More magicks she supposed — the old man merely a guise, merely another Elharim trick.
‘It appears I have failed,’ he said, his voice weak.
‘It appears you have,’ said Janessa, looking down at him without pity. This was the man who had tortured her lover throughout his life, the man who would have seen her dead. He deserved no pity.
‘When my master Amon Tugha comes to take your head tell him …’ He took a pained breath. ‘Tell him …’
Janessa thrust the broken sword into the Father of Killers’ throat.
‘I will tell him nothing,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘He will know only that you failed. Your body will be burned and no one will care you ever existed.’
The light in those eyes slowly died, turning from gold to the colour of ash, as the Father of Killers’ life ebbed from the wound in his throat. Janessa watched him and something in her fed on it. Something in her enjoyed watching him die.
She stood back then. The air had nearly cleared, the noise from down in the arena gone silent. Janessa looked around, desperate to find Merrick. She searched frantically until she found him beneath a pile of rubble.
Falling to her knees, she moved the detritus from his body. He was still alive, if barely. The wound in his chest was still pulsing blood, and a puddle had formed and begun to congeal beneath him.
At her touch his eyes flickered open. ‘I wasn’t expecting that,’ he managed to say, a trickle of blood dripping from the side of his lips as he spoke.
‘Don’t try to talk,’ Janessa replied, before calling out for help. The apprentice was helping Magistra Gelredida to her feet and Janessa looked at her pleadingly.
The old woman looked down and shook her head. ‘There’s little can be done,’ she said and turned to leave.
Janessa looked down to see Merrick’s eyes had glazed, his lids seemed heavy and he was struggling to keep them open.
‘You have done a great thing, Ryder. Your sacrifice will not be forgotten.’
At that, Gelredida turned and looked with curiosity at the dying man. ‘Did you say “Ryder”?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Janessa replied. ‘Merrick Ryder.’
‘Step back,’ said the old woman, kneeling beside Merrick’s body.
Janessa rose to her feet and watched as the old woman carefully removed the scarlet gloves from her hands. The flesh beneath was black, the veins raised in a hideous spider-web pattern.
‘Waylian, help,’ said Gelredida as she began to unbuckle Merrick’s breastplate.
The boy obeyed, and as soon as Merrick’s armour was taken off the magistra laid her hideous hands on his wound. Quietly she began to chant, invoking whatever powers magickers channelled to carry out their deeds.
As Janessa watched, armoured figures came up the stairs desperate to find her. They tried to usher her away but, confident the danger had passed, she chose to watch in fascination as the old witch did her work.
In moments Merrick’s eyes fluttered open and Gelredida reclined, stretching a crick from her back.
‘He will live,’ she said. ‘Waylian, if you please.’ With that the apprentice helped her to her feet.
‘Thank you,’ Janessa said as the old woman walked past.
‘Don’t thank me yet,’ said Gelredida, her expression grim. ‘This is just the beginning.’
FORTY-SEVEN
Nobul watched them as they feasted. It was just him and the five Zatani in the empty courtyard. They were beasts, giants, ferocious and untamed. Nobul had seen them up close before, had fought them, killed them, but that had been a long time ago. Back then he’d been scared half out of his wits, but you forgot all about the fear when the fighting started. There was nothing to fight now though — these men had given him their loyalty. Now all he had to do was watch them, and Nobul wasn’t sure whether to be scared or not.
Their leader, Regulus, had offered him a life-debt. Of course he’d refused. Nobul had no more right over the warrior’s life than he did anyone’s. These men owed him nothing. Nevertheless, they’d wanted to stay close to him, probably as he was the only one who’d shown them any kind of compassion. If you could call setting them free to fight off some magick-spawned monster ‘compassion’.
The rest of the Greencoats were still at the amphitheatre, cleaning up the mess. Nobul was grateful for that, glad he hadn’t had to hang around; he’d seen enough of what those magickers could do to last him a lifetime. The less he had to do with all that shit the better.
Not that dealing with this was any more appealing: what in the hells was he supposed to do with five Zatani warriors?
Regulus rose from the feasting, wiping his mouth on his arm. He turned and fixed Nobul with a determined look. But then these Zatani always looked determined. They always looked fierce.
Regulus crossed the courtyard to where Nobul stood. The warrior moved with an assured grace that Nobul marvelled at. He had never realised how impressive looking these creatures were, especially not when he’d fought them at Bakhaus Gate. You didn’t have the time to appreciate those kinds of things when you were trying not to get killed.
‘We must speak, Nobul Jacks,’ said the Zatani.
‘Now’s as good a time as any,’ he replied.
‘I like you, Nobul Jacks. You speak plain. Just like a Gor’tana.’
‘Thanks.’ I think.
‘My warriors and I have had much to discuss since you freed us. And we have decided to leave this place, unless we have certain guarantees.’
‘Leave? After all you’ve been through to come here and fight for this city?’
‘It is what we’ve been through that has made us come to this decision. We have been treated worse than animals — as enemies — when we only came to this place to offer our fealty. If we are to stay and fight for this city, concessions will have to be made.’
‘I don’t have the authority to-’
‘If you cannot grant what we ask, then we will go. If we are forced to stay we will fight you.’
Nobul swallowed hard. ‘What do you want?’
‘First, we have travelled far. A journey that required we leave our armour behind. If we are to stand atop your walls and defend your people, we will need armour — Zatani armour, built by a craftsman.’
A smile crept across Nobul’s face. He had abandoned his forge months ago, yet his hand still itched for a hammer. It was unlikely there was another man in the city who knew what Zatani armour looked like and could have forged it with his skill.
‘That I can do,’ he said with confidence.
Regulus nodded his thanks. ‘The second demand is more important. We have lost a brother. A warrior of our tribe. We must have recompense for that.’
‘All right. I’m not sure there’s much left in the Crown coffers but-’
‘No, you misunderstand. We do not require your worthless coins. We need a life for his life. A sacrifice as you might call it.’
Nobul felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He asked the question but already knew the answer. ‘You mean like a goat or a sheep?’
‘No.’
Of course ‘no’. Like it was ever going to be that bloody easy.
‘There’s no way that could happen. We don’t just offer people up for sacrifice. That’s not how things are done around here.’
‘I understand, Nobul Jacks. You do not respect your gods or your dead as we do. It is no matter. We shall leave, then.’ Regulus laid a huge dark hand on Nobul’s shoulder. ‘But I wonder if you might do us one last kindness. We would send our brother off to the stars.’ He gestured to the body of the Zatani they had wrapped in linen. ‘We would require a pyre.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Nobul replied.
With that, Regulus returned to his fellow warriors.
Nobul continued to watch them as the sun went down. The air grew colder, but Nobul chose to ignore the chill. There’d be plenty of cold nights to come, may as well get used to them.