Richard Ford - The Shattered Crown

The knight sheathed his sword, kneeling beside the creature as though examining its worth. Waylian stumbled forward, but the warrior paid him no attention.

‘I say …’ Waylian managed, his shoulders shivering more than ever. If the bronze-armoured knight heard he didn’t acknowledge it. ‘I say … you have my … eternal thanks.’

The knight turned, looked him up and down, then gave a nod.

Clearly a man of action rather than words.

‘I … I am looking for the Keep,’ said Waylian. ‘I assume you are-’

‘Not my problem,’ said the knight, walking back towards his horse. He fished in one of the saddlebags as Waylian stumbled after him.

‘Please … I have been sent from Steelhaven. I need …’

The knight ignored him, walking past with two lengths of twine in his hand. He knelt by the beast, securing its front and hind legs together. Then, with unbelievable strength, hefted the creature over his shoulders.

Waylian watched, feeling the cold creeping into his bones, gaining the dread impression he was going to be left alone up here to die.

‘Please …’ he said, letting out a sob. ‘Please, you have to take me to the Keep. I have to deliver a message. If you don’t help me … I’ll die out here.’

‘Not my problem,’ the knight repeated.

Waylian felt anger burning in the pit of his stomach. It did little to warm him up but it made his words easier to speak through the cold.

‘If you’re just going to leave me here what was the point of saving me?’

The knight stopped and turned, looking on pitilessly from beneath his helm. ‘Didn’t do it for you,’ he said. ‘This thing’s been making a nuisance of itself for days.’

Waylian suddenly felt guilty and a little foolish. ‘I’m sorry. I suppose such a thing must have carried off more than its share of innocent mountain folk.’

That raised a smirk from the knight. ‘Mountain folk? Who gives a shit about them? It took six of the Lord Marshal’s goats. That’s why it’s dead.’

Waylian would find no compassion here, but he had to try one more time.

‘Please. You have to take me to him. I have to speak with the Lord Marshal.’

‘Not my problem,’ replied the knight, turning to leave.

‘But I have to deliver this,’ Waylian snapped, lifting the sealed parchment between numbed fingers.

The knight regarded it for a moment, seeing the seal in the shape of a wyvern that matched the one on his breastplate. He shrugged.

‘Why didn’t you say that in the first place?’

He walked back to his warhorse, hefting the carcass over his saddle, then went to retrieve his spear. Waylian looked on, wondering if that was the end of the conversation.

The knight took his horse by the reins and made to lead it on through the mountains. After only three steps he looked back over his shoulder.

‘Well? What are you waiting for?’ Waylian needed no further encouragement, and stumbled after him through the snow. ‘Here, make yourself useful.’ The knight held out his spear expectantly.

Waylian grasped it in both hands, almost toppling backwards under the weight. Gratefully, he followed the knight and his charger, carrying his heavy burden. He only hoped the Keep wasn’t far.

And that there was a fire.

A bloody big one.

Epiak had died in the night. It had been a quiet death. Peaceful. Regulus Gor knew it was not how the young warrior would have wanted it.

No Zatani sought a peaceful end. They were a warrior people. Proud. Fierce. And the Gor’tana were among the fiercest. To run from enemies rather than face death was a supreme dishonour. That was why the shame of his flight now stung Regulus to the quick. Yet, he consoled himself, there would be time enough to regain his honour and his standing amongst the tribes of Equ’un. Time enough for vengeance For now, he would just have to bear the ignominy and survive long enough to plan his return.

Regulus watched in silent vigil as the sun rose over the mountains. He stood over seven feet, his powerfully muscled body silhouetted against the golden light of morning, a mane of thick locks crowning his head and flowing down his back. As he stood there he thumbed the pommel of his sword: five feet of black steel gifted to him by his father at his ascension ceremony. It was his only possession — but all he would ever need.

With no time to build a cairn for Epiak, they had laid him out on the ground. Leandran, the oldest and wisest of their number, had knelt over the young warrior, reciting the words that would speed him on his way, praising Kaga the Creator and Hama the Seeker. With luck, Epiak would make it to the stars before the Dark Walker could intercept him. Once there, Ancient Gorm would assess his worthiness and send him back to the earth either as warrior or slave. Regulus could not guess what the judgement would be. Epiak had fought bravely for days, but after being wounded he had died the quiet-death in his sleep. Only Gorm could decide whether he was worthy to return as a warrior.

The rest of the warparty, now only nine in number, watched along with Regulus. Just nine warriors left to represent the tribe of the Gor’tana. The legacy of his father had indeed been brought low. But Regulus would rise again; he would have warriors flocking to his banner. He was adamant. The glories he was determined to win in the north would re-establish his reputation.

Leandran finished saying his words and stood up. At a signal from Regulus they moved on. There would be no further ceremony — no mourning, no lamenting. Epiak was gone now, off to be judged by Ancient Gorm. None of them could change that. But if any of the warparty desired to avenge Epiak’s death there would be chance aplenty.

They moved north at speed. The warriors had left the grassy plains of Equ’un behind them two days before, moving into the no man’s land of the mountains that separated the southern continent of Equ’un from the Coldlands of the north. The lands of the Clawless Tribes.

Regulus had only been a boy when the Steel King had ridden down from those lands and defeated the Aeslanti. It had been his victory that led to freedom for all the tribes of Zatani, and this victory, this granting of freedom, was the reason Regulus and his warriors were now making their way north. Regulus hoped it would not prove a fool’s journey.

As they moved onward, Leandran came up beside Regulus, his weathered features looking troubled. The old warrior’s head was shaved bald, his limbs thin, his once powerful muscle little more than sinew, but his senses were keen and he could fight as well as any of the younger members of the tribe. His ebon skin had paled in places, which would have shamed another warrior, but not one who was as skilled as Leandran with spear and claw.

‘They won’t be far behind,’ Leandran said. He had a habit of stating the obvious.

Regulus glanced back at his warriors. Their flight had taken days and most were carrying wounds. For now they were keeping pace but soon they would slow down. Their pursuers would not.

‘Then we will have to fight them, Leandran,’ Regulus replied, with barely concealed relish in his voice.

Leandran nodded, but Regulus could sense his apprehension. Never a coward, the old warrior was not eager to be killed in the mountains so far from home. For his part, neither was Regulus; but if that was what the gods decreed, then that was how he would meet his fate.

Regulus silently cursed Faro for leading them to this, and cursed the Kel’tana tribesmen who had aided him. Faro had been one of the Gor’tana’s most honoured warriors, and the most trusted. By tribal custom Regulus was heir to the chieftaincy, but his father made no secret that if Faro proved himself worthy he would be the one to take on the mantle when the time was right. Faro, however, had been impatient and had made a secret pact with the warriors of the Kel’tana tribe. A pact made in blood.