The Faithful and the Fallen: Ruin Part 75

'This is to the death,' Hamil said.

Gar and Akar faced one another.

There was a pause, the calm in the storm before violence is unleashed, death's wings close.

Corban walked into the ring.

'No,' he said.

Everyone looked at him.

'You will not fight to the death,' he shouted. 'Asroth and his Black Sun outnumber us, threaten to overwhelm us. I need every warrior that can hold a blade and two Jehar with a lifetime of skill and learning . . .' He shook his head. 'It is a waste. I will not lose either of you over this decision.'

Both men stared at him.

'What would you have us do, then?' Gar asked. 'This must be decided.'

'Let it be to first blood,' Corban said. 'If anything, that will reveal the greater skill.'

Both men stared at him, then nodded.

'Then begin,' Corban said and stepped back into the crowd.

The two men raised their swords and without any other sign attacked.

Their blades rang, a flurry of high blows from both men, neither giving ground. Then Gar stepped in close and kicked Akar in the knee. Akar staggered back, for a fleeting moment his cold face twisted with shock and anger. Gar followed him, striking in a long, relentless combination to head, neck, groin, gut, heart, head Corban recognized each and every blow, one flowing into the next, fluid as a song.

Akar defended, something the Jehar did rarely, giving ground with a shuffling backstep, favouring, protecting his injured leg.

Corban felt a presence behind him, glanced back quickly to see crowds forming, seemingly every man woman and child in the weapons court. The sound of iron on iron had drawn them.

Gar did not let up, Akar's defence beginning to appear frayed, disjointed as he tried desperately to parry every blow.

Abruptly Gar stopped, took a step back and walked slowly around Akar.

'You are right to say that the world has touched me, moulded me,' Gar said, eyes never leaving Akar as he paced around the warrior, who was taking advantage of the respite, setting his feet, controlling his breathing.

'But you are wrong to say it has made me weaker.' Gar stepped forward, sword moving again, iron clashing, ringing loud. This time Akar did not give way and the two of them stood, chopping and lunging, blocking, stabbing, parrying, neither one able to break through the other's defence, each parry turned into a strike that was in turn blocked. Blow by blow they inched closer, until they were standing with swords locked above them, grating sparks, legs planted, leaning into their blades as if they were an extension of their bodies, both staring at each other, sweat dripping. Then Gar's head jerked forward, headb.u.t.ting Akar on the nose. Blood spurted and Akar stumbled back a step, Gar's foot hooking behind Akar's ankle and then Akar was on his back, blood running down his chin, Gar's sword hovering over him.

Corban let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Coralen's used that move on me a hundred times, and I eventually learned to do it back to her. Looks as if Gar's been watching us spar.

'You're bleeding,' Gar said. 'Do you yield?

It was an unorthodox move, something these Jehar would probably consider beneath them. But as Coralen always says dead is dead.

Akar stared up at Gar, emotions warring across his face. Then something in him softened and he nodded.

'First blood is yours,' Akar said. 'I yield.'

'The world has touched me, but it has made me stronger, not weaker,' Gar breathed. 'Now, give me your hand, brother.'

Gar held his arm out.

A moment's hesitation and then Akar took it. A roar of approval rose up from about the ring, even the giants bellowing their approval, Corban's voice lost in the din of it. Then Akar dropped to one knee before Gar and kissed his hand. Other Jehar dropped to the ground, Gar looking about at them with a slightly embarra.s.sed expression upon his face.

Now he knows how I feel.

Hamil stood and strode to Gar, gripped Gar's wrist and raised his arm in the air.

'Garisan ben Tukul,' Hamil cried in a great voice, 'Lord of the Jehar.'

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE.

MAQUIN.

Maquin swayed in his saddle, holding onto his mount with his knees as his hands were bound behind his back. Twenty paces to his right the dark waters of a wide river flowed, and to the north he glimpsed snow-capped peaks, a wind swirling down from them that set the long gra.s.s whispering and brought with it the faint chill of ice. He shivered. He was riding as part of a great column, close to six thousand warriors before and behind him, the combined warbands of Veradis' eagle-guard and Lykos' Vin Thalun. An honour guard of Ripa surrounded Krelis, Ektor, Fidele, Peritus and Alben. Ahead of him Maquin caught a glimpse of the two giants prisoners again, like him their long strides keeping pace with the mounted eagleguard watching them.

More than a moon had pa.s.sed since that day in the field beyond Ripa's walls, when the world had been turned on its end. Two warbands ma.s.sed against Lykos, outnumbering him two to one killing the Vin Thalun lord had felt inevitable.

And then Veradis had arrived.

As they'd stood in the rowan-meet, listened to Veradis' proposals on behalf of Nathair, any hopes he'd had of Lykos finding justice had been burned away. And then the final straw. After all that Lykos had done to Fidele, to see him in her presence, taunting her . . .

I thought my self-control was total. It seems that I was wrong.

Hooves sounded behind him and Lykos came into view on his left side. Maquin stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him.

'And how are you today?' Lykos said.

He kept his lips shut tight.

'Managing to sit straight?'

Maquin's back and ribs were bruised purple. Each breath brought with it an ebb and flow of pain.

One cracked rib, at least.

And when he had emptied his bladder that morning there had been streaks of blood in his urine. He gritted his teeth, buried the pain. He would not give Lykos the satisfaction of knowing how bad it was.

I've endured worse before, and I will no doubt endure worse if Lykos has anything to do with it.

'This is only a taste,' Lykos hissed, 'of what is to come. I am watched, you see. That b.i.t.c.h has told tales of me to Veradis, and even though he is not in his right mind at the moment, he watches me. So, no bruises that cannot be covered by your clothing, no broken bones, no pain that keeps you from your saddle . . . Yet.'

Lykos rode in silence beside him a while, almost as if they were old friends.

'What I am really looking forward to is when I can have both you and Fidele chained in the same room. I will have her back, you see, but before we can go back to how things were, she will have to be punished. Taught the consequences of her actions.'

Maquin's fists clenched, an involuntary ripple that bypa.s.sed his conscious mind he tried to stop it when he realized his body was betraying him, willed his fingers to loosen, but it was too late Lykos had seen. He laughed, low and intimate.

'You have a weakness now, Old Wolf. Fidele has charmed you, that is clear. After I have punished her and she has learned her lesson, when I have her in my bed again, perhaps I'll let you watch.'

I should have got her out of that tent, run with her, then and there, instead of chasing Lykos like some blood-crazed berserker.

They crested a ridge in the road and ahead of them, upon a hill beside a lake was Jerolin, its black walls and tower gleaming in the weak sunlight.

'Ah, good,' Lykos said with a vicious grin. 'Tonight you will have a room rather than a tent. Thick stone walls to drown your screams.'

Not if I can help it.

Maquin had not screamed once during Lykos' visits. Grunted, winced, ground his teeth, bitten his tongue, but he had held his voice, regardless of Lykos' efforts. A voice in his head told him he was being stupid cry out and Lykos will stop, for fear of drawing attention. But he had not, because he knew the Vin Thalun were listening, waiting to hear their lord break the Old Wolf. With each night's visit Lykos grew a little more desperate, a little more frantic, and Maquin knew what his warriors would be whispering around their campfires.

Lykos leaned close. 'Soon, I will break you,' he whispered.

Never.

Maquin stared at the fighting arena on the plains before Jerolin, remembering the last time he had been there. Facing Orgull in the circle, the rebellion, chaos, fighting Deinon and Lykos, fleeing with Fidele . . .

His horse was led to the stables, where hands dragged him from his saddle and led him unceremoniously into a cl.u.s.ter of buildings close to the keep. He was thrust into a stone room, the door clanging shut behind him.

The shaft of sunlight through a high window edged its way across the room as highsun came and went, sliding towards sunset. Maquin heard muted voices and the slap of booted feet beyond his door, saw the orange flicker of torchlight through the gaps as twilight seeped slowly into the world, then full dark.

No one came to his room.

He will come.

He felt a flutter of fear at the thought of what was to come, but immediately smothered it.

I may as well rest until it starts.

He lay down upon the bench and closed his eyes.

Keys rattling in the door woke him and Lykos walked in, silhouetted by torchlight that a warrior held behind the Vin Thalun lord.

'Good evening,' Lykos said amicably, two, three shieldmen entering the room before the door was shut.

He fears me still, even bound and beaten b.l.o.o.d.y. He felt a moment's pleasure at that thought.

Lykos drew a small knife from his belt, sharp and wicked looking.

'Help him stand,' Lykos said.

Two of his shieldmen grabbed Maquin, the third standing back, holding his torch high to illuminate the room.

Lykos cut away Maquin's cloak and woollen layers, exposing a web of bruising and lacerations. The Vin Thalun smiled.

'You will kneel to me. You will beg for my mercy. You will pledge yourself to me for all eternity,' Lykos said grimly. 'You remember Orgull, do you not? Your hulking friend. Do you remember seeing him broken, beaten, wishing only for death. I did that to him.'

You did not break his spirit.

'This night, you will beg; this night.' Then, slowly, carefully, Lykos stabbed Maquin with the knife an incision about a thumbnail deep, starting at his armpit, slowly working its way down to Maquin's hip.

Maquin grunted, ground his teeth, squeezed his fists together until it felt as if the bones in his hands would crack. He knew better than to writhe or try to pull away, that would only lead to greater injury, worse pain. Instead he endured, stared fiercely into Lykos' eyes his look a promise of death should he get free.

Lykos stepped back, a slight scowl creasing his forehead.

'I will flay you if I have to,' he growled. 'Or perhaps an eye . . .' He raised the knife, rested it on Maquin's cheek a hair's breadth below his eyeball.

Maquin was staring at Lykos, but in his mind he was back on the bridge of swords, the Ben-Elim standing before him with his sword of flame.

You must make your choice, the Ben-Elim had said to him.

I did. I came back for three people: two to kill, one to love. If I'd known it would lead me here . . .

Fidele's face hovered in his mind. For a brief moment he felt her lips brush his, the tickle of her breath, the faint smell of roses.

I'd make the same choice. She is worth a lifetime of pain.

With a snarl Lykos pulled the knife away, left a thin cut in Maquin's cheek. Sweat stung it. Maquin blinked, saw Lykos turn away and s.n.a.t.c.h the torch from his shieldman.

'Perhaps a tickle of flame will coax something more from you,' Lykos hissed. He held the torch between them, inched it closer to Maquin's belly. He smelt the hairs on his body burning first, heat washing him in waves, felt the almost irresistible urge to move, to step away.

I cannot move, I am held fast. And to move, to scream, is to fail.

Sweat beaded his brow, dripped from his nose.

Lykos smiled and moved the flame nearer, just a fraction, but the pain surged and Maquin felt his skin start to blister. A groan escaped his mouth, a wave of pain behind it desperate to find release in screaming abandon.

He clamped his mouth shut.

'I should have tried this sooner,' Lykos said, leaning close to Maquin, studying him. Willing him to break.

'Scream, d.a.m.n you,' Lykos snarled, the frustration growing in the Vin Thalun with every pa.s.sing heartbeat. He twisted a fist into Maquin's matted hair.

Not in this lifetime you b.a.s.t.a.r.d.