It wasn’t the need for vengeance that moved Regulus so; there would be time aplenty for retribution. It was the fact they had lost his body. The fact the Khurtas had dragged him off back to their camp to do Gorm knew what to his corpse. They would never be able to convey his soul to the stars. Never be able to ensure the Dark Walker couldn’t catch the brave warrior before he took his place with the other fallen heroes of Equ’un. It was not a fitting end.
Sacrifice, though – Hagama would have the honour of a sacrifice no Zatani had ever been bestowed. Regulus made a silent vow that Khurtic blood would flow, and he would taste every drop in honour of his fallen brother.
‘You should eat.’
Regulus turned to see young Akkula standing beside him. The youth looked sullen and it was obvious he too felt the loss of Hagama, even though the older warrior had castigated his young counterpart many times. They had never been friends, but Akkula was a man now – a warrior grown – and he would fight for his brothers and mourn their loss as any Gor’tana should.
‘I am not hungry,’ said Regulus, though he knew he should have been. The night’s killing should have made him ravenous but his stomach was filled with a lust for Khurtic flesh that no amount of horsemeat would sate.
‘You will need your strength for the next attack. We all will.’
Akkula was trying his best to help, but Regulus was in no mood to be lectured. He shook his head, and Akkula understood immediately, leaving Regulus in his dark mood.
No sooner had he gone than another figure approached over the battlements. Regulus recognised the sargent, feeling his heart slump further at the prospect of talking to the man. He looked furious and Regulus almost broke a smile at the man’s barely suppressed rage.
‘You fled your post,’ said the sargent. Regulus noted he kept a safe distance. ‘You’ll obey your orders tonight or you’ll—’
‘I’ll what?’ Regulus replied, not even bothering to look at him.
There was a moment’s silence as the sargent pondered his next move.
‘We barely have enough men for the wall as it is. You can’t just go running off wherever you please.’
Regulus nodded. ‘Yes, I can. Your gate was not attacked, was it? My warriors and I would have been of no use had we stayed. From now you will find us where the fighting is hardest. Where the killing is bloodiest.’
The man made to speak but thought better of it. What would he do? Seek to punish the Zatani for repelling the Khurtas? For killing their shaman and sacrificing one of their own in the act?
The Coldlander slunk off, rather than speak again.
Regulus turned from the north, tired of his vigil now. He had mourned enough for Hagama, and besides, there was something he had to do before night fell and the fighting started again.
As he walked the wall many of the Coldlanders who had seen hard fighting during the night gave him a nod of acknowledgement, some even words of praise. How different from days ago when they had been baying for his blood and that of his warriors. He was one of them now, had shed blood and sacrificed a brother, just as they had. War was always the best way to unite men – bringing them together in their grief and hate.
Up ahead Regulus saw the man he was looking for. Nobul Jacks – the Black Helm as he had become known – was sitting with his back to the wall, hammer gripped in one hand, helm in the other. Whatever legend he had built for himself seemed to matter little now. The warrior looked weary after the night’s combat. He was a legend no more. Just a man in need of rest. Not that the other Coldlanders seemed to regard him as an ordinary man. Regulus had heard their tales of him – that he could not die, that he was one of their ancient heroes reborn. That was perhaps why they gave him such a wide berth, their awe of him striking fear into their hearts. Regulus Gor did not share such awe, though. He knew Nobul Jacks was simply a man and could be killed like any other. He was just more difficult to kill than most.
‘You have my gratitude again, Nobul Jacks,’ Regulus said as he came to stand before the Coldlander.
Nobul inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘And you’re welcome. Again.’
Regulus could see the fatigue in the man’s eyes, his shoulders slumped. There would be much more fighting before the end, and for a moment he wondered if Nobul would last even one more night.
‘More than that,’ Regulus said, ‘I owe you my life. I am yours until that debt is paid. You have refused once, Nobul Jacks. You cannot refuse again.’
Nobul looked up. At first there was defiance in his expression, and from what Regulus could read, a note of annoyance. Then the man smiled.
‘You’re mine?’ Nobul said. ‘And what the fuck am I supposed to do with you? We could both die tonight and what would the point be in you owing me a debt? Best look to yourself and your men, Regulus. I can take care of myself.’
From what Regulus could see, he very much doubted Nobul’s words. He looked fit to drop, his face showing its age now more than it ever had.
‘You speak truth. We may well perish tonight. But until the debt is paid, my life is yours.’
‘I get it,’ Nobul replied. ‘And if I need someone to die for me any time soon, you’ll be the first to know.’
‘Don’t jest, Nobul Jacks. You may find you need me sooner than you think.’
Nobul nodded. ‘I have no doubt. But for now all I need is a bit of quiet. If you think you can manage it.’
Regulus nodded his assent. ‘If that is what you wish.’
He left the Coldlander at the wall. There was nothing else to say. It was clear the old warrior was a stubborn one. Only time would tell if Regulus would ever be allowed to repay his debt. He only hoped he had the chance before Nobul managed to get himself killed.
But then perhaps it didn’t matter that much anyway. They might all be dead before long.
Janto, Akkula and Kazul were waiting for him when he returned. Akkula and Kazul looked eager for the fight to come. Janto reclined against the wall, hands resting on his axes, but Regulus knew when the fighting started he would be as ferocious as any of them.
‘Are you all ready for the night ahead?’ he asked.
Akkula and Kazul nodded. If they were apprehensive about the fighting to come they did not show it.
Janto presented his usual lack of feeling, but Regulus knew he would get nothing from him. The only time the Sho’tana displayed any emotion was when he was in a killing rage.
‘Good,’ said Regulus. ‘For we have lost a brother. He is to be avenged. Last night was but a taste of Zatani fury. Tonight we will teach these Khurtas the price for killing a Gor’tana.’
Akkula and Kazul growled their assent. Janto remained silent, staring at Regulus with those blue eyes.
Regulus merely stared back. He knew deep down how much Janto hated him, how much he would have wanted to kill him had he not been bound by his own debt. They were of rival tribes, after all – Regulus of the Gor’tana and Janto of the Sho’tana – the dishonour of it must have cut Janto deep. But the fact remained, Regulus had saved Janto’s life those months before and the warrior owed him. For a moment Regulus wondered if he had been wise to hold Janto to that obligation. If his life debt was ever paid the Sho’tana would most likely direct his fury at Regulus.
Then again, it might not matter any. Tens of thousands of savages also wanted him dead. If Janto wanted to kill Regulus, he would just have to get in line with the rest of the horde.
NINETEEN
The city was like a different world as River made his way through its streets – or at least what remained of them. The south of the city was little more than a blackened wasteland, and it had taken him well into the morning to navigate the carcass of what had once been a thriving metropolis. The old entrances to the system of tunnels beneath the city streets were impassable, and he had to make his way far to the north before he could find a way in. The sounds of battle had echoed through the city all the while, the fighting clearly intense. River could only hope Jay was safe for now
, until he could find a way to protect her.
By the time he located a way into the under-city the sun was rising, the sounds of combat now gone silent as the Khurtic horde retreated. When he made his way through the flooded tunnels he passed several bodies washed down through the sewer inlets, their flesh so pallid and waxy he could barely tell if they were the city’s defenders or one of the savages come to besiege it.
As he came close to the sanctum, River drew his blades. The Father of Killers was most likely waiting, ready. The man who had trained him to be the assassin he was might already know River was on his way and be standing silently, waiting to kill his son. But let him. River had come to end his life. It was only fitting the Father should be prepared.
There was some apprehension in River’s heart. Some guilt at what he had to do. He had lived his life for the Father, after all. Had even loved him in his way. But the Father of Killers was in thrall to Amon Tugha and had sworn to kill the queen. River would not allow any harm to come to her, even if it meant killing the man who had raised him.
Though River knew there was little chance he would survive the encounter, he was determined that the Father of Killers would die, no matter the cost. He would not put Jay in danger. She would never know of River’s sacrifice, but that meant nothing. All that mattered was her safety.
He eventually came out in the vast subterranean cavern in which he had grown to manhood. It was pitch black, the light from the lanterns that lit the wall long since extinguished. River paused to ignite one, striking flint on tinder and catching sight of his surroundings in the sparking light. At any moment he expected the Father to come at him in that flash of illumination, but as the wick took, he realised he was alone.
He raised the lantern, shedding light in the cavern. Everything was in its place and it seemed as though no one had been here for days. Of course his brothers would not be here, Mountain was already dead at River’s hand and Forest was many miles away, if he had survived his wounds. There was just him and his Father.
As he walked through the cavern River tried to control his breathing, ears pricked for any sound, even though he knew that if the Father of Killers had wanted to attack him unseen and unheard he could easily have done so.
‘Father,’ he called into the dark.
No answer.
River stood for what seemed an age, just waiting, illuminated in that massive cavern, a floundering fish waiting for the net to be cast. But no one came.
With no other alternative, River lit more lanterns and the torches on the walls, brightening up the system of caves that made up the inner sanctum. In every new chamber he entered he half expected the Father to be waiting, but there was no sign. By the time the caves were lit, River had dropped his guard completely. If the Father of Killers were here surely he would have shown himself by now, would have struck from the dark and ended the life of his troublesome son.
There was one place he had not looked, though. One place he had never even entered in all his years in the sanctum.
River made his way to the inner chamber of the Father of Killers with trepidation. Neither he nor his brothers had ever been allowed within their Father’s private refuge, and it was obvious what the punishment would have been had any of them encroached upon it.
It lay behind a plain wooden door. The latch was a simple iron affair and there was no keyhole or bolt. It had always lain open, just so. But what need had the Father of Killers for security? Had any intruder managed to make it past his sons he would have had to be a formidable warrior indeed to survive such an encounter.
Now, as River flipped the iron latch, he wondered if he would have to be that warrior.
The door opened at the slightest push. The room beyond was in darkness, and River raised his lantern, uncertain of what to expect as he entered. Inside he saw plain blank walls, skimmed to a sheer surface and washed with white. At first the square chamber seemed empty, with not even a pallet for the Father of Killers to sleep on. As the lantern bathed the interior of the chamber with yellow light, River saw there was but a single item in the room.
On the floor in one corner lay a plain leather wallet. River recognised it immediately as the wallet Amon Tugha’s messenger had brought for the Father many weeks ago. He remembered the silence that had pervaded the sanctum as his Father looked inside. Whatever it contained was significant indeed.
River wasted no time, placing the lantern on the floor and crossing the chamber. He knelt beside the wallet and reached out a hand, but paused before touching it. This could be a trap. Perhaps the wallet contained Elharim magicks that would wither the flesh from his bones. Maybe the Father of Killers had known he would come all along and had laid a trap.
No. The Father of Killers had sent Forest to murder River. He had no idea that River would survive, let alone return for vengeance. For all the Father knew Forest had succeeded in his mission. This could not be a trap.
River grasped the wallet and gingerly opened it. What he had been expecting to find he couldn’t say, but it was not the dried and flattened rose that lay within the folds of the leather wallet.
He knelt and stared at it for several moments. A single rose. Whatever significance it had for the Father of Killers, River had no idea. Perhaps it was some keepsake from the Riverlands. Perhaps some gesture of union from Amon Tugha. River could only ponder as he reached out a finger to touch one of the dried leaves …
White light burned his eyes – a tunnel of blinding, searing fire through which he fell. River wanted to scream but his mouth would not open. Wanted to close his eyes but his lids would not shut.
Nails.
Two nails pressed against his lips, the metallic tang of iron teasing his tongue. He knew he would take these nails and make something of them, something deadly, something profane.
A lone tree standing in an ancient amphitheatre. A hammer. The nails. A sigil.
A smile.
Later this tree will act as a distraction. It will allow him to reach his mark. To commit the killing he has been tasked with. Ancient magicks will be invoked. Fell northern words for a fell northern spell.
The arena fills as he waits in the dark, unseen and unheard. He has had many faces over the centuries, many names, but for this work he wears the same one he has donned for decades – old and comfortable.
When the time is right, when the tree comes to life with all the hate and fury of his master, he strikes from the shadow, cutting down many men. They are as nothing to him, it is like murdering children as his blade slides between and through the plate armour they think will protect them.
There is confusion. Screaming. Carnage.
And finally she comes to him.
She is defiant, but not as defiant as the last one who protects her. There is something about this man, something special within his blood, but that is of little consequence. And so he strikes. More guardians who cannot be allowed to stand in his way.
More death. More killing. A pursuit.
Until finally he has them.
They stand atop a derelict wall and he cuts down the last of her protectors. Still she shows no fear. He knows he should strike swift but he cannot help himself. He must know.
‘What did you do to my son, River, to turn him against me?’
She smiles.
‘I offered him love.’
He has heard enough. But there is movement behind him. He senses danger … real danger.
An old woman, but much more than just that.
She flings something at him and he reacts out of instinct.
Foolish.
He is consumed by flame. Smashed. Burned. His arm is gone. The mask he wears now matters little.
He turns to see her standing there. Defiant again.
Something inside him admires her for it. He finally realises why River betrayed him for this woman.
She raises his blade.
He barely hears her words as she plunges it into his throat.
River fell back gasping, the
leather wallet falling from his hand.
All he could see was the white ceiling flicker in the dancing light. As he sucked air back into his lungs he began to realise what he had just seen.
The Father of Killers was dead.
And Jay had been the one to kill him.
For a moment River felt elated. Jay was safe from the Father of Killers.
But she is not safe from Amon Tugha.
He glanced down at the wallet, seeing the dried rose had spilled out to lie on the whitewashed floor. His head had almost cleared now but there was still a fug there from what it had revealed to him. Whatever magicks had shown him his Father’s past, whatever this thing was, it held great power. Perhaps it could show him more.
River reached out, grasping the flower and crushing it in his fist …
The northern air was clear. Mountains surrounded him, rivers of crystal. Spires soaring, entwined within the landscape at their root. It was breathtaking to behold and he was proud to call it home. But he had no time to appreciate the architecture.
Instead he learned the killing ways. The tenets of the Arc Magna were not easily learned. Many failed. Many died. But not him. He was a prince, tall and proud and invincible. He would have made a great king, but that honour was not his by right.
His mother was a warrior queen. Keeping the Riverlands protected through ruthless stewardship. His brother was heir by right of birth, destined for power. He was but a warrior, a weapon. He would never be a king …
… unless he took the crown by force.
He gathered about him other warriors of like mind. Those who would never accept his brother as their liege. He planned meticulously. Trained his body unceasingly. And struck ruthlessly.
His coup failed.
While his co-conspirators were executed, he was exiled. Cast to the southern winds. Banished forever. Only Endellion and Azreal remained by his side. His loyal aides. They would be rewarded with all the riches he could bestow when he returned to claim his birthright.
And he would return.