‘Where are we going?’ one man called out. Maquin heard the dull crunch of a club breaking bone.
No questions, then. I do not need to ask, though. I can guess where we are going.
They marched through streets bordered by houses of sun-dried brick, roofed with reeds. Children chased along behind them, some throwing things — bits of food, stones, sticks, until they were chased away by one of the men with clubs. The children laughed as they went, and soon reformed, like a swarm of flies.
Broken walls loomed ahead of them and they passed beneath an archway carved from white stone. More Vin Thalun stood before them with short, curved swords in their hands. They were standing guard before a wide and deep stairwell, leading steeply down, beneath the ground. Silently they moved down, the walls closing in about them, the shuffle of their feet echoing, the air thankfully cool after the unbearable heat.
Soon the stairwell opened up into an underground chamber, with large iron bowls crackling with fire attached to the walls. There were crowds down here, all gathered around holes in the ground. Big holes, and lots of them, too many to count — forty? Sixty? Many of the men about them were holding torches high.
The fighting pits.
Maquin saw other men, under guard like him, being pushed to the edge of the pits and thrown in. For a moment he thought he saw Orgull amongst them. The same thing was going on all around the chamber: groups of men thrown into different holes, crowds closing about them, bags of coin waved in the air, changing hands.
The barrel-chested man who had entered the courtyard first turned and looked at them.
‘You are going into those pits. You will fight and live. Or you will die. Those of you that come out alive will feast like kings tonight.’ He looked at his men and nodded. Maquin smelt the acid tang of urine as someone’s bladder loosened close by.
Quickly the line of captives was divided up into smaller groups and Maquin was herded to the edge of a pit. He only had a brief chance to look down before he was shoved from behind and then he was falling. He landed on something soft, or someone, heard a crack, then a scream as he was rolling off, crouching low on his haunches, unsure what to expect. He looked about wildly, fists clenched.
The pit was too deep to climb out of, roughly circular in shape. The bowls of fire from above sent light flickering into the pit, but there were areas of shadow. Instinctively, he counted those with him. Eight other men had been thrown in, all looking about, some at him, all with the same sense of panic, wildness. Then a figure was looming over the edge of the pit, the same barrel-chested man, holding a sack.
‘Nine of you in there. Four knives in this bag.’ He emptied it, the knives clanging as they hit the ground.
Briefly there was silence, utter stillness. Then men were bursting into motion around him. Maquin was still frozen. I don’t want to fight. To become their entertainment. But he did not want to die, either. He stepped back into the shadows as the screaming began.
Men were wrestling, punching, gouging, scratching. One was on his knees, screaming, hands at his stomach trying to stop his guts from spilling about his fingers. Even as Maquin watched, the man toppled to his side, his screaming fading to a mewling, his feet twitching.
Maquin became aware of yelling up above him, at the pit’s rim. He glanced up, not wanting to take his eyes off the men gone mad on the pit floor. Some of the Vin Thalun had seen him hiding in the shadows, were shouting and pointing. One threw a lit torch, its flame leaving a writhing trail through the air as it fell. It landed right at his feet, sparks flaring. It sputtered but kept burning, banishing the shadows that had cloaked him.
A man in the pit saw him. He was gore spattered, a knife clutched in one hand, red to the hilt. They locked eyes and then the man was charging, knife held low.
Without thinking, Maquin snatched up the flaming torch and sidestepped as the man lunged at him. He thrust the torch out, felt a lance of pain as the knife scored along his ribs, heard a sizzle, heard the man scream as he ground the torch harder into his attacker’s face.
The man’s arms waved and Maquin grabbed the wrist holding the knife, pulled the torch back and swung it down. Flames caught in the man’s hair and he staggered back, dropping the knife. Maquin snatched it up, saw his attacker careen into another pair of men locked in combat. The three of them went down.
Something slammed into Maquin’s side and he fell, a weight on top of him. Foul breath washed over him and fingers reached for his throat, his eyes. There was a sharp pain in his shoulder as the man bit him. He stabbed with the knife, felt it turn against ribs, stabbed again, lower, punching into flesh. Blood gushed hot over his fist. His attacker gasped, tried to pull away, but Maquin held him, kept striking with the knife until the struggles faded, the man going limp, a dead weight upon him.
He pushed the body off and rolled to his feet, his shoulder throbbing, his ribs feeling on fire. Something warm and wet trickled down to his waist. His own blood. He did not have time to check how bad his wounds were.
There was one other man left alive in the pit. He recognized him — the pock-marked warrior from Dun Kellen. He too held a knife, blood dripping from it. Half of his face was blood spattered.
Live or die? a voice whispered in Maquin’s head. Drop the knife. You have lost all. Keep your honour and accept death.
The memory of a face formed in his mind, a mocking smile. Jael. Lykos’ words from the beach returned to him. You want your revenge? Then fight for it. Jael’s face merged with the man in front of him.
I am not ready to die.
Maquin raised his knife and moved forwards. Cheering erupted from the top of the pit, but Maquin barely registered it. He slipped to the side as his opponent stabbed, swept his own knife in, raking a red line along the man’s shoulder, then they were out of each other’s range, crouched, circling.
Maquin lunged, grabbing for his opponent’s wrist, stabbing at the same time. The man twisted, avoiding Maquin’s knife, trying to tug his wrist from Maquin’s grip. They staggered about the pit, pulled apart, slammed together. Maquin headbutted him in the face. Cartilage crunched, blood spurted and the man staggered, his legs wobbling. Maquin stayed close, moving with his opponent. He headbutted him again and the man dropped to the floor. Then Maquin’s knife was raking across his opponent’s throat. Blood spurted and Maquin stepped back, watched the man topple and die.
More cheers came from the pit’s edge.
Maquin staggered back a few steps, dropped the knife and sank to the ground. He put his head in his hands and wept.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
FIDELE
Fidele walked out of the shade of Ripa’s hall into the sunshine. It was autumn now, but here in the south of Tenebral summer lingered. Only a chill to the sea breeze hinted at the changing seasons. She strode down the steps and through a courtyard, beneath wide wooden gates and onto the plain beyond, her shieldman Orcus at her heels. It was here that Krelis trained his warband in the shield wall.
Men were lined up on the field, gripping their great round shields, while a small clump of men yelled orders at them. Krelis stood tall amongst them. The warriors raised their shields, interlocking them so that they became a solid wall. Other men ran and battered against the shields. A horn blast and the shield wall was moving forwards, those before it falling or giving way. Some fled to the flanks of the wall, where they renewed their assault. Another horn blast rang out and the shield wall rippled as men from the back reinforced the flanks. It worked well enough, repulsing the attackers, though something about the movement looked ragged.