Valour

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

MAQUIN

Maquin ate his food slowly.

All about him men ate and drank to excess, laughed and sang. He was sitting in a room that looked out over the cliffs of Nerin onto the Tethys Sea. It was sunset; the sun’s last rays were turning the sea to molten gold.

Amongst the men he was sat with were the survivors of the pit. Ten men. There had been twelve, but two of them had become fevered through the night and Herak’s men had hauled them away, to healers, supposedly.

Unlikely. It is strange how men will believe what they want to believe, cling to it, even when the truth is there to see.

His fellow pit-fighters were not the only men sitting at the table. Herak was there, as well as some of his guards — ones that had worked with Maquin and the others, helped to train them. They all ate and drank with vigour, smiling and laughing as if they were friends, equals, not masters and slaves. Guards still lined the walls though, standing in the shadows.

It made Maquin feel sick.

He had come to terms, finally, with what he was doing, what he had become. He didn’t like himself for it, but the face of Jael drove him, made his decisions possible. And when it had come down to it, when given the choice of life or death, he had chosen life, or at least the right to fight death’s efforts to claim him.

I want to live.

But that did not mean he would be grateful to his captors, or that he would welcome their company and eat with them as if they were brothers. Looking about, though, no one else seemed to share his feelings. Except Orgull. He was sat at the far end, looking much as Maquin felt. Repulsed.

He sipped a cup of wine.

Herak banged his cup on the table and slowly a silence fell.

‘You are champions now,’ Herak began. ‘Champions of the pit, champions of Panos. You will fight again, but not like that; not amongst so many. That is for the new arrivals, the initiates.’

‘When will we fight?’ a voice called out. Javed. Always the question-asker.

‘Not for a while.’ Herak shrugged. ‘You’ll have long enough to enjoy this victory.’

‘Who will we fight?’ Orgull.

‘Whoever is put in front of you,’ Herak said, all friendliness erased from his voice.

The days passed. They were moved from rooms below ground to ground level, a measure of weak sun and fresh air helping to revive Maquin and his companions. To make them feel human again. The ten of them lived in the same room. Their training with Herak continued — most of it focused on close-quarter combat, knife work and weaponless battle. They were treated better now, fed well, spoken to, given rewards. Those who excelled in the day’s training were given special meals or an extra drink. Occasionally a woman.

Maquin abstained from all of the rewards offered to him. He wasn’t a pet.

Javed laughed at him. ‘Live, man; enjoy what you can. Life will not treat you better because you say no.’

Maquin just smiled and shook his head at the little warrior. I will not be bought, purchased, manipulated like some half-witted fool. I do what they want because I have no choice. I will not play their games. They are my enemy. The only other man who refused as he did was Orgull. They spoke little, but Maquin often caught Orgull watching him. They were sword-brothers, a bond forged in the Gadrai and tempered in the catacombs of Haldis. Nothing could change that. Maquin did not want friendships, though, had no desire for anything that could distract him from his course. I should have hunted Jael down as soon as I was out of the tunnels beneath Haldis.

Should have. Forget that. There is only now, and what happens next.

Often during training Maquin would see groups of men, shackled hand and foot, led past them, towards the entrance to the underground chambers. They all had a look about them that he knew too well. Half starved, desperate, but still a glimmer of hope in most eyes. They were the latest captives brought in from various ships, more fodder for the fighting pits. Not yet gone through the horror and torture of that first push into darkness.

It was evening, almost a moon since the last pit-fight. Maquin sat on his cot, knees drawn up, dipping dark bread into a spicy soup. Their chambers reminded Maquin of the great stables at Mikil. Each room a stable, sharing a communal yard that was fenced in with iron bars. Beyond those bars was their training ground, further off a town. People would often come to look at them through the bars, even to speak sometimes; they were mostly children, play-acting champions of the pits. Some of the ten liked it, would go and talk and laugh with the visitors. Maquin didn’t. Whenever he saw movement at the bars he would retreat inside his cell, into the shadows.

There was a rattling at the gates and Maquin rose to see who was coming in, soup and bread still in his hand.

It was Herak, flanked by two guards.

‘Wanted to tell you, it’s your last night on the island,’ he said. ‘You’ll all be getting something to remember Nerin by soon. Food, wine, women.’

A cheer went up from most of the men.

‘Where are we going?’ Javed, of course.

Herak smiled viciously. ‘Tenebral.’