CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TEN

MAQUIN

Maquin saw Lykos.

Trying to escape, again. Not this time, thought Maquin.

He followed his prey.

His whole body hurt, a gash from his fall leaking blood into one eye, his knee pulsing with pain, but he could run well enough.

Time for pain later.

He picked up speed, veering around men fighting for their lives, one eye checking the skies above him as Kadoshim swept low, slashing and stabbing, grabbing to drag people screaming into the air. Maquin swung at enemies as he passed them, even if it was just a shove that knocked them off balance and gave their opponent an opening. Once he turned and struck at a swooping Kadoshim, hacked off a grasping hand and scoured a line through a leathery wing, then turned and ran on, his eyes fixed on the Vin Thalun Lord limping ahead.

The gap closed.

Maquin could see the forest looming now, smoke billowing from it, the crackle of fire that had been a distant thing now bright, animals and birds taking flight from it.

Lykos had paused and was staring towards Drassil. As Maquin followed his gaze he saw white-feathered men in gleaming mail soaring from the fortress and spreading over the whole battlefield. Wielding sword and spear, they attacked the Kadoshim with a fury Maquin had never witnessed before, not even in the fighting-pits, where men were reduced to tooth, nail and animal instinct. As Maquin watched he saw two forms locked together spin low over the battlefield, crashing and skidding only a few score paces ahead of him, warriors smashed out of their way or leaping, earth spraying in a fountain-like wake behind them.

They rolled to a halt, wings still beating, limbs moving, the white-feathered Ben-Elim rising, only to plunge its sword into the Kadoshim’s chest, punching through, pinning it to the earth.

The Kadoshim shrieked, twitched and was still. The Ben-Elim leaned upon its sword for a moment, breathing heavily, then ripped its blade free, bellowing a victory cry and leaping back into the air, wide wings powering it back into the airborne melee.

Maquin saw Lykos glance his way, his eyes widen, a flash of fear, and then the Vin Thalun was running again, turning west, towards the forest.

Angels. Demons. I care not. It’s time for you to die, Lykos.

Trees closed around Maquin as he stepped into a world of instant twilight, shadows shifting around him, the murky gloom an ideal place for hiding. Maquin bent to one knee, listening, fingers touching the forest litter. When he lifted them, his fingertips were tinged red, before him a broken twig showed more blood, fresh and glistening.

He ran on, deeper into the forest, and then he heard him. Maquin smiled mirthlessly to hear panic in his prey’s passage, an attempt at stealth overruled by the breath of death upon his neck. Maquin moved into a small glade, the trees opening up a little, changing from dense scrub to high-branched oaks, the forest litter thick and flat. Maquin paused, heard only the crackle of the forest fire growing ever closer. A cloud of smoke rolled across the glade.

Maquin walked on, heard the rustle of leaves on the ground, spun round to see Lykos leaping at him, sword stabbing up at him, aimed at his gut. With a contemptuous snarl, Maquin slapped the sword away, sidestepped, slashed his knife at Lykos as he stumbled past, opening a red line above the back of the Vin Thalun’s knee. Lykos staggered on a few steps, fell to one knee, stabbing his sword into the ground, leaning on it to stop himself from falling.

Maquin circled him, keeping wide, a wolf circling a dying snake, until he was standing directly in front of Lykos.

There may still be poison in his fangs.

One side of Lykos’ breeches as blood-soaked to his boots, from the cut on his hip. His left arm was held tight to his body as if he cradled a child. And his face dripped sweat and grime, eyes wide with fear and anger, chest sucking in deep, ragged breaths.

“Get up,” Maquin snarled.

Lykos raised an eyebrow, but he pulled himself upright, leaning heavily on his sword, then stood there, swaying.

“No more running,” Maquin said.

Lykos looked down at his leg. “I think you’ve made sure of that.”

Maquin sheathed his sword over his back and drew a knife instead.

“How many knives do you possess?” Lykos asked, annoyed.

“Better too many than too few,” Maquin growled.

Lykos nodded.

“Well, I think it’s only fair to say; you win.” Lykos started to chuckle.

“What’s funny?” Maquin asked.

“You. I think you take life too seriously. You should laugh more.” He coughed, grimaced.

“You stole that from me,” Maquin said, “stole everything: laughter, friends, honour, humanity.” He bowed his head. “Fidele…”

The memory of her face filled his mind for a moment.

He strode forwards, caught Lykos’ feeble attempt at defence on his knife blade, twisted his wrist and sent Lykos’ sword spinning away. Then Maquin was in close, punched his other knife hilt onto Lykos’ injured shoulder, heard him scream, headbutted him on the bridge of his nose, blood exploding. Lykos stumbled back a few paces, wobbled and fell on his backside against a tree. Maquin followed, hauling Lykos up, holding his arm high, against the tree, and stabbed a knife through the Vin Thalun’s palm, deep into the wood behind. He drew another knife and slammed it in a little lower, into Lykos’ forearm, the blade grating between bone, pinning Lykos to the tree.

Fresh screams, loud and raucous. Slowly they faded to bubbling groans and whimpers.

“Please,” Lykos begged. “Please.”

Fire crackled behind Lykos, more smoke billowing through the glade, and Maquin saw a shifting in the undergrowth—ants like black liquid were spilling out around Lykos’ feet, fleeing the fire.

Maquin backed away to a safe distance and watched Lykos look down at the ants that were pooling around his boots, a few of them scuttling up, over the leather and onto the soft wool of his breeches. He saw the Vin Thalun’s eyes widen at the first bite of their mandibles, then more of them, climbing, biting.

“No, no, please, no,” Lykos blurted, jumping and twitching as mandibles tore through his breeches and snipped at his flesh. “Just kill me, please, please kill me,” Lykos begged. More and more ants were flooding up his leg now, some gathering around his other foot, even as he tried to stamp on them, jerking and jumping as if he was performing some insane dance.

Maquin took a few more paces back, arms folded, making sure the ants didn’t decide to come his way. For now there were not enough of them, and the ones that were there seemed content with Vin Thalun flesh.

Ants reached Lykos’ groin.

He sucked in a deep breath and screamed. Such a scream as Maquin had never heard before, not even in the pits. Lykos’ eyes bulged, his face bursting red. And Maquin watched him.

Lykos’ screams rose and fell as the Vin Thalun passed in and out of consciousness. Maquin sat down and reached to his boot and drew another knife, its edge wickedly sharp.

Lykos bubbled out a hoarse string of semi-coherent words, begging, pleading with Maquin for the release of death.

Maquin looked at the blade in his hand, twisted it, then he put it against his own wrist.

It’s over now. Jael is dead, Kastell avenged. And I am avenged against Lykos.

The ants were swirling around Lykos’ belly. He was hanging limp, suspended by the two knives in hand and arm, snot bubbling from his nose, dribble hanging from his mouth, driven near-mad and insensible with the pain.

Maquin pressed the knife edge against his wrist, saw it hover over the dark vein. A bead of blood appeared.

The din of battle echoed through the clearing, rising over the forest fire and Lykos’ death rattle. It stirred something in him, the clash of arms, battle-cries, and somewhere deep within him his spirit rose, as if answering a call.

Battle.

He looked at the knife, at the blood welling on his wrist. Then he stood, gave Lykos’ corpse a last look and stalked from the glade.

Towards the sound of battle.