat. Other beds filled the room, the injured or dying groaning as they were tended by a score or so of healers. Tables were being carried in, more injured stretched out upon them.
A man was bent over Maquin, white-haired and thin. Alben was the swordsmaster of Ripa and, ironically, one of its most skilled healers.
‘A man can die of many wounds,’ he murmured. Maquin was still unconscious, his breathing shallow. Alben cut away the prone warrior’s leather vest and linen shirt, revealing a dark wound above his hip. It pulsed blood rhythmically, with every beat of Maquin’s heart. Alben probed it, fingers pushing around the wound. Maquin stirred and groaned.
‘Knife or swo
rd?’ Alben asked.
‘What?’ Fidele asked, eyes still fixed on Maquin’s face.
‘What made this wound – knife or sword? It will tell me how deep the wound is.’
‘Knife, I think. I’m not sure, it was so quick.’
‘Hmm.’ He reached out to a rack of tools, pulled out a metal rod with a flat iron head and placed it alongside other similar tools heating in a fire that burned in a wide pot. He left it there a while, gathering what he needed. A salve that smelt of honey, some leaves, gut twine, a curved needle, a roll of linen bandages. He placed them all on a table beside Maquin, then went back to the iron rod, checked its end.
‘Hold his legs,’ Alben ordered one of the healers.
‘I’ll do it,’ Fidele said, stepping forward.
‘He may kick out, my lady.’
‘Alben, this man has saved my life many, many times; he has kept me alive for two moons, brought me through the wild, slain Vin Thalun hunting parties against all odds. All for someone that he could have walked away from.’ She was going to say more but the words died on her tongue. ‘This is the least I can do.’
Alben studied her a moment, then nodded. ‘Hold them like so,’ he said, demonstrating for her.
She gripped his ankles and leaned all her weight upon them. Alben asked an attendant to hold Maquin’s shoulders while he rinsed the wound. There was so much blood Fidele wondered how Maquin could survive – but he had to. Alben took another long look at the gaping cut, then pressed the heated iron head into the wound. Maquin’s feet kicked, his body jerking, and he groaned. There was a hiss, the stench of cooking meat and Fidele felt her stomach lurch – she refused to look away. Alben pushed the rod a little deeper, then with a twist took it out, dropped it into a bowl of water. He cleaned up the wound, stitched it closed, then applied the honey-like salve and covered it over with a leaf. Finally he bandaged the wound.