by Richard Ford
The Coldlanders looked at one another uncertainly.
Before he could think of more to say, the leader of the Hallowed Shields walked forward. He smiled at Regulus.
‘You see,’ he said, speaking to his men. ‘I told you there was nothing to fear from them. They are here as our allies.’
‘Like fuck they are,’ shouted someone from the crowd.
‘What are they saying?’ Kazul said again, more agitated.
The leader of the Hallowed Shields looked up at Regulus and winked. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘We’ll soon be fighting side by side. We should be friends.’
‘What’s he saying?’ Kazul stood up, and Janto rose to his feet beside him.
Regulus was about to tell them to sit down again, that this man just wanted peace, when the leader of the Hallowed Shields reached behind his back.
‘Let’s drink to our new-found friendship,’ he said.
‘Weapon!’ Kazul shouted, darting forward.
Regulus leapt in the way as the Coldlander pulled, not a weapon, but a tin flask from his belt. The man staggered back from Kazul’s attack, but Regulus was fast enough to stop his warrior as he leapt with teeth bared.
But he was not able to stop Janto.
At the first sign of trouble the warrior hurled himself at the nearest group of mercenaries. They staggered back under Janto’s onslaught as he tore with his claws. Blood flew as Regulus looked on, unable to rein back his warrior.
Before he could attempt to calm them, shouts of alarm and anger went up from the gathered mercenaries. Though unarmed, and facing the fearsome Zatani of the Gor’tana, it did not stop them. They surged forward. Regulus went down under a wave of bodies. Fists pummelled his face and he could hear yells of anger. In the background his warriors roared their defiance as they too joined the fray.
Regulus threw the first Coldlander aside, trying to gain his feet, but two more leapt at him. He was loath to strike them, one blow from his claws would tear out a throat and he was here as an ally, not an enemy. He tried to speak, to talk sense, but blows rained in at him. The Coldlander mercenaries were incensed, and elsewhere Regulus could hear his warriors were not fighting with restraint. Screams of pain echoed through the hall, joined by cries of unfettered rage.
He should not have allowed his warriors to spend so much time incarcerated in this place. They were men of the wild, hunters of the plains. It was only a matter of time before they would unleash their pent-up urges.
A Coldlander came at Regulus, screaming in fury. In his hand, there was a flash of steel. A weapon. They were all supposed to be unarmed but this man had smuggled a knife in with him.
The time for appeasement was over.
Regulus snarled, throwing off the men who were trying to hold him down. With a swipe of his arm he rent the flesh of the knifeman from jaw to eye. As his face came away, the man screamed, dropping his weapon and falling to the ground.
Seeing their fellow so savagely mutilated, some of the mercenaries dropped back. One was brave enough to rush forward but Regulus grasped him by the throat, raising him high, with his legs kicking helplessly for purchase.
‘Gor’tana!’ Regulus cried. ‘To me!’
Immediately his warriors disengaged from their enemy and came to stand beside him – Leandran was breathing heavily, Kazul, Hagama and Akkula all stared wide-eyed, and eager for more. Janto was the last to pull himself away, his mouth dripping with blood.
Regulus surveyed the carnage – men lay dead and dying, blood was strewn on the floor of the massive hall.
Before Regulus could order his men to retreat, there was a commotion in the entryway. More soldiers in the green livery of the city guard rushed in – Regulus counted thirty of them – all carrying polearms, all looking determined.
He could have ordered his men to fight, but to what end? Against unarmed mercenaries they were more than a match, but armed warriors were a different matter.
Janto moved to attack, but Regulus grasped his shoulder, digging his claws into the warrior’s flesh.
‘Enough,’ he said. ‘We’ve done enough.’
He dropped the mercenary he held to the ground where the man lay gasping for air.
The soldiers surrounded them. As Regulus showed his palms in sign of peace, he glanced at the dead and dying that lay all around them.
This would take some explaining.
THIRTY-ONE
Merrick had fucked up. Again. It was something he’d grown used to over the years – making a mess and living with the consequences, over and over – but this time he felt an unusual compulsion to make amends.
The queen had almost been murdered, one of his fellow Sentinels had been killed, another gravely wounded.
He should have been there. Should have protected her from Dravos and his bodyguards. Should have drawn his sword and cut that bastard’s heart out the minute he laid eyes on him.
But then it would be you lying dead. It would be you cold in the dirt. You’d be a hero all right, but not doing too much bragging – so count your lucky stars and stop fucking moping about it.
Merrick glanced up from beneath his helmet. Kaira and Janessa stood in the centre of the small courtyard. It was a quiet spot, away from the main quarters of the palace; somewhere they wouldn’t be disturbed. The queen held her ancient sword in two hands and Kaira was coaching her. Apparently Janessa had lopped Dravos’ head off with it, and Merrick had to admit she was rapidly growing proficient with the weapon, despite how huge and unwieldy it looked.
But she’ll have to grow proficient with it, won’t she, Ryder, because you’re about as useful a bodyguard as a shaved fucking monkey.
His hand tightened on the sword at his belt and his eyes flicked to the two entrances to the courtyard. He’d found himself acting more vigilantly since the attack, even though he knew it was too little too late. Waldin lay dying and the other one – damn, what was his bloody name? – was already in the dirt. Merrick knew the blame for that lay squarely on his shoulders.
He watched as Kaira demonstrated a sequence of strikes with a stick. Her wrist was heavily bandaged and she moved stiffly. But then she had reason to – she’d been grievously wounded defending the life of the queen. Yet she was still here on duty.
Not like you – always pissing and moaning about one thing or another: ‘Father doesn’t love me’, ‘Mother’s dead and I’ve spent the family fortune on whores and booze’, ‘All my friends want to kill me’, ‘This jacket doesn’t match these frigging britches’.
Little wonder she hadn’t spoken to him since.
What had he expected? Kaira had given him enough chances. Offered him opportunity after opportunity to prove he’d changed. In the end it was easier to prove that Merrick Ryder wasn’t the changing kind.
A door opened onto the courtyard. Merrick’s hand went to his sword and he took a step forward. When Garret appeared he let out a sigh of relief, but was on his guard again when he saw the captain was not alone.
Behind him strode Tannick Ryder, flanked by several of his Wyvern Guard. They marched forward to stand before the queen, who lowered her blade as they approached.
‘Majesty,’ said Tannick, dropping to his knee. His men did likewise.
‘Lord Marshal,’ Janessa replied. ‘To what do I owe this intrusion?’
Garret stepped forward as Tannick and his men rose to their feet. ‘Apologies, Majesty. This is my doing. I informed the Lord Marshal of the attempt on your life. He demanded to see you.’
Janessa looked over at Tannick. ‘I appreciate your … concern, Lord Ryder, but as you can see, I am quite well.’
‘Yes, Majesty, but for how long?’ Tannick replied. ‘It is clear your bodyguard are not up to their task.’ He punctuated that with a glance in Merrick’s direction. ‘I must insist you allow my men to watch over you.’
‘I have every confidence in my Sentinels, Lord Marshal. They have guarded Skyhelm and its occupants for centuries.’
‘But Majesty, wi
th many of their number away from the city, this castle is not as well protected as it should be. Especially now, when a thousand enemies would gladly see you dead. I must insist.’
‘My bodyguard is more than sufficient, Lord Ryder.’
‘But your most senior knight is wounded.’ He gestured to Kaira who, though she stood proudly, was obviously not at her best. ‘The rest are untried.’ He didn’t gesture in Merrick’s direction, but the insinuation was obvious.
‘I have every faith in them,’ Janessa replied.
‘Then, if it please your Majesty, let me put that faith to the test.’
Garret moved forward. ‘Tannick, this isn’t what we discussed.’
The Lord Marshal ignored him. ‘Let me show you how easy it would be for a skilled assassin to cut through your men.’
Queen Janessa glanced over at Merrick.
This was like all his worst nightmares come at once; his father judging him wanting, the queen defending him when she had no reason to.
‘Lord Ryder, I can assure you—’
‘If you please, Majesty. I can prove him wrong,’ said Merrick.
The words had slipped out. Something in the back of Merrick’s mind had crept forward and taken control. Something that wanted to prove to his bastard of a father that he was worthy of the family name.
Janessa looked at him, then the Lord Marshal. ‘Very well. If you deem it necessary, then my man will fight you.’
Tannick nodded. ‘Thank you, Majesty. Though it won’t be me he’s fighting.’ He turned to his men. ‘Cormach, strip down.’
Merrick looked on as one of the knights shrugged off the animal pelt on his shoulders and began to take off his armour. Jared, the man whom Merrick had spoken to a few nights before, moved forward to help.
Garret walked up beside Merrick, shaking his head. ‘This is bloody ridiculous.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Merrick replied, handing over his helmet. ‘I’ve got this.’
‘Have you?’ Garret asked as he began to unbuckle the vambrace at Merrick’s forearm. ‘That’s Cormach Whoreson. Tannick’s best sword.’
‘I know who he is; I’ve already seen what he can do to a stick.’ For the briefest moment Merrick heard that stick break over Cormach’s back again, and almost winced at the memory. ‘But how good is he against a sword, and a man who knows how to use it? These Wyvern Guard have been living in the mountains for years with nothing to fight but goats and hill men. I’ve trained in the blade yards of House Tarnath. I’ve—’
‘Don’t underestimate him,’ said Garret, before Merrick could go through his full list of achievements. ‘The Wyvern Guard are legendary swordsmen. If your father’s trained them, they’ll be the best.’
Merrick looked over at Cormach Whoreson, now stripped to the waist. His body was covered in scars; he looked as if he’d been chiselled from stone and he was giving Merrick the hard stare. Merrick had spent enough time on the streets to know the difference between someone feigning toughness and a genuine hard bastard.
Cormach was most definitely the latter.
A flash of doubt suddenly clouded his confidence but Merrick pushed it away. He’d been trained by Lord Macharias himself, he knew the sixty-six Principiums Martial … well, maybe now wasn’t the time to go over all that again. Fact was he had something to prove here, and he was damn sure he’d do it.
Garret took the rest of Merrick’s armour off before announcing, ‘I’ll send for practice swords.’
‘No need,’ Tannick replied. ‘Real ones will do the job just as well.’ He looked over at Merrick. ‘Unless your man objects.’
Garret was about to speak when Merrick stepped forward. ‘He doesn’t.’
He unbuckled the sword belt at his waist and drew his weapon from its sheath. The blade felt good in his hand. For a moment he was invincible, like a hero of legend, baring his chest to the enemy, blade in hand, with nothing but his skill to keep him alive.
Then Cormach drew his own sword.
He held it with a confidence Merrick could never have matched. Hells, it almost looked a part of his body. Merrick was keenly aware that his own bare torso, though not in bad shape, was nowhere near as taut and honed as his opponent’s. The open air of the courtyard suddenly began to feel chill, as though it were seeping through his flesh and into his bones. Could Cormach actually be the better swordsman?
Put those thoughts from your head, Ryder. Your father’s standing there, and he’s waiting for you to fail. It’s time to put the fucker right.
Merrick gave a glance across at Kaira. She was watching impassively. There would be no encouragement there. She probably wanted to see him fail as much as the rest of them.
Both men walked to the centre of the courtyard. One of the Wyvern Guard shouted, ‘Come on, Whoreson,’ but was silenced by a glance from Lord Ryder.
Merrick wondered if they’d get the shout to begin. From Cormach’s impassive stare, he guessed they already had.
Strike first, strike fast, strike hard, strike last. That was the way he’d been taught at the Collegium. No better time to try it than now.
Merrick stepped in, bouncing off the balls of his feet, his sword sweeping in a blinding arc. Cormach didn’t even blink, just brought his blade up and struck at the blow, knocking Merrick’s sword aside with such strength it almost put him off balance.
He bounced back, out of range, but Cormach hadn’t even tried to follow through with a counter. The man just stood there, staring as though this whole thing bored him.
Merrick circled, with Cormach watching but not even keeping his guard up. What a conceited bastard. Didn’t he know there was only room for one arrogant swordsman in this city, and that was Merrick Ryder!
Again he moved in, his sword low, aimed at the groin. Again Cormach parried. This time Merrick didn’t retreat, but cut in high, but it seemed Cormach could read him before he even knew what he was about to do, and he parried the blow, making Merrick’s sword ring in his hand.
Anger began to well up inside. This fucker was toying with him. Showing everyone how much better he was. And to top it all Tannick was watching, smug in the knowledge his man was the better fighter, confident that Merrick was going to lose.
He’s always said you were a useless bastard and now you’re proving it. Don’t just fucking stand there – show him he’s wrong.
Merrick let out a growl of frustration as he attacked once more. In the back of his head, Lord Macharias was shouting at him – don’t lose your temper, anger only makes you sloppy – but he didn’t care. These arseholes needed showing that they could spend all the time they wanted in the mountains, humping goats and inbred tribeswomen, but here in the big city they really knew how to fight.
His sword swept in, cutting the air with a hum. It was a feint, and as Cormach brought his blade up to parry, Merrick changed its direction, aimed at his opponent’s knee. Casually, as though he knew what Merrick was about to do, Cormach lifted his leg, stepping away from the strike.
Merrick didn’t stop, hacking down, gripping his blade in both hands. He grunted as Cormach shifted his own sword, parrying the low blow. Their blades were locked together, Merrick forcing his down with two arms, Cormach holding it off with one. They looked at one another, Cormach impassive, showing no signs of strain.
He’s laughing at you. It might not look it, but on the inside he’s pissing himself.
Merrick grunted again, this time holding back none of his frustration. His sword swung left and right, a vicious onslaught, heedless of the damage he might do if he scored a hit, but each blow was snatched from the air by his opponent’s blade. And every time Cormach didn’t bother to counter, parrying each blow as though he was practising with a child.
‘Enough, Cormach,’ Tannick shouted. ‘Finish it.’
As Merrick hacked in again, Cormach parried, but this time he twisted his blade. It hooked under the quillon of Merrick’s sword and sent it spinning across the courtyard. Before Merrick could think what to do
next, Cormach stepped in and butted him on the bridge of his nose.
Merrick went down hard, his vision flooded. As he floundered on the ground he could taste blood and snot as it ran freely from his nose and into his mouth.
A razor edge pushed his chin up and, through watering eyes, he saw Cormach looking down. The man didn’t gloat or smile in his victory, but stared blankly, awaiting further instructions from Tannick.
The old man wouldn’t dare to give the order to strike a death blow in front of the queen … would he? Right now Merrick wouldn’t have minded, and nor would he have put it past the old bastard.
‘An impressive display, Lord Marshal,’ said Janessa, walking up beside Merrick. ‘I think I’ve seen enough.’
‘Of course, Majesty,’ Tannick replied. ‘Cormach – to me.’
The one they called Whoreson took his blade from Merrick’s throat and backed away towards the waiting Wyvern Guard, who looked on in amusement.
Merrick raised a hand to his throat. There was blood.
Best be grateful it’s only a nick. He could have killed you at any time.
‘Don’t feel bad,’ said Tannick, as Garret helped Merrick to his feet. ‘Cormach’s my best. You never stood a chance.’
It didn’t make him feel any better, but then that wasn’t the reason Tannick said it.
‘Your Wyvern Guard are clearly skilled in the art of combat, Lord Marshal,’ said Queen Janessa. ‘But this changes nothing.’
‘But, Majesty, your Sentinels are not able to protect you.’
Queen Janessa glared up at the imposing knight. Merrick took some solace in the fact that Tannick seemed a little cowed by her.
‘Yet I am not dead, Lord Marshal. It appears they’ve been doing something right.’
‘I must insist—’
‘That will be all.’
Queen Janessa’s voice was raised and Tannick could respond with little else than a deep bow.