Maquin rolled his shoulders after the ring was clamped shut; a thickset smith twisted the iron pin that bound it. It felt like his warrior torc, which had been taken from him by Lykos after the battle of Dun Kellen.
Herak was standing beside the smith. ‘That’ll be cut from you on the morrow, from your dead body or your living one.’ He slapped Maquin’s shoulder. ‘I think you’ll be one of the living. Lykos told me about you, old wolf.’
Maquin didn’t say anything. He went and sat on a cot, sipping a cup of water, watching. Herak spoke with every man, relaxed, friendly even, like a comrade-in-arms.
I hate him. He builds them up, grooms them, us, for his own purposes.
When they were all done, fifty-six men bound with iron, Herak stood before them again.
‘There is food here for you. If you survive the morrow, it means you have become a champion of Panos, and that you have defeated Nerin and Pelset. That will make me very happy.’ He grinned at them. ‘I hope I will be rewarding you. Enjoy your meal.’ He walked from the room and looked back as the iron gates were locked. ‘It may be your last.’
It was dark when Maquin woke, but then he realized he was underground and most of the torches had burned out in the night. He lay there, listening to other men sleeping, snoring. Eventually he sat up; there was enough light from beyond the barred gates to pick his way to the table and pour himself a cup of water.
Soft footfalls sounded behind him and Orgull loomed close. Maquin passed him a cup. The moons of rowing and training had taken their toll on him, too, his body lean and striated, his face looking stretched, his bald head skull-like.
‘We could work together, today,’ Orgull said quietly, little more than a breath. ‘We are still sword-brothers.’
Maquin wasn’t sure if Orgull was making a statement or asking a question. He nodded, though. Working together made sense, was practical, and that was what his life had been distilled down to. The practicalities of staying alive.
‘Good, then,’ Orgull said and slipped back into the shadows.
The roar of the crowd was deafening.
They were standing behind an iron-barred gate, looking out into a great ring, rough stone walls rising two or three times the height of a man, then tiered rows spreading above them, climbing higher. The tiers were full of people, shouting, laughing, drinking, betting. Sunlight poured in from above, making Maquin blink, though in truth it was weak, holding little warmth.
Herak appeared, flanked by Emad and another guard, holding a great iron key.
‘There will be weapons in there – be quick, get them first. Kill or be killed.’ He put the key in the lock, then waited.
A hush fell in the great pit, heartbeats marking time. Then a gong rang out, booming off the stone walls. Herak turned the key, the gate swung open, and the men rushed through.
Maquin was carried along in the crush of it, spilling out onto the hard-packed earth.
He stepped to the side, moving out of the momentum, saw doors opening across the ring, men pouring from them like water through sluice-gates. Littered on the ground were piles of weapons – knives, butcher’s cleavers, hatchets, small bucklers, other wicked pieces of iron that Maquin did not recognize. Before he had a chance to think about it, he was running for the nearest pile, elbowing someone in the face, rolling and grabbing.
He came to his feet with a thick-bladed knife in his hand, end tapered to a sharp point. A man was lunging at him, a ring of iron about one wrist, swinging something sharp at his face. He ducked, stepped in close, punched the man in the gut, his knife sinking deep, three, four times, then shoved the man away, saw him slump to the floor, clutching at the wounds in his belly, his entrails glistening like slimy rope between his fingers.
It was chaos, everywhere men grappling, stabbing, yelling, screaming. The stink of blood and death was already overwhelming, worse than his memories of Dun Kellen. He looked for Orgull but could not see him. Two men rolled before him, gouging and stabbing. One rose from the embrace, one remained motionless on the ground. Maquin was close, could just step forward and finish the man rising.
Kill or be killed.
But he hovered, knife half-raised. I don’t want to do this.
Then the opportunity was gone, the man up and ready, a cleaver in his hands, his eyes flickering to Maquin’s knife. He sidestepped, then moved in, one hand grabbing for Maquin’s wrist, the cleaver rising in his other, swinging at Maquin’s head.