Valour

CHAPTER EIGHTY

MAQUIN

Maquin stood and stretched. Twelve days of rowing had set his back and shoulders to aching. Not like before, though. The training that he had been put through during his stay on the island of Panos had had some benefits, at least.

He looked up at the slopes of Nerin. They were anchored in a sheltered bay, with a beach angling up into rocky slopes. On the skyline ruins reflected the glow of the sinking sun.

‘Get a move on,’ Emad barked, cracking his whip.

They all filed off the ship. At the crest of the hill a town appeared, similar to the one on Panos: houses built of baked clay bricks and reed roofs, hordes of children and skinny dogs rushing to greet them.

‘These Vin Thalun have too much time on their hands,’ Javed said beside him, ‘if they have all this time to be making children.’

Maquin laughed. He had grown to like the little man, who came from Tarbesh, a land far to the east that Maquin had vaguely heard of. A place of sun and desert, mostly like these islands, although even here winter was making itself known. Maquin tried not to get too friendly, though. He had lost too many who were close to him, and he never forgot what it was that they were being trained to become. Killers. He was a warrior already, no stranger to death, to combat, but this was different. Then he had fought for a cause, or so it seemed. Now the only cause was life over death.

No, there is more than that. There is freedom, and then Jael.

But nevertheless, if he were to fight for that cause, the possibility that he would see Jael again and attempt his vengeance, then he had to embrace the fact that he would have to kill in the pit, and soon.

I’ve taken that ship already. Better just get used to it. And that was why he kept his distance from Javed, from any attempts at friendship that came his way. He did not know who would be thrown into the pit with him. Who he would be forced to slay or be slain by.

They were herded through bustling streets, an abundance of smells doing battle as they passed through a great market, a variety of meats cooking on spits — including big lizards — as well as mountains of figs and dates, mushrooms and onions, olives and melons, oranges and peppers.

People stopped and stared as they passed by, some even daring to prod shoulders and chests, testing muscle.

Wondering who will survive the pits, who to bet on? We are an investment to them, as well as an entertainment.

They left the market and streets behind and walked out onto a wide plain with a slope rising higher in front of them, a great mountain in the distance, its top jagged like a broken tooth. Night fell and still they walked, eventually seeing torches ahead. Maquin caught a glimpse of a cavernous opening in the ground, then they were being led down, through open gates and into tunnels — giant-craft again, tall and wide. Eventually they were ushered into a circular room with alcoves dug into the rock all the way round, cots with straw mattresses in them. A long table stood in the middle of the room with food and jugs laid out, a good meal, though nothing as lavish as on the night of the first pit-fight.

Their guards unchained them and locked them in.

Before much food could be consumed the barred gates opened and Herak strode in, a handful of guards behind him, big Emad one of them.

‘You’ll fight on the morrow,’ Herak said. Maquin and the rest of them gathered in a half-circle before him.

‘Not like before. You’ll be in a big pit, big as the chamber on Panos that had all the other pits in it. You’ll fight the recruits of Nerin, this island, and of Pelset, the third island east of here. The men you’ll be up against, they’ll have come through their first pit-fight, just like you, and been trained on their island, just like you have by me. All of you, against all of them. The fight won’t stop until only one side remains. That means one of you might survive, or fifty, or none.’ He shrugged.

‘How will we know who’s who?’ Javed asked.

‘By these.’ Herak held up a big iron ring. You’ll all have one around your necks. The men of Nerin, around a wrist, the men of Pelset, around their ankle. Line up.’

Maquin rolled his shoulders after the ring was clamped shut; a thickset smith twisted the iron pin that bound it. It felt like his warrior torc, which had been taken from him by Lykos after the battle of Dun Kellen.

Herak was standing beside the smith. ‘That’ll be cut from you on the morrow, from your dead body or your living one.’ He slapped Maquin’s shoulder. ‘I think you’ll be one of the living. Lykos told me about you, old wolf.’

Maquin didn’t say anything. He went and sat on a cot, sipping a cup of water, watching. Herak spoke with every man, relaxed, friendly even, like a comrade-in-arms.

I hate him. He builds them up, grooms them, us, for his own purposes.

When they were all done, fifty-six men bound with iron, Herak stood before them again.

‘There is food here for you. If you survive the morrow, it means you have become a champion of Panos, and that you have defeated Nerin and Pelset. That will make me very happy.’ He grinned at them. ‘I hope I will be rewarding you. Enjoy your meal.’ He walked from the room and looked back as the iron gates were locked. ‘It may be your last.’

It was dark when Maquin woke, but then he realized he was underground and most of the torches had burned out in the night. He lay there, listening to other men sleeping, snoring. Eventually he sat up; there was enough light from beyond the barred gates to pick his way to the table and pour himself a cup of water.

Soft footfalls sounded behind him and Orgull loomed close. Maquin passed him a cup. The moons of rowing and training had taken their toll on him, too, his body lean and striated, his face looking stretched, his bald head skull-like.

‘We could work together, today,’ Orgull said quietly, little more than a breath. ‘We are still sword-brothers.’

Maquin wasn’t sure if Orgull was making a statement or asking a question. He nodded, though. Working together made sense, was practical, and that was what his life had been distilled down to. The practicalities of staying alive.

‘Good, then,’ Orgull said and slipped back into the shadows.

The roar of the crowd was deafening.

They were standing behind an iron-barred gate, looking out into a great ring, rough stone walls rising two or three times the height of a man, then tiered rows spreading above them, climbing higher. The tiers were full of people, shouting, laughing, drinking, betting. Sunlight poured in from above, making Maquin blink, though in truth it was weak, holding little warmth.

Herak appeared, flanked by Emad and another guard, holding a great iron key.

‘There will be weapons in there — be quick, get them first. Kill or be killed.’ He put the key in the lock, then waited.

A hush fell in the great pit, heartbeats marking time. Then a gong rang out, booming off the stone walls. Herak turned the key, the gate swung open, and the men rushed through.

Maquin was carried along in the crush of it, spilling out onto the hard-packed earth.

He stepped to the side, moving out of the momentum, saw doors opening across the ring, men pouring from them like water through sluice-gates. Littered on the ground were piles of weapons — knives, butcher’s cleavers, hatchets, small bucklers, other wicked pieces of iron that Maquin did not recognize. Before he had a chance to think about it, he was running for the nearest pile, elbowing someone in the face, rolling and grabbing.

He came to his feet with a thick-bladed knife in his hand, end tapered to a sharp point. A man was lunging at him, a ring of iron about one wrist, swinging something sharp at his face. He ducked, stepped in close, punched the man in the gut, his knife sinking deep, three, four times, then shoved the man away, saw him slump to the floor, clutching at the wounds in his belly, his entrails glistening like slimy rope between his fingers.

It was chaos, everywhere men grappling, stabbing, yelling, screaming. The stink of blood and death was already overwhelming, worse than his memories of Dun Kellen. He looked for Orgull but could not see him. Two men rolled before him, gouging and stabbing. One rose from the embrace, one remained motionless on the ground. Maquin was close, could just step forward and finish the man rising.

Kill or be killed.

But he hovered, knife half-raised. I don’t want to do this.

Then the opportunity was gone, the man up and ready, a cleaver in his hands, his eyes flickering to Maquin’s knife. He sidestepped, then moved in, one hand grabbing for Maquin’s wrist, the cleaver rising in his other, swinging at Maquin’s head.

Maquin stabbed at the hand grabbing for him, felt the knife bite, then grate on iron, a ring about the man’s wrist. He kicked out, connected with a knee, throwing his attacker’s balance off, the cleaver whistling past his ear. He stepped in, tried to stab low, but his enemy twisted, Maquin’s knife scoring a graze along his back instead. They grappled, the cleaver ricocheting off the iron ring about Maquin’s neck, leaving a gash on his jaw line. Maquin managed to grab the man’s wrist, stepped in close and headbutted him, sank his knife into his chest as he staggered back. The cleaver dropped to the ground and Maquin picked it up.

Kill or be killed. He felt a berserker rage bubbling up inside — rage at what he was being made to do, rage at what he was becoming. Suddenly he was back in the catacombs beneath Haldis, watching Jael stab Kastell. Tears blurred his eyes. He shook his head angrily. Jael’s face hovered in his mind, smiling, mocking. He looked about again, at the death all around.

There is only one way out. Fight for me. Lykos’ words. With a snarl, he hefted his two weapons and stepped into the battle.

He moved through the throng, staying light on his feet, cutting hamstrings, muscle, maiming, killing, always moving, imagining it was Jael that he cut, stabbed, killed. He kept searching, looking for Orgull. Somehow it was important that he find him, fight with him. He had said he would; could he not even fulfil that promise?

Then he saw him, a hatchet in Orgull’s hand dripping red as he faced two men with iron around their ankles. Orgull was cut, bleeding from thigh and shoulder. Maquin moved forwards, threading through the combat as quickly as he could, deflecting a knife here, a punch, a kick there. Two men stumbled into him, arms flailing. One lashed out with a knife, scoring a red gash across Maquin’s chest. He chopped and stabbed as he spun away from them.

By the time he had reached Orgull one of his attackers was on his knees, clinging to Orgull’s leg as blood pulsed from a wound in his back. The other was dancing around to Orgull’s left, where his arm was cut, blood soaked. Orgull staggered and the man tensed, ready to strike, then Maquin was burying his knife low into the man’s back, the cleaver thumping into his shoulder. He collapsed.

Maquin shared a look with Orgull and then he slipped to Orgull’s left, covering his back, became the big man’s shield, as they were used to doing. They stood and traded blows with anyone who fell within their range, then slowly pushed through the madness, men stumbling to get out of their way. Orgull picked up a buckler and slipped it onto his arm, Maquin fighting with knife and cleaver.

A knot of bodies went down before them, men stabbing and wrestling. Maquin grabbed one and yanked him back, out of the way of a swinging blade. The man twisted in Maquin’s grip, then relaxed. It was Javed, one half of his face matted with blood, his eye swollen shut. He fell in beside them and they slipped into a loose half-circle.

Maquin’s chest burned where he had been slashed; sweat ran into his wounds, stinging like a thousand bites. His knee throbbed where he had rolled badly, muscles in his back spasming, a hundred other pains crying out for attention. The pumping of his blood seemed to drown it all out, dulling it. He was consumed with intoxication, everything broken down to moments, the angle of a strike, the flexing of muscle and tendon, speed, body and mind working together. And he still lived. He grinned and looked about the great pit.

The ground was littered with the dead or dying, crawling, twitching. Knots still fought, here and there, mostly in ones and twos.

Orgull banged his hatchet on his buckler, started yelling.

‘Iron throats, iron throats, to us. Iron throats.’

Maquin looked at him. Strength in numbers. He took up the cry, Javed following.

There were not many left. One iron collar was cut down as he stared at the three men, but others broke away from their combats, joining Orgull and Maquin and Javed. Almost instantly there were eight of them grouped together. Then twelve. The men left with iron about wrist or ankle looked on wildly, then set to attacking each other. None would risk assaulting twelve men.

‘What now?’ one of the iron collars said.

‘Wait for them to come to us,’ another said.

Kill or be killed.

Maquin gave a yell and ran at the last few men scattered around them. Orgull hesitated briefly, then followed, as Maquin knew he would. The others were close behind Orgull. Together they killed every other surviving man left in the pit.