The hooded man sidestepped Martius’s charge. He was fast, very fast. He held his dagger defensively and swung his sword at Martius’s head.
Martius ducked and sliced his lightweight blade towards the man’s inner thigh.
The hooded man grunted in surprise and pain. His dagger, perfectly placed to block the blow, snapped in two. Martius’s blade hit home, biting into the man’s flesh with a soft thump. The broken end of the dagger clattered to the ground.
Martius yanked the blade out, twisting it as he did. Even a grievously injured man could still be a threat. This was no time for mercy.
Blood plumed across the room as the hooded man’s heart pumped his life away. He slumped to the ground, his back against the doorjamb and let out a moan. Then his eyes glazed as the dark god called his soul for judgement.
Martius pelted on through the door. He ran on instinct and panic, every fibre of his being screaming to reach his children and Ellasand.
Three men — dressed identically to the first — barred his way on the terrace. He saw others moving stealthily around the house on both levels.
The men spread out, no doubt seeking to flank him. He heard the sound of struggles around the house now. Another scream echoed through the courtyard.
Darcus rushed from the kitchen across the courtyard and buried a butcher’s knife in the back of an assassin. He did not see the man who stepped from the shadows and swung a sword at his head. Darcus slumped to the ground like a lifeless doll. His head lolled at an impossible angle, almost decapitated by the blow.
“Assassins!” Martius shouted at the top of his lungs. In his mind, he screamed Darcus! “We are under attack!”
An assassin rushed in from the right. Martius ducked, spun, and disembowelled him with one clean slice.
His blade swept free. He had known it would be easy to wield, but its sublime perfection was such that it felt like an extension of his body. For a moment he believed it might, truly, be the sword of a god.
He moved quickly back to the doorway, to ensure he could not be flanked, knowing that the corridor behind was clear.
Two more assailants joined the others. “This is him,” said one, his voice muffled by a cloth bound over his mouth. His eyes glinted malevolently as he looked from his disembowelled comrade to Martius. “We send you to the Dark God tonight, General.”
Martius smiled. Death held no fear for him; his thoughts were only of Ellasand and the children. He spun the blade of Optuss in his hand; it almost seemed to tremble in his grip, begging for battle. “COME ON THEN!”
CHAPTER NINE
Wulf wondered when the little man would shut up. For days now, Metrotis and Sigurd the fisherman had interrogated him. They sat for hours going over the same issues again and again, repeating the same questions over and over. These people have too much time, Wulf thought. Either that or all the vegetables they ate had turned their minds to pigswill.
He had decided that the best way to get what he wanted was to withhold information, to drip feed titbits and occasional lies to pique his captor’s interest.
Initially he had performed for food, forgetting his pride and acting like the good little dog Metrotis seemed determined he would become. Give me some beef and I will bark three times, give me mutton and I will yip for joy, give me pork and I will howl with pleasure. The irony was not lost on him, but he had grown so desperate for good food that he was willing to compromise on his pride and honour. He had to stay strong, and the best way he knew to do that was meat.
He shook his head and wondered if Metrotis thought he had actually won, whether, perhaps, the little man thought his will had broken in the early days. If that was the case, then he knew his plan was working and Metrotis was deluding himself.
Every day he played the game. He listened to the translator, Sigurd, and learned words in the language of the iron men. He had never tried to understand another language. He was surprised to discover that it came to him with relative ease; it was just a case of remembering the sounds, really.
He hoarded the words, using his coveted knowledge occasionally to impress Metrotis, but he never revealed that for every word he pronounced accurately, he understood five more.
It was simple, really: listen to what Metrotis said, then listen to Sigurd relay the information, and then follow the return journey of his own words to Metrotis. Some of the words in his own language were even similar in some way to the language of the iron men, or the Adarnans, as he had learned they called themselves.
The second aspect of Wulf’s game revolved around information. For every piece of information given away, whether true or imagined, he gleaned at least a dozen for himself. He knew now that the Empire of the Adarnans spread all the way from south of the valley of death — where so many of Wulf’s people had died — to the frozen north, where Metrotis said there lived men who ate fish and hunted seals, much as some of his own people did in the far south.
When he had first grasped the size of this empire Wulf was appalled. One nation, which Metrotis informed him actually consisted of many nations, all living in harmony across an area that it would take a man months to cross on foot. The breadth of the Empire was far greater than the distance Wulf’s people had travelled to escape the enemy. With his new knowledge, he did not believe his people had ever truly had a hope of defeating the Adarnans.
Perhaps one day he will cross the boundary, Wulf mused, letting his eyes drift to the line on the stone floor that marked the limit of his manacled reach. Perhaps Metrotis will grow to trust me and I will kill him and escape this cursed place. Perhaps he would enjoy crushing the life out of the whining little wretch. Then escape, and feel the sun on his back. Run and hunt and wrestle again.
“Wulf,” said Metrotis, his tone even more petulant than usual. “Concentrate!”
Wulf grinned. He fully understood the words, yet he still made a point of turning to Sigurd, ensuring his expression was inquisitive.
Sigurd coughed gently into his hand; he looked mildly embarrassed. Wulf suspected the fisherman knew that games were being played.
“Master Metrotis would like you to concentrate please, Wulf.” Sigurd’s eyes assumed a pleading aspect. “Our session is almost done for the day and the sooner he is satisfied, the sooner we will be able to go home.” Perhaps realising the impact of his words, Sigurd raised a placating hand. “Forgive me, Wulf; you know what I mean.”
Wulf’s grin grew wider. He liked Sigurd, the man stank of fish — although thankfully, each day the odour lessened — but that was nothing to hold against him; Wulf had smelt a lot worse. The fisherman understood something of the honour and traditions of his people. Sigurd’s folk even worshipped the gods of sky, wood and earth, except that they had the tempestuous god of the sea, Sessus, at the head of their pantheon rather than the true King, Alarus, god of the sky and bringer of thunder. He was sure that there must be kinship between Sigurd’s fisher people and his own people of Wickland.
“It is no problem, my friend. My home is far behind me and forgotten by the world. This is my home now.” Wulf grabbed his chains in his fists and rattled them gently. “This is a comfortable home.” He shrugged half-heartedly.
Metrotis began to speak again rapidly. He repeated the same words as he spoke as if to reassure himself.
Wulf concentrated hard to understand. He would be asked about the reason for his people’s migration again, the reason they had come north.
“He wants to know who the enemy is,” Sigurd relayed. “He says that he does not believe that the enemy are fire giants riding aurox and wielding whips. He says that he knows you are playing with him and that he is tired of the children’s stories that you are feeding him.” Sigurd paused and motioned gently towards Metrotis. “He says there are no such things as giants and you know it. His uncle is growing impatient for progress and if there is a threat to his people he must know what it is.”