‘Ordeal by fire,’ shouted a voice.
‘Put ’em to the fuckin’ question,’ bellowed another.
Again the robed man’s arms were raised for silence. Then he stared straight at Regulus.
‘What say you, beast? Do you confess your crimes?’
Regulus knew that all his denials would be mocked and ignored. That a ‘confession’ was not what they wanted or cared for. They just wanted his blood.
‘I came here to fight,’ Regulus said, the strength in his voice silencing the onlookers. ‘To defend this city alongside its people. To bring glory and victory to your queen. I have nothing to confess.’
‘Nothing to confess?’ said the robed man. ‘Then we would ask none from you. We need no confession from animals.’
The crowd began to shout again, stamping their feet, the noise almost deafening. This was madness. Regulus strained to control his rage as his warriors each roared in defiance.
‘All we need now is the sentence,’ shouted the man over the din.
On a raised gallery, Regulus saw a door open. A second robed figure appeared from within, his face hidden beneath a dark hood. He stood for what seemed endless moments, waiting for the noise to abate, waiting for the sound of the Zatani to die down.
When all was silent once more, the tattooed man looked up and asked, ‘What sentence shall be passed?’
The hooded figure at first said nothing, milking the silence. Regulus already knew the answer and simply offered a defiant glare.
‘Death,’ came the single word from the hooded man.
This time it was the crowd’s turn to roar.
THIRTY-NINE
The chamber was in upheaval. Men screaming in anger. Equ’un warriors bellowing their lungs out. It reminded Nobul of days long past. Days on the battlefield, sweating and bleeding and biting back the fear.
He held a chain that bound one of the Zatani. Nobul used all his strength, but still struggled to hold just that one arm. Any other time he’d have put it down to how tired he was, what he’d been through over the past few days, but he knew that wasn’t the case. These were savages from the plains of Equ’un, former slaves of the Aeslanti, tempered in the fighting pits of the beast-men. Nobul was just glad they were in chains.
The Greencoats dragged them from the chamber. Now the sentence was passed it looked like the place might erupt at any minute. Kilgar led the way, shouting for them to move as fast as they could and to hold steady. It would only take one of these killers to escape its shackles and there’d be the hells to pay.
Nobul had seen first hand the ferocity of the Zatani and their prowess in battle at Bakhaus Gate. The Aeslanti had sent some of their Zatani slaves into the fray first — shock troops to soften up the Teutonian vanguard. They were formidable opponents and Nobul had no desire to fight them again. He’d been young and fit then — hungry for blood and glory. Now he felt every year weighing down on him as he dragged the raging warrior to his cell, and all Nobul’s experience did nothing to curb the fear.
Back in the old days, when he was in his prime, he’d been scared almost shitless as he faced the enemy in the valley at Bakhaus. Now that feeling came rushing back to him. As the noise echoed down the corridor it wasn’t victory Nobul remembered. It was standing beside a hundred other lads, some of them shaking, some of them weeping. It was gripping his hammer so tight he thought he’d never be able to let it go. It was looking all about him, trying to find somewhere to run but knowing there was nowhere.
No amount of victories would ever scratch out those memories. Not a thousand blokes patting you on the back, shouting their thanks, buying you drinks. The years had served to dull the memories well enough, but now here he was, reminding himself all over again what he’d faced.
They eventually managed to get the Zatani back to his cell and with difficulty chained him up once more. Bilgot gingerly unfastened the shackle from the warrior’s neck and they stood back as the rest were brought in. There were six in all, most of them powerful looking. One appeared young and another very old, his head shaved, his dark flesh patchy, though he still looked as though he could do some damage. Even the weakest of these bastards was more than a match for your average man.
The noise in the room was deafening as they secured the warriors. Nobul gripped his short blade, looking for any sign of them escaping but there was none — though they made a lot of noise, the Greencoats managed to chain them up without incident.
‘Right, everyone out,’ said Kilgar.
None of the lads complained at that, practically falling over one another to get out of the door.
Nobul backed away as the Zatani thrashed against their bonds. It was taking all his nerve not to turn tail and run — though they were chained, these warriors still looked ferocious. He knew they were a fearsome enemy, but also a proud race. Something inside began to pity them, despite their ferocity. Something inside made him feel this just wasn’t right.
Nobul was the last one out of the cell, and as he was leaving, he caught the gaze of one of the Zatani. This one wasn’t roaring his anger, but was watching him intently. His black hair hung long over his shoulders and he was the biggest and most impressive of the group. It had been this one that spoke Teutonian and protested their innocence back in the inquisition hall. This one that stood proudly and defiantly while his fellows bellowed in rage.
As Nobul looked back at the warrior, he saw the keen intelligence in his green eyes. Nobul glanced at Kilgar, who beckoned him to leave, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. Over a decade ago he’d faced warriors like this, had killed them, but he could sense this one was no threat to him. The Zatani had only been his enemy because they were slaves to the Aeslanti. After gaining their freedom it was said they had turned on their former masters, defeating them in a savage war. Perhaps they were not the enemy after all. Perhaps they didn’t deserve such summary judgement. Surely what the Inquisition had done to these men was wrong.
‘I’m sorry,’ Nobul said, before he’d even realised it.
After a moment, the warrior responded. ‘Keep your pity, Coldlander. We have no need for it.’
As their leader spoke, the rest of the Zatani fell silent.
‘Come on,’ demanded Kilgar, beckoning again, more impatiently.
Nobul stood his ground, though he realised how irrational it was. ‘Close the door,’ he replied, still staring at the dark-skinned warrior.
‘Are you fucking insane?’
‘Close the door,’ repeated Nobul.
Without a word, Kilgar slammed the door to the cell shut and locked it.
The warrior watched him, his green eyes revealing no emotion.
‘I’m Nobul Jacks.’
‘Regulus of the Gor’tana. Prince of Equ’un,’ the Zatani replied.
‘It’s good to meet you, Regulus of the Gor’tana. And I don’t pity you, but I am still sorry.’
‘I understand, Nobul Jacks. But your sorrow will not see us freed from this place.’
‘No, I reckon it won’t. Not much I can do about that.’
Regulus looked forlorn, beaten, and it made Nobul pity him all the more.
‘To think, we came to fight for your queen,’ said the warrior. ‘To bring her glory. To bring death to her enemies. Now we will be slaughtered like livestock.’
‘Why would you do that? Why come all the way north to do your killing? There must be plenty of killing to be done back south.’
‘There is indeed death aplenty back in my homeland. But the glory is here, in the north. Fighting to save the city of our liberator.’
‘You mean King Cael? He’s dead and gone.’ And some of us didn’t shed too many tears over it neither.
‘So we have learned. Surely all the more reason to defend his kith and kin?’