Valour (79 page)

‘Yes, yes.’

Veradis breathed out a sigh and felt a measure of tension melt away.

‘May I ask, what troubles you, my lady?’ he said.

‘Is it that obvious?’ She frowned.

Veradis shrugged.

‘At Dun Vaner I had a prisoner brought to me, caught as he was crossing the mountains into Cambren. It was this Corban, the one that your King seeks.’

‘What was he doing there?’

‘He was chasing after his sister. Somehow he knew she was with Nathair.’

Cywen.
Unbidden, her face flashed into his mind. She was always tear-stained in his memory, always so sad.

‘What did you do with him? Nathair will be grateful for your help.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Rhin said with a twist of her lips. ‘He was rescued. I only just escaped with my life.’

‘How? What happened?’

A look crossed her face, harrowed, scared even. ‘That doesn’t matter now. I have sent a large force north to deal with them.’ Her eyes became unfocused, then she shivered and
sat straighter. ‘There is nothing more to be done about that now. Let us get on with the business of conquering Domhain. So . . .’ She smiled at him, something of her usual spark
returning. ‘Geraint tells me you broke the back of Domhain’s warband and sent them scurrying back here.’

He didn’t answer that, just took a sip from the drink in front of him.

‘I shall have to think of a way to reward you.’ Rhin’s smile deepened.

Dear Elyon in heaven, no.

‘So now we have all the rats in this trap, how are we going to finish them?’ Rhin said. ‘Eremon is the key, I think. I am told he is generally kept in hand by his wife, Roisin,
and she is less popular amongst the people than Eremon. Perhaps it is time to go and talk to them, see if a few moons of empty bellies have made them more receptive to negotiation.’

‘What have you in mind?’ Veradis asked.

‘Him,’ she said, pointing a bony finger at Conall. ‘He is Eremon’s bastard – the blood of a king flows in his veins. Why not make him a king – one who will
bend the knee to me, of course, High Queen of the West. He is young, handsome, strong, full of . . .
vigour
.’ She paused, a sly smile twitching her lips. ‘Eremon is in the
twilight of his reign and his heir is only a boy – fourteen, fifteen summers?’

‘He will be fifteen now,’ Conall said.

‘I think our offer will be quite tempting to those inside the walls of Dun Taras. Not to Roisin or her brat, of course, but to most of the rest. Especially if food is part of the bargain.
And peace, of course.’

Never underestimate this one. Her mind’s as sharp as any of us in this tent, probably sharper.

Vin Thalun warriors walked before Maquin, the crowds parting around them. Dimly he was aware of them, of the iron-grey clouds overhead, the cold air snatching at his skin. It
all merged, a semi-conscious blur as his eyes focused on the space opening before him, a ring of turf churned to mud, tiered rows rising about it, crammed with shouting people. At the ring’s
centre stood a tall post, iron chains hanging from it. Beside it was a basket with weapons poking from it: a spear, a sword, maybe more.

He saw a huddle of men emerge from the far side, herded by Vin Thalun behind them.

Maquin sprinted for the basket.

There were three at least, maybe more. They saw Maquin charging towards them; he registered the confusion in their eyes before they realized he was heading for the basket of weapons, not them.
One started running for it, others behind him were slower.

Maquin reached the basket first. He grabbed the spear and hurled it into the baying crowd; before its flight was completed he was reaching back into the basket, pulling out the remaining sword
and knife. Then he stepped past it to meet his attackers.

The first one saw he was too late and tried to slow, twisting away, his feet slithering on the muddy ground. Maquin’s sword caught him in the head as he dropped, just above the ear. The
blade stuck, the weight of the lifeless body dragging it out of Maquin’s hands. He stepped over the twitching corpse, switching the knife from left hand to right.

There were three more. They spread about him cautiously. Maquin could see the raw rope wounds on their wrists – his own had healed to silver scars – recent captives, then, not long
come to the Vin Thalun fighting pits.

He surged at the central man, not wanting to give the group a chance to circle him. He ducked swooping arms, a blow glanced off his shoulder; he collided with his opponent, his momentum burying
his knife to the hilt in the man’s belly. He ripped up, at the same time spun away, turning to face the sound of approaching feet.

This one was almost upon him. He saw a blur of movement, dropped to his knees, a hooked punch whistling over his head. Then he rolled forwards, slashed with his knife as he passed the man. He
felt it bite, came out of his roll on the balls of his feet and stood.

A thin line scored the man’s calf, blood sheeting down. Maquin advanced, the man retreating, hands held high, backing past the man whom Maquin had just gutted, lying in a pool of
glistening entrails. Behind him Maquin saw another figure, stooping over the corpse that had a sword lodged in its skull.

The man before him lunged forwards, perhaps seeing Maquin’s distraction. One hand clamped around Maquin’s wrist, pinning the knife, the other reached for his throat.

Maquin pulled backwards, using the weight of his enemy’s desperate rush to send them both crashing to the ground. The man flew over Maquin’s head, helped along by his boot. With a
twist of his body Maquin was rising, surging forwards. He punched his knife into the man’s chest as he slipped in the churned ground.

The last survivor was still tugging at the sword stuck in the dead man’s skull as Maquin approached him.

He was young, surely not much past his Long Night, downy wisps on his chin where a beard should be. He tugged harder as Maquin drew closer, putting a foot on the dead man’s face.

A spear thudded into the ground close to the lad’s feet, laughter rippling the pit. It was the spear Maquin had hurled away. The lad gave up his tugging at the sword and desperately
grabbed the spear shaft, pointing it at Maquin. It shook.

Maquin refused to care, just kept advancing. The lad lunged and Maquin twisted, the spear-blade scoring a thin line along his upper chest and shoulder. Then with one hand he gripped the spear
shaft and he powered forwards. The lad pulled on the spear, then collapsed with Maquin’s knife in his eye.

Maquin watched the boy drop to the ground, his eyes drawn to him, a collapsed heap, limbs twisted. Whatever the spark of life was, it was instantly snuffed out; now he was just an empty bag of
meat and bones.

What have I become?

He sat on a bench beside Javed, the small pit-fighter from Tarbesh. They were grouped with a handful of other pit-fighters – the elite, as Herak had started calling them
– looking through iron bars into the ring where Maquin had just fought. He wiped something from his face, mud or blood, he did not know.

He looked through the broad timber struts at the plain and fortress of Jerolin on its hill.
I have been here before. The council of King Aquilus. It didn’t look like this then.
He
had been here a while now; after the sea journey it was another ten-night of hard rowing up a river before they had reached Jerolin’s lake. They had not been the first ship to arrive, nor the
last. A small fleet of Vin Thalun war-galleys now spread across the horizon and their warriors were thick around the fortress and town.

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.