Lord of Ashes (Steelhaven: Book Three)

by Richard Ford

  ‘Yes, my prince,’ Azreal replied, bowing his head.

  Amon Tugha said nothing further, just turned back to the city of Steelhaven and glared at his prize, so close but still out of reach.

  At such a signal, Endellion and Azreal backed away, leaving their master to his thoughts. Before they turned to make their way back down the hill Endellion saw that Brulmak Tarr and Wolkan Brude were grinning at Azreal’s cowing. How she would have loved to punish them for such an insult, but it would only have served to stir Amon Tugha’s ire still further, and there was no way she would survive that.

  ‘Pleased with yourself?’ she whispered as they made their way back through the camp.

  ‘It had to be said,’ Azreal replied. ‘Every doctrine of siege warfare states we have the advantage. Needlessly pressing to raze the city will cost us dearly.’

  ‘And yet we will still follow him,’ she said.

  Azreal stopped at that, turning to regard her with those eyes she found so beautiful. He was angry, that much was obvious, but all she wanted to do was grab him and kiss his lips till they bled from the passion of it.

  ‘Yes, we will follow him,’ he said. ‘Unto death if we have to.’

  She could feel the smile slowly dropping from her face.

  Back in the Riverlands, two years ago, when the man they now called Amon Tugha had been banished, it had seemed they had no choice but to follow him. He was their master and despite his betrayal of the queen, his own mother, they were still bound to their prince. They were sworn to him, loyal without question, but ever since they had left their homeland doubt had begun to creep into Endellion’s mind. Now, so many hundreds of miles from home, she was beginning to question that loyalty. She was Arc Magna, a peerless warrior, respected and feared by her kith and kin. Here it seemed she was just another of Amon Tugha’s horde. Expendable like all the rest.

  ‘You follow him like a sheep,’ Endellion said, trying to keep the anger from her voice, but failing. ‘What have we come here for? We are as disgraced as he is, we owe him nothing.’

  ‘He is still our prince.’ Azreal sounded as though he was trying to convince himself as much as her.

  ‘And he will lead us to our deaths. For what? An ugly, stinking city a thousand miles from our home? That’s not a good enough reason for me.’

  ‘That is not the only reason. We are here to regain what we have lost. To build his name anew so they will hear it echoing back into the Riverlands. So they will know it was an injustice to banish him so. He is a king, and those that stand at his shoulder are kings alongside him.’

  Endellion could see the light in Azreal’s eyes as he spoke, hear the vehemence in his voice. It seemed he had lost none of his zeal, whereas she had almost none left at all. How would she persuade him of his folly? He would never listen if she pointed out the truth Azreal chose to ignore. That the man they called Amon Tugha had tried to usurp the crown of the Riverlands from his brother, the rightful heir, in a failed coup. That the ‘injustice’ as Azreal called it was more a mercy. By all rights their queen should have taken her son’s head rather than cast him into exile. But she knew Azreal would hear none of it.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said with a smile, adopting a mask she hoped he would not see through. It would not do to argue with Azreal when he was in such a fervour. ‘We made our vows and we must serve. Even if it means we will die.’

  Azreal smiled back at her. ‘You won’t die,’ he said. ‘There’s no one alive can match you.’

  At that, he left her standing amid the camp with the smell of fresh lit fires in the bite of the morning air. As she glanced towards the city in the distance, grey and imposing against the dark iron sky, she wondered if he was right, or if there was someone waiting within who could finally best her and leave her body to rot alone and forgotten in this cold and bleak land.

  ONE

  Breakfast had become a pitiful affair in recent days and Waylian Grimm wasn’t sorry to miss it. Though it was unlike him to skip a meal, especially since his time in the Kriega Mountains when he’d almost starved to death, he just couldn’t bring himself to eat. There was a fight coming, a fight that might see the end of everything he knew, and the consequent knot in his stomach was twisted too tight to allow room for watery gruel.

  He stared north out of his chamber window, probably not the best thing to do under the circumstances, looking forlornly towards the horde that would come to destroy the city any day now. But what else was he supposed to do? Try and ignore them? Offer some tea and cakes? Run like the bloody hells?

  That latter option was off the cards, at least. The last ship had sailed from port three days previously and in the night a huge fleet had arrived to blockade Steelhaven’s crescent bay. The way north was barred by a mass of cutthroat savages, and who knew what lay in wait to east and west. Waylian couldn’t go anywhere, even if he wanted to.

  Just have to sit tight and wait for the fighting to start, won’t you, Grimmy.

  But when would the bloody fighting start? The Khurtas were just sitting there, lighting their fires in the night, singing their brutal dirges. They’d made a pretty good show of scaring the shit out of everyone in the city, but so far made no move to attack.

  Perhaps Amon Tugha had got bored. Perhaps he’d seen the imposing curtain wall and barred gates of Steelhaven and thought better of it.

  Waylian was pretty sure that was a wish too far.

  Amon Tugha had come a long way to take Steelhaven for his own. There was no way he’d be leaving without a fight.

  Waylian washed his face in a bowl of cold water and donned his robe before leaving the chamber and making his way down the vast stairway that wound its way through the core of the Tower of Magisters. The corridors had become all but deserted in the days leading up to Amon Tugha’s arrival. Where before there had been aimless chatter there was now silence. The atmosphere of studiousness replaced by an air of steely determination that seemed to hang over the place now that his mistress, Magistra Gelredida, had mobilised the Archmasters to her cause.

  It had not been easy. His mistress had brought the most powerful magickers in the Free States to heel through subterfuge and blackmail, and Waylian had helped her do it. He could only hope that when all this was over he wouldn’t be the one who had to face their ire.

  Don’t worry about that right now, Grimmy. You have to survive the forty thousand Khurtas about to rain all the hells on the city you’re stuck in. You’ll most likely be long dead before any of the Archmasters has a chance to seek vengeance.

  Making his way down the oak staircase, Waylian could hear the guttural shouts of combat and the clash of steel echoing up towards him. One of the floors had been cleared completely of desks and shelves and other paraphernalia and converted into a fighting gallery where the Raven Knights could practise. Their normal training yard in the tower grounds was being used by Archmaster Drennan Folds and his apprentices, where their inexpert attempts at magick would do less harm. Consequently, the Raven Knights trained inside, the clashing of their weapons making an almighty racket within the hallowed confines of the ancient tower.

  Waylian paused on the staircase, watching them through an open archway as they went at one another with sword, spear and glaive. He could only marvel at their strength and skill – even fully armoured they fought with a speed and ferocity that almost made Waylian’s head spin. He had watched the Wyvern Guard training on the way from the Kriega Mountains and had thought them a fierce and deadly bunch. The Raven Knights almost matched them for raw brutality, and surpassed them in finesse and vigour. Waylian wouldn’t have liked to call which order of knights were the more proficient killers.

  He stood and watched, almost mesmerised, until a figure walked from beyond the entranceway, blocking his view. Lucen Kalvor turned slowly, regarding Waylian with those dark arching brows of his. It was still unclear if Kalvor knew who had aided Gelredida in her plotting against the Archmasters. Whether Kalvor knew it was Waylian who had gathered proof t
hat he’d murdered his former master to take his place as Archmaster was impossible to tell. It was clear, however, that he held no love for Magistra Gelredida, and by association it was doubtful he liked Waylian much either.

  He probably thinks you’re her pet, like everyone else, Grimmy. People don’t like other people’s pets; always leaving their fur and the stink of their arses where they’re not wanted.

  Waylian averted his gaze and hurried down the stairs. He could feel Kalvor’s dark eyes following him as he went, not really wanting to know what the Archmaster was thinking. He was pretty sure it would be nothing complimentary.

  Further down, the sound of clashing steel relented, only to be replaced by squabbling voices. The closer he got to the sound the more Waylian thought it reminded him of a gaggle of geese, pecking at one another over a scrap of food.

  Again he paused when he reached the source of the noise, peering through the open door of a huge wood-panelled meeting room. In its centre sat Archmaster Crannock Marghil and surrounding him were more than a dozen magisters, all speaking at once, barracking the old man with their protestations.

  ‘We will all be killed!’ ‘You should have bargained with the Elharim!’ ‘There’s no sense in this, we should flee!’ ‘I’m too old to go into battle!’ ‘I can’t fight, my sciatica’s playing up!’

  To his credit, Crannock soaked up the cacophony with a grim defiance that belied his years, taking every panicked excuse on the chin like a seasoned pugilist.

  Waylian remembered when Gelredida had given the old man the task of mustering the veteran magisters. At the time she had said they would follow Crannock, that they respected him. Looking through the open door into the room, Waylian could see little evidence of that. Nevertheless, the Archmaster seemed unbowed by the complaints of his fellow Caste members. It seemed they would have to join the fight whether they liked it or not.

  When he’d made his way to the bottom of the vast stairway Waylian paused at the double doors standing open before him. He could hear the sounds of strict instruction coming from the courtyard beyond and he was in no hurry to rush out and let himself be seen by his fellow apprentices or their tutor. In the past few days Drennan Folds had put every apprentice left in the tower through their paces, assessing their abilities and training them rigorously in whatever area of the Art they proved themselves most proficient. It had been a harsh few days, and not everyone had survived. If there were any doubt as to the perils of tapping the Veil untrained then they had long been dispelled. The Veil held all the magicks of the world within its confines, and harnessing it was dangerous, even for experienced magisters. For an apprentice it could often lead to catastrophe.

  Waylian had heard tell one lad named Mikael had choked on his own vomit after attempting a particularly tricky incantation. Another girl, he didn’t know her name, had died screaming and clawing at her head, pulling out hair in huge knots until she had finally expired. Little wonder then that Waylian was out of favour with his fellows since he had managed to avoid being put at such risk.

  Not that it was his fault. Magistra Gelredida had insisted he be spared the danger of premature training. There was no use trying to explain that to Drennan and his trainees, though. To them he was unfairly favoured. It mattered little to them that Waylian wanted to learn his Art, wanted to train alongside them so he might face the Khurtas with all the raging magicks he could muster and send them fleeing in terror back to their northern steppes.

  It doesn’t matter. They all hate you anyway. You have no friends here, Grimmy. But then, you never had any friends here in the first place.

  When he knew he could wait no longer, Waylian stepped into the dim morning light and glanced out onto the courtyard. Gelredida would be waiting, and he knew he shouldn’t be late.

  His attention was drawn by the row of robed apprentices, each one standing and looking on as Archmaster Folds gave them their instruction. A line of mannequins stood opposite, their blank faces daubed with war paint to represent the savage Khurtas. To the far left one mannequin was burned and blackened.

  Drennan held a block of charcoal, the dust of it having dirtied his robe at the front. ‘You’ll feel it grow hot,’ he said, glaring at his students with one blue eye, the other as milky as the overcast sky. ‘But don’t worry, it won’t burn your flesh. Just that of your target,’ with a thick-fingered hand he gestured to the row of mannequins, smoke rising from the one on the left as though confirming the Archmaster’s words. ‘So who’s first?’

  Drennan looked expectantly at his charges but none of them seemed too keen to take him up on his offer. The silence wore on as Drennan regarded each of the apprentices with his mismatched eyes, one seeming to glare in disdain, the other peering right through them.

  ‘I will,’ said a girl Waylian didn’t recognise. She took a step forward as confidently as she could but it was obvious for all to see she was afraid. She must have been older than Waylian, and better trained in the Art – and who isn’t – but she looked tiny, her short cropped hair giving a boyish look to her face.

  Drennan held out the block of charcoal and she took it from him, stepping forward to face the row of mannequins.

  ‘Concentrate,’ said the Archmaster. ‘When you invoke, don’t just say the words but feel them. Don’t just focus your power but will it. Break the Veil. Take the magicks and make them yours.’

  The girl nodded, staring ahead at the mannequins, grasping the charcoal so tight her knuckles went white. She closed her eyes for a moment, taking in several deep and calming breaths before she looked at the mannequins once more. Waylian could see the steely determination in her eyes, the strength in her boyish little face, the maturity, the knowledge that she would not, could not, fail.

  As she spoke the invocation she closed her eyes and held out the block of charcoal. Waylian had no idea what the words meant, they were alien to him and sounded odd on the girl’s lips, but as she spoke them the charcoal began to glow white. There was a hissing as smoke rose from her clenched fist but she didn’t react to any pain. Her eyes flicked open and Waylian felt his heart skip a beat as he saw they burned as white as the charcoal in her fist, all the colour washed away by the powers she invoked.

  There was a howl as the mannequin on the far right suddenly burst into flames, at first blue then a deep red. The heat was intense and Waylian had to shield his eyes from the conflagration as the mannequin took, but as quickly as they surged towards the sky, the flames died, leaving nothing but charred wood behind.

  A smile broke on Waylian’s lips. Perhaps they had a fighting chance after all. Perhaps they could beat the Khurtas if this was the power available to even an apprentice magister. But his optimism was immediately dashed as he heard the girl gurgling as though she were being throttled.

  Drennan rushed towards her as she collapsed to her knees, her hand letting go of the charcoal which dropped to the ground and rolled across the courtyard. She began to shake convulsively. Her eyes no longer white, but blank and staring at the sky, white froth gathering at the corners of her mouth.

  ‘Fetch the apothecary,’ Drennan barked, as he held the girl close. Waylian could only watch, surprised at the Archmaster’s compassion as he cradled the girl in his arms. It was a side of Drennan Folds he had not seen and Waylian suddenly felt a pang of guilt. Not so long ago, at Gelredida’s order, Waylian had helped kidnap Drennan’s son. It had seemed necessary then; Drennan would never have pledged himself to Gelredida’s cause otherwise, but now he saw something different in the Archmaster that made him regret what he’d done. Where Drennan had previously seemed a ball of pent-up fury now he was all kindness and concern. It was enough to make Waylian feel sympathy for him.

  ‘She clearly didn’t bond fully with her prosopopoeia. The resulting divagation from the Veil often leads to an abhorrent concomitant.’

  Waylian turned at the voice, seeing another apprentice standing beside him. The youth was reed-thin with lank, greasy hair swept back from a prominent forehead, a
nd a pair of eyeglasses on his pointy nose.

  ‘Eh?’ Waylian replied.

  The apprentice regarded him curiously. ‘You are aware of the transmutations undergone during preternatural importunement, aren’t you?’

  Of course you’re bloody not, Grimmy.

  ‘Of course I am,’ Waylian replied.

  By now Drennan had taken it upon himself to lift the girl in his arms and rush towards the base of the tower to find the apothecary for himself.

  ‘I take it you’re here for instruction like the rest of us?’ asked the apprentice.

  ‘Er … no,’ said Waylian, glancing around for any sign of his mistress, but there was none. ‘I’m waiting for someone.’

  ‘Really? A little young to have mastered your Craft, aren’t you?’

  Waylian shook his head. ‘It’s not that. I’m just apprenticed to …’ Magistra Gelredida. The Red Witch. Who treats you like her handmaid. Who keeps you away from the rest of these apprentices who are learning to master their Art so they can be of use in the fight to come, while you run errands. ‘… a magister with particular needs.’

  ‘I see,’ said the apprentice, though Waylian had no idea how he could possibly see. ‘You’ll be apprenticed to Magistra Gelredida then.’ Or maybe he could. ‘Which would make you Waylian Grimm.’

  ‘It would,’ Waylian replied, holding out his hand. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Aldrich Mundy,’ the apprentice replied, looking down at Waylian’s proffered hand as though it were a bloody knife. ‘And there’ll be no need for that. The hands carry a plenitude of bacteria. They’re best kept to oneself.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Waylian said, disliking his new acquaintance more with every passing moment.