by Richard Ford
Copyright © 2015 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.
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.
First published as an Ebook in 2015
by HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
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
eISBN: 978 0 7553 9411 1
Cover illustration by Lee Gibbons
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
An Hachette UK Company
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.headline.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Praise
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
Chapter Fifty-Five
Epilogue
Discover the rest of the Steelhaven series …
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, was his epic fantasy debut.
Follow Richard on Twitter @Rich4ord or catch up with him on his blog at https://richard4ord.wordpress.com/.
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’
Falacta Times
By Richard Ford
Herald of the Storm
The Shattered Crown
Lord of Ashes
About the Book
FIGHT TO THE DEATH …
The queen of Steelhaven has grown in strength. Taking up her dead father’s sword, she must defend the city from the dread warlord Amon Tugha and his blood-thirsty army now at the gates. A vicious, unrelenting four-day battle ensues, the most perilous yet.
… OR BOW TO THE ENEMY
No side is immune from danger as all hell breaks loose, with the threat of coups and the unleashing of the deadliest and darkest magick. Loyalty, strength and cunning will be put to test in the quest for victory. What fate awaits the free states?
For Lynne, Josie, Hamish and … is it Paul?
I can never remember!
Acknowledgements
As always I need to thank my agent, John Jarrold, for his magnificent taste in books and even better taste in hats.
Big thanks to my former editor and bearded hobbit, John Wordsworth, now carving out a name for himself as a literary agent, and Claire Baldwin, who was almost but not quite my new editor.
As ever the team at Headline have been amazing, so thanks to Sherise Hobbs, Beth Eynon, Joanna Kaliszewska, Patrick Insole, Fran Gough and Tom Noble.
Finally, thanks to everyone who’s read the series and said nice things about it, in particular Marc Aplin of Fantasy-Faction.com and Claire Rowe who is still hiding somewhere in Scotland.
PROLOGUE
It was dark and quiet inside the hide-covered shelter, almost peaceful. Nothing moved but a single piece of animal skin come loose in the night, letting the dawn light flit into the tent as it flapped gently in the breeze.
Endellion took a deep breath, smelling the salt tang of moist flesh and stale sex. Surrounding her on a pile of furs were half a dozen Khurtic warriors, every one of them deep in slumber, every one of them worn out from their long night. She smiled at the memory. They had tried so very hard to keep up but she was Elharim, and not even a half-dozen had come close to satisfying her appetite.
The one lying next to her – she didn’t know his name, had no use for any of their names – bore the mark of her nails on his back, raw and livid on his pale flesh. He was a pretty one, his skin smooth for a Khurta, his face unmarred by war and violence. That was unusual for one of his kind. It had taken her some time to find such boys, the Khurtas were a notoriously ugly race, but after much searching she had managed to take her pick of their youngest and strongest. None had refused her. None had dared.
With a single finger she traced the line one of her nails had left on his skin. The boy stirred at her touch but did not wake. The night before he had cried out as she marked him, as she dug her fingers into his flesh, urging him, stirring his lust. He had been good; one of the best and most eager to please. It was fitting she should have granted him such a battle scar. And these Khurtas so loved their scars.
A noise from outside made her forget her parched throat and fuddled head. It was the sound of stone scraping steel.
Endellion rose from the piled furs, deftly stepping over the bodies that surrounded her. She found her clothes piled in a corner, quickly dressed and pulled on her boots, strapping her sword to her waist and taking one of the furs to wrap around her shoulders against the chill winter air
. With a last amused glance back at the spent bodies lying in her tent, she pulled back the hide covering and stepped out into the wan morning light.
He sat not twenty yards away, and though the sun was hidden behind a gloomy bank of cloud it still seemed like he shone. Endellion couldn’t suppress a grin as she walked towards him, watching as he honed that blade, scraping whetstone on Riverland steel. Even though they were a thousand miles from their homeland in the north, when she laid eyes on Azreal it was as though she had never left. He was home to her. All she had ever wanted.
Of course she would never have told him that. There was a time, years ago, when she would have professed her devotion to him; might well have pledged herself to him and him alone. But that time was gone. She was of the Arc Magna, a warrior born, dedicated to the blade and the kill. Azreal was of the Subodai, a silent watcher in the night, a messenger bringing the word of his lord and sometimes with it the gift of death. Any union between them was forbidden, but that had not stopped Endellion taking her pleasure with him so many years before. And what heady nights those had been.
She stood for some time, enduring the cold just to watch him at his work. The stone rang on steel, the blade calling out with each stroke as though singing its joy. How Endellion would love to have made Azreal sing out in joy once more, feeling his flesh against her flesh, hearing his cries of lust mix with her own. It was a temptation she could barely quell.
‘Are you going to stand there staring all morning?’ Azreal said finally, without looking around or pausing in his labours.
Endellion almost laughed. Of course he knew she was watching him. There was little that passed beyond the knowing of Azreal of the Subodai.
‘I could stand here staring until Oblivion claims me,’ she replied.
He only shook his head at that, moving the whetstone along his blade with one last ring of the steel. In a single swift motion he stood, spinning the blade in his grip with a flourish and deftly slotting it into his sheath.
‘Unfortunately neither of us can wait for Oblivion, my love. Our master has summoned us.’
Endellion couldn’t manage to suppress a pang of excitement as he called her my love, but she did not speak further as Azreal led the way through the camp. If Amon Tugha had indeed summoned them, it would be madness to keep him waiting.
She walked close behind him as he moved through the Khurtic camp. They had been here for almost a week and the place was beginning to stink of unwashed bodies and rotting meat. It was not good for these savages to spend so much time amongst one another with no one to fight. Though Amon Tugha had united the nine tribes, old rivalries still burned bright and there had been many a feud settled in blood over the past few days. For her part, Endellion relished the violence and had even been eager to join in the fighting, but her master had forbidden it. He would have no dissent amongst his ranks, at least not before the city of Steelhaven had fallen. For every man slain in anger another had been executed at her master’s hand, but the threat of a swift and permanent reckoning had still done nothing to curb the killing instinct of the Khurtas. Almost three hundred heads sat atop spears, looking towards the city they had come so far to besiege.
Further through the camp, a vast wooden stockade stood, housing prisoners chained to one another in their droves. The stink from them was worse than anything the Khurtas could have mustered and they were indeed a pitiful sight. Endellion could not take her eyes from them as she passed by. They were a mark of her master’s power, his victories since they had first come to these foul lands. Once proud warriors brought low, stripped of their arms and armour, humiliated, starved and beaten. Every day they suffered was a day her lord was elevated above them. Each of them that died only served to raise her master’s repute yet higher.
Azreal turned his head away as he passed by the stockade. It made Endellion smile to see his disdain for such treatment. Mercy was a rare quality amongst the Subodai, but Azreal had little time for the suffering of prisoners. He saw it as a needless indulgence, and did not appreciate its value. Some would have regarded such an attitude as weakness, but Endellion knew only too well how deadly he was. For all Azreal showed mercy for the weak and helpless, he had none for those who would oppose him with a naked blade.
As they moved through the camp there came the sounds of saws and hammers. Those Khurtas with the acumen for it had been selected to craft Amon Tugha’s weapons of war – vast siege towers, ballistae, mangonels and the like. Endellion had been surprised at how well the savage Khurtas had turned their hands to such labours, but then she had also underestimated their prowess in other areas and been pleasingly surprised at their ability to adapt.
The two Elharim crested a ridge to see the land rise yet further. Atop the next promontory stood a windmill, lonely against the morning skyline, its sails burned to rags by the Khurtic scouts who had first reached this position. Beside the sad sight of the ruin awaited their lord, Amon Tugha.
He stood as still and solid as that mill, staring out over the bleak fields of the Free States towards the city that was his ultimate prize. At his feet were his two hounds, Astur and Sul, one chewing hungrily on the bone of some beast, the other watching vigilantly as Endellion and Azreal approached.
As they mounted the hill, Endellion saw that the rest of his generals were also present. Brulmak Tarr picked impatiently at the scarred flesh of his face, looking on furiously as though it were he the Elharim had kept waiting. Wolkan Brude also looked on with hate from behind a mass of beard and hair, though he was as unmoving as Amon Tugha. Leaning against the wall of the mill, almost hidden in the shadows, was Stirgor Cairnmaker, hands resting on the handles of the sword and axe at his belt. Endellion could read nothing on his features; as though he cared little for the killing to come, but she knew from seeing his skill in battle, the hunger for slaughter he showed on the field, that he cared a great deal.
Azreal was the first to drop to his knee before their prince. Endellion followed suit, feeling the damp of the grass soak into her leather trews. For some moments Amon Tugha stood and stared southward, ignoring his Elharim bodyguards and the Khurtic chieftains in his thrall. All the while one of those hounds stared as the other noisily cracked at the bone in its jaws. Endellion glanced up as she waited; noticing that the bone the animal dined on belonged to no beast, but was the thigh bone of a man.
‘Rise,’ said Amon Tugha, without turning around, his golden eyes still fixed on that city as though it were built from all the jewels of the Riverlands.
The Elharim both stood and Endellion glanced to Azreal, who gave no sign as to what was going on. Were they just to stand here admiring Steelhaven from afar? They all knew why they were here; they had watched the city for days without so much as a single arrow fired in anger. What now?
‘My ships from across the Midral have arrived,’ said Amon, finally. ‘Their bombardment will begin at sunset. It will be our sign to attack from the north.’
‘About fucking time,’ growled Brulmak Tarr in the guttural Khurtic tongue. Endellion thought it foolish of him to speak unless spoken to, but it was clear Amon Tugha had learned to give his savage warriors some latitude to their behaviour in recent weeks. They were barbarians and would never adapt to the traditions and manners demanded of Elharim warriors.
Amon Tugha turned, and Endellion saw him smiling, the blond spikes of his hair all but shining atop his handsome face, the ritual scars and burns to his chest and arms livid against his bronzed flesh. ‘I know you grow restless,’ said Amon. ‘All of you have fought hard for many days only to be stopped in your tracks when our goal is in sight. Tonight your patience will be rewarded. The waiting is over.’
Endellion could have laughed at that. Though they had been camped here for almost six days the Khurtas had done little waiting; instead fighting and fucking amongst themselves as though their lives depended on it. It was rumoured Brulmak Tarr had already killed a dozen of his own men, such was his impatience for battle.
Amon Tugha looked to
Azreal. ‘How go our preparations?’ he asked.
‘We will be ready, my prince,’ Azreal replied. ‘The siege engines will be completed by sundown. The location to the west of the city has been found, our warriors are already making the preparations you ordered.’
Amon Tugha nodded. ‘Good. It is important we begin our attack now. We can wait no longer. The Father of Killers has failed and the queen of this city yet lives. I will see Steelhaven fall and take her crown with my own hands.’
Despite his master’s words, Azreal shook his head. There was something he wanted to say, something that Amon Tugha might not want to hear. For a moment Endellion almost reached out to stop him, but it was too late.
‘My lord, I must ask,’ Azreal said, his head still bowed. ‘We have the advantage. The city is cut off from land and sea. This kingdom is riven by feuds and the other nobles within it will not come to the city’s aid. So why attack? Why make such a sacrifice when we could wait them out? Starve them? Put them on the offensive or force their surrender?’
Endellion could hear one of the Khurtic war chiefs snort in derision at the notion they would starve their enemy rather than fight, but she was more concerned with Amon Tugha’s reaction. It was rare he would allow anyone to question his wishes without repercussion, even Azreal, who he favoured above all.
The prince looked at his assassin for some moments, and Endellion feared the worst. Then a smile crossed her master’s face.
‘You speak sense, my brother,’ he said finally. ‘But it is not enough to starve this city and pick at the flesh that remains. I want it razed. I want it destroyed. I want to walk its shattered stones and wade through the broken bones of its slaughtered defenders.’ Amon Tugha’s voice rose as he spoke, and both his hounds grew unsettled at their master’s anger. ‘I want its queen to suffer at my hand. I want to tread her smashed crown beneath my heel.’ Endellion could see the golden fire in her master’s eyes now. His lips turned up in a maniac grin and spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth. ‘And I will have it within the next four days, no matter the sacrifice. No matter if every Khurta in my service dies for it. No matter if you die for it, broken and beaten in the dirt.’ He stopped then and stared at Azreal, who could only hold his master’s gaze for the briefest of moments.
