The Shattered Crown

EIGHT

The mountains were far behind them, their peaks visible above the endless forest that spread out to the south. For five days Regulus had pushed them on through the densely packed trees expecting the enemy to fall upon them at any moment, but they had made it through and out onto the Coldlands of the Clawless Tribes.

This land of rolling hills was strange to them. They saw low stone walls and hedgerows and streams flowing strongly. It was in stark contrast to the endless flat plains of Equ’un, where one might travel for days without sign of water.

Leandran moved up beside Regulus as he stood surveying the land before them.

‘We have to keep moving,’ said the old warrior with a shiver. Regulus knew the chill air was creeping into his old bones. None of them were used to cold like this, and the venerable Leandran was suffering most.

‘I know,’ said Regulus, looking back at his warriors. They were all weary. All tired of this ceaseless flight. ‘Have we perhaps done enough running, old friend?’

A snaggletooth smile crossed Leandran’s lips. ‘I’ll stand beside you, whatever you decide. You know that.’

‘I know.’ Regulus patted Leandran firmly on the arm.

With a sigh, he scanned the terrain for a defensible position. There was nothing that might afford them an ambush, no construction that they might barricade. Only hills on whose upper slopes they could sit and await their enemy.

Regulus glanced back towards the forest. It would not be long before their pursuers burst out of those trees. Was there any chance his small band could find the Steel King of the Clawless Tribes before they were hunted down?

Regulus doubted it.

And if they must fight, far better to die making a stand than to be cut down in ignominious flight. As much as he had wanted to escape to the north and restore his reputation, that opportunity had passed.

With a bitter smile he thought of what he might have achieved. The victories he could have won in honour of his father and the Gor’tana. But best not to dwell on that, it would only fill him with sorrow.

‘There,’ he said abruptly to his warriors, pointing to a hill that looked down towards the forest. ‘We’ll rest there.’

‘Even though they must be right behind us?’ said Hagama.

Regulus glared at him with determination. ‘Yes. And with luck they will be.’

As they wearily made their way up the hill, Regulus felt Janto Sho’s presence at his shoulder.

‘We run all this way just to make a stand here, in the cold, in this land far from home?’

‘Would you rather we keep running? That we die from exhaustion? Besides, this is as good a place to die as any,’ Regulus replied.

Janto barked a laugh at that. ‘Aye, you might be right. But what about those tales?’

Regulus shrugged ruefully. How he had wanted to create a legend, to have stories told of him from one side of Equ’un to the other. Then again, perhaps they set too much store by such things.

‘They’ll just have to tell their tales about someone else,’ he replied, without looking around.

No one else spoke as they waited. The day wore on, and while his men rested Regulus kept his eyes fixed on the trees below. Not until the sun had crested the sky, even then bringing little warmth to the day, did their pursuers come into view.

At first there was a single scout, his eyes scanning the ground, searching for tracks. He stopped, tipping his nose to the air to catch their scent, and at that point he saw them waiting. Regulus savoured the scout’s look of panic, visible only for a moment before he fled back into the safety of the trees.

‘On your feet,’ Regulus said, rising and unsheathing his black blade. His warriors did likewise, some of them looking resigned to their fate, though none of them baulked at what was asked of them. Regulus felt a smack of pride at that — though his warriors were few they were loyal to the end. He was reassured by the keen glint in Janto’s eye. The Sho’tana was obviously eager for this to get underway, relishing the prospect of violence.

They did not have to wait long before several figures strode out of the trees. Regulus had not known how many to expect and didn’t know whether to be relieved or not when just twenty broke the treeline. Regulus experienced a brief moment of hope. Though he had only nine, he would have staked his life on the prowess of his warriors.

When he saw who led the hunting party though, Regulus took a blow to his confidence.

At their head stood Gargara, Faro’s conspirator in betrayal. It was Gargara of the Kel’tana who had helped Faro usurp the crown from Regulus’ father. It was he who had led the charge and killed many of his father’s best warriors.

The fierce Kel’tana fixed his glare on Regulus as he led his men up the hill. His eyes dripped hatred, though Regulus had more justification for vengeful fury. Gargara’s reputation went before him; his ruthlessness and strength were legend, but so was his hubris and arrogance. For the briefest moment Regulus saw a way he and his men might yet live.

‘Gor!’ Gargara spat out his name, stopping some feet away flanked by his men, their weapons drawn and claws out. ‘My Lord Faro has put the death mark on you. I am here to see it carried out, but there is no need for your men to suffer. Kneel before me and I’ll make this quick.’

Regulus glanced at his men who, despite their fatigue, looked on with steely determination. ‘My warriors are loyal, Gargara of the Kel’tana. They will stand beside me to the death. I wonder whether you could say the same of yours.’

Gargara tossed his head furiously, his black mane whipping across his face. ‘Enough! I am not here to talk. Kneel before me now or every one of you shall die.’

‘As will many of yours.’ Regulus could see that a number of the men who stood beside Gargara were not so keen on the prospect of battle. Most of them looked as weary as Regulus’ own warriors. ‘But there is a way of cheating the Dark Walker of his sport. A challenge. You and I, Gargara. Tooth and claw.’

Regulus spat his last words with relish, taunting Gargara with the prospect of a duel. If he had hoped the champion of the Kel’tana might be intimidated he was sorely mistaken as Gargara smiled, his eyes lighting up at the prospect, his white fangs flashing in the sunlight.

‘I have killed a hundred pups like you with the claw,’ he replied, unbuckling his sword and axe and letting them drop to the ground. ‘Torn out a score of throats with the tooth. But yours will give particular pleasure, Gor’tana scum.’

Regulus skewered his black blade in the soft earth. ‘Then come,’ he said, his voice a hateful growl. ‘Here is my throat. Come and take it.’

Gargara charged, churning up the ground between them as he raced up the hill. Regulus waited for him to come, letting his hatred roil inside as his claws sprang forth from his fingertips. He bared his fangs, unleashing a roar that more than matched that of Gargara.

They both leapt at one another on that hilltop, encircled by the warriors of both tribes. With a flurry of claw swipes, Gargara took the initiative. He was a mountain of muscle, his flesh scarred and torn from a hundred battles, his deadly reputation well earned. Regulus was hard pressed to avoid his blows, knowing that a single one could tear open his flesh. As Regulus ducked those claws, Gargara’s head shot forward and he attempted a bite with gnashing fangs. Regulus kicked out, leaping backwards away from the deadly teeth and hot stinking breath of his enemy.

They paused for a moment, facing one another and Regulus crouched low, ready to pounce as Gargara, eyes wide with rage, charged forward once more. With a quick swipe of his claws, Regulus opened his opponent’s thigh. He tried a second swipe with his other hand, but Gargara was faster, rending three red claw marks across Regulus’ chest. They backed off, stalking each other once more, breathing deeply as their men watched in silence.

Gargara Kel stepped forward and Regulus could see his hate had dissipated slightly, the pain from the wound in his thigh taught him that he fought no pup, but a seasoned warrior. This seemed, briefly, to quench the fury in his eyes. Then, with another roar, Gargara came on again, and Regulus was only too keen to meet him.

The enemies traded quick blows, blood spattering as they cut deep rents in one another’s flesh, their grunts of anger growing louder, more frantic. As Gargara launched his head forward attempting another bite, Regulus ducked, lashing out with a claw. Gargara pulled away, but not fast enough — as Regulus tore at Gargara’s head, ripping the flesh of his face from nose to ear, a black talon bursting his enemy’s eye.

Gargara screamed again, but this time in pain, blood running through his fingers as he vainly tried to staunch the wound. Regulus might almost have smiled, but he knew he was not victorious yet.

He raced forward, keen to press his advantage, leaping for his enemy’s throat, but Gargara showed why he was champion of the Kel’tana. As Regulus leapt, Gargara reached forward, heedless of the teeth and claws that had scored great tears in his body, and grasped Regulus by the throat.

Helpless in that grip, Regulus felt his enemy’s claws pierce the flesh of his neck as he was squeezed tighter, throttled, driven to his knees. Gargara glared from one baleful eye, seemingly indifferent to the bloody ruin of the other. The smile appearing on his face revealed two rows of razor teeth. Shame washed over Regulus as he imagined those teeth tearing into his heart to consume his warrior’s strength. How he would shame his father’s memory, shame the Gor’tana with his defeat.

As his vision began to grow blurred, Regulus snapped out an arm, rending asunder the loincloth between Gargara’s legs and clamping his black talons around his foe’s genitals. Gargara had no time to panic before Regulus closed his clawed grip, tearing them off in his hand and gelding his opponent as he stood on the cusp of victory.

Gargara’s high-pitched scream echoed across the hilltops as he reeled backwards, releasing his grip on Regulus’ throat. It was all the opening Regulus needed. With teeth bared he flung himself at his enemy, clamping his jaws around Gargara’s neck and tearing out his throat. The champion of the Kel’tana collapsed, blood gushing from throat and groin.

Regulus staggered away, staring at the warriors who had pursued them for so many leagues. Then he flung Gargara’s bloody genitals onto his dying body.

He was about to tell Gargara’s warriors to run, to flee south back to their homeland and tell Faro that someday soon Regulus would come to reclaim the chieftainship of his father’s tribe.

But Janto Sho had other ideas.

Whether his bloodlust had been fuelled by watching so vicious a duel, or whether he craved blood himself, the warrior of the Sho’tana gave a roar of his own. With one axe he beheaded a man to his left, and with the other he cleft the skull of the warrior to his right.

Regulus had no chance to offer clemency — the rest of his warriors were quick to battle, young Akkula and the venerable Leandran quickest of all. The men of the Kel’tana were at first taken by surprise, but fast to counter, and Regulus barely managed to retrieve his blade from where it was skewered in the ground before he was set upon by a pair of warriors. He ducked a sword blow from one, severing the leg of the other before parrying the first sword as it came at him again. If his opponent thought Regulus might have been weakened by his battle with Gargara he was sorely mistaken. Screaming his rage, his blood still up from his duel, Regulus pushed his opponent’s blade back. The warrior stumbled a step down the hill, dropping his guard just long enough for Regulus to hack down with his sword, splitting the warrior at the shoulder right down to his ribs.

He pulled his weapon clear, and saw that his men had made short work of the Kel’tana. A dozen of them lay dead, the handful of survivors fleeing back towards the treeline as the Gor’tana roared their victory. But it was a victory hard won.

On the ground, amongst the bodies of the Kel’tana were four of his own — Ortera, Felik, Churnik and Theoda. All had been brave and loyal warriors and many had fought alongside Regulus since they were boys. He hoped that they might reach the stars before the Dark Walker knew of their deaths.

Regulus could not bring himself to blame Janto for his rashness — he suspected the Kel’tana would not have spared his men, whatever the outcome of the duel.

Now there were only five left in his warparty, but he would be sure to celebrate his victory as though they were a thousand strong. Leandran was the first to cry out in triumph as their enemies fled into the forest. Regulus was quick to join him and soon all six Zatani were raising their voices in a terrible cacophony.

Later, after the sun had dropped below the horizon and they had lit four pyres for their fallen, Leandran observed the funeral rites. The bodies of the Kel’tana they left to the carrion eaters. Regulus had no desire to hamper their journey to the stars and so all were left with their teeth and claws. All except Gargara Kel.

The champion’s corpse was laid out in their midst and Regulus, alongside his remaining men, looked down on it with loathing. They had already stripped him of his fangs, already ripped the claws from his fingertips and cast them to the ground. As victor in their duel, Regulus would receive the honour of being the first among them to feast.

He held out his hand and Leandran placed a narrow blade in his palm. Regulus knelt, slicing Gargara from the ragged open wound at his neck to his navel. With a clawed hand Regulus reached into the chest cavity, rooting beneath the ribcage until his hand closed around his enemy’s heart. There was a sucking sound as he wrenched it free, then held it aloft, savouring his victory.

‘For the Gor’tana,’ he cried, then sank his teeth into the organ, causing the blood of Gargara Kel to stream down his chin. As he swallowed he savoured the taste — the taste of triumph.

As the funeral fires burned, his warriors began to feast on Gargara’s corpse. It was late into the night before their hunger was satisfied. In the morning they woke up beside the embers of the pyres, sluggish and still sated. Little was left of the corpse.

Leandran came to join Regulus where he stood, looking out to the east.

‘What now?’ said the old warrior. ‘We got rid of those behind us, but there might be more trouble ahead if we press on any further into the Coldlands.’

‘I’m counting on it,’ Regulus replied. ‘Trouble is exactly what we came here for. Trouble and glory. And I have a feeling we’ll find both in that direction.’ He gestured lazily towards the east.

‘There’s trouble enough where we came from. I guess trouble ahead’s no worse.’ With a wink Leandran went to raise the others from their slumber.

Regulus looked them over: Leandran, lean and old, alongside Janto, dark, brooding and fearsome. Then there was Hagama, Kazul and young Akkula. Five warriors left to stand beside him. Five warriors remaining to help him reclaim the glory of his tribe; to make the Gor’tana great again.

It was a start.

Regulus could only hope there was indeed trouble to the east.

And if not, he swore by the Dark Walker himself he’d be sure to cause some.