Lord of Ashes (Steelhaven: Book Three)

by Richard Ford

  ‘What the fuck?’ shouted Yarrick, as the other two balls of fire smashed into the Rafts behind them, each one closer than the last.

  ‘Move,’ Rag yelled, not waiting to see if Yarrick had the sense to heed her warning.

  Already there was more fire in the sky. Rag could feel the heat at her back – whatever they were using to burn the Rafts it was doing its job, and no mistake. Must have been oil in those burning missiles, and it didn’t take a magister to work out what would happen if they didn’t move sharpish.

  She could feel the heat as more fire shot overhead. Sense the explosion rip through the shacks behind and the vibration of it shake the boards beneath her feet.

  You need to move that arse of yours, or you’ll end up so much charred bone at the bottom of the Storway.

  Another explosion ripped up the ground behind her, knocking her over. Rag’s head hit the hard wooden boards and she floundered for a moment, trying to regain her senses and get the fuck moving.

  Something whined in her ears, something high-pitched that set her teeth on edge, and it wasn’t until she stumbled to her feet that she realised it was Yarrick.

  He was on fire, just standing there screaming. Rag took a step towards him but thought better of it. Weren’t nothing she could do now anyway. She squinted, wanting to shut her eyes, but she forced herself to look as he dropped to his knees, the fire consuming him, burning hotter than the hells as the oil that had spilled all over him took flame. He tried to say something, maybe begging for her to help him, but she couldn’t quite make it out as he began to choke and writhe. Rag felt sick to her stomach as she watched on helpless.

  You can’t stand around staring at this all night or you’ll be bloody next.

  Feeling a short sting of guilt Rag dragged her eyes away, setting off at a run before another ball of fire made ashes out of her too.

  Up ahead she could see other people running – those too stubborn or frail to leave the Rafts when they’d been told, now doing their best to avoid their fate. She stumbled past an old man, thinking for a moment that she should help him but then quickly reconsidering. Helping him would most likely have meant both of them dying. Besides, this was the Rafts. He weren’t living here because he was nice and kindly. This place had a reputation and there were plenty who’d say anyone burned to death here got what they deserved. Some might even say it was a fate she deserved for all the things she’d done.

  Still, Rag wasn’t gonna hang around and accept it.

  She could see the edge of the city now. See the gap in the wall. Not far, only a few more yards and she’d be safe.

  Keep running.

  Don’t look back.

  The walkway to her right erupted in flame and Rag was knocked off her feet again. She could smell smouldering clothes and burning oil. The soles of her shoes were scorched, her hair smoking, but she wouldn’t go down that fucking easy. If she had to sprint back into the city a screaming, burning lantern she’d bloody well do it.

  With the world on fire, Rag picked herself back up and ran.

  FIFTEEN

  The Helsbayn was heavy at Janessa’s side. For so long it had fuelled her like an elixir but now it felt like a burden, as though not drawing it and spilling Khurtic blood had made it sullen at her hip. She gripped the hilt, feeling the cold of it on her palm and through her fingers, and it seemed to make her equally as resentful that she had not wielded the blade in battle.

  How many had died on the wall today? A thousand? Five? It hurt her that she couldn’t do more, but then she was a rallying figure. A shepherdess around which the defenders of the city must flock, must fight for, must believe in. There was no way she could be risked. But Janessa would not shy away from the fight. She was determined to face up to it like any warrior queen should.

  ‘The Rafts,’ she said, as she was guided back to the palace of Skyhelm.

  The Sentinels surrounding her looked on in confusion. ‘Majesty,’ said one, ‘we must get you back to the palace. The bombardment from the south could mean the streets are—’

  ‘The Rafts,’ Janessa repeated. Even she knew there was strength in her voice. She had power now and none of her bodyguards would make her repeat herself a third time.

  The Sentinels led the way to the south-western extent of the city. Much of it lay in ruins, blackened and burned by the bombardment raining in from the harbour. Janessa felt almost moved to tears but she knew no amount of weeping would repair the damage or bring back those who had been burned alive in the onslaught. Besides, there may well be many more dead before sunrise – how many tears could she shed before she ran dry?

  As they reached the wall to the south-west of Steelhaven, Janessa could see the row of trebuchets were already waiting to begin their deluge. A steady stream of bedraggled folk were making their way north into the city, and sallow faces glanced her way as they moved past. Though she had done her best to unify her people in the face of the Khurtic attack, she knew there was no love here. These people were the lowest the city had to offer. She could only begin to imagine what they had suffered over the years and yet there was nothing she could offer them but the destruction of their homes.

  She watched for some time, seeing those faces file past, knowing what was to come was necessary for the safety of the city. The enemy could so easily flood over the wooden bridge the Rafts provided. Its destruction was a necessary evil – yet another she would have to carry on her already overburdened shoulders. Janessa knew there was no choice in this and the more she watched her people walk to the relative safety of the city the less she was moved. There was no time for lamenting. The Khurtas had to be stopped.

  When finally the Greencoats had ushered the last of the people from their homes and taken their place some distance away, a serjeant shouted for the order to fire.

  Three trebuchets up on the wall had their payloads lit. Even from such a distance, Janessa could feel the heat as the oil went up in flames. At the pull of a lever the arm of the first trebuchet swung up, unleashing a fiery ball upon the Rafts. She could only watch as it soared through the night, smashing into the shacks in the distance. The first missile was closely followed by two more and within quick moments the Rafts was up in flames.

  Janessa forced herself to witness the act. Seeing the fire consume part of her city, no matter how rundown that part was, twisted her insides.

  You must let this feed you. You must put this loss with all the others and let it fuel the hate you have for Amon Tugha.

  The trebuchets were swiftly reloaded and the serjeant shouted again. More fire in the sky. More flames rampaging through the Rafts.

  A scream went up from below, quickly followed by another, and Janessa felt her heart stop. She had known they would never be able to clear the place out completely, at least not in time, but she had not thought to witness anyone’s death.

  But she knew she must. What was it Odaka had said to her all those weeks ago? For every decision you make there will be consequences.

  Another scream, so high-pitched Janessa wanted to cover her ears, but she didn’t. She stood and watched, hand still on the pommel of the Helsbayn, though it gave her little comfort now.

  Someone came running from the burning wooden buildings still in flames, but they collapsed before they could reach the city. And still she watched, drinking it all in. Feeding on the pain and the hurt.

  It took a full hour for the Rafts to burn, the rotten timbers finally collapsing into the Storway to be swept off into the sea along with anyone still trapped inside.

  As she stared across the river towards the enemy beyond, Janessa vowed there would be a reckoning for this. Vowed she would not be ushered away to safety again while her city suffered. When the Khurtas attacked once more she would take the fight to them.

  She didn’t speak as her Sentinels guided her back to Skyhelm. Her hand trembled at the reins and if she had spoken she might have betrayed some weakness, might have sobbed, might have given away some tremor in her voice.

>   When finally they got back, the palace seemed empty. Dead. And she stood helpless within it. The palace walls rose high and proud, its defenders fearless, but she knew they would be as nothing when the Khurtas came. There would be little they could do against the horde, even here in this place where she had felt safe all her life. But Janessa did not care. She did not fear the enemy, she only feared defeat.

  ‘The Khurtas are repelled,’ said a voice that echoed through the hall.

  Janessa saw who it was and something soured in her mouth. Baroness Isabelle Magrida stood in all her glory, formal regalia glinting in the torchlight. She had foregone any jewellery, though, and her face was stern. Where her son Leon hid was anyone’s guess. Janessa could only hope he was cowering somewhere beneath his bed and would remain far from her sight.

  How Janessa loathed this woman now. The Baroness had been given shelter here in the palace ever since the destruction of Dreldun. She and her son had accepted that shelter and shown their gratitude with nothing but arrogance and disdain. For a fleeting moment Janessa considered how satisfying it might be to turn the woman out into the cold and let the Khurtas deal with her, but quickly put the thought to the back of her mind. Besides, it was more likely the Khurtas would be the ones to suffer when faced with Isabelle Magrida.

  ‘Victory is ours, for the night,’ the Baroness continued. ‘The defenders of this city have acquitted themselves with honour and courage. You should be proud.’

  Janessa could only stare. What was Isabelle after now? Was she goading her? If she was, Janessa was struggling to discern the barb, but from what she knew of the woman there had to be one somewhere.

  ‘I am proud,’ said Janessa. ‘Of them. Not of me.’

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. There was little else you could do.’

  ‘No? Little I could do other than stand and watch as my city burns?’

  ‘You mean the Rafts? That was necessary. A pragmatic decision that had to be made. And remember, the city has been suffering for days. We are beset, my child. Do not blame yourself for this.’

  Janessa felt fury rising within her. All the pain, all the misery of the past days rose within her like a well overflowing.

  ‘I am not your child!’ she screamed. ‘I am no one’s child. I am a queen and I have just watched my people die. Innocents who were killed on my order. I am to blame for that. Me!’

  Isabelle nodded solemnly. There was no trace of malice in her expression, no deceit. Hers was a look of genuine sympathy.

  ‘And that is your burden … Majesty. I have felt it too, as did my husband, Arlor rest him. But it is better that a hundred perish than a thousand. Than ten thousand. We must all do what is necessary.’

  Janessa just stared into the woman’s eyes, looking for some excuse, some trace of scorn, some trickery, but there was none there. Slowly she nodded.

  Before Janessa could speak any word of thanks, the door to the hall opened. Kaira walked in; even from this distance Janessa could see the blood that spotted her bodyguard’s armour. She could only hope that it was not Kaira’s.

  ‘Majesty, the wall stands. Victory is ours for the night.’

  ‘Yes, I …’ Janessa turned but Baroness Isabelle had already left the hall. She looked back to Kaira, whose eyes stared out with a fire from behind the blood staining her face. ‘Victory is ours.’

  Even as she said the words there was no thrill in it. No sense of triumph.

  As though to confirm as much, Kaira stepped in close. ‘They will be back, Majesty. As soon as they have regained their breath, they will attack again.’

  Janessa nodded, resisting the temptation to grasp the hilt of the Helsbayn.

  ‘And we will be waiting.’

  SIXTEEN

  Waylian’s ears were ringing so bad it hurt his head. There were bruises on his body but he couldn’t remember for the life of him where they’d come from. He’d been in a fight all right, there was no forgetting that, but no one had struck him. Surely he shouldn’t have been aching this much.

  He sat in his small chamber, just remembering the horror of the previous night. He had tried to sleep since, but all he’d managed were a few minutes before the nightmares in his head jolted him awake. As if the Khurtas hadn’t been bad enough, the magick of their wytchworkers had left an indelible imprint in Waylian’s mind. That writhing, thrashing thing reaching over the wall. So swift, so deadly.

  The horror of it had almost made killing a man seem insignificant.

  Waylian could still see his face, still hear his voice screaming in anger and pain.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he had said.

  Bloody sorry?

  It was too late for sorry now, but what did it matter anyway? It wasn’t the first man Waylian had killed. Many more attacks like the one last night and it would most likely not be the last. Kill or be killed definitely seemed to be the order of the day – and Waylian was in no mood to be dead any time soon.

  He opened his mouth wide, trying to relieve the ringing in his head. He made a sound through his nose. Stuck a finger in one ear and waggled it. That seemed to work a little as the noise changed from a ringing to a dull drone. It was almost as though someone were calling his na—

  Something hit him over the back of the head. It cleared the ringing in his ears instantly and he turned to see Magistra Gelredida standing there looking none too pleased.

  ‘Are you deaf, Grimm?’ she demanded.

  He scrambled to his feet. ‘Er … no, Magistra. I was just …’

  ‘Come along. There is much to do before the next assault.’

  She turned and left the room, Waylian following obediently in her wake.

  The next assault. The words filled him with dread. Part of him wanted to believe the Khurtas had thrown everything they had at them the first night, but he knew that was unlikely. They’d probably just been testing the city’s defences and tonight would be even worse – more savage, more deadly.

  Waylian was about as far from a battlefield general as you could get, but even he knew that first attack had cost the city dear. As he and his mistress moved through the tower he began to get an idea of just how dear.

  Raven Knights and magisters filled the corridors and chambers. The dead and dying were strewn all around being tended by those magisters and apothecaries fit enough to offer them aid. One Raven Knight reclined against a wall, his eyes staring blankly, his leg missing below the knee. It had been hastily bandaged but blood still pooled around him. Beside him was one of his fellow knights, his breastplate removed, a hole in his chest. Waylian couldn’t tell if he was still breathing or not.

  More bodies were laid out on the next floor down. These were clearly corpses, their faces covered with sheets. The frail bodies of old magisters lay beside the hulking forms of knights in smashed and rent armour, protocol and hierarchy seeming to matter little in death.

  Down another flight of stairs and more voices were raised in agony. Waylian expected more wounded, but instead he saw a young novice, her fingers gripping her knees so hard there was blood on her robe, her mouth moving, spouting unintelligible words as she rocked back and forth. Beside her stood a magister, uncertain of how to help the girl from her malady. Looking in the chamber as he passed, Waylian saw yet more figures, and not all of them young, babbling inanities, the horrors of battle and tapping the Veil having taken their toll.

  Past all this Magistra Gelredida walked impassively, not sparing a glance for any of the dead or dying or insane. For a moment Waylian could only admire her callousness; he would have much preferred to ignore it himself. But as he thought on it he knew she could never be so pitiless as to feel nothing for these people.

  Or could she? Over the past weeks she’s put you in danger enough times. Not given a shit whether you lived or died to further her aims.

  But they weren’t her aims. It was never for herself that she had sacrificed those around her. Everything she had done, everyone who had died as a result of her actions, had done so for the g
reater good. To preserve Steelhaven. To keep it safe from the enemy, when everyone else would have shirked the hard choices.

  Waylian knew that had it fallen to him to make such impossible choices he would have failed utterly.

  Gelredida led them into the library. It had become the surrogate meeting room for the Archmasters; the Crucible Chamber obviously meeting with his mistress’ distaste. Inside they waited for her patiently – Folds, Marghil, Kalvor. It was obvious that each man had been affected deeply by the night’s slaughter and none of them seemed able to hide the fact.

  Drennan Folds gripped his thick arms, his mismatched eyes glaring at Gelredida as she entered. Crannock sat at a desk, drumming his arthritic fingers against the table top, one lens of his eyeglasses broken in a web of cracks. Lucen Kalvor reclined against a bookshelf, feigning indifference as he always did, but the blood he had yet to wash from his face and robe showed he had seen as much death as any of them.

  Gelredida fixed them all with her inscrutable gaze. If they wanted any sympathy from the Red Witch they were about to be sorely disappointed.

  ‘Drennan?’ she said. ‘How do your apprentices fare?’

  Drennan Folds held her with that glare, his white eye unblinking. ‘How the fuck do you think they fare? Of twenty-eight, seven are dead. Four have been driven mad by the horrors they endured and the rest are scared so shitless I doubt they will be able to perform so much as a parlour trick tomorrow.’

  Gelredida took this in with an understanding nod. ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to motivate them,’ she replied. Drennan made to speak, but she had already turned her attention to Crannock. ‘And our veterans?’

  The old magister continued to drum his wrinkled fingers against the desk as though he hadn’t heard her. Waylian began to feel a little uncomfortable at the prospect that his mistress might have to repeat herself, but slowly the old man looked up.

  ‘We lost twelve,’ he said. ‘Twice that number are wounded, I doubt they’ll be fit for tonight.’