‘The men of the Clawless Tribes are in need of warriors and their king most of all,’ Regulus continued. ‘A man does not sit on a throne for so long and not gather enemies. If we can prove to him our loyalty, then he will accept us.’
‘You are so sure?’
Regulus shook his head. ‘No. But what alternative do we have?’
Janto’s blue eyes suddenly lit up. ‘We make a stand here. We fight. We die with honour.’
‘And who will tell of it, Janto? Who will sing of our glorious defeat? Might we not just be forgotten? That is not the legacy I would leave.’
Regulus found himself fiercely gripping the sword that lay across his knees. Though he disagreed with Janto, a part of him that was eager to take his advice – to stand and fight. Yet it would only end with his passage to the stars and another life, whilst there was so much he had still to achieve in this one.
He had to exact vengeance before he stood before Ancient Gorm.
Their scout, Akkula, came running from his post up at the valley mouth and the two warriors rose as he approached.
‘They’re coming,’ said Akkula breathlessly. ‘The Kel’tana hunters are closing in on us. No more than two leagues across the valley.’
Regulus turned to his men who had already stopped making camp. He saw their exhaustion and felt their pain, their yearning for this constant flight to end. Yes, they could make a stand here, could even wait in ambush, but more than likely they would be defeated. It would not be a heroic end. If they continued to flee, eventually there might just be some opportunity for glory, a chance to salvage a spark of honour and pride.
‘We travel through the night,’ Regulus said.
Some of his men showed their displeasure, but they all gathered their weapons obediently. Leandran led them off once more – the oldest amongst them seeming to hold the most vigour.
‘We can’t keep running forever,’ said Janto, before Regulus started after his warriors. ‘They’ll catch us eventually.’
Regulus looked to him with steel in his green eyes. ‘Then you will get your wish, Janto Sho. And we will all receive the deaths we deserve.’
Janto held his stare for some moments before lowering his eyes and running after the rest. After a last glance back to the mountains, towards his relentless pursuers, Regulus followed.
THREE
They had told Janessa that no seat of power was built for comfort. After so many days on Skyhelm’s stone throne she could well believe it. She was Queen Janessa now, Sovereign of Steelhaven and the Free States, Protector of Teutonia and Keeper of the Faith of Arlor. But she didn’t feel much different. How could she suddenly be more regal? Prouder of bearing? As wise as her father? People now expected so much of her. Janessa only hoped that she would find in herself some of her father’s wisdom.
For weeks now she had struggled with the responsibilities of statehood and monarchy, and demands from men of importance who seemed reluctant to make their own decisions. Janessa found it ironic that such men, who had spent their lives striving to attain power, had seemingly buckled under the demands of that power, needing to defer tough decisions to a higher authority. She guessed most of them desired less the responsibilities of office and more its inevitable rewards.
Janessa herself had hardly wished for this great responsibility, but for her there had been no choice.
There had been entreaties from all across the Free States: from Lord Governor Argus of Coppergate and from the High Abbot in Ironhold, both terrified the Khurtas would besiege their cities; from Lord Cadran of Braega, or more likely his aunts who held the power there, for more troops to defend their lands as the Khurtas rampaged through. But no troops could be spared – the bannermen of Steelhaven had been forced into a rearguard action, only partially hampering the tide of savages as they laid waste to the land. Even Ankavern and Silverwall, places far from the onslaught, had badgered her for more men and supplies. Why could these places not organise their own defences? Had they not recognised that this massive wave of death and devastation had little interest in their cities? Its goal was to stab at the heart of the Free States – to destroy Steelhaven itself.
The weight of all this had almost crushed her, but Janessa had been determined to suffer it. She was lucky enough to be safe, for now, here in Skyhelm, while the people of the Free States, beyond the walls of the nation’s capital, were being butchered by a merciless enemy. Her brave troops were laying down their lives to buy time for the city’s defences to be bolstered before the inevitable attack.
And everything she did was subjected to the scrutiny of her court. For three hundred years the business of the Crown had been conducted in public – or at least as public as the great throne room got. It was always thronging with courtiers, nobles minor and major, an endless line of chancellors and chamberlains and stewards, most of whom Janessa did not recognise.
There was one face she did know, however. That of a woman who always seemed to be lurking, assessing her every decision, judging her and finding her wanting at every turn. Baroness Isabelle Magrida.
Oh, for the days of the Sword Kings, when they could execute their enemies, and sometimes their friends, with impunity.
Janessa sat patiently, trying to appear regal. She was relatively confident she looked the part, and did not expect to be told otherwise. Her short time as queen had shown her the sycophantic depths to which any man could sink and she had observed changes in the attitude of many who surrounded her. Only Odaka Du’ur remained the same; stern and stalwart, her constant rock. Without him she wasn’t sure how she would have coped. But at this moment, in Odaka’s absence, her only advisor was Rogan, the Seneschal of the Inquisition, who stood at her side, presiding over the throne room like a vulture over a rotting carcass.
Rogan usually kept himself to himself. His was a grim business, gathering information on the enemies of the Free States and acting upon it accordingly. Janessa was under no illusions how he gathered his information, and there were rumoured to be hidden chambers around the city, and elsewhere in the Free States, dedicated to the art of interrogation. Seneschal Rogan himself was said to have forgotten more about the history and techniques of torture than most men could ever learn in a lifetime. Janessa could barely stomach the man, but her father had felt the need to keep him and his Inquisition around for reasons that were increasingly obvious.
A grey-haired figure came striding through the archway to the throne room. His jacket was green, emblazoned with the crown and swords of Steelhaven, and under the crook of one arm he carried a battered helm. Despite his advanced years his back was straight and his chin raised proudly.
Seneschal Rogan leaned in as the man approached and whispered, ‘High Constable of the Greencoats, Majesty.’
Janessa made no acknowledgment. Though she found it annoying she had to rely on the inquisitor for such information, she was grateful for it. No sooner had the High Constable knelt before the throne than she beckoned him to stand.
‘Majesty,’ the High Constable began, his voice gruff from decades of barking orders, ‘this is the third day we have had serious unrest in the Warehouse District. Our grain stores are still intact, but the rabble seems intent on smashing them open and helping themselves. Add to that the recent influx of Free Company mercenaries, and it’s all we can do to stop the chaos consuming the city. Twelve of my men have been wounded stopping brawls in the street and damage to property is in the thousands of crowns. We need more men, Majesty.’
We need more men. Always the same words. We need more men. We need more supplies. We are starving. We are dying.
‘As you know, High Constable, no men can be spared,’ she replied. Words she had grown used to saying in recent days and weeks. ‘I cannot request troops be brought back from the front.’
‘Then we must establish martial law, Majesty. You must give my men the power to punish these rioters and quell the Free Companies with all Arlor’s fury. If not, the grain stores will be overrun within the tenday and
there may well not be an alehouse in the city safe to go in.’
Janessa had expected this – Odaka had warned her as much. To decree martial law, to allow the Greencoats the iron grip on her city that they wanted, was something she had hoped to avoid. There had been martial law in the city before, during the reign of Carcan the Usurper and, more recently, during the Long Drought. Neither time had it ended well for the kings involved, their heads having ended up on spikes above the city walls. But it was not her own head for which Janessa feared. Allowing the Greencoats to exact any means necessary might cost as many lives as it saved. If the grain silos were smashed open and the stores lost there might well be starving in the street, but would there be as many dead if the Greencoats were permitted to kill large numbers of rioters? What kind of ruler would she be if she presided over this? Would they call her Queen Janessa the Tyrant? Speak of her as the Crimson Queen who bathed in the blood of her own people. She had known wearing the Steel Crown would not be easy, that her first task was to fight back against a ruthless invader, but she had never imagined quelling the very people she hoped to protect.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘You will have to find another way, High Constable.’
The man’s grey brow creased into a frown as though he might have wanted to argue with his queen’s decision, but his devotion to the Crown held him in check. She admired his loyalty, even had some sympathy for his position, but she would not be swayed in her decision.
‘If I may, Majesty.’ Seneschal Rogan leaned over her ominously. Janessa was aware how much she missed the imposing form of Odaka Du’ur, her one-time regent and her preferred advisor. ‘There may be a way to allow the High Constable the men he needs. Were we to open the district gaols and house the mercenary companies within them, we could contain the violence, allowing the Greencoats to concentrate on guarding the Warehouse District silos.’
‘You are suggesting we imprison the very men who have come to defend this city, Seneschal?’
Rogan flashed her a rare smile. It bore all the warmth of a snake about to consume a rat. ‘Not imprison them, Majesty. Merely house them. They can be as raucous as they please within the confines of the gaol. A danger only to themselves, rather than the wider populace. And it frees up the High Constable’s Greencoats, so they may carry out their allotted role within the city.’
Janessa regarded the inquisitor, trying her best to see a downside to Rogan’s plan. She didn’t trust the man at all, and felt he must have some ulterior motive for offering the gaols, which for the most part the Inquisition controlled. In the end though, she could think of no alternative.
‘Very well,’ said Janessa. ‘Would such an arrangement satisfy your needs, High Constable?’
The grey-haired man looked at her open-mouthed – it was an expression Janessa had seen many times – but he knew this was as good a deal as he was going to get. Janessa had been in this position a score of times since taking the throne, and if she had gained a reputation for anything it was that once her mind was made it would not be swayed.
‘It will have to, Majesty,’ he said, quickly following his clear disappointment with a gracious bow. Then, without waiting to be dismissed, he turned on his heel and marched from the throne room.
‘Most diplomatic, Majesty,’ Rogan whispered. ‘Your skills in statecraft blossom by the day.’
Janessa nodded, but somehow felt she had been manipulated. Rogan had a canny way of advising her, then making her think it was she alone who had made the right choice. It was obvious he was exerting his influence on her, but she couldn’t yet see how he had steered her wrong. Perhaps that was part of his cunning. She knew she would have to keep a close eye on the Seneschal from now on, perhaps even have him followed, although whom she would choose to watch her watchman she had no idea.
No sooner had the High Constable left the throne room, than Janessa could hear marching feet approaching. It was with relief that she saw Odaka Du’ur entering at the head of an honour guard – four Knights of the Blood, bedecked in their crimson armour, each plate gilt-etched as though they were entwined within the branches of a brass thornbush. Since her coronation she had not seen Odaka out of his slate grey armour. His face had become more careworn with each passing day, and now more than ever he looked like a man weighed down by his responsibilities.
‘Majesty,’ he said, kneeling with bowed head, ‘I would speak to you … in private.’
Janessa gestured for Odaka to rise and was about to dismiss those courtiers that still milled about the throne room when Rogan placed a claw-like hand on her arm. He quickly removed it when she glanced at where he had dared to touch her.
‘Majesty, there is a protocol to observe. For matters of state the throne room cannot be—’
‘Out!’ barked Odaka, before the Seneschal could finish.
Every courtier immediately responded to Odaka’s bellowed command, moving through the arch as quick as they could manage. Not one wished to provoke the towering figure.
Rogan raised an eyebrow in disapproval.
‘You as well, Seneschal,’ said Odaka, not bothering to hide his contempt for the man. ‘Your presence is no longer required.’
If Rogan was offended, or indeed thought to argue, he covered it with a mask of apathy. After tipping his head to Janessa in a cursory bow he walked steadily across the chamber, seemingly in no hurry. For his part, Odaka stood waiting, not deigning even to glance in the Seneschal’s direction. When Rogan was gone, Odaka moved closer, lowering his voice and sounding much like the Odaka of old.
‘My apologies that you had to suffer the Seneschal while I was away, Majesty.’
‘It was nothing. I am more than capable of handling Rogan.’ Janessa hoped she sounded more confident about that than she felt. ‘What is the news from the north?’
Odaka looked even more grave than usual. ‘The armies of the Free States are sorely pressed. General Hawke leads what remains of the Steelhaven levies. Only Duke Logar has brought his bannermen from Valdor, the rest of the nobles have not joined the fight, choosing to bolster their own defences rather than come to the aid of the capital. We fight a brave rearguard action, but ultimately it will fail.’
‘How long do we have?’
Odaka’s expression grew even darker. ‘Ten days. Perhaps less, depending on how valiantly our warriors fight. There is no doubt as to Amon Tugha’s goal – he means to besiege the capital and take it for his own.’
Janessa had always known what the Elharim warlord wanted; after all he had tried to have her killed, though only succeeded in murdering her handmaid and Lord Raelan Logar. Though Janessa knew he would eventually fall upon her city, she hadn’t wanted to believe it. Now Odaka forced her to confront the truth.
‘We must make plans for the city’s defence then,’ she said, trying to instil some fire in her words.
‘We will, Majesty. I will convene an emergency council meeting to discuss the matter. In the meantime, Marshal Farren has sent these men to ensure your safety.’
Janessa looked across at the four knights. They had been among her father’s elite, warriors who would have gladly laid down their lives to save their king. She wondered if she too could inspire such loyalty, if they would do the same for her if called upon.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘I have the Sentinels. These men should be north with their brothers, fighting the enemy at every step.’
‘But Majesty, you need a personal lifeguard. And these men are the best we have.’
‘I do not doubt it, Odaka. The more reason they should be north fighting our enemies, not here guarding me. Skyhelm is quite safe.’
Odaka shook his head. ‘I think we both know it is not.’ He looked at her, as though he might press his point, but then thought better of it. ‘Very well. I will send these men back north.’ Janessa was sure she could see relief in the faces of the knights. They wanted to be back in the thick of the fighting. ‘However, I will have Garret select his best men to stay by your side at all times.’ She open
ed her mouth to protest but Odaka leaned in, his eyes steely with determination. ‘His best, Majesty. At all times.’
She knew this was one battle she could not win.
‘Very well. Thank you, Odaka.’
‘There is no need for thanks, Majesty. I only serve you as I served your father.’
Janessa rose. For the most fleeting of moments she wanted to reach out and embrace Odaka – to feel safe for just a short while. She was almost certain he would have placed his arms around her and returned the embrace. Instead she walked past him, down the stone stairs from the throne and across the chamber.
As she walked Skyhelm’s torchlit corridors an ominous feeling began to rise in the pit of her stomach and not for the first time had she felt such a malady. Recently she had awoken with such a sickness she had retched into her chamber pot.
It must have been the pressure of her office, the strain of so much responsibility that was causing this sickness, but she had managed to keep it to herself. She had to stay strong, try to rule as her father had done and endure her burden in silence.
The palace seemed to be pressing in on her, and a sweat broke out on her forehead, her gown suddenly feeling as though it were constricting her. She just managed to reach her chamber without collapsing. Relief washed over her when she saw Governess Nordaine waiting patiently. Before Janessa could reach her bed, her knees gave way and she heaved once, twice, a thin line of vomit dribbling from her mouth. Nordaine was there in an instant, taking the heavy steel crown from her head and running a gentle hand through her hair.
Several weeks before, Janessa and Graye had been telling their cruel tales of Nordaine, but now she was the closest thing the young queen had to a confidante. Janessa still missed Graye, suddenly picturing her face, then her final scream as the giant Mountain closed his hands about her … Janessa retched again, ending it with a violent sob.