As he followed his father back out onto the courtyard, all he could think was this might have been his chance to prove his mettle. To show he was a warrior equal to his family’s reputation. That he was not riding in the wake of his father.
As much as he had been accepted into the Wyvern Guard he wasn’t convinced he had the total respect of his brother knights. And at least one of them clearly hated his guts, but the less he thought about Cormach Whoreson the better.
‘Right, listen up,’ shouted Tannick as he stood in the centre of the courtyard. Immediately the men of the Wyvern Guard stopped what they were doing and stood, crowding in around their Lord Marshal. ‘We have a mission. I need twenty volunteers. It’ll be dangerous and it’s doubtful most of you will survive it. Who’s in?’
Merrick glanced around. Few of the Wyvern Guard looked worried at the prospect of dying.
‘I’ll go,’ said the first voice. Merrick wasn’t surprised to see it belonged to Cormach.
Immediately he felt a bristle of anger. Of course that bastard would be the first to volunteer. Any chance to show he was the toughest, hardest, maddest fucker in this whole damned city and he’d be all over it like a peasant on pie.
Unlike you, Ryder. You’re just Daddy’s little boy. Can’t have you getting your hair messed up. Can’t have you playing rough with the bigger boys.
Merrick counted as more men stepped forward to volunteer one after the other … four, five …
And the Lord Marshal’s told you not to volunteer. So you’d better do as you’re bloody well told, otherwise you’ll be in for a spanking.
… eleven, twelve, thirteen …
And why would you want to put yourself in harm’s way anyway? You want to live through this, don’t you? The Lord Marshal’s just said it’s doubtful most of the volunteers will survive.
… sixteen, seventeen …
Just keep your trap shut, like you’ve been told, and you might just make it through this in one piece.
… nineteen …
‘I’ll go,’ said Merrick, barging his way forward before anyone could take the last place.
Tannick glared at him, and for a moment Merrick thought the old man was going to chastise him, right in front of his brother Wyvern Guard.
‘Makes twenty,’ he said instead.
It was all Merrick could do not to whoop with joy. But then he remembered that he’d just volunteered for a suicide mission. Whooping definitely did not seem the right thing to do.
EIGHTEEN
Regulus stared out to the north as night turned to dawn turned to day. His claws had gouged a four-ridged furrow in the stone of the battlements, his grief over Hagama cutting him equally as deep. He knew he should not have let it hurt him so, he knew it was more than likely he would lose more of his warriors, even his own life, but still the pain was like a knife.
Hagama had been by his side since they were children. They had played together, fought together, bled together for years. Hagama had been the first of the Gor’tana to pledge himself to Regulus after his father had been betrayed. Even before old, wise Leandran had offered his service, Hagama had stood by Regulus’ side, unswerving in his loyalty. And now he was dead.
It wasn’t the need for vengeance that moved Regulus so; there would be time aplenty for retribution. It was the fact they had lost his body. The fact the Khurtas had dragged him off back to their camp to do Gorm knew what to his corpse. They would never be able to convey his soul to the stars. Never be able to ensure the Dark Walker couldn’t catch the brave warrior before he took his place with the other fallen heroes of Equ’un. It was not a fitting end.
Sacrifice, though — Hagama would have the honour of a sacrifice no Zatani had ever been bestowed. Regulus made a silent vow that Khurtic blood would flow, and he would taste every drop in honour of his fallen brother.
‘You should eat.’
Regulus turned to see young Akkula standing beside him. The youth looked sullen and it was obvious he too felt the loss of Hagama, even though the older warrior had castigated his young counterpart many times. They had never been friends, but Akkula was a man now — a warrior grown — and he would fight for his brothers and mourn their loss as any Gor’tana should.
‘I am not hungry,’ said Regulus, though he knew he should have been. The night’s killing should have made him ravenous but his stomach was filled with a lust for Khurtic flesh that no amount of horsemeat would sate.
‘You will need your strength for the next attack. We all will.’
Akkula was trying his best to help, but Regulus was in no mood to be lectured. He shook his head, and Akkula understood immediately, leaving Regulus in his dark mood.
No sooner had he gone than another figure approached over the battlements. Regulus recognised the sargent, feeling his heart slump further at the prospect of talking to the man. He looked furious and Regulus almost broke a smile at the man’s barely suppressed rage.
‘You fled your post,’ said the sargent. Regulus noted he kept a safe distance. ‘You’ll obey your orders tonight or you’ll-’
‘I’ll what?’ Regulus replied, not even bothering to look at him.
There was a moment’s silence as the sargent pondered his next move.
‘We barely have enough men for the wall as it is. You can’t just go running off wherever you please.’
Regulus nodded. ‘Yes, I can. Your gate was not attacked, was it? My warriors and I would have been of no use had we stayed. From now you will find us where the fighting is hardest. Where the killing is bloodiest.’
The man made to speak but thought better of it. What would he do? Seek to punish the Zatani for repelling the Khurtas? For killing their shaman and sacrificing one of their own in the act?
The Coldlander slunk off, rather than speak again.
Regulus turned from the north, tired of his vigil now. He had mourned enough for Hagama, and besides, there was something he had to do before night fell and the fighting started again.
As he walked the wall many of the Coldlanders who had seen hard fighting during the night gave him a nod of acknowledgement, some even words of praise. How different from days ago when they had been baying for his blood and that of his warriors. He was one of them now, had shed blood and sacrificed a brother, just as they had. War was always the best way to unite men — bringing them together in their grief and hate.
Up ahead Regulus saw the man he was looking for. Nobul Jacks — the Black Helm as he had become known — was sitting with his back to the wall, hammer gripped in one hand, helm in the other. Whatever legend he had built for himself seemed to matter little now. The warrior looked weary after the night’s combat. He was a legend no more. Just a man in need of rest. Not that the other Coldlanders seemed to regard him as an ordinary man. Regulus had heard their tales of him — that he could not die, that he was one of their ancient heroes reborn. That was perhaps why they gave him such a wide berth, their awe of him striking fear into their hearts. Regulus Gor did not share such awe, though. He knew Nobul Jacks was simply a man and could be killed like any other. He was just more difficult to kill than most.
‘You have my gratitude again, Nobul Jacks,’ Regulus said as he came to stand before the Coldlander.
Nobul inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘And you’re welcome. Again.’
Regulus could see the fatigue in the man’s eyes, his shoulders slumped. There would be much more fighting before the end, and for a moment he wondered if Nobul would last even one more night.
‘More than that,’ Regulus said, ‘I owe you my life. I am yours until that debt is paid. You have refused once, Nobul Jacks. You cannot refuse again.’
Nobul looked up. At first there was defiance in his expression, and from what Regulus could read, a note of annoyance. Then the man smiled.