The Shattered Crown

THIRTY-EIGHT

Regulus had always known that coming north might be perilous, that he was most likely risking his life and that of his warriors. But back then the worst he could have imagined was an ignoble death, with no one to sing the tales of his passing — a quiet death in a far-off land where he might never find his way to the stars.

He was forced to admit, his current fate was far worse.

They were locked in a dank and cavernous chamber, chained and humiliated. Rage burned inside him, fuelling the need to rend and tear his way out, to restore his honour in a swathe of blood and corpses. How he would make these Coldlanders pay for such an insult — how they would suffer.

He knew such thoughts were useless though; a waste of his waning energy. There was nothing he could do but wait while his fate was decided for him. No matter how much the fire inside demanded a blood reckoning there was little he could do to quench it.

His warriors shared his desire for vengeance, that much was clear. They wanted nothing more than to join him in the righteous destruction of their captors. Each one would gladly have given his life in pursuit of such retribution.

All but Janto Sho.

Regulus could see him staring from the shadows, what little light that encroached on the dungeon cell illuminating his eyes like baleful blue stars in the black night. Though he was silent, it was obvious he hated Regulus for bringing them so low, for leading them to this ignoble end. Janto had pledged himself to Regulus, fully expecting to die in the repayment of his life-debt, but now he was to die chained and dishonoured. Regulus could hardly blame Janto for his ire.

‘How long have we been here?’ asked Akkula, staring up at the barred window high above them.

‘What does it matter?’ Hagama replied. Regulus was sure the warrior would have displayed more annoyance had he the vigour to do so.

Akkula clearly did not sense the anger in his fellow warrior’s voice.

‘I’m starving,’ he said.

‘We’re all starving,’ growled Hagama. ‘Now be silent.’

‘Both of you be silent,’ said Leandran. ‘We have to save our strength. The opportunity for escape will arrive soon enough. If the Coldlanders wanted to kill us we’d be dead already.’

‘Escape?’ said Hagama, leaning towards Leandran, the chain that tethered him to the wall pulling tight. ‘We are in chains. How will we escape? As for the intentions of the Coldlanders, none of us can guess what that scum has in mind. Perhaps they are gathering the people of the city that they might kill us in front of a baying crowd.’

‘If you think like that, you’re already beaten,’ said Leandran. ‘An opportunity will present itself in the fullness of time. Just wait and see.’

‘You’re an old fool!’ Hagama snarled, baring his teeth.

‘Leandran is right,’ Regulus said, staring down the warrior. ‘We must stay alert. Fighting amongst ourselves will only serve us ill. There will be time for fighting soon enough.’

Regulus hoped that was true. If his warriors did not find something to kill soon, they could end up turning on one another.

And why? Why would that be? Because you have brought them to this. You dragged them from their homeland to this place of weaklings and cowards, and now they are to be punished for it. You have brought them low — the punishment should be yours alone.

He felt his shame keenly. How Regulus missed the open plains of Equ’un. Things were much simpler there — fight or die. Had he been wrong to flee? Should he have stayed and died with the rest of the Gor’tana faithful to his father?

There was no use lamenting on what could have been. The decision had been made. Regulus took the blame, he hid from nothing. It was small consolation for his warriors though, forced as they were to share his fate.

Janto was still watching him from the dark and Regulus began to wonder what went on in that head. He must have loathed Regulus, and most likely wanted him dead. If they did manage to escape this place would Janto still be loyal? Would he still honour his debt?

He and Janto glared at one another for some time, ignoring the cold wind howling past the window and the damp rhythmic dripping of moisture from the ceiling, until finally Janto lowered his eyes and moved further into the shadow. A small victory at least.

A noise outside the cell roused the Zatani as they sat in chains. Bolts slid back, the sound of a key in a lock and the door was thrust open. Regulus squinted in the light of torches as several figures entered the cell.

‘Don’t give us no trouble,’ said a voice.

Regulus stood up, his warriors doing the same. As his eyes adjusted to the glaring light he saw that the room was filled with a dozen northern soldiers in green jackets. They looked apprehensive, afraid, even though Regulus and his warriors were chained to the walls.

‘What now?’ asked Hagama. ‘Is this our chance?’

Regulus assessed the men who had come for them. They were afraid — their weapons drawn, though none of them moved to attack. If there were to be any chance for Regulus and his warriors to make it out of this alive, they had to be careful. If they attacked now, chained as they were, they’d be slaughtered.

‘Do not fight them,’ Regulus said.

One of the soldiers held out a wooden pole, on the end was a shackle large enough for Regulus’ neck.

‘We don’t want no trouble,’ one of the soldiers repeated.

But what trouble could Regulus give? He and his warriors were at the mercy of these northern fools. Subject to their whims. The shame of it cut him deep, but still he did not resist as they secured the shackle around his throat. His chains were unfastened from the walls, and between three men he was guided from the cell.

They were not rough. These men did not drag him, but somehow that made it worse. That he was being coaxed like livestock, and allowing it to happen, only added to his humiliation.

Behind him he could hear the noise of his warriors receiving similar treatment. He could only hope they would heed his commands. Perhaps they would, perhaps not. Janto was unlikely to go without a fight; Regulus was unsure whether he wanted that or not. Perhaps one of them should at least show some defiance.

Regulus had to demonstrate wisdom, though. Had to show his leadership by example.

As he was conveyed down the darkened corridors, Regulus was taken back to his earliest memories, to a time when the Aeslanti ruled Equ’un with a clawed fist. To a time when they had conquered every tribe that stood against them. The Zatani had been a slave race then — in thrall to beasts.

Regulus had been only a child during that dark age, but he could still remember what it had been like before the Slave Uprisings. Before the Steel King had given gifts of Coldlander steel and sown rebellion in every tribe.

Now Regulus was slave once more. Now he was in thrall, not to beasts but to men. What would his father have said if he could see the shame Regulus had brought on the Gor’tana? A prince of the Zatani meekly leading his warriors into bondage?

Regulus decided not to think on it. Better he looked to finding a solution to their current predicament before one of his warriors did something they could not bargain or fight their way out of.

The corridor widened, and Regulus found himself flanked by yet more Coldlanders. As he approached the end, a door was flung open revealing a large chamber from which Regulus could hear the sounds of raised voices.

When he was dragged into the brightly lit chamber, he realised only doom awaited.

The room was huge and circular, tiered rows of seats rose up all around him, angry jeering faces staring down as though this were some arena and he about to fight. Yet the floor was not covered with blood-spattered sand, but hard stone, and there was little room for combat.

Steel rings were set into the stone slabs beneath his feet, and the chains that held Regulus’ wrists were quickly tethered to them. Behind him, one of the soldiers who had conveyed him here still held the pole that secured the shackle around his neck.

As the rest of his warriors were brought in, the crowd’s baying began to reach new heights of frenzy. Regulus could see that among them were mercenaries, their livery identifying them as the Hallowed Shields, the Midnight Falcons, the Scarlet Company — all leering down with hate. Every one of them had lost men in the fight with the Zatani. Regulus could not blame them for their anger. But neither could he forgive his captors for this ordeal. If there was a dispute then it should be settled by combat in the warrior tradition, not like this.

A robed man stood waiting for them. He held his hands up to the gathered mob and reluctantly its baying grew silent. Slowly, the robed figure drew back his hood. He was bald and bore a tattoo above his right eye, a sigil Regulus did not recognise.

The silence became uneasy as he fixed Regulus with a stare, bereft of any emotion.

‘You are charged with heinous crimes,’ he said in a voice flat and impartial. ‘You have invaded our lands. Raided our villages, butchered our livestock.’ Regulus bristled at the false allegations. He and his men had done no such thing, even though it had been well within their capabilities to do so. ‘Then, after entering Steelhaven under the false guise of peace, you murdered men who would have otherwise defended this city.’ At his words the mob surrounding them began to shout in agreement, some demanding justice, others demanding only execution.

‘What are they saying?’ asked Hagama.

Regulus could not answer him. How was he to say they were being accused of crimes they had not committed? He was the one who had brought them to this place. It was Regulus who had subjected them to this.

‘It is the assertion of the Inquisition that you were sent here as agents of the Elharim invader Amon Tugha. That your mission was to sabotage the city from within, to do as much damage as possible in order to disrupt Steelhaven’s defences.’

Regulus wanted to roar his defiance, but chained as he was he could do nothing. Perhaps they would have a chance to prove their innocence. Regulus had been taught little of the customs of the Clawless Tribes by his father but he knew something of their laws. They sometimes observed the traditions of trial by combat, but otherwise a lord or other elected nobleman would represent an accused party. Surely there would be some way to dispute these allegations. Surely someone would be their arbiter.

‘The evidence against you is clear. Six men lie dead, twice that number wounded. No ally of the Free States would do so much harm to its people. Only an enemy, under pretence of friendship.’

‘What are they saying?’ Hagama demanded, this time his voice was raised high above that of the hooded man. Caught up in his rage, Akkula and Kazul roared along with him, cries of anger and defiance. Though Regulus was proud of their boldness, it only served to incense the crowd, who shouted back, howling like dogs, some spitting and throwing insults Regulus recognised only too well.

The robed man held his arms up again. Hagama, Kazul and Akkula fell silent as their cries of defiance grew hoarse.

‘Confessions,’ he said. The single word echoed around the circular chamber. ‘Perhaps, savage, you will demonstrate some shred of honour and confess your crimes?’

‘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.