No, it couldn’t be. Not now. Was Leon seriously about to propose? Now, of all times, when her city was on the brink? Was he insane?
‘Lord Leon, I am sure this is nothing that cannot wait.’
‘Oh but it can’t,’ he replied, still approaching, walking with a steady yet purposeful stride. ‘You see, I have wanted to tell you for the longest time, but have simply been unable. But now we are alone. And there is no time like the present, as they say in the provinces.’
His smile changed, the humour draining from it in an instant. His eyes looked dead. If he was about to profess his love for her he certainly didn’t mind how unconvincing it would look.
‘My lord, this is neither the time nor the place,’ she said, feeling her anger rise. Who did Leon think he was? Her city burned and all he could think about was his ascension to the throne. A throne that might well be rubble in a few short days.
‘Oh, but it is,’ Leon replied. He was within touching distance now, gazing at her with those dead eyes of his. She had never noticed before just how emotionless they were, as though he were dreaming with his eyes open. ‘I have waited for this moment for what seems an age, Majesty. And so have you.’
‘My lord—’
He reached out and took her hand before she could think to pull away. His flesh was cold and pallid like the dead. Like young Lord Raelan’s flesh had been when he was laid out, waiting to be carried back to Valdor by his father’s men.
‘The time for talking is over,’ said Leon, a smile playing on his lips. He looked at her with a hunger now – his dead expression replaced with one of need. The smile grew as his lips pulled back from his teeth. His eyes glared.
Janessa tried to pull away but he held her tight within his grip. She made to speak but he shook his head.
‘Don’t say anything. This should be a dignified moment. It is only fitting that there should be an aspect of formality to this. My prince, Amon Tugha, must have his due.’
Janessa felt ice run from the back of her neck and down her spine. She couldn’t move as his words filled her with dread. As she stared at those dead eyes she suddenly felt sick.
All this time Leon had been under her roof and every day of it he had belonged to the warlord who wanted her head.
She saw his hand move to the dagger at his side, but her eyes were still fixed on his. Her Sentinels were only scant yards away but she couldn’t cry out – he would simply cut her down, and from the look of zeal in his eyes it seemed unlikely that Leon would care when they came running to kill him, as long as he had succeeded in murdering her first.
‘Shhh,’ he said softly. ‘This will take but a moment.’
The knife slid from its sheath.
Janessa’s hand shot forward before she had time to think what she was doing. The heel of her palm struck Leon beneath the chin and she felt a momentary snatch of satisfaction as she heard his teeth clack together. He staggered back, the knife dropping from his grip to clatter on the garden path, but he still held her wrist.
She tried to strike again, balling a fist this time, but he raised his arm, catching her hand before she could hit him. For a moment they stared at one another, and she saw the anger in him, the madness. He was going to kill her and cared nothing for the consequences. Perhaps something had happened to him; perhaps his mind had been twisted by Elharim magicks. Perhaps he was simply insane.
None of that seemed to matter, though; if she didn’t find help he was going to kill her.
Janessa took a breath in, to call for help from her Sentinels, but as she was about to let out a scream Leon hit her in the stomach. The blow doubled her over, and before she could fall he had her by the throat.
She grasped his wrists, digging her nails in, panic gripping her tight as she felt his strength. Her eyes darted around for any sign of aid but there was no one there. Leon shook his head.
‘They’re not coming,’ he whispered. ‘Not in time to save you. I realise this is becoming a habit, you being placed in mortal peril in your own palace, but I am not Azai Dravos. I do not want to control you. I want to kill you.’ She felt him tighten his grip, squeezing her throat shut so she couldn’t breathe.
On the floor lay the knife; she could just see it, but it may as well have been a thousand leagues away. Her vision began to haze. As it did so she saw Leon was smiling again, one of his teeth chipped where she had struck him below the chin. As she drifted off, Janessa got a strange sense of satisfaction from the fact she had wounded him, no matter how little. Still, it was a poor substitute for her life.
‘Leon!’
The voice cut the silence of the garden, bringing Janessa back from the brink.
Leon’s grip on her throat relented somewhat but he still held her fast and unable to speak.
‘Mother, what are you doing here?’ he said. ‘You can’t be here.’ His voice wavered and Janessa saw that the look in his eyes, which had a moment ago been so focused, was now filled with doubt.
‘Let the queen go, Leon.’
He glanced to where Baroness Isabelle stood. Janessa could see her now, calm as she always was, but her eyes were fixed firmly on her son.
‘Why are you here?’ Leon asked. ‘You weren’t to be involved. We have plans. I have made a bargain. We will be all powerful. We will rule the Free States. Dreldun will rise from the ashes stronger than ever.’
He turned back to Janessa, his grip tightening once more.
‘How will you do that when you’re dead, Leon?’ said Isabelle. ‘You have been made a fool of. If you kill her you’ll be dead before you set foot from this garden.’
‘I cannot die,’ Leon spat.
‘Of course you can, idiot boy!’ Isabelle screamed.
Her voice seemed to snap Leon from whatever spell he was under. He loosened his grip enough for Janessa to pull herself away and drop to her knees gasping. She glanced towards the garden entrance but no Sentinels came running at the sound of Isabelle’s raised voice.
‘Amon Tugha has promised me,’ said Leon, as much to himself as his mother. ‘He is powerful beyond words. I have seen it. He has shown me.’
Isabelle moved forward, her eyes filling with sympathy. ‘He has cast his spell on you,’ she said gently. ‘He will hold to no bargain. He is using you.’
Leon shook his head. ‘No, he has shown me the future. I have seen it. I will wear the Steel Crown. Dreldun will be the new power behind the Free States.’
Isabelle was close enough to lay a hand on his arm now, soothing him. Leon smiled as his mother shook her head.
‘He will share no power with us, my sweet boy. He has turned your mind. But it’s not your fault. You were always so easy to lead, gods, I know that more than anyone.’
Leon shook his head now, the fight he waged in his mind writ large in his eyes. ‘No. I will be king. I will rule in his name, but I will be king.’
‘Do you think Amon Tugha has come all this way with tens of thousands at his command to let you rule?’
Leon looked down at Janessa. A tear welled in the corner of his eye and for a moment she felt sympathy for him. He had been bewitched. By magick, by the promise of power, perhaps both.
‘He swore to me,’ he said gently, as though he didn’t believe it.
Then he struck his mother across the face, his fist balled tight.
As the old woman fell his expression contorted. Janessa saw all the hate and loathing she imagined Amon Tugha bore for her. In that moment she could hold no sympathy, no mercy.
Leon came at her, his hands outstretched for her throat once more, but she was faster. As he grasped for her she lunged for the knife he had dropped on the garden path. Her fingers closed around it as Leon managed to grab a fistful of curls, hauling her up. His other hand took her by the throat just as she plunged the blade into his eye.
His grip went slack and he made no sound as he fell backward, the knife still protruding from his socket. Leon hit the ground like a discarded doll. Janessa stood and stared at his lifeless
form as Baroness Isabelle began to scream, her voice rising in a forlorn wail that murdered the quiet of the garden.
Janessa stared on as her Sentinels came running.
TWENTY-TWO
There were bruises and scratches all over him but thankfully nothing needed stitching. He couldn’t remember where half his wounds had come from, but then you never could when you were in the thick of it. Nobul knew it wasn’t the cuts and scrapes would be the worst of it, though. He was tired, almost ready to drop, and if this went on for as long as he thought it might, eventually he would fall and not get back up again.
Still, he wasn’t in as bad a state as some of the other lads. It had only been one night, and the fighting had been relatively brief, all told, but some of the boys had been asleep all day. A few of them looked like they might not wake.
For Nobul the sleep never came easy after the fight. He was too alive with it, too needy for the killing. It had started now and he was filled with the anticipation of it. His hammer hand itched to be used. Besides, sleep had never been very kind to him. The shit he dreamed of was never pleasant. Memories he’d rather forget, too many deaths brought back all too vivid.
Yet still he yearned for it, fed on it like fresh cooked meat straight off the spit. Even now he could hear those bastard Khurtas winding themselves up for the night ahead. Singing their songs in the distance as the sun fell.
And they’ll be here soon, Nobul Jacks. They’ll be flooding to meet you, falling over themselves to taste that hammer of yours.
Nobul raised the weapon and looked at that metal head. It was the most finely crafted piece he’d ever made and it had taken him all day to clean the blood and brain and bone from the etched surface. His hammer was a thing of beauty, made for dirty, ugly work. The irony wasn’t lost on him.
‘Bet you sleep with that thing beside your pillow at night, don’t you?’
Hake was stood beside him. Nobul had been so wrapped in his daydream he hadn’t even noticed. The old man was bruised about his right eye and there was blood on his green jacket. There would more than likely be a lot more before this business was done with.
Nobul cracked a smile, a rare one at that. ‘I always like to sleep beside someone I can trust.’ He lowered the hammer, but didn’t put it down.
‘Reckoned you might need a bit of company. With the fact that the rest of these boys are too shit scared to talk to you.’
It was true. His legend from Bakhaus, and what he’d demonstrated the night before, meant most of the lads who stood beside him were as frightened of the Black Helm as they were of the Khurtas.
‘And you’re not scared, old man?’ Nobul asked, half joking, half wondering.
‘I ain’t scared of much these days. Even if the Khurtas don’t get me, the Lord of Crows ain’t that far away. I reckon you’re just about the least of my worries.’
‘I reckon I am,’ said Nobul, turning to look out through the waning light. To the north there was movement, but it was too far to make out.
Hake came to stand beside him at the battlements. ‘Last night was just a taster, I’d have said. All Amon Tugha’s young and inexperienced throwing themselves at the wall to soften us up. The ones he didn’t mind sacrificing the most. Tonight’ll be bloodier.’
‘I know,’ Nobul replied. He’d had the same notion himself. The Khurtas who had attacked the night before had charged in too fast and died too easy. It was obvious a lot of them were unblooded. Tonight Amon Tugha would most likely send his best.
Nobul glanced up and down the wall. They’d taken a lot of casualties. Whether those who were left would be up to the job remained to be seen, but if they were still alive after last night’s fighting, chances were they’d give it their best tonight, despite how tired they looked.
Over to the north a cluster of torches made its way towards them, bobbing through the dark like bright spirits floating in the night. The closer the torches got the more Nobul could make out – a massive group of Khurtas were moving with purpose, but they weren’t alone. They dragged prisoners with them, men captured in the weeks of fighting their way south, and maybe even some dragged off the wall the previous night. The closer they got the more he could hear; brutal, guttural language and pleas for mercy. Nobul could only imagine the horrors these men had seen during their time as Khurtic prisoners. He doubted their plight was about to improve.
‘What the fuck’s going on?’ asked Hake, looking anxiously towards the north.
‘Nothing good,’ said Nobul.
He walked east a way along the wall, hoping to get a better look. By now more of the wall’s defenders had heard the commotion and were staring out towards the gathered torches. When the Khurtas and their prisoners had reached Dancer’s Tree they stopped.
They set their torches around the base of the oak. Within moments they’d also lit a fire that illuminated the great tree so everyone could see it clear as day. Every man who stood on the wall was staring north and Nobul could feel their dread. They knew they were about to witness something terrible, but couldn’t turn their eyes away yet.
Dancer’s Tree stood just beyond the range of their archers, it was obvious the Khurtas knew that. As they watched, each of the savages bared his arse and his cock, screaming and taunting and laughing. And there was nothing anyone could do about it.
Then the slaughter began.
The Khurtas took pleasure in hacking limbs and eviscerating the soldiers of the Free States. Screams crossed the short plain to the wall as every man watched with growing dismay. Prisoners were hung from the great branches of Dancer’s Tree, much like the days of old, only this time the guts of the condemned hung loose below them and their executioners roared with glee at every death. Some were nailed to the vast trunk, their screams rising over the sound of hammer blows.
Nobul could hear the despair in the rest of the men who stood to either side of him. Hake just stood there with open-mouthed horror, unable to speak. The Khurtas were doing their job well – before long the men on the battlements would be ready to turn tail and flee, allowing the enemy to surge up and over the wall with no one to stop them.
For Nobul, it only made his anger burn. Not because he felt sorrow for those men being slaughtered, but because under that tree he’d buried his boy only a few weeks earlier. Markus, who’d never done anything to anyone. Who’d been shot dead by accident because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Under that tree lay Nobul’s son and those Khurtic bastards were treading all over the grave like he didn’t mean a shit. It burned in Nobul, it cut him deep, and for every man on the wall who covered his eyes so as not to see it made his fury grow.
When they were done with the torture and hanging, the Khurtas took their burning brands and gathered their kindling and they set fire to that oak. Dancer’s Tree had stood there more than a hundred years and it took them no time at all to set it aflame.
A lad to Nobul’s right dropped to his knees, hiding his tear-streaked eyes from the sight. All along the wall were men with their heads bowed, trying not to weep at what they’d seen, shoulders slumped, all the fight beaten out of them, every man turning his eyes away as the prisoners, some with a bit of life still in them, burned on the tree.
It was about as much as Nobul could stomach.
He leapt onto the battlements, forgetting the hundred-foot drop behind him as he did so. Slamming his helmet on, he raised his hammer high.
‘Listen to me,’ he yelled. When only a few men looked his way he raised his voice higher. ‘Listen to me, you fucking bastards.’ More men looked to him; word began to pass down the line as men saw the Black Helm standing atop the battlements, hammer raised to the night sky.
So what now, Nobul? Rousing speech, is it? Most of the time you can barely string a sentence together. Best not fuck this up or you’ll only make things worse.
Nobul let his anger burn for a moment. Feeling it inside like a swollen fist, all bloody from the fight. It throbbed inside of him and for a moment Nobul knew he had to
make words of that anger like he’d never done before.
‘Don’t turn your eyes away,’ he cried. ‘Don’t hide your fucking faces from them.’ He thrust his hammer out towards the plain where the great oak tree burned. ‘Look. Look at it and don’t turn away. Eat it up till you can’t eat no more. Fill your bellies with it. Fill your bellies with hate!’
Men were looking out to where he pointed now. And for anyone who didn’t look, there’d be a man next to him who’d strike him on the shoulder or turn his head and make him watch.
‘See what they are,’ Nobul cried. ‘They’re fucking cowards. They’ll torture and they’ll murder, but we’ve already shown them our steel. They’re gonna come again. They’re gonna come flooding over this wall and there’ll only be one thing to stop them.’ He struck the head of his hammer against his palm. It fucking hurt, but it hurt good. It hurt like the hate within him and made him grin that dead man’s grin. ‘I’ll be here. I’ll face them till I’m dead. Who’ll stand with me?’
Hake and some of the men around him shouted that they would, but it wasn’t enough.
‘Who the fuck will stand with me?’ screamed Nobul, raising that hammer again like it was a banner for them all to flock to.
More men shouted their support and now everyone on that wall had eyes on him, had heads raised and not an ounce of fear between them.
‘We’ll fight. And we’ll die. But not without taking our share of those bastards with us. For Steelhaven!’
‘For Steelhaven,’ one of them shouted. And the cry was taken up, at first a few, then dozens, then scores along the wall, all taking up the chant of ‘Steelhaven, Steelhaven’ till it rang out from the battlements and across the plain to drown out the Khurtas below.
Nobul stood there and drank it in, standing like he’d seen old King Cael stand at Bakhaus Gate all those years ago. There’d been speeches then, speeches aplenty, and all better than his, but in the end the words didn’t matter a shit. If what you said helped a man’s hate win over his fear then it was speech enough.