Valour

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN

MAQUIN

Maquin stared across the space of the arena at Orgull. His old Gadrai sword-brother walked straight-backed, though slowly, and favouring one leg.

How is it possible? Maquin thought. He should be dead, or crippled. His mind raced back to when he’d seen him last in Lykos’ chamber — Orgull hanging from the wall, chained, beaten, broken, his face a bloody ruin. How has he recovered so much? It is not possible. He took an involuntary step forwards.

The guards about Orgull fell away. Emad appeared from behind him carrying Orgull’s giant axe, the one he had taken from the tomb beneath Haldis.

Orgull should not be able to lift it, let alone wield it.

Orgull took the axe, holding it two-handed across his chest, and paced forward.

The volume of the crowd rose. Close by, Maquin heard cage bars rattling; he looked and saw a line of pit-fighters in a viewing cage. Javed amongst them. He looked back to Orgull.

They were only a dozen paces apart when they both stopped. Close up, Orgull was not as recovered as Maquin had thought. The left side of his face was a mass of puckered skin, burned and raw. One eye was gone, just a fold of wax-like flesh covering the place where it should have been. Teeth were missing, his body was scarred. He was standing straight, gripping his axe, but Maquin could see that took considerable effort. Sweat beaded Orgull’s face, and his limbs were trembling.

Even his voice was different, hissing through missing teeth and cracked lips. Almost nothing was left of the man from the time-before.

‘It’s good to see you, brother,’ Orgull said.

‘Orgull, what is this madness?’

‘They want you to kill me — me, the one who rose against them, slain by my former Gadrai brother. They’ve given me seed of the poppy, for the pain. My strength isn’t what it was, though.’

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Because death will be a sweet release. Every man has a limit, Maquin, and they have found mine.’ A tremor rippled through his voice. ‘And because I wanted to see you again. Talk to you.’

The cheering of the crowd grew louder, and Maquin looked to see Lykos entering the ring, flanked by Deinon and a handful of shieldmen. He was striding towards them.

‘Whatever you want to say, you’d best say it quick,’ Maquin hissed.

‘Kill me now; release me from this hell. Earn your freedom from slavery. I know you will seek out Jael, and I wish you well. If you succeed, though, do one thing for me.’

‘What?’

‘Find Meical, the man I told you about. Tell him I stayed true, to the end.’

Lykos was upon them then, arms raised, turning to take in the crowd.

He has become a showman. He knows how to manipulate and control people — that is for sure.

Maquin thought briefly about killing Lykos, after all the bastard had done to him, the hellish nightmare of the journey from Dun Kellen, branding him, taking his warrior braid, forcing him on this road to murder. The torture and breaking of his Gadrai brother. His grip tightened on his knives. Then he saw the guards — Deinon, Herak, Emad, a few others behind, all watching him, all tense, ready to move, as if they could read his mind.

I would not get close.

And then the moment had passed.

Even as Lykos finished his turn, one of his hands was creeping inside his cloak, searching for something.

Is it a knife? Is he so certain of being attacked at any moment?

‘This is the final contest of the day, on this most happy of days,’ Lykos yelled, the crowd quietening to a murmur. ‘Two sword-sworn brothers to compete. One the betrayer and renegade, against the old wolf, the fighter who has kept his honour, fought his way through all put before him. One will live, one will die; there is no other way out of the pit.’

Lykos has a strange idea of what honour is.

‘Begin,’ he called.

Orgull moved on him, jabbing with the butt-end of his axe. Maquin easily slipped out of its way, instinctively raising his two knives. He almost lunged into attack, so ingrained was his training; when he realized what he was doing he pulled back.

Orgull jabbed again, then with gritted teeth swung the axe in a two-handed blow. Maquin ducked, the blade whistling over his head. The crowd yelled their approval. Maquin danced back again. Behind him someone booed.

‘What are you doing?’ Orgull hissed. ‘We have to make this convincing for them.’ He rushed forward then, his axe swinging in looping arcs over his head, only Maquin seeing the spasm of pain that twisted his face.

Maquin retreated, using his knives to strike glancing blows on the axe haft, turning it as Vandil, their Gadrai captain, had taught them to turn a giant’s blows — not taking the brunt of them, but striking at angles, turning weapons, using their own momentum, changing angles with a twist of the wrist, a sliding blade.

The crowd burst into life, cheering as Orgull surged on, continuing his flurry of blows unrelentingly.

Just kill him, Maquin thought, shifting his weight, avoiding another axe swing, seeing an opening to drive a knife between Orgull’s ribs. It would be so easy. He wants me to do it; it would be a mercy killing. And then I will be free. Free to hunt down Jael, to take my revenge, to leave all this life behind.

He looked at Orgull’s face; the physical effort was putting deep lines in his skin. Spittle hung in long strings from his lips. What have they done to you? Memories rushed through him, snatched images: Orgull riding patrol along the banks of the Rhenus, fighting Hunen giants before the walls of Haldis, dragging him into safety in the tomb where Kastell died, sitting around a fire telling the tale of his youth.

My friend. My last friend. How can I put a knife in your flesh, watch your life spill on the mud? But kill you I must, it is my only way out of here. An anger filled him then, churning inside, focusing sharply on Lykos. You have done this to us. Taken everything away, even our humanity. Made us animals. For what? Entertainment?

For Jael — that is why I have done this, become what I have become. For a chance to see Jael again. I must see this through, else all I’ve done, the lives I’ve taken, would be for nothing.

He grimaced, knowing what he must do, the finality of it settling upon him like a heavy cloak. I must kill you, sword-brother.

Orgull was tiring now, his mouth hanging open as he fought for the breath to drive his body; Maquin could see him withering, the signs of it in the wildness of the big man’s swings, the control fading with each move, each contraction of muscle, the fibres pushed beyond the point of obedience to the will. In short moments the facade would be undone. If Maquin was going to do this, he would have to do it now.

He snarled, more at himself and what he had become than for any other reason, ducked a high blow, shuffled back, swayed to the right, then pushed forwards, dropping into a roll, slashing a knife across Orgull’s leg as he rolled past him.

He heard the grunt and the impact of Orgull’s fall before he had finished his roll.

He stood and turned slowly, saw Orgull lying face down in the mud, his axe slipped from his grasp, hands reaching blindly for it. There was a gash in one of his legs, blood pumping from the wound, and Maquin felt a stab of guilt at inflicting more pain on this man. His sword-brother, his captain, his friend.

I will make it quick.

The crowd roared as Maquin bore down on Orgull, at the last instant the big man flipping over onto his back to look into Maquin’s face. That made him pause, just for a heartbeat as they locked eyes, sharing that comradeship that can only be crafted from fighting side by side, from saving each other’s lives, from sharing the same cause.

Orgull smiled at him, just a twitch of his scarred lips, and nodded. I am ready, the smile said, and thank you.

Maquin raised a knife, paused as he looked down at Orgull.

Kill him. Else all you’ve sacrificed is for nothing.

The moment stretched, utter silence in the arena. With a snarl Maquin stood straight and dropped his knives.

‘I’ll not be killing you, my brother. Not this day; not ever.’