Valour (92 page)

Then time fell into dissected moments – blocking a sword blow, stabbing, muscles stretching, hot breath in his face. He expected every next instant to be his last.

A sound filtered through his consciousness: a murmur, vast, surrounding him, like the sea when he had been a slave oarsman. Then louder as the crowd started shouting, not their usual cries for
blood, but panicked, discordant, and behind it horn blasts, frantic, not celebratory. Then the clash of iron.

Fighting. They are fightin
g.

Abruptly there were no more Vin Thalun rushing at him. He saw his attackers running towards the arena’s edge. Even as he watched, a section of bench crashed into the pit, smashing two Vin
Thalun to the ground. Everywhere he looked was chaos, upheaval. In the stands men were fighting, all the way up to the tiered heights. Lower down, men in dark cloaks with white eagles on their
breastplates were leaping the barriers, engaging the Vin Thalun warriors in battle.

Eagle-guard – some, at least
.

But the Vin Thalun were not unprepared this time. Everywhere Maquin looked he saw more of the corsair warriors appearing, throwing off cloaks, pouring from the tunnels that led into the
arena.

‘This way,’ a voice said in his ear – Orgull, tugging him. He followed the big man, saw he was limping, one arm pulled tight to his waist, as if staunching a wound. He was
covered in blood, some of it his own.

They reached the cages where the pit-fighters were watching and Orgull raised his axe and swung it, the blade biting into a thick chain, sparks flying as it severed. The barred door swung open,
Javed appeared in the doorway.

‘My chest of gold,’ Javed said.

‘Better to take freedom than have it thrown to you as a scrap by your master,’ Maquin said. He put an arm under Orgull and helped him stand.

Javed grinned and stepped out of the cage. A handful of others followed him.

Maquin scanned the crowd. Everywhere people were fighting. He glimpsed Lykos and Fidele, a huddle of men about them, trying to carve a way through the crowds to an exit.

‘Won’t get a chance like this again,’ Maquin said and headed after them, breaking into a run.

As he powered through the crowd he hamstrung one Vin Thalun, hacked another’s head, knifed one in the belly, shouldered others flying, then he was scrambling amongst the benches, almost
upon Lykos’ shieldmen.

Herak saw him first and turned, fluidly drawing a long curved knife. Maquin was trying to slow his momentum, skidding on the mud. He twisted his body, feet sliding forwards, torso dipping
backwards. Herak’s knife whistled through space, scoring a red line across the top of Maquin’s chest.

They collided, Maquin’s feet ploughing into Herak’s, their bodies coming together, crashing to the ground in a grappling roll. Maquin’s sword spun from his grip. He headbutted
Herak, felt cartilage break, felt a knee crunching into his gut. Dimly above them Maquin was aware of the other pit-fighters appearing, slipping into combat with Lykos’ shieldmen.

Pain focused him back onto Herak; the man was biting into his shoulder. With a curse, Maquin rammed his shoulder forward, forcing it into Herak’s mouth, pushing his jaws apart. There was a
momentary loosening of Herak’s grip as the man gagged. Maquin twisted his torso and flipped over, spinning Herak, grabbed a handful of his hair and dragged his knife across the man’s
throat.

He rose fluidly, saw Javed kick a Vin Thalun’s legs out from under him and stab him. Orgull was labouring against another. In a bound Maquin was at his side, punching his knife into the
Vin Thalun’s back. Orgull nodded a breathless thanks.

Maquin turned to see Lykos looming in his vision, Deinon at his side. He glimpsed Fidele behind, sat meekly, her hands folded across her lap. Then Lykos was at him. Their weapons clashed,
Maquin’s knife against Lykos’ short sword, trading a flurry of blows. Maquin staggered back. There was a concentrated fury in Lykos’ assault that was hard to contain. Lykos was
still clutching something in his other hand. Deinon swept past him, Maquin knowing instinctively that he was headed for Orgull.

He launched into an attack of his own, the resentment and pain of the last few months focusing on the man in front of him. Lykos’ advance was halted – he was shuffling back. Maquin
stepped away, risked a glance to Orgull, saw his friend stumble over a bench and topple backwards, Deinon following. Javed appeared from nowhere, throwing himself at Deinon, the two of them
tumbling into the benches.

Then Maquin was ducking, slashing, blocking as Lykos was at him again. The corsair King was quick, moving fluidly from one attack to another. Pain seared along one of Maquin’s thighs, then
across the opposite shoulder as Lykos managed to get past his defence.

I’d rather fight a giant than someone this fast. Mustn’t give him space, or I’m a dead man
. Maquin barrelled forwards, crashing through Lykos’ guard, slashed,
scoring a gash across Lykos’ ribs, crouched and smashed a fist into the man’s knee, rocking him, then stabbed at Lykos’ throat.

The Vin Thalun wobbled, just managing to turn Maquin’s blade as Maquin grabbed his sword wrist. Lykos gripped his forearm, whatever he’d been clinging to in his other hand fell to
the floor and Maquin felt it crunch underfoot.

Just heartbeats later Fidele rushed at them, a look of utter hatred contorting her face.

Maquin flinched, thinking she was attacking him, but she crashed into Lykos, screaming incoherently at the Vin Thalun.

Thought this was her wedding day
.

The three of them fell to the ground, weapons spinning away, Fidele’s fingers tearing at Lykos’ face, ripping bloody streaks across his cheeks.

‘You control me no longer,’ she spat at him.

Not a happy marriage, then
.

Maquin scrabbled for a weapon, just as Fidele snatched his knife and plunged it into Lykos’ back, below the ribs. Lykos was only wearing a silk shirt –
this is his wedding day
– and the knife sank to the hilt into his flesh. He screamed, an animal cry of pain, and sank to one knee.

Maquin shoved Fidele behind him, saw Lykos struggling to rise, Deinon standing over a motionless Javed while Orgull started to drag himself upright from behind a bench. Deinon stepped over
Javed’s body and sank his sword into Orgull’s chest.

Maquin screamed a wordless howl, launching himself through the air and colliding with Deinon, his sword puncturing the Vin Thalun’s back, its tip bursting out of the killer’s chest.
His friend was still breathing, his chest rising in short, ragged bursts. Blood and froth bubbled at his mouth. Maquin cradled his head.

‘I’m sorry, my brother. I’m sorry, I was too slow.’ Maquin’s vision blurred, tears streaming down his cheeks, dripping from his nose.

Orgull’s eyes fixed on him. His mouth moved but only a bubbling hiss came out. He reached for Maquin’s hand and squeezed it, then gave out a long, fading breath.

Time dissolved for Maquin, becoming an arbitrary thing, moments or days passing – he did not know. He felt a hand on his shoulder pulling the world back into focus. Fidele.

The battle still raged around them, though it had moved further away. Lykos was nowhere to be seen, only a bloody handprint on the ground. Vin Thalun were everywhere, though, fighting the crowd,
as well as warriors in the black and white of the eagle-guard here and there.

‘Where is he?’ Fidele gasped. Terror and loathing swept her face. ‘He still lives,’ she said.

‘Aye, maybe.’ She did not look as if she wanted to be found by Lykos. ‘Best get you out of here,’ Maquin said. He pulled on Orgull’s axe and placed it on his
friend’s chest, fixing it in his grip.

‘Take that across the bridge of swords with you. And walk tall, brother. You’ve earned it.’

Then he was leading Fidele by the hand, being swept by the crowd as they flowed towards the exits, out into the meadow. Once there, Maquin saw the extent of the uprising that was taking place.
Nowhere was safe, battle spreading across the field. More Vin Thalun were pouring from the gates of Jerolin, others from the lake town, still more boats rowing towards shore from the ships on the
lake. Maquin paused and sucked in a great lungful of air.

Free air. I am free, a slave no longer
. The thought made him dizzy. He grinned fiercely, then turned and led Fidele away, the two of them heading towards the trees that bordered the
meadow.

Camlin stared at Halion, then at the red gash across his shoulder. A handful of warriors stood with them, men Rath had entrusted to escort Roisin and Lorcan.

Quinn’s blade was poisoned. I saw what it did to the man he fought. At the very least it’s going to put him on his back, and soon. At worst it may kill him
.

‘Get back to the ship,’ Camlin said. They looked along the quay. Lorcan was sprawled unconscious where Quinn had dropped him; beyond the lad the last of Quinn’s men were still
fighting, separating Camlin from his comrades. He glimpsed Baird and Marrock. He heard his friend call his name.

The drumming of hooves grew. Conall and his men were reaching the beach, galloping hard, sand spraying.

‘You go, Cam, get Lorcan back to the ship, take a few from here to finish Quinn’s men. The rest of us will stay and hold Con a while, give you a chance to get away.’ Halion
looked at the men with him, each one nodding.

‘Don’t think I’ll be leaving you in a fix like this,’ Camlin said, reaching into his quiver and grabbing a fistful of arrows. One by one he stabbed them into the soft
timber of the quay.

A tremor shook Halion and he swayed, resting his sword-point against the floor, leaning on it.

‘Quinn’s blade was poisoned; it may just have been a drug, a sedative that may pass. If not . . .’ Camlin shrugged. ‘Either way you’re no good here – go back
to the ship.’

‘I’ll not run from Conall. He’ll never let me forget it.’ Halion attempted a smile.

Camlin just stared at him.

‘I need to look him in the eye,’ Halion said. ‘He’s my brother, and there’s good in him yet.’

‘If there is he’s buried it good ‘n’ deep.’

‘I have to try.’

Camlin shrugged. ‘You won’t have long to wait.’

Conall was only a few hundred paces away now, galloping along the beach, at least a hundred warriors trailing behind him. Halion shuffled closer to the stairs that led down from the quay to the
beach, the warriors with him spreading in a half-circle.

Only ten or twelve steps, but it’s a good place to hold them, anyway
. Camlin plucked an arrow from the timber, nocked it and drew it back to his ear.

Chop off the head, kill the body
. He aimed for Conall’s chest, held his breath and released.

Conall’s horse dipped down a ridge in the sand, the arrow flying high, taking someone behind in the throat. The warrior was hurled backwards over his saddle in a spray of blood.

Damn
.

Conall was less than two hundred paces away now, the sound of his approach drowning out the sea and sounds of battle along the quay. Camlin reached for another arrow, went through the same
automatic ritual, centring the arrowhead on Conall’s chest again, holding his breath, releasing.

This time Conall rode up a sandbank, the arrow sinking with a wet slap into his horse’s chest. It screamed, reared and toppled backwards in an explosion of sand.

Hope it crushed him
. Camlin reached for another arrow, drew it back, held his breath, released. This time it punched through a warrior’s cuirass and flung him from his saddle. Then
warriors were at the quay, yanking on reins, jumping from saddles, drawing swords, running at the steps. The first one climbing up got Halion’s sword in the neck, a blow that almost severed
the man’s head. Halion put a boot on the man’s shoulder and pushed, sending him flying back into those below.

Camlin fired an arrow into the milling warriors, drew and fired again.

It’s like fish in a barrel
.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Halion sway, men either side of him reaching out to steady him.

He glanced back towards the ship, saw Marrock frantically fighting, trying to cut through the warriors that barred the way.

More men were climbing the stairs now, trying by force of numbers to push through. There was a lot of sword swinging and screaming, men or parts of men falling back into the crowd gathering at
the bottom of the steps. Others were spreading either side, jumping to hang on the timber and pull themselves up. Halion’s men chopped at fingers, stamped on hands.

Halion stabbed a man through the chest. The dead man toppled backwards, Halion pulling on his sword. For a moment his strength seemed to leave him and he stumbled, then fell off the quay. Some
of his comrades leaped after him, hacking wildly. Camlin drew and fired, drew and fired, the consistency of his shots forcing warriors to retreat. Then he saw Halion, standing, swinging his sword
in two-handed blows, a few men about him, fanning out from the steps. Others jumped down from the quay, until a group of five or six stood about Halion. Their attackers hung back, gathering their
courage for a final rush, then Conall forced his way through them.