‘She don’t know where he is,’ wailed Shirl taking a step forward. ‘None of us do.’
Palien didn’t have to say nothing; one of his men just walked forward and kneed Shirl right in his thigh. The fat man went down with a squeal.
‘Friedrik won’t be happy if you gut me, will he?’ said Rag. ‘You’ll be in for it then.’
‘Not if he’s dead and gone,’ Palien snarled. ‘And I think he is. I think you might be the one that made it happen. I’ve been watching you, girl. Slinking around like the fucking tavern cat. You know something.’
‘I don’t, I don’t—’
‘Yes, you do.’ His shake rattled the teeth in her head. ‘And if you don’t tell me, you won’t leave here alive. None of you will.’
‘All right, I’ll tell,’ she said, desperate. As she looked up, Palien seemed to calm, satisfied he’d done his job.
‘I thought you might,’ he replied, with that wolf’s smile.
‘But I’ll only tell Bastian,’ she said.
Palien shook his head. ‘No, girl, you’ll tell me.’
Rag managed to tear her shirt free of Palien’s grip. She stumbled back and steadied herself against a chair.
‘No, I won’t.’ She stared Palien back in his hawk’s eyes, trying to act more the hunter than the prey. She wasn’t too sure it worked. ‘I’ll tell Bastian or I’ll tell no one.’
‘You’ll tell me or—’
‘Or what? What’s Bastian gonna do when he finds out I’ve got news of Friedrik and you wouldn’t let me tell him? What then?’
‘How’s he going to find out?’
Rag glanced around at the gathered crowd of thugs. ‘You trust everyone here to keep their mouths shut, do you?’
Palien glanced around. At first he fixed every man with a determined stare, but it soon withered and died, only to be replaced with an arrogant raised eyebrow.
‘Let’s go see Bastian, then. I’m sure he’ll want to watch while I cut little pieces off you.’
Palien signalled to his men, who bundled Essen and Yarrick towards the door. Shirl limped after. Two of Palien’s thugs looked at Harkas but neither of them dared lay a finger on him. Rag could see them both breathe out a sigh as the big man followed along obediently.
There was nothing else that Rag could do but go along with them. Once again she was stuck in a spot she couldn’t get out of. Out on the street she kept looking for a way out, seeing darkened alleys she could have scuttled into, yet half of her was determined to see this through to the end.
Palien led the way through Northgate, keener than anyone to see this over with. Rag followed, realising she had no idea where Bastian’s hideout was, and the further they went the more uneasy she became. As they got to the middle of the district she saw something up ahead that made her stomach turn.
Brass railings surrounded a wide-open space that rose up to a dark hill. On top of the hill stood a creepy old tomb. Rag knew instantly what it was – everybody in Steelhaven knew about the Chapel of Ghouls. Word of its horrors had been used to frighten little children for years. Rumour had it that recently there’d been stirrings inside. Whether that was true or not it was still a bloody scary place.
They moved to an alley. Two men stood at the end, guarding some steps that descended to what must have been a sewer judging by the stink. With growing dismay, Rag realised that was where they were going.
The passageway descended deep under the street and a couple of Palien’s boys had to lead the way with torches. Rag could tell they were headed right beneath the Chapel of Ghouls. The deeper they went, the worse the smell. How anyone could stay down here, let alone a rich man like Bastian, she had no idea.
Eventually they came to a big round chamber, damp walls, roots growing down through the roof. There was no fire and the air was chill, blowing in cold from somewhere.
Palien stopped in the middle of the room. He didn’t announce himself, just stood there like he’d rung a bell or something, and was waiting for a servant to come scurrying.
It weren’t no servant that turned up, though.
Bastian’s men were all lean, not the big burly types Palien and Friedrik favoured. Their faces were gaunt, hungry, and they all dressed in the same dark gear and carried blades and axes and shivs of all sorts.
They came out of the shadows like they belonged there, the dark clinging to them like it didn’t want to let go. Rag felt her hands start to shake and she clenched her fists in case she made herself look a twat.
When they were completely surrounded, Bastian walked out of the dark. In the scant light he looked more like a corpse than usual, like he’d just clawed his way out of the dirt. Rag was just glad that his eyes were on Palien, as those two dark sunken pools looked like they could kill all on their own.
‘Well?’ he said.
Rag could see all Palien’s confidence was gone now; his eyes more rabbit than hawk. He drew a finger and thumb over his moustache before he spoke.
‘Friedrik’s gone missing. I was supposed to have a meet with him earlier but he never turned up. No one’s seen him, and this little bitch won’t tell me anything.’ He gestured at Rag. ‘She knows something, but she’ll only tell you.’
Bastian glanced down briefly, casting his cold eyes over Rag like she was shit on his shoe.
‘Yes, she will,’ he said.
Silence then. Bastian weren’t looking at her no more, but Rag knew it was her turn to speak. It was now or never. Time to roll those dice. Time to gamble with her life one more time. Maybe one last time.
‘Friedrik’s been caught,’ she said. ‘He’s been taken by the palace guard.’
Palien looked round at her then. ‘What? Where is he?’
Time to turn it on, Rag. Now or fucking never.
She took a step back, putting that face on and squeezing out those tears like her life depended on it. Which it most likely did.
‘Please, Mister Bastian,’ she said, just like she’d heard a dozen blokes say to Friedrik, just before they lost a finger or an eye. She pointed an accusatory finger at Palien. ‘It was him what did it. It was him what betrayed Mister Friedrik to the guard.’
‘You lying little bitch,’ Palien barked. He took a step forward, and Rag stumbled back, squealing like she was a little girl, like she was terrified – it wasn’t too much of a stretch.
Before Palien could reach her, there was a knife at his throat. One of Bastian’s lean bastards was behind him. Palien stopped cold, like he’d been frozen in time.
‘Go on,’ said Bastian, looking on like none of this mattered a shit.
Rag knew it did matter. She knew either her or Palien was going to die down here in this stinky pit.
‘I followed him. I saw him and Friedrik. I saw him lure Friedrik into the trap and I saw him take payment from them.’ She pointed at Palien’s purse, her eyes wide in fear like it was some bloated spider rather than a fat bag of leather clinging to his hip.
Without a word Bastian glanced at one of his other men, who moved forward and unbuckled the coinpurse from Palien’s belt.
‘She’s fucking lying,’ Palien said. ‘Can’t you see? She’s a fucking liar.’
As he spoke, Bastian’s man poured out the contents of the purse into his hand. He let some of the coins fall through his fingers until he finally found what he was looking for.
‘What’s that?’ said Palien, voice rising in panic as the man handed it to Bastian. ‘What is it?’
Bastian held something up. It glinted in the torchlight, shining like a beacon on a cliff.
‘It’s a little medallion,’ said Bastian. ‘Made of steel, crown and crossed swords on it. Only ever given out by the Skyhelm Sentinels. Very rare and worth a pretty penny on the black market. But then you already knew that, didn’t you, Palien.’
‘No,’ Palien said. ‘It’s not mine.’
‘Is this all they paid you to betray the Guild, or did you get gold too?’
‘No, I swear. It’s not mine.’ His vo
ice was rising with fear now.
‘Then what’s it doing in your purse?’
‘It … It …’ Palien stared at Bastian in panic. There was a tear running down his cheek now. Then his eyes turned to Rag. For a moment they had the hawk in them once more.
Just for a moment.
As he opened his mouth to speak again, most likely to put Rag in the frame, Bastian’s man drew his knife across Palien’s throat. Whatever he was about to say was lost as blood gushed from the wound. He fell to his knees, trying to claw his neck back together.
It seemed to take ages for him to die and Bastian didn’t even stay to see the show.
Rag stayed, though. She watched Palien’s every last breath.
FORTY-THREE
There was no way of telling the age of the amphitheatre. Kaira guessed it was older than the Temple of Autumn, perhaps even as old as Skyhelm itself. It sat in the centre of the Crown District, a crumbling stone edifice. The walls that surrounded it would once have risen a hundred feet, its tiered sides seating maybe five thousand souls, all come to watch whatever spectacle was on show. That spectacle no doubt involved blood and death to satisfy the crowd. Much like it would today.
Kaira had walked the amphitheatre from top to bottom. Most of its walls had crumbled. The place was still sealed off from the outside, though the tunnels beneath the floor of its arena were now open and laid bare to the winter sun. There was no sign of a trap. No sign of an assassin – or assassins – lying in wait to ambush the queen on her arrival. The place looked altogether peaceful and quiet. It wouldn’t stay that way for long. Soon, on the scaffold built just for today, the execution would take place.
Kaira had heard about the Zatani, of course, and of their ferocity in battle. She had also been told of the crimes these particular tribesmen had committed. It didn’t make sense to her. From all she’d learned of these men, they were noble warriors. Why would they come to the city under the guise of friendship and sacrifice themselves just to murder a few mercenaries? It was foolish to simply execute them. But it was not Kaira’s place to question the decision. She had one purpose and one alone – to protect the queen.
A last circuit of the amphitheatre, just to ensure the rest of the Sentinels and assembled Greencoats were in place, brought her to the tree that had grown in the centre of the arena. Where once gladiators had fought for their lives, now stood a single leafless ash. Kaira found it symbolic that such a thing should grow where so many had died. She laid a hand on the bark, feeling its weathered surface. Before she turned away, her fingers traced something in the bark. Two nails had been hammered into the trunk and below them someone had carved a symbol. By the looks of it, this had been done quite recently. Kaira could make no sense of the marking. Perhaps it was some foreign language, or perhaps a message from one young lover to another significant only to them.
Well, there were no lovers here today.
Durket hurried into the amphitheatre, breathing heavily, his face red and moist.
‘She’s here,’ he managed to say through his wheezing.
Moving past him, Kaira made her way to the entrance of the amphitheatre. Several dignitaries were already making their way inside: district commissioners, courtiers, stewards. Seneschal Rogan was there, of course, along with the High Constable and Baroness Magrida, though it appeared her son was not. Three mercenary captains were amongst the spectators, their coloured livery stark against the formal attire of the courtiers. Even Lord Marshal Ryder had chosen to attend with a contingent of his Wyvern Guard.
Kaira moved past them as she made her way towards the queen. Janessa stood surrounded by Sentinels, Merrick at her side, waiting for the crowd to enter.
Each one of her subjects who filed past gave a cursory bow or curtsy, but none of them tarried. They all seemed eager to enter the amphitheatre, to watch the coming show.
‘Whose idea was it to hold the executions in this place?’ said Janessa, whilst still acknowledging the fawning sycophancy of her court.
‘Seneschal Rogan,’ Odaka said. He was beside the Sentinels in full armour, his massive curved blade at his side. ‘Had I the chance I would have advised against this whole—’
‘You have already said. I am aware of your feelings on this, Odaka, but the decision has been made.’
‘I must agree with Odaka,’ said Kaira. ‘This execution compromises your security, and I believe it serves little purpose.’
‘Enemies of the Free States must be punished,’ Janessa replied. ‘No matter how distasteful we find the deed.’
‘But here? In this place? And before a mob hungry for blood?’
‘I like it no more than you,’ said Janessa, as Magistra Gelredida and her apprentice followed the last of the spectators in. The boy acknowledged the queen with a nervous bow as they entered. ‘Here is as good a place as any. And we have presented a perfect opportunity for any would-be assassin.’
‘Offering yourself up as a sacrificial lamb is madness,’ said Odaka.
‘I am well protected,’ Janessa replied. ‘Isn’t that right, Kaira?’
No you’re not. You’re baring your neck in the hope of luring out the wolf and I don’t know if I, or anyone else, will be able to stop it before your throat is ripped out.
‘Yes, Majesty,’ Kaira said.
Janessa gestured to the entrance of the amphitheatre. ‘Shall we?’
Kaira led the way to where a special section of the arena had been cordoned off for the queen.
No sooner had they taken up their position than the first of the Zatani was brought in. He did not struggle, but walked proudly. His hands were chained, his mouth covered by some kind of steel mask, his neck manacled to a long pole. Kaira’s heart sank to see the man brought so low. It sank further still at the crowd’s response.
They began to boo and hiss like a bunch of children at a puppet show – this proud warrior reduced to the rank of villain in some mummer’s farce.
Five more of the Zatani were brought out, four of them as tall and proud as the first, facing their fate with honour. The last one, huge and powerful with piercing blue eyes, writhed and bucked against his bonds, snarling behind the metal mask that bound his jaws.
All six were walked to the wooden scaffold at the far end of the amphitheatre and forced to kneel. Kaira could see the axeman standing to one side, checking the keenness of his weapon.
Once the Zatani were in place, Seneschal Rogan climbed up to the scaffold and silenced the onlookers with a gesture.
‘Majesty,’ he said, bowing across the arena to Janessa. ‘Lords and ladies. We have come to observe an ancient rite – the execution of Steelhaven’s enemies. Here are six men of the direst kind. Enemies of the Free States who would see our beloved city brought low. Traitors to the Crown and servants of the dread enemy Amon Tugha—’
‘Gods, but that man makes me sick,’ whispered Odaka, turning to one side rather than watching Rogan’s performance.
‘—the Elharim warlord who even now is only a few days’ ride from the city.’
Some of the crowd had obviously not heard that news and began chattering in panic. Some even made for the exit from the amphitheatre, clearly eager to leave the city before the Khurtas arrived.
‘It is with regret,’ continued the Seneschal, ‘that we have to carry out this necessary duty. Bring the first of the condemned.’
With difficulty, a trio of Greencoats forced one of the Zatani to rise to his feet. The warrior, on seeing the block and the executioner, began to struggle, but with his neck held fast there was little even one so powerful could do.
Before they could bundle him to the block, Kaira’s attention was drawn by something curious – a movement in her peripheral vision. She looked towards the ash tree, its empty branches reaching up towards the pale sky. As she watched they shuddered, even though there was no wind. No one else had seemed to notice, so enrapt were they in the proceedings, but Kaira was unnerved by it. She took a step forward – the tree seemed to be swaying, al
though its trunk looked sturdy. As she came closer she saw the sigil cut into the bark beneath two hammered nails, that she had thought was some lover’s carving, was now alive with writhing maggots.
Kaira stepped back. A wave of nausea hit her as she witnessed the corruption.
Again the tree shook.
She could hear Rogan in the background ordering the first execution.
The trunk of the tree creaked and groaned as it moved, bark snapped, branches shuddered into life.
With an ear-splitting crack, the ash tree broke in two along its trunk.
The amphitheatre fell silent.
As though rearing its head, half the tree rose up. The branches, which before had reached up towards the sky, were now draped down its back like some ghastly mane.
‘To arms,’ Kaira cried. She recoiled, dragging her sword from its scabbard as screams rose up from the crowd.
With a violent wrench, the tree pulled itself from the ground. Loose soil and stone were dragged up as its roots formed a dozen rudimentary limbs, hauling it from the earth. Its branches writhed – like the tentacles of some colossal squid – and it raised its eyeless head, opening a toothless maw in a silent newborn wail.
The arena broke into uproar as the sight of the creature struck terror in the spectators.
Someone rushed past Kaira, a Sentinel knight, his spear held out to attack. With a growl of fury he pierced what seemed to be a leg of the monster, and Kaira stared in horror as white cruor spewed from the wound. The hellish monster spun round, its mouth wide in a silent cry of pain. With a swipe of one thick branch it smashed the knight across the arena and into the fleeing mass of spectators where he landed with a sickening thud.
Kaira saw the ash tree turn ominously to face the queen. It seemed to lock her in an eyeless stare until, with the grinding of massive limbs, it moved towards her, dragging itself across the arena as those thick roots dug into the earth.
She could hear Lord Marshal Ryder screaming at his Wyvern Guard, who duly rushed in disciplined ranks to stand in the creature’s path. Sentinels ran to join them, raising shield and spear as the crowd fled.