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