Steelhaven 02 - The Shattered Crown

by Richard Ford

‘I say …’ Waylian managed, his shoulders shivering more than ever. If the bronze-armoured knight heard he didn’t acknowledge it. ‘I say … you have my … eternal thanks.’

  The knight turned, looked him up and down, then gave a nod.

  Clearly a man of action rather than words.

  ‘I … I am looking for the Keep,’ said Waylian. ‘I assume you are—’

  ‘Not my problem,’ said the knight, walking back towards his horse. He fished in one of the saddlebags as Waylian stumbled after him.

  ‘Please … I have been sent from Steelhaven. I need …’

  The knight ignored him, walking past with two lengths of twine in his hand. He knelt by the beast, securing its front and hind legs together. Then, with unbelievable strength, hefted the creature over his shoulders.

  Waylian watched, feeling the cold creeping into his bones, gaining the dread impression he was going to be left alone up here to die.

  ‘Please …’ he said, letting out a sob. ‘Please, you have to take me to the Keep. I have to deliver a message. If you don’t help me … I’ll die out here.’

  ‘Not my problem,’ the knight repeated.

  Waylian felt anger burning in the pit of his stomach. It did little to warm him up but it made his words easier to speak through the cold.

  ‘If you’re just going to leave me here what was the point of saving me?’

  The knight stopped and turned, looking on pitilessly from beneath his helm. ‘Didn’t do it for you,’ he said. ‘This thing’s been making a nuisance of itself for days.’

  Waylian suddenly felt guilty and a little foolish. ‘I’m sorry. I suppose such a thing must have carried off more than its share of innocent mountain folk.’

  That raised a smirk from the knight. ‘Mountain folk? Who gives a shit about them? It took six of the Lord Marshal’s goats. That’s why it’s dead.’

  Waylian would find no compassion here, but he had to try one more time.

  ‘Please. You have to take me to him. I have to speak with the Lord Marshal.’

  ‘Not my problem,’ replied the knight, turning to leave.

  ‘But I have to deliver this,’ Waylian snapped, lifting the sealed parchment between numbed fingers.

  The knight regarded it for a moment, seeing the seal in the shape of a wyvern that matched the one on his breastplate. He shrugged.

  ‘Why didn’t you say that in the first place?’

  He walked back to his warhorse, hefting the carcass over his saddle, then went to retrieve his spear. Waylian looked on, wondering if that was the end of the conversation.

  The knight took his horse by the reins and made to lead it on through the mountains. After only three steps he looked back over his shoulder.

  ‘Well? What are you waiting for?’ Waylian needed no further encouragement, and stumbled after him through the snow. ‘Here, make yourself useful.’ The knight held out his spear expectantly.

  Waylian grasped it in both hands, almost toppling backwards under the weight. Gratefully, he followed the knight and his charger, carrying his heavy burden. He only hoped the Keep wasn’t far.

  And that there was a fire.

  A bloody big one.

  TWO

  Epiak had died in the night. It had been a quiet death. Peaceful. Regulus Gor knew it was not how the young warrior would have wanted it.

  No Zatani sought a peaceful end. They were a warrior people. Proud. Fierce. And the Gor’tana were among the fiercest. To run from enemies rather than face death was a supreme dishonour. That was why the shame of his flight now stung Regulus to the quick. Yet, he consoled himself, there would be time enough to regain his honour and his standing amongst the tribes of Equ’un. Time enough for vengeance For now, he would just have to bear the ignominy and survive long enough to plan his return.

  Regulus watched in silent vigil as the sun rose over the mountains. He stood over seven feet, his powerfully muscled body silhouetted against the golden light of morning, a mane of thick locks crowning his head and flowing down his back. As he stood there he thumbed the pommel of his sword: five feet of black steel gifted to him by his father at his ascension ceremony. It was his only possession – but all he would ever need.

  With no time to build a cairn for Epiak, they had laid him out on the ground. Leandran, the oldest and wisest of their number, had knelt over the young warrior, reciting the words that would speed him on his way, praising Kaga the Creator and Hama the Seeker. With luck, Epiak would make it to the stars before the Dark Walker could intercept him. Once there, Ancient Gorm would assess his worthiness and send him back to the earth either as warrior or slave. Regulus could not guess what the judgement would be. Epiak had fought bravely for days, but after being wounded he had died the quiet-death in his sleep. Only Gorm could decide whether he was worthy to return as a warrior.

  The rest of the warparty, now only nine in number, watched along with Regulus. Just nine warriors left to represent the tribe of the Gor’tana. The legacy of his father had indeed been brought low. But Regulus would rise again; he would have warriors flocking to his banner. He was adamant. The glories he was determined to win in the north would re-establish his reputation.

  Leandran finished saying his words and stood up. At a signal from Regulus they moved on. There would be no further ceremony – no mourning, no lamenting. Epiak was gone now, off to be judged by Ancient Gorm. None of them could change that. But if any of the warparty desired to avenge Epiak’s death there would be chance aplenty.

  They moved north at speed. The warriors had left the grassy plains of Equ’un behind them two days before, moving into the no man’s land of the mountains that separated the southern continent of Equ’un from the Coldlands of the north. The lands of the Clawless Tribes.

  Regulus had only been a boy when the Steel King had ridden down from those lands and defeated the Aeslanti. It had been his victory that led to freedom for all the tribes of Zatani, and this victory, this granting of freedom, was the reason Regulus and his warriors were now making their way north. Regulus hoped it would not prove a fool’s journey.

  As they moved onward, Leandran came up beside Regulus, his weathered features looking troubled. The old warrior’s head was shaved bald, his limbs thin, his once powerful muscle little more than sinew, but his senses were keen and he could fight as well as any of the younger members of the tribe. His ebon skin had paled in places, which would have shamed another warrior, but not one who was as skilled as Leandran with spear and claw.

  ‘They won’t be far behind,’ Leandran said. He had a habit of stating the obvious.

  Regulus glanced back at his warriors. Their flight had taken days and most were carrying wounds. For now they were keeping pace but soon they would slow down. Their pursuers would not.

  ‘Then we will have to fight them, Leandran,’ Regulus replied, with barely concealed relish in his voice.

  Leandran nodded, but Regulus could sense his apprehension. Never a coward, the old warrior was not eager to be killed in the mountains so far from home. For his part, neither was Regulus; but if that was what the gods decreed, then that was how he would meet his fate.

  Regulus silently cursed Faro for leading them to this, and cursed the Kel’tana tribesmen who had aided him. Faro had been one of the Gor’tana’s most honoured warriors, and the most trusted. By tribal custom Regulus was heir to the chieftaincy, but his father made no secret that if Faro proved himself worthy he would be the one to take on the mantle when the time was right. Faro, however, had been impatient and had made a secret pact with the warriors of the Kel’tana tribe. A pact made in blood.

  The Gor and the Kel had been deadly rivals from before the Slave Uprisings, and Faro did not have to try hard to persuade the Kel that a coup was in their best interests.

  They had come on a moonless night. By stealth, Faro and the Kel’tana slaughtered many Gor’tana and stole the clan from Regulus’ father. Shamelessly they had pulled the old chief’s teeth and his claws to bury them in the d
irt and ensure he would never become a warrior in the next life.

  Regulus had been on the hunt with his party of warriors when the ambush had taken place. When word reached him that his father had been murdered, Regulus knew what would follow. Faro would extend his hand to be bonded in blood and demand the fealty of Regulus and his warparty. Then, when he was off guard, Regulus would share his father’s fate. Faro would never risk leaving Regulus alive to exact his vengeance. But neither could Regulus attack Faro while he had authority over the Gor’tana and the aid of the Kel’tana. There had been no choice but to flee. And – inevitably – Faro’s hunters had come after him.

  They had tracked his warparty quickly – so quickly that Regulus and his warriors were taken by surprise. Most of them had been killed in the battle that followed though all fought well and a few had managed to escape. Now, far from home and still hounded by a relentless enemy, they were becoming exhausted. Faro’s allies would not stop until Regulus and any loyal to him were dead.

  Regulus paused at the top of a promontory, surveying the few of his warriors that remained. Perhaps they should stop here and make a stand. But then they would all die, and he would never have a chance at vengeance. And it would almost certainly be a slaughter, not a glorious battle. Would his warriors want to stand and fight? Would they rather a slim chance at a heroic death here, or carry on running in ignominy? The Gor’tana were his tribe, his warriors to command. They would follow him unto death. Being scythed down here was not the glorious end he was determined to give them.

  ‘The gate’s not far,’ said Leandran, breathing heavily. ‘If we can make it there, perhaps they’ll stop following.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he replied. Regulus knew there was a slim chance the Kel’tana would give up their pursuit, but it was still better than no chance.

  ‘Maybe we should find high ground, then. Make a stand?’

  ‘If we make a stand there is every chance they will overwhelm us. A brave death, but death all the same. It might be a good fight, Leandran, and I want that more than you could know, but we deserve a heroic death. We deserve to have tales told of our final battle.’

  ‘And they’ll tell tales of us in the north?’ Leandran looked sceptical.

  ‘More likely in the north than in these mountains. Will tales be told of us if we perish here? In the Coldlands I hear their tellers travel far and wide spreading the word of their king and recounting their ancient fables. I would give them a tale to be told for a thousand years.’

  ‘Was never one for tales, anyway,’ muttered Leandran, as he loped off.

  Regulus smiled wryly. The old warrior was irascible, but loyal to the end, and Regulus could forgive a man much for loyalty.

  They ran on for most of the day, slowing as the sun drew its way across the sky. Cresting a high ridge, Regulus saw a sight that filled him with hope. Hope that they might yet salvage some glory from their flight.

  Below was a deep valley, slicing its way through the mountains as though hewn by an axe-wielding god. Towering in the centre of that valley was a vast obsidian archway made up of two massive leaning towers, each half depicting gigantic warriors bound in an eternal struggle for supremacy, their weapons locked together at the summit. What race these stone warriors belonged to was impossible to tell, for both were armoured in heavy plate and full helms covered their faces.

  The Clawless Tribes knew this place as Bakhaus Gate, probably named, as they named most things, after some ancient hero. It was where the Aeslanti had been defeated, where the seed of freedom had been sown for the Zatani. Regulus marvelled at the vast monolith and wondered what mighty hands could possibly have built it.

  At seeing the huge arch he and his warriors moved down towards the valley with renewed vigour. This was the gateway to the north, marking the border with the Coldlands. Once through it, there was a chance their pursuers would give up the chase. There they had a chance of survival.

  As they passed beneath the gate, Regulus stared up in awe. It was at least five hundred feet across, each of the carved warriors fifty feet wide at the base. The valley itself ran straight as an arrow as far as the eye could see. It was here the Aeslanti and the Clawless Tribes had done battle. It was here the beast-men who had kept the Zatani in bondage for so many centuries were finally defeated.

  The Aeslanti had come north looking for slaves, seeking to pillage from the Coldlands everything of worth, but the Steel King had other ideas. Not only had he massed warriors from his own Clawless Tribes, but also those from Equ’un.

  The Aeslanti had advanced along the valley, seeking to do battle beneath the gate so as to give themselves strength. It was said their war cries ripped through the mountains and echoed across the grasslands of Equ’un. Ten thousand warriors, armoured in steel, invincible, united.

  It had not been enough.

  As the Aeslanti assaulted the enemy lines they were beaten back again and again. Though the Coldlanders were small of stature compared to the Aeslanti they were their equals in ferocity, fighting with passion and honour. Nevertheless, their numbers dwindled and, as a river of blood flowed down the valley, it looked as if the Aeslanti would be victorious. But the Aeslanti had not bargained on the power of the northern warlocks, and when it seemed glory would be theirs, they were halted in their tracks, their armour closing about their bodies, their breath halting in their lungs, their blood freezing in their veins.

  It was little effort for the northern king to lead his huge steeds through the Aeslanti ranks and crush any still standing.

  As Regulus passed beneath the giant arch, part of him yearned to have been there, to have seen battle on such a huge scale, but the Zatani had not been able to fight alongside the other tribes of Equ’un. They had been a slave race, in bondage to the Aeslanti for centuries, bred to fight in the battlepits where their size and fierceness was highly prized. Though unmistakeably human, they bore fangs and claws said to be the result of Aeslanti sorceries and foul breeding practices. They had never known freedom, had only lived in chains, but with the Aeslanti defeat, that was all to change.

  The uprising started the moment word of the Steel King’s victory reached the slave pits of Equ’un. The Zatani saw their chance and took it, the ferocity they had learned over decades of fighting for the pleasure of their Aeslanti masters ensured their victory over the few weary lion-men that returned from Bakhaus Gate. It had been a glorious rebellion, and the Zatani won their freedom after crushing their former overlords.

  Regulus was determined to show the people of the Clawless Tribes what a true Zatani warrior could do. He was determined to claim glory and honour for the Gor’tana and for his father. If he and his warparty made it north, if they survived the journey, he would kneel before the Steel King of the Clawless Tribes. Regulus would offer his sword and show this Coldlander chieftain what true power and ferocity was. He would fight for him, destroy his enemies, make him the greatest king the Clawless Tribes had ever known. Then, when Regulus’ reputation was such that word of his deeds had reached as far back as Equ’un, he would return to the grasslands and reclaim his place as chief of the Gor’tana. If Faro still lived Regulus could challenge him for leadership and they would fight, as was only right, with tooth and claw.

  Had Faro offered any chance like that to Regulus’ father perhaps things would have been different. Perhaps Regulus would have given fealty to Faro. But not now. Not ever.

  All Faro would receive was a painful death.

  They left Bakhaus Gate behind them and worked their way north up the valley. There was no time to hunt, no time to eat, and Regulus knew his men were becoming half starved, but they pressed on regardless. There would be time aplenty to hunt once they made it to the Coldlands.

  The journey was not an easy one, and the sun had crested the sky by the time they came to the valley’s end, where they were refreshed by a cool wind blowing down from the north. The valley led out onto flat grasslands, with forest in the distance. They were nearing their goal and might well mak
e it before the Kel’tana caught up with them. Regulus finally allowed himself a smile.

  Seeing how fatigued his warriors were, he at last ordered them to set up camp. Leandran barked instructions, sending off one scout to hunt down some game and another to search for firewood. Much as Regulus would have liked to help, it would not do for the tribe leader to engage in menial tasks. Crouching down he unfastened his greatsword, rested it across his knees and watched.

  As his warriors busied themselves, Regulus felt a presence at his shoulder. Turning, he made out the powerful frame of Janto Sho standing in the shadows, his dark skin making him almost invisible in the waning light. His hair was shaven at the temples, and his remaining locks tied back in a knot. Piercing eyes shone out of the darkness, sky blue in stark contrast to the bright green of the other Gor’tana. For a moment the two men stared at each other, then Janto moved forward to crouch beside Regulus.

  ‘You think they will accept us, those weak, clawless fools?’ said the warrior, fingering the handles of his twin axes.

  ‘They were not weak when they defeated the Aeslanti at the gate. And a king who turns away willing warriors is a fool,’ Regulus replied.

  ‘But what do we really know of them and their ways? They could be our enemies.’

  Regulus raised an eyebrow. ‘As once you were mine, Janto of the Sho’tana.’

  The dark warrior had no answer to that.

  Hunting alone out in the grasslands Janto Sho had found that he himself was being hunted by three rogue Aeslanti. The beasts had stalked Janto for half a day, cornering him when he was too fatigued to flee further. Had Regulus not come to his aid he would surely have been torn to pieces. The pair of them had fought side by side, killing two of the Aeslanti before the last fled. That night they had eaten well of their slaughtered foes, and Janto had pledged his life-debt to Regulus, despite them being from differing tribes. Janto had remained in Regulus’ warparty ever since, waiting for a chance to repay that debt. So far, no opportunity had arisen, and Regulus knew Janto was growing to resent his obligation. There was no guarantee of his loyalty once that debt was paid, and so Regulus was loath to turn his back on the warrior.