He held out his hand and Leandran placed a narrow blade in his palm. Regulus knelt, slicing Gargara from the ragged open wound at his neck to his navel. With a clawed hand Regulus reached into the chest cavity, rooting beneath the ribcage until his hand closed around his enemy’s heart. There was a sucking sound as he wrenched it free, then held it aloft, savouring his victory.
‘For the Gor’tana,’ he cried, then sank his teeth into the organ, causing the blood of Gargara Kel to stream down his chin. As he swallowed he savoured the taste — the taste of triumph.
As the funeral fires burned, his warriors began to feast on Gargara’s corpse. It was late into the night before their hunger was satisfied. In the morning they woke up beside the embers of the pyres, sluggish and still sated. Little was left of the corpse.
Leandran came to join Regulus where he stood, looking out to the east.
‘What now?’ said the old warrior. ‘We got rid of those behind us, but there might be more trouble ahead if we press on any further into the Coldlands.’
‘I’m counting on it,’ Regulus replied. ‘Trouble is exactly what we came here for. Trouble and glory. And I have a feeling we’ll find both in that direction.’ He gestured lazily towards the east.
‘There’s trouble enough where we came from. I guess trouble ahead’s no worse.’ With a wink Leandran went to raise the others from their slumber.
Regulus looked them over: Leandran, lean and old, alongside Janto, dark, brooding and fearsome. Then there was Hagama, Kazul and young Akkula. Five warriors left to stand beside him. Five warriors remaining to help him reclaim the glory of his tribe; to make the Gor’tana great again.
It was a start.
Regulus could only hope there was indeed trouble to the east.
And if not, he swore by the Dark Walker himself he’d be sure to cause some.
NINE
The Lych Gate stood in the far eastern side of Steelhaven’s curtain wall. It was housed in a barbican that rose up forty feet, with two figures carved from the stone that flanked it depicting hooded swordsmen. Who these men were supposed to be, Nobul had no idea, but they looked impressive all right, and none too welcoming.
Amber Watch had been posted to gate duty for two days now. It was an easy detail, and Nobul was getting pretty bored. Northgate was dangerous; no doubt about it, but at least there was something to do of an afternoon. Mind you, it beat getting shit and stones flung at you in the Warehouse District, so he couldn’t really complain.
The Lych Gate was open from sunrise to sunset, allowing traders to come along the Great East Road from Ankavern, bringing their wares for trade. Watching the sporadic procession go in and out of Eastgate market wasn’t Nobul’s idea of a good time. Still, there’d be action soon enough. In a few days it wouldn’t be farmers and fishermen trying to get through these gates, but a horde of angry Khurtas. Nobul was pretty sure he wouldn’t be bored then. He was pretty sure he’d have plenty of things to occupy him. Not getting his head cut off would be chief among them.
A horse and cart rolled up, stopping beneath the massive gate. Nobul stepped forward, nodding at the old geezer sat on its seat, gripping the reins in arthritic fingers. The man didn’t deign to nod back. Nobul took the horse by the bridle, placing a hand on its nose and whispering nothing in particular to keep it calm as Anton checked the cart, for what, Nobul didn’t quite know. Perhaps there could have been Khurtic infiltrators in there, waiting to leap out, all painted and scarred, weapons dripping venom, ready to murder the first person they saw. Maybe Amon Tugha himself was concealed in there, ready to take on the city single-handed.
Anton finished his check and gave Nobul the signal to let the cart through.
Obviously it was just full of turnips.
No sooner had the cart passed through the gate than Hake yelled from up on the barbican. The old man was pointing down the Great East Road.
‘Riders!’ he shouted ‘Bloody loads of ’em. And they look tooled up.’
Nobul stared down the road. He couldn’t see a thing at first, other than an endless roadway heading on down the coast. Perhaps Hake’s eyes weren’t all they should have been. Wouldn’t be the first time the old man had seen something that wasn’t there. But then something did come into view, something flapping on the sea breeze — a pennant.
He was about to grab Anton and rush inside, about to shout for the Lych Gate to be closed when Kilgar joined him, squinting into the distance from his one eye. The first rider was in full view, bronze armour glinting, pennant held high — though they couldn’t yet make out what was depicted on it.
‘What do you think, Lincon?’ said Kilgar still unaware of Nobul’s real name. ‘Trouble or not?’
Nobul couldn’t tell yet, but it was no use taking chances. ‘We should close the gate, ask questions from behind the wall. If they’re friendly they’ll understand. If not, then we won’t be caught with our arses hanging in the breeze.’
Kilgar seemed to agree. ‘Close the gate,’ he barked as they stepped inside. Nobul followed the serjeant up the stone stairs of the barbican to the rampart that looked out on the Great East Road. Hake was still standing there, staring out. Nobul was sure he saw a look of glee on the old man’s face.
‘Happy about something?’ asked Nobul.
Hake’s shoulders moved in a silent laugh and he pointed eastward with a bony finger. ‘Don’t you know who they are?’
Nobul looked out, shielding his eyes against the bright sunlight. Though it was cold, the wind whipping in from the Midral like a breath of ice, the sun was still beating down. From their high vantage point he could see the procession more clearly. The longer he looked, the more pennants came into view and it didn’t take too long before he could make out several hundred riders. He couldn’t count exactly how many, but they were all armoured, helms gleaming, pennants flapping in the breeze.
‘One of the Free Companies?’ Nobul asked.
Hake shook his head. ‘Look at their flags.’ Perhaps the old fella’s eyesight wasn’t so bad after all.
Even as they came closer, Nobul found it difficult to read the pennants with them flapping in the wind, but he could just make out …
‘The Wyvern Guard,’ said Kilgar. Nobul saw a smile creep up one side of the serjeant’s stern mouth. ‘Arlor’s Blood, it’s the frigging Wyvern Guard.’
As they watched the row of horses advance. Nobul wondered where they had come from. Even he knew the legend of the Wyvern Guard, the fabled order of knights who would come to Steelhaven’s aid in its direst need. Well, it was in need now, and no mistake.
Every knight had armour of bronze, a sword at his side, and a shield on his arm emblazoned with the wyvern rising. Their helms were domed, sweeping down at the front over their gorgets. Their armour at shoulder and knee flared out in the shape of a wyvern’s wing and each rider’s horse wore barding in a similar style. One of them stood out from the rest. His helm bore wyvern’s wings and he rode at the head of the column, a huge sword strapped across his back.
Nobul noticed an unexpected figure riding with the knights, a young lad in a brown robe. It almost made him smile to see the boy — he looked so out of his depth riding alongside warriors like these.
Just within the city gates a crowd had gathered, some anxious the barbican had been closed, some just nosey bastards. It didn’t take long for rumour of the Wyvern Guard to spread, and the closer the knights drew to the city walls the bigger the throng got.
‘This could be a problem,’ said Kilgar, looking down at the gathering mob, and he shouted for Dustin and Edric to fetch the High Constable.
By now the head of the column had ridden within the shadow of the Lych Gate. The knight at their head, with his winged helm and huge sword, held up an arm. Almost as one, the column, several hundred strong, came to a halt.