by Richard Ford
Janessa looked deep into those cold blue eyes – eyes without mercy, the last eyes she would ever see. Then she smiled. ‘I offered him love,’ she said. ‘Do you even understand what that is?’
The Father of Killers narrowed his eyes. ‘Do I understand what that is? I raised that boy. I taught him to be a man far greater than he would ever have been without me. I gave him abilities no southron has ever learned. I honoured him, and you ruined it all.’
‘And I would do it again,’ she breathed. And at that moment, she realised she would. That despite everything, despite the shame being with child might bring, she would do it all again, go through a hundred such trials, risk death a thousand times just for one more night in River’s arms.
‘By now he is dead,’ said the old man. ‘You can join him.’
Janessa closed her eyes.
‘Just a moment,’ said an old and tired voice from the stairwell. Janessa looked to see The Father of Killers glance around. If he was frustrated at the constant interruptions, he didn’t show it.
Magistra Gelredida pulled herself up onto the last stair and breathed a sigh. Her apprentice moved from where he was cowering, but she raised a weary hand and waved him off.
‘Come to die with your queen, crone?’ said the Father of Killers.
‘Hardly,’ she replied, leaning heavily against the wall.
The old man’s laugh was like the hiss of a serpent.
Without warning Gelredida threw something towards him. Janessa couldn’t see what it was, couldn’t make it out as it soared through the air. Without even having to look, the Father of Killers brought his sword up to slice whatever she had flung at him in two.
Then the rooftop exploded.
Janessa was flung backwards, blinded, deafened. When eventually she could open her eyes she saw the top of the amphitheatre had been blown off. Debris lay all around and a thick pall of dust rose up all around her. The dress she wore was torn and filthy and her ears were ringing.
The young apprentice was beside her, his face covered in dust. He was speaking to her, but at first she couldn’t hear him.
‘Are you all right, Majesty?’ she finally heard.
‘Yes,’ she replied, staggering to her feet. ‘Find your mistress.’
The boy nodded, wandering off into the dust to find Gelredida.
Janessa suddenly thought of Merrick, lying somewhere in the carnage, bleeding to death and she rushed into the dissipating cloud.
There was movement, and she stumbled forward, thinking it was Merrick. When she saw the drab and torn robes she stopped dead. The Father of Killers dragged himself along but one of his arms, his swordarm she assumed, was missing. He was pulling himself towards what remained of his sword; a broken hilt with a shattered blade. Before he could reach it Janessa stooped and picked it up.
The old man rolled over to look at her. She recoiled at the state of his face – half of it was a bloody mess but the other half filled her with as much horror. His eyes were no longer blue, instead shining with a gold light. His skin had grown less wrinkled and his beard had vanished to reveal smooth skin and a strong jaw. Though still unmistakeably the Father of Killers, he who had once been an old man was now youthful and, were it not for the injuries, might once have been handsome.
More magicks she supposed – the old man merely a guise, merely another Elharim trick.
‘It appears I have failed,’ he said, his voice weak.
‘It appears you have,’ said Janessa, looking down at him without pity. This was the man who had tortured her lover throughout his life, the man who would have seen her dead. He deserved no pity.
‘When my master Amon Tugha comes to take your head tell him …’ He took a pained breath. ‘Tell him …’
Janessa thrust the broken sword into the Father of Killers’ throat.
‘I will tell him nothing,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘He will know only that you failed. Your body will be burned and no one will care you ever existed.’
The light in those eyes slowly died, turning from gold to the colour of ash, as the Father of Killers’ life ebbed from the wound in his throat. Janessa watched him and something in her fed on it. Something in her enjoyed watching him die.
She stood back then. The air had nearly cleared, the noise from down in the arena gone silent. Janessa looked around, desperate to find Merrick. She searched frantically until she found him beneath a pile of rubble.
Falling to her knees, she moved the detritus from his body. He was still alive, if barely. The wound in his chest was still pulsing blood, and a puddle had formed and begun to congeal beneath him.
At her touch his eyes flickered open. ‘I wasn’t expecting that,’ he managed to say, a trickle of blood dripping from the side of his lips as he spoke.
‘Don’t try to talk,’ Janessa replied, before calling out for help. The apprentice was helping Magistra Gelredida to her feet and Janessa looked at her pleadingly.
The old woman looked down and shook her head. ‘There’s little can be done,’ she said and turned to leave.
Janessa looked down to see Merrick’s eyes had glazed, his lids seemed heavy and he was struggling to keep them open.
‘You have done a great thing, Ryder. Your sacrifice will not be forgotten.’
At that, Gelredida turned and looked with curiosity at the dying man. ‘Did you say “Ryder”?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Janessa replied. ‘Merrick Ryder.’
‘Step back,’ said the old woman, kneeling beside Merrick’s body.
Janessa rose to her feet and watched as the old woman carefully removed the scarlet gloves from her hands. The flesh beneath was black, the veins raised in a hideous spider-web pattern.
‘Waylian, help,’ said Gelredida as she began to unbuckle Merrick’s breastplate.
The boy obeyed, and as soon as Merrick’s armour was taken off the magistra laid her hideous hands on his wound. Quietly she began to chant, invoking whatever powers magickers channelled to carry out their deeds.
As Janessa watched, armoured figures came up the stairs desperate to find her. They tried to usher her away but, confident the danger had passed, she chose to watch in fascination as the old witch did her work.
In moments Merrick’s eyes fluttered open and Gelredida reclined, stretching a crick from her back.
‘He will live,’ she said. ‘Waylian, if you please.’ With that the apprentice helped her to her feet.
‘Thank you,’ Janessa said as the old woman walked past.
‘Don’t thank me yet,’ said Gelredida, her expression grim. ‘This is just the beginning.’
FORTY-SEVEN
Nobul watched them as they feasted. It was just him and the five Zatani in the empty courtyard. They were beasts, giants, ferocious and untamed. Nobul had seen them up close before, had fought them, killed them, but that had been a long time ago. Back then he’d been scared half out of his wits, but you forgot all about the fear when the fighting started. There was nothing to fight now though – these men had given him their loyalty. Now all he had to do was watch them, and Nobul wasn’t sure whether to be scared or not.
Their leader, Regulus, had offered him a life-debt. Of course he’d refused. Nobul had no more right over the warrior’s life than he did anyone’s. These men owed him nothing. Nevertheless, they’d wanted to stay close to him, probably as he was the only one who’d shown them any kind of compassion. If you could call setting them free to fight off some magick-spawned monster ‘compassion’.
The rest of the Greencoats were still at the amphitheatre, cleaning up the mess. Nobul was grateful for that, glad he hadn’t had to hang around; he’d seen enough of what those magickers could do to last him a lifetime. The less he had to do with all that shit the better.
Not that dealing with this was any more appealing: what in the hells was he supposed to do with five Zatani warriors?
Regulus rose from the feasting, wiping his mouth on his arm. He turned and fixed Nobul with a determined
look. But then these Zatani always looked determined. They always looked fierce.
Regulus crossed the courtyard to where Nobul stood. The warrior moved with an assured grace that Nobul marvelled at. He had never realised how impressive looking these creatures were, especially not when he’d fought them at Bakhaus Gate. You didn’t have the time to appreciate those kinds of things when you were trying not to get killed.
‘We must speak, Nobul Jacks,’ said the Zatani.
‘Now’s as good a time as any,’ he replied.
‘I like you, Nobul Jacks. You speak plain. Just like a Gor’tana.’
‘Thanks.’ I think.
‘My warriors and I have had much to discuss since you freed us. And we have decided to leave this place, unless we have certain guarantees.’
‘Leave? After all you’ve been through to come here and fight for this city?’
‘It is what we’ve been through that has made us come to this decision. We have been treated worse than animals – as enemies – when we only came to this place to offer our fealty. If we are to stay and fight for this city, concessions will have to be made.’
‘I don’t have the authority to—’
‘If you cannot grant what we ask, then we will go. If we are forced to stay we will fight you.’
Nobul swallowed hard. ‘What do you want?’
‘First, we have travelled far. A journey that required we leave our armour behind. If we are to stand atop your walls and defend your people, we will need armour – Zatani armour, built by a craftsman.’
A smile crept across Nobul’s face. He had abandoned his forge months ago, yet his hand still itched for a hammer. It was unlikely there was another man in the city who knew what Zatani armour looked like and could have forged it with his skill.
‘That I can do,’ he said with confidence.
Regulus nodded his thanks. ‘The second demand is more important. We have lost a brother. A warrior of our tribe. We must have recompense for that.’
‘All right. I’m not sure there’s much left in the Crown coffers but—’
‘No, you misunderstand. We do not require your worthless coins. We need a life for his life. A sacrifice as you might call it.’
Nobul felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He asked the question but already knew the answer. ‘You mean like a goat or a sheep?’
‘No.’
Of course ‘no’. Like it was ever going to be that bloody easy.
‘There’s no way that could happen. We don’t just offer people up for sacrifice. That’s not how things are done around here.’
‘I understand, Nobul Jacks. You do not respect your gods or your dead as we do. It is no matter. We shall leave, then.’ Regulus laid a huge dark hand on Nobul’s shoulder. ‘But I wonder if you might do us one last kindness. We would send our brother off to the stars.’ He gestured to the body of the Zatani they had wrapped in linen. ‘We would require a pyre.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Nobul replied.
With that, Regulus returned to his fellow warriors.
Nobul continued to watch them as the sun went down. The air grew colder, but Nobul chose to ignore the chill. There’d be plenty of cold nights to come, may as well get used to them.
Kilgar and the rest of the lads came back just before dark and the serjeant came to stand beside Nobul.
‘How’ve they been?’ he asked.
Nobul just shrugged. ‘Pretty much as they are now.’
‘The Seneschal’s creating a right old shit storm. He’ll tell anyone who’ll listen this lot need to be killed.’
‘Is anyone listening?’
Kilgar gave him a sly smile. ‘Thankfully not. Lord Marshal and the High Constable both agree we’ll need this bunch in the days to come. When the Khurtas get here they’ll have a proper bloody surprise when we unleash this lot on them.’
‘Yeah,’ said Nobul with a frown. ‘Not quite sure how to put this; but they’re not sticking around for that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’ve had enough. To be honest, the way they’ve been treated the past few days, I don’t blame them.’
Kilgar cursed under his breath. ‘Don’t suppose there’s anything we can do to change their minds?’
‘Aye, there is. They want a human sacrifice to compensate for the death of their man there.’ He gestured to the linen-wrapped corpse.
‘They want a fucking what?’
‘That’s what they said.’ Nobul shrugged.
‘We just bloody can’t.’
‘That’s what I thought you’d say. They’ll be leaving just as soon as they’ve burned the dead one. I suppose setting up a pyre is fine?’
Kilgar nodded, though he obviously wasn’t sure. ‘It’s the least we can do. See to it.’
The least they could do.
Was it the least they could do? Could they do more?
It didn’t look like it. A sacrifice was a demand too far. Not that Nobul would have minded. There was one candidate in particular he would have loved to offer up, but he’d never get away with it.
Would he?
The lads built a pyre by torchlight; there was plenty of wood in the store. Then they all stood back and watched the Zatani perform their ritual, growling in their alien tongue. Roaring and raking at their flesh with those claws. When that was all done, Regulus took a torch and lit the pyre. They were silent for that, just watching the sky.
Nobul had no idea what they thought was up there but it seemed pretty important to them. He found himself admiring the Zatani – their nobility, their loyalty. They’d fight for each other till death, and that was a rare thing.
In another few days he’d be atop the wall, facing the savages that were coming to destroy the city. How many lads would give their lives to watch his back? These Zatani knew a thing or two about courage, about brotherhood. It was madness to let them walk away when they could be fighting by his side.
As the fire burned in the courtyard, Nobul made his way down to the cells. The prisoner had been all but forgotten, and when Nobul turned the key and opened the door he half expected him to have escaped.
‘Ah, Nobul,’ said Friedrik with a smile. ‘It’s been too long. I’ve missed you.’
Nobul unlocked the manacles that secured the prisoner to the wall.
‘Where are we going?’ Friedrik asked. He sounded jolly, like they were going for a jaunt around the marketplace. ‘I don’t think I look my best. I hope it’s nowhere important.’
Friedrik winced as Nobul grabbed him and dragged him out of the cell.
‘You know my offer’s still open,’ said Friedrik. ‘Let me go and you can have anything you want.’ When Nobul didn’t respond, Friedrik affected a solemn look even Nobul could see through. ‘Look, I’m sorry about your boy, I truly am. If I could give him back to you, I would. But there must be something else you want.’
Nobul stopped in the corridor.
Friedrik wasn’t sorry one bit. He didn’t regret a thing.
Nobul looked Friedrik in the eye. ‘Tell me where the Guild are, where your partners are, and you’ll live.’
Friedrik looked back at him. He was clearly attempting to remain grave, but his frown turned to a smile and then to a laugh.
‘That’ll never happen,’ said Friedrik. ‘But I’ll tell you what will – if you don’t get me the fuck out of here, you’re going to end up with a sack over your head again. You’re going to end up worse than last time. We gave you a fighting chance then. Next time you’ll be fed to the animals piece by fucking piece.’
‘You first,’ Nobul said, before dragging Friedrik up the stairs and out into the courtyard.
The funeral pyre was burning high now, almost level with the roof of the barracks. The Zatani still looked on in silence, and Kilgar and the lads kept a distance away from them.
Nobul paused for a moment, staring into those flames. He could feel Friedrik clawing at him, asking what the fuck was going on, but he ignored
him. This was it. This was where everything would change. This was where he’d leave the last of his humanity behind.
For what you’re going to have to do, that’s the best place for it. Humanity is only there to burden lesser men.
Friedrik struggled as Nobul dragged him across the courtyard. Probably fear of the flames or maybe he’d guessed what was in store.
‘Wait,’ he shouted. ‘Just fucking wait.’
Nobul dumped him on the ground before the Zatani.
‘There’s your fucking sacrifice. You’ll get the rest of what you need as soon as I’m able.’
Regulus nodded his thanks and Nobul stepped back, away from the fierce-looking warriors who now surrounded Friedrik.
‘What’s going on?’ shouted Kilgar.
Nobul held out his arm, pushing the serjeant back. ‘I’ve made a choice,’ he said. ‘They can have their sacrifice. Feel free to try to stop them.’
Kilgar looked on, but made no attempt to intervene.
Friedrik was on his knees, staring out from between the huge killers. All his arrogance, all his confidence, was gone now.
‘Nobul,’ he shouted, his voice breaking as the fear gripped him. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’ll talk. All right? You fucking win, call them off.’
Too late. Far too late.
Regulus lifted his head and roared to the gathered stars. It was joined by a chorus as the other Zatani let rip. Friedrik began to scream.
He screamed for as long as he was able.
FORTY-EIGHT
Merrick stared up at the ceiling, his finger tracing the two-inch scar just below his left nipple. When the witch had laid her hands on him and he’d felt life flooding back into his body it had been the worst thing he’d ever experienced. It was as if his soul was being twisted and torn, dragged back from somewhere dark and cold. Now, as he lay there thinking about it, his mind was plagued by the memory.