Steelhaven 02 - The Shattered Crown

by Richard Ford

  ‘Where’s Friedrik?’ he growled.

  ‘I don’t know. Hells, I’d tell you if I did, honest I would,’ pleaded the man. ‘For Arlor’s sake, please show me some mercy.’

  But there was no mercy here.

  Nobul brought the poker down so hard he heard the skull crack. Before the man fell Nobul stabbed out, shoving the iron into his eye, hot blood squirting onto his hand.

  There was noise from the back room, as the rest of the revellers banged against the door, screaming for help.

  Nobul took his time as he stalked them, a smile creeping across his lips. What was fucking wrong with these people? They’d come here for a killing. Wasn’t that what he was giving them?

  As he entered the back room there were more screams and desperate shouts. One of them had the guts to attack, and Nobul almost laughed as the man came at him. He was holding something in his hand, a club or a table leg, and Nobul raised his arm as the weapon came down. The pain as it struck only fed the fire. One quick punch to the throat and the attacker was down, clutching his neck, gasping his last on the floor.

  Nobul stooped and picked up the cudgel. His eyes were wide, his mouth was stretched open in a death’s-head grin. He went about his grim work with satisfaction.

  The screaming and banging didn’t carry on for long. There was some pleading in there too but the noise and the faces all seemed to twist into a blur of nothing. When it was over, when his arms were tired from the killing, Nobul was almost disappointed.

  He stared at the corpses. They’d been no challenge. Though he was breathing heavy it had been nothing to finish them.

  The cudgel dropped from his fingers as he made his way back through the tavern to the front door. The chain unravelled from his fist and dangled from his battered hand as he pulled the chair aside and unlatched the deadbolts.

  When Nobul opened the door he half expected a bunch of Greencoats to be waiting for him. Or in the least a gang of Guild enforcers.

  There was no one – just him and the night.

  As he stepped out he staggered, the fatigue of the past few days finally catching him on a single gust of night air. He had no idea where he was – most likely somewhere in Northgate. The street was deserted as he stumbled along it. A dog barked at him from a side alley. Someone closed their shutters with a sharp bang as he staggered past.

  Nobul didn’t care who saw him. His clothes and flesh were torn, his breath ragged as he stumbled along. The chain at his wrist jangled like a plague bell as he walked.

  Bring out your dead. Bring them out for burning! The Lord of Crows is here!

  At any moment he could stumble into a Greencoat patrol, but Nobul didn’t care. It wasn’t like those murders were going to be reported. He’d killed a bunch of punters in a Guild tavern – they were never going to call the authorities to investigate. They’d want to sort that out by themselves and they’d be after him soon enough.

  Well, let them come. They couldn’t do anything worse than they’d already done.

  The further he went the more Nobul’s feet dragged. He could feel himself going hazy at the edges, but he fought against it. If he fell here in the street there was no telling who would find him. He had to find somewhere safe – to rest, just for a little while. Gather his strength. Plan his next move.

  Nobul lost his footing and fell to the ground. It was wet and cold and for a moment it brought him to his senses. As he rose once more he keenly felt every ache and pain in his body. His legs were like lead, his arms two slabs of meat dragging him down.

  There was a door at the end of the street. Was it a door he recognised? Was it even a street he recognised? As he approached it he tripped on the step, falling forward against the hardwood door. There was a knocker above him and he reached up. It seemed so far away, and the dark was closing in. If he could reach it before …

  He couldn’t see. It was bloody dark and bloody cold and bloody loud and there was something on his head.

  Nobul reached up and adjusted the helm. What he saw made him want to pull it back down over his eyes.

  The valley rose high on both sides like it was reaching for the sky. In the middle, two massive statues met each other – warriors locked in eternal combat.

  Bakhaus Gate.

  Beside Nobul stood an army, men on horseback, banners of all colours tattered and blowing in the breeze. They chanted a name over and over, raising their swords and shields and bellowing their defiance. At the other end of the valley, growling and roaring, the sound echoing like the end of the world, was their enemy.

  Nobul tightened his grip on the hammer at his side. How were they supposed to win this? What were they supposed to do against such a ravening horde?

  Then he heard what the men around him were chanting.

  Black Helm! Black Helm! Black Helm!

  Eyes started to turn his way like they were looking for him to lead them. Eyes wide in fear and fury. They wanted him to head the charge. Into that mass of metal and teeth.

  Nobul was glad of the helmet. It masked his fear. He lifted his hammer. It felt heavy. So heavy he could hardly raise it, let alone swing it.

  A hand patted him on the back. Another gave him a push. One reluctant foot after the other, Nobul moved forward. A horse whinnied at his ear. His tread got faster. Voices began to shout encouragement.

  Let them lead the fucking charge then. Let them throw themselves at the bastard enemy.

  He was trotting now, moving with impetus. The hammer gripped in two hands. He was shouting, but he couldn’t make out his own words over the noise. The enemy started to move. Charging on, bounding ahead in their grey armour, blades raised, mouths gaping wide, fangs bared.

  He was going to die here. He was going to be torn apart and he didn’t care.

  ‘Come on, you bastards!’ he screamed.

  The monstrous wave engulfed him.

  His eyes flipped open to the bright morning and he’d have sat bolt upright if he had the energy. Or the will.

  Instead he just lay there, wondering where the fuck he was and who’d dressed his wounds.

  Nobul raised his right hand. The manacle was gone, leaving a raw red band around his wrist. His knuckles were bandaged and he clenched his fist, wincing at the pain. The flesh was torn and battered but at least none of his knuckles were broken.

  Gingerly he raised a hand to his ear. Half of it was missing but the wound had been stitched. He could smell the sour tang of liniment. Someone had tended to him with expert care.

  With no small effort, Nobul managed to swing his legs over the bed. He was naked, and looking at his body he realised how battered he’d been over the past few days – scarce an inch of his skin had escaped the black bruising that covered him.

  But he’d had his reckoning for that, hadn’t he? He’d done his killing till there was no more killing to be had. Though there was one more would die before long.

  Friedrik.

  Nobul would be sure to pay that cunt a visit soon. And it wouldn’t be as quick an end as he’d granted those poor bastards back in the tavern.

  ‘You’re alive, then?’

  Nobul looked up to see her standing in the doorway. Her gaunt frame was barely visible in the shadow, and until she took a step into the room he didn’t recognise her.

  ‘Fernella? How did …?’

  He stopped, and stared at the old woman he’d not seen since the day he laid his son Markus in the ground.

  ‘You got here last night. Scratching at my door like some little mouse. I barely recognised the Nobul of old. But looking at the state of your fists, I reckon that Nobul’s here after all.’

  He looked down at his hands, thinking about the killing they’d done, and smiled.

  ‘Aye, I did some things last night. Things you don’t want to hear about.’

  ‘No, I reckon I don’t. But by the looks of it, some things have been done to you too. They deserve what they got?’

  ‘Does anyone get what they deserve?’

  Fe
rnella shrugged. ‘I suppose not.’ She gestured to a chair that had fresh clothes piled up on it. ‘Get dressed. You can’t stay here. Got children downstairs, don’t want them seeing you in that state.’

  Good old Fernella. Mouth as blunt as a hammer. Heart as big as a lion.

  He dressed as quick as he could, though it was a bit of a struggle putting the shirt on. A bit tight around the chest too, but it would do.

  Downstairs Fernella was pottering in her kitchen. She’d been right, there were half a dozen kids sitting at her kitchen table. Most of them looked up at him, fearful of what they saw, and just like she’d asked him he went straight for the door.

  ‘You want it back yet?’ she asked as his hand grasped the door handle.

  ‘What?’ Nobul replied.

  ‘The box you give me. You want it?’

  He shook his head, the haunting shadow of last night’s dream playing on his memory. ‘Not right now.’

  Fernella laid a hand on his arm. ‘Suit yourself, lad. I’ll keep it until you’re ready.’

  ‘Don’t rightly know if I’ll ever—’

  ‘No. Don’t say that. The man you were. The man who came back last night. Soon enough this city’s gonna need him. You understand me? He could do some good.’

  Nobul looked at her wrinkled face and those eyes that had seen so much.

  ‘Aye, maybe,’ he said.

  He opened the door and walked out into the street.

  THIRTY

  The tension had been building since they’d arrived. The threat of violence had never diminished, but so far none of the Coldlanders had made a move on Regulus or his warriors.

  He had learned there were three tribes within the oppressive building. Each had a fanciful name that seemed to relate little to their history and deeds. Regulus could only hope these men could fight as well as they could name themselves. Somehow he doubted it.

  Nevertheless, he and his warriors were careful to watch their backs, heeding the words of Tom the Blackfoot well. It was clear these mercenaries held little love for the Zatani.

  They awoke in their cell – a bare room with a single window looking out onto the city. As ever, when Regulus led his warriors out into the vast hall they were the first of the mercenaries to appear. The Zatani were craving daylight, and a lack of it had made their sleep restless and short. It had been days since they had seen the sun, and they were suffering for it. Hagama and Kazul had grown increasingly agitated, taking their frustrations out on the younger Akkula. More than once Regulus had been forced to scold them for it. Leandran seemed to be handling their confinement well, though he had been all but silent since they had come to this place. Janto too, was silent, but that did not serve to put Regulus at his ease. The unpredictable warrior could explode into violence at any second which was the last thing they needed – at least until they faced a real enemy.

  Having left their cell, they took their places at a table in one corner of the great hall. The Zatani were used to sitting around a fire under the stars on the open plain, but they had soon grown accustomed to the Coldlander custom of hunkering around a table. As the other mercenaries began to join them, the atmosphere in the hall darkened.

  The Midnight Falcons wore night-black livery, their leader a hulking brute who little resembled a bird of prey. They sat at the opposite end of the hall, making no secret of their disdain for Regulus and his warriors, though none were brave enough to speak of it. Regulus put their number at almost fifty. Not even their strongest looked a match for his weakest.

  Next to come from their darkened cells was the Scarlet Company in tunics of red. These numbered fewer than the Midnight Falcons, perhaps thirty warriors led by a dark-browed veteran, his white hair pulled back from his head in a topknot. He regarded Regulus with unmasked hatred.

  Finally the Hallowed Shields arrived – their emblem of a quartered shield on each of their chests – taking their place close to the Zatani, but only because there was nowhere else to sit. Almost a hundred warriors, and word was they had more fighting men housed elsewhere. Their leader was young but confident, and Regulus had rapidly grown sick of his arrogant smile. How he would have liked to challenge this one, but Regulus was bound to the accord he had made with Seneschal Rogan and was determined he would not be the one to break it.

  The hum of chatter filled the hall, and Regulus and his warriors sat around their table in silence. There was no hunt to plan, no strategy to formulate, so why all this talking? Regulus disliked these Coldlanders all the more for their incessant need to waggle their tongues.

  With little fanfare, a cauldron of broth was brought in. The other mercenaries quickly stood and formed a line, but Regulus and his men had no need to join it. Rogan had been happy enough to satisfy the Zatani’s specific needs.

  On a platter, held between two of Rogan’s slaves, came a modest pile of meat. The slaves dumped it unceremoniously on the table amongst the Zatani and left as fast as they could. Regulus regarded their meagre and unappetising fare. It was scraps, far from fresh, and flies were already beginning to gather about it.

  ‘This is shit,’ said Kazul.

  Hagama nodded in agreement.

  Unabashed, Leandran and Akkula reached forward to take their fill. Janto sat back, his appetite clearly fled.

  ‘Eat,’ said Regulus. ‘We need to keep our strength. There will be fighting soon enough. Once the enemy comes and we have tasted our first victory there will be meat to fill us all.’

  Kazul reached forward reluctantly and took a hunk, more bone than meat.

  ‘How much longer do we have to be caged here?’ Hagama said. ‘I’m sick of this place.’

  ‘As are we all,’ Regulus replied, fast losing patience. ‘But I believe it will not be long. Now eat.’

  Hagama glared at the pile of greying animal carcass before digging in. They ate quickly, taking no relish. They were hunters all, used to the warmth of a fresh kill. They were not carrion eaters other than in times of famine. But Regulus guessed a famine was exactly what they had to endure. For now.

  As they ate, Regulus could hear the Coldlanders talking. ‘Animals’ they called the Zatani, ‘beasts’ or words Regulus had never heard before, though their unpleasant meaning was clear. He ignored them. His warriors could not speak the Coldlander tongue and it was best they did not know what was being said about them.

  Once they had finished, Regulus sat back and waited. He tried to block out the noise from the mercenaries, concentrating on the sound of Leandran sucking the marrow from a bone, but it was no use. He was under no illusions: he and his warriors were trapped in here with a rabble that might turn on them at any moment.

  The morning wore on, and the Coldlanders began to drink their infernal brew. Regulus understood little about this habit. He had learned their drink was potent, a poison of sorts that sometimes sent them into a rage. He could understand such a thing’s value in battle, but in times of repose? And what was its use when it often sent them into a stupor, or caused them to fight amongst themselves, and with no skill – only stubborn ferocity?

  The day drew on, and Regulus felt his sense of unease growing.

  ‘Look to yourselves,’ he warned his men, as the Coldlanders became more raucous, some of them bursting into song.

  His warriors focused on their surroundings. Though they had no weapons Regulus was sure they’d be a match for these men.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Leandran.

  ‘Just keep your eyes open,’ Regulus replied as the song became more noisy and aggressive.

  Slowly he stood up. He knew they needed to get outside, even if just for a little while. They couldn’t be expected to remain inside here indefinitely. He had to find one of their guards, gaolers, whatever name they used, and take their leave of this place.

  Before he had moved two paces, one of the mercenaries in the livery of the Scarlet Company staggered forward.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he shouted. Some of his fellows heard and stopped their bickering to loo
k on with interest.

  Regulus did not answer.

  The man leaned forward with a smile. More of the Coldlanders were looking on now. Some had clearly been awaiting such a confrontation.

  ‘Come on,’ said the man. ‘I know you can understand me. I’ve seen you speaking our language.’

  Regulus took a breath, trying to remain composed. He could sense his warriors stirring behind him.

  ‘I seek no trouble,’ he said. ‘I have come to serve your queen.’

  ‘My queen?’ said the Coldlander. ‘She’s not my queen – I’m from Stelmorn. I’m here for the money, but if you want to fall to your fucking knee in front of her, feel free.’ Some of the others laughed.

  Regulus regarded the man, bottle in hand, staggering on his feet. How could he even call himself a warrior? What pride did he take in himself? Where was his honour? But then, he only fought for coin – something Regulus would never understand.

  He took another step, but the man moved into his path.

  ‘What’s the obsession with the queen, then? Not got one of your own?’

  There was no way Regulus was about to explain himself to such a cur. He could feel the claws at his fingertips begin to twitch, his jaw tightening. Behind this man, more red liveried warriors stepped forward.

  ‘They probably ate her,’ said a man at the back of the group.

  ‘Yeah, they’ll have fucked her first, though. That’s all those black bastards know about.’

  Regulus knew he was being goaded. He must not bow to it. If he lost control, it could jeopardise everything.

  ‘You seen much battle then, darky?’ someone shouted suddenly.

  Regulus felt his stomach tighten. He clenched his fists, letting his claws dig into his palms.

  ‘What are they saying?’ asked Kazul from behind him.

  The tension was growing. Regulus knew he had to do something to take the fire out of these men’s bellies, but what?

  Walk away?

  No, Regulus Gor could not do that.

  ‘Yes, I have seen battle,’ Regulus said, raising his voice. ‘I came north to wield my blade on behalf of your king. The man who set my people free.’ The Coldlanders quieted at the mention of their late leader. ‘Even though he is dead, I will still fight beside you to defend his lands. For my father’s honour and for that of your queen.’