by John Gwynne
‘Aye. My thumb feels like it’s going to drop off – stitching leather is not easy, you know – but they’re done.’
‘Thank you, Mam.’ Corban hugged her.
A commotion drew his eyes back to Farrell. A group had approached the bench, a handful of men, Quinn, the first-sword of Domhain leading it. He was a big man, broad and thick muscled, with a flat nose that spoke of the pugil ring. His build reminded Corban of Helfach, Evnis’ dead huntsman. Maeve, Halion’s sister, was hanging on his arm. Quinn grabbed the warrior sitting opposite Farrell and dragged him out of the way, then sat and grinned at Farrell. He tried to wrap an arm around Coralen, but she slipped out of reach.
‘Want to try my arm?’ Quinn said to Farrell.
‘Coursh I do,’ Farrell slurred.
‘Keep an eye on your friend,’ Halion said in Corban’s ear. ‘Trouble follows Quinn.’
‘I don’t like him,’ Corban said. ‘He reminds me of Helfach.’
‘I can see the likeness.’ Halion snorted. ‘Not a good reason to dislike someone, but this time you’re right.’
‘How so?’
‘Let’s just say I wouldn’t want him guarding my back in a fight. There are rumours.’
‘What rumours?’
Just then the warrior whom Quinn had dragged from his seat crashed into Quinn’s back, sending him flying into Farrell. There were a few moments of chaos, fists flying and chairs turning over. Corban pushed forward to Farrell’s side, then Quinn’s followers were holding the warrior who had started it all upright, his hands pinned behind his back. Quinn punched him with a solid uppercut and the unconscious man was dragged from view.
‘How about that arm-wrestle, now?’ Quinn said as he sat back down.
Farrell wiped blood from the back of his hand, a cut during the brief skirmish, then gripped Quinn’s hand.
‘Begin,’ Maeve declared and instantly both arms were straining. The crowd around them roared to life, shouting encouragements, making wagers, some singing. Quinn was the bigger man, his arms bulkier, slabs of meat for biceps, but Farrell’s strength had been honed in the forge, like Corban’s, with years of hammer-pounding packing every fibre with strength. For a long time both arms remained fixed, immovable, then, slowly, a tremor appeared in Quinn’s forearm. His face was contorted with strain, jaws clenched, eyes bulging. His arm moved, just a fraction, and the crowd around them hushed, sensing the end.
Quinn’s arm moved again, a downward jerk this time. He checked it somehow, a handspan from the table, pausing the flood.
It’s over, Farrell’s won. Corban felt a grin slipping onto his face.
Then Farrell grunted, a shiver running through him. His head lolled and Quinn’s arm slowly rose again, their fists back at midpoint. Farrell shifted, his head coming up, glaring at his arm as if it had betrayed him. Long moments passed, frozen in time, then Farrell’s head dipped again, and suddenly Quinn’s arm was forcing Farrell’s back, ever lower. With a final roar, the strength seemed to drain from Farrell and Quinn was punching the air in victory.
Farrell just sat there, staring at his hand, clenching and unclenching his fingers.
Quinn caught hold of Coralen, who had stayed nearby. He pulled her close, kissing her hard. She struggled in his grip, stamped on his foot and elbowed him in the face.
Farrell lunged across the table, grabbing Quinn’s wrist.
‘Let her go,’ Farrell growled.
Quinn let go of Coralen and swung a fist at Farrell, catching him high on the temple.
Corban leaped forwards, vaulting the table as Farrell sagged to the ground. He crashed into Quinn, sending him stumbling backwards.
‘Stay behind me,’ he said to Coralen and pushed forwards, fists raised.
Don’t punch at all if you can help it, he heard his father’s voice, clear as if he were standing next to him, but if you must, punch first and punch hardest.
Quinn swung at him and Corban ducked, still moving forwards, slammed a fist into Quinn’s belly and sent a hook to his chin. The big man staggered and a straight right sent him toppling backwards.
That should do it.
Quinn climbed to his feet, blood running from his nose.
‘So it’s a fight you’re wanting,’ he said, his fists bunching. He spat blood.
Oh dear.
Then men were moving everywhere, some gathering about Quinn, others closing beside Corban – Gar, Halion, Dath, Vonn. Others. A sound rose over them all, silencing the clamour. A deep rumbling.
Storm, growling.
Corban felt her brush past him, place herself in the space between Corban and Quinn, teeth bared, slavering. Quinn took an involuntary step backwards. His hand moved to his sword hilt. There was a moment when all was still, violence hanging in the air. Then a figure stepped between them – Rath, a handful of his giant-killers with him.
‘Best save it for Rhin,’ he said. ‘And you’d better calm that beast down.’
Corban touched Storm and she stopped growling.
Quinn wiped blood from his face, then grinned. ‘These southerners are too serious; and that one can’t take his drink.’ He waved at Farrell, then turned and walked into the crowd.
‘Well, aren’t you the brave one?’ a voice said. Corban turned and Maeve was there, standing uncomfortably close. ‘You just put the first-sword of Domhain on his arse. Think that deserves a kiss.’
She pressed her lips to his, her arms wrapping around his waist, and for a moment the world went blank, shrinking to the taste of wine on Maeve’s breath, the sensation of her lips against his. Then someone was pulling him. He spun to see Coralen glaring at him. She slapped him hard across the face.
‘I’m no maiden to be saved; I can look after myself,’ she spat at him.
‘I know you can,’ he spluttered.
‘So why did you do that? Fight my fight?’
Because . . .’ He shrugged. Why did I do that? ‘The same reason they were all at my side.’ He gestured to Gar and the others. ‘We look after each other. Because you’re a friend.’
That stopped her a moment, her mouth open but nothing coming out. Then her eyes slipped to Maeve.
‘Enjoy your victory,’ she said with a sneer and walked away.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
MAQUIN
Maquin sat at a table brimming with food and drink: bowls of fruits – oranges, figs, plums – olives, meats, as well as eels and squid and anchovies, warm flatbread and jugs of watered wine to wash it all down with. Maquin had tasted wine like it when in Jerolin and hadn’t liked it. Now, though, after his months of gruel whilst chained to an oar, it all tasted like a feast made for kings.
He felt sick, though, his stomach sending him pains of warning. He swiped grease from his beard and leaned back in his chair.
He was not alone at the table; at least fifty or sixty other men were also stuffing their bellies to overflowing. They were the survivors, the victors, of the fighting pits. Maquin had seen Orgull sitting further along, too far away to talk to. The big man had tried to catch his eye, but Maquin had looked away. He still felt ashamed of what he had done in the pit, what he had become, and he knew Orgull would share his disgust.
He has killed today, just as I have.
This all felt like a dream.
Men were standing in the shadows, guarding the men and women bringing the food and fresh jugs of wine. One pit slave grabbed a woman and dragged her onto his lap. He was quickly taught that he had crossed a line – his arm was held flat on the table and a finger broken.
The servants were left alone after that.
A man walked into the chamber, the barrel-chested man who had led Maquin to the pit.
‘I am Herak,’ the barrel-chested man said. ‘I am your mother, your father, your sister and brother. I am the closest thing to family you will have here.’ He smiled at them all. ‘And you are my children. I am going to train you, discipline you. No doubt I will have to punish you, and I hope that I will have cause to reward you.�
� He waved a hand at the table. ‘You have done well today, and for some of you this will just be the beginning.’
‘Beginning of what?’ a man said, small, dark skinned.
‘Of your new lives. You belong to the Vin Thalun now. As you have started, so you will continue. You will fight for us in the pits. You will kill for us and make us rich.’ He nodded, grinning at that. ‘And some of you will earn your freedom. Emad, step forward.’ One of the guards moved closer, huge, as big as Orgull, with skin as dark as the small man who had just spoken. His beard was knotted full of rings.
‘Emad came here as you did – an oar slave. He was fifteen summers then. How long ago was that, Emad?’
‘Nine years,’ the big man said.
‘Nine years. He fought in the pits and earned his freedom. He was given a choice and chose to join my family. You could do the same – or a ship’s crew, or just walk away, if that is what you wish. You will fight for your freedom, and that is what we will give you.’
‘Fight who?’ the small man asked.
‘Whoever is in front of you.’ Herak shrugged. ‘I will train you now. Most of you think you know how to fight, but I promise you, you do not. Yet. Then we shall put you against the pit-fighters of the other islands – Nerin and Pelset. If you live that long, then we shall talk of what comes next. That is all. I shall see you on the morrow.’
He turned and strode from the chamber. Maquin felt his stomach lurch and only had time to lean in his chair before he vomited onto the tiled floor.
Maquin spent the night in a cell underground, part of the labyrinthine complex that formed the fighting pits. He was led out into the ruins that he had seen before, the sunshine making him blink, and given breakfast along with the men from last night’s feast. He did not indulge, only chewed on some fried goat’s meat and warm bread. He washed it down with water.
Herak greeted them with a score of guards. Maquin didn’t like the look of the whips wound at their belts, or the wicked-looking knives that they all carried.
‘This is where it begins,’ Herak said. ‘Follow me.’ He turned and moved into a loping run, heading off up a wide paved street. Maquin and his companions milled around, looking at one another.
‘You heard him,’ a voice barked. Emad, the guard from last night. He cracked his whip. Maquin saw Orgull run after the disappearing Herak. He followed Orgull, others joining him. The ones who were slower felt the touch of whips as other guards lashed out.
Soon they were all running through the ruined city. The ground was littered with rocks and debris; Maquin had to concentrate on every step. More than once he heard someone cry out as they fell, and cry out again as they were whipped back onto their feet by the guards who ran with them.
Maquin’s lungs were burning, his legs felt as if they were pumped full of iron, and the sun was burning hot. Sweat sheeted him, blurring his vision. He focused on every step, every breath, willing himself to carry on. He had already vomited as he ran, bile splattering his feet and legs. He became aware of someone running next to him. Orgull.
‘Keep the faith, brother,’ Orgull gasped over his own heaving breaths. Maquin didn’t have the breath to answer, and didn’t know what he would have said if he had. What faith? Not in Elyon, the absent god. Not in justice, or right defeating wrong. Maybe in vengeance, in its power to keep my legs moving. He pictured Jael, gritted his teeth and increased his stride.
Herak let them rest a while after the run, gave them water. It was not long before they were led into a courtyard – this one cleared of debris, the floor bearing stains that looked suspiciously like old blood. Some marks never wash clean. More than anything the place resembled a weapons court; wooden weapons were stacked along one wall, different areas roped off.
‘First things first,’ Herak said as he stepped in front of them. ‘Most of you probably know your way around a sword and spear. But to use them you need space. In the pit, space is a stranger. Pit-fighting is close and personal – close as lovers.’ Some of the guards chuckled. The one called Emad nodded seriously. ‘For that you need to learn to use these.’ Herak lifted his arms and clenched his fists. ‘And this.’ He slapped his forehead. ‘And these,’ he touched his knees and pointed to his feet.
‘When you’ve learned how to use all of that, you’ll move on to this.’ He drew a knife, curved and wicked looking. ‘This’ll be your best friend in a pit-fight. Closer than kin. So, let’s begin. You, big man. Over here.’ He beckoned to Orgull.
Orgull walked over cautiously, his eyes fixed on Herak. Herak ushered him into one of the roped-off areas.
‘So, try and kill me,’ Herak said amicably.
Orgull frowned, then took a deep breath and swung a punch at Herak.
Herak deflected it easily, like swatting a fly. ‘Try harder,’ he said irritably.
Orgull snapped a combination of punches out. He was fluid, well balanced on his feet. He’s no stranger to the pugil ring. But Herak blocked or avoided the punches with little effort, swaying this way, the palm of his hand steering Orgull’s arm that way. He darted inside Orgull’s guard and slapped Orgull’s face, hard, then moved out of range, just as quickly.
He doesn’t look as if he should be able to move that fast.
Orgull scowled and moved after Herak, throwing a flurry of punches, one of them glancing off Herak’s shoulder. Herak laughed. ‘Better,’ he said. Then he weaved inside Orgull’s guard again, slammed two solid blows into Orgull’s gut and kidney, finished with an uppercut flush on Orgull’s chin as he bent from the gut blows. Orgull wobbled, then dropped to his knees.
‘Take a man’s legs away, and he’s as good as dead,’ Herak said to the watching crowd. ‘He is now disoriented, a little stunned, and his legs are still weak. He is ready for the kill.’
With no warning, Orgull exploded from the ground, his hands grasping Herak by the throat, fingers squeezing. They both staggered backwards, Orgull’s fingers gouging into Herak’s flesh. Herak started to turn purple, his eyes bulging, but to Maquin it still looked as if he was smiling. Slowly, he saw one of Herak’s hands move down, past Orgull’s belt. He clutched at Orgull’s groin, gave a sharp twist and the strength drained from Orgull in a heartbeat. He fell back onto the ground, curled like a baby, groaning.
‘When in trouble, always go for the stones,’ Herak said. ‘Good effort, though, big man. You’re faster than I thought.’ He reached down an arm and helped Orgull stand. ‘Remember, there’s no honour in the pit. Just living or dying. Don’t ever forget that.’
They spent the rest of the day sparring like this. Herak ordered them to avoid killing each other, with the incentive that if one died during the sparring, he would kill their partner. Maquin was teamed up with the small man who had asked most of the questions the night before. His name was Javed, a warrior from the land of Tarbesh, taken during a Vin Thalun raid. He was very fast, as Maquin found out all too soon.
Time passed like this, days merging, running, training, sparring, day after day. The weather grew cooler, though never truly cold, except at night, when the sky was free of cloud and stars shone sharp as ice. Maquin felt the aches of the first weeks begin to fade, replaced by a new strength in his body that he had never experienced. Not just strength, but a speed, flexibility and stamina that he thought he’d left behind with his youth. They had been taught hand-to-hand fighting skills that Maquin had never dreamed of: combinations of fist, knee and foot, as well as headbutting and biting. Anything goes in the pits, Herak was fond of saying. There are no rules. For a ten-night Herak made them spar tied wrist-to-wrist, said it was like that in the pits, where you could not escape another’s touch. It sounded more and more to Maquin as if Herak spoke from experience.
Eventually Herak issued them all with wooden replicas of his own knife, curved and thick. They were taught the different grips, how to use both hands, how to stab to kill, to maim, to weaken, where to cut to disable. How to combine the knife with fist and knee and head and foot.
Then the da
y came when they were brought out from their cells beneath the ground and led in the opposite direction to their training courtyard. They were led to the coast, down the path that wound down the cliffs to the beach where Maquin had arrived so long ago.
‘Where are we going?’ Javed called out. They had all seen the single ship in the bay.
‘To the island of Nerin,’ Herak said. ‘Where you will either die, or make us rich.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CAMLIN
Camlin warmed his hands over the fire. It had stopped raining now, stabs of sunshine piercing the emptied clouds, but he was still cold and wet. He was sitting in a sprawling camp, staring at the mountains that he had struggled across not that long ago. Marrock and Dath were sat either side him. Marrock was adjusting the straps of the buckler that seemed to be a permanent fixture on his left arm now. It was a small, round piece of iron, a spike sticking a handspan from the central boss.
Gotta hand it to him – he’s adaptable. If I’d have lost a hand an’ couldn’t draw a bow ever again I think I’d still be weeping into my cups.
Volunteering to join the warband that had marched from Dun Taras to fight Queen Rhin had seemed brave and noble at first, the right thing to do. There had been a lot of singing and drinking on the night before the warband left Dun Taras. The next morning there were a lot of sore heads, and a few bloody noses as well, but that was all part of it. Since then, though, things had gone steadily downhill. So far this war had involved a lot of walking and holding your head down in the face of wind and rain. In fact, in many ways, it was not too distant an experience to thieving in the Darkwood, but with more men and guaranteed food and drink at the end of each march. And that was nothing to be sniffed at. Still, the rain had stopped, and so had the walking, so things were looking up. On the downside, Camlin was fairly sure that a warband would be marching through the mountains in the near future, full of men with cold iron in their hands, looking to stop his heart from beating.
You can always leave.
‘Shut up,’ he muttered.