Maquin stabbed at the hand grabbing for him, felt the knife bite, then grate on iron, a ring about the man’s wrist. He kicked out, connected with a knee, throwing his attacker’s balance off, the cleaver whistling past his ear. He stepped in, tried to stab low, but his enemy twisted, Maquin’s knife scoring a graze along his back instead. They grappled, the cleaver ricocheting off the iron ring about Maquin’s neck, leaving a gash on his jaw line. Maquin managed to grab the man’s wrist, stepped in close and headbutted him, sank his knife into his chest as he staggered back. The cleaver dropped to the ground and Maquin picked it up.
Kill or be killed. He felt a berserker rage bubbling up inside – rage at what he was being made to do, rage at what he was becoming. Suddenly he was back in the catacombs beneath Haldis, watching Jael stab Kastell. Tears blurred his eyes. He shook his head angrily. Jael’s face hovered in his mind, smiling, mocking. He looked about again, at the death all around.
There is only one way out. Fight for me. Lykos’ words. With a snarl, he hefted his two weapons and stepped into the battle.
He moved through the throng, staying light on his feet, cutting hamstrings, muscle, maiming, killing, always moving, imagining it was Jael that he cut, stabbed, killed. He kept searching, looking for Orgull. Somehow it was important that he find him, fight with him. He had said he would; could he not even fulfil that promise?
Then he saw him, a hatchet in Orgull’s hand dripping red as he faced two men with iron around their ankles. Orgull was cut, bleeding from thigh and shoulder. Maquin moved forwards, threading through the combat as quickly as he could, deflecting a knife here, a punch, a kick there. Two men stumbled into him, arms flailing. One lashed out with a knife, scoring a red gash across Maquin’s chest. He chopped and stabbed as he spun away from them.
By the time he had reached Orgull one of his attackers was on his knees, clinging to Orgull’s leg as blood pulsed from a wound in his back. The other was dancing around to Orgull’s left, where his arm was cut, blood soaked. Orgull staggered and the man tensed, ready to strike, then Maquin was burying his knife low into the man’s back, the cleaver thumping into his shoulder. He collapsed.
Maquin shared a look with Orgull and then he slipped to Orgull’s left, covering his back, became the big man’s shield, as they were used to doing. They stood and traded blows with anyone who fell within their range, then slowly pushed through the madness, men stumbling to get out of their way. Orgull picked up a buckler and slipped it onto his arm, Maquin fighting with knife and cleaver.
A knot of bodies went down before them, men stabbing and wrestling. Maquin grabbed one and yanked him back, out of the way of a swinging blade. The man twisted in Maquin’s grip, then relaxed. It was Javed, one half of his face matted with blood, his eye swollen shut. He fell in beside them and they slipped into a loose half-circle.
Maquin’s chest burned where he had been slashed; sweat ran into his wounds, stinging like a thousand bites. His knee throbbed where he had rolled badly, muscles in his back spasming, a hundred other pains crying out for attention. The pumping of his blood seemed to drown it all out, dulling it. He was consumed with intoxication, everything broken down to moments, the angle of a strike, the flexing of muscle and tendon, speed, body and mind working together. And he still lived. He grinned and looked about the great pit.
The ground was littered with the dead or dying, crawling, twitching. Knots still fought, here and there, mostly in ones and twos.
Orgull banged his hatchet on his buckler, started yelling.
‘Iron throats, iron throats, to us. Iron throats.’
Maquin looked at him. Strength in numbers. He took up the cry, Javed following.
There were not many left. One iron collar was cut down as he stared at the three men, but others broke away from their combats, joining Orgull and Maquin and Javed. Almost instantly there were eight of them grouped together. Then twelve. The men left with iron about wrist or ankle looked on wildly, then set to attacking each other. None would risk assaulting twelve men.
‘What now?’ one of the iron collars said.
‘Wait for them to come to us,’ another said.
Kill or be killed.
Maquin gave a yell and ran at the last few men scattered around them. Orgull hesitated briefly, then followed, as Maquin knew he would. The others were close behind Orgull. Together they killed every other surviving man left in the pit.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
CORBAN
Corban looked back along the range of hills. It was late in the day, and they had travelled leagues already, but he could still see the battleground in the distance, a dark shadow on the green plains. Birds circled the air above it in a dark swarm.
I hope that Edana and the others are safe.
‘Come on,’ Coralen called from the front of their small column. ‘Keep up.’