CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND NINETEEN

MAQUIN

Maquin wiped blood and sweat from his face, pausing to look around. The dead were heaped about him, a trail behind, a Kadoshim demon croaking a death rattle on the ground at his feet. With Lykos’ death accomplished, he had returned to the battle feeling reborn, all of life’s cares and demands stripped away. He felt pure. A white flame burned within him, fed by and yearning for the death of his enemies. And so he had walked through the battlefield like an angel of death, men falling before him as wheat before the reaper.

He paused now to look around, not even knowing where exactly on the battlefield he was, and as he looked, the enormity and tragedy of it all sank into him. He was standing roughly in the centre of the field, and the dead were everywhere. Piles of them heaped together or spread about like scattered seed: men, women, horses, giants, so many of them, and all just meat and bones now. To the south Maquin saw a sea of warriors, mostly on foot, with islands of open plain amongst them; the south-western fringe right up to the treeline was more densely packed with combat. Black and silver dominated the southern half of the field, though no longer in the shield wall formations that Maquin had seen earlier: men were scattered, fighting, some fleeing. Vin Thalun were thick on the field as well, but there were others, a solid knot of giants further away, the flash of red-cloaks, some white-cloaks, still. A draig.

Nathair’s draig? It can’t be, no saddle or harness, and no Nathair.

And then he saw two other draigs, their backs to him, lumbering through the gates of Drassil and disappearing within the fortress.

On Maquin’s left and filling most of the northern field were a thick press of horses, where mounted combat was furious and savage between grey-cloaked warriors and those in black and gold. Edana’s warband looked to be encircled and pushed back towards the western fringe of the battleground, their backs to the treeline.

Maquin looked between the shield wall of eagle-guard and Rhin’s warband and saw that Edana was beaten, no matter how valiantly she and her men fought, and it didn’t look as if there would be any help from the south, which told a tale of the enemy in greater numbers, though at a glance battle seemed more evenly balanced amongst them.

Maquin looked up to the skies and saw a sight that on any other day would have taken his breath away.

It was thick with Kadoshim and Ben-Elim, another battlefield in the sky.

Hordes of dark- and white-winged warriors fought and died in the air, bodies crashing from above to wreak ruin upon the battlefield, blood raining down, limbs, feathers, as Ben-Elim and Kadoshim swirled and swooped and stabbed and hacked at one another.

We are beaten. There is no victory against this host. But there is still a song to be made.

The need to kill was heavy upon him, knife and sword twitching in his fists, but he took a moment to decide where. His eyes touched upon a knot of red-cloaks to the south, beset by Vin Thalun and eagle-guard.

“Tahir,” he breathed.

My Gadrai sword-brother, one of the few people who still draws breath in these Banished Lands whom I would call friend. If he still stands.

He walked south.

The battleground was fluid here, unlike in the crush to the north. Battle ebbed and flowed, warriors fighting, fleeing, dying. Maquin stepped over a decapitated giant, past a Ben-Elim and Kadoshim that fought upon the ground, both of their wings tattered ruins.

Maquin found Tahir alone atop a small mound, half a dozen Vin Thalun surrounding him. Before they knew Maquin was there, two of them were down, lifeblood soaking into the mud. Another struck at Maquin, but his blow was swept wide and he died on Maquin’s sword. Tahir grinned at Maquin and hacked a hand from one as Maquin hamstrung another, stamping on his throat and crushing his windpipe as he fell. The last Vin Thalun stumbled back, realizing who Maquin was, then turned and fled, screaming “OLD WOLF,” as he ran.

“Well met, my brother,” Maquin said to Tahir as they embraced, both slick with blood.

“It’s good to see you,” Tahir grinned, “even if the sight of you may well give me nightmares for the rest of my life.”

Maquin smiled, a strange feeling.

“The battle is most likely lost,” Maquin said flatly. “You should find Haelan and leave.”

Tahir didn’t reply, but instead was staring towards the southern part of the field.

A draig was lumbering across the battleground, focused on something in front of it, crushing and hurling and trampling anyone who stood in its way.

“What’s it after?” Maquin said, but then he saw it too. A small figure, sprinting and weaving through the combat, a high-pitched shriek coming from him.

“Haelan,” Tahir said. “That draig’s after Haelan.” Then he was off and running, shouldering men out of his way, hurtling across the battlefield. Maquin followed, had seen on Tahir’s face an emotion he knew all too well: the need to fulfil your oath, the fear of failing it.

Tahir ran fast, angled to head off Haelan, but Maquin could see he was not going to reach the boy before the draig did. He picked up his pace and changed his angle, sheathing his short sword as he ran and drawing another knife.

A Vin Thalun appeared in front of him, disappeared just as quickly, blood spurting from his throat. Maquin charged on, Vin Thalun scrambling to get out of his way now, and then he was twenty paces from the onrushing draig, ten, five, and he was leaping, flying through the air, crashing into the draig’s side, punching his knives into it, through leathery scale and into the flesh below. He swung there a moment, legs dangling, the draig roaring, slowing, head twisting upon its thick neck, teeth snapping at him, but it couldn’t reach him. He caught a glimpse of Tahir bending low to sweep Haelan into his arms heartbeats before the draig thundered by, and then Maquin was climbing up the draig, using his knives as a climber uses hand-holds, pulling one out and stabbing higher, then the same with the other knife, on and upwards, leaving a trail of leaking wounds until he was sitting on the draig’s back, legs clamped around its neck and shoulders, stabbing a bloody frenzy. The draig skidded to a halt, turf exploding in fountains about its taloned claws, and then it was spinning and rearing as it attempted to dislodge, rip and tear Maquin.

Maquin stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, saw a glint of bone, and then the draig was rearing up onto its hind legs, crashing backwards. Maquin pushed away, leaped into the air, but something clamped around his leg, the draig’s jaws snatching him back, dragging him to the ground with bone-slamming force.

The pressure on his leg disappeared, waves of pain pulsing up it as he lay on his back, gasping for breath, staring up at grey clouds and the silhouettes of winged creatures. Dimly he heard the draig roar, glimpsed it flailing on the ground as it slowly righted itself.

Get up and kill it.

He tried to stand, his leg numb. With a grunt, he managed to turn over and push himself onto one knee. Hot shafts of pain lanced up his leg, taking his breath away.

Numb is better.

He looked down at his damaged leg, saw it was a mass of puncture wounds, flesh torn, shattered bone sticking out above his knee. His vision swam and he fought the urge to vomit.

The draig approached him, head swaying, lopsided, blood running down the creases of its neck, pooling on the ground.

Think my knives have done some damage.

It opened its mouth and roared, blood and spittle spraying Maquin, then the draig stumbled forwards.

Maquin tried to move, pushing off the ground with one hand and one leg, his other hand finding a knife hilt, then the draig’s jaws were clamping about his torso, teeth like daggers piercing him. It lifted him into the air and shook him like a hound with a rat, the world fading around him. Maquin heard the crackle of bones breaking, felt things inside tearing, his energy draining.

The sound of shouting filtered through the ringing in Maquin’s ears and he saw blurred images of men stabbing at the draig with spears. Then the world came back into focus. He was still in the draig’s jaws, the beast swaying, men all around.

Maquin tried to move, coughed blood and realized he couldn’t feel his legs. But he could feel his fist, and the knife hilt within it. He looked along the muzzle of the draig, straight into its soulless eye, and then, with the last strength in his body, he lifted his knife and buried it in the draig’s eye, stabbing through the soft jelly, deep into its brain, right to the hilt.

The draig spasmed, a ripple of jerks triggering along its torso and limbs, and then its legs were folding and it crashed to the ground, tail twitching, Maquin rolling from its lifeless jaws.

He heard more than he saw, though even sounds were distant, as if through water. And he felt cold, an icy numbness working its way inwards, through his limbs and into his torso, his chest, behind his eyes.

Hands gripped him and he realized he was being turned, faces appearing over him: Tahir, a young lad beside him, red-haired and freckle-faced.

Kastell? Is that Kastell? No, it’s Haelan, but he looks so like Kastell.

Tahir was saying something, his mouth moving, and tears were falling from his eyes. Maquin tried to smile, to tell him it was all right. That he was happy to die. To let go. To find peace. He opened his mouth, felt his lips moving; Tahir was bending low, then the darkness was filling his vision, Tahir’s face fading, fading…

Maquin was standing before a bridge of stone. About and behind him, the world was slate grey, but on the far side of the bridge a mist rolled, golden and hazy, like summer memories.

He took a step onto the bridge, realized he had a sword in his hand and, looking down, he saw countless blades set within the stone, some still keen-edged, others notched and rusted. He walked on, eyes fixed upon the golden mist.

At the centre of the bridge a man stood. No, not a man, a Ben-Elim, white-feathered wings spanning the bridge. As Maquin drew nearer the Ben-Elim furled his wings and stepped out of Maquin’s way, giving him a single nod of respect.

Maquin walked past him, carried on towards the mist, saw shadows within it, figures. One stepped out: a woman, dark-haired, beautiful. She was smiling at him.

He felt his mouth stretch in a smile and with a clatter let his sword drop from his hand. It sank into the bridge, became a part of it. Maquin didn’t notice; he was too busy running.