‘Stay where you are,’ Lykos said, moving out of the shadows.
Peritus froze, but Armatus moved forwards now. ‘The last time I was in Jerolin, the Vin Thalun didn’t give orders to the battlechief of Tenebral,’ he said.
‘Things have changed,’ Lykos replied. He smiled at the two men.
‘How so?’ Peritus said. There was an edge in his voice now, one that Lykos recognized. Of violence restrained.
‘Because I have willed it,’ Fidele said, breaking a taut silence. ‘We must move forwards, not backwards, and grudges and outdated rules cannot hold us back. The alliance with the Vin Thalun is vital to our cause. Lykos has given us great aid.’
‘Outdated rules?’ Peritus breathed. ‘Since when has the punishment of murder become an outdated rule?’
‘I have decided to forgive and move on,’ Fidele said. Her tone was angry now. Only Lykos knew that that anger was not roused by Peritus’ questions.
‘Fidele,’ Peritus said, ‘you are not in your right mind. How can you say such things? You saw the pit at Balara — the dead heaped in piles.’
‘Enough,’ Lykos barked. He was losing patience with this now. ‘Tell him all of it,’ he said to Fidele.
‘To honour this new beginning, games are to be held. A celebration. I have commissioned an arena to be built. Tenebral shall watch our enemies fight to the death.’
‘Pit-fighting, in Jerolin,’ Peritus hissed. ‘You are out of your mind, or under a spell.’
Fidele’s body jerked at that, her eyes screwing shut.
‘What is wrong with you?’
Strong-minded bitch, thought Lykos. How can she fight this? He gripped the effigy tighter, and willed her to obey.
‘Nothing,’ Fidele said with a shudder.
‘Something ails you,’ Peritus said. He looked at Armatus, something passing between them. ‘You are not in your right mind, not able to rule, at present.’
In a blur of motion, faster than anything Lykos had anticipated, Armatus had drawn his sword and was holding it levelled at Lykos’ chest.
‘As battlechief of Tenebral I claim the regency while you recover,’ Peritus said. He was watching Deinon, who had taken a stride closer, his sword half-drawn, but had frozen now.
Fidele’s gaze drifted over Peritus’ shoulder, just a flicker of her eyes.
Peritus whirled, drawing his own blade; the Vin Thalun who had stood hidden in the shadows fell on him. Peritus managed to stab one in the shoulder, but there were six Vin Thalun, four of them pit-trained. Within moments Peritus was on his knees, half stunned. He was dragged to his feet and a blade held across his throat.
‘Put your sword down,’ Lykos said to Armatus.
The warrior had hesitated, just for a heartbeat, and that was all it had taken for Peritus to be overwhelmed. Lykos had not moved.
‘Put it down,’ he repeated.
‘Kill him,’ Peritus slurred. Blood ran down his face from a blow to the head.
The dilemma warred across Armatus’ features. Lykos saw the decision in the man’s eyes before it reached his limbs. He lowered his sword.
Immediately Deinon surged forwards, holding his own blade at Armatus’ chest.
‘Weak fool,’ Lykos said. He stepped forwards and punched Armatus in the throat, the old warrior dropping to one knee, gasping for breath.
‘He should have killed me,’ Lykos said conversationally to Peritus. ‘My Queen,’ he said to Fidele. ‘If I am not mistaken, I think we have just witnessed an act of treason. What is the punishment for such a crime in Tenebral?’
Fidele struggled, paused and then answered through clenched teeth. ‘Execution.’
CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR
CORBAN
Corban ran through the corridors of Dun Vaner, past a trail of the dead. He hurt in a dozen places — his wrists, ankles, ribs, jaw, too many pains to recognize — but it felt so good to be free, to be reunited with his mam and friends. And more. He had been certain his death was at hand, bound, with a knife at his throat and no way to fight it off. To be saved from that, to still live and draw breath. He felt euphoric. He felt reborn.
And so much had happened. Not least Gar’s father joining them. Even as they ran through the halls and stairwells, more of these strange warriors were joining them. The Jehar. Four at the entrance to the first stairwell, corpses piled about them, then another three, then five, another two, until Corban felt as if he was part of a small warband rather than an escaping prisoner.
The sound of combat drifted from ahead, growing louder. Then they were in a feast-hall, a pitched battle raging through it.
There were at least a hundred warriors in the room, most of them Rhin’s men. Amongst them swirled the dark shapes of Jehar warriors, fast, graceful and deadly, leaving only the dead or dying in their wake. Force of numbers threatened to overwhelm them, though. Corban could see a pile of corpses in a half-circle about the doorway, but the battle had been pushed back from there, with more of Rhin’s men crowding the entrance.
All about Corban warriors surged forwards, Tukul and Meical at their head. They crashed into the battle, an unstoppable force. Gar hesitated, lingering close to Corban, his familiar position. His mam, Farrell and Coralen did the same, pulling close about him, an unbidden, instinctive reaction in them.
In moments the battle was all but done in the hall. Meical, Tukul and forty or so Jehar warriors at his back turned the conflict in heartbeats. The remnants of Rhin’s warriors fled through the doors, the Jehar following them, their battle spilling out into the courtyard.
Corban and the others followed.
All was chaos out here. Fresh snow had fallen, coating the flagstones, more was swirling down. As Corban looked, he saw Tukul storming into a knot of warriors. A severed arm spun through the air, jetting a trail of blood, startlingly red on the fresh snow.
Gar was dancing on his toes, desperate to join the battle, then the battle joined them, a handful of men rushing them.
Gar took the first one’s head; the warrior’s body ran on a few paces before the legs gave way. Another fell with one of Gwenith’s knives in his chest, then Farrell and Coralen were wading in. Corban hefted the sword which had been returned to him by Gar in the dungeon and joined the fray.
He blocked a wild swing, twisted his wrist and stabbed the man through the throat, blood spraying his face as he ripped his blade free. He moved forwards, ducked another slash, chopped three, four blows in retaliation, the fifth breaking through a weakening defence, crashing into an iron helm, denting it, the warrior staggering. Corban kicked the dazed man’s legs away and stabbed down hard as he stepped over him. He found a release in this battle: a simplicity that focused his mind, feeling both a sense of calm and a wild joy, barely contained. He concentrated on each breath, the shift of weight on his feet, his balance, the flow of muscle in hip and back, shoulder and arm, and faceless warriors fell like wheat as he cut through their ranks.
Then there was no one left before him. He looked about, slashed the shoulder of a man who was attacking Coralen. She finished him with her wolven claws. His mam was retreating before a sustained assault, turning a blade with her spear shaft. Corban and Gar saw at the same time. The man fell with two swords piercing him.
There was a clatter of hooves from the stableblock, shouting and yelling, and horses exploded from the stable’s gates. Rhin was at their head, Braith and Conall close behind, a dozen other warriors following. They rode hard across the courtyard, trampling friend and enemy alike.
Coralen ran forwards, calling Conall’s name. He must have heard, even over the din of battle, for at the open gateway he reined in and looked back. He saw Coralen, just stared for a heartbeat, then kicked his horse on.
Coralen ran after him, Corban and his companions following her. They stopped in the archway of the gates, watching as Rhin and her shieldmen galloped down the snow-covered slopes of Dun Vaner.