They had tracked his warparty quickly — so quickly that Regulus and his warriors were taken by surprise. Most of them had been killed in the battle that followed though all fought well and a few had managed to escape. Now, far from home and still hounded by a relentless enemy, they were becoming exhausted. Faro’s allies would not stop until Regulus and any loyal to him were dead.
Regulus paused at the top of a promontory, surveying the few of his warriors that remained. Perhaps they should stop here and make a stand. But then they would all die, and he would never have a chance at vengeance. And it would almost certainly be a slaughter, not a glorious battle. Would his warriors want to stand and fight? Would they rather a slim chance at a heroic death here, or carry on running in ignominy? The Gor’tana were his tribe, his warriors to command. They would follow him unto death. Being scythed down here was not the glorious end he was determined to give them.
‘The gate’s not far,’ said Leandran, breathing heavily. ‘If we can make it there, perhaps they’ll stop following.’
‘Perhaps,’ he replied. Regulus knew there was a slim chance the Kel’tana would give up their pursuit, but it was still better than no chance.
‘Maybe we should find high ground, then. Make a stand?’
‘If we make a stand there is every chance they will overwhelm us. A brave death, but death all the same. It might be a good fight, Leandran, and I want that more than you could know, but we deserve a heroic death. We deserve to have tales told of our final battle.’
‘And they’ll tell tales of us in the north?’ Leandran looked sceptical.
‘More likely in the north than in these mountains. Will tales be told of us if we perish here? In the Coldlands I hear their tellers travel far and wide spreading the word of their king and recounting their ancient fables. I would give them a tale to be told for a thousand years.’
‘Was never one for tales, anyway,’ muttered Leandran, as he loped off.
Regulus smiled wryly. The old warrior was irascible, but loyal to the end, and Regulus could forgive a man much for loyalty.
They ran on for most of the day, slowing as the sun drew its way across the sky. Cresting a high ridge, Regulus saw a sight that filled him with hope. Hope that they might yet salvage some glory from their flight.
Below was a deep valley, slicing its way through the mountains as though hewn by an axe-wielding god. Towering in the centre of that valley was a vast obsidian archway made up of two massive leaning towers, each half depicting gigantic warriors bound in an eternal struggle for supremacy, their weapons locked together at the summit. What race these stone warriors belonged to was impossible to tell, for both were armoured in heavy plate and full helms covered their faces.
The Clawless Tribes knew this place as Bakhaus Gate, probably named, as they named most things, after some ancient hero. It was where the Aeslanti had been defeated, where the seed of freedom had been sown for the Zatani. Regulus marvelled at the vast monolith and wondered what mighty hands could possibly have built it.
At seeing the huge arch he and his warriors moved down towards the valley with renewed vigour. This was the gateway to the north, marking the border with the Coldlands. Once through it, there was a chance their pursuers would give up the chase. There they had a chance of survival.
As they passed beneath the gate, Regulus stared up in awe. It was at least five hundred feet across, each of the carved warriors fifty feet wide at the base. The valley itself ran straight as an arrow as far as the eye could see. It was here the Aeslanti and the Clawless Tribes had done battle. It was here the beast-men who had kept the Zatani in bondage for so many centuries were finally defeated.
The Aeslanti had come north looking for slaves, seeking to pillage from the Coldlands everything of worth, but the Steel King had other ideas. Not only had he massed warriors from his own Clawless Tribes, but also those from Equ’un.
The Aeslanti had advanced along the valley, seeking to do battle beneath the gate so as to give themselves strength. It was said their war cries ripped through the mountains and echoed across the grasslands of Equ’un. Ten thousand warriors, armoured in steel, invincible, united.
It had not been enough.
As the Aeslanti assaulted the enemy lines they were beaten back again and again. Though the Coldlanders were small of stature compared to the Aeslanti they were their equals in ferocity, fighting with passion and honour. Nevertheless, their numbers dwindled and, as a river of blood flowed down the valley, it looked as if the Aeslanti would be victorious. But the Aeslanti had not bargained on the power of the northern warlocks, and when it seemed glory would be theirs, they were halted in their tracks, their armour closing about their bodies, their breath halting in their lungs, their blood freezing in their veins.
It was little effort for the northern king to lead his huge steeds through the Aeslanti ranks and crush any still standing.
As Regulus passed beneath the giant arch, part of him yearned to have been there, to have seen battle on such a huge scale, but the Zatani had not been able to fight alongside the other tribes of Equ’un. They had been a slave race, in bondage to the Aeslanti for centuries, bred to fight in the battlepits where their size and fierceness was highly prized. Though unmistakeably human, they bore fangs and claws said to be the result of Aeslanti sorceries and foul breeding practices. They had never known freedom, had only lived in chains, but with the Aeslanti defeat, that was all to change.
The uprising started the moment word of the Steel King’s victory reached the slave pits of Equ’un. The Zatani saw their chance and took it, the ferocity they had learned over decades of fighting for the pleasure of their Aeslanti masters ensured their victory over the few weary lion-men that returned from Bakhaus Gate. It had been a glorious rebellion, and the Zatani won their freedom after crushing their former overlords.
Regulus was determined to show the people of the Clawless Tribes what a true Zatani warrior could do. He was determined to claim glory and honour for the Gor’tana and for his father. If he and his warparty made it north, if they survived the journey, he would kneel before the Steel King of the Clawless Tribes. Regulus would offer his sword and show this Coldlander chieftain what true power and ferocity was. He would fight for him, destroy his enemies, make him the greatest king the Clawless Tribes had ever known. Then, when Regulus’ reputation was such that word of his deeds had reached as far back as Equ’un, he would return to the grasslands and reclaim his place as chief of the Gor’tana. If Faro still lived Regulus could challenge him for leadership and they would fight, as was only right, with tooth and claw.
Had Faro offered any chance like that to Regulus’ father perhaps things would have been different. Perhaps Regulus would have given fealty to Faro. But not now. Not ever.
All Faro would receive was a painful death.
They left Bakhaus Gate behind them and worked their way north up the valley. There was no time to hunt, no time to eat, and Regulus knew his men were becoming half starved, but they pressed on regardless. There would be time aplenty to hunt once they made it to the Coldlands.
The journey was not an easy one, and the sun had crested the sky by the time they came to the valley’s end, where they were refreshed by a cool wind blowing down from the north. The valley led out onto flat grasslands, with forest in the distance. They were nearing their goal and might well make it before the Kel’tana caught up with them. Regulus finally allowed himself a smile.