‘Have you seen enough?’ whispered Harokas. ‘It does not take a warrior’s eye to know the man is dead.’ Chareos nodded. Maggrig had been tortured, his skin partially flayed, his eyes put out.
‘They are still searching for you,’ said Harokas, ‘so he could have told them nothing. He had courage. Great courage.’
‘Yes, he did,’ agreed Chareos, glancing at Finn. ‘He was a fine man.’
‘I think his horse broke a leg,’ continued Harokas. ‘It was just bad luck. He almost made it to the slopes.’
‘There’s nothing more to see,’ said Chareos softly. He touched Finn’s arm. ‘Let us go, my friend.’
‘Yes,’ murmured Finn.
Harokas backed away from the rim of the ledge and the questors clambered back through the fissure. As they reached the horses, it was Beltzer who first noticed Finn’s absence.
‘No!’ he cried. Turning, he ran back for the fissure, Chareos and Harokas behind him. They came to the ledge in time to see Finn walking slowly down the scree-covered slope towards the Nadir camp. Beltzer made as if to follow him, but Chareos grabbed the neck of his jerkin, hauling him from his feet.
Beltzer hit the ground hard. He stared up into Chareos’ face. ‘Leave it be,’ said Chareos. ‘He wouldn’t want you there; you know that.’
Beltzer tried to speak, but no words came. He rolled to his knees, gathered his axe and stumbled back through the fissure. Harokas knelt beside Chareos.
The Blademaster ignored him, his eyes fixed on the small, dark figure closing on the Nadir camp. It would be so easy, thought Harokas, his hand on the hilt of his dagger . . . just slip the blade through his ribs, sliding it up into the heart. So easy. Then he could return to the Earl, claim his gold and get on with his life. But that would mean leaving Tanaki. He cursed inwardly and took his hand from the hilt.
Below them Finn reached the bottom of the slope and walked forward, back straight, head high. There was a roaring in his ears, like the distant sea, and his eyes were misted. So many years together, years of joy and fear. It never paid to love too much, he’d always known that. All life was balance. There was always a reckoning. Better by far not to have loved at all. He walked past two Nadir warriors who were honing their swords; they stared at him for a moment, then rose behind him. Steadily Finn walked on. He could see Maggrig now, and the terrible cruelty they had unleashed upon him. A man seized Finn’s arm. Almost absently, Finn plunged his hunting-knife into the warrior’s throat.
There had been that time when Maggrig went down with the Red Plague. No one survived that, but Finn had sat with him, begging him to live. The fever had burned all the flesh from Maggrig’s body, leaving translucent skin stretched tightly over the bones. But Finn had nursed him to health. He remembered the day he had first realised Maggrig was going to live. The sky had been grey and overcast, the mountains covered with mist. Moisture dripped from the trees and yet the day had been beautiful – so incredibly beautiful that Finn had been unable to look upon it without tears.
A second warrior came at him. Finn killed him, but the man’s sword plunged into Finn’s side. There was little pain. He staggered on. Something struck him in the back, but he ignored it. Close to the body now, he fell to his knees and slashed his knife through the ropes binding Maggrig’s arms to the stakes. Dropping his knife, he lifted Maggrig’s head. Blood gushed into Finn’s throat but he spat it clear.
‘You are nothing but trouble to me, boy,’ he said, struggling to lift the stiffening corpse.
A spear hammered into his back, smashing through his ribs and exiting from the chest. He felt Maggrig slipping from his hands and tried, so hard, to lower the body gently to the earth.
Slowly he toppled, his head resting on Maggrig’s cheat.
If he could just get Maggrig to the mountains, all would be well. The sky would be grey and overcast, the mist clinging to the trees.