CHAPTER ELEVEN

MAQUIN

Maquin gazed through foliage at the sprawling camp, feeling his body tense and fingers twitch for his knife hilt as he watched Krelis’ men appear on the road and engage Gundul’s men. Crouched on the far south of the camp, he saw a few dozen enemy guards standing with their backs to him in an open space cleared between the camp and the treeline. They looked unsure of what to do. The man beside Maquin gripped his sword and took a step forwards.

“Wait,” Maquin whispered, seizing the warrior’s arm. “Not till Krelis hits the camp.”

Maquin had been given the command of a hundred men and they were spread loosely around him, hidden in the shadows and foliage. Only one thing had he said to them before they’d moved into position: “When I go, keep with me.”

Their task was to attack from the south and sweep up through the camp, spreading as much mayhem and panic along the way as was possible. Maquin was unused to leading men. The Vin Thalun fighting-pits had honed his will to survive, teaching him that above all else you fight for yourself.

But that is what Lykos wanted. To break me, to strip away my loyalties, to make me less than human. I will not be that man again.

The main attack was to be led by Krelis, his first objective to clear the new road of all resistance; it was there that their scouts had reported most of Gundul’s warband were to be found. Once the road was clear Krelis was to assault the camp, which was the signal for the others. Maquin and Alben were leading smaller groups hidden to the west and south of the camp; the plan was to meet Krelis and his force at the command tent situated on a hill close to the camp’s centre.

At the thought of it Maquin’s eyes drifted to the tent on the mound. Men were appearing from its entrance, standing and staring at the commotion that Krelis was causing.

Gundul—it must be.

Two other men emerged from the tent, hanging back from the rest. One of them seemed…familiar, in the way he walked, his posture, a confidence.

Then dark-clothed figures were appearing from around the hill, drawing tight about those who had emerged from the tent. Even from this distance there was something clearly different about them.

Kadoshim. Damn it. We’re outnumbered as it is, without those hell-spawn to complicate things. He shrugged to himself, knew they were committed now and there was no turning back. And this whole attack was my idea. So I’d best be getting to that tent and making sure we win this thing.

He looked back to the road and saw Krelis’ warriors pouring down the embankment and into the camp.

Good.

With a battle-cry he exploded into motion, bursting from the treeline, drawing a knife in each hand as he sped towards the guards spread between him and the camp. A few paces behind him his hundred followed. He heard a distant roar from the west, knew that Alben and his warriors were doing the same.

Maquin ducked a spear-thrust and crashed into the man holding it, one of his knives punching through leather into flesh, ripping it free as his momentum carried him on, leaving the man on his knees, hands clutching at his belly. In moments the guards along the camp’s edge were either dead or fleeing, the sudden onslaught of Maquin and his warriors too much for them.

Maquin gathered his warriors and charged into the camp, kicking at fires, smashing gates open, freeing cattle, hacking and slashing at anyone who got in their way. In heartbeats flames were licking at tents and smoke was billowing; stampeding cattle knocked men flying, the whole world seemed to dissolve into chaos. Maquin turned a corner and almost ran into a dozen warriors, the ensuing combat savage and short, Maquin’s knives finding throats and arteries as he slipped through them like a violent wind, the men following him crashing upon those still standing.

He sped through the camp, a knife dripping blood in each hand, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. As he travelled deeper, any kind of resistance melted away: those he came across ran from him, and he was happy to let them go. For the most part they were not Gundul’s warriors, but merchants, smiths, tanners, cobblers, drovers, whores and bairns. I may be a killer, but I’ll not slay the innocent.

Soon the initial red mist of battle began to fade and he glanced behind, saw the black and silver of Ripa’s warriors following him.

Not used to leading men these days, or being in a fight this big. Mustn’t forget they’re with me. Mustn’t forget the plan.

Pausing, he gave his men a chance to gather behind him as he tried to get his bearings. Screams and the concussive clash of iron drifted down from the north.

Krelis sounds closer. Best get to that command tent. Gundul must die for this to succeed, and to do that we must carve a way through his Kadoshim. He reached up to his shoulder and felt the hilt of a short sword, one of a pair strapped across his back. Maquin preferred using his knives, but taking heads from Kadoshim was sword work.

He set off again. Close-packed tents suddenly gave way to an open space—cook-fires spread about it, tents forming a loose circle. Weapons racks were rowed along one edge; a mass of men were pulling spears from stands, strapping on helms, hefting shields. Maquin skidded to a halt, realizing what he had stumbled upon.

A barracks for the warriors of this warband.

With a snarl he ran at them.

He hit a knot of men before they had any time to react, his knives tracing a red ruin across their bodies. In moments he was through them and hurling himself at a new wall of men. Weapons thrust at him, but the battle-rage was upon him, the world seeming to slow and he twisted and flowed around every blow aimed at him, his knives licking out to slice throats, puncture groins, cut hamstrings. Dimly he heard the clash of arms behind him, knew his men were following. Faces appeared before him, grim, fearful, shocked; all fell to his twin blades.

His progress slowed. The men crammed together now, his ability to move and sway hindered by a crush of bodies. A quick glance showed his men behind him, fighting furiously, but they were outnumbered and the enemy was beginning to curl around their flanks. Surprise and savagery had taken them so far, but had not broken their foe.

Things are about to get messy. Maquin stepped to the right, deflected a thrust aimed at the ribs of one of his men, slashed across the face of the attacker, kicked another in the knee, saw him buckle and stepped close to cut his throat.

There was a great crash and a concussion that undulated through the hard-pressed warriors.

Someone else joining this party.

Maquin glimpsed a giant figure: Alcyon, wielding two woodsman’s axes as Maquin was using his knives, carving a way through the enemy like a scythe at harvest time. Heads and limbs flew through the air in great gouts of blood.

Alben’s crew. Maquin grinned and leaped at his enemy, new strength powering his muscles. Within moments Gundul’s warriors were wavering, a ripple of doubt and fear spreading through them, and then they were fleeing. Maquin buried a knife in a back, ripped it free and stood over the collapsing figure, gore-covered and breathing heavily. He saw Alcyon decapitate one more fleeing warrior, his wife Raina and their son Tain either side of him, Alben’s warriors spread about them.

“Well met,” a voice said and Maquin turned to see Alben striding towards him. The old man was pale and had blood seeping from the bandage around his shoulder.

I told him to stay at our camp. He’d have been better off there, and I’d have been happier knowing someone of his skill was guarding Fidele. He felt a wave of fear for her, as he did every time that he was parted from her, but this was war, they both knew that she could not be here, in the midst of this.

“Well met,” Maquin replied, sheathing a knife and gripping the old man’s arm. He left bloodstained fingerprints. “Think you might just have saved my skin.”

Alben looked around at the bodies piled about Maquin and throughout the barrack ground.

“I doubt that,” he said. He glanced up through the rolling smoke at the hill that loomed not far away.

“Gundul,” Maquin said.

“Aye. Let’s go and find him.”

Both of their warbands were about them now.

“There’s Kadoshim on that hill,” Maquin said loudly. “They don’t die easily; remember, you must take their heads.” Alben and others nodded grimly.

Maquin grinned at them, then ran for the hill.

Clouds of smoke billowed about him, parted for a moment, and he saw the hill, the huge and gaudy tent upon it strangely out of place in the sombre gloom of Forn.

Maquin ran faster, the camp a place of flame and shadow, the thud of his comrades’ feet behind him, screams and battle-cries swirling on the eddying smoke, then the ground began to rise and he burst from the haze and tents, Alben, Alcyon and their men only a few paces behind him.

Men were still on the hill, but they were retreating, at least three score of the Kadoshim that encircled them were herding them north-east, towards the newest part of the road.

They’re fleeing, running for Drassil. And further along the road there’ll be more reinforcements. Can’t let them reach that road.

Maquin sheathed his knives and drew the two short swords as he ran.

The space between them narrowed quickly. Maquin and those with him were silent, no battle-cries, only the drum of their feet and the jangle and creak of mail and leather. Abruptly Gundul and the Kadoshim were aware of them, Gundul yelling orders. A score of the Kadoshim peeled away from the group, curved swords being drawn from behind their backs. One fixed its black eyes on Maquin and ran at him, a dark grin splitting its pallid face. Maquin felt a fist of fear squirm in his belly, remembering their ferocity and otherworldliness when he’d encountered them previously. He growled in anger at his own fear and ran faster.

The first Kadoshim almost took his head, its sword whistling a finger’s width above him as he threw himself into a roll, coming to his feet behind the creature, his own strike at its neck blocked with blinding speed, his second blade slicing through the back of its leg as it spun to face him. Maquin leaped away, the creature stumbling as it tried to follow, its hamstrings cut. Even so it was unnaturally fast, lurching after him.

It should be on the ground, not still trying to gut me.

All around him his warriors were locked in combat with the Kadoshim. Battle-cries and death screams rang out. He glimpsed Alben take a head, saw that terrible black vapour fill the air. His distraction nearly cost Maquin his life as his attacker launched a combination of two-handed blows at him. He parried two and slipped inside the third, instinctively punching a short sword into its belly. The Kadoshim’s mouth gaped wide, foul breath washing over him as its teeth snapped, trying to fasten on his throat. He headbutted it, pushed away, leaving one sword in its belly, his other blade whistling around to crunch into its collarbone, blood and bone spraying as he wrenched it free and hacked again, this time cutting deep into the creature’s neck. He darted in, swerving away from its curved sword, chopping at its neck to finish the job. Somehow the Kadoshim’s hand snaked out and caught his blade in its fist. A finger flew through the air but still it held on, as it tried to bring its own sword round to bear. Maquin grabbed its sword wrist and for a few heartbeats they lurched together in an ungainly dance. Within seconds Maquin knew he could not win a contest of strength: the Kadoshim’s grip was unnaturally strong. Then, in the blink of an eye, its head was spinning through the air and Alben’s face appeared before him. The Kadoshim’s body slumped, fist still gripped around Maquin’s sword-blade, oily black smoke pouring from the open wound of its neck. A winged creature formed in the air above him and screamed wordless hatred at him, then the wind caught it and it was gone.

Maquin sagged, Alben’s hand reaching out to steady him.

“There’s no getting used to that,” Maquin breathed as he yanked his swords free of the creature’s corpse.

He looked around, saw more of the demon forms appearing in the air above them and then evaporating. At a glance it seemed that most of those Kadoshim that had attacked them had fallen, though many of Maquin’s and Alben’s men were lying still and silent upon the ground. As Maquin watched, Alcyon, Raina and Tain dispatched the last Kadoshim.

“Gundul?” Maquin breathed.

“Down there,” Alben gestured.

Maquin saw the King of Carnutan disappearing amongst the tents, far more Kadoshim still about him than Maquin had hoped to see. Two men were moving with them. One of them paused as the others disappeared from view and looked back, for a moment Maquin’s eyes locked with him. He staggered, felt as if he’d just been punched in the gut.

It cannot be.

Maquin’s heart was suddenly pounding in his chest, a wave of shock spilling into fury.

Jael.