Even though these gates would soon be closed and barred with iron they still needed to be defended. There was nothing to stop the enemy moving through the crumbling streets over the river and crossing the two bridges that were still intact. Regulus knew he had been bestowed a great honour, been offered the chance he yearned for — to defend the bridge with black steel and tooth and claw, and earn himself a formidable reputation.
It was still not enough for Regulus Gor.
He wanted to be on the northern wall, where the enemy would most readily focus its strength. The vast plain in front of the city was the most likely place for the Elharim warlord to amass his mighty army. Regulus wanted to be where the fighting was hardest, where the killing was the fiercest and the glory would be bestowed on him in a flood.
Nobul Jacks had been posted to that wall. The honour of meeting the enemy in their greatest numbers would be his, and that stung Regulus deep. He owed Jacks a life debt and it would be difficult to repay while he was stuck here, watching the river run past and hoping the enemy were bold enough to try and cross the bridge. His chance to settle that debt seemed all but lost for now. He could only hope Nobul Jacks would live long enough for him to pay it. Deep inside, Regulus was confident he would.
In the last few days, the stern Coldlander had become something of a legend amongst the city’s defenders. Once he had donned that helm of his he commanded a strange fear and respect amongst the city’s warriors. Regulus had not realised just how formidable a reputation the Black Helm bore, and he could only envy Nobul Jacks for it.
Not only that, but the man had crafted the best armour Regulus had ever donned. It was black steel, to match the sword at his side, each piece crafted to fit his form like a second skin: light, manoeuvrable yet hard as granite. It made Regulus feel invincible. He could only hope that in the days to come he would be able to test its worth in battle. His greatest fear was that he would be needlessly stuck defending the western gate while his chance at glory was to the north.
The Coldlanders practised their swordplay in readiness for an attack. Below, on the street where ranks of warriors waited in anticipation, they fought one another in friendly bouts. Regulus could only smile at that. What could they possibly hope to learn in the next day or so before the enemy came for them? They would learn more in the first few moments of a real battle than they ever could in a hundred days of practice. Those who were quick enough to learn would most likely survive. Those who weren’t would certainly be the first to die.
Regulus would have been happy to walk amongst them and impart his own wisdom, the evidence of which was writ in the myriad scars he wore proudly on his flesh, but he knew it would only fall on deaf ears. He and his warriors were still treated with suspicion, despite what they had done to protect the city’s queen.
Not that Regulus cared. He was not here to make allies. He was here to kill.
The only men whose opinions he cared for were his own warriors. Even now they took the time to gather their thoughts, to polish their new armour and hone their new weapons. Hagama, Kazul — even the youngest of them, Akkula — were seasoned fighters. They did not practise their skills. This was a time to reflect on what was to come, to picture yourself victorious, to know that there were none who could stand against you. To fill yourself with anticipation of the slaughter. And his warriors knew how to slaughter all too well.
As Regulus looked out over the wall at the slow moving crowds he heard the sound of movement behind him — the clanking of armour, the slap of weapon against hip, the clumsy footfalls. He didn’t have to turn to know it was one of the Coldlanders, they were always heralded by noise, never seeming able to tread lightly, but then these people were surrounded by stone. On the plains of Equ’un the Zatani had long ago learned how to tread lightly. Every tribe — whether Gor’tana, Kel’tana, Sho’tana or Vir’tana — had learned that it oftentimes meant the difference between life and death. Here such things seemed to matter little.
Regulus turned to face the man. He recognised him — ‘Sargent’, they called him — an honorary term, though what he had done to deserve it Regulus had no idea. The man was fat around the middle, his hair grey with age. Such a man would not have lasted long as a chieftain on the plains. His smell was rank, even from a distance, but Regulus had learned in the past days that the stench was nowhere near as offensive as the man’s manners.
‘Are you ready?’ he said, keeping his distance. His voice was filled with disdain, but it was easy to read the fear behind it.
‘We are of the Gor’tana,’ Regulus replied. ‘The most feared tribe among the Zatani people. We are always ready.’
The man frowned, but nodded with it, satisfied enough with the answer. ‘Good. And remember who’s in charge here. You may have been pardoned by the Crown but it gives you no special privilege. You’re under my command, and so are your men.’
That almost made Regulus smile. He would have sorely liked to see this man try to command his warriors, especially Janto. That would have been a sight to see as the Sho’tana tore the man’s head off with a gleeful roar.
‘We are here to fight for your city,’ Regulus replied. ‘What other command could you have of us than to kill the enemy?’
The sargent looked thoughtful for a moment. Then, unable to think of any argument, simply nodded.
‘Aye, well. Just make sure you and the rest of your kind are-’
Regulus caught something in the corner of his eye. He turned to the south, in time to see the sky turn bright. It was as though the horizon had caught fire, shooting a line of burning debris towards the heavens. Half a dozen burning spheres rose up, contrails of black smoke in their wake. At first there was no sound, but as the fireballs hit their zenith and began to hurtle back to the earth, a wave of noise engulfed the city. It was a roar, an unnatural scream that came from the sea. Regulus had never heard anything like it and it took all his will not to raise his hands and block his ears as they were assaulted by the cacophony.
Smoke, flames and debris were thrown into the air as the fireballs rained. The sound of it hit him a moment later, the roaring reaching a crescendo as though all the tribes of Equ’un had suddenly raised their voices in a furious howl.
The Coldlander sargent ran back towards his men in panic, shouting orders, though what they could do about the sudden conflagration was beyond Regulus. He could only watch in awe as the sound of screams began to peal from the south of the city. The carnage must have been devastating, the victims of the fire standing little chance, but Regulus could not bring himself to feel pity. There was little room in his heart for it.
No sooner had one row of flames rained down on the city than another was sent hurtling into the air. It was clear the gods would have no mercy for the city this day, or for the days to come.
‘At least now we know what that blockade of ships was waiting for.’
Regulus turned to see Janto standing beside him, staring towards the south. He grinned as he watched, hands resting on the twin axes at his waist. In the armour Nobul Jacks had crafted for him Janto looked a formidable sight, easily the most impressive of the warriors that stood at Regulus’ command.
‘And we know it won’t be long before the army to the north comes for what remains,’ Regulus replied. ‘Amon Tugha has made his first move. Soon he will attack.’