Two giants stumbled close to them, grappling one another. Cywen yanked on Shield’s reins and the horse reared, lashing out with his hooves. The giants were knocked off their feet, rolling amongst the fallen.
They were close to Nathair now. Cywen saw him swinging his sword at a white-haired giant wielding a war-hammer. A handful of the Benothi stood about him, guarding the entrance to a corridor.
The giant blocked Nathair’s sword blow, swung his hammer at Nathair, but the King of Tenebral swayed back in his saddle, the hammer whistling past. The draig reared then and swatted at the giant, sending him and the few gathered about him hurtling through the air like so many twigs. Cywen saw the white-haired giant crash into a wall and slide down it, dead or unconscious.
Then Uthas was there, standing beside Nathair, yelling something over the din of battle.
Nathair gave a great shout as he pointed his sword at the corridor. Uthas strode into it, another giant at his shoulder, carrying an axe. Nathair’s draig powered after them, hundreds of the Jehar following in its wake.
Calidus looked back and saw Alcyon.
‘Stay close,’ he ordered, then rode into the corridor.
Alcyon glanced at Cywen, checked the knot of the rope that bound her to him and then strode into the corridor. Battle still raged in the hall behind them, though the way ahead sounded to be clear, only the sound of hooves on stone echoing back along the passageway.
It felt like a long time that they sped into the bowels of Murias, sporadically the corridors opening out into high-vaulted chambers. Intermittently the sound of battle rang out, as Nathair and his guard encountered another group of the fortress’ defenders. These clashes were always savage but short, Nathair, his draig and the Jehar an inexorable wave pushing forwards. Alcyon increased his speed, Cywen kicking Shield to keep pace, and they gained on Nathair. Then they turned a corner and were before an arched doorway. The entire host rippled to a halt.
‘We are here,’ Uthas said. ‘The cauldron lies in there.’
A silence fell over them, just the deep rumble of the draig’s breathing filling the corridor.
Nathair lifted his reins, about to urge the draig on.
‘Wait,’ Uthas said. ‘It is not undefended.’
‘I will slay a nation of giants to get to the cauldron,’ he snarled.
‘There are more than giants in there.’
‘I have come too far. Nothing will keep me from my destiny now.’ Nathair snapped a command to his draig and the beast scuttled forwards. It reared up, slamming both of its clawed front feet into the doors. They crashed open, tearing from their hinges and toppling into the chamber beyond.
Without a backward look Nathair entered the chamber.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN
MAQUIN
Maquin stared across the space of the arena at Orgull. His old Gadrai sword-brother walked straight-backed, though slowly, and favouring one leg.
How is it possible? Maquin thought. He should be dead, or crippled. His mind raced back to when he’d seen him last in Lykos’ chamber — Orgull hanging from the wall, chained, beaten, broken, his face a bloody ruin. How has he recovered so much? It is not possible. He took an involuntary step forwards.
The guards about Orgull fell away. Emad appeared from behind him carrying Orgull’s giant axe, the one he had taken from the tomb beneath Haldis.
Orgull should not be able to lift it, let alone wield it.
Orgull took the axe, holding it two-handed across his chest, and paced forward.
The volume of the crowd rose. Close by, Maquin heard cage bars rattling; he looked and saw a line of pit-fighters in a viewing cage. Javed amongst them. He looked back to Orgull.
They were only a dozen paces apart when they both stopped. Close up, Orgull was not as recovered as Maquin had thought. The left side of his face was a mass of puckered skin, burned and raw. One eye was gone, just a fold of wax-like flesh covering the place where it should have been. Teeth were missing, his body was scarred. He was standing straight, gripping his axe, but Maquin could see that took considerable effort. Sweat beaded Orgull’s face, and his limbs were trembling.
Even his voice was different, hissing through missing teeth and cracked lips. Almost nothing was left of the man from the time-before.
‘It’s good to see you, brother,’ Orgull said.
‘Orgull, what is this madness?’
‘They want you to kill me — me, the one who rose against them, slain by my former Gadrai brother. They’ve given me seed of the poppy, for the pain. My strength isn’t what it was, though.’
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Because death will be a sweet release. Every man has a limit, Maquin, and they have found mine.’ A tremor rippled through his voice. ‘And because I wanted to see you again. Talk to you.’
The cheering of the crowd grew louder, and Maquin looked to see Lykos entering the ring, flanked by Deinon and a handful of shieldmen. He was striding towards them.
‘Whatever you want to say, you’d best say it quick,’ Maquin hissed.
‘Kill me now; release me from this hell. Earn your freedom from slavery. I know you will seek out Jael, and I wish you well. If you succeed, though, do one thing for me.’
‘What?’
‘Find Meical, the man I told you about. Tell him I stayed true, to the end.’
Lykos was upon them then, arms raised, turning to take in the crowd.
He has become a showman. He knows how to manipulate and control people — that is for sure.
Maquin thought briefly about killing Lykos, after all the bastard had done to him, the hellish nightmare of the journey from Dun Kellen, branding him, taking his warrior braid, forcing him on this road to murder. The torture and breaking of his Gadrai brother. His grip tightened on his knives. Then he saw the guards — Deinon, Herak, Emad, a few others behind, all watching him, all tense, ready to move, as if they could read his mind.
I would not get close.
And then the moment had passed.
Even as Lykos finished his turn, one of his hands was creeping inside his cloak, searching for something.
Is it a knife? Is he so certain of being attacked at any moment?
‘This is the final contest of the day, on this most happy of days,’ Lykos yelled, the crowd quietening to a murmur. ‘Two sword-sworn brothers to compete. One the betrayer and renegade, against the old wolf, the fighter who has kept his honour, fought his way through all put before him. One will live, one will die; there is no other way out of the pit.’
Lykos has a strange idea of what honour is.
‘Begin,’ he called.
Orgull moved on him, jabbing with the butt-end of his axe. Maquin easily slipped out of its way, instinctively raising his two knives. He almost lunged into attack, so ingrained was his training; when he realized what he was doing he pulled back.
Orgull jabbed again, then with gritted teeth swung the axe in a two-handed blow. Maquin ducked, the blade whistling over his head. The crowd yelled their approval. Maquin danced back again. Behind him someone booed.
‘What are you doing?’ Orgull hissed. ‘We have to make this convincing for them.’ He rushed forward then, his axe swinging in looping arcs over his head, only Maquin seeing the spasm of pain that twisted his face.
Maquin retreated, using his knives to strike glancing blows on the axe haft, turning it as Vandil, their Gadrai captain, had taught them to turn a giant’s blows — not taking the brunt of them, but striking at angles, turning weapons, using their own momentum, changing angles with a twist of the wrist, a sliding blade.