Reyek smiled as if he’d just given him a compliment. ‘The Magdan mighty.’
In a last moment of silence, the warriors assembled around the square halted their soft, rumbling song, the big brute in the square stopped talking and Morn shouted something in reply, his voice sounding perilously small by comparison. ‘What did he say?’ I asked Kest, but by then the answer no longer mattered, for the Magdan shouted and ran for Morn, swinging his heavy twin-headed axe up high over his head, then bringing it back down in a perfect diagonal arc – harder by far to dodge than a straight vertical blow. But somehow Morn had managed to leap up and to his left, passing over the axe blade and coming down the other side, then somersaulting and coming back up on his feet before spinning around to face his enemy once again.
The instant the fight had begun, the song had changed as well, becoming a fast, almost rousing chorus. ‘It’s “Seven for a Thousand”,’ Kest said, tilting his head just slightly as he listened.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Brasti asked.
‘It’s—’ Kest paused to listen again. ‘I think it’s the story about seven Avarean warriors facing off against a thousand enemies. It’s about courage in the face of impossible odds.’
Sure, like a massive axe-wielding brute bravely fighting an injured and unarmed man.
The Magdan gave a loud, barking laugh and cried out, just a single word this time, before once again lifting his axe up high and launching into a series of whirling manoeuvres both terrifying in their ferocity and strangely beautiful in their efficiency. The big man made it look elegant, as though his weapon were a puppet he’d set to dancing for the audience. Morn was fast, and far better at this than I would have been, ducking and dodging, staying in close when he could, leaping away when there was no other choice. Step by step, though, the Magdan was driving him across the square, forcing him back towards the spearmen. Again and again Morn narrowly avoided death, but even from this distance, I could almost count the moves left to him. In three, maybe four strikes at most, he was going to be dead.
I stood uselessly. I was the First Cantor of the Greatcoats: it was my job to protect my people, to think past the obstacles and find a solution even when one didn’t appear possible.
Brasti tried to turn away, not wanting to witness the butchery the moment Morn stumbled, but Reyek grabbed his jaw and forced it back around. ‘You watch.’
‘Why?’ Brasti demanded. ‘Is this “Magdan” of yours so vain that he thinks killing an unarmed man will impress us somehow?’
‘You stupid,’ Reyek grunted.
The Magdan continued to press his attack, now wielding his axe in a figure-of-eight pattern to force Morn closer to the edge of the training square, giving him no chance to escape to right or left. I reached into my coat for the yellow-fen oil. If nothing else, I could try to distract them long enough to run onto the square – that might give Morn a moment to catch his breath. If they like stories about seven fearless warriors facing a thousand enemies, maybe they’ll appreciate one suicidal idiot running at them while screaming like a maniac.
Kest caught my arm. ‘Falcio, something’s not right.’
‘What is it?’
‘Morn’s moving too slowly.’
‘He’s tiring, you idiot,’ Brasti said.
Kest shook his head. ‘Look at him. He’s not breathing hard – if he were desperate, his movements would be rushed. He’s not panting, his eyes are clear. Falcio, I think he’s waiting for his moment.’
A hoarse laugh escaped my lips. ‘Then he’s spent too long in these damned mountains,’ I said, pointing to the massive black-haired monster pursuing him. ‘The Magdan’s about to decapitate him with that bloody axe!’
Reyek looked over at me, a confused expression on his face as he tried to make sense of my words. ‘You say stupid things. Magdan—’
I missed whatever it was he was saying next because the low-level roar of the crowd grew into a cacophony of shouting and cheering as the black-haired brute raised his weapon up high. His opponent had nowhere left to run. The sunlight overhead glinted on the axe blade in that brief instant before it came crashing down on Morn, who was now far too close to dodge. But instead, Morn stepped forward, placed his hands around the Magdan’s arms and lifted a foot to hip-height – I thought he was going to kick his opponent, though I couldn’t work out what that would achieve – but instead Morn fell backwards, still gripping the Magdan’s thick arms, and they went over like a wheel, propelled by the bigger man’s momentum. The spearmen guarding the square were suddenly forced to back up a step, and in the blink of an eye, the Magdan was on his back with Morn on top of him – and with a great heave, Morn tore the axe from the stunned man’s hands and brought it over his head so their positions were reversed. Without a moment’s hesitation or mercy, Morn brought the axe blade down on the black-haired man, cleaving his face in two.
Even from this distance my eyes closed reflexively to avoid the spray of blood. When I opened them again I saw Morn, his chest now dripping red, pushing his foot against the remains of his enemy’s chin to tear the axe free. He turned to the crowd and held it up high.
Silence enveloped the square, just for a second, then the warriors began cheering, the shouts so loud I thought the snow would cascade off the mountains, sweeping us all away in an avalanche.
Morn pumped his fist in the air as he walked towards us, his eyes seeking me out – and it was only then I realised what it was the Avareans were chanting.
‘Magdan! Magdan! Magdan!’
Reyek pounded me on the back. ‘See? I say to you, the Magdan mighty.’
Morn discarded the axe and stood before Kest, Brasti and me. ‘Smile, Falcio,’ he said. ‘I’m about to give you everything you’ve ever wanted.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Warlord
The cheering and celebration continued all around us, and as they left the square some Avareans even smiled at me, as if Morn’s victory had settled some long-running argument between us, fought over beer and boasts in the local tavern.
He isn’t an outsider to them.
That realisation shook me to my core. I’d always believed the Avareans to be barbarians: tribes of inbred mountain men steeped in brutality and bloodshed in the name of their clans. I doubt you could find five people in all of Tristia who had a different impression of them.
Morn wiped the sweat and blood from his bare chest with a towel, then reached for the shirt and coat being handed to him by a grinning man.
Kest was watching as a quartet of warriors carried the corpse of the black-haired brute from the field. ‘Insubordination.’
Reyek nodded, clapping him on the back. ‘En-sab-ard-ena-shun!’
So that really was one of the ten Tristian words he knew.