by John Gwynne
A spear thudded into the ground close to the lad’s feet, laughter rippling the pit. It was the spear Maquin had hurled away. The lad gave up his tugging at the sword and desperately grabbed the spear shaft, pointing it at Maquin. It shook.
Maquin refused to care, just kept advancing. The lad lunged and Maquin twisted, the spear-blade scoring a thin line along his upper chest and shoulder. Then with one hand he gripped the spear shaft and he powered forwards. The lad pulled on the spear, then collapsed with Maquin’s knife in his eye.
Maquin watched the boy drop to the ground, his eyes drawn to him, a collapsed heap, limbs twisted. Whatever the spark of life was, it was instantly snuffed out; now he was just an empty bag of meat and bones.
What have I become?
He sat on a bench beside Javed, the small pit-fighter from Tarbesh. They were grouped with a handful of other pit-fighters – the elite, as Herak had started calling them – looking through iron bars into the ring where Maquin had just fought. He wiped something from his face, mud or blood, he did not know.
He looked through the broad timber struts at the plain and fortress of Jerolin on its hill. I have been here before. The council of King Aquilus. It didn’t look like this then. He had been here a while now; after the sea journey it was another ten-night of hard rowing up a river before they had reached Jerolin’s lake. They had not been the first ship to arrive, nor the last. A small fleet of Vin Thalun war-galleys now spread across the horizon and their warriors were thick around the fortress and town.
He did not know what Lykos’ plans were, but they clearly involved Jerolin and probably all of Tenebral.
Not that I care, he told himself. My task is to kill any put before me. Earn my freedom. Find Jael and kill him.
How Lykos had managed it, though, this shift in relations and power in Tenebral – that did intrigue him, no matter how hard he tried not to think on it. The Vin Thalun were not so popular the last time I was here. And now they all but rule the place.
At first the anger and resentment had been clear. Almost as soon as Maquin had arrived, he and his fellow slaves had been ushered into fighting pits, little more than makeshift rings bound with rope. First in the lake town, with mostly Vin Thalun as spectators, some others huddled together, watching from the anonymous shadows, then soon after moving to the fortress, fighting in courtyards. Soon the crowds had grown and become louder, braver. Life had become almost a mirror image of that back on the Island of Nerin, where they were trained each day, then put on display in open cages, like prize cattle. Many from the town and fortress came and now people were travelling to visit this new arena. Looking about, Maquin saw all manner of people: fishermen, traders, trappers, warriors, women, even children.
Is the human heart so fickle? So ready to embrace such evil? He snorted at himself. Listen to me. I am the heart of this wickedness, its root.
The crowds hushed as the next entertainment entered the ring. Lykos led the way.
No, he is the root of all this. I am just a foot soldier in it all. A willing participant.
Behind Lykos walked a woman, Fidele, the dead king’s widow, mother of Nathair. Perhaps she was in league with Lykos; Nathair certainly had taken the Vin Thalun into his confidence. Something about her, though, told Maquin that wasn’t the case – the stoop of her shoulders, the way her gaze swept the crowd, something in it speaking of desperation and a fierce anger.
But she must be in league with him. Why welcome the Vin Thalun to your realm, allow them to do this, if you did not want to?
It was not as if she did not have the means to keep him out. Maquin had seen eagle-guard about the place, dressed in their black and silver, although there had been fewer of them about of late. Behind Lykos and Fidele two men walked, hands in chains, a handful of Vin Thalun about them. Maquin saw Deinon, Lykos’ shieldman, amongst them.
Last of all, following this group, walked Orgull, standing a head taller than anyone else. Beside him was another pit-fighter, shorter, leaner, still with a warrior’s confidence and grace. Pallas, Maquin had heard him called. He was pit-fighter who had survived countless contests, was close to earning his freedom, or so Javed had said. Orgull was to fight him, the last bout of this day’s contests.
The two men in chains were shackled to the post at the centre of the ring, the Vin Thalun guards drifting to the edges. Orgull and Pallas stood close by, patiently waiting.
Fidele raised her head, turning in a circle to take in the crowd. A hush fell.
‘These men are traitors. They tried to assassinate me and take the crown of Tenebral. The punishment for treason is death.’
Shouting rippled through the crowd, insults were hurled, as well as food. Amongst the baying for their blood Maquin heard some shouting for the men to be released, heard words such as injustice.
They are well known, then, these two. And liked by more than a few.
Fidele held up a hand.
‘First we shall witness a display of skill at arms. The victor shall have the honour of carrying out the death sentence on these two traitors.’
Lykos led her from the ring and they walked up through the tiered benches of the arena to a viewing platform, where they sat.
The crowd became silent and still as Orgull and Pallas walked to the centre of the ring. Some Vin Thalun warriors entered the ring, carrying a table between them. Upon it were weapons. They put the table down between Orgull and Pallas and left.
There were three weapons: two short curved swords and one war-axe. A big one.
I recognize that axe.
Pallas took the two swords and Orgull took the axe.
It is his axe, from the tombs in Haldis. Deinon must have kept it.
Pallas sliced the air with his two swords, muscles rolling like rope.
‘I’ve not seen swords like that before,’ Maquin said.
‘He is from my country – Tarbesh. It is our weapon.’
‘Not very good for stabbing,’ Maquin observed.
‘Better for slashing, especially from horseback,’ Javed said.
‘Good thing he’s not on a horse, then.’
Maquin felt a knot of tension settle in his gut, like a sinking stone. He was surprised at himself, thought he had killed off any sentimentality or concern for others. He realized he did not want to see Orgull die – the last of his Gadrai brothers, his last link to honour and his world before slavery. Instinctively he shifted on his bench, looked about, but there was no way down to the ring from here. Iron bars caged him in.
Even after all this time, some bonds must run deep. Orgull gave a great two-handed swing of his axe, the air whistling as it swept around him. Whistles and cheers drifted from the crowd.
Without any announcement or warning, the contest began, Pallas lunging across the table with one of his swords. Orgull had been ready and just stepped away, the sword slicing thin air. Orgull moved around the table, holding his axe two-handed across his chest, like a staff. Then they were at each other. The sound of iron on iron rang out as Pallas’ swords slashed at Orgull, clashing on the axe as it blocked and struck. The two men were a blur, Maquin straining to follow as they swirled about each other, in and out, slash, block, strike, lunge, and then drifting apart.
Pallas crowded Orgull, knowing the big man needed space to use the axe well, and for frozen heartbeats Maquin could not see how his friend could survive the snake-quick strikes of the smaller man. Without realizing it he was standing, holding the bars that caged him.
Then Pallas was reeling back, blood running down his forehead where Orgull had caught him with the iron-bossed butt of the axe.
Orgull was not unharmed, though. Blood ran in a dozen places, tracing a web of injury across his body. Nevertheless he followed Pallas, swinging his axe now in great looping strokes.
Pallas ducked one slash, rolled from another and turned a third with his two swords crossed above him. Orgull kicked him as he tried to spin away, knocking the man off balance; at the same time the axe swung around,
catching Pallas a glancing blow across the shoulder. Blood spurted. One sword went spinning away, Pallas’ arm hanging limp, and then the axe took his head from his shoulders.
There was a breathless silence, then the crowd erupted, Maquin yelling as loudly as any one of them.
Orgull turned and without any preamble walked to the two men shackled to the post. He raised his axe and swung, sparks flying. The man dropped to his knees, his chains sundered. Before there was any reaction, Orgull did the same for the second man, chopping his chains with the axe-blade.
Maquin gazed open-mouthed.
Then men were jumping from the crowd, cloaked men drawing weapons, grabbing the two men in the ring, hustling them to the far exit. Orgull strode with them. A group of Vin Thalun appeared before them and Orgull swung his axe, blood spurting across the benches. Vin Thalun poured from the sides, some leaping across rows of benches, trying to get into the ring. Lykos was screaming commands, his voice merging with the cacophony of the crowd.
Orgull and the others were at the exit now, the harsh ring of iron punctuating the bass roar of the crowd. Their way looked clear.
Fly, my sword-brother. Maquin smiled.
Then the Vin Thalun closed in, like iron filings to a lodestone. All became chaos, the crowd’s roaring deafening, benches torn up, ripped from their fixings and hurled into the ring, more and more bodies piling into the battle that was raging near the arena’s far exit. Maquin shook the bars of their cage, Javed joined him, but there wasn’t even the slightest give in them.
He saw Orgull’s bald head in the crowd, looking as if he was acting as a rearguard now, his back to the exit, facing into the arena. Every time he swung his axe blood followed, limbs and heads spinning. A few others stood alongside him, holding back the tide of Vin Thalun, but it was not long before the numbers were overwhelming and the corsairs flowed over them like a great wave.
It took some time to restore order, the crowds dispersed by Vin Thalun with clubs and swords and spears. The dead in the ring were dragged into two heaps; Vin Thalun and the others. The pile of Vin Thalun was much bigger.
Maquin watched with a sense of dread, waiting to see Orgull’s corpse dragged to the pile of the dead. Eventually he did see Orgull, but he was carried away from the others and laid out on the ground. Another was put beside him, one of the two prisoners who had been chained to the post.
Lykos appeared then. He marched up to them, without a word drawing his sword and hacking at the neck of the man beside Orgull. It took three blows to sever his head. He raised his arm to do the same to Orgull, then Deinon was there, speaking quickly. Lykos listened, then he lowered his sword and wiped it clean on the dead man’s body. Two men came forward and carried Orgull from the ring, his boots dragging in the mud.
CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN
CYWEN
Cywen dipped her head against the wind. It carried with it an edge of ice that set her skin prickling. Over the last few days they had travelled through a mountain pass, tall peaks so high they blotted the sky, and now they were moving into a rolling featureless moorland with patches of heather peeking through the snow. A hundred glittering streams dissected the land.
As always, Alcyon accompanied her. Not far ahead Nathair rode his draig, Calidus and Sumur riding with him. The Jehar warriors stretched in a wide column behind, trailing into the mountain pass. The sound of wolven howling floated on the wind, a noise Cywen had become accustomed to. The further north they travelled, so the wolven population seemed to grow, although she never saw one. Obviously two thousand Jehar were too big a meal for even a wolven pack to chew on.
Buddai padded the other side of her, nose low to the ground. The wolven didn’t seem to bother him, either. At least, not since the first time they had heard them, howling like a mournful farewell the day she had left Dun Vaner. Buddai had been restless all that day, often pausing to look back at the mountains. For long heartbeats Cywen had harboured the hope that it had been Storm, come with her kin to rescue her.
Idiot, she scolded herself. No one’s going to rescue me, except me. I should have gone south with Pendathran when I had the chance.
No point fretting over that, now. She would just have to bide her time and wait for an opportunity.
I wish I had my knives.
They camped in a dip in the land that night. It did little to ease the constant cut of the wind; icy fingers crept through layers of fur and leather. Cywen shivered and tried to shuffle closer to Alcyon’s small fire. She had already finished the porridge he had made, its warm glow spreading through her like a hot coal thawing the frost. But that small heat had long since evaporated.
‘I can’t feel my toes,’ she said.
‘Try wiggling them,’ Alcyon said. He was full of helpful advice like that.
A figure came striding out of the darkness, a great hawk perched on his arm. Calidus. He saw them and came over.
Calidus gave the bird a piece of meat from a pouch at his belt, then raised his arm. With a flap of its wings the bird flew away, the sound of its passing little more than a whisper in the night.
Calidus held a thin strip of parchment in his hand.
‘This is the last night that we can risk a fire,’ he said as he held the parchment over the flames, reading silently.
Wonderful, thought Cywen. I’m going to freeze to death.
‘What news?’ Alcyon said.
‘There you are,’ a voice called out. It was Nathair, with Sumur and the giant, Uthas, behind him.
‘I’ll tell you after,’ Calidus said quietly.
Nathair, Sumur and Uthas joined them about the fire.
Cywen drew back from the flames, shuffling into the shadows so that she wouldn’t be forced to talk to them. Alcyon had changed, sitting straighter, a stiffness in his shoulders that spoke of his discomfort.
‘I must leave soon,’ Uthas said. ‘Murias is little more than a ten-night away for you, at your pace.’
‘All is set. You know what to do?’ Calidus said.
‘Of course. The gates of Murias will be open to you. I can do little more than that. You will have to defeat the Benothi that stand against you.’ He looked at Calidus. ‘And you will honour our agreement. You will spare the Benothi that stand with me. They shall not be harmed.’
‘Of course,’ Calidus said. ‘You have given great aid. It will not be forgotten, and it will be rewarded.’
‘Good.’ Uthas bowed his head.
‘Can you do this, Uthas? Can you see it through?’
‘Yes. I will open the gates to you and I will split the Benothi defence. That is all I can do. Nemain and those loyal to her you will have to deal with yourself. I will not shed their blood. And the brood of wyrms. I cannot raise my hand against them.’
Calidus reached across the fire and gripped Uthas’ forearm, his own engulfed by the giant’s.
‘In the morning, then.’
‘Yes, in the morning,’ Nathair echoed. ‘And may Elyon watch over you. May he watch over us all.’
‘The absent god,’ snorted Uthas, then he rose and walked into the night.
Cywen had been captivated as she had watched the exchange, hardly daring to breathe. They must have forgotten I’m here, she thought. Now as Uthas walked away she saw a frown crease Sumur’s face. He stared after the giant long after he had been claimed by the darkness.
‘Do you think he will see it through?’ Nathair asked Calidus.
‘I do. But if he does not, we will still complete our task. We have two thousand Jehar warriors. We have Alcyon and the starstone axe. We have you, the Bright Star of Elyon.’
‘And we have you, my friend,’ Nathair said, reaching out to grip Calidus’ arm. ‘One of the Ben-Elim, standing by my side.’ He closed his eyes and breathed out a long sigh. ‘It has been so long, since my dreams began, since I heard Elyon’s voice, since I first heard of the cauldron. And now we are so close. I almost cannot believe it.’
‘The end of this quest is close, my King. You have m
ade this happen. The All-Father will be proud.’
Nathair smiled at him. Then he and Sumur stood and walked way.
Calidus watched them leave. Alcyon sat gazing into the fire, Cywen trying to remain still, keep her breathing slow, pretending to sleep.
‘It would appear that our gambit has worked. The bait is drawing our fly,’ Calidus said, breaking the silence. He screwed up the parchment that he still held in his fist and dropped it into the fire. Cywen watched it curl and then ignite into flame.
Alcyon nodded. Briefly his eyes flickered to Cywen.
‘They are two days behind us, maybe less. I think you should take some men with you and meet them.’
‘How many are there?’
‘Ventos says six, and the boy’s wolven.’
He’s talking about Corban and Storm.
‘Take a score of Jehar with you. That should be more than enough.’
Alcyon nodded, a rippling of his bulk. ‘Where?’
‘Not out here, in the open moors. We’ll carry on along the road to Murias. There’s some woodland about a day’s journey ahead. The road to Murias passes straight through it, so they’ll be on it, or close to it, depending on how careful they’re being. Wait for them there.’
‘Do you want him alive?’
‘No,’ Calidus said. ‘Kill them all.’ With that he rose. ‘Hurry to me once the deed is done. I would like news of his death before we reach Murias. I’ll keep a watch over our bait once you’re gone.’ He stood and disappeared into the night.
‘You can breathe louder now, child,’ Alcyon said. ‘And come back to the fire, before you freeze.’
‘What did he mean by that?’ she said as she moved closer, panic loosening her tongue. ‘He was talking about Corban, wasn’t he? About my brother.’
Alcyon said nothing, but would not meet her gaze.
‘He told you to kill him.’ Fear was twisting its way through her now, her voice rising. ‘You’ve used me as bait, haven’t you, to lure him after you? Damn you; damn Calidus; damn you all.’
‘That is already beyond doubt,’ Alcyon said quietly. It did not help to calm Cywen.