CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

MAQUIN

Maquin awoke to bright light and pain in his head. He rolled over, expecting to see Fidele lying beside him, but he was alone, the wool and furs on her side of their bed cold to the touch. It was a little past dawn, a chill in the air, mist curling up from the stream close by.

He sat up slowly, memory returning of last night, a smile spreading across his face as he remembered her words to him.

This, us, is for always. His grin widened. He saw the empty skin of mead close by and rubbed his temples.

I must be getting old, he thought, his head feeling full of fog. A few cups of mead and I sleep the night away.

With some effort he knelt before the stream, dunked his head up to his shoulders and came up gasping, the water ice cold and invigorating. Sounds of celebration drifted down to him, and he frowned, remembering Fidele telling him of Veradis’ impending rescue attempt.

I was going to volunteer for that. By the sound of the cheering I wasn’t missed, though I may have missed out on a fight worth a song.

He pulled on his boots, a wool tunic and his leather vest, slung his sword-belt over his shoulder and headed towards camp.

He saw Veradis first, walking alongside Krelis. They were leading a long column: Balur, Alcyon and what looked like the full strength of the Benothi clan striding with them. Amongst them were a mix of warriors, mostly men of Ripa, clothed in the black and silver of Tenebral. Many of them were discarding cloaks and helms, being greeted by warriors of Isiltir, Wulf’s men, Javed’s Freedmen—all were out to welcome this warband home. People were embracing, laughing, crying.

He did it, then, Maquin thought, looking at Veradis. I imagine that was quite the tale, and I look forward to hearing it.

First things first, though. Where’s Fidele?

A young warrior, dark-haired, a man of Ripa approached him. Maquin recognized him as one of those who had become part of Fidele’s unofficial honour guard.

“This is for you, my lord,” the warrior said, holding a rolled parchment out. He didn’t meet Maquin’s eyes.

“I’m no one’s lord,” Maquin muttered as he took the scroll, saw the wax was sealed with Fidele’s ring. Something shifted inside him, like a chill wind on a summer’s day.

I have gone to seek Nathair, the parchment began. I gave you a sleeping draught last night, knowing that you would seek to dissuade me, or failing that, you would accompany me. I must speak with Nathair alone. I know there is goodness in him yet, but I need an opportunity to draw it into the light.

All of last night is true. What we did, what I said to you, meant with all that I am. But I must do this alone.

He is my son.

Please forgive me.

And then her signature.

Maquin bowed his head, crumpling the letter to his chest.

A whirlpool of emotions—he was hurt that she didn’t trust him with this, that she’d deceived him. He was angry that he’d been tricked, fooled. But most of all he felt scared, a worm of fear squirming in his belly.

Forn is dangerous. The journey alone…

“When did she leave, and how many went with her?” Maquin asked the young warrior.

“I was told to bid you wait, my lord,” the warrior said.

“Might as well ask the sun not to rise,” Maquin growled, stepping close to the warrior. He returned Maquin’s stare.

Brave lad, but I don’t have time for this.

Anger swelled, fuelled with fear for Fidele. His fingers twitched.

“What’s your name?”

“Spyr, my lo—” the warrior answered.

“Stop calling me that,” Maquin snarled. “I commend your loyalty, Spyr,” he said, “but that won’t stop me emptying your guts all over your boots.” He didn’t move or touch a weapon, but the warrior took a step back.

“She’s chasing after Nathair, you fool,” Maquin said to him, quietly. “A ten-night’s travel through Forn, and then she’ll walk into our enemy’s camp. Do you think Nathair will let her just walk back out again? The man who has betrayed his kin, his realm, the whole Banished Lands?”

He held Spyr’s gaze.

“Now, I’ll ask you one more time. When did she leave, and how many went with her?”

“Six,” Spyr said, looking at the ground.

“When?”

“Last night. They left when Veradis led his warband to Drassil.”

Clever. Cover to mask her leaving.

He thought a moment, then spun on his heel and strode back to the stream, filled a couple of fresh water skins, stuffed dried biscuit into his pack, checked his kit-box was there, slung it over his back. Checked his knives. Then he was striding through the camp, skirting the celebrations. On his way he saw Teca and changed his direction, approaching her.

“I need your help,” he said to her. He knew she was the best tracker in their warband. “Fidele has run off on a fool’s errand, and I need to catch up with her before she gets herself, and this warband, into a lot of trouble.”

Teca took a long look at Maquin’s face.

“All right. Let’s be after her, then.”

They left immediately. Maquin heard footfalls behind and he glanced back to see Spyr following him, shamefaced.

Lad was only following orders, he thought. He nodded as Spyr joined them, and the three of them made their way through the forest, following the path that Veradis, his hundred and more than a score of giants had trampled last night. It wasn’t long before Teca stopped, looking at the broken leaves of a red fern, then crouched, studying the soft forest litter. Abruptly she rose and headed into the undergrowth, away from the wide trampled trail of destruction that Veradis’ lot had left.

They passed through the forest in silence, dark thoughts spiralling in Maquin’s mind like crows before a battle.

Wolven, draigs, bears, bats, all manner of unpleasant ways to be eaten. Forn is a predator. And if Fidele makes it to Nathair, what will he do with her?

He fought the urge to run through the forest, calmed himself a fraction by telling himself he needed to allow Teca to work.

And then she stopped, staring at the ground in front of her.

Maquin, tense as a drawn bowstring, stepped around her.

First, he saw the flies, clouds of them, buzzing in dense swarms, like smoke over fire. Then the smell: blood, faeces, thick in the air, cloying. Bodies were strewn about a small area of the forest. Behind him Spyr cursed and rushed forwards, crouching beside the first figure.

“Clem,” he whispered, looking back up at Maquin with guilty eyes.

Maquin stalked amongst the dead, a quick glance showing him four, five dead men of Ripa in their black and silver. Then another figure, clothed in leather vest and breeches. Maquin’s blood turned to ice as he bent, saw the iron rings in the man’s beard.

“Vin Thalun,” he hissed.

Maquin stood and moved on, saw another body lying face-down in the undergrowth. Spyr turned him as Teca hissed in horror. The man’s face had been half-eaten—the upper lip and cheek chewed down to the bone, one eyeball hanging out of its socket—though it was still recognizable as Agost.

“Over here,” Teca said, beckoning him. “They left this way.” She pointed into the forest. East.

This time Maquin did run, the tracks easy to follow.

Not going to Drassil. Even in his state of focused fury he found that strange.

Where else would they go? And why?

They came to Jael’s road, the tracks leading them to the river, and eventually to a muddy bank. Into the water.

“Boats, more than one,” Teca said, fingertips tracing the deep grooves in the mud.

Fidele is a prisoner of the Vin Thalun, and they’ve put her in a boat and rowed away. Lykos must be behind this.

He fell to his knees in the mud, face a rictus of rage, snarling and spitting like a trap-caught beast.

“We should go back. We need more eyes,” Teca said.

“You go,” Maquin said, knowing the sense of it, but unable to walk away from here, the thought of moving further away from Fidele a physical pain in his chest. “I’ll stay, begin the search along the bank.”

“I’ll stay, too,” Spyr said, “and help…” he trailed off. Guilt gnawed at him—that was clear.

And grief. He’s lost sword-brothers today. Men he was close to.

Teca stood still a moment, looking at him.

Most likely gauging if I can be trusted. If I’m in my right mind.

He forced himself to turn away from the river, to look Teca in the eye.

“Fidele is all that matters. Me being maddened beyond all thought will not help her, so I will control that beast,” he said, his voice as cold as winter rain. “And I swear, by Elyon above and Asroth below, I will find her. And if she is hurt…” He ground his teeth, made a sound in his throat beyond words, fingers closing around a knife hilt, pulling it out and cutting across his palm. He held it out, a white-knuckled fist, blood dripping into the river.

“There will be blood.”