A spear thudded into the ground close to the lad’s feet, laughter rippling the pit. It was the spear Maquin had hurled away. The lad gave up his tugging at the sword and desperately grabbed the spear shaft, pointing it at Maquin. It shook.
Maquin refused to care, just kept advancing. The lad lunged and Maquin twisted, the spear-blade scoring a thin line along his upper chest and shoulder. Then with one hand he gripped the spear shaft and he powered forwards. The lad pulled on the spear, then collapsed with Maquin’s knife in his eye.
Maquin watched the boy drop to the ground, his eyes drawn to him, a collapsed heap, limbs twisted. Whatever the spark of life was, it was instantly snuffed out; now he was just an empty bag of meat and bones.
What have I become?
He sat on a bench beside Javed, the small pit-fighter from Tarbesh. They were grouped with a handful of other pit-fighters – the elite, as Herak had started calling them – looking through iron bars into the ring where Maquin had just fought. He wiped something from his face, mud or blood, he did not know.
He looked through the broad timber struts at the plain and fortress of Jerolin on its hill. I have been here before. The council of King Aquilus. It didn’t look like this then. He had been here a while now; after the sea journey it was another ten-night of hard rowing up a river before they had reached Jerolin’s lake. They had not been the first ship to arrive, nor the last. A small fleet of Vin Thalun war-galleys now spread across the horizon and their warriors were thick around the fortress and town.
He did not know what Lykos’ plans were, but they clearly involved Jerolin and probably all of Tenebral.
Not that I care, he told himself. My task is to kill any put before me. Earn my freedom. Find Jael and kill him.
How Lykos had managed it, though, this shift in relations and power in Tenebral – that did intrigue him, no matter how hard he tried not to think on it. The Vin Thalun were not so popular the last time I was here. And now they all but rule the place.
At first the anger and resentment had been clear. Almost as soon as Maquin had arrived, he and his fellow slaves had been ushered into fighting pits, little more than makeshift rings bound with rope. First in the lake town, with mostly Vin Thalun as spectators, some others huddled together, watching from the anonymous shadows, then soon after moving to the fortress, fighting in courtyards. Soon the crowds had grown and become louder, braver. Life had become almost a mirror image of that back on the Island of Nerin, where they were trained each day, then put on display in open cages, like prize cattle. Many from the town and fortress came and now people were travelling to visit this new arena. Looking about, Maquin saw all manner of people: fishermen, traders, trappers, warriors, women, even children.
Is the human heart so fickle? So ready to embrace such evil? He snorted at himself. Listen to me. I am the heart of this wickedness, its root.
The crowds hushed as the next entertainment entered the ring. Lykos led the way.
No, he is the root of all this. I am just a foot soldier in it all. A willing participant.
Behind Lykos walked a woman, Fidele, the dead king’s widow, mother of Nathair. Perhaps she was in league with Lykos; Nathair certainly had taken the Vin Thalun into his confidence. Something about her, though, told Maquin that wasn’t the case – the stoop of her shoulders, the way her gaze swept the crowd, something in it speaking of desperation and a fierce anger.
But she must be in league with him. Why welcome the Vin Thalun to your realm, allow them to do this, if you did not want to?
It was not as if she did not have the means to keep him out. Maquin had seen eagle-guard about the place, dressed in their black and silver, although there had been fewer of them about of late. Behind Lykos and Fidele two men walked, hands in chains, a handful of Vin Thalun about them. Maquin saw Deinon, Lykos’ shieldman, amongst them.
Last of all, following this group, walked Orgull, standing a head taller than anyone else. Beside him was another pit-fighter, shorter, leaner, still with a warrior’s confidence and grace. Pallas, Maquin had heard him called. He was pit-fighter who had survived countless contests, was close to earning his freedom, or so Javed had said. Orgull was to fight him, the last bout of this day’s contests.
The two men in chains were shackled to the post at the centre of the ring, the Vin Thalun guards drifting to the edges. Orgull and Pallas stood close by, patiently waiting.
Fidele raised her head, turning in a circle to take in the crowd. A hush fell.
‘These men are traitors. They tried to assassinate me and take the crown of Tenebral. The punishment for treason is death.’
Shouting rippled through the crowd, insults were hurled, as well as food. Amongst the baying for their blood Maquin heard some shouting for the men to be released, heard words such as injustice.
They are well known, then, these two. And liked by more than a few.
Fidele held up a hand.