Читать книгу Hero Grown - Andy Livingstone - Страница 8

The two slaves gestured from their hearts to him before leaving him at his door. He wondered if they really did extend their hearts to him; whether they cared at all for him beyond the orders they were given. He wondered if those orders were to provide the escort to his chambers that his status demanded, or to ensure he didn’t wander the passages aimlessly on a path formed by mindless old age.

She waited by his chair, water ready for his return.

‘You saw him?’ Her voice whispered across the room.

His feet scuffed the dust into a dance as he shuffled to his chair. ‘I saw him.’

‘As did I. Will you visit him? Or have him brought here?’

‘Are you mad, woman?’ He was torn between incredulity and anger at such stupidity. ‘When did I last travel into the city?’

For the first time since she had entered his life, there was uncertainty in her voice. ‘It is not the lordling? The one held in this building? But you said you had seen the one we await.’

‘I did. And I will see him tomorrow. At the Arena.’

‘So you will travel to the city after all?’ Her feeble attempt at scoring a point betrayed her disconcertion.

‘You know as well as I that it is hardly a trip to the Pleasure Quarter or the market. Being borne across the Bridge of the Sky into the Emperor’s section in the Arena will not even see me leave the Royal precincts.’

She poured water for him, the time she took appearing less due to care and more to the need to gather her thoughts. ‘You seem sure about this, but I cannot see the one we await being a native of the Tribe of the Desert. It has nothing of the right feel.’

‘Your feeling is correct. It is not of the tribesman that I speak.’

‘The boy? Are you succumbing to your years after all?’

His voice was calm. He was enjoying this. ‘My sword arm may be weak, but my mind is still sharper than those who think they are rulers and, it seems, than yours. You see the whole tapestry, crone, but you do not focus on the individual stitches that form the images. I saw, today. I noticed. He is the one.’

The ewer shattered on the stone floor. ‘A wind stirs the mist of my vision,’ she gasped. ‘I see the face. You are right.’

He smiled.

****

The walk through the streets was longer than their travel to the citadel had been, and was considerably less salubrious. The soldiers encased them in a shell of armour and sharp edges, with no option but to tramp along between them on a journey where time was stretched by never knowing when the end would be reached but always knowing that misery waited at that destination.

He was a slave again. He waited for despair that never came. He steeled himself to suppress an anger, futile anger, anger that never rose. He prepared to resist a wave of injustice that never washed over him. He wondered at their absence, but all he felt was relief.

He was still alive.

Right now, at this moment, he walked in captivity, but he walked feeling the ground beneath his feet and the sun on his head. He lifted his face to feel the heat, to catch the slightest breeze on his skin, to see the endless blue of the sky. Movement caught his eye and he saw Grakk looking at him in question.

‘Better a slave who breathes than a corpse who is free,’ Brann said.

‘Some would differ.’

Brann shrugged. ‘There is no freedom in death, only a certainty of no more life. Death steals the chance of change. To choose to die nobly rather than live to seize an opportunity to make things better, well…’ He shrugged. ‘I can only think that those who make such a choice would think otherwise should they consider it longer than the impetuous moment. I fear stepping from a great height in despair and finding halfway down that I wished I could fly.’

Grakk grunted. ‘You are quite the philosopher today. That is good, I was preparing my words to drag you back from despair and let you use all available time to prepare for tomorrow, but you have spared me that.’

The thought of tomorrow settled both into silence. Brann turned his face to the sky again. While I live, I will fight to live. What other way is there?

He was unable to see much of the city past the bulk of their escort, but it was clear that the more they travelled, the more the affluence melted away. The areas they began to pass through became dustier, the white of the walls was more cracked, the footing was increasingly uneven. They passed through a great old gate in the city wall, one not frequented by merchants and in fact, if the current level of activity was typical, not frequented by many people at all other than a couple of bored guards who pretended not to be close to dozing when they noticed the approach of the soldiers. They descended a wide ramp, its surface weathered and flaking in places, carved into the face of the bluff that Sagia sat upon and, a short distance after they had left the city proper, the houses started again, some with a small untended garden area, some crammed against each other, and all little more than shacks. A length of empty land had wild shrubbery, gnarled, twisted and fighting the dry ground, growing alongside the road where it was fed by the occasional use of the gutter, before they passed in front of a long wall, around the height of a man and a half as much again, its top a series of curving dips that was itself topped with railings cut to set the spiked tips at a uniform level. While dry grasses and wild plants gathered at its foot, matching the determined but sparse plant life of the scrubland that stretched into the distance opposite, the metal of the railings was well tended and the wall looked solid.

They stopped at an arched gateway midway along the wall’s length, and one of the soldiers banged on a door cut into the wood of the gate. A symbol was burnt into the smaller door, two short horizontal lines crossing close to the end of one longer vertical one, forming the simplistic shape of a sword with a flat pommel, with that symbol beside an inverted version of itself. Above it a grill was filled with the glower of a guard’s face as he checked the source of the knocking. With an unimpressed grunt, he opened the door and was passed a note. Spear points were levelled and Brann and Grakk were prompted through the doorway, where three more guards waited, all in identical red tunics with the same symbol on the front and back as was on the gate. Shields, both round and squared, lay carelessly to the side but swords of simple quality were strapped to their hips. Without a word or a glance, the soldiers marched back the way they had come, their feet beating an even beat on the hard track.

The guard, as tall as Hakon but even broader of shoulder and chest, looked them up and down. ‘Not the most impressive arrivals we’ve ever had, I must admit. Still, you’re here, so I’d as well introduce you to the boss.’ He glanced at the note in his hand, and grinned cheerfully. ‘I see you are fighting death bouts tomorrow, so you could probably get away with not bothering to have to try to remember everybody’s names until after that, if you see what I mean.’ He slapped Brann on the back. ‘Every cloud, and all that, eh? But if you can remember one name, you might as well make it Cassian’s. He’s the boss. Hence the name of this place: the School of Cassian. Makes sense, eh? Why not? If you can remember another name, I’m Salus. Salus the Silent, on account that I’m not. I like to remind the world that I’m alive. Especially myself.’

He steered them up a wide straight pathway of white loose stones that crunched with every step. It ran a short way to a wide, two-storey building, as white-walled and red-roofed as every other structure in the city. The path widened at the building and, to one side, a cart of provisions was being unloaded. Brann looked appreciatively at the two horses in the traces, their heads bowed into buckets of water and the tail of one lifting to drop shit on the carefully maintained path.

After coming so close to death, giddiness was coursing through him and he laughed as he nudged Grakk and nodded at the scene. ‘So much for order everywhere and everything being controlled!’

Grakk looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘You forget you will most probably die tomorrow?’

Brann shrugged. ‘I just can’t forget that I should be dead just now. But I’m not.’

Grakk was unconvinced.

Salus, however, was more appreciative. ‘That’s the spirit, lad. Take each moment as it comes, and don’t plan too far ahead. Cassian likes a happy place, that he does. Uncle Cass, we often call him, as he’s like the favourite uncle you hear about other people having and wish you had yourself. Well, you do now. For a day at least. Come and let’s find him.’

They entered the cool of the building and were directed by a servant along a side corridor. ‘Down here we go,’ Salus informed them. ‘I forgot the time of day. The boss is bathing.’

‘He’s what?’ Brann thought the word sounded a bit rude.

Amusement had started to break through the melancholy in Grakk’s eyes. ‘It is similar to washing.’

‘Well why didn’t he say that?’

Grakk did actually smile this time. ‘You will see.’

A guard stood before a heavy door. Salus nodded to him and entered, motioning for Brann and Grakk to wait where they were as a cloud of steam drifted past. Moments later, he reappeared, affable as ever. Wary as he was after the encounter with the Emperor of words delivered with a smile, still Brann couldn’t help but warm to the man. He frowned slightly at that before his thoughts were interrupted by their subject. ‘You can come now,’ Salus said, beckoning.

The steam swirled as they entered but was filtering quickly out through vents in the ceiling, allowing Brann to see a tiled antechamber, the walls on either side stepped back in two stages to allow wooden benches to run the length of the room and then, higher, a shelf that bore a pile of towels at one end. A pile of clothing lay strewn on one bench.

Salus strode across slatted wooden flooring that kept their feet raised above the treacherous-looking slippery tiles of the floor beneath. An opening at the far end saw them descend two steps into a much bigger room, the source of the steam with three large water-filled tanks producing more swirling clouds that rose to similar vents in this ceiling, every inch of the space around them covered in more of the wooden flooring. High-set windows, long and narrow, let further steam out and dazzling beams of sunlight in, sparkling the water in the tanks that were square, set in line and each around the size of the Captain’s cabin back on the Blue Dragon. Brann resolved to find a new unit of measurement – the thought of the excited anticipation of the voyage to this city had stabbed a pain in the heart of his chest. He clenched his fists to steady his thoughts.

The centre tank held a man. Sitting on what must have been a ledge and arms spread to either side as they rested on the edge of the pool, his face split into a huge toothy grin as he saw them enter. ‘Welcome to my school, however long or, I suppose, short your stay may be. Your presence here may be enforced, but is no less appreciated for it.’ He looked through narrowed eyes. ‘You know, do you not, that the Empire intends you to die tomorrow.’ The matter-of fact delivery from a stranger cut to where Grakk’s words had not and Brann’s spirit was sucked from him in the instant. His knees buckled and only the reactions of Grakk and Salus allowed them to grab his arms in time to keep him upright. The older man smiled gently. ‘It therefore, of course, becomes our greatest desire to see the Empire disappointed. Many of our guests here arrived as a result of the will of the Empire, but you two are the first to face a death match.’ His smile faded slightly. ‘In your case, we are not allowed over-much time to assist you with this, but should you return tomorrow, you will be afforded our full hospitality.’ He smiled broadly again, and Brann began to wonder if he and Salus were related or even if everyone in this compound had been partaking of the sort of fungi that grew in certain areas of the woods near his village. ‘I trust Salus the Silent has taken good care of you?’

They nodded, and he beamed in return. ‘Good, good.’ He slapped the water in delight and stood, climbing from the pool as he spoke. Brann heard the noise but was oblivious to the words. Completely naked and puce from the heat of the water, Cassian eased himself out of the tank and trotted over to the third pool, launching himself without pause or shred of elegance into it with a resounding crash of splashing water. He emerged like a sea monster of legend, drops flying in all directions, whipping water from his face with both hands and gasping for breath. Brann watched the man, mouth agape and eyes wide. Grakk watched Brann, mirth creasing his face. ‘Oh, that’s good!’ the man exulted. ‘There’s absolutely nothing like a cold plunge to get the blood flowing.’

He walked up steps at the far end of the pool and came towards them. The boy’s despairing panic from just moments before was overwhelmed by a very different horror. Brann eased back against the wall to give him as much space to pass as possible, a move that almost caused Grakk to double up with suppressed laughter.

The elderly man beckoned with a finger as he headed towards the door to the antechamber. They followed, Brann fixing his eyes on the pelt of curled grey hair covering a latticework of old scar lines on his broad shoulders and trying desperately to avoid letting his gaze drop to the sagging and jiggling parts lower down. Cassian took a towel from the shelf and started vigorously drying himself, causing far more jiggling than Brann was prepared to endure. He stared determinedly at the man’s face as he spoke, hoping it would appear courteous rather than an attempt to avoid noticing anything he would really rather not see.

‘Now, you have this fight tomorrow, each of you, don’t you?’ He sounded as if he was discussing a polite gathering of old friends in a tavern, and Brann’s spinning brain was so overwhelmed by the sight, and the potential but so far avoided sight, before him that he was able to listen to the words this time without terror paralysing his mind. ‘It is not much time, not much time at all. So we must prepare you as we can, and hope to see you again afterwards, should Barollon will it.’ He noticed Brann’s puzzled look. ‘You are from the Islands in the Cold Sea, yes?’ The description was apt enough for Brann to assume he was talking about his homeland, and nodding seemed the easiest response. ‘Yes, of course you are. Your god of war Arlod, is our god Barollon, though we see him chiefly as the god of good fortune, for in the chaos of every battle, that is the biggest factor in whether or not a man will be there to face the next day. But without good preparation, you won’t be around to benefit from any good fortune that comes your way, so we will prepare as we can, won’t we?’

Brann at last found his voice. ‘You mean you are going to teach me to fight?’

Cassian had pulled a tunic – identical to those of the other men he had seen here, but white where theirs were red and with the symbol in red where theirs were white – over his head and was securing a broad belt around it that bore a scabbarded short broadsword, similar to the weapons carried by the soldiers they had seen at the citadel. He laughed. ‘No, no, no, my boy, in the time we have, we could teach you nothing to the standard needed for it to be of use in the situation you face. You would forget all of it as soon as the first blade swings and any that you did somehow remember would not be natural. No, we must try to remove the unfamiliar. Then the rest is up to you, the gods, and your fate. But mainly you.’ He smiled happily yet again. ‘The good news is that in this sort of fight, you will be free to choose your own weapons.’

He walked over to Grakk, studying the tattoos. ‘You are of the Tribe of the Desert?’ Grakk nodded. ‘Scholar?’ Another nod. He took Grakk’s hands in his, turning them palm up, looking them over and rubbing the area between thumb and forefinger on each hand with his own thumb. ‘And your preference is to fight with dual swords?’ Another nod. ‘Though you are trained in many weapons.’ Before Grakk could answer, he clapped him cheerily on the arm. ‘You need not answer that one. You are a Scholar of the Tribe of the Desert. I expect I will see you here for dinner tomorrow. I have no worries about you. Should you need a practice partner, let my friend Salus know.’ Grakk nodded his thanks.

He turned to Brann and examined his hands. ‘You are not trained in arms.’

‘I am a miller’s son. I did not choose this.’

‘Oh, dear boy, few in this city chose the life they live. It was an observation, not a criticism. You are what you are. I am merely trying to determine what it is that you are.’ His fingers traced the thick line of hardened scar tissue under the boy’s hair. ‘And what you are is someone who has survived some sort of action, I see.’ He pulled the neckline of Brann’s tunic to one side to peer down inside at his upper arm. He whistled softly as he saw a portion of the tattoo. ‘Oh my.’ He looked at Grakk. ‘Survived with some distinction, I see.’

The tribesman’s voice was even. ‘He has his moments.’

‘Let us hope he has one tomorrow.’ He turned back to the boy. ‘You have a weapon of choice?’

Brann shrugged. ‘A sword, I suppose. I don’t know anything else. To be honest, I don’t really know how to use a sword either.’

‘Hit with the sharp edge, stick with the pointy bit, that’s a sword for you. You should indeed choose sword and shield then, they are simple solid basics. Good.’ He looked at Salus. ‘Would you mind, good Salus? Make the unfamiliar familiar?’

‘Of course, boss. Now?’

‘The sooner we start, the better. Then we must attend to their jewellery, or the authorities will be most displeased with us. Thank you all.’

And with that, he wandered out of the room.

Brann looked at the other two. ‘What in the darkest depth of hell was that?’

Salus was beaming as always. ‘That was your welcome.’

Brann shook his head. ‘Is my land the only place that exists where people don’t wander around bollock naked without a care in the world?’

Grakk wiped a tear from the corner of one eye. ‘No, young sheltered one, customs and sensibilities vary around the known world more than you can imagine, and I expect they vary even more in the unknown world. In this city, it was the fashion not long ago for the well-to-do ladies to wear robes that left their right breasts exposed, in other countries within the Empire men and women cannot show their faces in public once wed, in yet others a woman will take many husbands, and in another men and women are clothed from the waist down only.’

Brann’s jaw dropped as images took hold. Salus also had a faraway look in his eyes. ‘Ah, yes, Posamia. I dream of retiring there.’ He shook his head, as if flinging away images. ‘Anyway, things must be attended to. Come with me and we shall attend to them.’

Brann frowned. ‘It seems that much of the public nudity involves women. Are there not places where men show off their… bits… as well?’

Grakk shrugged. ‘Some, but very few.’ He looked pointedly at Brann, stopping his next question. ‘You have just witnessed the sight you did, and yet you are about to ask why so few? And you refer to it as showing off? You do realise, do you not, that there is an extent where the ridiculous and the ungraceful aspects outweigh all others?’ Brann shuddered. ‘Precisely, young Brann.’

Salus coughed, though it was hard to tell if it was to attract attention or cover a laugh. ‘Anyway, if you wouldn’t mind coming this way? I think we have exhausted the necessity for this conversation.’

He led them out of the back of the building into an open-ended courtyard formed by two long wings that extended back from either end of the main building. Boulders and rocks, paths and small bridges, streams and ponds, bushes and trees whose branches dipped down to the ground under their own weight combined to create an area of such unexpected beauty and tranquillity that Brann stopped dead in wonder, the second unexpected vision of the past half hour driving all other thoughts from his mind as much as the previous one had done.

‘Does Cassian have a wife, then? Is this her doing?’

‘He does,’ Salus admitted, ‘but this is his doing. It is his passion, a world he has created from his own head. Lady Tyrala has other talents. Important and useful, but not this.’

A winding path took them through to the far end, where they emerged through a green arch of leafy vines to see a collection of low buildings and, beyond, hillocks and walls that prevented a view of the full area. Low hills on the horizon were far on the other side of the surrounding arid scrubland that lay beyond the unseen far wall of the compound, though it was clear Cassian’s school extended over an impressive area. To the right, the buildings on the outskirts of the city showed where civilisation began its mass existence.

Brann became aware of sounds as his mind adjusted to the overwhelming sights that had swamped him. The clash and bang as metal met metal or wood beyond the buildings – and presumably, from Salus’s lack of concern, from practice rather than assault; the shouts of people going about their daily routine; the clang of the smith at work; the high-pitched noise of the insects that were unseen but omnipresent and seemed creatures of the oppressive heat. Other than the insects, it was the sound of village life. Brann felt a pang for home but the memory seemed now so much like that of a different life, almost as if he had dreamt it, that the pain failed to stab through him as it had before. There was a sadness to that realisation, but also a hardness in his mind’s response to the sadness: deal with now, or the past will weaken your ability to do so. Especially when the only now that was left to him would probably be measured in hours.

A stout building with a stouter door and thick iron grilles over its small windows sat beside the smith’s workshop. Salus waved, cheerily of course, at the squat man in the leather apron who hammered relentlessly at the anvil and unlocked the iron-studded door with a key on a large jangling ring that he unhooked from his belt. They entered a cool, dim, treasure trove of weaponry. Every variation or combination of edge, point or club that could be invented to do harm to man, and still more that Brann could never have imagined, lay on or stood in racks in orderly rows of metal and wood. Salus told Grakk to select whatever he wanted to practise with and the tribesman immediately selected a pair of long, slim, gently curved swords.

Brann headed for a rack of broadswords, oiled and gleaming from obvious care. Salus’s large hand landed on his shoulder and steered him to a separate area. He eyed the boy’s height and felt his shoulders, arms and chest with an expert touch. Brann felt like a horse at market.

Lined in front of them was a row of practice swords fashioned from dark wood. Salus tried a few for weight before selecting one. He walked over to a selection of round wooden shields and plucked one as he passed with less consideration, then took the boy to the other side of the room to pull a heavy, padded, sleeveless tunic from a shelf. Metal clips were set into the front and back and, after pulling it over Brann’s head, Salus used the clips to fasten lead weights onto it at several points.

Brann looked at him incredulously. ‘Have you felt the heat out there? Are you trying to kill me today instead of tomorrow?’

Salus smiled, quietly for once, and drew a couple of leather thongs from another shelf. He held up the shield to allow Brann to slip his hands through the straps and handed him the sword.

The weapon dipped and almost hit the floor before Brann caught its movement. ‘This isn’t the right weight,’ he pointed out. ‘I’ll never be able to practise properly with this.’ He tried swinging it from side to side, his movements slow and awkward. ‘I can’t even control it properly.’

With a few deft movements, Salus used the strips of leather to bind Brann’s hands to the sword and shield.

Brann stared at him. ‘What are you doing? How is that…?’ Salus placed a large finger on the boy’s lips.

‘This. This. And this.’ He touched the sword, shield and tunic in turn. ‘These are your best friends right now if you want to have any chance of living through tomorrow. These, and water. Plenty of water.’

Brann just looked at him. The big man continued as he led Brann back to Grakk, took Grakk’s selected swords from him and then led the pair out the door, locking it behind him. ‘Make the unfamiliar familiar, remember? You will wear less in the Arena, even if armoured, so if you can become used to the heat and weight of that tunic, you will benefit. Likewise the sword and shield you have now are heavier than you will be armed with tomorrow, so you will carry these, whatever you are doing, between now and then. You will feel their weight, you will feel the way they try to drag you, and you will start to adjust to control them.’

Brann held up his hands and the weight trying to drag them down left him doubting he would become used to the feeling in a month, never mind less than a day. His stomach lurched at the thought.

Salus turned and whistled sharply through his teeth. A skinny boy detached himself from a group of three youths who were sweeping the area between the buildings and ran over, all tanned skin, white teeth and enthusiasm. ‘Yes boss?’ He swept his hair away from his eyes.

‘Young, er…’ He looked at Brann. ‘I didn’t ask your name, did I?’

‘Brann.’

‘Yes, young Brann here requires an assistant. You know what to do.’ The boy nodded and fell in behind Brann. Salus spoke again to Brann. ‘Marlo here will be your hands. When you need to eat, he will feed you. When you are thirsty, and it will be often, he will lift the drink to your lips. When you approach a door, he will open it. When you need to piss…’

‘I’ll manage that one,’ Brann growled. ‘However I have to, I’ll manage.’

‘Very well,’ Salus beamed. ‘That’s that sorted, then. Your arms will learn to feel the weapons. Your legs will learn to bear your clothing. Your head will learn to forget the heat. Now for your jewellery.’

They were standing in front of the forge and the heat within stunned Brann beyond even what the sun had already managed. How the smith could breathe, let alone work metal, Brann couldn’t fathom. Even just from standing, sweat was already running down every surface on his body. His eyes started to sting and he twisted one way then the other to wipe the shoulders of his tunic against them, almost battering Marlo’s face with the wooden sword in the process.

‘Sorry,’ he blurted. He had only just met the boy and he was nearly braining him already.

The boy’s teeth flashed. ‘Good training for me.’

Brann wondered if everyone at this compound was relentlessly cheerful. It didn’t take long to find an answer.

The smith looked up from pounding a battered sword-blade flat. ‘What?’ More a grunt of irritation than a question.

‘Garlan, my friend,’ said Salus. ‘I have two new arrivals here, who require new neck decoration.’

The smith spat into the hot coals beside him without the ring of his hammer losing a beat. ‘Friend. I am your friend when you need something. As you are mine, except that I never need anything from you. Except peace, so if you want to be my friend, bugger off. I’m busy.’

‘It is urgent, I am afraid, good Garlan. These two will fight in death matches tomorrow.’

The smith stopped hammering and looked the pair up and down. ‘Hardly worth my while, then, by the looks of it.’ He spat again. ‘Since I’ll be getting the iron back tomorrow night as it won’t stay on a neck with no head, I suppose I may as well oblige you. Consider it a loan.’ He pointed his hammer at Brann. ‘You.’ The hammer moved to indicate further inside the forge where a heavy block sat on the floor, a rounded section cut from its top surface. ‘There.’

Brann walked nervously across as the smith fetched a length of heavy chain. ‘Kneel.’ The chain was looped round his neck. ‘Head on the block.’ He leant forward, placing his face against the smooth surface. ‘Oh by the gods, are you trying to suffocate yourself, fool? Head to one side.’ He did so, and felt the chain drawn tight until it sat snugly. Rough jerks were followed by a snipping sound and the unneeded length fell to the ground. The chain pulled against his throat as it was manipulated before heat seared the back of his neck. He gasped and the metal hissed as cold water was thrown over it. The smith used his metal pincers to drag the chain, and Brann, to his feet. ‘Next,’ he grunted.

Brann moved to one side, his right hand automatically starting to reach for the chain. The swinging sword brought a glare from the smith and prudence suggested that he use his shield arm. His fingers found the chain and explored for a moment, though there was little to discover. The links were thick, it was heavy and he could fit only one finger between the metal and his neck.

Within moments, Grakk had been similarly fitted and they had obeyed Garlan’s second instruction to bugger off.

‘A skilled man,’ Grakk observed.

‘More even,’ Salus said, ‘than you saw there. Much more. You should see his silver-work, and his swords would sell for a fortune on the free market. But Salus saved his life many years ago, and he feels he cannot leave him until he has repaid the debt. A noble sentiment in his heart that his head appears to dispute on a daily basis. Still, he is here and our metal is the better for it.’

Brann fingered his chain again. This time his shield arm was the one to move first, and his fingers found the metal with ease. ‘So I am to die a slave after all,’ he grumbled.

‘Maybe, but maybe not, young pessimist,’ Salus pointed out. ‘Do you know how many killing blows cleave their way into a neck? Even a chance shallow slice there is likely to be your end. More than a few slaves have been glad they were not free men when they fought.’

Grakk nodded. ‘It does you no harm, son of the miller. Better a living slave than a dead free man. It is possible for a slave to wake as a free man someday, something a dead man cannot achieve.’

‘Better wrap me in chains, then,’ Brann muttered.

‘Funny you should say that,’ Salus beamed. He looked up at the sun. ‘Near enough mid-day. You should eat. You will need the strength of food.’

Marlo ran to one of the nearby buildings to fetch slices of cold meat that had a sharp tang to them and fresh fruit that Brann had never seen before but that had a juiciness and flavour that made it difficult to stop eating them and easy to forget the awkwardness of being fed by another. He grunted around a mouthful and nodded to Marlo that he was ready for another bite.

‘Enough,’ Salus steadied him. ‘It is pleasant to see a healthy appetite, but you will be sick before long if you continue. This is to give you strength, not slow you down. And so we now have work. Come.’

At his request, Grakk was given his swords and directed to a quiet spot where he could initially work by himself. Salus told Marlo to fill a waterskin and catch up with them, and took Brann beyond the buildings where the view opened up to reveal around a score of men and half that number of women working in groups or pairs with a range of weapons on a flat area that extended to the undulating ground, broken by walls and obstacles that he could barely make out and affording only the occasional glimpse of the far boundary of the compound. There was much shouting, some laughter and universal dedication.

Salus called over five of them and, at his instruction, they gathered lumps of the hardened earth and ranged themselves in front of Brann. Salus stepped away from him and, at his instruction, a clod whistled through the air and shattered unerringly against his forehead. He scarcely had time to yelp in surprise and pain before more followed.

‘You have a shield, you know,’ Salus offered helpfully, just as Brann began himself to try to fling the shield to meet the missiles hurtling at him. Soon he was managing to deflect as many as made it past the shield as he tried to jerk the unwieldy wood in a dozen directions in the space of a few breaths.

‘Well done,’ enthused Salus when the hail had finished. ‘You managed to be hit by only half of them.’

‘Fantastic,’ glowered Brann, feeling as if his head, arms and legs had been beaten with staves and wondering if his left arm would ever lift a cup again, far less the shield. He rested his encumbered hands on his knees, fighting for breath and watching the sweat that dropped from his head dry quickly where it spotted the ground.

‘Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll do better next time.’

‘Next time?’

‘You think tomorrow will be easy? We will do this several times. You must be as ready as you can.’

‘They are going to throw lumps of earth at me in the Arena?’

Salus looked long at him, as if dealing with a small child. ‘Whatever comes at you, you must be able to move your shield to meet it. Preferably without bothering your brain, though that may not be the hardest part for you.’

He thanked the throwers, who declared themselves enthusiastically available for the repeat sessions.

‘Now the sword. But first you drink.’ Water had never tasted so good.

They walked to a wooden post half again as tall as Brann and wrapped in thick rope.

‘The rope?’ Brann wondered. The lack of breath, the heat and the heavy tunic had combined to let him decide that the effort of speaking was worth keeping to a minimum.

‘Wood against wood tends to damage at least one of the woods. Rope absorbs the blow on both woods and is easier to replace if it wears. Now strike, left and right.’

When Brann felt like he could lift the sword no more, he made to stop.

‘Yes, you may stop with the post. But now you swing at nothing.’

‘At nothing? Why would I want to practise missing?’

‘Because you need to practise coping with missing. That is when you are at your most vulnerable. Off balance and out of shape. And it happens most when you are tired and least able to deal with it. Like you are now, and will be more before we finish. So swing right hard, stop it as quickly as you can, and swing back as soon as you can. Then right again.’

It wasn’t long before his arm started to seize up and forced a halt.

‘Not bad for a start.’ Salus lifted the water to Brann’s lips and he sucked it in greedily, feeling as if he could drink for ever. ‘Steady now.’ Disappointment surged as it was pulled away, scattering drops down his front. ‘Enough to keep you going, but too much and it’ll be coming back up before you know it. Now back to the shield work.’

A hard lump of earth exploded against the back of his head, his shocked flinch bending him over.‘Splendid! Our helpers have saved us the trouble of walking back over there.’

And so it continued, relentlessly. And worse each time. More clods flew, and in faster succession. He was urged to hit the post increasingly, not harder and quicker but longer and more. When he was striking at nothing, Salus would pick up a thick rod and poke him in the chest between swings, hard enough to cause pain even through the thick padding of the tunic. He started trying to bring up his shield following each missed swing, but only succeeded in hitting himself on the forehead. And the rod still poked him. Still, it seemed a decent move to attempt, and the rod would come at him whether he tried it or not, so he felt it was worth persevering with it.

And then back to the shield work. And again. And again.

While stopping for water, Brann stopped in mid-swallow. ‘I had forgotten about the heat.’ He was astonished at the realisation.

Salus clapped him on the back. ‘You see. Your first achievement! Now the post. Left then right then left.’

There was movement behind him. He whirled, crouching behind his shield.

‘Very good,’ said Cassian. He stepped forward and, with a finger, lifted the tip of the wooden sword so that it was held in readiness beside the protection of the shield. ‘Like a snake, ready to strike.’ He noticed Brann’s puzzled look. ‘Like an arrow drawn and ready to fly. No use fending off a blow if you are not able to exploit any opportunity, should it present itself.’

His eyes squinted slightly and he cocked his head. Twisting the strap on Brann’s right wrist, he turned the hilt a fraction in the boy’s grip. ‘This way, yes? Now you will swing more easily. Now, drop your sword then turn to face Salus.’

Brann whirled, and stood poised, shield and sword ready. Cassian adjusted his elbow and stepped back. ‘Good feet, good balance. Deliberate but almost right. And lead with your eyes. Dizziness is not a benefit when someone seeks to kill you. And you will see more, sooner. Now to me.’

He faced the old soldier again, who moved to correct his sword arm, then stopped with a shake of his head. ‘No, it’s fine. Now thirty more times doing it right. If you get it wrong, you start again.’

Brann got it right. By ten, the position didn’t feel so awkward. By thirty, his arms were following the pattern themselves.

‘Good boy.’ Cassian looked delighted.

Brann looked at him. ‘When do I start practising with an opponent?’

The man leant on a plain staff, for all the world like the shaft of a spear without the head. ‘Did you not listen earlier? You cannot learn to fight in one day. Your brain would not accept it. We must train your muscles. You are not used to the movement of a shield or sword, but your muscles learn and remember on their own. They do not need the brain to work out what is best and waste time telling them. If they do it often enough, they do it themselves. So we are teaching your arms to remember. If you come back tomorrow, we can start to teach your head.’ His hand patted Brann’s head then, almost absently, ruffled his hair. ‘Listen to Salus. He is a good man, and has won many fights, inside and out of the Arena. You will most probably die tomorrow, but his words will reduce that possibility a little each time you hear them. Now, the post. Left then right then left. And always with the shield ready to protect.’

He nodded at Salus and ambled away, smiling benignly at the gladiators he passed. No matter their activity, they stopped as he passed and greeted him with their right hands on their chests.

Salus’s face dropped into a glare of an intensity that tightened Brann’s chest. ‘You see the respect and the affection that man brings from those gladiators? That comes from his achievements and his knowledge, yes. But it also comes from his simple acceptance of everyone who comes here to live, and his passion to protect them by improving them as fighters in every way he can. Already he does that for you, so if you want any chance at all to live tomorrow, you will listen and remember every word he says, and waste no time questioning him.’

Brann nodded through his embarrassment.

Salus’s smile returned like the sun emerging from a cloud. ‘Good. Now, face that post and show me you heard the man.’

By the time Brann turned from the post to take the next clod on his shield, the old man was gone. But the fatigue had eased just enough to see him through to dusk.

Before he allowed him to eat, Salus took him into the main house, leading him through to the room with the pools where he had met Cassian. Brann wondered if the master of the school ever met anyone in his house with clothes on, but found the room empty, little light entering by the windows but lamplight glowing on the still surface of the water.

He turned to Salus. ‘Where is he?’

The big shoulders shrugged. ‘No idea. Now let Marlo take off your clothes.’

‘What?’

But before he could object, the padded tunic was unlaced at the shoulders and fell to his ankles under its considerable weight. Brann felt as it he was rising off the ground.

‘Oh, that feels so good.’ A flash of a blade saw Marlo expertly slice his clothes until they, too, lay on the floor. Brann dropped his shield to cover himself. ‘Oh, that’s just great. Now what will I wear tomorrow?’

Salus looked puzzled. ‘You think we have no clothing to give you? What you had was nice for visiting the Emperor, but not so suitable for the Arena. And if you are to live or die as a man of Cassian, you must be seen as one.’ He patted the symbol on his own tunic. ‘Now, into the first bath.’

‘The what?’

‘Bath. The pool of water nearest you.’

Brann tilted the sword and shield pointedly. ‘With these?’

‘Why not? They are wood. They will not rust.’

The water was warm and, he had to admit, extremely pleasant. He started to relax, the wooden weapons lying on the surface until, to his shock, Marlo stripped as well and slipped in. He recoiled in horror, but the boy just grinned.

‘Don’t flatter yourself, Northerner. You have two things missing from your chest and something extra between your legs. Not my type. My duties only extend so far.’

He rubbed a block of soap on Brann and eased the lather through his hair, then scrubbed at him with a hard-bristled brush.

‘Good,’ Salus nodded in approval when he was clean. ‘Now for your muscles. Into the second bath.’

He gasped with the heat of the water as he sank into the middle pool. Sitting neck-deep, he felt his arms and legs grow weak and his head light.

Salus stood over him. ‘Thirty breaths in this bath, then thirty in the next. Six times in each.’

Brann rose and emerged from the water, deep pink on all but his head. He stepped into the third pool but snatched his foot back with a yelp. ‘You are not serious! That’s like ice!’

Salus shoved him between the shoulders and he was launched headlong into the water, the sudden cold constricting his chest and tensing every part of his body. As he surfaced, spluttering, the man said amiably, ‘Better to endure shock for one second than to drag it over many. Thirty breaths, then back in the hot.’

‘I’ll have to start breathing again before I can count them,’ Brann gasped.

Marlo patted him dry with a thick towel at the end.

‘If that was meant to make me feel better, it was a waste of time,’ Brann grumbled. ‘I feel as weak as ever.’

‘You are tired because you have worked; water cannot fix that. It is unfortunate, and you would have benefited from a rest day today, but you will be better tomorrow tired with muscles that know how to move than fresh and flailing.’

‘So how does this help then?’

‘This, curious one, is to let you move tomorrow. Were you merely to sleep now, you would wake with limbs stiffened to immobility. The hot lets your blood flow, the cold tightens your muscles in. One then the other flushes the blood through the muscles, like bellows sucking in air then shooting it out, taking with it all that should not be there. Your muscles will be clean and ready for tomorrow.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do. Now, clothing, food and sleep.’

As soon as he woke, he could feel the wisdom in Salus’s words. He started a stretch, and was immediately reminded of the heavy wood attached to his wrists.

He had slept soundly. Even the prospect of what lay ahead when he woke and the awkwardness of having a wooden sword and shield strapped to him hadn’t managed to stop him from sinking into deep slumber as soon as he had laid back. That was the benefit of exhausting himself. He had no exhaustion now to overwhelm his thoughts. His breathing quickened and his stomach clenched. Today was when it happened. Today, he could push away the prospect into the future no longer.

He had been wakened by the sound of the men in the cots around him waking and rising, and he grew jealous of the ordinariness of their actions. He ached with a yearning for mundane daily life and felt tears of despair fill his eyes. He sat up, swinging his legs to the floor, and blinked in time to see two familiar figures approaching, wiping the back of his right forearm across his eyes before anyone could notice the moisture, and cursing silently the stupid blunt weapons he was forced to grip.

‘Excellent, you are eager for the day,’ Salus boomed. Brann didn’t feel it was worth disagreeing with the assessment, though it could not have been further from the truth. His guts were trying to force themselves up through his throat and he lurched slightly.

If Salus noticed, he chose not to acknowledge it. ‘Marlo, if you could be so good as to help our young friend dress?’

An under-tunic, open almost from armpit to waist, allowed him to dress without removing the shield, and the weight-laden padded tunic was laced onto him once more. Numbly, he followed Salus to the rope-wound post, stopping only to eat briefly the same food as had been his lunch the previous day, turning away from those around him to mask the sight of Marlo feeding him like a baby.

The movements against the post were fluid, much to his surprise and Salus’s delight. When he swung at fresh air, it seemed easier to drag the sword back than it had been just the evening before. Right, then left, than right again. As he started to bring the heavy wood back again, Salus flashed the rod forward. He flicked up the shield, knocking the rod skywards, then crashed the sword into it on the swing that followed. He wasn’t sure who of the pair of them was more astonished.

Salus waved away the clod-throwers who were about to start launching their missiles. ‘Thank you, but if he can do that with his shield, not necessary.’ He turned to Brann. ‘What made you think of that?’

Brann managed a small smile. ‘I thought of it yesterday, but my arm wouldn’t do it. To be honest, I had forgotten it again until my arms did it.’

‘Today is a good day to start doing it.’ Cassian’s voice behind him made him jump. There was a woman with him this time, tall and willowy, dark of skin and eyes and with hair that was a mass of thick tendrils, halfway between black and white. ‘Thank you, good Salus. Your work has been well done. The results have exceeded expectations.’

Salus nodded his head. ‘You are kind, boss, but the boy did it. I hope there is a chance I will see him again today.’

Brann felt his eyes filling up again. He suddenly felt very young. Too young to be facing this. But Salus could not have done more to help him. He turned to the large man. ‘I, er, I…’

Salus grinned. ‘I know. You love me, of course you do. Now come back and make me my dinner tonight.’ Before Brann could answer, he was walking away.

The woman cut in, turning the boy by the shoulders and looking him over. ‘Strong for his size. You have rowed?’ Her voice was cool and measured. Brann nodded. ‘That helps. Let us visit the pig.’

Brann wondered who warranted this name, but was almost disappointed to find it a literal description. He was taken to a side room in the building where he had eaten and found the carcass of a pig hanging from the ceiling.

Cassian nodded to Marlo. ‘Relieve our young friend of his practice weapons.’

Considering the ease with which the boy’s knife sliced through the leather straps, the knots having been tightened beyond unpicking by the bathwater the night before and the movement before and after, Brann was relieved that his speed of use was matched by a surety of movement. The wooden weapons fell to the ground and Brann looked at his hands in surprise as they rose towards the ceiling of their own accord, as if he were a puppet operated by an invisible giant.

Marlo laughed. ‘Fear not, they will settle in a moment. But wait till you feel this real sword.’

A broadsword of simple but functional quality was tucked under his arm, and he offered it to Brann.

‘Take it, and strike the pig,’ Cassian prompted.

He grasped the hilt and swung. His eyes widened as the blade, feeling as light as a switch and just as manoeuvrable, slammed into the side of the carcass, biting deep into the flesh.

‘Now you see the value of the heavy wood, but also the problem,’ the old soldier said.

‘The problem? What problem could there be in swinging a sword like that?’

‘Pull it out.’

Brann dragged it back the way it had swung, but it stuck hard and tried to pull the full weight of the pig with it. He wrenched it straight towards him and, eventually, as he grunted in triumph, it squelched free.

‘Now stab it.’

He thrust, the blade sinking deep. Again, when he tried to pull it free, the flesh sucked it close. He rolled his hand right and left as he hauled it and the pink meat reluctantly released its grip on the blade.

‘You see?’ Cassian’s look was earnest. ‘This is most important. Were this a man, not a pig, while you were fighting the grip of the body, all of your right side would be inviting him to hit you as many times as he liked. I have seen men killed after striking a killing blow. Not every fatal strike kills instantly, and a dying man will fixate on taking you with him as his last furious act.’ He took the sword. ‘Strike shallow and fast, like this.’ His blades flashed in and out, stabbing twice on the front of the pig. ‘And this.’ Surprisingly quick on his feet, he moved in and swung fast at the side of the carcass. The blade bit, he twisted his wrist and withdrew, and he was back at Brann’s side in an instant. ‘As you started to do, twisting releases it quicker. And causes more damage, which is helpful. Remember that blood vessels, ligaments, sinews and muscles are often near the surface, so damage is caused as soon as you strike. There is seldom a need to go deep.’

He picked up the practice shield. ‘Don’t forget, either, that you have two weapons. This has a face that can smash,’ he slammed it straight into the pig, ‘like so. With the shoulder and the hips. Drive from your legs.’ He angled it and swung it sideways into the solid meat. ‘And an edge that can bite. This is a fight where he will die or you will; there is no other outcome. You must fight any way that presents itself.’ He handed over the weapons. ‘Now you try, over and over.’

Cassian stopped him, however, as soon as he was satisfied the technique was right. ‘Good. Now we are done. Let us eat. Lightly, in your case.’

They stepped from the doorway, the light bright. ‘Cassian, sir,’ Brann said. The broad frame turned. ‘How did you learn…?’

A roar burst from Brann’s right. Steel flashed on high.

He pivoted, dropped into a crouch and brought up his shield, blocking a blow that jarred his arm to the shoulder. In the same movement, his sword thrust forward. The wooden practice sword swung down and Cassian knocked Brann’s blade aside before it reached his attacker. He looked up to see Salus’s grinning face.

‘Not bad, though your opponent will not hold back as Salus did.’

Brann flexed his shoulder. ‘He held back?’

Cassian ignored the comment, and patted him on the back encouragingly. ‘You will not die overly easily. Now, you were asking?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Brann cast around for other attacks as he spoke. ‘How did you learn all that? The things you showed me in there. Was it in the army?’

‘I learnt to swing a sword in the army. I learnt to fight on the battlefield. I learnt to survive from opponents and comrades who didn’t.’

‘And the stuff about sinews and tendons and blood… things?’

‘From my wife.’

Deep in the corridors of the Arena, the noise from the crowd above was muted but was all the more terrifying for it. When it loitered on the edge of your hearing, it caught your attention all the stronger. And reminded you what was coming.

Brann had spent the journey to the massive stone-built amphitheatre in a daze, carried with three other fighters in a small covered wagon pulled by a single horse. Grakk was presumably in another, similar one. His throat wouldn’t let his voice emerge, but one of the men had noticed him looking at the canvas cover.

‘It’s for the way back. We might not present such a savoury sight on that journey.’

The way back. That seemed like a fantasy. He felt like he was going to his execution. He felt that he was going to his execution. Back at the compound, he had been occupied by work and distracted by novelty. The Arena had seemed a world away. Now it was close; now there was no way back. His head closed in, as if a vice for his brain. His guts were like a snake wriggling in his belly. His eyes stared blankly. Why was this happening? After everything, why? He hadn’t asked for any of this. He was only a boy, learning a miller’s trade. And, somehow, it was going to end like this. In a land where everything was strange and unreal, not least that he would die at the hands of a man he had never met. For sport.

Now, shuffling through the corridors, the cool felt dank and foreboding rather than a welcome respite from the searing sun. He was numb, but not from the temperature. His mind tried to stretch every second, as if he could prolong the time before he must face his fate; his opponent; his death.

They walked alone, just him and the guard. He and Grakk were fighting in the only two death matches that day. They were rare, and conversations overheard from the other side of the wagon’s canvas had attested to the excitement brewing amongst those whose blood would not be risked but whose hearts beat faster at the prospect. Those fighting in a death match did not await their moment with the mainstream fighters. They were treated as different. They were different.

He was shown into a room with a domed ceiling of bricks, dark-flamed torches sputtering for air and casting light and shadows equally.

‘We meet again, young Brann.’

Grakk sat cross-legged against one wall, a simple breastplate lying beside him and the two swords he had chosen the day before lying across his lap.

Brann said nothing. His mind was blank. He looked around the empty room and found his voice. ‘Where are the others?’

‘Our opponents? We will meet them on the sand of the Arena. Until then, it is just you and I. You are feeling fit?’

‘What does it matter how I feel now? In a short time I won’t feel anything.’

Grakk unfolded himself and stood in one fluid movement. He stood in front of the boy and looked into his eyes. ‘You will die today, undoubtedly.’ He tapped one finger against Brann’s forehead. ‘If you think in this manner. Should you enter the Arena already defeated, you will exit it dragged by the feet, trailing your blood behind you. But you are a silly boy, for I feel you will win. Unless your thoughts defeat you.’

‘You think I will win? Are you mad?’

Grakk shrugged. ‘Some say so. But in this I have reason. I have seen you fight. You are perfect for this. You do not know your opponent. You cannot plan for his style, his methods. But you do not plan anyway – you react, you adapt. There is an instinct in you, a voice that speaks to your hands before your head has heard. But not just this. Your eyes also notice things, chances, opportunities that others do not see. This is a good combination.’

‘But if he is better than me? I am on the far side of the world, dragged halfway as a slave and the other half as a silly naïve boy thinking he was on an adventure. Only to die in some stupid entertainment.’

Grakk gripped his head and stared into his eyes. For the first time since they had met, Brann heard an intensity in his voice. ‘Listen to me, young Brann, and listen well. There are no rules, no restrictions, no limitations. You will face a criminal, whether it be a former soldier who will show no mercy or a gutter rat who lives by fighting dirty. Whatever or whoever he may be, he will do whatever he can. You must do the same. You must face him with a craving for life, a desperation to keep a heart beating in your body. You must do anything, use anything, to stay alive. The man in front of you will be wanting to kill you. To kill you. Feel rage at that, turn it on him. Don’t believe you will die, but don’t think about winning. Don’t think at all. Live in the moment. Live each action and reaction as it happens, then live the next. Live. Always fight to live. Always fight.’

Brann nodded.

‘Good. Now you get dressed.’

‘Dressed?’

‘Dressed.’ Grakk turned him around, and he saw the sword he had used against the pig’s carcass, a shield – similar to the one he had practised with but studded with iron and emblazoned with the symbol of Cassian’s school – and a shirt of chain mail.

Grakk saw him looking at it. ‘It is a…’

‘A hauberk.’ Brann looked at him. ‘We don’t fight naked where I come from, you know. Just because we choose not to fight every day, it doesn’t mean we are centuries behind the rest of the world.’ He remembered a conversation with Einarr on the trip to the city, when the wind had filled the sail, the oars were rested and life seemed good. ‘Our smiths are renowned, you know.’

Grakk was pleased. ‘That is more the spirit you need. And your smiths are indeed regarded with admiration. This mail is a good choice. Light enough to afford mobility and, while it will not stop a weapon used full-strength, it is strong enough to deflect a glancing blow. For it is the small wounds that are often the lethal ones.’

‘I know, I know. Tendons and blood vessels and things like that.’

‘Good boy! You see, your prospects are more than you thought.’

As they had been speaking, Grakk had lifted the mail over Brann’s head. It reached to his mid-thigh and was short-sleeved. Grakk was right, he could move freely. He could feel the weight of it bearing down on his legs, and Grakk smiled. ‘Now you see the reasoning behind the tunic with weights.’ He fastened a belt around Brann’s waist. ‘This will keep it from shifting at an awkward moment.’

Brann tried moving in it. It felt awkward, but reassuring. He looked around. ‘No helmet?’

Grakk shook his head. ‘The good people of this city like to see the faces of those who may die. They like to see the faces as they die. Any sort of light armour is permitted, but only light. In heavy armour the combatants may die of exhaustion before a single drop of blood is spilt. That would not do at all.’

‘I feel ridiculous. Like a child at play.’

Grakk grunted. ‘Well I suggest you play at being a winner.’

Satisfied with Brann’s preparations, he moved across to the breastplate and slipped it on. Brann moved to help him fasten it. ‘It is fine. Pick up your sword and shield. Become accustomed to the movement in your new attire. Do not put them down from now until the fight is over. They are a part of you for this time, and they must feel as such. And remember this. Lengthy fights, ebbing and flowing and replete with excitement, they are for the sagas. In life, it is the most exhausting time you will ever live, even were you not encumbered by mail and baking in the heat. It will last minutes, but it will feel like hours. Take your chance whenever it presents itself. Kill if you can; if you cannot, weaken; if you cannot, worry. Learn quickly of his style. Trust your instinct, and act.’

Brann looked at the lean tribesman, a man he had grown close enough to call friend over the course of months and through more than a few deadly situations, and realised that he barely knew anything of Grakk from before the moment they met. And now he may know nothing more. He pushed down the surge of emotion and replaced it with simple curiosity. ‘Have you fought in a death match before?’

Grakk stared calmly into his eyes. ‘Not precisely as this. But, yes, I have fought to the death in circumstances of many varieties, and I have watched men fight also. One thing I have noticed often: it does not always finish the way onlookers would expect at the start. Do not panic at the sight of a man in front of you with sharpened steel, for once it starts, your mind will empty of all apart from the danger you face. Move, anywhere and in any way, and you will not freeze. Your desire to live will do the rest.’

Brann nodded, at a loss to imagine any way that he would not freeze, but grateful for the words. If nothing else, they had filled the time. He tried a few experimental swings and thrusts, and, to his surprise, the mail afforded him more freedom of movement than the padded tunic had the day before. Grakk merely flexed his shoulders and resumed his cross-legged position.

A guard appeared in the doorway. ‘You two. With me.’ Brann jumped, feeling foolish at being seen practising his sword strokes. The guard ignored him and turned on his heel.

‘Advisable to follow him if we don’t want to get lost, young warrior,’ Grakk suggested from beside him. They did so.

The noise of the crowd, borne on the constant draft blowing down the bare passage, was different. A chanting that, though the words were indistinct, lent a primeval atmosphere to their journey. Brann felt his legs dragging and his knees buckled slightly. He felt Grakk’s hand in the small of his back, a steadying presence.

‘Hold your head high, and your pride will follow. If your father, and his father, and his father, and his father were in the crowd, here to see you, how would you conduct yourself? Well, those who have passed to the next life, they are watching you today. Show them what you can do. Show this crowd, who are here to see you die, that you will not bow to their will. And show Loku, for there is no doubt he will wish to see his designs for you succeed, that he cannot beat you.’

Brann felt an anger begin to grow in his chest. His eyes felt an intensity he had not experienced before. But still his stomach heaved, his hands shook and his legs were weak.

They stopped before heavy double doors. The chanting was like a drum beat. Six beats in two threes. Over and over. And over. And over. Growing, swelling, pounding the stone structure till it shook in time.

Grakk turned to him. ‘All is order in this land. In a death match, for every killing, there is a life. For every life, there is a death. In a death match there are no rules, you do what you do to make the life yours, and the death his. There are no rules, but there are two laws: it finishes only when your opponent dies at your hand; and for every one that falls, another must stand. If two fight, one only must die. If a hundred fight, fifty only must die. So if four fight, two only must die. We both win, we both live. So think on this: I will finish my man as expeditiously as can be achieved, then I will join you. No rules, remember? I will help weaken him, but the killing blow must be yours. Stay alive and it will be so.

‘You will live, young Brann. You will live.’

Horns sounded, and the chanting burst louder still in response. The guard nodded to two men at the doors, and they were swung outwards, flooding them with light and noise. Grakk stepped forward and, with a shove from the guard, Brann stumbled after him.

The chant was a hammer blow harder even than the wall of heat. But now the words were clear.

‘… walk out. Four walk in, two walk out. Four walk in, two walk out…’

Huge drums, spaced evenly around the circular stadium, thundered out a steady beat but were almost drowned out by the voices they sought to lead. Brann realised his feet were keeping time, as were those of the squad of eight soldiers marching in line immediately to their right.

The floor of the combat area was wide and hard with packed sand, and Brann felt the vast bareness opening away from him. Never had he felt so exposed, so visible. The spectators crammed the benches, a mass of teeming humanity so vast that he was unable to register individuals. The sight and the sound combined to make them a single entity, all seeming to watch him, all seeming to hate him, all gleeful for his death.

From directly opposite, their opponents had entered. Both looked like common criminals, but of the most ferocious and murderous sort. The type of men who killed for a purse rather than stealing it by guile, who fought others for their spoils and who survived amongst others of their ilk by being nastier and more brutal than those they fought. Brann was sure they were not a random choice. Both were lean and strong, one with a moustache that reached the bottom of his chin and a scar that ran vertically from the corner of his mouth to bisect an eyebrow and finish at his hairline, carrying a sword and shield similar to those Brann bore, and the other larger and more powerful, turning as he walked to wave a longsword and an axe high to the crowd. As the groups closed, both men leered at Brann and Grakk with obvious pleasure.

The two pairs, with their escorts, met in the centre and turned to walk together towards one side, where Brann noticed a more sparsely populated area. Rather than the bench seating elsewhere, this section was furnished with individual chairs of a size and ornateness that grew further, the closer placed they were to the centre. Perfectly in the centre was a plain stone throne. Lounging in it was the Emperor, smiling as benignly as if Brann were being presented as a desirable suitor for his daughter, waving his hand absently along with the chants. Behind him stood his impassive Scribe, to either side sat the four who had sat with him the previous day, to the side of them sat the frail old man Brann had seen near Loku at the Throne Room and behind them sat Loku himself, his smile triumphant and his eyes bright with anticipation. The chanting had reached a crescendo.

A horn cut through the roar, silencing the throng in the beat of a heart. The silence was just as overbearing as the noise had been.

A herald, fat, shiny with sweat and lurid in a shirt, pantaloons and imperial tabard of colours that clashed so violently they jarred the eyes, stepped forward onto a platform at the front of the Emperor’s section. His voice, though, was as true to the ear as his clothes were offensive to sight.

Almost singing, such was his lilting tone, his words rang to every nook of the Arena. ‘What is your purpose today before His Magnificence, Emperor of the all the Civilised World?’

The other three started to respond, and with a jolt Brann recalled the words taught to him by Salus shortly before they had left the compound.

‘Lord of Lords, our lives are yours. We fight, win, die for your glory. Death is our master, Death is your servant. Our blood is your power.’

The Emperor smiled down at them, genially.

The herald continued. ‘Today we witness a death match. Four walk in, two walk out.’

The crown thundered in response. ‘Four walk in, two walk out.’

Silence lay heavy as the herald paused to build the tension. He looked at the four fighters standing motionless. ‘Today you walk the red path. But who shall you fight? Now we shall discover.’ Both arms aloft, he held on high four balls. ‘At this hour of death, we see the four colours of life: the amber of the sun, the green of the leaf, the blue of sea and sky, the claret of our blood.’

A soldier walked over with four strips of cloth, dyed to match the balls, tying one to each of their right biceps. Brann received the claret, Grakk the amber, the moustached man the blue and the large man the green.

The herald dropped the four balls into a bag. ‘Our Emperor, the heart and soul of ul-Taratac, shall divine the selection.’ The Emperor’s Scribe descended to fetch it, but instead spoke briefly to the herald. ‘In his beneficence, and in recognition of recent service of great value, our Lord of Lords has invited his loyal and trusted advisor, Taraloku-Bana, to make the selection.’

Loku stood and walked down to the herald’s platform, his face solemn. He bowed to the Emperor, receiving a warm nod in reply, and turned to face the fighters. The herald held out the bag and lifted out a ball. The fat man’s voice rang out once more. ‘Claret will fight…’ Brann’s stomach lurched. The hand dipped again. ‘Green.’

The larger man. Brann was sure the selection was no coincidence. Loku smirked.

The herald continued. ‘And so Claret will fight Green, and Blue will fight Amber. Today we witness death matches, not one, but two. No rules, no limitations, just one truth: four walk in, two walk out.’ The crowd roared the response. ‘This contest will be fought as two matches, separate as the sun and moon. Two men, and two men only, fighting alone, twice over. Pure and simple as death itself.’

A fist of panic squeezed Brann’s heart and he looked at Grakk in alarm. The tattooed tribesman leant in close. ‘It is what it is. We cannot change it, so waste no time wishing it different. Deal with the fate you face. You have survived much. You can do so again. What is it you say? Just do what seems right.’

The large man, grinning, exchanged his axe for the shield of his companion. The smaller man started to object but was silenced by a growl. He took the axe, swung it experimentally, and shrugged, apparently satisfied.

Brann’s eyes narrowed. The man was adopting the same weapons as he had – he was making them as similar as possible so that the only difference left would be his size and, presumably, experience. The fact that he was alive attested to the fact that it had been successful experience.

The spears of the soldiers separated them into the pairs who would fight, and directed them to the centre of the Arena. Strangely, a hush had descended over the crowd, and they could hear their own footsteps and the clink of metal.

An unexpected calm had settled over Brann also, as a blanket over a fire. His stomach still churned but, with no option left to him and his immediate future certain, a coolness enveloped him. His senses were heightened, but also focused. He lost awareness of the crowd, of their very existence. He examined the man, slightly ahead and eager to start. He was tall and broad shouldered, tending to a bulk that spoke of power rather than speed. Similar to Grakk, he wore a breastplate but he had added matching protection on his forearms and shins. He was never still, banging his sword on his shield or raising both on high and roaring to the crowd. Not that it mattered, but Brann couldn’t help but notice that whoever had shaved his head had done a patchy job.

They approached the centre and the man wheeled and hissed at him. ‘My name is Balak-dur. Remember that when you die. Do not be ashamed, for it is an honour to die at the hand of The Reaper, the victor of forty-nine duels. A fortune awaits me, and your death will buy it, little man, so feel your worth. My fortune has been promised, and I will have it.’

‘Promised by whom?’ If he could place even a seed of doubt, it may distract the man.

‘Promised by whom?’ His high-pitched repetition was mocking. ‘By none other than the Emperor’s own Master of Information, so there is certainty in the promise. Remember the name of Balak-dur, and take it to the next world.’

A rage began to build within him, but it was a cold fury, washing against his fear. The soldiers stopped, two lines back to back and with spears levelled, separating the fights. The fighters faced each other at a distance of around five spear-lengths. The silence deepened. The Emperor rose from his throne of stone and raised one hand. He held it there for a long moment. The air felt thick, almost humming with the anticipation of thousands.

The hand dropped. The crowd erupted. Shield up and sword poised, Brann moved into readiness. His opponent, though, turned his back and faced the watching masses. As when he had walked, he held his weapons to the sky, roaring over and over. He wants me to attack, Brann realised, and I will run into a full swing of that big sword. Fighting the nerves, trying to draw on the anger, he waited, dropping both arms to his sides. Why waste energy holding them up?

He glanced across at Grakk, his fight in clear view between the widely spaced soldiers. They were already engaged and the tribesman’s swords danced before him, weaving a net of bright metal as they parried and struck at a speed hard to follow. In seconds, the axe had fallen from nerveless fingers. Grakk swayed back just enough to see a wild swipe send the sword slicing the air in front of him, then leapt forward, arms crossed over each other and extending the twin blades forwards like a heron spearing a fish. The arms flung wide and Grakk sprang back, swords up and ready to defend. There was no need. The neck had been sliced from each side, opened from the front halfway to the back. Blood sprayed and squirted high, bright against sky and sand. The head flopped back, and the body hit the ground. The crowd bayed with lust. Grakk faced Brann, looking for all the world like a dog straining on an invisible leash.

Brann’s opponent turned towards him. ‘See that?’ he screamed. ‘That’s you bleeding your life out into the dirt.’ He pointed his sword at the masses watching. ‘Except I’ll take your head clean off and give it to them.’

He charged.

He came at Brann at a loping run, measured paces that built momentum but kept balance, his weight thudding into the hard ground with every pace. Power, not speed. But changing direction might be a problem. Especially if Brann sidestepped at the right moment. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was a plan. His nerves filled every fibre of his being. He had to get it right.

The plan evaporated. Just short of him, the man leapt skywards, dropping in front of Brann, his impetus down instead of forwards, his sword smashing down with all his weight behind it. Brann dropped to one knee, his shield raised on instinct. Muscles built in months fighting the sea with an oar resisted the blow, but the sword still crashed into his shield so hard that the wood slammed against his head. His own sword was moving, cutting right to left at the large leg in front of him. Just before it struck, the man, still catching his balance from the jump, twisted and Brann’s blade caught the edge of the metal greave and sliced across the flesh of the calf rather than biting into tendon and bone.

His nerves evaporated. The cold calm that had crept up on him before now flowed over him. He knew nothing but the man in front of him. His movements. His noise.

The man screamed in fury. ‘You little bastard. I’ll cut you bad for that. I’ll cut you bad before I kill you.’

He came at him in a flurry of hammering blows. The first, backhanded, hit Brann’s shield so hard it nearly knocked him off his feet and he staggered back, barely keeping his balance. The next came hard on the first, swinging down from his left. His shield came up to meet it. As it struck, he turned his shoulders to the right, angling the shield the same way. The blade deflected away to his right, the unexpected direction unbalancing the man and giving Brann a fraction of a second. Again he dropped to a knee, but this time hammered the rim of his shield down on top of the man’s foot, smashing into the fragile bones. The man screamed. Brann drove up with his legs, his sword vertical. He thrust. The blade speared into the man’s throat and ripped up and through to emerge from the back of his head. The man arched back and collapsed into the dirt.

The crowd were suddenly silent, shocked as much by the brevity of the contest as by its outcome. Then shouts turned to roars, and roars turned to the chant, this time louder than ever before. ‘Four walk in, two walk out.’

Brann stepped up to the man. Mindful of Cassian’s warning about the danger of dying men, he stood on the wrist that still gripped the large sword. He leant over and stared into the contorted face, dark blood flowing from mouth, nose and wounds and expanding the pool already on the ground. Brann’s teeth were clamped tight, but the words came out nonetheless.

‘I have forgotten your name already. But know this: my name is Brann. Remember that as you die. Be ashamed, for you die at the hand of a boy who today fought his first duel. Remember the name of Brann, and take it to the next world.’ He spat red blood onto the baked earth.

He had no idea whether the man was still alive or already dead. He didn’t care.

A soldier leant past him, placed a foot against the man’s chin and drew Brann’s sword from his head with a sucking squelch. He wiped it on the corpse’s tunic where it emerged below his unscratched breastplate, and handed it to the boy. ‘You might want to keep this, lad. You use it well.’

He took it absently, unable to move his foot from the wrist, unable to move his eyes from the face, the fury lifting from him and, in its place, a horror at the reality of gruesome brutality fixing his gaze on the corpse with a force he could not break. Grakk appeared at his elbow. ‘When I said to finish it when you had the chance, you certainly took the instruction to heart. You surprised us all. And, I must say, pleasantly.’ He eased him away and the soldiers turned them to face the royal section. The crowd still chanted in acclaim. The Emperor stood, smiling and – as Brann and Grakk bowed on one knee as Salus had instructed when he had taught them the words of the greeting – applauding. Brann’s eyes sought, found, Loku. His face was contorted in fury. Brann smiled.

Then the shaking started.