by R. S. Ford
CONTENTS
Cover
ALSO BY R.S. FORD AND AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
PROLOGUE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS
WAR OF THE ARCHONS
A DEMON IN SILVER
ALSO BY R.S. FORD AND AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS
A Demon in Silver
The Hangman’s Gate (June 2019)
The Spear of Malice (June 2020)
A Demon in Silver
Paperback edition ISBN: 9781785653063
Electronic edition ISBN: 9781785653070
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP
First edition: June 2018
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 R.S. Ford. All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
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THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO JOHN JARROLD...
MAY HE NEVER RETIRE. ONWARDS!
PROLOGUE
SIFF wept as torn banners fluttered in the breeze. The tattered remnants of a dozen armies lay scattered and broken on the once lush plain, and broken armour shone lambent in the sun, where it wasn’t spattered red.
Durius had seduced the guardians of the Blue Tower, twisting them to his will. He had made them promises, given them a new eidolon to worship, and for their loyalty they had been swept aside like dust.
Siff knelt amidst the carnage, Bezial’s body cradled across her lap. He had been her most loyal disciple – captain of her guard, high priest, lover. Now he was dead. Her finger traced a furrow that marred his bright armour. Where her tears fell upon his breastplate it displaced the red as though the blood feared her grief.
Bezial had led the vanguard, bellowing her name, riding forth on a black steed with its hooves aflame, sword aloft. Now he lay still, his voice forever silenced.
Siff felt the loss deeply, and her tears fell until her black hair was abruptly swept about her face by a gust of turbulent air. She looked up to see a creature of unparalleled beauty; a beauty only matched by its cruelty.
Innellan swooped down on nightingale’s wings, landing amidst the shattered landscape with a feather-light touch. Her pure white hair billowed in the breeze, her robe black as a starless night, hands slick with crimson. She paused, surveying the scene of carnage before stepping forward, bare feet treading lithely through the scattered weapons and fallen pennants. The hem of her robe trailed through the gore and the viscera, and soon her feet were stained as crimson as her hands. She smiled, revelling in the butchery.
‘Was all this worth it?’ Innellan said, surveying the scene before settling her eyes on Bezial. ‘All this death?’
Siff recognised the insincerity in that question. Innellan’s lust for slaughter was legend.
‘It has to be,’ replied Siff. Despite her sorrow, she knew the death of Bezial was a small price to pay for the catastrophe she would avert – if they had been in time. ‘And now we have to scale the tower. Who knows what damage has been done.’
Innellan silently nodded in agreement, making for the tower in the distance. It soared up into the darkening sky, blue walls sheer and roiling like the sea.
Siff looked longingly at her First Knight, before gently laying him down on the grass to his final rest. She followed Innellan across the devastated field, eerie in its silence. The battle had been costly but it was a price that had to be paid. The Blue Tower had held the Heartstone in its lofty prison for millennia. When it had come under threat there was no alternative but to fight.
Siff spied Armadon sitting amidst the carnage, wiping his giant blade with one of the worthless banners. He was covered in gore from the top of his horned head to the bottom of his cloven hooves, but he kept his weapon clean. His brutality turned Siff’s stomach, but allying with him had been a necessity. She needed all the Archons she could muster, and Armadon was the most ferocious of their number. If it was to be war, she needed him at her side.
‘The tower awaits us, brother,’ Innellan said.
He looked up, regarding the white-haired Archon with disdain.
‘I am no brother of yours. Once this is done with our alliance will be over—’
‘And we can return to the fight like we always have.’ Innellan smiled as though relishing the thought.
Armadon rose wearily. Naturally, of all the slaughter today, the lion’s share belonged to him. He tilted his huge head to one side, cracking the joints and sinew of his thick neck.
‘Let’s see an end to this,’ he said.
The three of them walked slowly towards the tower, blue marble stretching to the sky. Dread built within Siff as they walked in through the huge carved archway. Seraphs were hewn into the stone, silently trumpeting their entrance.
Marble stairs spiralled upwards into blinding light and Siff took every step with reverence. Behind her Innellan trod the white stairway, leaving bloody imprints in her wake. Armadon brought up the rear, his tread surefooted despite his hulking frame.
When Siff reached the summit, the sky was black. Some might have thought that ominous, but she had come too far to be put off by signs and portents. The Heartstone stood in the centre of the huge gallery, its light shining forth toward the four cardinal points like a beacon.
It was as old as the Archons. The source of their power. A conduit through which they could travel to the plane of mortal men and meddle in their affairs. It had been a century since Siff had sought to banish its power, shattering its core and exiling it to this high and forbidden place.
&nbs
p; For a time she had succeeded.
Durius had harboured other plans.
Though the twelve Archons had agreed to an accord – making a pact that none of them would ever again abuse the Heartstone’s power – the Archon Durius had sought to mend the artefact and use it to pass through to the mortal realm. There he would reign as a single monarch, unchallenged by his peers.
If not for Siff, and her alliance with Innellan and Armadon, then Durius may well have succeeded. Now it looked as though his plan had failed.
‘It was a mistake to raise this tower,’ said Armadon. ‘We should have hidden the Heartstone away, deep beneath the earth where none of us could find it.’
‘It would have changed nothing,’ said Siff, remembering how this tower had been her idea. How she had thought it would solve millennia of war. The Archons had left it defended by a legion of warriors they had thought incorruptible. How wrong they had been. ‘It would always have come to this. Hiding it would have done no good. We would all have been drawn to it eventually. It calls to us even now.’
The three approached the glowing jewel. Energy pulsated and roiled within as though a storm was brewing inside. The power at its core churned with the need to be released.
As they drew closer Siff could see hairline cracks on the veneer, myriad imperfections marring its surface.
‘It is still incomplete,’ said Armadon.
After all these years Durius had still not managed to remake the Heartstone anew.
‘But complete enough for us to pass over to the other side,’ said Innellan.
Siff could sense longing in her voice and was unable to quell the sense of foreboding it inspired.
Siff held out a hand toward the Heartstone. The air grew thick as though the burgeoning clouds outside were growing heavy.
‘Durius has not fled,’ she said. ‘He has not gone through.’
‘And the gate?’ Innellan said. ‘Is it repaired?’
‘It is imperfect,’ said Siff. ‘But it could still provide a pathway.’
They stood in silence, waiting. Listening. Then Siff heard it, and she knew the others heard it too.
A prayer from across worlds.
A call to the Archons.
Worship.
1
Canbria, 100 years after the Fall
STARING at the back end of a carriage for mile after mile was no one’s idea of theatre. But it beat watching the back end of a horse, so Josten had that to be thankful for.
His right hand loosely held the reins of his mount, his left gripping the scabbard of the sword at his hip. Idly he flicked the cross-guard with his thumb so the blade popped out of the sheath with a steady rhythm, as though counting the beat of their ride. It kept the weapon loose in its scabbard, ready for action. It was a habit Josten had fallen into when he was young, and the oldest habits were the hardest to break. But a sword stuck in its sheath was about as much use in battle as a broken tree branch, so he reckoned some old habits were worth keeping.
‘This is a shitty detail,’ said Mullen, riding close beside him.
Josten didn’t have to look to know Mullen would be scowling in distaste at the carriage in front of them. Mullen Bull was given to scowling a lot, and you were never in any doubt as to what was on his mind at any moment of the day. If it could be moaned about, Mullen was sure to be the one doing the moaning.
‘How can you say that?’ Josten replied. ‘We have the bright beautiful day above us.’ He gestured to the grey skies that hung over them like a pall. ‘Good company.’ Josten patted the sweating, stinking nag that had carried him for gods knew how many miles along the same muddy track. ‘And best of all we’re being paid a king’s ransom for the pleasure.’
That last raised a smile from Mullen. They both knew there were a lot of shitty things about this shitty detail but the pay was far and away the shittiest.
‘I had dreams about being in the duke’s personal guard,’ Mullen said, raising his big eyes and long stubbly face to the cloudy skies. ‘Visions of prestige. Of travel and adventure. Of a tight uniform, and the women it would bring flocking to me. This is not what I had in mind.’ He wiped the back of his neck with one broad palm, glancing briefly at the sweat and grime left there before cleaning it on his thigh.
‘If it’s any consolation you’ve managed to get yourself the tight uniform.’ Josten nodded at Mullen’s prominent gut, which, despite several days on the road and the meagre rations that went with it, still stuck out like he was smuggling a pig under his hauberk.
Mullen ignored him. ‘And it’s not as if we’re even protecting the duke. Don’t get me wrong, the duchess is a much prettier duty to perform, and who wouldn’t want to guard that body, but—’
He stopped as Josten swiped a hand across his throat in a shut the fuck up gesture. The carriage in front of them might be a solid wooden box designed to deflect a well-aimed arrow, but he was sure it wasn’t soundproof.
The rhythmic beat of galloping hooves cut short any chance of more conversation, and Josten twisted in his saddle, staring down the road behind them. His right hand was on the hilt of his sword, the thumb of his left pushing the cross-guard clear of the scabbard’s locket.
A rider came into view, driving his horse like all the demons of hell were after him. The steed was breathing hard and heavy, mud spattering its legs and flanks, eyes wide with panic just like its rider.
Mullen’s sword was out of its sheath and he spun his own horse to face their pursuer.
‘Steady,’ said Josten. ‘He’s one of ours.’
The rider’s livery was clear to see now. Duke Harlaw’s red eagle clutching a black rose, visible through the mud that caked the rider’s chest.
‘Hold!’ Mullen shouted toward the front of their column as the rider reined in his horse in front of Josten. He was gasping hard and Josten gave him a moment to catch his breath.
‘Bandits,’ he finally managed through heavy gulps of air. ‘Quarter-mile back down the road.’
‘How many?’ Josten asked, trying to stay calm. There was no reason to panic just yet.
‘Twenty? Maybe a few more. But it ain’t the numbers we should be worried about.’
All right. Still no need to panic. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Tarlak Thurlow,’ said the rider, his voice almost cracking with fear.
Now was the time for panicking.
‘Bollocks,’ said Mullen. ‘Shitty fucking bollocks!’
Bollocks didn’t even begin to cover it.
‘The duke’s at Ravensbrooke, ten leagues north of here,’ Josten said to the scout. ‘Get word to him we’re heading for Fort Carlaine.’ The scout nodded, reining his horse around and setting off at a gallop the way he’d come from.
‘Fort Carlaine’s a ruin,’ said Mullen. ‘Why the hell aren’t we going to Drinsport?’
‘We’d never make it before Tarlak caught up with us. We’ve got more chance defending a ruin than getting caught on the road. Now get to the head of the column and get us bloody moving.’
As Mullen spurred his steed forward, cursing to himself about their inevitable deaths, Josten moved up to the side of the carriage. He rapped his fist against it three times, feeling the solid oak, but knowing it would be no defence if they got caught by Tarlak and his men. A shutter slid back, showing the face of one of Duchess Selene’s handmaids.
‘Tell her ladyship things are about to get a little bumpy,’ Josten said, as the handmaid’s eyes widened in concern. ‘And please pass on my apologies.’
He tried to make the last comment sound as sincere as he could, though the duchess’s comfort was the last of his concerns. If they didn’t get to safety before Tarlak Thurlow caught up with them, a sharp piece of metal in his guts would be a big concern and the duchess would find herself on the wrong end of a hefty ransom demand. If Tarlak’s reputation was anything to go by she’d be lucky to get out of it with her honour intact, so he was damned sure she could stand a bruised arse.
Mullen’s
voice cut the quiet of the afternoon air, the sound of birds tweeting replaced by choice language and hooves clapping on the forest path. The column quickened its pace and Josten reined his horse towards the rear of the carriage once more.
They rushed on faster through the forest. Josten could see the carriage bouncing along the path in front of him, imagining the scene within as the duchess and her entourage were flung around the wooden interior. The thought of it brought a smile to his face; but the unwelcome thought of their pursuer quickly wiped it away.
Tarlak was only a quarter-mile behind them. If he was riding at pace he’d catch up in no time. Tales of the Red Forest’s most notorious bandit were legion. Josten had always had a strong stomach when faced with stories of torture and dismemberment but there was no way he wanted to find out if any of them were true. If it came to it he wouldn’t be taken alive.
Before he could start to let the thought of that freeze his insides, Fort Carlaine came into view through the trees ahead.
It wasn’t so much relief that washed over Josten as despair. Mullen had said the place was a ruin. It was in slightly better shape than that, but not by much. Fort Carlaine had been a famous outpost in its time – a watchtower used by the Wolf Brigade during the Age of Penitence. Brave deeds had happened in this place, as well as murders and a royal wedding. Now it looked barely decent enough to take a shit in.
The column trundled over the decrepit drawbridge and at any moment Josten expected it to give way, the carriage plummeting into the moat. Not that it would have been a problem since the moat was only about a foot deep.
He rode in through the gatehouse, thinking it might collapse on his head, before pulling up his horse beside the carriage.
‘Get the duchess inside,’ he barked at the duke’s men-at-arms as the door to the carriage swung open. A handmaid stepped down looking suitably dishevelled after the brief but uncomfortable journey. Selene stepped out after her, helped down from the carriage by two men-at-arms. Despite being buffeted like a flag in the wind she still looked immaculate, hardly a hair out of place on her beautiful head. She gave Josten a glance that was impossible to read before allowing herself to be led up to the keep.
‘What now?’ said Mullen, jumping down from his horse.
