Steelhaven 02 - The Shattered Crown

by Richard Ford

  Friedrik frowned. ‘Can you go? Yes, Walder, you can go. Just as soon as I’ve had what you owe.’ He held his hand out and big Harkas stepped forward, placing a little knife, handle first, in his outstretched palm.

  Walder looked at the blade, the colour draining from his already pale features. He shook his head but didn’t say a word.

  ‘It’s obvious you don’t have the coin, Walder,’ Friedrik said. Then he held out the knife. ‘So you owe me … ooh … let’s say two fingers. Your choice which ones, I’d go for the pinkies if I were you, but I want my fingers. And I want them now.’

  Walder looked at Friedrik, then glanced around. There were three other men in the light now but Rag knew there were more lurking in the dark, just waiting for Friedrik’s word. Walder knew they were there too.

  ‘Please,’ he said, more of a high-pitched whine than a word. ‘I can get money. I can get you a—’

  ‘It’s too late for that,’ Friedrik said, shaking his head. He had a sympathetic look on his face, like there weren’t nothing he could do about this. Like it weren’t him asking a fella to cut his own fingers off. ‘Now, get to it, Walder, we haven’t got all day.’

  ‘But … but I can’t.’ Walder stared mournfully at the knife, then back up at Friedrik.

  ‘Yes you can,’ Friedrik replied, the sympathetic look gone now, replaced by a dark expression that spoke no mercy or reprieve. ‘Because if you don’t, I’m gonna let the lads choose something else to cut off, and whatever they decide I can guarantee you’ll miss it more than a couple of fucking fingers.’

  Walder knew then there weren’t no options left. He stood up from the chair and kneeled down next to it, placing his hand flat on the seat and taking the knife firmly in hand. He gave a last look up at Friedrik, but there was nothing there that would save him.

  As Walder began to squeal in pain, hacking at his pinky finger like it was a tough piece of roasted meat, Rag closed her eyes and turned away. He grunted like a pig, and some of the other lads laughed at that. Then the grunting stopped and she heard a clattering sound.

  ‘Gods be damned,’ whispered Friedrik in frustration, and Rag turned to see Walder had passed out from the pain and the fright. One of his fingers was bleeding, but still very much attached to his hand.

  ‘Do the honours would you, my dear,’ Friedrik said.

  At first Rag could barely believe what she was hearing, but when she looked at him, Friedrik was staring right at her, a smile on his face like he’d just asked her to slice him a piece of cake.

  ‘Eh?’ she replied, still hoping there’d been some kind of mistake.

  ‘His fingers,’ said Friedrik, sounding a bit impatient. ‘Come on, we don’t want to be down here in this shit-hole forever.’

  Everyone was looking at her now. They were just standing there, watching her, waiting. There was nowhere to run to. No way to get out of this. If she didn’t do it, Walder wasn’t the only one who’d be losing bits of himself.

  Rag walked towards the prone body bleeding on the floor. The knife was still on the chair, the blade sharp and shiny in what little light there was down in the cellar.

  Ain’t no point in waiting on it, girl. Just get along and do what needs to be done. No room for pity or mercy or any of that old shit. Walder’s got this coming whether it’s you that does it or someone else.

  She picked up the knife and knelt beside Walder. His breathing was shallow, but at least he wouldn’t be conscious for what was coming. Rag fished in her pocket and pulled out a kerchief. After twisting it she tied it around Walder’s little finger and fixed it there with as tight a knot as she could manage. Hopefully it would stop him losing too much blood.

  Walder didn’t stir as she took his hand and placed it on the chair. Didn’t moan or cry out as she placed the knife over his finger. Didn’t shout and open his eyes in agony as Rag slammed her hand down on top of the knife, the blade slicing right through bone and flesh.

  A couple of the lads laughed at the sight of Walder losing his pinky. Rag fought to keep down the bile that was rising in her throat.

  She looked up to see Friedrik smiling his approval. ‘And the other one,’ he said shooing her on with his hand like he was in a hurry.

  Doesn’t look like you’ve got any choice in the matter.

  Rag took Walder’s other hand and did as she was bid.

  The sight of those dead, pink little fingers stayed with Rag for some time after. They stayed with her all the way from that dank cellar, following Friedrik and his hulking bodyguard, to their little tavern. Of course it wasn’t a tavern at all, though it had a bar and kitchen and rooms. This was Friedrik’s own private lair. Rag had learned quick that Friedrik liked his comforts. He was a homely fellow, truth be told. It was just his habit of hacking bits off people, or having them hack their own bits off, that made him stand out from other blokes.

  They sat together, just she and him, as the rest of Friedrik’s men milled round in the background. A plate of roasted lamb haunch and veggies sat in front of them, but she found that the thought of Walder had ruined her appetite. All she could do was push that food around with a fork, staring at it like it was the last thing she’d ever want to stick in her gob.

  ‘What’s the matter, little Rag?’ Friedrik said from a mouth rimmed with grease. ‘Not hungry?’ She just shook her head. He shrugged. ‘Best not let it go to waste. Don’t want to upset cook.’

  Rag knew that cook couldn’t have given a shit whether she ate or not. Friedrik, on the other hand, was a different matter. His amiable act was just that, and at any moment he could become that menacing bastard again, all subdued fury and concealed hate. Not that he’d tried that on with her in the weeks she’d been with him. In fact, he treated her as something of a pet.

  She was dressed in the best finery – but not a gaudy dress only fit for the stuffy bollocks in the Crown District. She wore hand-stitched britches, with a silk shirt and embroidered waistcoat. Her shoes, which had taken some getting used to, were waxed and buffed to a mirror sheen, the buckle on the top shining like gold. Every morning she combed her hair like Friedrik wanted and secured it with a silver clasp.

  How this had happened, how she had ended up as Friedrik’s right-hand girl, she couldn’t fully explain. Back in that warehouse, when she’d held a knife to his throat and given him no choice about taking her on, she’d thought he would just give her a job pinching on the streets. But it was clear he’d taken something of a shine to her, and there weren’t no talking him out of it.

  That didn’t stop him being a scary bastard though, and in the intervening weeks she’d seen more beatings, stabbings and torture than she cared to remember. Today was the first time he’d made her join in, though. She hoped it wasn’t a sign of things to come.

  But who was she to complain? Wasn’t this what she’d wanted – a way into the Guild? And as much as she hated the way people got treated, it beat the shit out of living on the streets.

  Rag picked up her fork and stuck it in a piece of roast turnip, seeing Friedrik smile as she stuffed it in her mouth. She did her best to smile back as she chewed, visions of squealing Walder and his mutilated hands dancing in front of her eyes. She chewed until her jaw ached, then swallowed hard.

  ‘There’s my girl,’ said Friedrik, going back to hacking at his lamb.

  There’s my girl.

  For all she didn’t want to complain, Rag still felt trapped. But what was she supposed to do? Where was she supposed to go now? Back to the street?

  No chance of that. Even if she did, he’d come looking for her. And Friedrik was the Guild – it wouldn’t take him long to track her down.

  Fact was she was stuck here, but there was food in her belly, clothes on her back and a roof over her head. What more could a gal ask for?

  Maybe a life that didn’t involve watching people being beaten to shit?

  Well, nothing was perfect, now was it? She was part of Friedrik’s crew. Part of his little entourage, for better or worse
. Best to just keep quiet and deal with it.

  Rag looked around the room, glancing at the other members of their little group. Her new pals.

  There was Harkas of course, silent imposing bastard that he was. She avoided him whenever possible, even though he mostly ignored her. It was pretty obvious there weren’t nothing going on behind those blank eyes of his, not until Friedrik gave him an order to hurt someone.

  There was fat Shirl. A bit useless in all respects, but loyal nonetheless. He’d been the one Rag had stolen the knife from weeks back when she’d given over Krupps’ head in that warehouse. She still kept it in a little sheath at her waist. If Shirl was pissed off about it he didn’t say nothing. There was no way he’d risk upsetting Friedrik.

  Yarrick and Essen were the last two men close to Friedrik. Neither said much, other than to each other, and both had thin faces and broad shoulders, which made Rag think they might be related. She’d never had courage enough to ask, though.

  Of course there were more thugs and brutes and snakes and rats loitering around, but they came and went, often sent off on one errand or another that most likely involved someone getting stabbed or robbed or both. Rag tried her best not to overhear lest she learn something she’d rather not know and she found she’d got good at that – ignoring the bad things.

  She looked up at Friedrik stuffing his face full of roast meat and vegetables and remembered that day she’d been on top of him, knife to his neck. If she’d stuck it in his throat, right to the hilt, that might have changed something. Walder, for one, would still have his fingers.

  Friedrik looked up and smiled, mouth full of food, and she smiled back. Then the door opened.

  Two men walked in and Rag knew them before she could even see their faces through the gloom. They were the only two men in the whole of Steelhaven who would have entered this place so brazenly, rather than wringing their caps and bowing their heads in respect.

  The first was tall with a strong build, and a thick dark moustache that drooped around a grim, set mouth. His eyes glared with wolfish intent as though he were on the hunt for something. Second fella was slight and gaunt featured, eyes set deep within his skull. Though he was hunched in the shoulders he still walked across the room as though he owned the place.

  Rag could barely hide her discomfort as Palien and Bastian made their way nearer. She put down her fork and sat back in her chair, trying to look as insignificant as she could. Friedrik carried on eating as though they weren’t even there.

  As Bastian pulled up a chair and sat with them, Palien stood to one side, looking on hungrily. It took Rag a moment to realise he was staring at the food on the table as though he wanted to dive right in and devour the lot.

  Bastian looked on, watching Friedrik eating with an expression of distaste, though from what Rag had seen of him before now, distaste was just about the nicest of his expressions. When Friedrik gave no sign of finishing his meal anytime soon, Bastian leaned forward just a touch.

  ‘We’ve found him,’ he said.

  Rag had no idea who he was on about, but whoever it was they were important enough to stop Friedrik cold. His mouth was open, fork stuck into a slice of quivering lamb. Then he gently placed his fork down and sat back in his chair.

  ‘Where?’ Friedrik asked.

  ‘Now that’s the problem,’ said Bastian. ‘Word is he’s joined the Sentinels. It appears Garret’s taken the boy under his wing – they go back a long way by all accounts. He trusts him.’

  ‘Trusts Ryder? That drunken whoremonger? The man must be a moron.’

  ‘Whatever he is, he’s taken that bastard into his employ and granted him all the protections that entails.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem is we can’t breach the walls of Skyhelm, and the loyalty of the Sentinels is legend. Even if we get access to Garret, to make him an offer, they would never betray one of their own.’

  ‘That is a quandary.’ Friedrik sat back, deep in thought.

  Whoever this Ryder was the Guild wanted him bad. Rag was glad she wasn’t in his shoes. She was sure he wasn’t going to last long, no matter where he was holed up.

  ‘We need a spy,’ said Palien. Rag turned to see him staring down with those hungry eyes. ‘Someone good at slipping in and out of places unseen. Someone who could track his movements, maybe even lure him out in the open.’

  ‘Yes, and I think we know just the person.’ Bastian glanced towards Rag and she suddenly felt more uncomfortable than ever.

  Friedrik asked the question for her. ‘Where would we find someone …?’

  He stopped when he saw Bastian leering at Rag.

  She looked pleadingly at Friedrik and he began to shake his head. ‘No. Out of the question. She’s my … my …’

  ‘Your what?’ said Bastian through sneering lips. ‘Your new plaything? A doll for you to dress up? Well, it’s about time she made herself useful. Everyone has to pull their weight, Friedrik, in your crew as well as mine.’

  ‘I said no.’ Friedrik’s expression hardened. It was a look Rag had seen a hundred times before. A look that had made so many men almost shit.

  It had no effect on Bastian.

  ‘Well, I say yes. She’s already proved herself capable. Brought you a severed head, as I remember, and right out of a Greencoat barracks. No small feat for such a little dolly.’

  Friedrik continued his glare, but he had no answer for Bastian. He looked at her, then back at his partner, then back to her again.

  Rag wanted to speak up for herself, to say something on her own behalf, but these two were the men that controlled the Guild. What in the hells was she supposed to say?

  ‘All right,’ said Friedrik finally. ‘I’m sure it’s well within her capabilities. She can get in, track his movements and lead him into any trap we choose to set. What do you say, Rag?’

  All eyes were on her now – the weight of expectation hanging over her like an anvil on a piece of thread.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ Rag replied, before she’d even had time to think.

  Friedrik smiled and sat back in his chair. ‘See,’ he said. ‘Problem solved. Merrick Ryder is as good as fucked.’

  EIGHT

  The mountains were far behind them, their peaks visible above the endless forest that spread out to the south. For five days Regulus had pushed them on through the densely packed trees expecting the enemy to fall upon them at any moment, but they had made it through and out onto the Coldlands of the Clawless Tribes.

  This land of rolling hills was strange to them. They saw low stone walls and hedgerows and streams flowing strongly. It was in stark contrast to the endless flat plains of Equ’un, where one might travel for days without sign of water.

  Leandran moved up beside Regulus as he stood surveying the land before them.

  ‘We have to keep moving,’ said the old warrior with a shiver. Regulus knew the chill air was creeping into his old bones. None of them were used to cold like this, and the venerable Leandran was suffering most.

  ‘I know,’ said Regulus, looking back at his warriors. They were all weary. All tired of this ceaseless flight. ‘Have we perhaps done enough running, old friend?’

  A snaggletooth smile crossed Leandran’s lips. ‘I’ll stand beside you, whatever you decide. You know that.’

  ‘I know.’ Regulus patted Leandran firmly on the arm.

  With a sigh, he scanned the terrain for a defensible position. There was nothing that might afford them an ambush, no construction that they might barricade. Only hills on whose upper slopes they could sit and await their enemy.

  Regulus glanced back towards the forest. It would not be long before their pursuers burst out of those trees. Was there any chance his small band could find the Steel King of the Clawless Tribes before they were hunted down?

  Regulus doubted it.

  And if they must fight, far better to die making a stand than to be cut down in ignominious flight. As much as he had wanted to escape to the nort
h and restore his reputation, that opportunity had passed.

  With a bitter smile he thought of what he might have achieved. The victories he could have won in honour of his father and the Gor’tana. But best not to dwell on that, it would only fill him with sorrow.

  ‘There,’ he said abruptly to his warriors, pointing to a hill that looked down towards the forest. ‘We’ll rest there.’

  ‘Even though they must be right behind us?’ said Hagama.

  Regulus glared at him with determination. ‘Yes. And with luck they will be.’

  As they wearily made their way up the hill, Regulus felt Janto Sho’s presence at his shoulder.

  ‘We run all this way just to make a stand here, in the cold, in this land far from home?’

  ‘Would you rather we keep running? That we die from exhaustion? Besides, this is as good a place to die as any,’ Regulus replied.

  Janto barked a laugh at that. ‘Aye, you might be right. But what about those tales?’

  Regulus shrugged ruefully. How he had wanted to create a legend, to have stories told of him from one side of Equ’un to the other. Then again, perhaps they set too much store by such things.

  ‘They’ll just have to tell their tales about someone else,’ he replied, without looking around.

  No one else spoke as they waited. The day wore on, and while his men rested Regulus kept his eyes fixed on the trees below. Not until the sun had crested the sky, even then bringing little warmth to the day, did their pursuers come into view.

  At first there was a single scout, his eyes scanning the ground, searching for tracks. He stopped, tipping his nose to the air to catch their scent, and at that point he saw them waiting. Regulus savoured the scout’s look of panic, visible only for a moment before he fled back into the safety of the trees.

  ‘On your feet,’ Regulus said, rising and unsheathing his black blade. His warriors did likewise, some of them looking resigned to their fate, though none of them baulked at what was asked of them. Regulus felt a smack of pride at that – though his warriors were few they were loyal to the end. He was reassured by the keen glint in Janto’s eye. The Sho’tana was obviously eager for this to get underway, relishing the prospect of violence.