The Last Quarrel (The Complete Edition) (16 page)

“There are no selkies. We both know that. And if we can prove that it’s men behind this, then the Prince will tell the King. And then we won’t have to pay taxes until our children starve,” Fallon said evenly. “Trust me, my friend, there will be no fighting magical demons.”

“I trust you,” Brendan said with relief.

“Besides, if there is someone in there, we can’t let that ration thief puking his guts up over the side lead these boys into it. He’ll get them killed.”
And, along the way, if I show the Prince how good I am, so much the better. Time to put on a show.
“Brendan, I might need to use you on them,” he said.

“What do you want me to do?” the big man asked nervously.

“Look frightening and fierce, then leave the rest to me.”

“What about me?” Devlin asked.

“I need you to hold my crossbow.”

“Great. Just don’t get us mixed up. I might struggle to terrify them and Brendan might break your bow,” Devlin said, nudging the smith in the ribs.

Fallon winked at him. Devlin had also seen Brendan’s concern
and
put a smile back on his face.

The guards were clustered nervously together by the hold, alternately glancing towards the coast and back to where the Prince stood. Fallon knew he had to make a fast impression.

“Right, lads. Your officer is too seasick to do anything more than offer a blessing to the fishes, so you’re going to follow me into that village,” he said gruffly.

“Chasing selkies? We didn’t sign up for this,” one man muttered.

Fallon stared at the speaker. He was tall and heavily muscled, with a close-cropped black beard. There was always one in every group and, in the absence of an officer, he seemed to have assumed the position of leader.

“There’re no selkies in there. It’s all shite. If there’s anyone at all in that village, they are men, and we are going to catch them.”

“And why should we follow you? You’re just some village sergeant,” the soldier growled.

Fallon smiled slightly. Perfect. He jerked his thumb to the right, to where Brendan loomed ominously. “See this man here?” he said.

Brendan scowled and raised his huge, scarred fists; the guards couldn’t know they were marked by his work, not by fighting.

Everyone, including the bearded soldier, looked at Brendan.

Fallon took a quick step forward and rammed the edge of his hand into the soldier’s throat, just underneath his beard. The force of the blow dropped the guard to the deck instantly, where he choked and gasped for breath.

“That man is Brendan. And he’s the kind and gentle one,” Fallon snarled, staring around at the shocked guards. He had heard of the concept of fighting fair but long ago dismissed it as stupid. “You’re going to follow me into the village and hunt down whoever is in there, because I can promise that, no matter how many teeth, arms or even tentacles it has, it is much, much nicer than me.”

His voice lashed at them and they straightened instinctively.

“Form up by the bow in two lines. I’ll inspect weapons in a moment. Move it!”

They hurried off, leaving Fallon and Brendan with the bearded soldier, who was slowly regaining his breath. Fallon grabbed him and hauled him over to the open hatch to the hold.

“What’s your name, guard?” he growled.

The man’s throat was red from the impact of the blow and his voice was hoarse. “Bran.”

“You say: Bran, sergeant,” Fallon said harshly.

“Bran, sergeant.”

“Better. Now, are you still in doubt as to why a King’s Guard should follow me?”

Fallon saw Bran’s eyes flicker to the darkness of the hold beneath his head and shoulders, then back up to his face. He tensed his shoulders, ready to flip the man into the hold at the first sign of defiance.

But Bran merely shook his head. “No, sergeant. I think you’re the right man to lead us now,” he said scratchily.

Fallon stared at him for another few heartbeats, then let go and stood.

“Get up, Guardsman Bran, and rejoin your ranks.”

Fallon was on the balls of his feet, ready to defend himself, but Bran merely pushed himself up and marched quickly up to the bow.

“And we thought you were tough on us when we trained for the fyrd,” Brendan muttered.

Fallon gave him a wink and then stamped down the deck to where the two lines of guards waited for him. “Are any of you carrying crossbows?” he demanded.

“No, sergeant. Normally we would but Lieutenant Quinn said we wouldn’t need them,” Bran replied immediately, his voice still rough.

“How are we going to fight selkies without them, sergeant?” another guard asked.

Fallon spun, wondering if this was another challenge but from the man’s pale, sweaty face and nervous stance, it was a real question.

“The Archbishop gives a good sermon but he wouldn’t know sheep shit from eggs,” he announced then held out his hand and Devlin handed him the crossbow. “I use this every day,” he told them. “I can shoot the cock off a low-flying bee at twenty paces. Now, I know there are no selkies in that village. But just in case I can promise you I’ll put a quarrel through the eye of the first selkie we see – and the back of the first man who runs. Understand?”

“Yes, sergeant!” Bran led the chorus.

“Then show me your swords,” Fallon snapped.

He inspected them carefully, staring hard at the three men whose blades had lost their edge.

“What are you doing with swords like that? A King’s Guard needs a sword sharp enough to shave a maiden’s crack. Get your stones out and put an edge on them. And make sure you do it well, for you three will be right up the front for this.”

While the three men hurriedly obeyed, Fallon paced up and down the lines.

“We stay together when we go in, forming a line, each man an arm’s length from the other. As we come to each hut we stay together, our three friends with the blunt swords to go in first to check it’s empty, then we move on. See anything, you call out. If anything comes at us, we surround it and attack from all sides. And given it is going to be men, we want them alive. Dead men tell no tales. Listen to me and I promise you’ll get to walk back into the arms of whatever filthy women you’re currently shagging. Wander off on your own or lag behind and I’ll make sure you’ll be sitting down to piss for the rest of your miserable little lives. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sergeant!” they roared.

Fallon looked out over the bows. Killarney was not yet visible, for Gallagher was hugging the coast and keeping them hidden, but it was close. Footsteps on the deck behind him made him turn, to see Prince Cavan, shadowed by Eamon, walk up.

“We’re all ready to go, highness.” He saluted.

Cavan looked at the guards, standing ready at the bow with swords drawn, and then looked back to Fallon as he drew back his crossbow arms and loaded a quarrel into the weapon. He admired the way the sergeant had effortlessly taken control of the men and got them ready to go into the village. He would have led them in had there been no other choice but Fallon had shown he was perfect for the job. It had got him thinking. He knew Duchess Dina had picked the man to serve her guards but he had a better idea.

“Good work, sergeant,” he said. “Now, remember – there won’t be selkies in there. If there is anyone there, it will be men. Bring them to me and you will all be well rewarded.” He looked around the two lines of men and they seemed sort of happy with that, without appearing too excited.

“Let the Prince know you’re grateful!” Fallon barked and they immediately shouted their approval.

Cavan smiled, more at the way they were responding to Fallon than anything else. “You seem to have inspired them,” he told him quietly. “Not quite the way I would have done it, but very effective.”

“Only doing my duty, highness,” Fallon said.

“Well done indeed …” Cavan trailed off as the sergeant’s eyes flickered to a spot behind him.

“Oh shit,” Fallon said.

Fallon’s heart fell as he saw Archbishop Kynan approach, waving his hands around.

“Down to your knees! Pray for Aroaril’s mercy, for you are about to battle the beasts of Zorva!” Kynan roared. “They may look like seals, they may look like men, but inside they are pure evil!”

“Highness, you need to get him out of here. Much more of that and they’ll jump over the side,” he hissed at Cavan.

“Don’t you need Kynan and Finbar with you when you go into the village?”

“Highness, they would do more harm than good!”

The Prince nodded his agreement and hurried over to Kynan. “Archbishop, come, let us pray together! I insist!” he said loudly, grabbing the Archbishop’s arm and tugging him back towards the cabin. Fallon watched the Archbishop being swept away and breathed a sigh of relief.

He glanced out to see Gallagher bring them around the headland and point the ship straight at Killarney, now barely four hundred yards away, gentle rollers breaking on the shingle. Gallagher had used the coast well, meaning anyone in the village had been unable to see them until now. But this was the crucial time. Hopefully the attackers were busy but, if they had a lookout, now they would be running around and warning everybody. He felt the ship lurch a little under his feet as more sails went up, Gallagher ordering as much speed as they could manage to put them on the beach as fast as possible. The guards were looking very worried now and two of them had fallen to their knees and were praying aloud.

“Not every day you see a mad Archbishop,” he said loudly, drawing every eye to him. “Poor man’s wits have scattered to the wind. He thinks he sees selkies everywhere. Comes of being married to an ugly old biddy.” He liked the startled looks they gave him then and particularly liked the smiles from a few of them. “There is nothing to fear in this village,” he said again. “Nothing worse than me, and I’ll be right there on your side.”

He leaned down and lifted up one of the praying men. “You can say your prayers on your feet as well as on your knees. As long as you mean them, Aroaril will hear them.” He was even gentler with the other one. “What’s your name, lad?”

“Casey, sir.”

“Well, Casey, go to the back of the line; make sure you splash through the water when we jump down and nobody will ever know.” He patted him on the shoulder.

Casey, no more than seventeen summers old, turned a tear-stained face up at him. “I don’t want to die. I just joined up to get two meals a day,” he said helplessly.

“Nothing is ever for free, lad,” Fallon said. “Today you earn those meals. But I meant what I said. Listen to me, stay by my side and I’ll keep you safe.”

“Fallon!”

He turned to see Gallagher striding down the deck.

“Shouldn’t you be steering?” Fallon asked pointedly.

“I’m not going to pull the sails in until we hit the beach. We’ll probably stave some timbers in again but the wizard can put them right for us. Just keep your men back from the bow and holding on tight or some of them might go over earlier than they plan,” Gallagher said quickly, before turning and running back to the stern.

Fallon got the guards holding onto ropes and bracing themselves then he grabbed one of the rope stays that stretched back to hold the foremast in place. Above the villagers hauled in the sails but the ship was still moving fast as it crunched into the shingle with enough force to knock half of the guards over, even though they were holding on for dear life.

“Up! Up and over!” Fallon roared, grabbing men and shoving them over the side.

When the last one was away he followed them, holding his crossbow high to protect its string, gasping at the shock of cold water and the impact, even though he bent his knees at the last moment. He slogged through the water and up onto the beach, where the guards had formed a rough line. It looked like they were standing close for comfort rather than effectiveness but at least they were there and their swords were out.

“Devlin, go left and anchor the line, Brendan go right and do the same. Each man an arm’s length apart and stay that way,” Fallon ordered. It was funny, he thought, how the men on Brendan’s side looked happier with their deal, though Devlin was the better fighter.

He led them, heading for the nearest hut. The doorway was around the other side, to avoid the winter wind that whistled in from the sea, but it was hard not to imagine what might be lurking in there. He forced those thoughts away to lead the men at a jog, pushing swiftly into the little collection of huts not really grand enough to be called a village.

“You three, inside and check it!” He pointed at the first hut, keeping his crossbow trained on the other huts.

The three men gulped but ducked into the dark doorway, emerging a dozen heartbeats later with white faces. “All clear, sarge,” one gasped.

“Good. On to the next!” Fallon signaled and led the way forwards again at a run, not giving them a chance to stop and think about what they were doing. “You three in that one – Devlin, pick two more and go in that one.”

The two little groups disappeared into the nearest huts and Fallon brought his crossbow to his shoulder, keeping himself on the move at all times. He swept the rooftops, the corners and the doorways, his fingers poised on the trigger.

“Empty!”

“Nothing here!”

“And on we go,” Fallon ordered and took three quick steps forward.

Next moment a pair of figures burst from the next hut, racing away from the line of guards. Fallon felt his heart jump, then released a breath when he saw they were men, ragged and filthy, but still men.

“Stop! We are King’s men!” Fallon roared but that seemed to spur them into running even faster.
Thieves, or at least hungry men looking to steal from an abandoned village
, he judged.
Not as good as finding the attackers but better than nothing – if we can stop them.

He tracked the first one, who was pounding along, a sack in his hand, then breathed out and, in the moment before needing another breath, released, aiming low. At the speed the man was going it was a tough shot, but the quarrel leaped across the gap and sank deep into the thigh of the man.

The runner gave an anguished howl and collapsed, clutching at the feathered shaft buried in his leg. The second man, running close behind, clattered into him and went sprawling.