Valour (83 page)

Maquin spent a ten-night after the conflict in the arena languishing in the pit-fighters’ quarters, a stone block of a building close to the stables in Jerolin. He and
the other pit-fighters – five of them remaining of the ten who had survived that day on the Island of Nerin – had been left alone. Usually Herak or some of his other more trusted guards
would see them through a daily training session, but not since Orgull’s shocking turn. Food and drink came at regular intervals, but that was all.

Maquin felt as if he was going mad, the sheer boredom gnawing at him. He had no idea if Orgull was still alive, though that was unlikely. It was clear to Maquin that Deinon had stayed
Lykos’ hand that day in the arena, saving Orgull’s life.

Not out of kindness, though. Not a chance of that. Probably so they could hang Orgull up somewhere and make him scream at their leisure.

He was sitting on a stone bench when he heard the keys rattling in the main door. Light shafted in as the door opened, Herak’s unmistakable shape standing outlined in the entrance.

‘On your feet, fighters,’ he called.

They gathered quickly – Maquin, Javed and the few others who had survived this far. They all had the same look of bottled energy mixed with despair.

A dangerous combination.

‘Follow,’ Herak ordered and turned on his heel.

Maquin blinked as he stepped into the daylight, even though it was weak, filtered through slate-grey clouds overhead. He noticed guards closing behind them as they all left their prison. Emad,
the tall guard from Pelset, was one of them.

Herak led them through wide streets. Maquin saw Vin Thalun warriors on every corner, the occasional man in the black and silver of Tenebral. Then they were walking into the keep, through a
feast-hall, up a winding staircase. At the top Herak nodded to guardsmen and a door was opened; all of them were ushered into a large chamber. Maquin pulled up short.

Orgull was hanging from shackles on the wall. He was naked apart from a stained loincloth, his body a tapestry of pain. One side of his face was fire scarred, blistered and weeping, his eye a
ruin of twisted skin and flesh. His torso and legs were criss-crossed with cuts and weals, a combination of whip and blade. Someone had taken their time on him. Mercifully he was unconscious, his
head hanging limp, chest rhythmically rising and falling.

Maquin looked away, feeling his stomach buck. Then he looked back, ashamed of himself. This was his sword-brother, the closest thing to a friend that he had left. As if feeling his eyes, Orgull
stirred. A groan, then a shifting of his weight, taking the strain on his wrists bound above his head, a ripple in his thighs, a tension in his neck.

Sleep longer, brother.

‘Welcome,’ a voice said, drawing his attention.

It was Lykos, leaning casually against a desk. Five chests were placed on the ground before him. Deinon hovered in the shadows.

‘My apologies for neglecting you all, the past ten-night,’ Lykos said. ‘There have been distractions.’

‘What distractions?’ Javed asked.

One day your questions are going to get you a knife in the belly
, Maquin thought.

‘That’s none of your concern,’ Lykos said. ‘They’re dealt with now, anyway. What does concern you is what I have to say.’ He paused, one hand reaching inside
the recesses of his cloak. Maquin saw the outline of his hand close about something. Lykos didn’t seem to be aware that he was doing anything; something about the whole gesture seemed
habitual.

‘You’ve done well,’ Lykos continued. ‘More than well, living this long, surviving the pits. You’re close to earning your freedom, all of you. See these
chests.’ Lykos walked to each one, kicking them open. They were stuffed to brimming with gold coins. ‘Each one is what we’ve earned from you. You’ve made us rich.’

He walked back to the desk and poured himself a cup of wine, taking a long drink.

Freedom.
The word hit Maquin like a blow, making his dizzy. Jael’s face floated into his mind, sneering at him, as always.

‘One more fight you all have. Win and you’ve earned your freedom. Win and I’ll give you a pouch of gold each from these chests. And I’ll make you an offer to think on,
too. I want you to join me – join my crew. Sail with me. Swear a blood-oath to me. What you see in these chests is nothing to what’s in my future. Those who stay close to me are going
to be rich men, and I don’t mean just gold: land, men, women, respect.’

‘One more fight,’ Maquin said.

‘Aye, that’s right. So let’s not get ahead of ourselves, eh?’

‘When?’ asked Javed.

‘A ten-night, maybe a little longer. You’ll go back to your training from the morrow.’

‘Who are we fighting?’ Maquin asked.

‘Whoever I put in front of you,’ Lykos said. ‘Just remember: obey me and you may end up with this.’ He nudged one of the open chests with a toe. ‘Cross me and
you’ll likely end up like him.’ He pointed at Orgull. ‘That’s all I have to say.’

Herak opened the door and waved them out. Maquin looked back as he reached the door. Orgull was looking at him with his one good eye. His lips moved, only a sigh coming out.

‘Get on,’ Herak ordered, pushing Maquin into the corridor. The door slammed shut.

Maquin lay back on his cot, hands laced behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He wanted to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes he saw Orgull’s ruined face. Saw
his lips moving, a silent plea. He hadn’t heard the words, but he was sure what Orgull had mouthed to him across the room.

Kill me.

Veradis stood beside Rhin and Conall. Behind them stood the combined warbands of Cambren and Tenebral, waiting. Amongst them were also two dozen wains, on open display and
filled to overflowing with bread.

Smoke billowed from a dozen points within the walls of Dun Taras. Throughout the night rioting had been heard, even the clash of arms close to the gate, so a watch had been set, warriors put on
alert to storm the gates at the first hint of them opening.

‘It will not be long,’ Rhin said to Veradis. ‘Conall was the nudge that they needed.’

I think she’s right. Shrewd and sharp; a good ally, a fearful enemy.

The sounds grew as the day lengthened, the roar of rioting drifting closer, then ebbing away. Eventually, around highsun, the noise reached a crescendo, the screams of pitched battle drifting
over the walls. Then a shiver ran through the gates and they swung open.

A roar went up from the warriors behind Veradis.

‘Slowly,’ Rhin called. ‘We are their deliverers, not their conquerors.’

Riders pulled in close about Rhin and then she moved off, entering through Dun Taras’ gates to shouting and cheering. The wains followed in a line behind; Conall and a handful of other
warriors leaned to grab loaves of bread and throw them into the crowd.

Veradis marched behind the wains, three hundred of his men massed behind him. All of them were alert, tense. Behind them came more of Rhin’s warband, spreading into the crowds, searching
the side streets, up stairwells and onto the walls. The wains stopped at points along the way, quickly emptying to pushing and shoving crowds, then reversed slowly out of the fortress to be
refilled. The crowds thinned about Rhin and Veradis as they pushed deeper into Dun Taras, aiming for the keep.

We are being greeted with open arms right now, but I don’t think all feel the same way in this fortress.

As if Veradis’ thoughts willed them out of the shadows, a band of warriors appeared from a side street and hurled themselves at Rhin’s shieldmen. There was a brief clash, a few of
Rhin’s men were dragged from saddles, but the attackers were quickly repulsed. Veradis and his men drew closer together, not yet a shield wall, but ready.

Then they were at the keep.

There was a stillness, an emptiness that set Veradis’ skin prickling. That moment when the wind dies, just before a storm breaks.

‘Be ready,’ he said to Bos.

Rhin stopped in the courtyard, her men fanning out before her. The keep doors were shut, but when warriors pushed on them they swung open freely. A score of Rhin’s men entered, more, then
like a wave. Then there was a concussive bang, air blasting from the open doors, followed by an explosion of heat and flames. A handful of men staggered out, human torches, the stench of seared
flesh filling the courtyard. Veradis felt his stomach lurch.

‘No one’s going in that way for a while,’ Bos said beside him.

Geraint appeared with more men in his wake. He sent scouts around the keep, searching out other entrances. They soon returned with more reports of ambushes and traps, barricaded corridors, more
fires. Conall forged ahead anyway, leading a few score warriors into one of the entrances. Veradis settled his men in the courtyard. While he was proud to be involved in any battle, to represent
Nathair and honour the alliance, he was not about to lead his men into a potential fiery death. So he waited.

The fires in the keep’s feast-hall guttered out a little before sunset. Other reports came back that pitched fighting was occurring as Geraint’s men moved deeper into the
building.

‘Time to go in,’ Veradis said and marched into the keep, shield held high, his short sword drawn, his men following suit.

In the feast-hall timbers still smoked, amongst them the blackened remains of Rhin’s warriors. Veradis found an arched doorway and led his men out of the hall into a wide, high corridor.
Archways branched off it, entrances to other corridors, the sounds of battle drifting out to them. Veradis kept going. Every closed doorway was tried, opened, rooms searched. Nothing. As they
progressed deeper into the keep a thought hit him.

This corridor isn’t barricaded or defended because of the fire in the feast-hall. That was barrier enough. But whoever set it must have known it would burn out, eventually.
Then he
understood.

These are not the efforts of a last defence; they’re delaying tactics.

They came to the end of the corridor, a broad stairway before them leading up and down, one last wooden door beside it.

‘Check inside, Bos. Then we’ll split the men – half up, half down, though I’m starting to think there’s no one here to find. I think old King Eremon has flown this
coop.’

Bos turned the iron ring, pushed the door open and stepped inside. There was a brief pause, then a wet
thunk
, a grunt and Veradis saw Bos drop to the floor.

No.

Time slowed. He saw a blade stab down into Bos’ back, between shoulder blade and neck, saw Bos’ leg twitching. Veradis heard himself shouting, felt himself slamming into the door,
hurling it open as he leaped over Bos’ prostrate form and knocked Bos’ attacker stumbling back into the room. A pool of blood was growing around his friend’s head and
shoulders.

Veradis lifted his shield high, felt an impact and swerved away from the door, instinctively making room for his men, knowing they would be following close behind him.

A warrior swung at his head with a sword. Veradis took the blow on his shield, flung the blade wide, slashed once across the man’s gut, his sword turning on chainmail, then stabbed high,
catching the man in the throat, sending him tumbling backwards in a spray of blood.

It was a large chamber, with only a few men standing at its far end – ten, maybe twelve. One was an old man, his shoulder bandaged, holding a longsword in one hand, a knife in the other.
He limped as he stepped forwards. Between him and Veradis the room was littered with furniture – tables, overturned chairs, huge chests.

‘No room for your wall of shields in here,’ the old warrior said. ‘Let’s see if you can fight like
real
warriors.’

‘Brave words, for so few of you,’ Veradis said.

‘I am Rath, and these are the Degad, my giant-killers. We’ve fought a lot worse than you.’

Over a score of his eagle-guard were already in the room. Soon they would be as squashed as the warriors that ended piled against his shield wall. He yelled an order, making them wait, his eyes
drawn to the still form of Bos lying on the ground.

‘We’ve slain giants of our own,’ Veradis said and moved forward.

Warriors surged past Rath, howling, swords raised high. They met his eagle-guard with a savage crash.

A great longsword split Veradis’ shield. The blade stuck a handspan from his wrist; he threw the shield and stabbed the swordsman in the belly, shouldering past him as he sank to the
floor, switching his short sword to his left hand and drawing his longsword at his hip. He lost himself in each moment, revelling in it, in finding a man to look in the eye, knowing that within
heartbeats one of them would be the victor, the other dead. He had not fought like this for so long; there was a beauty in it, somehow, a passion that was missing from the cold ferocity of the
shield wall. All about him was a chaos of movement, men yelling and screaming, swords grating and sparking, blood making the floor run slick.