John Gwynne - Valour

Someone groaned, the giant who had fought Uthas. He moved.

‘He’ll do,’ Calidus said. ‘Uthas, bring him to me.’

‘Not him,’ Uthas said.

‘I need a sacrifice, now. It could be you, or your shieldman.’ Calidus took a step towards Uthas, who stood frozen for a moment, then Cywen saw something crumble within him.

Uthas and Salach lifted the semi-conscious giant and carried him up the steps.

Cywen peered around the bulk of Alcyon, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Calidus slit the giant’s throat.

‘What are you doing?’ Nathair cried.

‘Throw him in,’ Calidus ordered, ignoring Nathair. Uthas and Salach heaved the giant’s body into the cauldron, blood pumping from its throat.

Calidus’ voice rang out, loud and harsh.

‘ Fuil de beatha gen oscail an bealach, dorcha aingeal eirifeoil .’

Silence fell, heavier than the mountain about them. Calidus’ voice rose again, more fiercely.

Cywen felt a vibration, a deep base hum, in her feet, spreading through her body. The pressure grew in her ears; she found it hard to draw breath, as though the air was being sucked from the room, and the cauldron blurred, the air around it growing dark, as if it were leaking night.

‘Gather before the first born,’ Calidus cried out, his voice almost shrill against the deep rumble that pulsed through the chamber. ‘Welcome them to this world of flesh.’ He gestured for the Jehar to step forwards, and uncertainly they approached the dais, hundreds of them, their numbers greatly reduced from the host of two thousand that had ridden through the gates of Murias.

Sumur stood with them, facing the cauldron, a look of rapt wonder on his face.

A darkness formed at the rim of the cauldron, overflowing as if a black liquid were boiling within. It streamed into the air, a dark roiling cloud, expanding before their eyes, churning, a lighting storm within it.

‘Bow before the Ben-Elim,’ Calidus said. Sumur fell to his knees, followed by the rest of the Jehar.

A shaft of darkness from the cloud lanced out, piercing Sumur’s chest. His arms spread wide, his body convulsing. Other shafts, hundreds of them, simultaneously impaled the remaining Jehar, until every single one of them writhed transfixed upon a spear of darkness. They started to scream.

Cywen was terrified; a wave of crippling, all-consuming terror numbed her mind and filled her veins with ice. Beside her Shield whinnied and stamped the ground, his ears flat to his skull.

Cywen saw a flicker of movement, up and to her left. She blinked.

Is that a bird? A black smudge fluttered high in the chamber, on the edge of shadow. No — two black smudges. They circled, then plummeted straight down, swooping upon Uthas, their talons outstretched.

Their attack took Uthas by surprise. One crashed into his face, talons raking, the other gripped his back and pecked at his head. Uthas flailed wildly with his arms, a scream of shock and pain bursting from his lips. The birds rose higher, out of range, hovering, looking for an opportunity to plunge down again. Then Cywen heard it, a croaking torrent of speech flowing from one of them.

‘ Betrayer ,’ it squawked, time and time again.

MAQUIN

Maquin dropped his weapons to the ground. A hush fell upon the crowd, then they were yelling, hissing and booing. Maquin sat in the mud beside Orgull.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I cannot do it.’

Then Vin Thalun were running across the arena, big Emad ahead of them all, reaching him first.

‘Get up, finish him,’ the guard ordered.

Maquin just glared at him.

Emad aimed a kick at him; Maquin rolled to the side, came up on his feet, ducked a hook aimed at his jaw, slapped another kick away.

‘Finish him,’ Emad yelled. The crowd were roaring now, the sound deafening. Maquin’s eyes flickered left and right, saw more Vin Thalun bearing down on him. A blow struck his chest — Emad, seeing his distraction. He collapsed to the ground, fighting for breath. Emad stood over him and drew a knife from his belt.

‘Last chance,’ the guard said. ‘You live or die in the pit; you know that.’

‘Go eat shit,’ Maquin said.

Then Emad exploded.

A great tear in his flesh opened up from his shoulder to his belly, blood and bone showering Maquin. An axe-blade ripped clear of the wound as Emad collapsed. Orgull stood framed behind him.

He reached out a hand and Maquin took it, snatching up Emad’s knife as he rose. Guards were descending on them now, more pouring from the tiers. Maquin glimpsed Lykos, his face contorted with rage.

‘This end will do me just fine,’ Maquin said, grinning at Orgull.

‘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 fightin g.

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.