Valour (68 page)

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.

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 death 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.