The Faithful and the Fallen: Ruin Part 31

'Nothing springs to mind,' Peritus called back. 'This is the end for you now, Lykos. To openly attack Lamar you have made a mistake, after your years of schemes and lies, to be so impulsive at the end. I thought you a more worthy adversary. The other lords of Tenebral will act now. Your farce of a marriage will aid you not one bit.'

'It was no farce,' Lykos screamed, spittle flying, venting a sudden rush of rage. He was taken aback by it and had to take a few moments to control his breathing and wait for the red mist to fade a little. He plays me at my own game.

'We have only to wait here, let word spread,' Peritus continued. 'That tower behind me is dug deep into the rock, has huge supplies of grain, fresh water. If your plan is to starve us out you'll be waiting a very long time. You could always try to take us by storm. Please do. That way we may still get to test each other's blades. I think I'd win.'

So confident. I'll cut the smile from his face. He has a point, though. I can't afford a long siege, even beyond the fact that I hate waiting.

Shouting drifted from beyond the tower walls, the clash of arms somewhere behind it. Movement rippled through the warriors above the gates, sudden and startled.

Good job then that I have a plan of my own. He drew his sword and charged forwards, a thousand Vin Thalun roaring as they followed behind him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

FIDELE.

Fidele splashed water on her face, then dipped her hands into the bowl before her. The water turned pink. Events since her rescue by Krelis were a blur.

In a seeming hurricane of movement she had been swept through the gates and into a hard-packed courtyard, hands lifting her from a horse's back to others that checked her for wounds, half-dragging her up wooden steps into a feast-hall, through it into the giant's tower. She remembered cold stone beneath her feet. Eventually she had pulled herself from the gripping hands and demanded to see Maquin.

It turned out they were being taken to the same place. A series of rooms on a lower level of the tower that were being used as an infirmary for the injured from the town.

Well, she was wounded a score of cuts and bruises all over her body but nothing serious. Maquin, however, was a different matter. He had been stabbed, slashed, kicked. A memory filled her mind him striding forward into the ma.s.sed Vin Thalun, carving his way through them like some untouchable demon, always moving, always striking. She had seen the blow that felled him, seen him kill the attacker his body failing as even then he tried to force a path for her to the tower saw him collapse. She'd killed the Vin Thalun standing over him, recalled the sensation with a shudder: she had plunged her knife into him, punching through leather into the body beneath. Twice, now, I have killed in Maquin's defence. Her hands shook as she put them back into the bowl, scrubbing at them with a hard-bristled brush.

'Will he live?' she asked as she turned away from the bowl. Maquin lay upon a cot in a stone room with white walls. A row of large windows were open, shutters flung wide, letting in streaming sunshine and a strong breeze that diluted the cloying scent of blood and sweat. Other beds filled the room, the injured or dying groaning as they were tended by a score or so of healers. Tables were being carried in, more injured stretched out upon them.

A man was bent over Maquin, white-haired and thin. Alben was the swordsmaster of Ripa and, ironically, one of its most skilled healers.

'A man can die of many wounds,' he murmured. Maquin was still unconscious, his breathing shallow. Alben cut away the p.r.o.ne warrior's leather vest and linen shirt, revealing a dark wound above his hip. It pulsed blood rhythmically, with every beat of Maquin's heart. Alben probed it, fingers pushing around the wound. Maquin stirred and groaned.

'Knife or sword?' Alben asked.

'What?' Fidele asked, eyes still fixed on Maquin's face.

'What made this wound knife or sword? It will tell me how deep the wound is.'

'Knife, I think. I'm not sure, it was so quick.'

'Hmm.' He reached out to a rack of tools, pulled out a metal rod with a flat iron head and placed it alongside other similar tools heating in a fire that burned in a wide pot. He left it there a while, gathering what he needed. A salve that smelt of honey, some leaves, gut twine, a curved needle, a roll of linen bandages. He placed them all on a table beside Maquin, then went back to the iron rod, checked its end.

'Hold his legs,' Alben ordered one of the healers.

'I'll do it,' Fidele said, stepping forward.

'He may kick out, my lady.'

'Alben, this man has saved my life many, many times; he has kept me alive for two moons, brought me through the wild, slain Vin Thalun hunting parties against all odds. All for someone that he could have walked away from.' She was going to say more but the words died on her tongue. 'This is the least I can do.'

Alben studied her a moment, then nodded. 'Hold them like so,' he said, demonstrating for her.

She gripped his ankles and leaned all her weight upon them. Alben asked an attendant to hold Maquin's shoulders while he rinsed the wound. There was so much blood Fidele wondered how Maquin could survive but he had to. Alben took another long look at the gaping cut, then pressed the heated iron head into the wound. Maquin's feet kicked, his body jerking, and he groaned. There was a hiss, the stench of cooking meat and Fidele felt her stomach lurch she refused to look away. Alben pushed the rod a little deeper, then with a twist took it out, dropped it into a bowl of water. He cleaned up the wound, st.i.tched it closed, then applied the honey-like salve and covered it over with a leaf. Finally he bandaged the wound.

'Thank you,' Fidele said, feeling suddenly weary beyond measure.

'It's a gut wound,' Alben said. 'If it's pierced his intestines, he will most likely die, in agony.'

She felt something twist inside her, a cold fist clenching around her heart. No. Not after coming so far.

'If they are not cut then he may still die fever and the like. I have seen people live, but only a handful out of hundreds. He may wake at any time there is seed of the poppy for his pain. No food, only water for the next day. Now, let me take a better look at you.'

'I am fine, just scratches.'

'They need to be cleaned. A scratch can still kill.'

A hand touched Fidele's shoulder and she spun around. At first she thought it was a patient, a sickly-looking man staring at her, pale with lank hair, his frame gaunt, almost withered.

'My lady,' he said, his eyes touching her face.

Ektor, Lamar's son.

Without thinking she reached out and hugged him. He was a strange man, reserved and introverted, but Fidele had spent some time with him the previous year, poring over ma.n.u.scripts in his library buried deep in the tower's bowels, and she had come to see another side of him.

'It is good to see you, Ektor,' she said as they separated. He was standing stiff and blinking.

'And you too, my lady,' he managed. He looked around the room. 'My father, he is waiting for you in his chambers. You should go, now.'

'Lady Fidele has been injured, Ektor. She will be along as soon as she has been cared for,' Alben said, his hands guiding Fidele to an empty cot. 'If you could pa.s.s that on to your father, I'd be grateful.'

'Send a messenger, I'm busy,' Ektor said, retreating.

'We'll talk, soon,' Fidele said to Ektor, who nodded as he turned and left the room, disappearing into a corridor.

'That boy is always busy, in his mind,' Alben remarked.

'A boy?' Fidele smiled. Ektor was the youngest of Lamar's sons, around twenty summers.

'When you reach my age, my lady, all whose sleep is not interrupted by the need to empty their bladder are boys.'

Fidele sat there as Alben checked over her wounds, a myriad of cuts and scratches, washed away some blood.

'Have you had word from your son, my lady?' Alben asked as he cleansed her wounds.

'No.' My son. Where are you, Nathair? She felt a knot of worry bloom every time that she thought of Nathair, which was every day. Every night before sleep took her she whispered a prayer to Elyon for his safety. Lykos had hinted at terrible things . . .

'So no news of Veradis either, then,' Alben said.

'Veradis. No,' Fidele said. For a moment she had had to concentrate to pull his face into memory. So much has happened since Nathair sailed away. 'In my last correspondence from Nathair . . .' The letter that stripped me of my regency, my son replacing me with Lykos . . . 'Veradis was at Nathair's side, in Dun Carreg, Ardan. Elyon willing, they are still together. Veradis is the one man I trust with Nathair's life. He has been most faithful, a true friend to my son.'

'He is a good boy,' Alben said, a faint smile touching the corners of his mouth. 'I taught him his weapons.'

'And taught them well.'

A groan drew Fidele's attention. Maquin was stirring on his cot. His fingers moved and his eyes flickered. They opened, searching. He made to sit up.

Alben was there, holding his shoulders. 'No,' he said.

Fidele squeezed Maquin's hand, leaning over him. Recognition swept his face and he relaxed.

'You're safe,' Fidele said. 'Rest.'

His lips moved but only a whisper came out.

She leaned forward, putting her ear to his mouth.

'You are a great deal of trouble, my lady,' he whispered, then his eyes closed and his breathing steadied.

She jumped suddenly a loud bang, a grating sound. She turned, saw a grapnel hooked about the edge of the window's stone sill. A rope dangled from it, disappearing over the sill's edge. A hand appeared, then a head, shoulders, and in a heartbeat a Vin Thalun corsair was crouched on the wide sill, breathing hard. He drew a sword. All along the room grapple-hooks appeared in other windows.

Alben was the first to move, powering forwards, sword appearing in his hand. A flick of his wrist and it was buried in the Vin Thalun's throat. The warrior fell backwards with a gurgle, spinning into nowhere.

Screams echoed through the hospice as more Vin Thalun appeared, leaping into the room, stabbing at healers and wounded alike.

'Out of here,' Alben snapped at Fidele. Even as he said it another figure was appearing in the window behind him. Before Alben could turn the Vin Thalun was leaping forwards, crashing into the old swordsmaster, both of them tumbling to the ground. They came to a stop, the Vin Thalun on top of Alben, a knife in his hand.

Fidele grabbed one of the iron bars heating in the fire-bowl and rammed it into the corsair's face. He screamed, flesh sizzling as he rolled away from Fidele, from the pain, clutching at his face. Alben rose, sword flashing, and the Vin Thalun stopped screaming.

'Come on,' Alben said as he gripped Fidele's shoulder, steering her to the door.

'Maquin,' she breathed, pulling free and staggering back into the room.

Vin Thalun were everywhere, slaughtering those about them like wolves in a sheep pen. Maquin was still lying on his cot, though he had pushed himself up onto one elbow, sweat and pain staining his features. She reached him and wrapped an arm about his torso, helping him to stand.

He grunted with pain but got his feet under him.

'Thought you'd-' His face twisted in a grimace. 'Gone.'

Then Alben was there and they both had him, half-dragging him into the corridor. The sunlight failed to reach here, torches illuminating the hall in a sequence of light and shadow. Screams drifted down the corridor, echoing from other rooms. A figure crashed into them, sending them smashing into a wall. Alben's sword was at the man's chest before his panicked cries told them it was Ektor. A handful of Vin Thalun were just behind him.

'Run,' Alben said as he stepped into the corridor. Ektor ran on, calling for them to follow. Fidele grunted under Maquin's weight as Alben stepped away on light feet, his arm straightening to skewer the first Vin Thalun. He kicked him back into his comrades, slashed across the eyes of one that avoided the dead man, and then the corridor was momentarily jammed with the dead.

'Alben,' Fidele cried as she struggled down the corridor with Maquin's arm about her shoulders. Alben glanced back at her, hovered, clearly on the brink of decision, then sprinted after them.

They reached a staircase that spiralled both up and down. Alben began to lead them up but Ektor grabbed him.

'No, they are loose on the floors above us; listen.'

The sound of combat, screams drifted down the stairwell.

'The Vin Thalun behind us will head up, to the gates,' Ektor said. 'We should go down, to my chambers. They won't go that way.'

Alben nodded sharply and they were running downwards, feet slapping on stone, sconced torches sending their shadows flickering on damp stone walls. Fidele and Alben stopped Maquin from tumbling down the stairwell. Even so he was drenched with sweat and breathing hard when they reached Ektor's chamber.

'Torch,' Ektor said to Alben, who reached up and took one from a wall sconce. Ektor rattled a key in a lock, threw the door open and ushered them in, closing it hastily and locking it again. The only light was from Alben's torch, but Ektor quickly used it to light a few lanterns, then he doused the torch in a bucket.

'Can't be too careful,' he said, gesturing into his chamber. Fidele remembered his fear of naked flame and the thousands of scrolls that were kept in this room.

It didn't seem to have changed from when Fidele had seen it last. The first half looked as if battle had raged through it: chairs over-turned, bed sheets strewn on the floor, half-eaten trenchers of food left to rot. Beyond this wreckage was the library, a great curved stone wall with a thousand alcoves carved into it.

She helped Maquin into the chamber and he collapsed onto a long table, rolling onto his back with a moan.

Ektor shrieked at Maquin and none too gently started pulling him upright.

'Ektor, he is injured,' Fidele said, something in her tone giving Ektor pause. He looked at Maquin, saw the wound low in his belly. 'My maps,' he said. 'He's crushing my maps. And he'll be more comfortable on my bed.'

Fidele and Alben helped Maquin to a huge bed on one side of the chamber. Alben went back to the door and put his ear to it, listening for any sound of the Vin Thalun.

'You need to stop saving my skin,' Maquin said to her through gritted teeth. 'This way I'm never going to be out of your debt.'

You saved me from something far worse than death. From a living h.e.l.l. No matter how many times I save you from a knife through the heart you will never be in my debt.

'You need to learn how to keep out of the way of sharp iron, then.'

He started to grin at that, but it shifted into a pained grimace.

'Quiet,' Alben hissed and they all froze.

A hundred heartbeats went by; eventually Alben turned back to them.

'There were footsteps on the stairwell, but they have not come this way.'

'How did they scale your walls?' Fidele asked.

Alben shrugged. 'It has never been done before. We are a long way up from the bay.'

'And what now?' Fidele asked.