‘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