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.