Quinn’s arm moved again, a downward jerk this time. He checked it somehow, a handspan from the table, pausing the flood.
It’s over, Farrell’s won. Corban felt a grin slipping onto his face.
Then Farrell grunted, a shiver running through him. His head lolled and Quinn’s arm slowly rose again, their fists back at midpoint. Farrell shifted, his head coming up, glaring at his arm as if it had betrayed him. Long moments passed, frozen in time, then Farrell’s head dipped again, and suddenly Quinn’s arm was forcing Farrell’s back, ever lower. With a final roar, the strength seemed to drain from Farrell and Quinn was punching the air in victory.
Farrell just sat there, staring at his hand, clenching and unclenching his fingers.
Quinn caught hold of Coralen, who had stayed nearby. He pulled her close, kissing her hard. She struggled in his grip, stamped on his foot and elbowed him in the face.
Farrell lunged across the table, grabbing Quinn’s wrist.
‘Let her go,’ Farrell growled.
Quinn let go of Coralen and swung a fist at Farrell, catching him high on the temple.
Corban leaped forwards, vaulting the table as Farrell sagged to the ground. He crashed into Quinn, sending him stumbling backwards.
‘Stay behind me,’ he said to Coralen and pushed forwards, fists raised.
Don’t punch at all if you can help it, he heard his father’s voice, clear as if he were standing next to him, but if you must, punch first and punch hardest.
Quinn swung at him and Corban ducked, still moving forwards, slammed a fist into Quinn’s belly and sent a hook to his chin. The big man staggered and a straight right sent him toppling backwards.
That should do it.
Quinn climbed to his feet, blood running from his nose.
‘So it’s a fight you’re wanting,’ he said, his fists bunching. He spat blood.
Oh dear.
Then men were moving everywhere, some gathering about Quinn, others closing beside Corban — Gar, Halion, Dath, Vonn. Others. A sound rose over them all, silencing the clamour. A deep rumbling.
Storm, growling.
Corban felt her brush past him, place herself in the space between Corban and Quinn, teeth bared, slavering. Quinn took an involuntary step backwards. His hand moved to his sword hilt. There was a moment when all was still, violence hanging in the air. Then a figure stepped between them — Rath, a handful of his giant-killers with him.
‘Best save it for Rhin,’ he said. ‘And you’d better calm that beast down.’
Corban touched Storm and she stopped growling.
Quinn wiped blood from his face, then grinned. ‘These southerners are too serious; and that one can’t take his drink.’ He waved at Farrell, then turned and walked into the crowd.
‘Well, aren’t you the brave one?’ a voice said. Corban turned and Maeve was there, standing uncomfortably close. ‘You just put the first-sword of Domhain on his arse. Think that deserves a kiss.’
She pressed her lips to his, her arms wrapping around his waist, and for a moment the world went blank, shrinking to the taste of wine on Maeve’s breath, the sensation of her lips against his. Then someone was pulling him. He spun to see Coralen glaring at him. She slapped him hard across the face.
‘I’m no maiden to be saved; I can look after myself,’ she spat at him.
‘I know you can,’ he spluttered.
‘So why did you do that? Fight my fight?’
Because. .’ He shrugged. Why did I do that? ‘The same reason they were all at my side.’ He gestured to Gar and the others. ‘We look after each other. Because you’re a friend.’
That stopped her a moment, her mouth open but nothing coming out. Then her eyes slipped to Maeve.
‘Enjoy your victory,’ she said with a sneer and walked away.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
MAQUIN
Maquin sat at a table brimming with food and drink: bowls of fruits — oranges, figs, plums — olives, meats, as well as eels and squid and anchovies, warm flatbread and jugs of watered wine to wash it all down with. Maquin had tasted wine like it when in Jerolin and hadn’t liked it. Now, though, after his months of gruel whilst chained to an oar, it all tasted like a feast made for kings.
He felt sick, though, his stomach sending him pains of warning. He swiped grease from his beard and leaned back in his chair.
He was not alone at the table; at least fifty or sixty other men were also stuffing their bellies to overflowing. They were the survivors, the victors, of the fighting pits. Maquin had seen Orgull sitting further along, too far away to talk to. The big man had tried to catch his eye, but Maquin had looked away. He still felt ashamed of what he had done in the pit, what he had become, and he knew Orgull would share his disgust.
He has killed today, just as I have.
This all felt like a dream.
Men were standing in the shadows, guarding the men and women bringing the food and fresh jugs of wine. One pit slave grabbed a woman and dragged her onto his lap. He was quickly taught that he had crossed a line — his arm was held flat on the table and a finger broken.
The servants were left alone after that.
A man walked into the chamber, the barrel-chested man who had led Maquin to the pit.
‘I am Herak,’ the barrel-chested man said. ‘I am your mother, your father, your sister and brother. I am the closest thing to family you will have here.’ He smiled at them all. ‘And you are my children. I am going to train you, discipline you. No doubt I will have to punish you, and I hope that I will have cause to reward you.’ He waved a hand at the table. ‘You have done well today, and for some of you this will just be the beginning.’
‘Beginning of what?’ a man said, small, dark skinned.
‘Of your new lives. You belong to the Vin Thalun now. As you have started, so you will continue. You will fight for us in the pits. You will kill for us and make us rich.’ He nodded, grinning at that. ‘And some of you will earn your freedom. Emad, step forward.’ One of the guards moved closer, huge, as big as Orgull, with skin as dark as the small man who had just spoken. His beard was knotted full of rings.
‘Emad came here as you did — an oar slave. He was fifteen summers then. How long ago was that, Emad?’
‘Nine years,’ the big man said.
‘Nine years. He fought in the pits and earned his freedom. He was given a choice and chose to join my family. You could do the same — or a ship’s crew, or just walk away, if that is what you wish. You will fight for your freedom, and that is what we will give you.’
‘Fight who?’ the small man asked.
‘Whoever is in front of you.’ Herak shrugged. ‘I will train you now. Most of you think you know how to fight, but I promise you, you do not. Yet. Then we shall put you against the pit-fighters of the other islands — Nerin and Pelset. If you live that long, then we shall talk of what comes next. That is all. I shall see you on the morrow.’
He turned and strode from the chamber. Maquin felt his stomach lurch and only had time to lean in his chair before he vomited onto the tiled floor.
Maquin spent the night in a cell underground, part of the labyrinthine complex that formed the fighting pits. He was led out into the ruins that he had seen before, the sunshine making him blink, and given breakfast along with the men from last night’s feast. He did not indulge, only chewed on some fried goat’s meat and warm bread. He washed it down with water.
Herak greeted them with a score of guards. Maquin didn’t like the look of the whips wound at their belts, or the wicked-looking knives that they all carried.