‘Hold steady,’ Regulus said as they reached the centre of the bridge. ‘We are here as allies, not enemies.’
Though his warriors obeyed his words, Regulus could sense unease, particularly in Janto, whose hands strayed dangerously close to the handles of his twin axes.
At the gate there was more frantic movement — a woman screamed and travellers were bundled aside as more warriors in green came flooding out of the city. They positioned themselves at one end of the bridge, longspears held out in a phalanx. Regulus almost laughed at their display. Had he wanted to pass his warriors would have barely drawn breath before these Coldlanders were dead.
When they were within ten yards, Regulus lifted an arm signalling the Zatani to stop. He strode forward and stood before the row of spears, regarding the nervous men who held them.
‘Fear not,’ he said. ‘I have come as a friend and ally. Not an enemy.’
Several of the men looked on in amazement. ‘Fuck me — it speaks,’ said one of them, momentarily lowering his spear.
‘Yes, I speak. And I would parlay with your queen. I would offer her my sword.’ Regulus grabbed the hilt of his black steel blade and shook it in its scabbard, which only served to spook these men further.
‘It’s a trick,’ said one of the men.
‘Not a very good one, if it is,’ replied another. ‘Just wandering right up to the gates like that.’
‘Well, what do we do?’ added a third.
By now another warrior in green had come to stand behind the men. He looked Regulus over with a keen eye. This one looked older than the others, his face scarred and weathered.
‘You’re mercenaries?’ the man asked.
Regulus was familiar with the term — roving warriors who fought for the material rewards of battle, rather than loyalty to chief or tribe. He supposed that, as an outcast, mercenary was the closest these Coldlanders would understand to his current status.
‘I am. And I would fight for the glory of this city.’
The man gave a wry smile. ‘There may not be much glory in the days to come, but we’re in no position to turn away warriors willing to fight. Even if they are … well … foreigners. Let them through,’ he told his men. ‘We’ll escort them to the Seneschal. He’ll know what to do with them.’
‘We’re just letting them into the city?’ said one of the men.
‘Do you think it’s better we let them wander the countryside?’ said their leader.
There was no more argument. The spearmen raised their weapons and allowed Regulus and his men to cross the bridge. The green-garbed leader walked them through the vast city gate and his men moved along beside them. Regulus could see they were nervous, gripping their spears tightly; but they had nothing to fear. Soon they might find themselves fighting side by side — then they would see the wisdom of allying themselves to Zatani warriors.
Once inside the gate Regulus and his men looked on in awe at the buildings that towered above them. The ground beneath their feet was roughly spotted with stones that made a crude pathway between the dwellings that stood to either side. Each stone construction rose up and seemed to lean over like the boughs of trees, forming a corridor of rock like the sides of a steep valley. They scarcely registered that the people milling about were staring at them with wonder and fear.
Regulus’ warriors soon arrived at the gates to another massive construction. It rose up mournfully, reaching for the grey skies above. More of the green-coated warriors awaited them and Regulus began to feel an uneasy sense of foreboding. The warning he’d been given by Tom the Blackfoot suddenly came back to him.
‘Stay your hands,’ he said to his warriors in their own tongue. ‘But be wary.’
They needed no further prompting and Regulus could see each picking his own target — a man who would immediately die if they were suddenly attacked.
From within the tower came a lone figure, dressed in a plain grey robe. The hood was drawn back from his face showing he was slim, even for a Coldlander, and he regarded Regulus with interest.
‘Greetings,’ he said to the Zatani. ‘Word has it you are ready to join battle with Steelhaven against the horde advancing upon us?’
‘I am Regulus of the Gor’tana. Come north to win glory for my tribe.’
The man smiled, but seemed suitably underwhelmed by Regulus’ statement. ‘Yes, I’m quite sure. Please, follow me.’
He led the way towards the vast tower, and Regulus followed. They walked through the grounds and into the dark interior where fires were lit along the walls. Regulus suddenly felt trapped; he was a warrior of the open plains, used to sleeping under the stars and the watchful eyes of his gods. In such a place as this he may as well have been interred beneath the earth.
‘I have come to offer my sword to your queen,’ he said, his sense of unease growing. ‘Where do you lead us?’
The man in grey turned and smiled. Regulus had little experience with the Coldlanders of the Clawless Tribes, but they certainly seemed to smile a lot. Regulus was unsure what this one had to be so pleased about.
‘I am Seneschal Rogan — advisor to Queen Janessa of Steelhaven. It is my honour to meet and receive all those who would fight for the city. Mercenaries are to be housed here, where they can be properly … cared for. These will be your quarters.’
‘But I must offer my sword to your queen.’ Regulus was finding it difficult to hide his frustration, and his warriors could sense it. Hagama gripped his spear in both hands as though ready to attack and Janto rested his hands on the handles of his axes, his eyes scanning the dark for signs of danger.
‘I am afraid that is out of the question,’ said Seneschal Rogan, leading them out into a cavernous room. ‘The queen does not meet with mercenaries.’
The room was huge and lined with tables. Around several of them were men dressed in all manner of colours, some of who glanced over with interest.
‘We are not mere mercenaries,’ said Regulus slowly, wondering if this Coldlander was finding it difficult to understand him. ‘We have travelled many leagues to be here, suffered much hardship. Faced much danger to fight for this city. We are warriors of the Gor’tana, tempered on the battlefields of Equ’un. Your city faces danger and I intend to turn the tide of battle in your favour. I will not be treated as a common slave. We must be presented to your queen.’
Regulus could see the unease had spread to the guards of this place, and they stood by nervously. He had raised his voice, and all eyes had turned to him, watching and waiting for any threat of violence. But Seneschal Rogan continued smiling, untroubled by Regulus’ outburst.
‘I can see you are seasoned fighters, but you are not the only ones who have pledged their service to the Crown.’ He gestured down the hall towards the men who sat within. Regulus could tell these were warriors but he was sure he had no rivals here. ‘You have two options. Join the rest of the mercenaries and receive your pay alongside them, or leave the city.’
‘Mercenaries,’ Regulus said, chewing on the word. As he did so he realised he was no longer a prince of the Gor’tana. No longer honoured among his tribe. What right did he have to be presented to this Coldlander queen? He was nothing more than an outcast, a sell sword who had forfeited his honour. There was a chance that he could regain that honour though, if he did not squander this opportunity through his own hubris.
‘Very well,’ he conceded. ‘If that is what we must do.’
‘Excellent,’ said Rogan. ‘Now, just one more thing: your weapons. You will need to hand them over.’
Regulus looked to his men. None of them would be ready to surrender their arms and he was in no hurry to do so himself. Must it be done? Might this be the kind of trick Tom the Blackfoot had warned him about?
Glancing down the vast hall Regulus noted that none of the men bore a weapon. Perhaps this was the way of the Coldlanders.