by Richard Ford
Regulus turned to face the man. He recognised him – ‘Sargent’, they called him – an honorary term, though what he had done to deserve it Regulus had no idea. The man was fat around the middle, his hair grey with age. Such a man would not have lasted long as a chieftain on the plains. His smell was rank, even from a distance, but Regulus had learned in the past days that the stench was nowhere near as offensive as the man’s manners.
‘Are you ready?’ he said, keeping his distance. His voice was filled with disdain, but it was easy to read the fear behind it.
‘We are of the Gor’tana,’ Regulus replied. ‘The most feared tribe among the Zatani people. We are always ready.’
The man frowned, but nodded with it, satisfied enough with the answer. ‘Good. And remember who’s in charge here. You may have been pardoned by the Crown but it gives you no special privilege. You’re under my command, and so are your men.’
That almost made Regulus smile. He would have sorely liked to see this man try to command his warriors, especially Janto. That would have been a sight to see as the Sho’tana tore the man’s head off with a gleeful roar.
‘We are here to fight for your city,’ Regulus replied. ‘What other command could you have of us than to kill the enemy?’
The sargent looked thoughtful for a moment. Then, unable to think of any argument, simply nodded.
‘Aye, well. Just make sure you and the rest of your kind are—’
Regulus caught something in the corner of his eye. He turned to the south, in time to see the sky turn bright. It was as though the horizon had caught fire, shooting a line of burning debris towards the heavens. Half a dozen burning spheres rose up, contrails of black smoke in their wake. At first there was no sound, but as the fireballs hit their zenith and began to hurtle back to the earth, a wave of noise engulfed the city. It was a roar, an unnatural scream that came from the sea. Regulus had never heard anything like it and it took all his will not to raise his hands and block his ears as they were assaulted by the cacophony.
Smoke, flames and debris were thrown into the air as the fireballs rained. The sound of it hit him a moment later, the roaring reaching a crescendo as though all the tribes of Equ’un had suddenly raised their voices in a furious howl.
The Coldlander sargent ran back towards his men in panic, shouting orders, though what they could do about the sudden conflagration was beyond Regulus. He could only watch in awe as the sound of screams began to peal from the south of the city. The carnage must have been devastating, the victims of the fire standing little chance, but Regulus could not bring himself to feel pity. There was little room in his heart for it.
No sooner had one row of flames rained down on the city than another was sent hurtling into the air. It was clear the gods would have no mercy for the city this day, or for the days to come.
‘At least now we know what that blockade of ships was waiting for.’
Regulus turned to see Janto standing beside him, staring towards the south. He grinned as he watched, hands resting on the twin axes at his waist. In the armour Nobul Jacks had crafted for him Janto looked a formidable sight, easily the most impressive of the warriors that stood at Regulus’ command.
‘And we know it won’t be long before the army to the north comes for what remains,’ Regulus replied. ‘Amon Tugha has made his first move. Soon he will attack.’
‘About time,’ said Janto, and the relish in his voice was palpable. Regulus knew he, more than any of them, savoured the thought of battle. He yearned for the butchery, and he too had a life debt to repay. Whether he would stay loyal to Regulus after that remained to be seen.
They stood and watched the sky rain fire for some time. The sounds of panic from the south rising as Coldlanders ran in all directions, some to escape the flames, some to help quell them. All the while doom poured down on the south of the city.
Glancing down at the bridge, Regulus could see the sudden fiery assault had hurried the exodus from the derelict city over the river, and the last of its inhabitants were making their way inside.
He and Janto watched in silence. Regulus could sense the warrior’s loathing of their cowardice, but was their flight not just the same as his had been so many days before? When he had fled the hunters of the Kel’tana and come north, almost leading them all to their deaths? At least this way they would live to fight another day rather than be needlessly slaughtered by the horde that at any minute might descend on the city.
Once the last of the crowd had milled its way over the bridge they could hear the turning of a gear and the clacking of chains as the great portcullis was lowered. The tower they stood upon rumbled as the gate was shut but Regulus couldn’t bring himself to feel secure. He knew they were not safe in here, and part of him felt satisfied at that. For Regulus Gor this was the beginning of his ascension. Or at least it would be so long as their enemy chose to attack the bridge.
Regulus could only live in hope.
FIVE
Janessa’s city burned and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She had vowed to be strong, to lead her people against the scourge descending upon it, but as she watched the fire rain down from the Midral Sea all she felt was powerless. But then even a queen could do nothing against this. She was no god – just a girl thrust onto the throne and made to bear all the responsibility that came with it.
Amon Tugha had not yet begun his attack and already her people were dying. She took little solace in the fact the bombardment from the sea had abated somewhat since noon. Now, as the sun began to go down, the deluge from the fire ships was only intermittent, but the damage had already been done.
She watched from the palace as a ball of flame lit up the evening sky, soaring high over the burning city to land amongst the blackened ruins to the south, the sound of it echoing through the dead streets. The only solace Janessa could take was that she did not have to witness it alone. They were all there with her; her war council, watching and waiting in dumb silence as Chancellor Durket relayed the cost of the damage, the estimate of casualty numbers, the buildings destroyed despite monumental efforts to fight the flames. Janessa could only listen, her heart sinking yet further with every grim account of the destruction.
When Durket had finished, Seneschal Rogan stepped forward. His face was suddenly lit from the south by another burning missile and Janessa thought he resembled a snake now more than ever. He had done nothing she could condemn him for, though, and if she had learned anything it was that a man should only be censured for his actions, not his appearance.
‘Majesty, we are so far at a loss as to what can be done about the fire ships. Dockside has all but been destroyed as has the Warehouse District. The Temple of Autumn still stands by some miracle. I can only assume the Daughters of Arlor have been hard at prayer.’
Janessa glanced towards the south-east at the two great statues of Arlor and Vorena, she looking out to sea and he towards the open fields in the north. Steelhaven needed them both more than ever, but they had been dead for centuries. No venerated heroes were going to come to Janessa’s aid now. She had to save the city herself.
‘My lords, suggestions?’ Janessa said, turning to her assembled council.
General Hawke stared down at his feet. Marshal Farren likewise glanced off as though he hadn’t heard the question, his ruined left eye twitching all the while. That was fine, she had expected little from them, but when Lord Marshal Tannick and Duke Bannon glanced at one another uncertainly she knew there was little hope.
‘Every ship that remained in port has been destroyed, Majesty,’ said Bannon. ‘The fire ships are anchored too far from the dock, beyond reach unless someone swims out there. I have my doubts about how effective that would be.’
‘Not at all, I would guess,’ Janessa replied. ‘We will need to find another way. Seneschal, you will speak to the Crucible of Magisters. See who they can spare and what can be done to destroy those ships.’
Rogan bowed, obediently.
‘There
is one other point of business, Majesty,’ said Durket. His voice quavered as though he feared to speak. Janessa found it strange, the man had never been shy about voicing his opinions for as long as she’d known him, but after the day Azai Dravos had tried to control her mind and murder her bodyguard, the Chancellor had been far from himself.
‘And?’ she said when he did not continue.
‘The Rafts, Majesty. They will be a problem.’ He paused again, cringing as the sound of an explosion echoed from the south.
‘Do I need to guess its nature, Chancellor?’ Janessa asked, fast losing patience.
‘Er … no, Majesty. The Rafts was constructed years ago, a slum we have unfortunately allowed to grow across the mouth of the River Storway. Essentially it’s a bridge across the river into the city. If the Khurtas decide to attack there they could charge right across and into the Warehouse District … or at least what’s left of it.’
‘Very well,’ Janessa replied, glancing at the faces of her war council, assessing who might be best placed to deal with the problem. ‘Chancellor, you will see that the slums are evacuated as best as possible. Marshal Farren, you will position trebuchets on the battlements and at the edge of the river and see to it the Rafts is destroyed by nightfall.’
‘Majesty, what if we can’t evacuate in time?’ asked Durket. ‘And many might refuse to leave their homes. Nightfall might not be—’
‘The Rafts will be destroyed by nightfall,’ Janessa said, feeling her anger rising. ‘Make it clear that anyone remaining in their homes will die.’
Durket bowed low. ‘Yes, Majesty,’ he replied before making himself scarce.
‘The rest of the city’s defences are as strong as ever, Majesty,’ said Rogan. ‘Only there is one thing that has been planned in the city’s defence that we are not all in agreement over.’ He glanced at Lord Marshal Tannick, who for his part didn’t even bother to acknowledge the head of the Inquisition.
‘And what is the nature of this disagreement?’ Janessa said, aiming her question at the Lord Marshal.
‘I intend to make a gesture,’ replied Tannick. ‘I don’t mean to sit behind our walls and wait for the Khurtas to come screaming at us from the north without bloodying their noses first.’
‘You intend to take the fight to them?’ From what little Janessa knew of warfare, this sounded like suicide, even to her.
‘I do. My cavalry will charge them on the field, cut them down where they stand. The armies of the Free States have not scored one victory over this horde yet. Showing the defenders on the walls that these bastards bleed and die like any other man will only serve us well.’
‘It’s bloody madness,’ said Marshal Farren. General Hawke nodded his agreement. ‘And a waste of men, if you ask me. If you want to commit suicide, Ryder, feel free, but the men of the Wyvern Guard would be better placed on the wall.’
‘It’s fortunate no one’s asking you then, isn’t it?’ Tannick replied.
Farren rounded on him. ‘It’s not just me, you mad bastard.’ He pointed at Duke Bannon, and Janessa saw the doubt in the old man’s eyes. ‘Ask him. Go on, see if he thinks it’s a good idea.’
‘Enough,’ Janessa demanded, feeling some sense of pleasure when her generals stopped their squabbling and turned to her expectantly.
She looked at them, standing there ready to obey her every word. When first she had met them Janessa had been fearful, unsure of what to do or say. Now there was no doubt in her mind these men were hers to command.
And it was clear she had a decision to make. A choice that would result in one of her generals losing face. Then again, it was clear the time for tact was well and truly over.
‘I agree with Lord Marshal Tannick,’ she continued. ‘A gesture is indeed what’s needed. The Khurtas need to know what they are up against. That we have teeth, and will not merely cower behind our walls and wait for the end. I can think of none but the Wyvern Guard better suited to relay that message.’ She paused. No one argued. ‘Very well. I’m sure the rest of you have much to attend to. Set to it.’
Her war council bowed their assent, moving off as another fiery explosion cut the darkening sky.
Janessa turned to take it in, hearing a scream rise up from somewhere in the devastated streets, but she could not allow herself to be broken by it. Neither could she bring herself to feel sorrow for the Rafts and the people in it who would soon be made homeless or worse.
She had a city to save, and she could not allow herself to be distracted by compassion if she was to succeed. Janessa had allowed herself to be weak, had allowed her heart to rule her head and she had suffered for it. Now, all that remained deep inside her belly was a pit of dark where there should have been …
A child. There should be a child growing strong.
Janessa gripped the edge of the balustrade until her knuckles whitened, thinking of what she had lost and what would never be. Her child, River’s child, had been stillborn. Now she was empty, barren, and all she could think that might fill the space inside her would be the defeat of Amon Tugha. She thought of it, yearned for it, to the detriment of all else. It was the only thing that occupied her waking mind.
At first she had thought to save her city, her people, but now it was more than that. She wanted to defeat her enemy utterly. To stand against him and taste victory, even if it cost the lives of every soldier under her command. The thought was bitter to the taste, but no matter how she tried to persuade herself she was doing this for her people, she knew it was vengeance she really wanted.
A firm hand came to rest on top of hers as she gripped the parapet. Kaira stood by her, gazing at her, eyes calm, controlled, and Janessa felt the weight of her anger suddenly lift. The woman was Janessa’s sworn protector, but in recent days she had become so much more than that. A rock to which she clung in the storm that raged all around her.
‘Majesty, shall we?’ said Kaira, gesturing towards the stairwell.
Janessa nodded and they both made their way back inside. Without Kaira, Janessa had no idea how she would have coped. Her bodyguard had been a constant presence since the night Janessa had lost her child. Always by her side, day and night. Always strong, always steadfast. Janessa knew in the days to come she would need Kaira more than ever.
When she eventually entered her chamber, what awaited brought a rare smile to her lips.
‘The royal armourer has done well, Majesty,’ said Kaira, as Janessa stood and stared.
The armour she had commissioned days before had been left in her room atop a wooden stand. Even in the wan candlelight it glimmered, each plate seeming to melt into the next, the crown and crossed swords of Steelhaven emblazoned on the breastplate. There was no helm – Janessa had told the armoursmith she would have no need of one. She would wear her armour with her head high, her hair about her shoulders, her face visible to all. Janessa was to be a symbol, an icon, and the defenders of her city would see her, rally to her as she helped them defend the walls.
Absently she traced her finger across the emblem on the chest plate; her father’s seal. Thoughts of his past victories came to her, victories that ended when he rode off to face Amon Tugha. Somehow the immortal Elharim had managed to murder her father off the field of battle. That would not happen to his daughter. Janessa was determined the victory would be hers this time.
Beside the armour stand stood the Helsbayn. Janessa found her hand straying towards it. When her finger touched the cold steel of the pommel it tingled to the touch, as though the sword itself contained a daemon that only she could unleash. Ever since she had slain the sorcerer Azai Dravos with the blade it seemed to instil a vigour inside her. When she touched it for the briefest of moments the feelings of loss deep within her soul abated. She almost yearned to draw it from its scabbard, to march out alone and take the fight to Amon Tugha and all his minions.
‘You should rest, Majesty,’ Kaira said from behind her. ‘There will be little time for it in the coming days.’
Janessa did n
ot turn around, but gripped the hilt of the Helsbayn, drawing strength from it.
‘The time for resting is over, Kaira,’ she replied, feeling a strange smile creep across her lips. ‘I think now it’s time for me to don my armour.’
SIX
Weeks ago, when Janessa had suggested it, Kaira thought bedecking her in armour was a foolish idea. Now as she looked at her ward, at the Queen of the Free States, she realised her mistake. Despite her stature Queen Janessa still cut an impressive figure. It did nothing to put Kaira’s mind at ease, though. The enemy was at the gates. There were undoubtedly some within the city who were still plotting to kill her. No mere suit of armour, no matter how finely crafted, could keep her safe from every knife in the dark that threatened.
‘How do I look?’ asked Janessa, glancing at herself in the mirror as though she stared at a different person.
You look like a fish out of water. You look scared half to death and I will have to watch over you like a hawk.
‘You look ready to lead your armies and defend your city, Majesty,’ Kaira replied. There was no need to speak her mind on this. The queen needed confidence, not the truth.
Janessa rested her hand on the pommel of the Helsbayn, that sword she now wielded with such assurance. But it was more than that. The blade seemed to instil a power in the girl, seemed to make her that much stronger, that much more capable. When Kaira had tried to lift the blade it had felt little more than a hunk of poorly fashioned metal. In the hands of the queen it sang.