He yelled over his shoulder, heard the cry ripple back through the rows behind him, then horn blasts rang out. He took a step forwards, the whole front row moving with him, shoving forwards. Another horn blast, another step. He slipped in a pool of blood, stumbled over a body, but the men behind and beside him kept him upright. Then more death-dealing, his sword snaking out. Another horn blast, another step, the weight on their shields lessening each time, then they were moving forwards steadily, no pause between steps, just a steady, grinding momentum as they carved their way through Domhain’s warriors.
Occasionally he would feel a ripple pass through the shield wall as a man was pulled out of formation and killed, his position being taken by the man behind. Veradis’ arm grew numb, his grip slipping, and he called out another order, the message moving back until horn blasts sounded. A space opened behind him; every other man in the front row stepped back, replaced smoothly by the man behind. Veradis moved back through the shield wall until he took his position in the last row, still lending his weight to the march, but having a chance to rest his burning lungs and aching muscles. Soon the horn sounded again and the other half of the original front row filtered back through the ranks, others moving forwards. Veradis saw Bos fall in beside him. His head was bleeding, his iron cap missing.
‘I’m too tall for this shield wall,’ Bos muttered, wiping blood from his eyes.
‘Maybe you need a bigger shield,’ Veradis said, taking a swig from his skin of water, then passing it to his friend.
The sun was warm, the only way of reckoning the time. Halfway to highsun. The roar of battle sounded. Through the shields Veradis caught glimpses of warriors locked in combat, blood on the grass, faces snarling, cursing, bodies still, twisted unnaturally. Thuds and blows crashed against their flank, but never in a concerted attack. Geraint is keeping them off us.
Slowly they moved forwards, as the sun rose and then fell, until Veradis found himself back in the front row again. He hefted his shield and gritted his teeth, began stabbing into the constant press of men beyond the wall of wood and iron.
Is Corban out there, or has he been slain already, one of the anonymous many who have been killed and trampled like so much meat on the butcher’s table? The thought didn’t bring him joy. He wanted to see this Corban again, to talk to him, work out for himself if he was really who Calidus claimed he was. How could the Black Sun be a mere boy? It just didn’t make sense.
And he wanted to see Cywen again. He found that he missed her, missed her voice, her smile, her sharp words.
A thud on his shield dragged him from his thoughts. A crack had appeared, the wood beginning to splinter. He pressed his shoulder tighter to it, stabbed high and low.
Then the weight pressing against him was diminishing. He heard horns blowing wildly, heard shouting, running. He risked a glance through the gaps in the wall and saw that the line had broken and the warriors of Domhain were in full retreat, here and there Geraint’s men pressing after them, though he no longer had the numbers to finish the retreating men decisively. Already Veradis saw him pulling his warriors back, not allowing them to become too stretched over the land.
Good decision.
Nearby a low hill reared up, tattered tents and abandoned wains all that was left of the enemy’s camp. In the distance Veradis saw riders on the giants’ road rallying the fleeing warriors, pulling them into a semblance of order. Veradis watched them for a while, wondering if they would regroup and return to the battle, but they dwindled into the distance.
‘The day is won, then,’ Bos said as he came to stand beside Veradis.
‘It looks that way.’
‘What now.’
‘A good meal. Then on to Dun Taras.’
CHAPTER EIGHTY
MAQUIN
Maquin stood and stretched. Twelve days of rowing had set his back and shoulders to aching. Not like before, though. The training that he had been put through during his stay on the island of Panos had had some benefits, at least.
He looked up at the slopes of Nerin. They were anchored in a sheltered bay, with a beach angling up into rocky slopes. On the skyline ruins reflected the glow of the sinking sun.
‘Get a move on,’ Emad barked, cracking his whip.
They all filed off the ship. At the crest of the hill a town appeared, similar to the one on Panos: houses built of baked clay bricks and reed roofs, hordes of children and skinny dogs rushing to greet them.
‘These Vin Thalun have too much time on their hands,’ Javed said beside him, ‘if they have all this time to be making children.’
Maquin laughed. He had grown to like the little man, who came from Tarbesh, a land far to the east that Maquin had vaguely heard of. A place of sun and desert, mostly like these islands, although even here winter was making itself known. Maquin tried not to get too friendly, though. He had lost too many who were close to him, and he never forgot what it was that they were being trained to become. Killers. He was a warrior already, no stranger to death, to combat, but this was different. Then he had fought for a cause, or so it seemed. Now the only cause was life over death.
No, there is more than that. There is freedom, and then Jael.
But nevertheless, if he were to fight for that cause, the possibility that he would see Jael again and attempt his vengeance, then he had to embrace the fact that he would have to kill in the pit, and soon.
I’ve taken that ship already. Better just get used to it. And that was why he kept his distance from Javed, from any attempts at friendship that came his way. He did not know who would be thrown into the pit with him. Who he would be forced to slay or be slain by.
They were herded through bustling streets, an abundance of smells doing battle as they passed through a great market, a variety of meats cooking on spits — including big lizards — as well as mountains of figs and dates, mushrooms and onions, olives and melons, oranges and peppers.
People stopped and stared as they passed by, some even daring to prod shoulders and chests, testing muscle.
Wondering who will survive the pits, who to bet on? We are an investment to them, as well as an entertainment.
They left the market and streets behind and walked out onto a wide plain with a slope rising higher in front of them, a great mountain in the distance, its top jagged like a broken tooth. Night fell and still they walked, eventually seeing torches ahead. Maquin caught a glimpse of a cavernous opening in the ground, then they were being led down, through open gates and into tunnels — giant-craft again, tall and wide. Eventually they were ushered into a circular room with alcoves dug into the rock all the way round, cots with straw mattresses in them. A long table stood in the middle of the room with food and jugs laid out, a good meal, though nothing as lavish as on the night of the first pit-fight.
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.