‘Keep the faith, brother,’ Orgull gasped over his own heaving breaths. Maquin didn’t have the breath to answer, and didn’t know what he would have said if he had. What faith? Not in Elyon, the absent god. Not in justice, or right defeating wrong. Maybe in vengeance, in its power to keep my legs moving. He pictured Jael, gritted his teeth and increased his stride.
Herak let them rest a while after the run, gave them water. It was not long before they were led into a courtyard – this one cleared of debris, the floor bearing stains that looked suspiciously like old blood. Some marks never wash clean. More than anything the place resembled a weapons court; wooden weapons were stacked along one wall, different areas roped off.
‘First things first,’ Herak said as he stepped in front of them. ‘Most of you probably know your way around a sword and spear. But to use them you need space. In the pit, space is a stranger. Pit-fighting is close and personal – close as lovers.’ Some of the guards chuckled. The one called Emad nodded seriously. ‘For that you need to learn to use these.’ Herak lifted his arms and clenched his fists. ‘And this.’ He slapped his forehead. ‘And these,’ he touched his knees and pointed to his feet.
‘When you’ve learned how to use all of that, you’ll move on to this.’ He drew a knife, curved and wicked looking. ‘This’ll be your best friend in a pit-fight. Closer than kin. So, let’s begin. You, big man. Over here.’ He beckoned to Orgull.
Orgull walked over cautiously, his eyes fixed on Herak. Herak ushered him into one of the roped-off areas.
‘So, try and kill me,’ Herak said amicably.
Orgull frowned, then took a deep breath and swung a punch at Herak.
Herak deflected it easily, like swatting a fly. ‘Try harder,’ he said irritably.
Orgull snapped a combination of punches out. He was fluid, well balanced on his feet. He’s no stranger to the pugil ring. But Herak blocked or avoided the punches with little effort, swaying this way, the palm of his hand steering Orgull’s arm that way. He darted inside Orgull’s guard and slapped Orgull’s face, hard, then moved out of range, just as quickly.
He doesn’t look as if he should be able to move that fast.
Orgull scowled and moved after Herak, throwing a flurry of punches, one of them glancing off Herak’s shoulder. Herak laughed. ‘Better,’ he said. Then he weaved inside Orgull’s guard again, slammed two solid blows into Orgull’s gut and kidney, finished with an uppercut flush on Orgull’s chin as he bent from the gut blows. Orgull wobbled, then dropped to his knees.
‘Take a man’s legs away, and he’s as good as dead,’ Herak said to the watching crowd. ‘He is now disoriented, a little stunned, and his legs are still weak. He is ready for the kill.’
With no warning, Orgull exploded from the ground, his hands grasping Herak by the throat, fingers squeezing. They both staggered backwards, Orgull’s fingers gouging into Herak’s flesh. Herak started to turn purple, his eyes bulging, but to Maquin it still looked as if he was smiling. Slowly, he saw one of Herak’s hands move down, past Orgull’s belt. He clutched at Orgull’s groin, gave a sharp twist and the strength drained from Orgull in a heartbeat. He fell back onto the ground, curled like a baby, groaning.
‘When in trouble, always go for the stones,’ Herak said. ‘Good effort, though, big man. You’re faster than I thought.’ He reached down an arm and helped Orgull stand. ‘Remember, there’s no honour in the pit. Just living or dying. Don’t ever forget that.’
They spent the rest of the day sparring like this. Herak ordered them to avoid killing each other, with the incentive that if one died during the sparring, he would kill their partner. Maquin was teamed up with the small man who had asked most of the questions the night before. His name was Javed, a warrior from the land of Tarbesh, taken during a Vin Thalun raid. He was very fast, as Maquin found out all too soon.
Time passed like this, days merging, running, training, sparring, day after day. The weather grew cooler, though never truly cold, except at night, when the sky was free of cloud and stars shone sharp as ice. Maquin felt the aches of the first weeks begin to fade, replaced by a new strength in his body that he had never experienced. Not just strength, but a speed, flexibility and stamina that he thought he’d left behind with his youth. They had been taught hand-to-hand fighting skills that Maquin had never dreamed of: combinations of fist, knee and foot, as well as headbutting and biting. Anything goes in the pits, Herak was fond of saying. There are no rules. For a ten-night Herak made them spar tied wrist-to-wrist, said it was like that in the pits, where you could not escape another’s touch. It sounded more and more to Maquin as if Herak spoke from experience.