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.