by Richard Ford
Gelredida nodded at his solemn news. ‘We will need—’
‘I know we will,’ said the old man, wearily. ‘And I will do my best.’
‘Yes. You will.’ She turned to Lucen Kalvor.
‘Around thirty casualties. Leaves us around forty fit for the fight,’ he said without looking up. Kalvor didn’t seem to give a damn that his Raven Knights had suffered the most, but then he didn’t seem to give a damn about much.
‘I know this seems bad, but on a positive note their wytchworker is dead,’ said Gelredida. ‘Last night was particularly bloody. From now on we should face no more magick. Nevertheless, there’s every chance the fighting will get worse before the end.’
‘Get worse?’ spat Drennan through gritted teeth. ‘How could it get worse? We are losing magickers by the dozen. And do you know how long it takes to train Raven Knights? By the time we get to the end the Tower of Magisters might be nothing but an empty shell.’
‘And what would be the alternative?’ said Gelredida, her voice even and calm as she refused to rise to Drennan’s complaints.
‘We should have taken the bargain he offered us. We should have stayed out of the fight.’
‘You’re still as blind as that left eye of yours,’ said Gelredida. ‘Still hiding your cowardice behind a voice of reason.’
‘You fucking led us to this!’ he screamed. ‘You’ll see us all dead. You’ll see the Caste destroyed. The only thing holding the Free States together and it’ll be gone because you refused to bargain.’
There was silence. Waylian felt like backing from the room before the real shit started to fly, but he managed to keep himself together enough to stay put.
‘Have you finished?’ Gelredida asked eventually. Drennan stayed silent, thinking better of venting his ire any further. ‘Good.’
She made as though to continue when the sound of running feet stopped her. Waylian turned in time to see a boy, probably a little younger than he was, run into the room. His face was aglow from his exertions, his regalia marking him as holding no allegiance to any particular administrative department within the city and yet still he had been allowed into the Tower of Magisters.
The boy dropped to his knee before the Archmasters, bowing his head as though he might be turned into a mouse if he showed improper deference. In his hand he held out a sealed scroll.
Gelredida impatiently signalled for Waylian to take the message, and he swiftly obeyed. It was sealed with white wax that bore no marking. He stared at it for a moment, unsure of what that meant.
‘Well, open it then.’ Her tone seemed to stretch beyond impatience, if that were possible.
Waylian broke the seal and unfurled the scroll. He read with all the haste he could muster.
‘It is from the … Inquisition, Magistra,’ he said. ‘Seneschal Rogan demands that the magisters do their utmost to resolve the problem of the fire ships anchored in the bay.’
Gelredida sighed a sigh that asked if she didn’t already have enough on her quite considerable plate. ‘Oh, he does, does he?’ She directed the comment at the young messenger. To his credit the boy resisted the temptation to look up, and Waylian knew all too well that he must have been scared for his life at the displeasure of the Red Witch.
‘Very well,’ she said finally. ‘Tell the Seneschal we shall do our utmost to deal with it.’
The young lad needed no further encouragement and scampered off, almost bowling Waylian over on his way out.
‘Gentlemen, if there is nothing further,’ she directed at the three Archmasters. ‘I’m sure we all have much to be getting on with.’
She walked from the room, each of the men following her with eyes full of loathing. Waylian would have tried a smile before he followed her but he knew that was as dangerous as it was pointless.
Down she went, through the tower, and Waylian had to give silent thanks for the fact there were no more dead and dying lining the stairwell as they descended.
‘What will you do, Magistra?’ Waylian asked, unable to contain himself. He knew she had a lot on her mind but even he wanted to know how she proposed to destroy over a dozen artillery ships in the bay.
‘What will I do?’ she asked in return. ‘Why, I will go and seek help.’
Waylian let out a silent breath. For a moment he had feared the worst – that she’d be volunteering him for yet another perilous mission, this one involving a rowboat and some flammable materials.
He couldn’t resist. ‘Who from, Magistra?’
‘From the Wyvern Guard,’ she replied. ‘The Lord Marshal still owes me a favour or two.’
Waylian pondered that for a moment. There was something amiss with this plan and he just couldn’t stop himself.
‘But how can warriors manage to defeat ships anchored out to sea? We don’t have any boats to transport them across the bay, and even if we did surely they’d come under fire before they can even reach the first artillery ship.’
‘Very good, Waylian. You’re thinking this through. I like that. But they won’t be attacking the artillery ships by boat.’
Waylian couldn’t help but furrow his brow. He had to know.
‘So … how are they going to do it?’
Gelredida turned and flashed him an ever so rare smile.
‘Well, my young apprentice. That’s where you come in …’
Oh. Shit.
SEVENTEEN
It had been the longest night of Merrick Ryder’s life. Thankfully most of it had gone by in a haze of blood and violence. The never ending screams, the hack and slash, the piss-filled undergarments. But strangely, despite the death all around him, Merrick had never felt so alive. Had never felt like he belonged as much as he did when standing amongst the Wyvern Guard, when raising shield and sword with men he almost considered his brothers.
Riding at the enemy with nothing between him and them but the night air had seemed insane enough, but standing atop that wall when they’d come to attack had been the maddest thing he’d ever seen. Even though he knew it was coming he could never have prepared himself for the slaughter. And the Wyvern Guard were oh so good at the slaughter.
And at their fore, raising his blade like a Sword King of old had been his father, inspiring them, leading by example. The old man had cut through the enemy like a slaughterman gone mad, the gleam in his eye never faltering, the grin on his face showing a glee in butchery no sane man should ever have borne.
Merrick should have hated that. Should have judged the old bastard for taking such joy in the killing. Look at him, he should have thought. No wonder he abandoned us. No wonder I was left alone to fend for myself with this mad fucker as a father.
But Merrick couldn’t judge him – Merrick could only admire him for his battle lust. He was caught up in it like the rest of the bronzearmoured knights surrounding him. Had only wanted to race into the thick of the fighting and get himself bloody alongside them.
And he had done that all right.
All morning he’d been scrubbing his armour. Thick bits of gore were stuck in the fluted plates and Jared had been adamant that every man clean his armour to a mirror sheen before they face the enemy again. Merrick just wanted to sleep and rest his aching muscles, his sword arm in particular, but he had risen with the rest and obeyed the word of the Lord Marshal’s second. It seemed almost normal to him now, to wash and eat and fight with these men like their equal. The Merrick of old would have laughed, but then the Merrick of old was long gone.
Is he? Have you really got over being a self-serving coward? Might be a bit soon to start patting yourself on the back just yet, Ryder.
He sat amongst the rest of the lads as they polished swords and lacquered shields. They chatted about the previous night as though it happened every week. As though putting themselves in peril were just another part of life. Some laughed, comparing their kills. Some went into graphic detail about how they’d slit a Khurta’s throat or pierced a groin or hacked off a limb. Their chatter was casual, light-hearted
, as though they were bragging about winning a hand of cards. Merrick listened long enough for it to seem almost normal. He was about to laugh along with a big knight named Garnar as he talked about how he’d crushed a Khurta’s throat with the edge of his shield when he glanced over to the other side of the courtyard.
Lying in a row, hidden beneath the pennants of the Wyvern Guard, were their dead. Of the three hundred who had fought on the previous night, thirty-eight of them were now corpses. Merrick had got to know some of those men in his short time amongst their number. Terryl had made him laugh on more than one occasion. Barsa had in turn laughed at Merrick’s shit jokes louder and longer than most. Now they were dead, but the rest of their brothers didn’t seem to think on it too much.
They’d laid their fallen out solemnly enough the night before. Bowed their heads as the Lord Marshal had said his words about ‘brotherhood’ and how their dead were now safe in Arlor’s embrace. But now it was like they were all but forgotten. Just lying there in the cold morning, waiting for someone to come and bury them.
Merrick couldn’t have given two shits whether Arlor wanted to give him a hug or not when he died. When his time came he was damn sure he wanted more than to be laid out in a cold courtyard and covered with a fucking flag. He wanted weeping maidens and a funeral procession strewn with fresh flowers and not a little gold.
You can want all you like, Ryder. You’ll be lucky to get a hole deep enough to fit you in.
With that dour thought in his head, Merrick went back to polishing his armour, trying desperately to take his mind from the prospect of an early, and undoubtedly gruesome, death. He tried to think back to the night before, to the camaraderie, to the elation of victory as the Khurtas had fled. Deep down, though, he knew they’d be back, and soon. Knew that there were tens of thousands of the bastards, and less than three hundred Wyvern Guard. Thirty-eight gone last night. How many tonight? And how long until it was his turn?
A cry went up from the barrack room they’d converted into an infirmary. As well as the dead they had over three dozen injured. Most were walking wounded, minor cuts and bruises, but the rest would be lucky to walk or raise a sword again.
Merrick reckoned that would probably be worse than dying – wandering around as a cripple for the rest of your days, no use to man or beast. He doubted the Wyvern Guard suffered any hangers-on in their number either. They were a brotherhood, and no mistake, but a ruthless and brutal one. They would fight for each other, die for each other, but weakness certainly wasn’t tolerated in any form from what Merrick had seen.
He could only hope his luck would hold and he’d survive with everything intact, or die a swift and glorious death. It would definitely be the former if he had any say in it.
As he continued to buff his breastplate a figure silently entered the courtyard. No one seemed to notice the red-robed old woman as she made her way across the training square; everyone continued their laughter and not one of the Wyvern Guard even so much as glanced in her direction. It was like she was invisible to all but Merrick.
When she reached the centre of the courtyard, he suddenly felt a pull in his chest, right where his wound was. That wound, the one that should have killed him but a few short days ago, seemed to recognise the old woman, even if Merrick didn’t. He lifted a hand to his shirt, expecting to feel it sodden with blood, but it was still healed over.
Merrick stared at her as she continued across the square. Before she reached the other side, Lord Marshal Tannick walked out from beneath the eaves of a building to greet her.
The two regarded one another with familiarity, though Tannick seemed a little wary. The words they exchanged were brief, with Tannick nodding and shaking his head while the old woman spoke. All the while the pain in Merrick’s chest seemed to intensify, burning a little as though the blade were still sticking in him and starting to glow with heat. After a final solemn nod from Tannick, the old woman turned. As she did so she fixed Merrick with a look he couldn’t read. There was something about her he recognised, but from where it was he had no idea. It was like he’d dreamt about her and the memory of it still haunted him at the periphery of his thoughts.
She made her way back across the courtyard, still fixing him with that look, the corner of her mouth turning up slightly as though she were somehow relishing his discomfort. Merrick grimaced at the pain now, fighting back the urge to cry out.
As the old woman almost made it to the archway leading from the courtyard, she stopped. Sweat had beaded on Merrick’s forehead now, and he was filled with sudden dread and panic.
The woman in red lifted a gloved finger to her lips. As quick as it had started, the pain in Merrick’s wound subsided, and he let out a sharp exhalation.
With that, the woman was gone.
While Merrick’s eyes were locked on the archway from the courtyard, a shadow fell over him. He looked up to see his father standing there, face stern as ever.
‘I’d have words,’ said the Lord Marshal, before marching off back to his quarters.
Merrick glanced around, bewildered. Still no one had noticed the old woman or Merrick’s discomfort. They simply carried on with their bragging and polishing. He stood gingerly and followed his father across the courtyard. Though the pain in his chest had abated, Merrick’s legs were still unsteady, the beads of sweat on his head now cooling in the morning air.
‘There’s a mission,’ said Tannick, once they were both within the confines of his chamber. ‘And it’s a dangerous one.’ Here it comes, Ryder. A chance to prove yourself! ‘That’s why, when I ask for volunteers, you’ll keep your mouth shut.’
‘I’ll do what?’ Merrick asked.
‘You will stay silent, boy. I’ll not have you put in harm’s way.’
‘Harm’s way?’ Merrick could feel his hackles starting to rise. ‘What would you call last night? A gentle stroll in the evening air?’
‘You weren’t in any danger last night. I had my eye on you all the time.’
‘I don’t need—’
‘Regardless of your needs, boy, you’ll not be volunteering. Is that clear?’
Merrick had suffered about enough of this. His father had allowed him to join the Wyvern Guard, given him a chance at redemption, but all the while stopped him from showing his worth. If he hadn’t ridden out to save Cormach the foul bastard would be dead, and the defenders on the wall would never have seen the Wyvern Guard riding back victorious with their banner. And besides, he’d more than held his own on the wall last night. More than shown he was as good a blade as any other man there.
But what did he say to you yesterday, Ryder? Don’t disobey again, wasn’t it? Are you going to try it? Are you going to defy your father’s wishes a second time? Go on, give it a go. See what happens.
‘Clear as crystal,’ Merrick said, struggling to hide his disappointment.
As he followed his father back out onto the courtyard, all he could think was this might have been his chance to prove his mettle. To show he was a warrior equal to his family’s reputation. That he was not riding in the wake of his father.
As much as he had been accepted into the Wyvern Guard he wasn’t convinced he had the total respect of his brother knights. And at least one of them clearly hated his guts, but the less he thought about Cormach Whoreson the better.
‘Right, listen up,’ shouted Tannick as he stood in the centre of the courtyard. Immediately the men of the Wyvern Guard stopped what they were doing and stood, crowding in around their Lord Marshal. ‘We have a mission. I need twenty volunteers. It’ll be dangerous and it’s doubtful most of you will survive it. Who’s in?’
Merrick glanced around. Few of the Wyvern Guard looked worried at the prospect of dying.
‘I’ll go,’ said the first voice. Merrick wasn’t surprised to see it belonged to Cormach.
Immediately he felt a bristle of anger. Of course that bastard would be the first to volunteer. Any chance to show he was the toughest, hardest, maddest fucker in this whole da
mned city and he’d be all over it like a peasant on pie.
Unlike you, Ryder. You’re just Daddy’s little boy. Can’t have you getting your hair messed up. Can’t have you playing rough with the bigger boys.
Merrick counted as more men stepped forward to volunteer one after the other … four, five …
And the Lord Marshal’s told you not to volunteer. So you’d better do as you’re bloody well told, otherwise you’ll be in for a spanking.
… eleven, twelve, thirteen …
And why would you want to put yourself in harm’s way anyway? You want to live through this, don’t you? The Lord Marshal’s just said it’s doubtful most of the volunteers will survive.
… sixteen, seventeen …
Just keep your trap shut, like you’ve been told, and you might just make it through this in one piece.
… nineteen …
‘I’ll go,’ said Merrick, barging his way forward before anyone could take the last place.
Tannick glared at him, and for a moment Merrick thought the old man was going to chastise him, right in front of his brother Wyvern Guard.
‘Makes twenty,’ he said instead.
It was all Merrick could do not to whoop with joy. But then he remembered that he’d just volunteered for a suicide mission. Whooping definitely did not seem the right thing to do.
EIGHTEEN
Regulus stared out to the north as night turned to dawn turned to day. His claws had gouged a four-ridged furrow in the stone of the battlements, his grief over Hagama cutting him equally as deep. He knew he should not have let it hurt him so, he knew it was more than likely he would lose more of his warriors, even his own life, but still the pain was like a knife.
Hagama had been by his side since they were children. They had played together, fought together, bled together for years. Hagama had been the first of the Gor’tana to pledge himself to Regulus after his father had been betrayed. Even before old, wise Leandran had offered his service, Hagama had stood by Regulus’ side, unswerving in his loyalty. And now he was dead.
