Valour

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

MAQUIN

Maquin dropped his weapons to the ground. A hush fell upon the crowd, then they were yelling, hissing and booing. Maquin sat in the mud beside Orgull.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I cannot do it.’

Then Vin Thalun were running across the arena, big Emad ahead of them all, reaching him first.

‘Get up, finish him,’ the guard ordered.

Maquin just glared at him.

Emad aimed a kick at him; Maquin rolled to the side, came up on his feet, ducked a hook aimed at his jaw, slapped another kick away.

‘Finish him,’ Emad yelled. The crowd were roaring now, the sound deafening. Maquin’s eyes flickered left and right, saw more Vin Thalun bearing down on him. A blow struck his chest — Emad, seeing his distraction. He collapsed to the ground, fighting for breath. Emad stood over him and drew a knife from his belt.

‘Last chance,’ the guard said. ‘You live or die in the pit; you know that.’

‘Go eat shit,’ Maquin said.

Then Emad exploded.

A great tear in his flesh opened up from his shoulder to his belly, blood and bone showering Maquin. An axe-blade ripped clear of the wound as Emad collapsed. Orgull stood framed behind him.

He reached out a hand and Maquin took it, snatching up Emad’s knife as he rose. Guards were descending on them now, more pouring from the tiers. Maquin glimpsed Lykos, his face contorted with rage.

‘This end will do me just fine,’ Maquin said, grinning at Orgull.

‘Let’s see how many we can take across the bridge with us.’ He hefted his axe.

They stood back to back, braced for the rush. Maquin caught a man’s wrist and punched his knife through leather into flesh, stabbed again, then threw the dying man backwards, tearing a sword from his weakened grip and snarling as another Vin Thalun filled his vision. He felt Orgull moving behind him, felt the whistle of the axe, heard the meaty sound of its blade cleaving muscle and bone, a scream cut short.

Then time fell into dissected moments — blocking a sword blow, stabbing, muscles stretching, hot breath in his face. He expected every next instant to be his last.

A sound filtered through his consciousness: a murmur, vast, surrounding him, like the sea when he had been a slave oarsman. Then louder as the crowd started shouting, not their usual cries for blood, but panicked, discordant, and behind it horn blasts, frantic, not celebratory. Then the clash of iron.

Fighting. They are fighting.

Abruptly there were no more Vin Thalun rushing at him. He saw his attackers running towards the arena’s edge. Even as he watched, a section of bench crashed into the pit, smashing two Vin Thalun to the ground. Everywhere he looked was chaos, upheaval. In the stands men were fighting, all the way up to the tiered heights. Lower down, men in dark cloaks with white eagles on their breastplates were leaping the barriers, engaging the Vin Thalun warriors in battle.

Eagle-guard — some, at least.

But the Vin Thalun were not unprepared this time. Everywhere Maquin looked he saw more of the corsair warriors appearing, throwing off cloaks, pouring from the tunnels that led into the arena.

‘This way,’ a voice said in his ear — Orgull, tugging him. He followed the big man, saw he was limping, one arm pulled tight to his waist, as if staunching a wound. He was covered in blood, some of it his own.

They reached the cages where the pit-fighters were watching and Orgull raised his axe and swung it, the blade biting into a thick chain, sparks flying as it severed. The barred door swung open, Javed appeared in the doorway.

‘My chest of gold,’ Javed said.

‘Better to take freedom than have it thrown to you as a scrap by your master,’ Maquin said. He put an arm under Orgull and helped him stand.

Javed grinned and stepped out of the cage. A handful of others followed him.

Maquin scanned the crowd. Everywhere people were fighting. He glimpsed Lykos and Fidele, a huddle of men about them, trying to carve a way through the crowds to an exit.

‘Won’t get a chance like this again,’ Maquin said and headed after them, breaking into a run.

As he powered through the crowd he hamstrung one Vin Thalun, hacked another’s head, knifed one in the belly, shouldered others flying, then he was scrambling amongst the benches, almost upon Lykos’ shieldmen.

Herak saw him first and turned, fluidly drawing a long curved knife. Maquin was trying to slow his momentum, skidding on the mud. He twisted his body, feet sliding forwards, torso dipping backwards. Herak’s knife whistled through space, scoring a red line across the top of Maquin’s chest.

They collided, Maquin’s feet ploughing into Herak’s, their bodies coming together, crashing to the ground in a grappling roll. Maquin’s sword spun from his grip. He headbutted Herak, felt cartilage break, felt a knee crunching into his gut. Dimly above them Maquin was aware of the other pit-fighters appearing, slipping into combat with Lykos’ shieldmen.

Pain focused him back onto Herak; the man was biting into his shoulder. With a curse, Maquin rammed his shoulder forward, forcing it into Herak’s mouth, pushing his jaws apart. There was a momentary loosening of Herak’s grip as the man gagged. Maquin twisted his torso and flipped over, spinning Herak, grabbed a handful of his hair and dragged his knife across the man’s throat.

He rose fluidly, saw Javed kick a Vin Thalun’s legs out from under him and stab him. Orgull was labouring against another. In a bound Maquin was at his side, punching his knife into the Vin Thalun’s back. Orgull nodded a breathless thanks.

Maquin turned to see Lykos looming in his vision, Deinon at his side. He glimpsed Fidele behind, sat meekly, her hands folded across her lap. Then Lykos was at him. Their weapons clashed, Maquin’s knife against Lykos’ short sword, trading a flurry of blows. Maquin staggered back. There was a concentrated fury in Lykos’ assault that was hard to contain. Lykos was still clutching something in his other hand. Deinon swept past him, Maquin knowing instinctively that he was headed for Orgull.

He launched into an attack of his own, the resentment and pain of the last few months focusing on the man in front of him. Lykos’ advance was halted — he was shuffling back. Maquin stepped away, risked a glance to Orgull, saw his friend stumble over a bench and topple backwards, Deinon following. Javed appeared from nowhere, throwing himself at Deinon, the two of them tumbling into the benches.

Then Maquin was ducking, slashing, blocking as Lykos was at him again. The corsair King was quick, moving fluidly from one attack to another. Pain seared along one of Maquin’s thighs, then across the opposite shoulder as Lykos managed to get past his defence.

I’d rather fight a giant than someone this fast. Mustn’t give him space, or I’m a dead man. Maquin barrelled forwards, crashing through Lykos’ guard, slashed, scoring a gash across Lykos’ ribs, crouched and smashed a fist into the man’s knee, rocking him, then stabbed at Lykos’ throat.

The Vin Thalun wobbled, just managing to turn Maquin’s blade as Maquin grabbed his sword wrist. Lykos gripped his forearm, whatever he’d been clinging to in his other hand fell to the floor and Maquin felt it crunch underfoot.

Just heartbeats later Fidele rushed at them, a look of utter hatred contorting her face.

Maquin flinched, thinking she was attacking him, but she crashed into Lykos, screaming incoherently at the Vin Thalun.

Thought this was her wedding day.

The three of them fell to the ground, weapons spinning away, Fidele’s fingers tearing at Lykos’ face, ripping bloody streaks across his cheeks.

‘You control me no longer,’ she spat at him.

Not a happy marriage, then.

Maquin scrabbled for a weapon, just as Fidele snatched his knife and plunged it into Lykos’ back, below the ribs. Lykos was only wearing a silk shirt — this is his wedding day — and the knife sank to the hilt into his flesh. He screamed, an animal cry of pain, and sank to one knee.

Maquin shoved Fidele behind him, saw Lykos struggling to rise, Deinon standing over a motionless Javed while Orgull started to drag himself upright from behind a bench. Deinon stepped over Javed’s body and sank his sword into Orgull’s chest.

Maquin screamed a wordless howl, launching himself through the air and colliding with Deinon, his sword puncturing the Vin Thalun’s back, its tip bursting out of the killer’s chest. His friend was still breathing, his chest rising in short, ragged bursts. Blood and froth bubbled at his mouth. Maquin cradled his head.

‘I’m sorry, my brother. I’m sorry, I was too slow.’ Maquin’s vision blurred, tears streaming down his cheeks, dripping from his nose.

Orgull’s eyes fixed on him. His mouth moved but only a bubbling hiss came out. He reached for Maquin’s hand and squeezed it, then gave out a long, fading breath.

Time dissolved for Maquin, becoming an arbitrary thing, moments or days passing — he did not know. He felt a hand on his shoulder pulling the world back into focus. Fidele.

The battle still raged around them, though it had moved further away. Lykos was nowhere to be seen, only a bloody handprint on the ground. Vin Thalun were everywhere, though, fighting the crowd, as well as warriors in the black and white of the eagle-guard here and there.

‘Where is he?’ Fidele gasped. Terror and loathing swept her face. ‘He still lives,’ she said.

‘Aye, maybe.’ She did not look as if she wanted to be found by Lykos. ‘Best get you out of here,’ Maquin said. He pulled on Orgull’s axe and placed it on his friend’s chest, fixing it in his grip.

‘Take that across the bridge of swords with you. And walk tall, brother. You’ve earned it.’

Then he was leading Fidele by the hand, being swept by the crowd as they flowed towards the exits, out into the meadow. Once there, Maquin saw the extent of the uprising that was taking place. Nowhere was safe, battle spreading across the field. More Vin Thalun were pouring from the gates of Jerolin, others from the lake town, still more boats rowing towards shore from the ships on the lake. Maquin paused and sucked in a great lungful of air.

Free air. I am free, a slave no longer. The thought made him dizzy. He grinned fiercely, then turned and led Fidele away, the two of them heading towards the trees that bordered the meadow.