by John Gwynne
‘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.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
CORBAN
Corban looked back along the range of hills. It was late in the day, and they had travelled leagues already, but he could still see the battleground in the distance, a dark shadow on the green plains. Birds circled the air above it in a dark swarm.
I hope that Edana and the others are safe.
‘Come on,’ Coralen called from the front of their small column. ‘Keep up.’
‘Keep up, keep up,’ Craf squawked from Brina’s saddle. He had been much more vocal since being separated from Fech.
Corban kicked his horse on. Guilt gnawed at him for leaving Edana and his friends, but a fierce joy filled him every time he thought of Cywen. He had felt so overwhelmed by the losses of friends, the de
ath of his da and him supposedly being a god’s avatar that at times he’d felt like a small twig tossed and turned by great waves. Now for the first time he felt that he was actually doing something. Taking control. He did not care for the politics of the west, who ruled where. For him the last year had been all about their survival. Survival of his loved ones – his family and friends. And Cywen was part of that. At least, she will be.
Storm appeared out of the darkness, stepping into the firelight of their camp. She was carrying a young buck between her jaws. She dropped her kill at Corban’s feet and he rested a hand on it, accepting her gift. He and the others then set to skinning and cooking it.
‘She’s quite useful,’ Coralen said, using her knife to strip the last piece of meat from a bone.
‘Changed your mind about turning her into a cloak, then?’ Dath said cheerfully.
Corban put a hand protectively on Storm’s shoulder. She was spread beside him, cracking bones for marrow.
‘All the while she brings me dinner,’ Coralen said. ‘Besides, I have a wolven cloak already.’ She patted the saddlebag she was sitting upon.
Corban had kept his wolven pelt too, as well as the gauntlet and claws. He looked at Coralen, their small fire highlighting the lines of her hair and face. You must find this hard, leaving Rath and your people behind. But can I trust you?
‘Are you leading us in the hope of seeing Conall?’ he asked her.
‘Conall?’ She regarded him for what seemed a long while. ‘He’s my brother. When I heard he was dead, it was like a punch in the belly. And now I know he’s alive, somewhere on the other side of those mountains. But what’s happened between him and Halion . . .’ She shook her head. ‘They were always so close. You need that, growing up the way we did. Someone to rely on. To turn to.’ She looked up and Corban saw tears glistening in her eyes. He was surprised at the number of words coming out of her mouth. Usually she just gave out sharp-edged dour remarks.
Her eyes focused on Corban. ‘Why are you asking me this?’
Then her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
‘Oh I see it: you don’t trust me. Think I might betray you to your enemies for the sake of Conall. Well, feel free to find another guide, and I’ll ride back to Rath and my people.’ She almost spat the last words, then stood up and walked away, slung her saddlebag down beyond the reach of firelight.
‘Very tactful,’ Brina whispered to him.
‘I trust you,’ Farrell called out after her.
‘Shut up, oaf,’ Coralen’s voice drifted back.
The next day dawned cold, with frost stiffening the grass. They broke their fast with cold meat and watered-down ale, then set off again. Coralen was silent the entire time; Corban decided it was prudent to do the same.
A while after highsun Coralen stopped. They were winding their way through the foothills that skirted the mountains, and were high up a slope. Domhain was spread to the west like a great tapestry.
‘What is it?’ Gar asked Coralen.
‘I think someone is following us,’ she said, staring back into the distance.
They all stared.
‘I see it,’ said Dath. He’d always had sharp eyes.
‘You’re looking in the wrong direction,’ Coralen said. ‘Over there.’
‘Oh,’ said Dath. ‘But I thought I saw . . .’
‘What?’ Coralen said, following his stare. Corban looked too, but could only see rolling hills and patches of woodland.
‘Nothing,’ Dath said, abashed.
Coralen pointed.
‘Ah. Yes.’ Dath stared hard. ‘I can see something.’
‘How many?’ Gar asked.
‘Hard to tell. Only one, that I can see. Could be more.’ He squinted. ‘Maybe two.’
‘I’ll send Craf,’ Brina said, and the bird flapped into the air.
They carried on for a good while, keeping to the trail that Coralen had been leading them on.
Shadows were lengthening, darkness sinking into the hills like deep pools amongst rocks, when Craf returned. The bird was squawking, an edge of terror to the sound. He swooped out of the grey sky, hurtling straight for Brina. ‘Help help help help,’ Craf croaked as he all but crashed into Brina, trying to flap his way into the inner recesses of her cloak. ‘Eat me,’ Craf screeched, his head poking out of Brina’s cloak, looking up at the sky.
They all looked up. For a fleeting moment Corban thought he saw a dark smudge, then it was gone. ‘What about those following us?’ Coralen asked Craf.
‘Man, hound, follow,’ Craf said.
‘Thank you,’ Coralen said.
‘Welcome,’ Craf muttered.
Corban blinked. He’d never heard Craf be polite before.
‘ We’d best get off the trail and see who it is that’s behind us,’ Coralen said.
Corban took his place on a shelf of rock above the path; Storm and his mam crouched nearby. Dath was on the other side of the trail, on a ridge amongst trees and scrub, his bow strung. The rest of them were spread either side, hidden behind rock or tree. It felt like a long time before Corban heard the sound of hooves.
Eventually a figure appeared in the gloom, emerging from the shadows. A man on horseback, a tall hound padding beside him. Then Corban recognized him and leaped forward, yelling, ‘Don’t shoot him,’ to Dath.
The man reined in, his hound growling. He aimed a clipped command at the hound. ‘Hello, Corban,’ he said.
‘Ventos.’
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
FIDELE
Fidele stood on the battlements of Jerolin. It was cold, snow from the mountains carpeting much of the slopes and plains to the north. The lake glistened beneath a pale sun. Looking east, she saw at last the sight she had been waiting for. Riders, eagle-guard cantering past the stockaded walls of the lake town and onto the road that wound up to Jerolin. As they drew closer she saw that they circled another figure.
Lykos. She felt a flare of anger, saw in her mind the faces of those she had rescued from his fighting pit, as well as a pile of the dead.
Her eyes drifted to the lake, settling again on the ships that had arrived yesterday, half a dozen at least, rowing out of a river into the lake’s waters. Vin Thalun ships.
Lykos is not stupid enough to attack me, surely. To attack Jerolin. A good portion of Tenebral’s warriors may be on the other side of the Banished Lands, but there are still enough here to defend Jerolin. He must know that. Still, she wondered why a few hundred of his warriors were now anchored only half a league away.
She turned and strode down a stairwell, Orcus behind her, and made her way to her chambers in Jerolin’s black tower.
Does Lykos bring news of Nathair? She felt a weightlessness in her belly at that thought. My brave son. Elyon above, let him be well and safe, if safe is still possible in this dark world. And what of the war – the God-War? I have arrested the only man that may actually have knowledge of developments in the Banished Lands.
In silence Fidele climbed the spiral stair of Jerolin’s tower, where two eagle-guard stood outside the doors of her chamber. Once inside, Orcus poured her a cup of wine and assumed his position behind her chair. It was not long before there was a knock at the door and Lykos was admitted.
He strode in confidently, his gait rolling as if he still walked a ship’s deck. An easy smile stretched across his face.
‘Please, sit,’ Fidele said politely.
He poured himself a cup of wine and took a long draught.
‘I hate riding,’ he said as he wiped wine from his beard.
‘I am sorry for that, but it was important that I saw you.’
He leaned back in his chair and smiled at her. ‘You are as beautiful as ever.’
She blinked at that. She had seen the way he looked at her but he had never been so bold as to comment on the thoughts behind his eyes. Something was different . . .
‘You have done a terrible thing,’ she said.
He laughed at that, a short bark. ‘I have done m
any terrible things, my lady. To which one do you refer?’
‘I refer to the fighting pit at Balara. Don’t play games, Lykos. I am sure that you know why I have brought you here.’
He leaned forward, serious now. ‘Yes, I am aware.’
‘You have committed murder. That poor boy, Jace. His body was dragged up from the lakebed by fishermen. And all those others at Balara, forced to fight for your entertainment. And you have disobeyed and lied to me. I cannot and will not let these things go unpunished.’
‘I see. Well, before this conversation takes us into unpleasant waters, let me give you my news. Your son was well, the last time I saw him.’
‘Where?’ she asked, for a moment her other priorities swept aside.
‘Ardan. Dun Carreg. He was mired deeply in the politics of the west, strengthening the alliance.’
‘Has he found Meical? I know that he was keen to track down my husband’s counsellor.’
I pray he hasn’t found him. Not before I tell him of what Ektor and I have discovered.
‘Meical has been seen in Dun Carreg, but he left long before Nathair arrived.’
Good.
‘And Nathair, he was well?’
‘Yes, although he was troubled, concerned. For you. He thinks perhaps he has placed too much responsibility upon your shoulders, too soon after the death of your husband.’
What? Am I really hearing this? Lykos is lying.
‘He regrets his decision making you regent in his absence, thinks you do not have the strength that is required in these difficult times.’ Lykos reached inside his weather-stained cloak and pulled out a crumpled scroll. ‘He proposes that I take over the regency, for the time being.’
She snatched the scroll and tore it open. It was as Lykos said, written in her son’s hand. This cannot be. Something is wrong; he would not do this. She looked over the scroll at Lykos. He was studying her intently.
She ripped up the scroll and tossed its pieces to the ground.
‘I will never allow you to rule Tenebral,’ she said.
Lykos sighed, long and deep. ‘I was afraid you would say that.’