The man holding Maev Ring pulled a pistol from his belt and fired. Huntsekker grunted and went down. Maev slammed a fist into the man’s jaw. Off balance he fell awkwardly. Scrambling to her feet Maev ran for the doorway. A Redeemer grabbed her. Spinning, she head butted him. Two others ran at her. A punch took her high in the temple. Then she was slammed against the wall of the corridor. She fell to her knees.
The hawk-faced man came out of the room in which Huntsekker lay. He was carrying a black velvet sack. Maev looked up. Aran Powdermill was standing by the opposite wall, his face ashen. On the floor were three Redeemer bodies. Through the door she could see another four alongside Huntsekker and the hound.
‘You deserve to die slowly, witch,’ said the hawk-faced man. ‘And you shall. Bring her!’
Maev’s vision was blurring and she could taste blood in her mouth. A man grabbed her by the hair, another by the arm and she was hauled upright.
More gunshots sounded from the courtyard. The two Redeemers paused, then looked at one another. Maev could see the fear in their eyes. The man holding her on the left suddenly jerked back, spinning her round.
She saw the huge, blood-drenched figure of Huntsekker. He had grabbed the Redeemer holding her and dragged him backwards. The knife in his hand plunged into the man’s belly. In that instant Maev leaned forward, then threw back her head into the face of the second Redeemer. He grunted with pain and fell against the wall. Maev tore herself free of his grip. In doing so she lost her balance and stumbled to the floor. Huntsekker leapt over her, his bloody knife raised. The Redeemer, his nose smashed, his eyes streaming, failed to see the blade as it plunged into his chest. Huntsekker twisted the knife. A terrible scream echoed in the corridor.
Beyond them the man with the velvet sack turned and ran. Powdermill just stood there. Huntsekker was breathing heavily now. He sagged against the wall. Powdermill moved to him, taking his weight. The knife dropped from the Harvester’s hand. Powdermill, unable to support his huge frame, was dragged down as he fell.
Maev came alongside. There was a huge cut on Huntsekker’s head. She wrenched open his coat. Blood had soaked his shirt. Ripping it open she saw that he had been shot at least twice in the chest and belly. There were also stab wounds. The worst of the wounds – in his chest – was pumping blood. Maev put both her hands on it and applied pressure.
‘Get a surgeon,’ she told Powdermill.
The shots had ceased now in the courtyard. Powdermill nodded and sped away. Maev continued the pressure on the chest wound. She saw Huntsekker’s eyes were open.
‘Don’t die, foolish man,’ she said.
Winter Kay ran down the stairs, taking them three at a time. He almost fell but righted himself as he reached the bottom. Running to the door he wrenched it open. What he saw beyond made him blink in disbelief.
His Redeemers were dead, bodies littering the courtyard. Their killers stood around them. They were all bandaged and bloody. One man had an amputated arm. His supposedly elite Redeemers had been slain by a blood-soaked group of barbarian wounded.
Gripping the velvet sack tightly, Winter Kay walked towards one of the horses. A one-armed man moved across to block his way. He was holding a sabre. Sunlight gleamed upon the cloak brooch he wore. It was bronze and oval. A circle had been engraved at the centre. Now, in the sunlight, it shone like gold.
The words of the old priest came back to him. 7 will go gladly, Winter Kay. Which is more than can be said for you, when the one with the golden eye comes for you.”
It was a horrifying moment. Time froze. Winter Kay knew then that Gaise Macon was never the enemy. In fact it was even worse than that. Had he not attempted to kill Macon, then the Moidart would never have been drawn into the battle. Without him there would have been no Rigante to fight. I would never even have been here, he thought.