Maquin ran through the undergrowth, trees thick about him. With one hand he pushed aside branches, with the other he held onto Fidele, the Queen Regent of Tenebral, recently married to Lykos, Lord of the Vin Thalun. Until she tried to murder him. I'm guessing that's the end of their happy nuptials.

She stumbled and he s.n.a.t.c.hed a glance back at her, saw she was breathing heavily, her bridal gown snagged and torn, stained with blood. She needs to rest. The sounds of combat drifted behind him, faint and distant, but still too close for his liking.

It will not be long before Lykos and his Vin Thalun have put down the rioters. Then he'll be looking for his absent bride. Still, if we run much more she'll be finished anyway. With a frown he slowed, heard the sound of a stream and changed direction.

Maquin caught his breath as he splashed his face and naked chest with the icy cold water, washing away the blood and grime of the fighting-pit. A hundred different cuts began to sting as the adrenalin of his escape faded, his skin goose-fleshing. He shivered. Should have grabbed a cloak as we fled. He was still dressed for the heat of the pit: boots and breeches, a curved knife in his belt, nothing on his torso except blood and dirt and scars.

I'm free. He sucked in a deep breath, savouring the earthy scents of the forest, reminding him of Forn. Of another life. He closed his eyes as memories flickered through his mind. The Gadrai; his sword-brothers; of Kastell, slain by that traitorous b.a.s.t.a.r.d Jael; of Tahir and Orgull, the only other survivors of the betrayal in Haldis. It felt so long ago. The time-before. He looked at his hands, blood still ground into the swirls of his skin, stuck beneath his fingernails. Orgull's blood.

His friend's face filled his mind as it had been when he had cradled him beaten, b.l.o.o.d.y, dying. A swell of emotion bubbled up, tears blurring his eyes. He remembered Orgull's last words to him: a request to find a man named Meical and pa.s.s on a message. That I stayed true to the end, Orgull had said.

So much death, and yet still I live. More. I am a free man. All right, a refugee, with enemies behind me, and I'm a thousand leagues from home. But I'm free. Free to hunt down Jael and put him in the ground. Even now the thought of Jael burned away all else. He could see his face, lips twisted in a mocking sneer as Maquin had been chained and led to the Vin Thalun ships. Hatred flared incandescent, a pure flame in his gut. He felt himself snarling. A tearing sound drew his attention. Fidele was standing in the stream close by. She was ripping away the lower part of her dress.

'Easier to run,' she told him. 'Here.' She bunched the fabric and dipped it in the stream, then began washing the filth from his back. She gasped and paused a moment as the myriad scars were revealed, telling the tale of the whip as a slave, countless other cuts and reminders from his time in the fighting-pit. She'd seen him earn some of those scars, watched him fight, kill others. Shame filled him at the things he'd done and he bowed his head.

'Where are you from?' she asked quietly.

He blinked; for a moment he had to think about that. 'Isiltir,' he said, p.r.o.nouncing it slowly, like a forgotten friend.

'What is your name? Who are you?'

In the pit I was called Old Wolf, the only name I've gone by for a good long while. I am a trained killer. Have become that which I hate.

'My name is Maquin,' he said with a twist of his lips, a step towards reclaiming himself. 'I was shieldman to Kastell, nephew of King Romar.'

'Oh,' Fidele breathed. 'You are a long way from home. How did you end up . . . ?'

'In the fighting-pits?' He paused, the silence stretching, thinking back to before his enslavement, to the life he had led, the friends he had known, pulling at memories buried deep within, of the events that had preceded his life as a slave. 'Jael has usurped King Romar's throne murdered the King, crushed the resistance in Isiltir. I fought him as part of that resistance, but Lykos and his Vin Thalun came, allied to Jael . . .' He shrugged, his voice was a croak, unused to conversations of more than a few words.

Her hands touched his shoulder, hovering, tracing a swirling design, sending an involuntary shiver through him.

'Lykos gave me that one,' he said. 'Branded me as his slave, his property.'

'Do you think he's dead?'

Maquin remembered the last time he'd seen the man, fallen to one knee in the arena, a knife hilt protruding from beneath his ribs, blood pulsing. Combat had swept Maquin away, and when he had looked back Lykos was gone.

'Doubt it. He's a tough one.'

'I want him dead,' Fidele hissed, a flash of rage contorting her face.

He looked at her a long moment, taken aback by the vehemence in her. He had always thought of her as unapproachably beautiful, calm, serene. 'Bit strange to marry him, then.'

She stepped away, eyes downcast. 'I was under a foul magic he had an effigy, a small clay doll, with a lock of my hair cast within it. You crushed it when you fought him. That set me free.'

Fidele shuddered, her eyes closed. Then she straightened and looked him in the eye.

'I have not thanked you, for protecting me in the riot, for getting me away to safety.'

Maquin looked about. 'This is not exactly what I would call safe.'

'It is safer, by far, than the arena.'

'True enough.'

All had been chaos back in the arena before Jerolin, and Maquin had taken advantage of it, using the mayhem and confusion to rush Fidele out of the arena. The closest cover had been woodland to the south; Maquin led Fidele in a mad dash across open meadow towards the trees, all the while his heart thudding in his head as he waited for the expected cries of pursuit. None had come as they reached the treeline and so they continued to run deeper into the woodland, Maquin's only thought to put distance between him and the Vin Thalun. Something had sparked the riot. Maquin's duel with Orgull had played a part in it, but Maquin had also seen warriors amongst the crowd, urging them on. They had been wearing the white eagle crest of Tenebral. There was some kind of resistance forming against the Vin Thalun, that was clear. But how strong was it? Had they managed to crush the Vin Thalun? To drive them from Jerolin and Tenebral? Maquin doubted it the Vin Thalun had numbered in their thousands; it would take a lot of manpower to finish them. 'And what would you do now, my lady?' Maquin asked her.

She frowned and sat upon a rock. 'I don't know is the short answer. I would find out if the Vin Thalun have been defeated ' she paused, a tremor touching her lips 'but I am scared to go back. The thought of being caught is more than I can bear.'

Maquin nodded. I can understand that. For himself, he wanted to leave. To point himself north-west instead of south and aim straight for Jael. What about her, though? He could not just abandon her in the woods.

'Will you help me?' she asked. 'I have seen that you are no friend to Lykos or the Vin Thalun. We have a common enemy.'

'I've had enough of fighting other people's battles,' he said. 'I've got my own to fight. I need to go home. I have something to do,' he muttered quietly, almost to himself. He looked at her face and saw a determination of purpose there, battling with the fear of her circ.u.mstances. 'But I will see you safe first, my lady. If I can.'

She breathed a relieved sigh. 'My thanks. I will do all in my power to repay you, and to speed you on your way.'

'First, we must survive the night and the cold.'

'Wait here,' Maquin whispered to Fidele.

They were crouched behind a ridge, looking out upon a wide stretch of land covered in tree stumps. On the far side was a row of timber cabins, piles of felled trunks surrounding them. It was dusk; the forest was grey and silent.

'Do not come after me for anything. Nothing, you understand?'

She nodded and he slipped away, staying low to the ground, keeping to the outskirts of the manmade clearing, stalking within the shadows amongst the trees. Eventually he was behind the row of cabins. Gripping his knife he slipped to the front and entered. Grey light filtered through gaps in the shutters and he paused to let his eyes adjust to the gloom.

Cots lined the walls, covered by rough woollen blankets, boots, breeches, and cloaks. A long table ran down the centre of the room, cups and plates scattered upon it. Axes and great two-man saws were all about, and there were racks of water skins, gloves, other work tools. Men live here. Woodcutters. Question is, where are they now?

It came to him quickly Jerolin and the arena. It's a big day celebrations and games to mark Lykos being wed to Fidele.

He quickly grabbed cloaks from pegs, woollen shirts, breeches, some cheese and mutton, water skins and a roll of twine, stuffing them all into an empty bag he'd found.

There was a groan; a blanket shifted on a cot in the corner of the room. A figure sat up a man, rubbing his eyes.

In heartbeats Maquin had crossed the room and had his knife held to the stranger's throat, his eyes drawn to the man's beard, the iron rings binding it.

He is Vin Thalun. A rage bubbled up, threatening to consume him.

'Please, no-' the man gasped.

Can't kill him here too much blood. His friends will be onto us as soon as they return.

'Up,' Maquin ordered.

Slowly the man stood, eyes flickering to the sheathed sword hanging over the cot.

'Don't,' Maquin grunted, kicking the back of the man's leg, sending him tumbling away from the cot. He slung the sword and belt over one shoulder.

'Why are you here? Not at the arena?' Maquin asked as the Vin Thalun climbed to his feet.

He glowered at Maquin. 'Someone has to stand guard; Lykos' orders. I pulled the short straw.'

'Outside,' Maquin ordered and followed his prisoner out of the door, directing him behind the cabin, into the trees. It was twilight; the world was slipping into degrees of shadow. Maquin dropped his bundle of provisions. 'On your knees, hands behind your head,' he grunted.

The Vin Thalun lunged forwards, turning as he moved, reaching for Maquin's knife arm.

Maquin was too quick for him, sidestepping, slashing at the warrior's hand, his blade coming away red. He barrelled forwards, the Vin Thalun somehow managing to grip his wrist. Maquin head-b.u.t.ted him, blood spurting from the Vin Thalun's nose. He staggered and dropped to the ground.

Time for you to die.

The Vin Thalun must have read the thought in Maquin's eyes, and he began to plead.

Undergrowth rustled and Fidele stepped out from amongst the trees.

'You're not supposed to be here,' Maquin said.

'You've been gone a long time. I was starting to worry.'

That felt strange someone caring whether he lived or died. 'Found someone in the cabin. You should look away.'

'I've seen the colour of blood before. And he's Vin Thalun,' she snarled, looking at the rings in his beard. 'I'd be happy to watch you slaughter a whole nation of them.'

'All right then,' Maquin grunted.

'I can tell you where they are,' the warrior blurted as Maquin stepped close, knife moving.

'Where who are?' Maquin growled; his knife blade hovered at the man's throat.

'Lykos' secret. The giantess and her whelp.'

CHAPTER FIVE.

CAMLIN.

Camlin lay on a table in a ship's cabin, various pains clamouring for his attention. The broken arrow shaft still buried in his shoulder won.

'Bite on this and lie still,' a voice said beside him. Baird, a warrior of Domhain, thrust a leather belt at him. He was one of Rath's Degad, the feared giant-killers of Domhain. He had been a.s.signed by Rath to see Edana to safety. In Camlin's mind there was still a way to go on that score, as they were stuck on a ship with only a handful of faithful men about Queen Edana; the rest of them were loyal to Roisin, the mother of Lorcan, young heir to the throne of Domhain.

Running again.

'Take it, you're going to need it,' Baird said. He grinned at Camlin, the skin puckering around the empty eye-socket in his face.

'Don't see there's much t'be grinning about,' Camlin said bitterly.

'It was a good fight. One to make a song about,' Baird replied, referring to the battle fought on the beach and quayside as they had made their escape. 'And we're still breathing. Happy to be alive, me.'

With a grimace, Camlin bit down on the belt.

'You'll need to hold him,' Baird said, and Vonn's serious face loomed over Camlin, his hands pressing on his chest.

'Still need t'breathe, lad,' Camlin muttered.

'How can I help?' Edana this time.

Half of Ardan is in this cabin.

'Don't think you should be in here, my lady,' Baird said. 'There'll be some blood, probably some cursing too.'

Edana snorted. 'I've seen enough blood already, and spilt some myself. As for the cursing, I've travelled with Camlin for near a year now. I don't think I'll hear anything I haven't already.'

'Well, if you're set on staying, try holding his feet.'

Baird cut away Camlin's shirt sleeve, gently probing the arrow shaft. A spike of pain lanced through Camlin, blood oozed lazily from the wound.

'Sure you know what you're doing?' Camlin growled. 'What with only one eye . . .'

'Is this the time to be upsetting me?' Baird said, grinning again. 'Done this a few times, should be fine. The arrow-head's too deep. Going to have to push it through.'

'Best get on with it, then, it's not going t'fall out by itself.'

'Agreed,' Baird said, gripping the broken shaft.

Camlin screamed.

'How does it feel?' Vonn asked.

Camlin stood on the deck of the ship, leaning on a rail, watching the dawn sun wash across blue-grey waves. To the east a line of dark green marked the distant southern coast of Domhain.

Slowly he rolled his shoulder and lifted his left arm, which had been healing nicely for the last two days.

'Feels like I've been shot with an arrow,' he grimaced. 'It's mending well,' he added at Vonn's concerned expression. Lad's got no sense of humour.