CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

MAQUIN

Maquin ran, not really feeling the pain in his legs that he knew must be there, or the burning sensation in his lungs as they laboured for air, his body pushed to its limits. He did not feel the ache in his shoulders and back, arms and legs, from the swim from lakeshore to island, nor did he notice the weight of his dripping clothes.

All he knew was Fidele.

He could see her, bathed in sunlight, hands bound, one side of her face red and starting to bruise. As his eyes shifted to the two Vin Thalun with her he felt his lips curl in a snarl. They hadn’t seen him yet. He pulled a knife from his belt, another from a sheath buckled across his ribs, then he was bursting from the trees into a scene of slaughter, the piled meat of the dead all about.

The Vin Thalun heard him now, both twisting and staring, a moment of disbelief. A strangled cry of fear.

“The Old Wolf!”

He leaped a body, had a frozen moment to see his enemies clearly, one fair-haired, one with a scarred face, then he was on them. Fair-Hair swung his sword, a short horizontal chop at Maquin’s waist, a wise blow, unlikely to miss, except that it did because he was too slow, had not gauged Maquin’s speed. He was running at full sprint, no slowing, no hesitation, and before Fair-Hair’s blow was halfway to Maquin’s waist there was a knife hilt buried in his groin, ripping up as Maquin crashed into him, rolled around him, spinning away.

“I’ll kill her,” Scar-Face shouted, unable to hide the tremor in his voice, and lifted the rope attached to Fidele, only to find a severed end dangling in his hand. Maquin had slashed at it as he’d collided with Fair-Hair.

“Come on then,” Scar-Face snarled, did not wait for Maquin but lunged forwards, stabbing at Maquin’s gut.

Maquin parried, sword grating as he swept Scar-Face’s blade wide, Scar-Face’s buckler punching at his face, Maquin ducking the blow as if it were all in slow motion, the blooded knife hooking behind his attacker’s knee, stabbing deep, slicing up through muscle. The warrior was falling backwards, Maquin’s knee dropping onto his enemy’s chest, his other knife at the man’s throat, slashing through flesh, cartilage, vertebrae.

He stood over his enemy, blood-spattered, nostrils flaring, chest heaving.

Then Fidele was in his arms, their bodies tightly pressed, moulding into each other, Maquin wiping hair from her face, Fidele whispering words in his ear, and they were fiercely kissing.

“You found her, then,” a deep voice said behind them. It was Alcyon, smiling, breathing hard.

Maquin saw his expression change as he looked around the glade and saw giants amongst the dead.

“What?” He crouched beside one, staring into his face.

“Are they your clan? Are they Kurgan?” Maquin asked him.

Alcyon shook his head. “I do not know. I don’t understand.”

Others were emerging from the trees, now—Teca, Javed and a handful of pit-fighters, Alben, Spyr and the men of Ripa—all staring around at the blood-soaked glade.

Maquin looked into Fidele’s eyes, held her cheeks gently.

“Did he hurt you?”

“Nothing worse than this,” Fidele said, touching the side of her face that was swollen and bruised from Lykos’ punch. She swayed, eyes fluttering and Maquin caught her, lowered her to the ground, crouching beside her.

“It’s nothing,” Fidele said, trying to rise and failing, then leaning over and vomiting onto the grass.

“Some water,” Alben said, crouching beside Maquin. “Hello, my lady.” He smiled as he helped her drink from a skin, looked into her eyes, asked her to track his finger. “Rest a short while, you’ve had a blow to the head. It will pass.”

“Is this real?” Fidele said, touching Maquin’s face, squeezing Alben’s hand.

Shouts, screams, the din of battle echoed from the cave mouth.

“Lykos,” Maquin snarled.

“The starstone torc,” Alben said.

Maquin stood. “Spyr, pick a few lads, guard Fidele. When she’s able, get her down to the boats. We’ll be taking them home. Lykos won’t be needing them where he’s going.”

Fidele grabbed Maquin’s hand. “Kill him,” she said fiercely.

“I intend to,” Maquin growled.

“And be careful,” she added. “There are Kadoshim with him.”

Maquin sheathed his knives, drew his two short swords. “You hear that?” he said to the small warband. “Kadoshim. You have to take their heads.”

Alcyon drew his two axes, other men their swords, Teca looked at her bow. “I’ll settle for Vin Thalun,” she said.

Maquin bent and brushed his lips against Fidele’s cheek. “I’ll see you after,” he said, and then he was stalking into the tunnel, Teca a half-step behind him, bow loosely nocked. Alcyon and Tain followed, Javed, Alben and their men spreading behind them.

Just beyond the entrance, torches were guttering on the ground, sending shadows dancing wildly as Maquin strode past them. He was on a wide path, sloping and spiralling downwards. After the first bend there were iron sconces hammered into the rock walls, flames flickering, shedding light on still forms scattered on the slope: Vin Thalun, two more giants in their bear-skins. The din of battle grew louder as the tunnel opened up into a great chamber below them. And in the chamber battle raged, flames in great bowls of oil illuminating the violence between men and giants.

At the far end of the chamber wide steps led up to a raised dais, and upon it was a stone chair, a giant sitting on it. Even at a glance, though, this did not look like an ordinary giant. He was tall, but had little of the bulk of the other giants in the room, his frame withered, skin hanging from his arms and cheeks in wrinkled folds, his scalp all but visible through wispy white hair. A thick torc of dark iron was draped about his neck, looking too heavy for the giant to bear. A handful of giants stood protectively in a half-circle about him, swinging at any approaching Vin Thalun.

Even as Maquin saw this, a Kadoshim charged the group around the throne, sword high, a flurry of blows clanging off a hammer-shaft, a giant reeling as a blow cut through his defence. At a glance it was clear to Maquin that Lykos and his Vin Thalun were going to win this fight.

Not while I’m still breathing.

He launched into a loping run, spiralling down into the maelstrom. Behind him he heard the thud of feet, the thrum of Teca’s bow, saw a Vin Thalun drop with a feathered shaft in his neck.

A great roaring cry filled the room, echoing, filling Maquin’s ears.

It was Alcyon. He had paused, twin axes raised over his head, and he was yelling, “KURGAN!”

Many in the chamber stopped, stared up at him. Some of the giants called back to him in guttural voices. Alcyon grinned, a fierce thing, and then he leaped from the path, down into the chamber, scattering a dozen Vin Thalun that were hacking at a giant fallen to one knee. A Kadoshim rushed at Alcyon as he rose from the ground and Alcyon’s axes swung, great looping circles, the Kadoshim’s head soaring through the air in a welter of blood. Its body crashed to the ground, a gush of black vapour pouring from its neck, forming night-black wings, two red eyes, screaming hatred, then it was fading, smoke in the wind.

That’s how you do it, Maquin thought, feeling the battle-joy rising up within him. He burst onto the chamber’s floor, gutted one Vin Thalun, buried his blade deep into the armpit of the next, spun, ripping his blades free, chopped into another between neck and shoulder, dropping him.

“It’s the Old Wolf,” a Vin Thalun shouted; the cry was taken up, rippling around the room. Then Javed was flying into the chamber, his Freedmen behind him, a swirling wave of muscle and iron flowing into the battle.

The world slowed for Maquin, reduced to the next face, the glint of iron, the spray of blood. He swayed and twisted his way past a dozen blades that were intent on opening his veins, eddying past each blow, Maquin striking back unerringly, opening throats and bellies, cutting hamstrings, stabbing groins, slicing tendons, men falling in a wake of the dead behind him, and all the time he was searching for one thing. One man.

Lykos.

Maquin paused, the calm at the centre of his own storm.

Then he saw him.

Lykos, on the steps to the dais, his buckler dented, short sword dripping blood, a snarl on his face. He had Vin Thalun about him, Kadoshim as well, and they were storming the few giants left upon the dais, protecting the ancient one.

“LYKOS,” Maquin bellowed, and the Vin Thalun turned and saw him.

Hatred and fear chased across his face.

Maquin ran at him, swung at a Vin Thalun in his way, cut deep into his thigh, kicked him to the ground, then a Kadoshim was running at him, a woman, curved sword high in a two-handed grip. Maquin spun as the blow descended, chopped a backswing at the Kadoshim’s neck, bit deep, her head tilting at an unnatural angle. A manic grin twisted her face, black eyes boring into Maquin as she came at him again. Maquin swayed away, too slowly, a red line opening from shoulder to elbow, then hands were grasping the Kadoshim, across her forehead, yanking her head back, and a curved knife was sawing at her throat, the head falling away, demon-mist hissing from its neck, raging its malice for a moment before it was evaporating.

Javed kicked the headless body to the ground, grinned at Maquin, who nodded his thanks, then Javed disappeared into the carnage.

Maquin searched for Lykos, saw him and a Kadoshim on the top step, hacking one of the last giants to pieces.

A horn blast rang out in the hall, echoing, vibrating, growing louder. The ancient giant had risen from his chair and had a horn to his lips. Maquin shuddered to a halt, clasped his hands over his ears, saw all about him doing the same thing.

The horn sound faded, though still echoing in Maquin’s ears, and he struggled to move, to do anything except keep his hands clasped to his ears. The ancient giant looked around at them all, a mixture of horror, grief, disgust upon his face.

“It was not supposed to be like this,” the giant said, his voice like parchment scraping together, yet carrying through the chamber. “Has nothing changed in all the long years? Who are you all? Where is Ethlinn ap Balur?”

“What are you talking about, old man?” Lykos grated, hands still at his ears.

The giant regarded Lykos as Maquin would an annoying fly. “I am talking of Ethlinn, child of Nemain, heir to the giant throne, who else? She should have claimed the spear, opened the door. Then come to me here. Where is she?”

“She is fighting these Kadoshim that hold Drassil,” Alcyon said, taking a step forwards.

“Kadoshim.” The giant looked at them all, stared at the one close to Lykos, the one with a swarm of flies swirling around him. “Ach, when will it end?”

“Who are you?” Alcyon asked.

“I am Halvor, Voice of Skald,” the old giant said. “Who are you?”

“I am Alcyon, last of the Kurgan.”

“Alcyon?” another voice said. One of the giants in bear-skins took a step forwards. “Alcyon ben Dayir? Alcyon who ran?”

Alcyon stared, frowned, “Cota?”

The Kadoshim surrounded by flies lurched forwards, staggered up the steps to the dais.

“You talk too much, old man,” he said, and rammed his sword into Halvor’s belly, up to the hilt. With his other hand he grabbed the torc around Halvor’s neck and ripped it off, holding it high.