CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE

MAQUIN

Maquin prowled through the battlefield, skirting the mounted warriors still clashing at the northern half of the field, working his way along to the south, where the fighting seemed to revolve around two shield walls, a storm of men of various allegiances swirling about their flanks, giants striding amongst them. The bulk of these men were Vin Thalun and the men of Ripa, engaged in battle with a savage ferocity that made Maquin snarl with respect.

Only a short while ago he had felt close to collapse, had sat in the hospice with his hands trembling, but then he had heard the din of battle, and he had thought of Lykos. And now he held a sword in his right fist, a knife in his left, and both were already bloody to their hilts.

A handful of Vin Thalun appeared before him, bearing down upon two men of Ripa who were shoulder to shoulder, frantically defending themselves. Maquin strode into their midst, his sword opening a Vin Thalun throat, knife slicing a hamstring, sword stabbing down, kicking an ankle out, feeling bone break, parried a wild blow, ducked under it and slammed his knife into a belly.

One of the Vin Thalun ran, staring at Maquin’s face, screaming “OLD WOLF,” over and over. The two men of Ripa nodded their thanks and fell in behind Maquin, picking up the chant and following the Old Wolf as he waded into the battle.

Maquin grinned as he killed, the battle-joy rushing through his veins, all who came against him seeming slow, as if wading through water, and Maquin slew them all. He knew what was different now, what had changed. For a while he had noticed that a new hesitancy had crept into him, into the way he fought, allowing on occasion some men to escape his blades.

That was gone now.

It had been Fidele, it had been the desire to live, to taste life with her. But now she was gone, and he did not care, and that made all the difference. All whom he fought, no matter how strong, how skilled, how fast, all of them had that desire at their core. To survive. To live.

He did not. And so he fought as one that did not fear death, he embraced its coming, knew it was close, and welcomed it.

Men fell before him, a wedge of men from Ripa gathered behind him. Maquin glanced back once and saw that the Freedmen, Alcyon, Tain and Cota were with him too, striding at his flanks, slaying, blood-drenched and battle-grim.

And on he marched, into the storm of iron, killing, searching, the cry of OLD WOLF circling around him like a murder of crows, his banner a battle-cry that spread dread as men heard it.

And then Maquin saw him, a few score men between them.

A Vin Thalun, a half-crushed buckler upon one arm, short sword bloody and notched, a savage glee upon his ring-bearded face as he hacked a man of Ripa to death.

Lykos. Your death is here.