Rogan sounded genuinely concerned, and for a moment Kaira considered it. Janessa had been in enough danger, and it would only increase as the siege wore on. Perhaps Rogan’s help was what she needed.
But no. It was Kaira’s duty, and that of the Sentinels, to keep the queen safe. Only they could be trusted. Lord Leon Magrida had proven that beyond doubt.
Kaira shook her head. ‘We have more than enough men, Seneschal. But your concern is appreciated.’
He bowed his head. ‘I live to serve the Crown.’
‘As do I,’ she replied.
Kaira made her way down through the palace, on the way ordering a steward to have the queen’s armour sent to her chamber. The Helsbayn was locked within its vestibule, and Kaira would trust no one else to bring the queen her sacred sword of office.
As she walked along an empty corridor towards the great hall, Kaira was sure she heard a mumbling. She stopped, alert to any danger. Perhaps she was being over-cautious, but the past days, and the inherent danger to the queen, meant she was immediately on edge. More mumbling, this time clear along the corridor and accompanied by a metallic clink. Chains perhaps?
Kaira slowly drew her sword and moved down the passageway, following the sound. It grew louder, more frenetic, and with every step she feared the worst — another assassin within the walls of Skyhelm? How many more before this was over?
She peered around the corner. An adjoining corridor led off into darkness but there was a door open to a large chamber. The voice was audible now, though spoken in hushed tones. Kaira couldn’t make out any of the words; they were babbled as though by a madman. She waited, gripping her sword tight, feeling its weight, ready to strike.
With a jangle, Chancellor Durket appeared from the room. He carried a large leather pack over each shoulder, huffing under their weight as he staggered down the corridor. When he had moved close enough Kaira stepped out from her hiding place and he stopped dead, his eyes wide.
‘Chancellor?’ said Kaira.
‘Er … yes?’ he replied.
‘Going somewhere?’ Durket shook his head vigorously. Kaira guessed his gesture might not have been altogether honest. ‘What do you carry there?
‘Nothing,’ said Durket. ‘I mean … nothing for you to be concerned with.’ His brow furrowed in annoyance. ‘Now, out of the way, I have to attend to the business of the Crown.’
Kaira didn’t move, and he stared up at her trying his best to act defiant, but under Kaira’s stern gaze there was little chance of that.
‘I’ll ask again, what do you carry there?’ she said.
Durket merely stared at her, unwilling or unable to move. Kaira’s patience had worn thin enough.
Her sword flashed out, slicing a leather smile from one of the packs. Gold crowns spilled out in a river, bouncing on the tiled floor, ringing the sound of Durket’s guilt all along the corridor.
Kaira struck out, grasping Durket by the throat and slamming him up against the wall.
‘Thief,’ she spat. ‘You think to abandon this place, your queen, in their hour of need. You would run away with the last of the gold in the palace coffers?’
Durket sobbed, shaking his head. ‘It’s not me,’ he said. ‘It not me. It’s not me.’
Kaira felt a sudden sympathy for the man. They might all die here and Durket was certainly no warrior. He was weak and afraid but so was half the city.
As she released him he slid down the wall, tears flowing as he repeated ‘it’s not me’ over and over through moist lips. She just stared down at him, sitting amongst his stolen gold, wondering what to do until he suddenly stopped his sobbing rant and looked up at her.
‘Do you hear it?’ he asked.
Kaira wondered if he had become unhinged through fear. ‘I hear nothing,’ she answered.
‘I can hear it all the time. That voice in my head. It talks to me in the dark. Every night since …’
‘Since when?’ she asked, though why she wanted to decipher the ramblings of a man stricken with terror she didn’t know.
‘Since he came to take her. Since you killed his men and the queen took his head. I can hear him.’
‘Who?’ Kaira demanded. If she’d had to admit it, Durket’s rambling was beginning to unnerve her. ‘Azai Dravos? He is dead and gone. Nothing speaks to you but your fevered dreams.’
Durket laughed then. He laughed till the tears from his eyes and spit from his mouth ran free. ‘No,’ he said when his breath had returned. ‘I know he’s dead. It’s the voice of his master I hear. The voice of Horas. He comes to me in the night. He calls to me.’
Kaira sheathed her sword. It was obvious Durket had been driven insane, but he was clearly little danger other than to the palace coffers. She reached down and hauled him to his feet.
‘Leave the palace,’ she said. Durket looked at her dumbly through red eyes. ‘Leave this place and never return. If I ever see you again this Horas will be the least of your troubles.’
Durket nodded vigorously, then smiled. ‘Yes,’ he whispered, before stumbling off down the corridor.
Kaira watched him go, wondering if he wasn’t the lucky one. Amon Tugha was almost within the city. Surely the insanity had only just begun.
THIRTY-EIGHT
They had burned the bodies of Kazul and Akkula, the pyre lit bright against the ominous black clouds overhead. Regulus had said the words as best he could but how he missed Leandran and his wisdom now. How he yearned to have the words said right for the men he had brought north and who had died for him. Regulus knew he could not lament too long on that. They had known what they were fighting for. Yes, they had followed him out of loyalty, but they had also fought for their own glory.
Their pyre had been built high, but there were other pyres alongside. Pyres for the corpses of the enemy, pyres for the dead Coldlanders who had fought beside the Zatani and died in their hundreds. The stench wafted across the city, covering Steelhaven in the stink of burning meat. Regulus felt the sting of shame as his stomach rumbled at the smell. He took solace in the fact there would be time to gorge himself aplenty, either when these Khurtas had been defeated or when he was dead and returned to the earth as a warrior reborn.
For now he had to think about avenging his fallen. By rights there needed to be a sacrifice for both Kazul and Akkula. Regulus vowed there would be blood spilled in rivers for their loss. He could hardly wait for the next attack.
Night was already falling. It would not be long. He could see the enemy mustering to the north and the sense of unease washed across the wall, the Coldlanders girding themselves for what might be the final battle. Regulus felt no unease, only anticipation. This would be where he died or where his name would be remembered throughout the Coldlands and beyond. They would talk of his deeds amongst the Clawless Tribes for centuries. He could only hope word of it carried far enough south for Faro to hear. For Faro to know Regulus Gor yet lived. For Faro to fear him and his reputation before he travelled back to Equ’un to reclaim his birthright.
Janto sat some feet away, running a whetstone along the edge of one of his axes. The sound of it ringing out rhythmically was the only thing that broke the uneasy silence. It was ironic that of all the warriors he had brought north, Janto Sho would be the last to stand by his side. Of all the Zatani he had fought with, this was the only one who might turn against him. And now more than ever since his life debt was paid. Janto had saved Regulus from the golden-eyed warrior woman — they owed one another nothing now. They were equals once more, and from rival tribes no less. There was no telling what Janto might do next.
Regulus walked forward to stand beside him, listening for a moment to the ringing of whetstone on steel.
‘There is nothing to keep you here,’ he said when it was clear Janto was not about to stop. ‘There is no need for you to risk yourself further.’