Regulus looked up to see a hooded figure he recognised. Rogan, he had called himself. The man was pointing an accusing finger at the Zatani.
‘To your feet,’ Regulus ordered, and his warriors moved to stand beside him. Janto’s eyes were ablaze, his lust for battle far from sated.
One of the warriors in bronze, his helm bearing two mighty wings, took a step forward. ‘These men have just helped us defeat a foe that would have murdered us all, Seneschal. You cannot seriously want them clapped in irons?’
‘They are dangerous. Murderers,’ said Rogan. ‘I demand that-’
‘Demand?’ said the warrior. ‘You demand?’
Regulus could see the other men in bronze moving to their leader’s side, as ready for another fight as Janto was.
‘I think they’ve proved their loyalty,’ said a voice behind him.
Regulus saw it was Nobul Jacks who had spoken. He could not help but like this man. Could not help but think he was as honourable as his name suggested.
‘This proves nothing. These creatures are dangerous enemies of the Free States,’ said Rogan. ‘They have been condemned.’
‘They’ve shown where their allegiance lies,’ said Nobul. ‘Look.’ He gestured at the fallen monster.
It was then the top of the amphitheatre exploded in a shower of stone.
FORTY-SIX
Merrick pulled her up the worn stone stairs and Janessa clung to his hand as if her life depended on it. They came out onto another platform. Half the wall had collapsed and she could see out onto her city. It may as well have been a thousand miles away for all the good it would do her — there was no way down but for a hundred-foot drop.
‘We have to go back,’ Janessa said.
Merrick looked around him, breathing heavily, his eyes wide. He knew they were trapped. ‘You’re right,’ he said.
He made his way back down the stairs but stopped suddenly as a figure made its way up. Janessa could barely look, could barely regard those stone-cold eyes without feeling their ice in her heart. There was no warmth about this man, just the chill of death.
‘You have led me a merry dance,’ said the Father of Killers in a voice like silk on steel. ‘But it is now over.’
‘Not another step,’ Merrick said, standing before Janessa.
The Father of Killers smiled, but there was no humour there.
‘You have no weapon. There is nothing you can do but die.’
Merrick backed away from the old man and the sword he carried that was dripping blood onto the stone. Janessa’s heart gave a sickening lurch as she thought of Odaka fighting the Father of Killers so that they might flee — that the blood on that blade could well be his.
‘I don’t suppose you’d be willing to fight me unarmed?’ Merrick said hopefully.
The old man’s smile was gone as quick as it had come. He raised his sword, and Janessa held her breath.
Something clattered up the stairs. The Father of Killers turned to face the young man who had appeared, his face flushed, his robes dishevelled. Janessa recognised him as the Magistra’s apprentice. The young boy rushed between Merrick and the Father of Killers.
‘What are you doing, lad?’ Merrick said.
‘Trust me,’ replied the apprentice, taking a deep breath.
Then he screamed at the old man as if it might blow him off the platform.
Nothing happened.
The Father of Killer’s face twisted in frustration. He stepped forward, his blade poised to strike.
‘Get out of the fucking way,’ Merrick barked, pushing the boy aside. The point of the assassin’s blade took him in the centre of his breastplate, the keen edge slicing through the steel plate as if it were parchment.
Janessa watched in horror as Merrick staggered to one side, clutching at his chest, his brow furrowed in pain. He was clearly trying to remain standing, but there was no strength left in his legs.
The young lad’s face was twisted in fear and disbelief.
The Father of Killers ignored them both, his attention now fully fixed on Janessa.
‘Shall we continue?’ he said, like he was asking her to dance.
It was obvious no one else was coming to help Janessa. There was the sound of roaring from the arena below. The sound of weapons and battle. The rest of her Sentinels were all too preoccupied to save her now. The daemonic creature raised in the amphitheatre had been a diversion, the real threat hidden all along. Janessa had to admire how clever a move that had been.
‘This will not seal Amon Tugha’s victory,’ she said, trying to stand up straight and proud.
‘No,’ said the old man. ‘But it will help.’ He took a step forward then stopped, looking at her askance. He regarded her with curiosity, as though he was weighing her up, judging her worthiness. ‘Just one final question. What did you do to my son, River, to turn him against me?’
Janessa looked deep into those cold blue eyes — eyes without mercy, the last eyes she would ever see. Then she smiled. ‘I offered him love,’ she said. ‘Do you even understand what that is?’
The Father of Killers narrowed his eyes. ‘Do I understand what that is? I raised that boy. I taught him to be a man far greater than he would ever have been without me. I gave him abilities no southron has ever learned. I honoured him, and you ruined it all.’
‘And I would do it again,’ she breathed. And at that moment, she realised she would. That despite everything, despite the shame being with child might bring, she would do it all again, go through a hundred such trials, risk death a thousand times just for one more night in River’s arms.
‘By now he is dead,’ said the old man. ‘You can join him.’
Janessa closed her eyes.
‘Just a moment,’ said an old and tired voice from the stairwell. Janessa looked to see The Father of Killers glance around. If he was frustrated at the constant interruptions, he didn’t show it.
Magistra Gelredida pulled herself up onto the last stair and breathed a sigh. Her apprentice moved from where he was cowering, but she raised a weary hand and waved him off.
‘Come to die with your queen, crone?’ said the Father of Killers.
‘Hardly,’ she replied, leaning heavily against the wall.
The old man’s laugh was like the hiss of a serpent.
Without warning Gelredida threw something towards him. Janessa couldn’t see what it was, couldn’t make it out as it soared through the air. Without even having to look, the Father of Killers brought his sword up to slice whatever she had flung at him in two.
Then the rooftop exploded.
Janessa was flung backwards, blinded, deafened. When eventually she could open her eyes she saw the top of the amphitheatre had been blown off. Debris lay all around and a thick pall of dust rose up all around her. The dress she wore was torn and filthy and her ears were ringing.
The young apprentice was beside her, his face covered in dust. He was speaking to her, but at first she couldn’t hear him.
‘Are you all right, Majesty?’ she finally heard.
‘Yes,’ she replied, staggering to her feet. ‘Find your mistress.’
The boy nodded, wandering off into the dust to find Gelredida.
Janessa suddenly thought of Merrick, lying somewhere in the carnage, bleeding to death and she rushed into the dissipating cloud.
There was movement, and she stumbled forward, thinking it was Merrick. When she saw the drab and torn robes she stopped dead. The Father of Killers dragged himself along but one of his arms, his swordarm she assumed, was missing. He was pulling himself towards what remained of his sword; a broken hilt with a shattered blade. Before he could reach it Janessa stooped and picked it up.
The old man rolled over to look at her. She recoiled at the state of his face — half of it was a bloody mess but the other half filled her with as much horror. His eyes were no longer blue, instead shining with a gold light. His skin had grown less wrinkled and his beard had vanished to reveal smooth skin and a strong jaw. Though still unmistakeably the Father of Killers, he who had once been an old man was now youthful and, were it not for the injuries, might once have been handsome.