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.