‘Let’s see how many we can take across the bridge with us.’ He hefted his axe.
They stood back to back, braced for the rush. Maquin caught a man’s wrist and punched his knife through leather into flesh, stabbed again, then threw the dying man backwards, tearing a sword from his weakened grip and snarling as another Vin Thalun filled his vision. He felt Orgull moving behind him, felt the whistle of the axe, heard the meaty sound of its blade cleaving muscle and bone, a scream cut short.
Then time fell into dissected moments – blocking a sword blow, stabbing, muscles stretching, hot breath in his face. He expected every next instant to be his last.
A sound filtered through his consciousness: a murmur, vast, surrounding him, like the sea when he had been a slave oarsman. Then louder as the crowd started shouting, not their usual cries for blood, but panicked, discordant, and behind it horn blasts, frantic, not celebratory. Then the clash of iron.
Fighting. They are fighting.
Abruptly there were no more Vin Thalun rushing at him. He saw his attackers running towards the arena’s edge. Even as he watched, a section of bench crashed into the pit, smashing two Vin Thalun to the ground. Everywhere he looked was chaos, upheaval. In the stands men were fighting, all the way up to the tiered heights. Lower down, men in dark cloaks with white eagles on their breastplates were leaping the barriers, engaging the Vin Thalun warriors in battle.
Eagle-guard – some, at least.
But the Vin Thalun were not unprepared this time. Everywhere Maquin looked he saw more of the corsair warriors appearing, throwing off cloaks, pouring from the tunnels that led into the arena.
‘This way,’ a voice said in his ear – Orgull, tugging him. He followed the big man, saw he was limping, one arm pulled tight to his waist, as if staunching a wound. He was covered in blood, some of it his own.
They reached the cages where the pit-fighters were watching and Orgull raised his axe and swung it, the blade biting into a thick chain, sparks flying as it severed. The barred door swung open, Javed appeared in the doorway.
‘My chest of gold,’ Javed said.
‘Better to take freedom than have it thrown to you as a scrap by your master,’ Maquin said. He put an arm under Orgull and helped him stand.
Javed grinned and stepped out of the cage. A handful of others followed him.
Maquin scanned the crowd. Everywhere people were fighting. He glimpsed Lykos and Fidele, a huddle of men about them, trying to carve a way through the crowds to an exit.
‘Won’t get a chance like this again,’ Maquin said and headed after them, breaking into a run.
As he powered through the crowd he hamstrung one Vin Thalun, hacked another’s head, knifed one in the belly, shouldered others flying, then he was scrambling amongst the benches, almost upon Lykos’ shieldmen.
Herak saw him first and turned, fluidly drawing a long curved knife. Maquin was trying to slow his momentum, skidding on the mud. He twisted his body, feet sliding forwards, torso dipping backwards. Herak’s knife whistled through space, scoring a red line across the top of Maquin’s chest.
They collided, Maquin’s feet ploughing into Herak’s, their bodies coming together, crashing to the ground in a grappling roll. Maquin’s sword spun from his grip. He headbutted Herak, felt cartilage break, felt a knee crunching into his gut. Dimly above them Maquin was aware of the other pit-fighters appearing, slipping into combat with Lykos’ shieldmen.
Pain focused him back onto Herak; the man was biting into his shoulder. With a curse, Maquin rammed his shoulder forward, forcing it into Herak’s mouth, pushing his jaws apart. There was a momentary loosening of Herak’s grip as the man gagged. Maquin twisted his torso and flipped over, spinning Herak, grabbed a handful of his hair and dragged his knife across the man’s throat.
He rose fluidly, saw Javed kick a Vin Thalun’s legs out from under him and stab him. Orgull was labouring against another. In a bound Maquin was at his side, punching his knife into the Vin Thalun’s back. Orgull nodded a breathless thanks.
Maquin turned to see Lykos looming in his vision, Deinon at his side. He glimpsed Fidele behind, sat meekly, her hands folded across her lap. Then Lykos was at him. Their weapons clashed, Maquin’s knife against Lykos’ short sword, trading a flurry of blows. Maquin staggered back. There was a concentrated fury in Lykos’ assault that was hard to contain. Lykos was still clutching something in his other hand. Deinon swept past him, Maquin knowing instinctively that he was headed for Orgull.