CHAPTER TWELVE

JAEL

Jael stood and stared at the warriors on the hill.

One man had emerged ahead of the others, blood-soaked and battle-grim, a short sword in each hand. He was staring back at Jael, and although they were a good hundred paces apart, Jael was certain he saw hatred twist the man’s features.

There is something familiar about him…

“My lord,” Dag said, pulling at his sleeve. “We must keep moving.”

They were following the Jehar that were shepherding Gundul and his retinue of lackeys to safety, hoping that the Jehar would guard Jael and Dag as well as the others as they passed through the camp. Jael had heard the sounds of battle from the hilltop and paused to watch the bloody work of the handful of Jehar warriors that had remained behind. They had fallen, but then it was a score against close to two hundred, and even so the Jehar had decimated their enemy.

As Jael stared he saw the man burst into motion, running hard towards him, screaming Jael’s name.

He knows me!

Jael took an involuntary step back.

Doesn’t seem to like me much, though.

Who?

Then he knew.

Maquin.

He had changed almost beyond all recognition: slimmer than Jael remembered him, his body chiselled, arms and legs a striated mass of muscle, face a place of ridges, scars and hate-filled eyes.

How is he here? He should be dead, or at least a thousand leagues from here, and in shackles.

Jael remembered the last time he had seen Maquin, on the bridge at Dun Kellen, chained and being dragged away by Lykos to a Vin Thalun slave-ship.

The fool had challenged me to the court of swords, insulted me in front of my men. From the look on Maquin’s face, that court of swords was still high on his agenda.

Jael gulped. If Maquin’s expression did not convince him that it was time to go, the warriors charging down the hill behind Maquin did. There were giants amongst them.

“This way,” Dag snapped at him as they entered a maze of tents, banks of thick smoke rolling through it, the shouts and screams of battle drifting and swirling all about them. Footsteps drummed on the turf of the hill somewhere behind him and the Jehar were nowhere to be seen. Panic clenched a fist in his gut.

“JAEL,” a voice screamed behind him.

Keep running.

Then he saw Dag, the huntsman moving fast, head dipped, scanning the ground. Jael followed him around a tent, ran down an empty isle of churned mud and barrels piled high, then turned again and saw the dark figures of the Jehar hurrying ahead of them. Relief swept him and he picked up his pace, he and Dag steadily catching up with Gundul and his protectors.

They were close to the Jehar now, only a score of paces separating them. A final burst of speed and Jael was at their heels. He tried to shoulder his way between two of them and enter their protective circle, but one turned and fixed him with its black, dead eyes.

“Let me through,” Jael gasped. “I am Jael, King of Isiltir, you must protect me.”

The Jehar warrior cocked its head at him, then it pushed Jael back, sending him stumbling. Dag reached out and steadied him.

Shouldn’t have left my men on the roadside.

“Need…my…men,” Jael breathed to Dag.

“Think this lot are going that way,” Dag said. “Safer to travel with them.”

“Aye,” Jael muttered. He saw Dag surreptitiously glance down corridors made by rows of tents.

He looks as if he’s thinking of slinking off. Would probably do the same if I was him.

“Gold,” Jael hacked out of his burning lungs. I need this man.

“What?”

“Gold, for you. When you get me to Mikil. More than you can carry, more than you’ve ever dreamed of.”

“I’ve dreamed of a lot of gold, in my time,” Dag said.

“You’ve earned it,” Jael breathed.

“Reckon I have,” Dag muttered. A greedy smile crept across his face. “I’ll get you to Mikil,” the huntsman said.

The sounds of battle suddenly grew louder. A knot of enemy warriors clothed in black and silver appeared ahead of them.

They look like Nathair’s colours.

Jael drew his sword as a warrior lurched before him: one of Gundul’s men, his sword wildly parrying a flurry of blows from a warrior in black and silver. Jael stabbed his sword into the attacker’s side. Ripping his sword free, he pushed the dying man away and leaped over him, eyes searching for Dag, his heart pounding desperately when he could not see him.

“This way,” Dag called to him.

Something slammed into Jael’s back.

He flew through the air, weightless for a moment, then hit the ground, air crushed from his lungs, and he was sliding in the mud, rolling. He came to a stop and rose to one knee, trying to ignore the pain in his chest and shoulder, hand grasping for his sword hilt, looking back to see a lunatic covered in blood rising from the ground.

Maquin.

Run! Jael’s mind screamed at him, but he knew he would not make it. Maquin was too close for him to make a safe escape. Jael rose to his feet and hefted his sword.

I am the finest sword in Isiltir. I slew Kastell in single combat, and he was a great swordsman, in his prime, not old and half-mad like this man before me. He set his feet and raised his blade.

The world around him faded, the battle raging only a handful of strides away dimmed as a cold focus settled upon him, as it always did when he committed to the blade.

“Come,” he shouted, “and I’ll send you to meet Kastell.”

He’d thought to anger Maquin, unbalance him with rage, as angry men make mistakes. By the look on Maquin’s face his tactic worked. The man gripped his second blade and launched himself forwards, face twisted in a snarl.

He’s moving too fast. A smile twitched at Jael’s lips as he stepped forwards to meet Maquin, lunging as he did so, his sword-tip aimed straight at Maquin’s heart.

His own speed will impale him, the idiot. He’s a dead man.

But then Jael was stabbing into empty air, Maquin no longer where he was supposed to be. A blow slammed into Jael’s side, crunching into his ribs, white pain exploding in his chest as he dropped to one knee. The sudden urge to vomit almost consumed him.

He’s broken my ribs, he realized in shock, his hand probing at his side, all the chainmail links bent and broken.

Move or die.

Jael heaved himself to his feet, raised his sword and pivoted on his heel, but the expected blow never came at him. Instead Maquin was standing a few paces away, just staring at him.

“I’ve waited a long time for this,” Maquin said, his voice as cold and hard as frosted iron. “Killing you quick’s too good for you.”

A seed of fear blossomed in Jael’s chest, the utter confidence in Maquin’s eyes chilling him.

Don’t be a fool, I’ve watched him train on the weapons court. I know his strengths, his weaknesses. He’s old, slow. I know I can beat him.

“Kastell said something similar, just before I bled him like a sow,” Jael said, trying to keep the pain of his splintered ribs out of his voice.

Maquin came at him, slowly this time. Jael noticed knife hilts protruding from half a dozen places on Maquin—two on his belt, a shoulder strap, a hilt poking from a boot.

One of Maquin’s short swords trailed a lazy circle as the battle-scarred warrior rolled a wrist, then, almost faster than Jael could follow, Maquin was striking at him. Jael staggered backwards, pain from his ribs exploding with every breath and step as he blocked Maquin’s blows, each parry more ragged than the last.

He’s as fast as the Jehar—it’s impossible. What’s happened to him? Panic threatened Jael now, as a line of white fire ignited along one thigh where Maquin cut him, moving too fast for him to defend against, another wound appearing on his forearm, a slash across his forehead sending him tumbling backwards as blood sheeted into his eyes.

Jael lay on his back, an arm wiping the blood from his eyes. Looking up, he saw grey sky veiled by the trees of Forn, and then Maquin appeared, looming over him. His face was latticed with scars, one ear mostly gone, just a lump of flesh remaining, his hair more grey than black.

Jael searched the ground for the hilt of his sword, felt its worn leather and snatched at it. Maquin’s boot crunched into his ribs as the old warrior kicked him.

Jael screamed, rolled over, vomited bile into the mud.

“When you see Kastell, be sure and tell him I kept my oath,” Maquin said above him.

This can’t be happening. He’s OLD!

Jael rolled onto his back, arms raised, wanting to beg for mercy but he couldn’t seem to get his lungs to work properly; only a blubbering wheeze came from his gaping mouth.

Maquin raised one of his swords.

Then there was a crunch and Maquin was gone.

He turned his head and saw Maquin borne to the ground, grappling with another figure, small and wiry.

Dag. I love that man!

Jael climbed to his knees, grabbed his sword and levered himself to his feet, a wave of dizziness and nausea threatening him as his broken ribs complained. All around him men were fighting, the Jehar seemingly reduced to a handful, and more men in black and silver joining the battle. Gundul and his protectors were nowhere to be seen.

I need to get out of here.

Maquin and Dag were still fighting, Maquin’s short swords lying in the mud, a knife glinting in Dag’s fist. Jael stumbled towards them, raised his sword, waiting for a clear thrust at Maquin.

A new battle-cry rose up, this one deep and alien. The giant he had seen in Maquin’s company had appeared from out of the smoke and chaos, two more giants behind him, as well as a knot of warriors in black and silver. The first giant saw him and bellowed, then charged at him, all those behind him following. Jael felt the ground tremble. He glanced down at Dag and Maquin.

I need Maquin dead, and Dag alive. He is going to get me back to Isiltir.

Jael looked back up at the onrushing giant and the swarm of sharp iron behind it.

He turned and ran.