Malice

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

CAMLIN

Camlin could not believe his eyes. The maniac with an arrow in his leg was charging them from across the glade.

He had been distracted, seeing amongst the female faces one he thought he recognized. He knew for sure when she threw a knife, knew her as one of the bairns that had been present at his escape from captivity, back at the fortress of Dun Carreg.

Then the keening of a blade slicing through air had registered, and he had seen that maniac charging at their line, other warriors following. Camlin stood at the end of the line they had formed around their almost-captives, saw the big man smash into the centre and Digased reel back, blood spurting from his throat. Then someone else, one of the new lads, collapsed, one side of his face ruined by a shield boss. There was confusion and shouting, the line he was part of pulling in to encircle the remaining Ardan warriors.

Camlin moved in cautiously, shield held high. He had learned quickly how dangerous this big man was, at least half a dozen of their crew having been slain by his hand alone. Then Braith was running from one of the glade’s exits, sword in hand. The new lads’ chief ran beside him, shouting something urgently, screaming it, with eyes wide, but Camlin could not hear him over the din of battle.

Then one of Ardan’s grey-cloaks was down, still alive, though not for long. He clutched feebly at the grass, a red stain in the centre of his back. Then another grey-cloak fell, Cromhan’s sword in his belly.

The big man roared, spun in a circle and threw his battered shield into a face. He swung his sword in great, two-handed sweeps until a space, a wide, blood-soaked ring formed around him. He grinned suddenly, face spattered with other men’s blood. ‘Who’s next?’ he roared, nostrils flaring.

Braith and his companions had reached them now, the man with him still yelling.

‘. . getting away!’ the man shouted, pointing.

Camlin looked back and the women had disappeared. He saw a flash of movement amongst the trees, a pale face looking back at him, then it was gone.

‘All scared of an old man,’ the warrior at the centre of the glade panted. ‘Best all run back to your mothers.’

One of the new lads stepped forward, a hard-faced, cold-eyed youth. He wore a coat of mail beneath his red cloak, looked like he knew what he was doing with a blade.

The Ardan warrior nodded to him.

They set at each other in a blinding flurry, the larger man moving shockingly fast. When they parted, his opponent had a gash in his thigh.

The big man attacked again, his blade sweeping high, then low. He pushed inside his adversary’s guard, head-butted him right on the bridge of the nose. Red-cloak stumbled back, then his head was spinning through the air.

The big man smiled at the corpse, rested a hand on his leg and gulped in deep breaths. He was cut in a dozen places, a broken arrow sticking from a thigh, his sword notched, but he seemed undaunted. He straightened, held his arms out wide and turned slowly.

‘Who’s next?’ he said again, spitting blood on the trampled grass.

Not likely, thought Camlin.

Then the big man’s eyes fell on the new chief. Scar, they called him, after the white gash on one cheek.

‘You,’ the big man whispered, eyes widening.

‘Tull,’ Scar said, dipping his head as if to an old friend.

‘So this is Rhin’s doing.’ He nodded to himself, taking note of the red cloaks. ‘Didn’t think Uthan and Owain had the stomach for this kind of work.’ He snorted. ‘Ready for your second lesson?’

Scar smiled, a thin, humourless thing. ‘Much as I’d like to, I fear I will have to decline,’ he said. ‘You think me a fool? With your tactics? One last trick, eh? Every second counts, does it not, when an escape is underway?’

Tull shrugged, then launched himself at Scar.

‘Braith,’ Scar shouted, and the woodsman slipped his bow from his back, nocked an arrow and loosed it.

Tull grunted, the arrow sticking from his gut. He snarled, stumbled forwards, raising his sword.

The next arrow took him in the shoulder, spinning him round. He righted himself, took another step forwards, then sank to one knee.

Scar strode up and smashed his sword into Tull’s, knocking the man’s blade from his weakening grip. He stood over the kneeling man a moment, sword pointed at Tull’s heart, then sank the blade almost to its hilt in his chest.

Tull coughed, blood filling his mouth, then Scar tugged his sword free.

‘Here endeth the lesson,’ Scar said, looking down at the dead man, then went to find Braith.

Camlin looked away. The man had had courage, and more to spare. He hadn’t deserved those last arrows. Life isn’t fair, you fool, thought you’d learned that by now.

Then the band of men slipped into the trees after their quarry, leaving their dead comrades in the silent glade.