He clenched his teeth until his head throbbed, and overcame a wave of nausea as he succeeded in keeping both hands clamped on his swords. Before he could wield either of them, his adversary hurled him aside. Skewered on the weapon, Kane was swung away from Meredith with such force that it hurled him off the blade to sprawl many paces away from the cage. The fall inflamed the pain in his shoulder, making his head swim, but he crouched around to face his assailant. The man had not followed him; he stood dangerously close to Meredith, his sword upraised in triumph or anticipating victory. He was the Overlord of the raiders. He was Kane’s brother. His eyes showed no more emotion than the mask did. Kane could have thought that Malachi himself was observing him through the eyeholes, but he spoke as he struggled onto one knee. “Listen to me, Marcus.” The only answer was an inarticulate snarl from within the mask. Kane might have concluded that the sorcerer’s influence had reduced Marcus to brutishness – to the simple savage instinct to kill – but he had to believe that his brother could still be reached somehow.
