‘I call . . .’ Maquin coughed on his words, hawked and spat. ‘I call you out,’ he said, little more than a whisper. ‘I challenge you, to the Court of Swords.’
Jael threw his head back and laughed. A deep, genuine sound. He wiped his eyes. ‘I think it is a little late for that. In case you are not clear: you have already lost.’ There was more laughter at that.
‘I challenge you to the Court of Swords,’ Maquin said again, louder. ‘I do not expect you to accept. You are afraid. A coward, dung that I would scrape from my boot.’
‘Be careful,’ Jael said, his expression hardening, ‘before your jest loses its humour.’
‘A coward – as you have always been,’ Maquin continued, aware now that others were listening, people moving closer to hear. ‘I have watched you grow, seen you pick always on the weaker man. You are a coward, a traitor, you have betrayed your own kin. Kastell you stabbed in the back, too scared to face him. I saw.’
‘I did not,’ Jael roared, angry, looking about at the gathering crowd.
‘And your victories – given to you like crumbs from your better’s table. These men –’ he looked to those on the bridge that had come from the ships – ‘Nathair’s men? Of course they are. There are few warriors in Isiltir who would follow you.’
Jael backhanded him across the face. He swayed but managed to remain upright.
‘Put a sword in my hand. Face me, as a man. Look at me – beaten bloody – yet you are still too scared to face me.’
‘Unchain him and give him a blade,’ Jael snarled at Ulfilas as he stepped back and drew his sword.
Ulfilas moved hesitantly forwards and helped Maquin stand.
‘Why do you follow him?’ Maquin whispered. Ulfilas looked sharply at him, then looked away. He fumbled at the chains about Maquin’s wrists.
‘I have no key.’
‘Just put a sword in my hand,’ Maquin said. ‘I’ll still win.’ He knew that he would not, had seen Jael spar many times in the weapons court at Mikil. But at least he would die that much closer to his dream, not chained to an oar, a thousand leagues from home.
‘Do as he says,’ Jael yelled, spittle flying.
Maquin smiled. He had witnessed Jael goading Kastell many times over the years, Jael always with that maddening smile on his lips. It was not there now. It was nice that at the end he at least had this small victory.
A crowd had pulled in about them now. Even some amongst the chained warriors along the wall were standing, trying to see the confrontation. Some called out encouragements to Maquin, or jeered at Jael.
There was a pushing and shoving further back in the crowd, men moving to let someone through. It was the leader of the ship men: Lykos, Maquin had heard him called. Behind him strode a lean warrior, his face disfigured, part of his nose missing. He led a man by a chain. Orgull.
His friend was bleeding from a hundred cuts, all small wounds, his face bruised and swollen. He shuffled behind his captor, head bowed.
‘What’s happening here?’ Lykos asked Jael.
‘I am going to teach him some truths,’ Jael said, his rage adding a tremor to his voice.
‘What truths?’
‘That I am no coward, and that I am the better swordsman.’
‘He is in chains,’ Lykos said. ‘And close to collapse; look at him. You will prove nothing fighting him now. And besides, he is not yours to kill. He is my captive, remember?’
‘He has insulted me; I will not ignore that.’
Lykos frowned and stepped close to Maquin, studying him. ‘You have the death wish upon you. You want to die – I can see it in your eyes.’
Maquin just stared back at him.
Lykos grinned. ‘He is baiting you, Jael. He wishes to die and is using you.’
‘Then I will grant him his wish,’ Jael said, stepping forwards.
‘No, you will not,’ Lykos said, a harshness in his voice. ‘He is mine, and I do not want you to kill him.’
‘I am king here,’ Jael said.
‘Not yet,’ Lykos replied. He stepped in close to Jael and whispered in his ear. Maquin strained to hear, but could catch nothing of it. But he did see Jael’s expression change – from anger to fear. Jael stepped away.
‘Have him; he is yours, a gift from me,’ Jael said.
‘Run away, coward,’ Maquin said, seeing his opportunity slipping away.
Jael smiled at him, that familiar, maddening smile. ‘But, Lykos, some advice. Kill him soon. Otherwise he is likely to bring you bad luck, as he has his previous masters.’
‘I am more than his master,’ Lykos said. ‘I am his owner. He drew a knife from his belt and stepped close to Maquin. He grabbed a handful of Maquin’s hair and cut it with his knife, then opened his palm for Maquin to see.
His warrior braid.
‘You are mine, my property, a warrior no longer.’
The warrior who was leading Orgull turned and did the same, cutting Orgull’s warrior braid from his beard. All along the line of captives the same thing happened.
‘Now let’s get these useless piles of dung onto the ships,’ Lykos yelled, pushing Maquin. ‘You’ve got a long way to row.’
Laughter ran through the ship men.