But he’d had his reckoning for that, hadn’t he? He’d done his killing till there was no more killing to be had. Though there was one more would die before long.
Friedrik.
Nobul would be sure to pay that cunt a visit soon. And it wouldn’t be as quick an end as he’d granted those poor bastards back in the tavern.
‘You’re alive, then?’
Nobul looked up to see her standing in the doorway. Her gaunt frame was barely visible in the shadow, and until she took a step into the room he didn’t recognise her.
‘Fernella? How did …?’
He stopped, and stared at the old woman he’d not seen since the day he laid his son Markus in the ground.
‘You got here last night. Scratching at my door like some little mouse. I barely recognised the Nobul of old. But looking at the state of your fists, I reckon that Nobul’s here after all.’
He looked down at his hands, thinking about the killing they’d done, and smiled.
‘Aye, I did some things last night. Things you don’t want to hear about.’
‘No, I reckon I don’t. But by the looks of it, some things have been done to you too. They deserve what they got?’
‘Does anyone get what they deserve?’
Fernella shrugged. ‘I suppose not.’ She gestured to a chair that had fresh clothes piled up on it. ‘Get dressed. You can’t stay here. Got children downstairs, don’t want them seeing you in that state.’
Good old Fernella. Mouth as blunt as a hammer. Heart as big as a lion.
He dressed as quick as he could, though it was a bit of a struggle putting the shirt on. A bit tight around the chest too, but it would do.
Downstairs Fernella was pottering in her kitchen. She’d been right, there were half a dozen kids sitting at her kitchen table. Most of them looked up at him, fearful of what they saw, and just like she’d asked him he went straight for the door.
‘You want it back yet?’ she asked as his hand grasped the door handle.
‘What?’ Nobul replied.
‘The box you give me. You want it?’
He shook his head, the haunting shadow of last night’s dream playing on his memory. ‘Not right now.’
Fernella laid a hand on his arm. ‘Suit yourself, lad. I’ll keep it until you’re ready.’
‘Don’t rightly know if I’ll ever-’
‘No. Don’t say that. The man you were. The man who came back last night. Soon enough this city’s gonna need him. You understand me? He could do some good.’
Nobul looked at her wrinkled face and those eyes that had seen so much.
‘Aye, maybe,’ he said.
He opened the door and walked out into the street.
THIRTY
The tension had been building since they’d arrived. The threat of violence had never diminished, but so far none of the Coldlanders had made a move on Regulus or his warriors.
He had learned there were three tribes within the oppressive building. Each had a fanciful name that seemed to relate little to their history and deeds. Regulus could only hope these men could fight as well as they could name themselves. Somehow he doubted it.
Nevertheless, he and his warriors were careful to watch their backs, heeding the words of Tom the Blackfoot well. It was clear these mercenaries held little love for the Zatani.
They awoke in their cell — a bare room with a single window looking out onto the city. As ever, when Regulus led his warriors out into the vast hall they were the first of the mercenaries to appear. The Zatani were craving daylight, and a lack of it had made their sleep restless and short. It had been days since they had seen the sun, and they were suffering for it. Hagama and Kazul had grown increasingly agitated, taking their frustrations out on the younger Akkula. More than once Regulus had been forced to scold them for it. Leandran seemed to be handling their confinement well, though he had been all but silent since they had come to this place. Janto too, was silent, but that did not serve to put Regulus at his ease. The unpredictable warrior could explode into violence at any second which was the last thing they needed — at least until they faced a real enemy.
Having left their cell, they took their places at a table in one corner of the great hall. The Zatani were used to sitting around a fire under the stars on the open plain, but they had soon grown accustomed to the Coldlander custom of hunkering around a table. As the other mercenaries began to join them, the atmosphere in the hall darkened.
The Midnight Falcons wore night-black livery, their leader a hulking brute who little resembled a bird of prey. They sat at the opposite end of the hall, making no secret of their disdain for Regulus and his warriors, though none were brave enough to speak of it. Regulus put their number at almost fifty. Not even their strongest looked a match for his weakest.
Next to come from their darkened cells was the Scarlet Company in tunics of red. These numbered fewer than the Midnight Falcons, perhaps thirty warriors led by a dark-browed veteran, his white hair pulled back from his head in a topknot. He regarded Regulus with unmasked hatred.
Finally the Hallowed Shields arrived — their emblem of a quartered shield on each of their chests — taking their place close to the Zatani, but only because there was nowhere else to sit. Almost a hundred warriors, and word was they had more fighting men housed elsewhere. Their leader was young but confident, and Regulus had rapidly grown sick of his arrogant smile. How he would have liked to challenge this one, but Regulus was bound to the accord he had made with Seneschal Rogan and was determined he would not be the one to break it.
The hum of chatter filled the hall, and Regulus and his warriors sat around their table in silence. There was no hunt to plan, no strategy to formulate, so why all this talking? Regulus disliked these Coldlanders all the more for their incessant need to waggle their tongues.
With little fanfare, a cauldron of broth was brought in. The other mercenaries quickly stood and formed a line, but Regulus and his men had no need to join it. Rogan had been happy enough to satisfy the Zatani’s specific needs.
On a platter, held between two of Rogan’s slaves, came a modest pile of meat. The slaves dumped it unceremoniously on the table amongst the Zatani and left as fast as they could. Regulus regarded their meagre and unappetising fare. It was scraps, far from fresh, and flies were already beginning to gather about it.
‘This is shit,’ said Kazul.
Hagama nodded in agreement.
Unabashed, Leandran and Akkula reached forward to take their fill. Janto sat back, his appetite clearly fled.
‘Eat,’ said Regulus. ‘We need to keep our strength. There will be fighting soon enough. Once the enemy comes and we have tasted our first victory there will be meat to fill us all.’
Kazul reached forward reluctantly and took a hunk, more bone than meat.
‘How much longer do we have to be caged here?’ Hagama said. ‘I’m sick of this place.’
‘As are we all,’ Regulus replied, fast losing patience. ‘But I believe it will not be long. Now eat.’
Hagama glared at the pile of greying animal carcass before digging in. They ate quickly, taking no relish. They were hunters all, used to the warmth of a fresh kill. They were not carrion eaters other than in times of famine. But Regulus guessed a famine was exactly what they had to endure. For now.
As they ate, Regulus could hear the Coldlanders talking. ‘Animals’ they called the Zatani, ‘beasts’ or words Regulus had never heard before, though their unpleasant meaning was clear. He ignored them. His warriors could not speak the Coldlander tongue and it was best they did not know what was being said about them.
Once they had finished, Regulus sat back and waited. He tried to block out the noise from the mercenaries, concentrating on the sound of Leandran sucking the marrow from a bone, but it was no use. He was under no illusions: he and his warriors were trapped in here with a rabble that might turn on them at any moment.