by Richard Ford
‘We’re just letting them into the city?’ said one of the men.
‘Do you think it’s better we let them wander the countryside?’ said their leader.
There was no more argument. The spearmen raised their weapons and allowed Regulus and his men to cross the bridge. The green-garbed leader walked them through the vast city gate and his men moved along beside them. Regulus could see they were nervous, gripping their spears tightly; but they had nothing to fear. Soon they might find themselves fighting side by side – then they would see the wisdom of allying themselves to Zatani warriors.
Once inside the gate Regulus and his men looked on in awe at the buildings that towered above them. The ground beneath their feet was roughly spotted with stones that made a crude pathway between the dwellings that stood to either side. Each stone construction rose up and seemed to lean over like the boughs of trees, forming a corridor of rock like the sides of a steep valley. They scarcely registered that the people milling about were staring at them with wonder and fear.
Regulus’ warriors soon arrived at the gates to another massive construction. It rose up mournfully, reaching for the grey skies above. More of the green-coated warriors awaited them and Regulus began to feel an uneasy sense of foreboding. The warning he’d been given by Tom the Blackfoot suddenly came back to him.
‘Stay your hands,’ he said to his warriors in their own tongue. ‘But be wary.’
They needed no further prompting and Regulus could see each picking his own target – a man who would immediately die if they were suddenly attacked.
From within the tower came a lone figure, dressed in a plain grey robe. The hood was drawn back from his face showing he was slim, even for a Coldlander, and he regarded Regulus with interest.
‘Greetings,’ he said to the Zatani. ‘Word has it you are ready to join battle with Steelhaven against the horde advancing upon us?’
‘I am Regulus of the Gor’tana. Come north to win glory for my tribe.’
The man smiled, but seemed suitably underwhelmed by Regulus’ statement. ‘Yes, I’m quite sure. Please, follow me.’
He led the way towards the vast tower, and Regulus followed. They walked through the grounds and into the dark interior where fires were lit along the walls. Regulus suddenly felt trapped; he was a warrior of the open plains, used to sleeping under the stars and the watchful eyes of his gods. In such a place as this he may as well have been interred beneath the earth.
‘I have come to offer my sword to your queen,’ he said, his sense of unease growing. ‘Where do you lead us?’
The man in grey turned and smiled. Regulus had little experience with the Coldlanders of the Clawless Tribes, but they certainly seemed to smile a lot. Regulus was unsure what this one had to be so pleased about.
‘I am Seneschal Rogan – advisor to Queen Janessa of Steelhaven. It is my honour to meet and receive all those who would fight for the city. Mercenaries are to be housed here, where they can be properly … cared for. These will be your quarters.’
‘But I must offer my sword to your queen.’ Regulus was finding it difficult to hide his frustration, and his warriors could sense it. Hagama gripped his spear in both hands as though ready to attack and Janto rested his hands on the handles of his axes, his eyes scanning the dark for signs of danger.
‘I am afraid that is out of the question,’ said Seneschal Rogan, leading them out into a cavernous room. ‘The queen does not meet with mercenaries.’
The room was huge and lined with tables. Around several of them were men dressed in all manner of colours, some of who glanced over with interest.
‘We are not mere mercenaries,’ said Regulus slowly, wondering if this Coldlander was finding it difficult to understand him. ‘We have travelled many leagues to be here, suffered much hardship. Faced much danger to fight for this city. We are warriors of the Gor’tana, tempered on the battlefields of Equ’un. Your city faces danger and I intend to turn the tide of battle in your favour. I will not be treated as a common slave. We must be presented to your queen.’
Regulus could see the unease had spread to the guards of this place, and they stood by nervously. He had raised his voice, and all eyes had turned to him, watching and waiting for any threat of violence. But Seneschal Rogan continued smiling, untroubled by Regulus’ outburst.
‘I can see you are seasoned fighters, but you are not the only ones who have pledged their service to the Crown.’ He gestured down the hall towards the men who sat within. Regulus could tell these were warriors but he was sure he had no rivals here. ‘You have two options. Join the rest of the mercenaries and receive your pay alongside them, or leave the city.’
‘Mercenaries,’ Regulus said, chewing on the word. As he did so he realised he was no longer a prince of the Gor’tana. No longer honoured among his tribe. What right did he have to be presented to this Coldlander queen? He was nothing more than an outcast, a sell sword who had forfeited his honour. There was a chance that he could regain that honour though, if he did not squander this opportunity through his own hubris.
‘Very well,’ he conceded. ‘If that is what we must do.’
‘Excellent,’ said Rogan. ‘Now, just one more thing: your weapons. You will need to hand them over.’
Regulus looked to his men. None of them would be ready to surrender their arms and he was in no hurry to do so himself. Must it be done? Might this be the kind of trick Tom the Blackfoot had warned him about?
Glancing down the vast hall Regulus noted that none of the men bore a weapon. Perhaps this was the way of the Coldlanders.
‘They want us to hand over our weapons,’ Regulus said in the Zatani tongue.
‘Never,’ Janto growled, eyeing the nearest green-coated guard. The man took a step back, gripping his spear the tighter.
‘It could be a trick,’ said Leandran.
Regulus nodded. ‘I know. But we have come so far. We cannot turn back now.’
Though it pained him to do it, he slowly took his sheathed sword from his belt and handed it to Seneschal Rogan. Leandran then handed over his spear, quickly followed by Akkula. Hagama and Kazul were next. Only Janto remained, his hands on the handles of his axes. All eyes were on him now, and Regulus knew any future glory hung on whether this unpredictable warrior would allow himself to be cowed by these lowly Coldlanders.
Silently, the warrior took the axes from his belt. For a fleeting moment it looked as if he would bury one of them in the head of the nearest guard, but instead he spun them in his hands, offering the handles.
As they were taken from him, Rogan bowed. ‘The queen thanks you. I can assure you she is grateful for your pledge of allegiance. Now, please eat. You said that to come here you have travelled far.’
Regulus saw that food was being brought into the hall. His men looked on hungrily; slaver dripping down Akkula’s chin as he eyed the meagre offering.
When Regulus signalled permission the Zatani moved swiftly to fall upon the food. Regulus looked back to Seneschal Rogan.
‘Take care of those weapons. We’ll want them back soon,’ he said.
‘You will have them back,’ Rogan replied, still bearing that smile. ‘The enemy is close.’ With that he smiled once more and left.
Regulus watched him go. Encompassed by dark walls and foreign warriors, he wondered which enemy Rogan was referring to.
TWENTY-THREE
It wasn’t often Merrick found himself frequenting Crown District taverns. He was more used to the hovels of Northgate where you needed to wipe your feet on the way out, or the earthy, musky, fishy dens of Dockside, where the whores had thicker beards than the men. This place was like a sweet breath of air – all polished wood and crackling fire, with the stuffed heads of assorted game glaring down at him as he drank. Merrick might even have gone so far as to say that this was the best tavern he’d ever been in – if only the wine hadn’t been so bloody expensive.
Of course, the company wasn’t too great either; Merrick was all alone
at the bar. He’d never been able to stand his own company that much. Being on your own wasn’t healthy; it made you think. And Merrick was in no mood for thinking.
He’d made a fool of himself in front of his father, though that was hardly surprising; he made a fool of himself on a daily basis. But he’d so wanted old Tannick to be proud of him.
Who are you kidding, Ryder. You’re a drunken ass. You’re selfish and vain and you’d stick it in anything that flashed you a smile. Hells, you’d fuck the crack of dawn if you could get up early enough. Why would anyone show you anything but contempt?
Merrick stared down at the goblet in front of him, then drained the dregs and slammed it down on the bar. He looked across the tavern, his vision starting to go a little fuzzy round the edges. This was the best kind of drunk – enough to take the edge off, but not too much to have him reeling around spewing vomit everywhere.
He knew he’d fucked up. He was supposed to be on duty, supposed to be protecting his queen, but here he was, back to his old tricks. He’d tried to stay sober, tried to do the right thing, but it simply wasn’t working. Now he’d let Garret down, let Kaira down … he’d let the bloody queen down. Just one big, long list of failures. Why would anyone think well of him?
What bloody good was he, after all? He could barely look after himself, let alone the queen of the Free States. Garret should have put him on latrine duty, not safeguarding the most important woman in Steelhaven. Then again, he’d probably have fucked that up too; covered himself in shit and piss most likely.
What was he good at anyway? What could he do better than anyone else? That wouldn’t involve people criticising him, or judging him, or looking down on him?
‘Drink?’
Yes, that was probably about it.
Merrick looked up to see the barkeep staring at him. He had a half empty bottle of wine in his hand.
‘Why not,’ Merrick replied and slid his goblet across the bar. The barman filled it almost to the brim. ‘Why don’t you have one yourself?’
The barman looked sheepish. ‘I probably shouldn’t.’
Merrick glanced around the empty tavern. ‘Why not? Expecting a rush?’
The barman looked across the empty tavern and shrugged. He took another goblet from a shelf and filled it with what remained in the bottle. Merrick held his up and they clinked them together before taking a swig.
‘Here’s to quiet days,’ he said.
‘To quiet days,’ the barman replied. ‘Though I’m not sure how many of those we have left.’
‘Not many, I’ll wager. So we may as well make the best of it.’
The barman nodded in agreement, though he didn’t seem entirely sure. ‘I should have left this place when I had the chance,’ he confided.
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘I have responsibilities,’ he replied. ‘People that rely on me.’
Responsibilities? Merrick knew about those all right and he was beginning to realise what a total pain in the arse they were. He had responsibilities that required his attention right now, but they somehow seemed unimportant next to his current woes.
There you go again, Ryder – always thinking about yourself. But then you’re the most important man in Steelhaven. Nobody else has as much on his shoulders as you, do they?
‘You’ve got family here?’ Merrick asked quickly, keen to clear his head of the daemons of his conscience. ‘Wife? Pups?’
The barman shook his head. ‘No, nothing like that. But my old man’s frail and can’t travel. I have to stay and look after him.’
His old man? Bet he was a kindly old duffer too. Bet he’d always been there – a mentor, a confidante, a shoulder to cry on.
‘You two must be close then, if he’s the reason you’ve stuck around here for the Khurtas to arrive. That must be nice for you.’
The barman shot him a quizzical look. ‘Close? You must be fucking joking. The old bastard’s a millstone around my neck. I’m only hanging around for my inheritance. If I leave now I’ve got no chance of getting my hands on it.’
A smile of understanding spread across Merrick’s face. ‘I’ll drink to that, friend,’ he said, raising his cup before realising it was already empty. The barman grabbed another bottle and opened it, filling both goblets.
‘What about you then? What’s your problem?’ asked the barman.
‘What makes you think I’ve got a problem?’ Merrick replied.
The barman looked at him knowingly. ‘I’ve seen your kind a hundred times – drinking alone, when the rest of the city is going to the hells in a handcart. It’s like you don’t care. I’m guessing a woman.’
‘As much as I’ve had woman trouble aplenty – and you could say I’ve still got it – that’s not why I’m here.’ He looked at the barman, wondering whether or not it was worth the trouble of unburdening himself. But sometimes strangers were as good as priests for letting out your inner daemons – and they made you feel less guilty afterwards. ‘Let’s just say I’ve got troubles with my father too.’
‘Really? I bet mine are worse,’ said the barman.
‘I’ll take that bet,’ Merrick replied.
‘All right then. Ten coppers says the troubles I’ve got with my father are worse than yours.’
‘You’re on,’ said Merrick, offering his hand, which the barman keenly shook. ‘You first.’
‘Well, let’s see,’ said the barman thoughtfully. ‘He can’t shit nor piss on his own and he can barely feed himself. He pretends to be getting forgetful but he remembers where his coin’s hid, all right, and he’s got no intention of letting me in on that. All his assets – the house, the furniture, his stake in his business – are all tied up and if I don’t do exactly as he wants I’ll get nothing. How’s that sound?’
‘Sounds terrible,’ said Merrick. ‘But I reckon I’ve got you beat.’ He sat back, with a smug look on his face. ‘I hadn’t seen my father for about eighteen years – since he upped and offed – then he turns up out of the blue. Not only does he act like nothing’s happened in between, like he’s just been out for an afternoon stroll, but he also has the good graces to point out to me just how disappointed he is with how I’ve been living my life. It’s not like he just abandoned me and my mother – he has to condemn me for how badly I’ve done since then.’
The barman looked at him as though assessing his words. ‘Is that it?’
‘Yes,’ Merrick replied. ‘What else do you want?’
‘So you’ve never had to clean his shit up off the floor?’
They looked at each other for several moments before they burst out laughing.
‘You’ve got me there,’ Merrick said, fishing in his purse for the coins. ‘Here.’ He slid the ten coppers across the bar. ‘Hire yourself a maid.’
They both laughed long and hard.
‘Here’s to fathers,’ said the barman finally, raising his cup.
‘To fathers,’ said Merrick. ‘May they not burden us for much bloody longer.’
They clinked their goblets then drained them.
Merrick placed his cup back down on the bar, expecting it to be quickly refilled, but the barman was looking over towards the door. Someone had walked in. Merrick immediately felt on edge. As much as he hated to admit it, when he was outside the palace grounds he didn’t feel safe. It was dangerous being here, but he needed some respite. Just a little time away from the duty and the obligations. What harm could it do?
Well, it could get you stabbed in the fucking back by some assassin from the Guild, if you’re not careful.
Slowly he turned, half expecting to see some knife-wielding Guild bruiser coming at him with murderous intent. What approached across the tavern was nowhere near as ugly, but no less threatening.
Kaira stared at him as she approached. Her brow was furrowed, her eyes accusing. Merrick had seen that look before and knew it was no good thing to be on the other end of it, but he’d had enough wine not to care. He just offered her a weak smile as she walked
to the bar.
‘Drink?’ he said, waggling his goblet as though teasing a dog with a bone.
Kaira slapped the goblet from his hand. It clanked off the bar, splattering the wood with dregs and causing the barman to take a step back.
‘Are you out of your mind?’ she said.
Funny you should ask – I’ve been wondering the same thing for days now.
‘Oh, calm down, will you. Take a load off.’ He gestured to a stool nearby.
‘Take a load off? Are you insane? We have a sacred duty. The queen trusts us, and here you are drunk. Will you never learn?’
Merrick rounded on her. What right did she have to come in here and bark at him like he was some child? He’d had enough of being told what to do.
‘Fuck you, and your fucking queen. I’ve had just about—’
She cuffed him round the head. Not hard enough to do any serious harm, but enough to knock him off the stool and send him reeling.
‘What the fu—’
She cuffed him again, this time with the other hand and he slid the opposite way. He felt himself getting angry now. The red mist descending, and the wine he’d drunk didn’t help any.
Kaira tried again, but this time he lifted an arm and blocked her, staggering away and righting himself.
‘What are you doing, woman?’
‘I’m trying to knock some sense into you.’
‘Sense? I’ve eaten shit for weeks. Done my duty. Paid for my sins and now my father turns up out of the blue and it’s like I’m nobody. You have no idea—’
‘I have every idea. You’re feeling sorry for yourself. The world is against you. We could be killed at any second and for no reward. I understand the notion of responsibility is a new one for you. I get that seeing your father again is difficult. But there are more important things at stake here than your feelings.’
‘Fuck off! What the fuck do you know?’ he screamed. ‘You know nothing about me or my father or fucking anything.’
She came at him again. He blocked the first blow but she hit him with the second. It slammed him back against the bar, his rib cracking against the wood. It only made the anger within him burn more brightly.