by Richard Ford
She had never sounded so defeatist before, and Waylian had to admit it worried him.
‘But, Magistra, there must be something we can do. There must be some task you could give me?’
Gelredida turned to him and Waylian saw she was smiling. That was almost enough to put him on his arse.
‘I could ask you anything, couldn’t I? Loyal Waylian Grimm. That’s one of your virtues. You’ve always been dependable and I would rely on no one else.’ She walked closer to him and placed a gloved hand on his shoulder. She’d never touched him before and he found it strangely reassuring … until her face turned stern. ‘Be careful who you give your loyalty to, Waylian. If you survive this, by some miracle, you must trust no one. There will likely be no members of the Caste left to offer you safety or advice. If these walls fall, if Amon Tugha has his way, you will be alone. Your power will be sought after. Perhaps your very soul. Look to yourself, Waylian Grimm, and be the man you were always meant to be.’
She was talking now as though she wouldn’t be there. As though he would no longer be her apprentice. It scared him a little, sparking yet more unanswered questions, but all he could do was nod in agreement.
Her stare lingered for a moment, and Waylian struggled to read what was going through her mind. Was she concerned for him? Was that compassion? She’d certainly never shown anything like it before. All she’d ever done was put him in harm’s way. It was a bit late to be worried about him now, when the city was about to fall and they were all going to be slaughtered.
‘What now, Magistra?’ he asked, desperate to divert her attention.
‘Now we do what has to be done,’ she replied. ‘The only option left open to us.’
Gelredida turned and headed for the door. Waylian didn’t have to be asked – he knew he should follow wherever she led.
They made their way down through the tower, down below the entrance hall to the dungeons that lay beneath the tower’s foundations. They passed the cells where Waylian had witnessed a man being tortured to death by Gelredida’s own hand. The cold of the place suddenly made him shudder, or was it the memory? Either way he gripped the sleeves of his robe, pulling it about him tighter like a cloak.
Gelredida continued down through the tower, deeper than Waylian had ever gone before. He could barely find his footing in the scant light, desperately trying not to trip on the slick stairway and bowl into his mistress. Deeper they went, and as they did so the presence of Raven Knights seemed to increase. Two at the corridor entrance, two more in an antechamber, two others guarding a door that led through to a row of cells.
Waylian wondered what could be in those cells that would be such cause for concern. What could they house that would require six Raven Knights, men who were so sorely needed on the wall protecting the other magisters against the unstoppable enemy?
When he followed Gelredida through the doors and down the corridor he saw that every cell was empty. He counted nineteen in all, each one vacant until they reached the very last. By the dim torchlight Waylian could see little inside. As he looked and his eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom he realised there was a single body lying on a cot in one shadowed corner. The place stank of damp and rot and piss and Waylian had to grit his teeth rather than gag.
‘It’s time,’ said Gelredida in a stern voice as she came to stand next to the cell.
At first the body on the cot didn’t move, and Waylian wondered if she were talking to a corpse. Perhaps she had finally been unhinged by the pressure of protecting this damned city. Perhaps her last-gasp attempt to rescue every soul in Steelhaven was to rail at a rotting carcass.
Then the body moved.
Waylian peered through the dark as the figure sat up and stretched, dark, lank hair covering his face. Then the dishevelled form stood and slowly walked forward. There was something in his gait that Waylian recognised but he couldn’t quite place it. As the figure reached the bars he shielded his eyes with one hand against the glare of the torch, masking his features.
Then Waylian saw him smile behind a mass of dark, wispy beard.
‘Hello, Grimmy. It’s been a while.’
Waylian felt his bollocks clench at the sound of that voice. It was a voice he’d never wanted to hear again. One that struck him with terror. With memories of pain and death.
It can’t be him. He’s fucking dead. You fucking killed him.
The figure moved his hand, pressing his face up against the bars and smiling that friendly, amiable smile. He was still handsome despite the mass of hair and beard.
He was still Rembram Thule.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Janessa had not spoken since Kaira brought her back to the palace. She merely sat in her chamber, staring out to the north of the city, looking beyond the wall to where lay Amon Tugha’s army.
Kaira had no idea what to say. It had been her duty to protect the queen and she had come close to failing, more than once. Not that Janessa made it easy for her. Kaira could never be blamed if Janessa gifted her throat to the enemy, but it wasn’t blame she was concerned about. She had grown fond of this girl. Grown to love her, even. She had been thrust onto the throne, given the role of a warrior queen when she was no more than a child. No wonder she had taken it on herself to sacrifice everything to save the city. Kaira couldn’t say whether she would not have done the same in the queen’s position.
‘I have failed,’ Janessa said quietly.
Kaira moved to her side, placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder.
‘You have not. You yet live. The city still stands. While you breathe there is hope.’
Janessa shook her head. ‘He will come and he will destroy this city. You should have let me die.’
Kaira grabbed Janessa by her arms, hauling the girl to her feet.
‘No,’ she said, staring Janessa in the eye. ‘You are a queen. You are stronger than this. You have survived worse than this; every attempt on your life has failed.’
‘And how many have died to protect me?’ Janessa shouted back. Tears welled in her eyes. Kaira didn’t know whether to be sorry or encouraged by the sudden fire inside the girl. ‘How many more will die before Amon Tugha’s victory?’
‘Hundreds,’ said Kaira. ‘Thousands, maybe. But they will die on their feet, in defiance of him. They will not kneel before him and offer themselves like sheep to the slaughter.’
Janessa looked to the ground and Kaira sensed her shame.
‘I’m not strong enough. I can’t beat him.’
‘Not on your own.’ Kaira lifted the girl’s chin. ‘But you are not alone. You stand at the head of a loyal army. You stand queen of all the Free States. And self-pity does not become you.’
Janessa nodded. ‘I know. You’re right.’ She wiped the corner of her eye. ‘I almost destroyed everything. Almost gifted Amon Tugha the victory he seeks. I have to make it right.’
Kaira smiled. ‘Your only mistake was naivety. To trust the word of a man with no honour. But you will make that right.’
‘I will,’ said Janessa. ‘And I will do it now. My sword? My armour?’
‘I’ll see they are brought immediately, Majesty.’
She gave Janessa one last smile before leaving her chamber. Kaira was encouraged by the girl’s sudden fire but also knew it did not mean they could win. Janessa may well have been right about not being able to beat Amon Tugha, but there were worse things than defeat. Kaira knew that all too well. She could only hope Vorena would keep them strong when the final battle came.
Kaira had not reached the end of the corridor from Janessa’s chamber before she saw Seneschal Rogan waiting patiently. He smiled when he saw her and took a step forward.
‘I trust the queen is well after last night’s … excitement?’ he said.
How could he know so soon? But then he always knew. His eyes and ears were everywhere, within the palace and without.
‘She is quite well,’ Kaira replied. ‘And eager to join the fight once more.’
‘Such a relief
. The city needs her now more than ever.’
‘And she will serve it as any queen would.’
‘Of that I am sure. I trust you have enough men to keep her safe? Should you require more I have servants of the Inquisition who would be only too happy to join her retinue.’
Rogan sounded genuinely concerned, and for a moment Kaira considered it. Janessa had been in enough danger, and it would only increase as the siege wore on. Perhaps Rogan’s help was what she needed.
But no. It was Kaira’s duty, and that of the Sentinels, to keep the queen safe. Only they could be trusted. Lord Leon Magrida had proven that beyond doubt.
Kaira shook her head. ‘We have more than enough men, Seneschal. But your concern is appreciated.’
He bowed his head. ‘I live to serve the Crown.’
‘As do I,’ she replied.
Kaira made her way down through the palace, on the way ordering a steward to have the queen’s armour sent to her chamber. The Helsbayn was locked within its vestibule, and Kaira would trust no one else to bring the queen her sacred sword of office.
As she walked along an empty corridor towards the great hall, Kaira was sure she heard a mumbling. She stopped, alert to any danger. Perhaps she was being over-cautious, but the past days, and the inherent danger to the queen, meant she was immediately on edge. More mumbling, this time clear along the corridor and accompanied by a metallic clink. Chains perhaps?
Kaira slowly drew her sword and moved down the passageway, following the sound. It grew louder, more frenetic, and with every step she feared the worst – another assassin within the walls of Skyhelm? How many more before this was over?
She peered around the corner. An adjoining corridor led off into darkness but there was a door open to a large chamber. The voice was audible now, though spoken in hushed tones. Kaira couldn’t make out any of the words; they were babbled as though by a madman. She waited, gripping her sword tight, feeling its weight, ready to strike.
With a jangle, Chancellor Durket appeared from the room. He carried a large leather pack over each shoulder, huffing under their weight as he staggered down the corridor. When he had moved close enough Kaira stepped out from her hiding place and he stopped dead, his eyes wide.
‘Chancellor?’ said Kaira.
‘Er … yes?’ he replied.
‘Going somewhere?’ Durket shook his head vigorously. Kaira guessed his gesture might not have been altogether honest. ‘What do you carry there?
‘Nothing,’ said Durket. ‘I mean … nothing for you to be concerned with.’ His brow furrowed in annoyance. ‘Now, out of the way, I have to attend to the business of the Crown.’
Kaira didn’t move, and he stared up at her trying his best to act defiant, but under Kaira’s stern gaze there was little chance of that.
‘I’ll ask again, what do you carry there?’ she said.
Durket merely stared at her, unwilling or unable to move. Kaira’s patience had worn thin enough.
Her sword flashed out, slicing a leather smile from one of the packs. Gold crowns spilled out in a river, bouncing on the tiled floor, ringing the sound of Durket’s guilt all along the corridor.
Kaira struck out, grasping Durket by the throat and slamming him up against the wall.
‘Thief,’ she spat. ‘You think to abandon this place, your queen, in their hour of need. You would run away with the last of the gold in the palace coffers?’
Durket sobbed, shaking his head. ‘It’s not me,’ he said. ‘It not me. It’s not me.’
Kaira felt a sudden sympathy for the man. They might all die here and Durket was certainly no warrior. He was weak and afraid but so was half the city.
As she released him he slid down the wall, tears flowing as he repeated ‘it’s not me’ over and over through moist lips. She just stared down at him, sitting amongst his stolen gold, wondering what to do until he suddenly stopped his sobbing rant and looked up at her.
‘Do you hear it?’ he asked.
Kaira wondered if he had become unhinged through fear. ‘I hear nothing,’ she answered.
‘I can hear it all the time. That voice in my head. It talks to me in the dark. Every night since …’
‘Since when?’ she asked, though why she wanted to decipher the ramblings of a man stricken with terror she didn’t know.
‘Since he came to take her. Since you killed his men and the queen took his head. I can hear him.’
‘Who?’ Kaira demanded. If she’d had to admit it, Durket’s rambling was beginning to unnerve her. ‘Azai Dravos? He is dead and gone. Nothing speaks to you but your fevered dreams.’
Durket laughed then. He laughed till the tears from his eyes and spit from his mouth ran free. ‘No,’ he said when his breath had returned. ‘I know he’s dead. It’s the voice of his master I hear. The voice of Horas. He comes to me in the night. He calls to me.’
Kaira sheathed her sword. It was obvious Durket had been driven insane, but he was clearly little danger other than to the palace coffers. She reached down and hauled him to his feet.
‘Leave the palace,’ she said. Durket looked at her dumbly through red eyes. ‘Leave this place and never return. If I ever see you again this Horas will be the least of your troubles.’
Durket nodded vigorously, then smiled. ‘Yes,’ he whispered, before stumbling off down the corridor.
Kaira watched him go, wondering if he wasn’t the lucky one. Amon Tugha was almost within the city. Surely the insanity had only just begun.
THIRTY-EIGHT
They had burned the bodies of Kazul and Akkula, the pyre lit bright against the ominous black clouds overhead. Regulus had said the words as best he could but how he missed Leandran and his wisdom now. How he yearned to have the words said right for the men he had brought north and who had died for him. Regulus knew he could not lament too long on that. They had known what they were fighting for. Yes, they had followed him out of loyalty, but they had also fought for their own glory.
Their pyre had been built high, but there were other pyres alongside. Pyres for the corpses of the enemy, pyres for the dead Coldlanders who had fought beside the Zatani and died in their hundreds. The stench wafted across the city, covering Steelhaven in the stink of burning meat. Regulus felt the sting of shame as his stomach rumbled at the smell. He took solace in the fact there would be time to gorge himself aplenty, either when these Khurtas had been defeated or when he was dead and returned to the earth as a warrior reborn.
For now he had to think about avenging his fallen. By rights there needed to be a sacrifice for both Kazul and Akkula. Regulus vowed there would be blood spilled in rivers for their loss. He could hardly wait for the next attack.
Night was already falling. It would not be long. He could see the enemy mustering to the north and the sense of unease washed across the wall, the Coldlanders girding themselves for what might be the final battle. Regulus felt no unease, only anticipation. This would be where he died or where his name would be remembered throughout the Coldlands and beyond. They would talk of his deeds amongst the Clawless Tribes for centuries. He could only hope word of it carried far enough south for Faro to hear. For Faro to know Regulus Gor yet lived. For Faro to fear him and his reputation before he travelled back to Equ’un to reclaim his birthright.
Janto sat some feet away, running a whetstone along the edge of one of his axes. The sound of it ringing out rhythmically was the only thing that broke the uneasy silence. It was ironic that of all the warriors he had brought north, Janto Sho would be the last to stand by his side. Of all the Zatani he had fought with, this was the only one who might turn against him. And now more than ever since his life debt was paid. Janto had saved Regulus from the golden-eyed warrior woman – they owed one another nothing now. They were equals once more, and from rival tribes no less. There was no telling what Janto might do next.
Regulus walked forward to stand beside him, listening for a moment to the ringing of whetstone on steel.
‘There is nothing
to keep you here,’ he said when it was clear Janto was not about to stop. ‘There is no need for you to risk yourself further.’
Janto remained silent, carrying on with sharpening his axe. Regulus waited until the ringing finally ceased and Janto stared out at the city thoughtfully, considering his answer.
‘You think you are the only one with something to prove, Gor’tana? You think you are the only one searching for glory?’
‘There may be little glory to be had. There may only be death.’
Janto barked a laugh. ‘There is no glory without death. By risking our lives for this city, by destroying its enemies by the score, we will become legend. I think I’m in just the right place for that. There’ll be enemies aplenty to build my reputation upon. A pile of skulls for me to stand atop and howl my name across the continents.’
‘And when there are no more enemies to fight? Will you turn those axes on me?’ Regulus took a step back, his hand not far from his own black blade.
Janto merely smiled, regarding Regulus with those blue eyes. ‘Taking your head would be glorious indeed; I won’t pretend I haven’t thought about it. But look around you. These Coldlanders have tried to kill us once, and we came north to fight at their side. When we’ve defeated their enemies you’ll be the only one left watching my back. I’d be a fool to kill you now.’
Regulus stared back at him. ‘You’d be a fool to try,’ he said.
Janto smiled, holding his gaze, not showing any sign of weakness.
‘It may not matter anyway. Who knows, perhaps there is a warrior coming who can defeat us both. Then we’ll never know which of us is the greater.’
‘Perhaps there is such a warrior,’ Regulus replied, looking out to the north. He drew his sword, and Janto quickly raised his own axes at the ready. ‘If there is I think we’re about to find out.’
He pointed to the north and Janto turned to see.
The Khurtas were on the move again.
THIRTY-NINE
