‘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 day 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.