Lord of Ashes (Steelhaven: Book Three)

by Richard Ford

  TWENTY-NINE

  She sat all night by his side. The battle had raged on but Endellion barely even noticed. The Khurtas came limping back from the gates of Steelhaven once more, walking past her in sullen silence, and still she had paid them no mind. Even when the sun rose, bathing her and Azreal in a light that bore little warmth, she scarcely even raised her head.

  Endellion shed no tears from her golden eyes. The Arc Magna did not weep over their dead. Let the southrons weep over their losses. Let everyone in that city weep as it was torn down around them. Let the dark giants she and Azreal had fought weep until the gates of Oblivion opened in honour of the vengeance she would have.

  When she and Azreal had walked through the smashed gateway she had expected to meet little resistance. All that should have waited were broken men fighting with little heart in the face of such overwhelming odds. She could only regret her complacency. What they had faced were beasts, not men. Creatures of the southern deserts; half-men, monsters. Her shoulder still stung where she had been clawed. She should have sought attention in case it became infected but Endellion wanted none. The scars that were left would serve to show the folly of her ways. How foolish she had been to follow Amon Tugha, to obey him without question, to think that Steelhaven would be so easily conquered.

  Endellion stared down at the body in front of her. Azreal’s eyes were closed. His throat lay open, the blood having congealed into a torn and fleshy mess. She should have covered it up, it was wrong to see him like this, but she also needed to remember. Above all she needed the hurt to burn inside her, to remain within her heart until she had a chance to avenge him.

  She had loved Azreal, that much was obvious now. For a century or more she had yearned for him to be hers. Had followed him wherever he led, but never let him know what lay in her heart. That was not her way, nor that of the Arc Magna. She had lived her life by the tenets of her creed and enjoyed all the pleasures it allowed, but she would have given it all up for Azreal. He would have given up nothing for her, though. He was loyal to the end and had ultimately given his life for his master.

  Endellion knew now that she would never do the same.

  This was all for the glory of Amon Tugha. He would sacrifice them all, every last one of his followers, to attain his goal. And what was that? Glory? Vengeance? To prove to himself he was worthy of his mother’s crown?

  It had seemed so simple at first, it had been an adventure. One Endellion had embarked on with her usual hunger. She had finally been freed of the Riverlands and its stifling edicts. Now, so long after they had embarked on their journey, it seemed like madness to have ever left. In the cold light of morning she would have given anything to be back in her homeland with Azreal at her side.

  A shadow fell over her but she ignored it, continuing to stare at Azreal’s face and the wound in his neck.

  ‘Our prince demands your presence,’ said a voice. Endellion thought she recognised it, though most of these Khurtas sounded the same. She didn’t reply, allowing nothing to sway her from her vigil. Let Amon Tugha demand what he pleased. She was done with him.

  Still the Khurta stood behind her. She could sense his unease.

  ‘Please, we must go to him.’

  Endellion continued to kneel beside Azreal, trying to remember what had been between them. What could have been had she told him all that lay in her heart.

  The Khurta placed a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘The prince will be angered if you do not—’

  Endellion’s blade was out of its sheath and buried in his gut before the Khurta could finish his sentence. She glared at him as he looked back at her with surprise, then fear. When he slumped to the ground before her she recognised him – one of her lovers. He had been a favourite; energetic, vigorous. As he fell dead she realised she had never even known his name.

  Once the Khurta had breathed his last she knelt beside Azreal once more, not bothering to retrieve her sword from the corpse. Not caring any more if she raised her blade again. Endellion simply stared, the cold seeping through her clothes and chilling her to her core.

  There was no telling how long she knelt until another shadow eventually fell over her. She felt herself anger again, reaching for her blade, but it wasn’t there, still buried as it was in the Khurta’s corpse. Slowly she turned her head, hoping to frighten away any more of Amon Tugha’s lapdogs before she had to kill them too, but standing behind her was no Khurta.

  ‘A sad day,’ said Amon Tugha. ‘A black day I will never forget. Azreal was my most faithful. He will be sorely missed.’

  And not only by you, she wanted to say. You will forget him in time as your thirst for power grows, but I will never forget.

  Endellion said nothing. Despite her grief, she had no desire to join Azreal in Oblivion.

  ‘Come,’ said Amon Tugha, walking towards the city. He paid no heed to the fresh cadaver Endellion had made but merely walked by as though she had crushed an ant rather than one of his Khurtic warriors. Perhaps he did understand her grief after all. Or perhaps he simply didn’t care for the lives of those beneath him.

  Endellion plucked her blade from the corpse as she walked by, wiping the blood from it onto her sleeve. As she placed it back in her scabbard she felt the sting of the wound in her shoulder again. The lacerations had stopped bleeding, her Elharim blood having long since clotted, but still the pain was there. A reminder that she was not immortal, perhaps? A reminder that any of them could be killed … even Amon Tugha.

  And yet he walked ahead of her, through the plain filled with bodies. He walked without fear, as though nothing could touch him, as though they could fling all the rocks and arrows and fire from the walls of Steelhaven and it would pass him by as though he were a ghost.

  For a fleeting moment she considered drawing her blade. Considered thrusting it into his broad, scorched and tattooed back and into his heart to prove he was just a man. In an instant that thought was gone, though. As hate filled as she was, as grief stricken as she felt, she had no desire to die. Not here on this southern plain, far from her homeland.

  The two Elharim picked their way towards the city and in the cold light of day Endellion could see the havoc the Khurtas had wreaked. The battlements of the city were smashed and blackened. Here and there men cowered in the gaps. At the foot of the wall bodies were piled high amongst the debris. Arrows peppered the field to the north; burned siege towers and the husks of artillery weapons stood all about. The smell of burned wood and flesh was vile, but it was nothing she had not experienced before. Nothing she had not taken pleasure in. She took no pleasure in it now.

  Amon Tugha stopped within a hundred yards of the wall. Endellion could see archers scrambling into position, levelling their bows as though the Elharim prince might try to besiege the city single-handed, overcoming the city’s defences where his Khurtas had failed. Instead he merely stood and waited, watching as word of his arrival passed from one end of the battlements to the other.

  When a large enough crowd had amassed on the smashed walls Amon Tugha drew in a deep and cleansing breath.

  ‘Warriors of Steelhaven,’ he bellowed, that deep voice ringing out across the plain. ‘Sons and daughters of the Teutonian Free States.’ He spoke the word ‘Free’ with just a hint of disdain, as though it were misplaced and irrelevant. ‘You know who I am. You know what I have done.’ He paused then, as though waiting for some kind of answer, but Endellion knew there would be none. The southrons would listen in silence; that was their way. ‘You have been told I have come to slaughter. To destroy. To raze this city to ash and massacre all who cower here behind its walls.’ Again, another pause. Endellion expected at any moment for a volley of arrows to come their way, but nothing did. Every man looked down in awe at Amon Tugha, most of them seeing for the first time what they faced – not a man, but a god.

  ‘Lies!’ spat Amon. His fists were clenched now, his eyes scanning the wall as though searching for someone to defy him, to call him deceiver, to quest
ion his word. If such a man existed he did not speak. ‘I have not come to destroy you. I have come to liberate you. To save you from your bondage. I would not hold you in thrall with lies. I would ask you to be loyal to no gods or flags. Dedicate fealty to me and you will be free men. All of you. This butchery can end. Your inevitable destruction will be averted. Your women and your children spared. I ask only one thing. That you give me your queen.’

  For the first time the men on the wall began to grumble. Amon Tugha had obviously touched a nerve. It seemed they were as loyal to their queen as they were stubborn in defence of their city. It did not seem to faze Amon, though.

  ‘You have one night to consider my offer. Tomorrow there will be no chance of clemency. No mercy.’

  With that he turned and made his way back to the Khurtic camp. Endellion expected jeers and insults to follow them but the southrons kept their uneasy silence.

  ‘You think they will betray her so easily?’ Endellion asked as they crested the ridge where Azreal still lay.

  ‘No,’ Amon Tugha replied, the trace of a smile playing across his broad mouth. ‘But word of my offer will reach the queen as surely as if I had whispered it in her ear. And who knows what she might do to save her city and her people.’

  THIRTY

  Janessa had learned of the Elharim warlord’s offer. She listened to the story that he had walked to within the shadow of the wall and made his proclamation. Every servant and steward and Sentinel was speaking of it in hushed tones but Janessa could not help but hear them. But then the corridors of Skyhelm had never held their secrets well, she knew that better than anyone.

  If she was given to him he would call off his siege. Her life in exchange for the lives of thousands within the walls of the city. But Janessa knew there was no one that would give her up. Even had an angry mob arrived at the gates of the palace her Sentinels would have defended her to the death. But no one had arrived. No crowd of fearful men and women, desperate for their lives and the lives of their children, had come demanding the queen be handed over. The cityfolk of Steelhaven were loyal to her – perhaps they even loved her, despite this time of strife.

  No, she would never be surrendered by her people.

  But she could surrender herself.

  It had been a hard decision, one she had not made lightly, but at least the thought of surrendering herself had diverted her thoughts.

  Throughout the day she had been plagued by the memory of the gardens, of Leon’s hands at her throat, of Baroness Magrida’s screams as her son lay dead. Where the woman was now, Janessa had no idea. Conveyed to her rooms, no doubt, to be consoled by handmaids and watched over by guards in case she sought to harm herself … or someone else.

  Janessa could not bring herself to feel guilty for it. Magrida had brought her son to the palace. Had seemingly been unaware of his complicity with Amon Tugha. She deserved everything she got. Besides, a resentful noblewoman was the least of Janessa’s concerns now.

  She had a decision to make, and she had to make it quick. Could she trust the word of the Elharim? If she gave herself over to him would he really spare her city? Or would he simply allow his Khurtas their sport?

  And if she did not go, was she condemning the city to destruction? Would it, could it, manage to stand firm against the hordes arrayed against it? Was it only a matter of time until the walls fell, until the Khurtas came flooding in to burn and rape and destroy all before them?

  Surely there were enough dead already. Surely the walls of Steelhaven were littered with enough corpses. If there was any chance that her sacrifice could save the life of just one of her people then she should take it. She had a responsibility to this city and everyone within its walls. Just the barest chance that it could be saved if she surrendered herself to Amon Tugha was more excuse than she should ever need.

  Janessa stared at the Helsbayn, and then at her armour on its stand. Inside she knew she should have donned them to face Amon Tugha; that she should appear every inch the warrior queen as she stood before him and presented herself to his mercy. But she knew she’d never be able to get out of Skyhelm that way. Instead she donned simple clothes and put a cloak about her as she had done a hundred times before.

  The palace corridors were all but deserted as she made her way down to the kitchens and out through the servants’ entrance. By now she knew where every Sentinel in her retinue would be. Everyone else was in their chambers, waiting for the outcome of the siege, or gone, run away to escape their fate. There was no one to stop her as she stepped out of the palace, cloak drawn tight over her head, and the Sentinels on the gate paid her no mind.

  For a fleeting moment she felt sorry for Kaira. Faithful, dedicated Kaira. A woman who had devoted herself to Janessa’s protection. She would bear this loss as a personal burden. Janessa could only hope her bodyguard would understand this was for the greater good. That any chance, however slim, to save the city was one that had to be grasped.

  As evening began to darken into night, Janessa made her way north into the city and her determination to go through with this mad plan was only hardened. Steelhaven was in pieces. Buildings torn apart, voices weeping in the early morning, the wounded groaning for succour when it was clear nothing could be done for them.

  She passed a group of weary-looking soldiers sharpening their blades, every one of them showing a wound of some kind, their eyes heavy from lack of sleep. Not one of them glanced at her as she walked past, biting back her tears. The stench of the unwashed was almost unbearable. The stink of sweat and death.

  As she made it to what was left of the Stone Gate the sight became no less despairing. The portcullis was a mess of twisted iron, the gate a pile of blackened kindling. The defenders had done their best to build a rudimentary blockade from old carts and piles of debris, but it looked unlikely to hold once Amon Tugha’s hordes attacked once more. A serjeant barked orders for more stone as exhausted-looking bannermen continued to fill the hole in the breach.

  Just to the left of the gate several wounded soldiers sat beside one another, one of them leaning against his neighbour, his face a mask of blood and dirt. Janessa made her way towards them, her cloak pulled tight about her to hide her red curls. If she was recognised now the game was most definitely up.

  A water bucket sat to one side and she picked it up, dipping the cup into it and offering it to the first wounded soldier. He took it gratefully, handing it back with a nod when he had finished. Janessa worked her way along the line, all the while glancing towards the open gate as she made her way closer. When she reached the last wounded soldier she put down the bucket and walked towards the gate. She resisted the urge to run; to do that would only draw attention to her. At first it worked, and she felt her heart beating faster as she made her escape. No one said a word until she was under the shadow of the battlements. Then a voice called out.

  ‘Oi you! Stop!’

  Janessa broke into a run, sprinting through the gate, ignoring the carcasses still lying outside, ignoring the stench and the smoke haze that cut through the night. She ran on into the dark as voices called after her, but no one followed. To try and escape with so many Khurtas surrounding the city was suicide and no one would risk their lives to come after her. For all they knew she was a frightened commoner, not the queen of the Free States.

  She stumbled through the dark. To the north glowed the light from the vast Khurtic encampment. If she just kept going, if she demanded to see Amon Tugha, if she gave herself to him, this would all be over. Every corpse she tripped over, every arrow that snagged her skirts, reminded her that this was the only way. The fighting had to stop now, and only she could end it.

  The bodies and detritus thinned out the further north she went. With every step Janessa expected to be assailed from the dark but there was no one waiting to attack. The closer she got the more she felt the dread growing within her but she never once thought to turn back.

  This is the only way. There is no other option than to gift your life to Am
on Tugha.

  Khurtic voices pealed through the dark before she saw the sentries. They were silhouetted on the ridge above and Janessa only hoped they would see her coming and not skewer her on their spears as soon as look at her.

  She let her cloak fall to the ground as she made her way up the hill, the chill of the night air raising bumps on her flesh. One of the sentries spotted her as she came, shouting a quick warning to one of his comrades. They stood side by side, their spears held out defensively. Whatever they had been waiting for to come from the night it was obviously not an unarmed woman. The first Khurta glanced to the other uncertainly as Janessa made her way into the light. They spoke again but she had no way to understand them.

  ‘I am Queen Janessa Mastragall,’ she said, trying to sound confident, trying to stay strong, but her hands were shaking so much she had to clench her fists. ‘Amon Tugha is waiting for me.’ Janessa gestured towards the camp.

  The Khurtas barked at one another, one of them waving his spear threateningly, despite the fact he had no one to fight. Janessa held her hands out, trying to show she was no threat, that she had only come to surrender, but the face of the savage in front of her showed he was in no mood to accept.

  He lunged forward with his spear, aiming at her heart, and Janessa had no time to move.

  A shadow broke away from the dark, along with the sound of steel cutting the air twice in quick succession. Before she could draw breath, a figure stood in front of Janessa, one hand holding the severed tip of the Khurta’s spear, the other a straight silver blade spattered with blood. The Khurta fell without a sound as the second sentry backed away in fear.

  In the weak light Janessa could see she had been saved by a woman; blonde, beautiful, her shoulder rent and torn from a recent wound. As the woman turned, Janessa was startled by her golden eyes gleaming through the dark.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said the woman with a humourless smile. She nodded her head in the mockery of a bow. ‘My lord will be overjoyed that you decided to accept his offer.’ With that she gestured towards the camp. ‘If you please.’