by Richard Ford
Copyright © 2014 Richard Ford
The right of Richard Ford to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published as an Ebook in 2014 by
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
Cover illustration © Lee Gibbons
eISBN 978 0 7553 9408 1
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Praise for Richard Ford
Also by Richard Ford
About the Book
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Epilogue
About the Author
Richard Ford hails from Leeds but now resides in Wiltshire, in the first town on the Thames. His first novel, Kultus, was published in 2011. Herald of the Storm, book one in the Steelhaven series, is his epic fantasy debut.
Praise for Richard Ford:
‘In a subgenre often bogged down in convention, Herald is a breath of fresh air … Definitely a recommended read!’ Drying Ink
‘You’ll find yourself looking forward to what Ford dreams up next’ SFX
‘Exciting and different’ The British Fantasy Society
‘A perfect example of tight, gritty, character-driven storytelling’ Luke Scull, author of The Grim Company
‘Violent, vicious and darkly funny. Book Two can’t come fast enough’ Fantasy Faction
‘A series to watch. Great stuff’ Falcata Times
Also by Richard Ford
Herald of the Storm, book one in the Steelhaven series,
is also available from Headline
About the Book
Heroes must rise …
The King is dead. His daughter, untested and alone, now wears the Steel Crown. And a vast horde is steadily carving a bloody road south, hell-bent on razing Steelhaven to the ground.
… or the city will fall
Before the city faces the terror that approaches, it must crush the danger already lurking within its walls. But will the cost of victory be as devastating as that of defeat?
For Mum
Acknowledgements
Once again I have to thank my agent, John Jarrold, for all his help and guidance. This year we’ll definitely go to the carvery!
My undying gratitude also goes out to the guys and gals at Headline who work tirelessly to turn my words into a real life book and get it out there to as many readers as they can find. Special thanks to Patrick Insole, Caitlin Raynor, Tom Noble, Christina Demosthenous and Joanna Kaliszewska.
I’d also like to thank all the readers out there who took the time and effort to post a review of Herald of the Storm. Your views are much appreciated.
Lastly, big thanks to the chap who holds this whole crazy show together, my editor John Wordsworth. Only one more to go … maybe.
PROLOGUE
Saviour’s Bridge spanned the River Storway where it ran between Steelhaven and the Old City. It was no doubt named to venerate the Teutonian saviour Arlor – that deified hero of old, raised to godhood by the teeming, ignorant masses.
From the centre of the bridge, facing north, the river could be seen slithering its way for miles, wending through the fields and woodland. As it flowed towards the city it brought with it all manner of offerings from the land, the flotsam and jetsam of the Free States, bloated carcasses of a nation condemned.
It was also bringing Forest’s mark.
Rain hammered down, soaking his cloak, bouncing off the bridge and running in a fast flood into the river. Watching from the centre of the bridge, Forest could see the wide river barge sitting low in the water, cruising towards him. Its four oars either side dipped in rhythm, pulled smoothly by powerful rowers. At its prow stood a tall man, his hood thrown back despite the inclement weather. His proud bearing was obvious even from a distance. But that was to be expected – he was a general of one of the famed Free Companies, a mercenary lord, tempered on the battlefield, and not just skilled in the sword but equally cunning of mind – he had to be to have lived for so long. No one survived at the head of one of the Free Companies without a certain shrewd ruthlessness. No one could command men who fought for coin without being able to outwit those who would try to usurp his position.
The general was flanked by his men, grizzled veterans all, ready to give their lives for him, though here at least he need anticipate no danger. This was Steelhaven, seat of power within the Free States, and its enemies, the savage Khurtas, were still hundreds of leagues to the north. Besides, its enemies were not his enemies – the general had not yet pledged the service of his company and his men to the defence of Steelhaven.
And Forest had been sent to ensure he never would.
The barge was within range now, and Forest reached beneath his cloak for his yew bow. In a pouch at his belt was the hempen bowstring, treated with beeswax to resist the wet. Though the rain would eventually slacken the string, he would not linger long enough for it to hamper his shot.
In one swift and graceful movement Forest strung his bow and pulled an arrow from his quiver. Alone on the bridge in the pouring rain, he was unobserved. Though t
he gate at the eastern side of the bridge was guarded by Greencoats, they were hunkered beneath their shelter and wouldn’t see him. Down on the barge, the general and his men, blinded by the downpour, would not spot him until it was too late.
Forest nocked and drew, aiming through the rain, as the general’s barge came closer with every breath. The slight breeze at his back, blowing in from the Midral Sea, would only make the flight of his arrow swifter.
As he drew in one last breath, the rain seemed to slow. His target was all at once perfectly clear as Forest saw the path of the arrow in his mind’s eye; saw it streaking through the air. In that moment of stillness, in which time seemed to wait in anticipation, he loosed.
The arrow was true; the mercenary general could not even see it through the deluge as it flew towards his head, twisting through the air, the head spinning towards its target. River held his breath, watching in anticipation of the kill.
At the very last moment a shield came up. One of the mercenaries had leapt to defend his general; the arrow pierced the wood but stopped short of its target. Aboard the barge the hells broke loose as the other mercenaries rushed to defend their leader with a wall of shields, and orders were barked for the rowers to change direction and make for the nearest bank.
There was no time to lament the miss, or wonder how the bodyguard had intercepted the arrow so deftly. Forest leapt onto the bridge’s parapet, throwing his cloak back so he could more easily reach his quiver. The barge had slowed now, the rowers frantically adjusting themselves in their seats to try and make their way upriver. Oars splashed in the water, men grunted, steam rising from their sweat-soaked bodies.
Arrows hummed from Forest’s bow, one after the other, in quick succession. As the first rower cried out in pain from a shaft buried in his back, two more arrows were already in flight, whipping towards their targets. It was as though a rank of archers was firing down. Eight shots, eight dead men – the last rower managing to stand and turn in a vain attempt to avoid his fate, but he was not quick enough. His lifeless body pitched into the water as Forest nocked a final arrow.
The general’s bodyguard stood in front him, covering him with their shields. Even the best-placed shot would not pierce that defence, and so Forest waited. Lacking rowers to power it through the water, the barge drifted, borne ever closer to Saviour’s Bridge by the Storway’s current. Forest watched the approaching boat, saw the general’s men eyeing him warily, swords drawn, shields raised. But he did nothing, allowing the boat to drift below him and under the bridge.
As soon as the boat was out of sight Forest discarded his bow and quiver, stepped off the parapet and grasped the keystone to enable him to swing under the bridge. He landed at the barge’s stern, drawing rapier and poniard, rapidly assessing the four men who guarded the general, searching for their weaknesses. This was not what he had planned, but the Father had been adamant: the general must die. Forest would adapt to the situation, sweeping them aside like a swift wind through the branches. He knew his duty. His mark could not be allowed to escape.
Three of the men moved forward unsteadily as the barge rocked, while the fourth, the one who had intercepted the arrow, hung back as the last line of defence. The trio of warriors advanced, shields held up, swords low. Forest was impressed with their discipline – though facing a single assailant they remained wary. These men were seasoned and he would need to exact care in taking them down, but that did not mean waiting for them to take the initiative.
Without pause Forest sidestepped, skipped off the barge’s gunwale and leapt at the first warrior. The mercenary raised his shield to block the rapier coming towards him, but Forest had already altered his attack, kicking out with one foot before he landed and knocking the shield upwards. His rapier thrust in as the warrior, realising his defence was open, desperately stabbed out with his own weapon. Forest twisted away, the incoming blade slicing open his tunic but no more. His poniard punched into the warrior’s chest between his ribs. As the first mercenary fell back with a gurgle, a second hacked in. Forest was already spinning, his rapier coming up to deflect the blow. His poniard stabbed forward, taking the second warrior in the neck. The man stared, gritting his teeth against the pain. Forest could see in his eyes that he knew he was doomed and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. When, with a jerk, Forest pulled out the blade, the warrior fell back, vainly clamping his hand to staunch the flow of blood.
The third mercenary charged, screaming in fury, his voice almost lost in the torrential downpour, his shield held forward with the intention of smashing his foe into the flowing waters. Forest waited, presenting himself as an easy target – until the last moment. Then he crouched, his rapier thrusting beneath the shield, allowing the mercenary to impale himself with the impetus of his own attack. The man stopped dead, his sword and shield clattering to the deck before he toppled after them.
Forest saw a flash of fear cross the general’s eyes, but he knew that the last bodyguard would be the most formidable.
The barge had drifted out from underneath the bridge now, heading down the Storway towards the sea, the rudder was free, sending it spinning as though caught in a whirlpool.
The last bodyguard had already saved his general’s life once, blocking a shot that should have been impossible to see, let alone intercept. But Forest was undaunted – there was no way this man’s training could have been as punishing as that given by the Father of Killers. There was no way he could ever be Forest’s match.
As the barge lurched violently, Forest charged, his approach meant to seem rash, as he attempted to draw the mercenary forward. But the man stood his ground, crouching lower behind his shield. With a flourish, Forest feinted to the left, then right, then left again, and cut in with his rapier, but the warrior anticipated his move, blocking it easily with his shield. Forest drew back, ready for the counter, ready with his short blade to slice the mercenary’s sword hand, but no counter came.
‘Kill him,’ shouted the general. ‘What are you waiting for?’
But the mercenary paid no heed. Forest almost felt sympathy for the man – he was clearly a far superior warrior to his commander, and unquestionably loyal. Nevertheless, he stood in the way of Forest’s mark, he had to die.
Forest leapt to the side, dodging the mercenary, sword raised high, aiming at the general. Seeing his commander was about to die the last defender rushed to intercept. Forest had counted on the man’s loyalty – on his determination to guard his leader with his life. A loyalty that would cost him dearly.
Twisting in midair, Forest thrust his rapier, aiming past the shield at the mercenary’s heart. In a last effort to save himself the man brought his sword up, deflecting Forest’s lunge so it only pierced his shoulder. He growled in defiance at the biting pain as Forest quickly tore the blade free, preparing for the killing blow. The mercenary staggered back as Forest lashed in again, but before he could strike the barge smashed against the vast stone curtain wall that ran along the Storway. The vessel listed violently and the mercenary lost his footing. He was pitched over the side, plunging into the water as the sound of snapping timbers cracked the air.
The deck was fast filling with water now, and Forest turned to the general. The man’s sword was drawn, his face twisted in anger, but there was fear in his eyes.
Forest advanced through the ankle-deep water as the barge smashed against the wall once more. He could hear the decking crack and splinter, the noise ringing out over the sound of the heavy rain hitting the river. The general was crouched at the bow, grasping his sword in a defensive posture. His form was perfect, but it was still not enough to deter Forest.
The general growled in defiance, pressing to attack, but he was old and sluggish, his best days long behind him. Forest easily parried and countered the clumsy blow. There was a clang of metal on metal as he swept the general’s sword aside, before thrusting his rapier into the mark’s chest. As Forest pulled his bloody weapon free, for a brief moment the general looked bewilder
ed, as though he could barely believe he was dead. Then the light in his eyes slowly dimmed and his body slumped to the bottom of the barge.
Forest saw the vessel was headed straight at the stone stanchion of Steelhaven’s derelict Carrion Bridge. He waited in the deepening water as the barge span towards its final doom. In the last moment before it hit, he leapt from the boat’s prow, grasping the crumbling stanchion and pulling himself up. The barge smashed against what remained of the bridge, broke in two, and was quickly consumed by the river. The bodies of the general and his men were swept into the treacherous arms of the Midral Sea.
It was nothing for Forest to scale the wall into Steelhaven. Nothing for him to avoid the attention of the Greencoats, their duty ineffectual as they sheltered from the rain.
The streets were deserted, swept clear of the drudges who usually filled them by the torrential rain. Forest was glad of it; he would rather have suffered the cold and rain any day, than endure the multitude of city folk who walked this place as though in a stupor. He hated them, hated this place, but he was bound here by his devotion to the Father of Killers. Nothing would ever see that devotion questioned.
It took little time to return to the sanctum where the cloying dark of the subterranean tunnels offered shelter from the driving rain. In places the tunnels were flooded, the rainwater flowing in rivers through the underground passages, but Forest knew the secret ways, and in no time was at the central cavern.
He knelt in silence waiting for the Father. It could be a long vigil; the Father of Killers came at his own behest and Forest had sometimes waited for days. Mercifully, the Father was eager to learn that his son had succeeded.
‘The general?’ came a deep voice from the darkness.
‘Is dead.’ Forest kept to himself that achieving this had been neither quick nor easy.
The Father moved closer. ‘I am pleased,’ he said, stepping into the winking torchlight, his face drawn, troubled. For days he had mourned the loss of Mountain, and even more the loss of River – his favoured son. Forest hated River for that. Hated him more than ever for his betrayal and what he had done to their Father.
