Vin Thalun.
Some realized what was happening and drew their weapons. Krelis’ broadsword swept out of its scabbard; Peritus drew his own blade. Krelis sent a head spinning through the air with the first swing of his sword, Peritus trampled another with his horse, and then Fidele’s warriors were sweeping past her as she pulled on her reins, watching in silent horror.
A handful of the Vin Thalun resisted, pulling men from horses and hacking at them, but they were overwhelmed in moments, both by numbers and the ferocity of her men’s attack. Are we so very different from the Vin Thalun?
It was over soon, the Vin Thalun breaking and scattering, deeper shadows in the gloom disappearing amongst the rubble. Fidele dismounted and tethered her horse, Orcus her shieldman walking protectively beside her.
Peritus and Krelis had rounded up a handful of survivors. One of them barged forwards, hands bound.
‘What do you think you’re doing, you stupid bitch?’ he yelled. ‘Lykos won’t stand for this.’
Orcus clubbed the man across the jaw and he dropped to the ground, tried to rise and Orcus kicked him.
‘Enough,’ Fidele said. She looked to Peritus and Krelis. ‘Is it true, then?’
‘Aye, my Queen,’ Peritus said.
‘Show me.’
They marched across a rubble-strewn street, a ruined tower looming before them.
‘Careful,’ Krelis warned as they entered through a fallen archway.
Inside, the ground had subsided, revealing stone basements beneath – cellars originally, most likely. They had been dug out, a ring cleared around the edges where Fidele and her companions stood. She looked down into the cleared space and at first did not understand what she saw.
Bodies, the dead piled in a corner, blood pooling, flowing in rivulets. Cells had been erected, built from wood, like tiny stables, and in them stood men, some staring back at her. Some were young, not much more than boys, others older, all battered, battle scarred, all with a feral look in their eyes.
So it was true. They had discovered a Vin Thalun fighting pit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
VERADIS
Veradis sat in Dun Carreg’s feast-hall. Bos sat beside him, the big man devouring his way through a trencher piled high with meat and gravy. The room bore the marks of conflict – charred beams above, smoke-blackened patches on the walls, the dark residue of stains on the stone floor that had been scrubbed at but not removed. Could not be removed. Blood leaves a stain, he thought, one finger tracing the scar on the palm of his right hand, mark of his blood-oath to Nathair. We are brothers now, Nathair had said to him that night, long ago in Tenebral. Nathair had been only a prince then, Aquilus still alive. He remembered how he had felt – excited, coursing with life, the future a grand destiny he had only to claim. And now here he was, a thousand leagues from home, claiming that destiny. There was just too much politicking going on for his liking. That’s why he’d enjoyed his morning in the Rowan Field so much, just to be able to face an opponent with a sword in his hand, even if it was only made of wood, not iron.
Just then figures walked through the hall’s doors: Evnis and a handful of his shieldmen – no one here seemed to move without a guard – Conall, the warrior he had sparred with earlier, was close to him.
‘He was lucky,’ Bos said, nodding at Conall. ‘You should’ve beaten him.’
‘He was fast,’ Veradis said. ‘And I’m not so used to fighting like that now; spent too much time in the shield wall.’
‘Excuses,’ Bos chuckled.
‘Not excuses, he fought well. Just the truth.’ It was the truth, Veradis having felt vulnerable and slow from the first strike of their practice swords. He would have to make sure his training was more balanced from now on – make time for both shield wall and individual sparring. He had already done that today, after his bout with Conall moving on to train in the Field with Nathair’s eagle-guard, then travelling out of the fortress, down to the meadows beyond to check on his warband and oversee their training.