Steelhaven 02 - The Shattered Crown

by Richard Ford

  They did not have to wait long before several figures strode out of the trees. Regulus had not known how many to expect and didn’t know whether to be relieved or not when just twenty broke the treeline. Regulus experienced a brief moment of hope. Though he had only nine, he would have staked his life on the prowess of his warriors.

  When he saw who led the hunting party though, Regulus took a blow to his confidence.

  At their head stood Gargara, Faro’s conspirator in betrayal. It was Gargara of the Kel’tana who had helped Faro usurp the crown from Regulus’ father. It was he who had led the charge and killed many of his father’s best warriors.

  The fierce Kel’tana fixed his glare on Regulus as he led his men up the hill. His eyes dripped hatred, though Regulus had more justification for vengeful fury. Gargara’s reputation went before him; his ruthlessness and strength were legend, but so was his hubris and arrogance. For the briefest moment Regulus saw a way he and his men might yet live.

  ‘Gor!’ Gargara spat out his name, stopping some feet away flanked by his men, their weapons drawn and claws out. ‘My Lord Faro has put the death mark on you. I am here to see it carried out, but there is no need for your men to suffer. Kneel before me and I’ll make this quick.’

  Regulus glanced at his men who, despite their fatigue, looked on with steely determination. ‘My warriors are loyal, Gargara of the Kel’tana. They will stand beside me to the death. I wonder whether you could say the same of yours.’

  Gargara tossed his head furiously, his black mane whipping across his face. ‘Enough! I am not here to talk. Kneel before me now or every one of you shall die.’

  ‘As will many of yours.’ Regulus could see that a number of the men who stood beside Gargara were not so keen on the prospect of battle. Most of them looked as weary as Regulus’ own warriors. ‘But there is a way of cheating the Dark Walker of his sport. A challenge. You and I, Gargara. Tooth and claw.’

  Regulus spat his last words with relish, taunting Gargara with the prospect of a duel. If he had hoped the champion of the Kel’tana might be intimidated he was sorely mistaken as Gargara smiled, his eyes lighting up at the prospect, his white fangs flashing in the sunlight.

  ‘I have killed a hundred pups like you with the claw,’ he replied, unbuckling his sword and axe and letting them drop to the ground. ‘Torn out a score of throats with the tooth. But yours will give particular pleasure, Gor’tana scum.’

  Regulus skewered his black blade in the soft earth. ‘Then come,’ he said, his voice a hateful growl. ‘Here is my throat. Come and take it.’

  Gargara charged, churning up the ground between them as he raced up the hill. Regulus waited for him to come, letting his hatred roil inside as his claws sprang forth from his fingertips. He bared his fangs, unleashing a roar that more than matched that of Gargara.

  They both leapt at one another on that hilltop, encircled by the warriors of both tribes. With a flurry of claw swipes, Gargara took the initiative. He was a mountain of muscle, his flesh scarred and torn from a hundred battles, his deadly reputation well earned. Regulus was hard pressed to avoid his blows, knowing that a single one could tear open his flesh. As Regulus ducked those claws, Gargara’s head shot forward and he attempted a bite with gnashing fangs. Regulus kicked out, leaping backwards away from the deadly teeth and hot stinking breath of his enemy.

  They paused for a moment, facing one another and Regulus crouched low, ready to pounce as Gargara, eyes wide with rage, charged forward once more. With a quick swipe of his claws, Regulus opened his opponent’s thigh. He tried a second swipe with his other hand, but Gargara was faster, rending three red claw marks across Regulus’ chest. They backed off, stalking each other once more, breathing deeply as their men watched in silence.

  Gargara Kel stepped forward and Regulus could see his hate had dissipated slightly, the pain from the wound in his thigh taught him that he fought no pup, but a seasoned warrior. This seemed, briefly, to quench the fury in his eyes. Then, with another roar, Gargara came on again, and Regulus was only too keen to meet him.

  The enemies traded quick blows, blood spattering as they cut deep rents in one another’s flesh, their grunts of anger growing louder, more frantic. As Gargara launched his head forward attempting another bite, Regulus ducked, lashing out with a claw. Gargara pulled away, but not fast enough – as Regulus tore at Gargara’s head, ripping the flesh of his face from nose to ear, a black talon bursting his enemy’s eye.

  Gargara screamed again, but this time in pain, blood running through his fingers as he vainly tried to staunch the wound. Regulus might almost have smiled, but he knew he was not victorious yet.

  He raced forward, keen to press his advantage, leaping for his enemy’s throat, but Gargara showed why he was champion of the Kel’tana. As Regulus leapt, Gargara reached forward, heedless of the teeth and claws that had scored great tears in his body, and grasped Regulus by the throat.

  Helpless in that grip, Regulus felt his enemy’s claws pierce the flesh of his neck as he was squeezed tighter, throttled, driven to his knees. Gargara glared from one baleful eye, seemingly indifferent to the bloody ruin of the other. The smile appearing on his face revealed two rows of razor teeth. Shame washed over Regulus as he imagined those teeth tearing into his heart to consume his warrior’s strength. How he would shame his father’s memory, shame the Gor’tana with his defeat.

  As his vision began to grow blurred, Regulus snapped out an arm, rending asunder the loincloth between Gargara’s legs and clamping his black talons around his foe’s genitals. Gargara had no time to panic before Regulus closed his clawed grip, tearing them off in his hand and gelding his opponent as he stood on the cusp of victory.

  Gargara’s high-pitched scream echoed across the hilltops as he reeled backwards, releasing his grip on Regulus’ throat. It was all the opening Regulus needed. With teeth bared he flung himself at his enemy, clamping his jaws around Gargara’s neck and tearing out his throat. The champion of the Kel’tana collapsed, blood gushing from throat and groin.

  Regulus staggered away, staring at the warriors who had pursued them for so many leagues. Then he flung Gargara’s bloody genitals onto his dying body.

  He was about to tell Gargara’s warriors to run, to flee south back to their homeland and tell Faro that someday soon Regulus would come to reclaim the chieftainship of his father’s tribe.

  But Janto Sho had other ideas.

  Whether his bloodlust had been fuelled by watching so vicious a duel, or whether he craved blood himself, the warrior of the Sho’tana gave a roar of his own. With one axe he beheaded a man to his left, and with the other he cleft the skull of the warrior to his right.

  Regulus had no chance to offer clemency – the rest of his warriors were quick to battle, young Akkula and the venerable Leandran quickest of all. The men of the Kel’tana were at first taken by surprise, but fast to counter, and Regulus barely managed to retrieve his blade from where it was skewered in the ground before he was set upon by a pair of warriors. He ducked a sword blow from one, severing the leg of the other before parrying the first sword as it came at him again. If his opponent thought Regulus might have been weakened by his battle with Gargara he was sorely mistaken. Screaming his rage, his blood still up from his duel, Regulus pushed his opponent’s blade back. The warrior stumbled a step down the hill, dropping his guard just long enough for Regulus to hack down with his sword, splitting the warrior at the shoulder right down to his ribs.

  He pulled his weapon clear, and saw that his men had made short work of the Kel’tana. A dozen of them lay dead, the handful of survivors fleeing back towards the treeline as the Gor’tana roared their victory. But it was a victory hard won.

  On the ground, amongst the bodies of the Kel’tana were four of his own – Ortera, Felik, Churnik and Theoda. All had been brave and loyal warriors and many had fought alongside Regulus since they were boys. He hoped that they might reach the stars before the Dark Walker knew of their deaths.

&nb
sp; Regulus could not bring himself to blame Janto for his rashness – he suspected the Kel’tana would not have spared his men, whatever the outcome of the duel.

  Now there were only five left in his warparty, but he would be sure to celebrate his victory as though they were a thousand strong. Leandran was the first to cry out in triumph as their enemies fled into the forest. Regulus was quick to join him and soon all six Zatani were raising their voices in a terrible cacophony.

  Later, after the sun had dropped below the horizon and they had lit four pyres for their fallen, Leandran observed the funeral rites. The bodies of the Kel’tana they left to the carrion eaters. Regulus had no desire to hamper their journey to the stars and so all were left with their teeth and claws. All except Gargara Kel.

  The champion’s corpse was laid out in their midst and Regulus, alongside his remaining men, looked down on it with loathing. They had already stripped him of his fangs, already ripped the claws from his fingertips and cast them to the ground. As victor in their duel, Regulus would receive the honour of being the first among them to feast.

  He held out his hand and Leandran placed a narrow blade in his palm. Regulus knelt, slicing Gargara from the ragged open wound at his neck to his navel. With a clawed hand Regulus reached into the chest cavity, rooting beneath the ribcage until his hand closed around his enemy’s heart. There was a sucking sound as he wrenched it free, then held it aloft, savouring his victory.

  ‘For the Gor’tana,’ he cried, then sank his teeth into the organ, causing the blood of Gargara Kel to stream down his chin. As he swallowed he savoured the taste – the taste of triumph.

  As the funeral fires burned, his warriors began to feast on Gargara’s corpse. It was late into the night before their hunger was satisfied. In the morning they woke up beside the embers of the pyres, sluggish and still sated. Little was left of the corpse.

  Leandran came to join Regulus where he stood, looking out to the east.

  ‘What now?’ said the old warrior. ‘We got rid of those behind us, but there might be more trouble ahead if we press on any further into the Coldlands.’

  ‘I’m counting on it,’ Regulus replied. ‘Trouble is exactly what we came here for. Trouble and glory. And I have a feeling we’ll find both in that direction.’ He gestured lazily towards the east.

  ‘There’s trouble enough where we came from. I guess trouble ahead’s no worse.’ With a wink Leandran went to raise the others from their slumber.

  Regulus looked them over: Leandran, lean and old, alongside Janto, dark, brooding and fearsome. Then there was Hagama, Kazul and young Akkula. Five warriors left to stand beside him. Five warriors remaining to help him reclaim the glory of his tribe; to make the Gor’tana great again.

  It was a start.

  Regulus could only hope there was indeed trouble to the east.

  And if not, he swore by the Dark Walker himself he’d be sure to cause some.

  NINE

  The Lych Gate stood in the far eastern side of Steelhaven’s curtain wall. It was housed in a barbican that rose up forty feet, with two figures carved from the stone that flanked it depicting hooded swordsmen. Who these men were supposed to be, Nobul had no idea, but they looked impressive all right, and none too welcoming.

  Amber Watch had been posted to gate duty for two days now. It was an easy detail, and Nobul was getting pretty bored. Northgate was dangerous; no doubt about it, but at least there was something to do of an afternoon. Mind you, it beat getting shit and stones flung at you in the Warehouse District, so he couldn’t really complain.

  The Lych Gate was open from sunrise to sunset, allowing traders to come along the Great East Road from Ankavern, bringing their wares for trade. Watching the sporadic procession go in and out of Eastgate market wasn’t Nobul’s idea of a good time. Still, there’d be action soon enough. In a few days it wouldn’t be farmers and fishermen trying to get through these gates, but a horde of angry Khurtas. Nobul was pretty sure he wouldn’t be bored then. He was pretty sure he’d have plenty of things to occupy him. Not getting his head cut off would be chief among them.

  A horse and cart rolled up, stopping beneath the massive gate. Nobul stepped forward, nodding at the old geezer sat on its seat, gripping the reins in arthritic fingers. The man didn’t deign to nod back. Nobul took the horse by the bridle, placing a hand on its nose and whispering nothing in particular to keep it calm as Anton checked the cart, for what, Nobul didn’t quite know. Perhaps there could have been Khurtic infiltrators in there, waiting to leap out, all painted and scarred, weapons dripping venom, ready to murder the first person they saw. Maybe Amon Tugha himself was concealed in there, ready to take on the city single-handed.

  Anton finished his check and gave Nobul the signal to let the cart through.

  Obviously it was just full of turnips.

  No sooner had the cart passed through the gate than Hake yelled from up on the barbican. The old man was pointing down the Great East Road.

  ‘Riders!’ he shouted ‘Bloody loads of ’em. And they look tooled up.’

  Nobul stared down the road. He couldn’t see a thing at first, other than an endless roadway heading on down the coast. Perhaps Hake’s eyes weren’t all they should have been. Wouldn’t be the first time the old man had seen something that wasn’t there. But then something did come into view, something flapping on the sea breeze – a pennant.

  He was about to grab Anton and rush inside, about to shout for the Lych Gate to be closed when Kilgar joined him, squinting into the distance from his one eye. The first rider was in full view, bronze armour glinting, pennant held high – though they couldn’t yet make out what was depicted on it.

  ‘What do you think, Lincon?’ said Kilgar still unaware of Nobul’s real name. ‘Trouble or not?’

  Nobul couldn’t tell yet, but it was no use taking chances. ‘We should close the gate, ask questions from behind the wall. If they’re friendly they’ll understand. If not, then we won’t be caught with our arses hanging in the breeze.’

  Kilgar seemed to agree. ‘Close the gate,’ he barked as they stepped inside. Nobul followed the serjeant up the stone stairs of the barbican to the rampart that looked out on the Great East Road. Hake was still standing there, staring out. Nobul was sure he saw a look of glee on the old man’s face.

  ‘Happy about something?’ asked Nobul.

  Hake’s shoulders moved in a silent laugh and he pointed eastward with a bony finger. ‘Don’t you know who they are?’

  Nobul looked out, shielding his eyes against the bright sunlight. Though it was cold, the wind whipping in from the Midral like a breath of ice, the sun was still beating down. From their high vantage point he could see the procession more clearly. The longer he looked, the more pennants came into view and it didn’t take too long before he could make out several hundred riders. He couldn’t count exactly how many, but they were all armoured, helms gleaming, pennants flapping in the breeze.

  ‘One of the Free Companies?’ Nobul asked.

  Hake shook his head. ‘Look at their flags.’ Perhaps the old fella’s eyesight wasn’t so bad after all.

  Even as they came closer, Nobul found it difficult to read the pennants with them flapping in the wind, but he could just make out …

  ‘The Wyvern Guard,’ said Kilgar. Nobul saw a smile creep up one side of the serjeant’s stern mouth. ‘Arlor’s Blood, it’s the frigging Wyvern Guard.’

  As they watched the row of horses advance. Nobul wondered where they had come from. Even he knew the legend of the Wyvern Guard, the fabled order of knights who would come to Steelhaven’s aid in its direst need. Well, it was in need now, and no mistake.

  Every knight had armour of bronze, a sword at his side, and a shield on his arm emblazoned with the wyvern rising. Their helms were domed, sweeping down at the front over their gorgets. Their armour at shoulder and knee flared out in the shape of a wyvern’s wing and each rider’s horse wore barding in a similar style. One of them stood out from the rest.
His helm bore wyvern’s wings and he rode at the head of the column, a huge sword strapped across his back.

  Nobul noticed an unexpected figure riding with the knights, a young lad in a brown robe. It almost made him smile to see the boy – he looked so out of his depth riding alongside warriors like these.

  Just within the city gates a crowd had gathered, some anxious the barbican had been closed, some just nosey bastards. It didn’t take long for rumour of the Wyvern Guard to spread, and the closer the knights drew to the city walls the bigger the throng got.

  ‘This could be a problem,’ said Kilgar, looking down at the gathering mob, and he shouted for Dustin and Edric to fetch the High Constable.

  By now the head of the column had ridden within the shadow of the Lych Gate. The knight at their head, with his winged helm and huge sword, held up an arm. Almost as one, the column, several hundred strong, came to a halt.

  Kilgar looked down uncertainly. He glanced at Nobul, who had no clue what to do. Before the serjeant could say anything the young lad in the brown robe piped up from below.

  ‘Erm … can you open the gate?’ he called. ‘I think they’ll be expecting us.’

  It was almost funny, such a young streak of piss speaking for such an imposing column of warriors.

  Kilgar turned to Nobul. ‘Go on then,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Open the bloody gate.’

  Nobul hurried down to pull back the wooden bars that held the gate fast. Within the structure of the barbican there was also a portcullis that could be slammed down during siege, but that had not been used in decades. Wouldn’t be long before it would be needed again, he found himself thinking, but the gate was now open, and Nobul was staring at an army of armoured riders, whose leader was looking down at him like shit on his shoe.

  Without a word the first knight touched spurs to his steed and the column was on the move once more. As he passed by the young lad in the robe looked down at Nobul and said, ‘Thanks,’ with an embarrassed smile.