Steelhaven 02 - The Shattered Crown

by Richard Ford

  ‘Don’t give us no trouble,’ said a voice.

  Regulus stood up, his warriors doing the same. As his eyes adjusted to the glaring light he saw that the room was filled with a dozen northern soldiers in green jackets. They looked apprehensive, afraid, even though Regulus and his warriors were chained to the walls.

  ‘What now?’ asked Hagama. ‘Is this our chance?’

  Regulus assessed the men who had come for them. They were afraid – their weapons drawn, though none of them moved to attack. If there were to be any chance for Regulus and his warriors to make it out of this alive, they had to be careful. If they attacked now, chained as they were, they’d be slaughtered.

  ‘Do not fight them,’ Regulus said.

  One of the soldiers held out a wooden pole, on the end was a shackle large enough for Regulus’ neck.

  ‘We don’t want no trouble,’ one of the soldiers repeated.

  But what trouble could Regulus give? He and his warriors were at the mercy of these northern fools. Subject to their whims. The shame of it cut him deep, but still he did not resist as they secured the shackle around his throat. His chains were unfastened from the walls, and between three men he was guided from the cell.

  They were not rough. These men did not drag him, but somehow that made it worse. That he was being coaxed like livestock, and allowing it to happen, only added to his humiliation.

  Behind him he could hear the noise of his warriors receiving similar treatment. He could only hope they would heed his commands. Perhaps they would, perhaps not. Janto was unlikely to go without a fight; Regulus was unsure whether he wanted that or not. Perhaps one of them should at least show some defiance.

  Regulus had to demonstrate wisdom, though. Had to show his leadership by example.

  As he was conveyed down the darkened corridors, Regulus was taken back to his earliest memories, to a time when the Aeslanti ruled Equ’un with a clawed fist. To a time when they had conquered every tribe that stood against them. The Zatani had been a slave race then – in thrall to beasts.

  Regulus had been only a child during that dark age, but he could still remember what it had been like before the Slave Uprisings. Before the Steel King had given gifts of Coldlander steel and sown rebellion in every tribe.

  Now Regulus was slave once more. Now he was in thrall, not to beasts but to men. What would his father have said if he could see the shame Regulus had brought on the Gor’tana? A prince of the Zatani meekly leading his warriors into bondage?

  Regulus decided not to think on it. Better he looked to finding a solution to their current predicament before one of his warriors did something they could not bargain or fight their way out of.

  The corridor widened, and Regulus found himself flanked by yet more Coldlanders. As he approached the end, a door was flung open revealing a large chamber from which Regulus could hear the sounds of raised voices.

  When he was dragged into the brightly lit chamber, he realised only doom awaited.

  The room was huge and circular, tiered rows of seats rose up all around him, angry jeering faces staring down as though this were some arena and he about to fight. Yet the floor was not covered with blood-spattered sand, but hard stone, and there was little room for combat.

  Steel rings were set into the stone slabs beneath his feet, and the chains that held Regulus’ wrists were quickly tethered to them. Behind him, one of the soldiers who had conveyed him here still held the pole that secured the shackle around his neck.

  As the rest of his warriors were brought in, the crowd’s baying began to reach new heights of frenzy. Regulus could see that among them were mercenaries, their livery identifying them as the Hallowed Shields, the Midnight Falcons, the Scarlet Company – all leering down with hate. Every one of them had lost men in the fight with the Zatani. Regulus could not blame them for their anger. But neither could he forgive his captors for this ordeal. If there was a dispute then it should be settled by combat in the warrior tradition, not like this.

  A robed man stood waiting for them. He held his hands up to the gathered mob and reluctantly its baying grew silent. Slowly, the robed figure drew back his hood. He was bald and bore a tattoo above his right eye, a sigil Regulus did not recognise.

  The silence became uneasy as he fixed Regulus with a stare, bereft of any emotion.

  ‘You are charged with heinous crimes,’ he said in a voice flat and impartial. ‘You have invaded our lands. Raided our villages, butchered our livestock.’ Regulus bristled at the false allegations. He and his men had done no such thing, even though it had been well within their capabilities to do so. ‘Then, after entering Steelhaven under the false guise of peace, you murdered men who would have otherwise defended this city.’ At his words the mob surrounding them began to shout in agreement, some demanding justice, others demanding only execution.

  ‘What are they saying?’ asked Hagama.

  Regulus could not answer him. How was he to say they were being accused of crimes they had not committed? He was the one who had brought them to this place. It was Regulus who had subjected them to this.

  ‘It is the assertion of the Inquisition that you were sent here as agents of the Elharim invader Amon Tugha. That your mission was to sabotage the city from within, to do as much damage as possible in order to disrupt Steelhaven’s defences.’

  Regulus wanted to roar his defiance, but chained as he was he could do nothing. Perhaps they would have a chance to prove their innocence. Regulus had been taught little of the customs of the Clawless Tribes by his father but he knew something of their laws. They sometimes observed the traditions of trial by combat, but otherwise a lord or other elected nobleman would represent an accused party. Surely there would be some way to dispute these allegations. Surely someone would be their arbiter.

  ‘The evidence against you is clear. Six men lie dead, twice that number wounded. No ally of the Free States would do so much harm to its people. Only an enemy, under pretence of friendship.’

  ‘What are they saying?’ Hagama demanded, this time his voice was raised high above that of the hooded man. Caught up in his rage, Akkula and Kazul roared along with him, cries of anger and defiance. Though Regulus was proud of their boldness, it only served to incense the crowd, who shouted back, howling like dogs, some spitting and throwing insults Regulus recognised only too well.

  The robed man held his arms up again. Hagama, Kazul and Akkula fell silent as their cries of defiance grew hoarse.

  ‘Confessions,’ he said. The single word echoed around the circular chamber. ‘Perhaps, savage, you will demonstrate some shred of honour and confess your crimes?’

  ‘Ordeal by fire,’ shouted a voice.

  ‘Put ’em to the fuckin’ question,’ bellowed another.

  Again the robed man’s arms were raised for silence. Then he stared straight at Regulus.

  ‘What say you, beast? Do you confess your crimes?’

  Regulus knew that all his denials would be mocked and ignored. That a ‘confession’ was not what they wanted or cared for. They just wanted his blood.

  ‘I came here to fight,’ Regulus said, the strength in his voice silencing the onlookers. ‘To defend this city alongside its people. To bring glory and victory to your queen. I have nothing to confess.’

  ‘Nothing to confess?’ said the robed man. ‘Then we would ask none from you. We need no confession from animals.’

  The crowd began to shout again, stamping their feet, the noise almost deafening. This was madness. Regulus strained to control his rage as his warriors each roared in defiance.

  ‘All we need now is the sentence,’ shouted the man over the din.

  On a raised gallery, Regulus saw a door open. A second robed figure appeared from within, his face hidden beneath a dark hood. He stood for what seemed endless moments, waiting for the noise to abate, waiting for the sound of the Zatani to die down.

  When all was silent once more, the tattooed man looked up and asked, ‘What sentence shall be passed?�
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  The hooded figure at first said nothing, milking the silence. Regulus already knew the answer and simply offered a defiant glare.

  ‘Death,’ came the single word from the hooded man.

  This time it was the crowd’s turn to roar.

  THIRTY-NINE

  The chamber was in upheaval. Men screaming in anger. Equ’un warriors bellowing their lungs out. It reminded Nobul of days long past. Days on the battlefield, sweating and bleeding and biting back the fear.

  He held a chain that bound one of the Zatani. Nobul used all his strength, but still struggled to hold just that one arm. Any other time he’d have put it down to how tired he was, what he’d been through over the past few days, but he knew that wasn’t the case. These were savages from the plains of Equ’un, former slaves of the Aeslanti, tempered in the fighting pits of the beast-men. Nobul was just glad they were in chains.

  The Greencoats dragged them from the chamber. Now the sentence was passed it looked like the place might erupt at any minute. Kilgar led the way, shouting for them to move as fast as they could and to hold steady. It would only take one of these killers to escape its shackles and there’d be the hells to pay.

  Nobul had seen first hand the ferocity of the Zatani and their prowess in battle at Bakhaus Gate. The Aeslanti had sent some of their Zatani slaves into the fray first – shock troops to soften up the Teutonian vanguard. They were formidable opponents and Nobul had no desire to fight them again. He’d been young and fit then – hungry for blood and glory. Now he felt every year weighing down on him as he dragged the raging warrior to his cell, and all Nobul’s experience did nothing to curb the fear.

  Back in the old days, when he was in his prime, he’d been scared almost shitless as he faced the enemy in the valley at Bakhaus. Now that feeling came rushing back to him. As the noise echoed down the corridor it wasn’t victory Nobul remembered. It was standing beside a hundred other lads, some of them shaking, some of them weeping. It was gripping his hammer so tight he thought he’d never be able to let it go. It was looking all about him, trying to find somewhere to run but knowing there was nowhere.

  No amount of victories would ever scratch out those memories. Not a thousand blokes patting you on the back, shouting their thanks, buying you drinks. The years had served to dull the memories well enough, but now here he was, reminding himself all over again what he’d faced.

  They eventually managed to get the Zatani back to his cell and with difficulty chained him up once more. Bilgot gingerly unfastened the shackle from the warrior’s neck and they stood back as the rest were brought in. There were six in all, most of them powerful looking. One appeared young and another very old, his head shaved, his dark flesh patchy, though he still looked as though he could do some damage. Even the weakest of these bastards was more than a match for your average man.

  The noise in the room was deafening as they secured the warriors. Nobul gripped his short blade, looking for any sign of them escaping but there was none – though they made a lot of noise, the Greencoats managed to chain them up without incident.

  ‘Right, everyone out,’ said Kilgar.

  None of the lads complained at that, practically falling over one another to get out of the door.

  Nobul backed away as the Zatani thrashed against their bonds. It was taking all his nerve not to turn tail and run – though they were chained, these warriors still looked ferocious. He knew they were a fearsome enemy, but also a proud race. Something inside began to pity them, despite their ferocity. Something inside made him feel this just wasn’t right.

  Nobul was the last one out of the cell, and as he was leaving, he caught the gaze of one of the Zatani. This one wasn’t roaring his anger, but was watching him intently. His black hair hung long over his shoulders and he was the biggest and most impressive of the group. It had been this one that spoke Teutonian and protested their innocence back in the inquisition hall. This one that stood proudly and defiantly while his fellows bellowed in rage.

  As Nobul looked back at the warrior, he saw the keen intelligence in his green eyes. Nobul glanced at Kilgar, who beckoned him to leave, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. Over a decade ago he’d faced warriors like this, had killed them, but he could sense this one was no threat to him. The Zatani had only been his enemy because they were slaves to the Aeslanti. After gaining their freedom it was said they had turned on their former masters, defeating them in a savage war. Perhaps they were not the enemy after all. Perhaps they didn’t deserve such summary judgement. Surely what the Inquisition had done to these men was wrong.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Nobul said, before he’d even realised it.

  After a moment, the warrior responded. ‘Keep your pity, Coldlander. We have no need for it.’

  As their leader spoke, the rest of the Zatani fell silent.

  ‘Come on,’ demanded Kilgar, beckoning again, more impatiently.

  Nobul stood his ground, though he realised how irrational it was. ‘Close the door,’ he replied, still staring at the dark-skinned warrior.

  ‘Are you fucking insane?’

  ‘Close the door,’ repeated Nobul.

  Without a word, Kilgar slammed the door to the cell shut and locked it.

  The warrior watched him, his green eyes revealing no emotion.

  ‘I’m Nobul Jacks.’

  ‘Regulus of the Gor’tana. Prince of Equ’un,’ the Zatani replied.

  ‘It’s good to meet you, Regulus of the Gor’tana. And I don’t pity you, but I am still sorry.’

  ‘I understand, Nobul Jacks. But your sorrow will not see us freed from this place.’

  ‘No, I reckon it won’t. Not much I can do about that.’

  Regulus looked forlorn, beaten, and it made Nobul pity him all the more.

  ‘To think, we came to fight for your queen,’ said the warrior. ‘To bring her glory. To bring death to her enemies. Now we will be slaughtered like livestock.’

  ‘Why would you do that? Why come all the way north to do your killing? There must be plenty of killing to be done back south.’

  ‘There is indeed death aplenty back in my homeland. But the glory is here, in the north. Fighting to save the city of our liberator.’

  ‘You mean King Cael? He’s dead and gone.’ And some of us didn’t shed too many tears over it neither.

  ‘So we have learned. Surely all the more reason to defend his kith and kin?’

  Nobul could see the sense of it. And he’d be doing that very thing soon enough.

  ‘It would have been good to stand beside you on the battlements,’ said Nobul. He wasn’t lying either – he’d have taken six Zatani at his shoulder when facing an army of Khurtas any day. ‘But I guess that’ll never happen now.’

  ‘You are a warrior then, Nobul Jacks? But of course, I can see it in your bearing. Have you fought many battles?’

  ‘I’ve fought enough. A long time ago now.’

  ‘You have fought my people?’

  That caught him off his guard. For a moment he considered denying it, but chained as these Zatani were there was little need to lie.

  ‘Aye, I was at the Gate. Your people are great fighters. I hope never to face their like again.’

  Regulus seemed to appreciate that.

  ‘Would that I could have fought to win our freedom back then, but I was a child. The years were against me.’

  ‘The years are against all of us, one way or the other,’ Nobul said with a smile, as though he was passing the time with any old veteran. ‘It’s what you do with them that counts.’

  ‘I fear I may not have used mine with the greatest of wisdom.’

  ‘You don’t know that yet.’

  ‘You are right. It is best not to live with regret.’

  ‘True enough,’ Nobul said, though Arlor knew he’d gathered enough regrets of his own over the years.

  The warrior crouched down, resting his back against the wall. Nobul glanced around at the other Zatani, looking on in silence. One o
f them watched from the dark, his blue stare unmistakeably hateful.

  Nobul turned back to Regulus and knelt down beside him.

  ‘You don’t deserve this. None of you do.’

  The Zatani’s face twisted into a smile. ‘Perhaps none of us get what we deserve, Nobul Jacks. We are all condemned by fate.’

  ‘Aye, that’s true enough. You’ve just got to make the best of what gets thrown at you.’

  ‘Indeed. And for what it’s worth, I bear you no ill will.’

  ‘That makes me feel a bit better, I suppose,’ Nobul said, though he wasn’t too sure it did. ‘Good luck to you, Regulus of the Gor’tana.’

  ‘And to you, Coldlander.’

  Nobul pounded on the cell door twice. When Kilgar opened it he couldn’t bring himself to look back at the warriors, chained and caged behind him.

  Once more, Kilgar locked the door. When he turned Nobul expected him to give out a roasting, but the serjeant said nothing. The group of Greencoats made their way from the building in silence.

  Back at the barracks all was unnaturally quiet. There was fear on Dustin and Edric’s faces. Even Bilgot had lost his usual bluster. It was understandable. Nobul knew too well how the Zatani could unman you with just a glance of those eyes, let alone a flash of the claws and teeth. These lads should have counted themselves lucky they never went up against the Aeslanti, never mind Zatani warriors.

  Nobul watched them as they all slipped away from the barracks one by one, without saying a word to him. He appreciated that; he wanted some time to himself.

  With all the worry about rioters and invaders, discipline had slipped in the past few weeks. The Greencoats were even more slack about keeping guard than they had been when Nobul had first arrived, so it was nothing for him to make his way to the little room where they kept all the ledgers. Where the man who paid the wages kept his little desk.

  It didn’t take Nobul long to find what he was looking for. It was easy to search for a name and see where the man lived.