Seeing how fatigued his warriors were, he at last ordered them to set up camp. Leandran barked instructions, sending off one scout to hunt down some game and another to search for firewood. Much as Regulus would have liked to help, it would not do for the tribe leader to engage in menial tasks. Crouching down he unfastened his greatsword, rested it across his knees and watched.
As his warriors busied themselves, Regulus felt a presence at his shoulder. Turning, he made out the powerful frame of Janto Sho standing in the shadows, his dark skin making him almost invisible in the waning light. His hair was shaven at the temples, and his remaining locks tied back in a knot. Piercing eyes shone out of the darkness, sky blue in stark contrast to the bright green of the other Gor’tana. For a moment the two men stared at each other, then Janto moved forward to crouch beside Regulus.
‘You think they will accept us, those weak, clawless fools?’ said the warrior, fingering the handles of his twin axes.
‘They were not weak when they defeated the Aeslanti at the gate. And a king who turns away willing warriors is a fool,’ Regulus replied.
‘But what do we really know of them and their ways? They could be our enemies.’
Regulus raised an eyebrow. ‘As once you were mine, Janto of the Sho’tana.’
The dark warrior had no answer to that.
Hunting alone out in the grasslands Janto Sho had found that he himself was being hunted by three rogue Aeslanti. The beasts had stalked Janto for half a day, cornering him when he was too fatigued to flee further. Had Regulus not come to his aid he would surely have been torn to pieces. The pair of them had fought side by side, killing two of the Aeslanti before the last fled. That night they had eaten well of their slaughtered foes, and Janto had pledged his life-debt to Regulus, despite them being from differing tribes. Janto had remained in Regulus’ warparty ever since, waiting for a chance to repay that debt. So far, no opportunity had arisen, and Regulus knew Janto was growing to resent his obligation. There was no guarantee of his loyalty once that debt was paid, and so Regulus was loath to turn his back on the warrior.
‘The men of the Clawless Tribes are in need of warriors and their king most of all,’ Regulus continued. ‘A man does not sit on a throne for so long and not gather enemies. If we can prove to him our loyalty, then he will accept us.’
‘You are so sure?’
Regulus shook his head. ‘No. But what alternative do we have?’
Janto’s blue eyes suddenly lit up. ‘We make a stand here. We fight. We die with honour.’
‘And who will tell of it, Janto? Who will sing of our glorious defeat? Might we not just be forgotten? That is not the legacy I would leave.’
Regulus found himself fiercely gripping the sword that lay across his knees. Though he disagreed with Janto, a part of him that was eager to take his advice — to stand and fight. Yet it would only end with his passage to the stars and another life, whilst there was so much he had still to achieve in this one.
He had to exact vengeance before he stood before Ancient Gorm.
Their scout, Akkula, came running from his post up at the valley mouth and the two warriors rose as he approached.
‘They’re coming,’ said Akkula breathlessly. ‘The Kel’tana hunters are closing in on us. No more than two leagues across the valley.’
Regulus turned to his men who had already stopped making camp. He saw their exhaustion and felt their pain, their yearning for this constant flight to end. Yes, they could make a stand here, could even wait in ambush, but more than likely they would be defeated. It would not be a heroic end. If they continued to flee, eventually there might just be some opportunity for glory, a chance to salvage a spark of honour and pride.
‘We travel through the night,’ Regulus said.
Some of his men showed their displeasure, but they all gathered their weapons obediently. Leandran led them off once more — the oldest amongst them seeming to hold the most vigour.
‘We can’t keep running forever,’ said Janto, before Regulus started after his warriors. ‘They’ll catch us eventually.’
Regulus looked to him with steel in his green eyes. ‘Then you will get your wish, Janto Sho. And we will all receive the deaths we deserve.’
Janto held his stare for some moments before lowering his eyes and running after the rest. After a last glance back to the mountains, towards his relentless pursuers, Regulus followed.
THREE
They had told Janessa that no seat of power was built for comfort. After so many days on Skyhelm’s stone throne she could well believe it. She was Queen Janessa now, Sovereign of Steelhaven and the Free States, Protector of Teutonia and Keeper of the Faith of Arlor. But she didn’t feel much different. How could she suddenly be more regal? Prouder of bearing? As wise as her father? People now expected so much of her. Janessa only hoped that she would find in herself some of her father’s wisdom.
For weeks now she had struggled with the responsibilities of statehood and monarchy, and demands from men of importance who seemed reluctant to make their own decisions. Janessa found it ironic that such men, who had spent their lives striving to attain power, had seemingly buckled under the demands of that power, needing to defer tough decisions to a higher authority. She guessed most of them desired less the responsibilities of office and more its inevitable rewards.
Janessa herself had hardly wished for this great responsibility, but for her there had been no choice.
There had been entreaties from all across the Free States: from Lord Governor Argus of Coppergate and from the High Abbot in Ironhold, both terrified the Khurtas would besiege their cities; from Lord Cadran of Braega, or more likely his aunts who held the power there, for more troops to defend their lands as the Khurtas rampaged through. But no troops could be spared — the bannermen of Steelhaven had been forced into a rearguard action, only partially hampering the tide of savages as they laid waste to the land. Even Ankavern and Silverwall, places far from the onslaught, had badgered her for more men and supplies. Why could these places not organise their own defences? Had they not recognised that this massive wave of death and devastation had little interest in their cities? Its goal was to stab at the heart of the Free States — to destroy Steelhaven itself.
The weight of all this had almost crushed her, but Janessa had been determined to suffer it. She was lucky enough to be safe, for now, here in Skyhelm, while the people of the Free States, beyond the walls of the nation’s capital, were being butchered by a merciless enemy. Her brave troops were laying down their lives to buy time for the city’s defences to be bolstered before the inevitable attack.
And everything she did was subjected to the scrutiny of her court. For three hundred years the business of the Crown had been conducted in public — or at least as public as the great throne room got. It was always thronging with courtiers, nobles minor and major, an endless line of chancellors and chamberlains and stewards, most of whom Janessa did not recognise.
There was one face she did know, however. That of a woman who always seemed to be lurking, assessing her every decision, judging her and finding her wanting at every turn. Baroness Isabelle Magrida.
Oh, for the days of the Sword Kings, when they could execute their enemies, and sometimes their friends, with impunity.
Janessa sat patiently, trying to appear regal. She was relatively confident she looked the part, and did not expect to be told otherwise. Her short time as queen had shown her the sycophantic depths to which any man could sink and she had observed changes in the attitude of many who surrounded her. Only Odaka Du’ur remained the same; stern and stalwart, her constant rock. Without him she wasn’t sure how she would have coped. But at this moment, in Odaka’s absence, her only advisor was Rogan, the Seneschal of the Inquisition, who stood at her side, presiding over the throne room like a vulture over a rotting carcass.