Lord of Ashes (Steelhaven: Book Three)

by Richard Ford

  ‘By who?’ asked Bastian.

  ‘I couldn’t really make them out in the dark. But there were kids. Little kids running around in the night. One of them was a girl, I’m sure of it.’

  Rag froze at the edge of the entrance. If Bastian wasn’t going to kill her before, he sure as shit was now. Nevertheless, she peered around the corner, slow as you like, trying to see in. Bastian and two of his men were standing in the room, lit bright as day by a lantern on a table. There was another bloke with his back to her wearing a green jacket with the royal seal on it.

  Bastian was smiling now. ‘Let me get this straight, Platt. You mean to tell me a dozen of my dirtiest, meanest killers were done over by a bunch of fucking kids?’

  The Greencoat held his hands up, trying to take a step away. ‘I … I’m only saying what I saw. I swear it.’

  Everyone was looking at the fella now, and Rag could sense they were wondering whether or not to shove their knives in him. She took her chance, stealing into the room, sticking to the wall where there was still shadows.

  ‘What you saw?’ said Bastian, as Rag skirted the edge of the room. There were crates and sacks in the way containing gods knew what but she wasn’t here for no loot. ‘Or what you want us to think you saw?’

  Rag peered round the edge of a wooden box and her heart leapt. Sitting there like it was the most normal thing in the world was Tidge. He was listening to proceedings with a bored look on his face.

  ‘Why would I make something like that up, Mister Bastian?’ said the Greencoat with a hint more desperation in his voice. Rag waved over at Tidge, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  Bastian was silent, as though he were contemplating whether now was a good time to kill the Greencoat. Then one of his men leaned over and whispered something in his ear.

  Rag waved at Tidge again. This time he noticed, but didn’t jump or make a sound. Good lad, that Tidge. Lot brighter than he looked.

  ‘You’re right,’ Bastian said. ‘We do know someone who fits that description.’ Something rumbled overhead, like a storm had just hit right on top of the cave they were in. ‘Don’t we, Rag?’

  She froze. Tidge froze too, just staring at her. That was it, she knew there was no point creeping around any more, and slowly she stood up from behind the crate.

  ‘Come to save your little friend?’ Bastian said, just before there was another rumble. Part of the roof crumbled, dropping to the floor, though no one seemed to notice but Rag.

  ‘What do you fucking think?’ she said defiantly.

  ‘I think you’ve come to get bloody gutted,’ Bastian spat between his clenched teeth, signalling to one of his men with a bony hand.

  Bastian’s henchman slowly pulled a long dagger from his belt as the cave rumbled once more.

  Rag came out from behind the crates, holding an arm out to Tidge. He moved towards her, taking her hand.

  ‘You let him go,’ she said. ‘He ain’t done nothing to you. He’s no part of it.’

  Bastian’s lips curled back in a leer that almost made her sick. ‘It’s not him you should be worried about. It’s y—’

  The whole cave suddenly rocked. Bastian was almost knocked off his feet and the other blokes dropped down, covering their heads as the ceiling collapsed here and there.

  Rag weren’t about to hang around and wait for Bastian to finish his sentence and she tightened her grip on Tidge’s hand before dragging him towards the exit. The rumbling calmed down as she ran into the dark and she could hear Bastian and his men coming behind, shouting at her and at one another.

  As she ran she heard something through the corridor. It was a screech like she’d never heard before; seeming to carry with it all the fear she’d ever known in that one horrible noise. It echoed through the tunnels so loud Rag had no idea which way it had come from.

  ‘What the fuck was that?’ Tidge said in his little voice. Rag would have felt sorry for him if she hadn’t been so shit scared herself.

  ‘No idea,’ she replied. ‘And we’re not gonna be down here long enough to find out.’

  As she dragged him further through the tunnel she could only hope she wasn’t lying about that.

  FORTY-TWO

  Endellion watched beside Amon Tugha. He stood in silence, observing the assault from a distance, watching his Khurtas die by the thousand. The main gate to the city was smashed and artillery had blown a massive breach in the wall further to the east, but the warriors of Steelhaven defended it valiantly. She was almost moved by their sacrifice – surrender would have been the more rational response. If Endellion had learned one thing, these southrons were far from rational.

  To the west of the city something caught her eye. A single flaming arrow was fired out across the river, soaring far over the derelict city that sat beside the new one like a corpse. It seemed strange; there were no Khurtas attacking from that side of the city, nothing that would require a flaming arrow to see.

  Endellion might have dismissed it as a stray shot if Amon Tugha hadn’t smiled beside her. His grin was wide, his expression almost gleeful.

  ‘It is time,’ he said, turning and heading back towards the camp.

  Waiting for him was an honour guard of Khurtas. His best – warriors gathered from each of the eight tribes. The last surviving war chief, Stirgor Cairnmaker, also stood waiting. His demeanour was as arrogant as ever, hands resting on the sword and axe at his hips. His men, lean hunters all, warriors rather than savage fanatics, stood with him awaiting their orders.

  ‘When the wall is finally breached,’ said Amon to his one remaining general, ‘you will head the final attack. You may take whatever spoils you wish.’

  Stirgor smiled. ‘There is only one prize I want. Wolkan and Brulmak were foolish to face him so brazenly. He’ll not find me so rash.’

  Endellion knew who he was referring to. The Cairnmaker earned much wealth and praise for his fighters in the Khurtic blood pits. Within the walls of Steelhaven was a warrior who would earn him renown throughout the steppes, if he survived long enough.

  Amon turned to Endellion. ‘You will join Stirgor in the final attack. It should be enough to slake your thirst for slaughter, my sister.’

  Endellion nodded her reply, keeping her tongue firmly in check. She could only bristle at his words – at his expectation that now, after everything, after she had lost Azreal, that she would fling herself into the fray and give her life for the glory of Amon Tugha.

  The warlord whistled and his hounds, Sul and Astur, were at his heel in an instant, their noses twitching at the prospect of being unleashed. Even they sensed the end.

  Amon took up his spear and moved south towards the city, his warriors at his heels.

  Endellion could only watch him go, half hoping that he was killed, or at the least that she never saw him again. The other half of her was envious of the slaughter, of the glory he would attain when he killed the southron queen and crushed her crown beneath his heel. A crown he had come south to claim. A crown that had cost the lives of countless minions and of the one man she would have gifted her soul to had he but asked.

  She glanced over to where they had buried Azreal. He would be left here to rot under the cold ground, and for what? For the exaltation of Amon Tugha. His life wasted along with so many others.

  Perhaps she should race into the city alongside Stirgor. Perhaps she should hunt down the black-armoured daemon who had slain Azreal and avenge herself.

  And what would be the point in that? You will most likely be killed and even if not, even if you are victorious, Azreal will still be dead.

  She had been a fool to come here. A fool to follow the prince. It had all seemed so simple, so valiant, so idealistic. But Amon Tugha had turned out to be far from the hero she had thought. He was selfish, arrogant, quite possibly mad. He had risked them all for this folly and now, on the corpses of his followers, he was about to claim his final victory.

  And you would allow that? You would stand and watch as he destroys this sou
thron queen and her city for his own glory? Or perhaps you simply don’t care?

  Endellion turned back towards the camp as Stirgor and his men checked their weapons, readying themselves for the final assault. None of them even acknowledged her as she moved northwards, passing the wounded and slain, picking her way past the embers of forgotten fires, past empty tents, their owners dead and rotting. As she reached the centre of the camp she saw him still waiting. But then where else would he be, tied as he was to that wooden frame?

  His hair covered much of his beaten face but Endellion could still see him watching, staring as his city burned. Perhaps as his one love died.

  But more likely the queen yet lived. Endellion could only envy him that, and in another time, another place, that envy would have seen him skewered on the end of her blade. But not tonight. Not in this place.

  She stood beside him as he stared, watching his eyes, unblinking as they were, light dancing from them in the firelight. She could sense his hate, masking his despair. He would have done anything to be released. Anything to be allowed a chance at freedom, a chance to save his queen.

  ‘I know your pain,’ she said. ‘I have felt it too. The loss. The helplessness.’ He gave no answer, merely continued to glare at the city beyond. ‘To know that there is nothing you can do to save her.’

  He glanced at her then, a fleeting look of sorrow before he turned back to the city with hate. ‘You know nothing,’ he said from his split lips.

  ‘Oh but I do.’ Endellion leaned in close, her words little more than a whisper. ‘I know how torn you are. How conflicted with love and hate. You would give everything to save her. And failing that, you would give everything to kill him.’

  He looked at her then, his eyes burning through the darkness. ‘Have you just come here to mock me?’

  She smiled back at him. ‘Perhaps I have. Or perhaps I have come here to end your misery.’

  ‘Then get on with it,’ he said.

  Endellion smiled at that. It was much more entertaining when they resisted. That little spark of defiance in the face of despair.

  She ran her finger down one side of his face, collecting a clump of congealed blood.

  ‘What reason would I have to kill you? When I would much rather use you.’

  River looked back to the city. ‘I will not be used as your toy, Elharim.’

  ‘No? Not even if it meant saving her?’

  He looked at her suspiciously. ‘You would never—’

  ‘The temple,’ Endellion said, pointing towards Steelhaven. ‘That will be your city’s last defensible position. That is where he will find her, and that is where he will take her head.’ She stared deep into his eyes. ‘Unless you can stop him.’

  His look of suspicion drained to be replaced by disbelief. ‘Why? Why would you …’

  Endellion stepped back and drew her blade in one swift motion. Four deft cuts and he was freed from his bonds. He dropped to the ground and she wondered if he would even be able to stand, let alone fight. As he rose to his feet, eyes glaring with hate, she had her answer.

  The sword in her hand was lowered at her side. Endellion hoped he would have the sense not to attack. What a waste that would have been.

  ‘You can avenge yourself on me … or you can save her.’

  No sooner had the words come from her lips than he ran. Endellion was impressed by his vigour – an energy born of urgency … of love.

  She watched him disappear in the shadows to the south, wondering if he would reach his queen in time. Wondering if Amon Tugha would kill her first. She didn’t wonder for long before realising she didn’t really care.

  Without a second glance back, Endellion turned to the north and started to walk.

  FORTY-THREE

  The Khurtas were flinging themselves against the wooden barricade but the defences had held so far. Regulus roared his defiance as another wave came charging through the open gateway. Janto stood silent by his side, armour drenched in blood, axes dripping gore despite the rain washing them all from head to toe. Steam plumed with every breath in the cold night, but Regulus could not feel the chill. His labours kept him hot, as though he were standing on the plain, the sun high above him, warming him to the quick.

  As the Khurtas charged towards them the sound was deafening. Every wave came as though it were the first, as though thousands before them hadn’t already come rushing to be slain. With every attack, though, the defenders dwindled – Janto and Regulus were resolute but around them the Coldlander numbers had grown fewer and fewer. To Regulus’ right stood a red warrior, the plates of his armour intertwined with a pattern of thorns. Regulus did not know his name, had not even spoken a word to him, but already he admired the man’s fury in battle. The rest he did not remember, so enrapt was he in his work. And it was bloody work indeed. Work he was born for.

  His black blade struck down as a Khurta raced up the bodies of his kinsmen piled against the barricade. The head split, the body fell but there were more behind. There were always more. Janto took a head, then another, silent in his black armour. Regulus had long since lost his helm, but part of him was glad of it. Let the Khurtas come, let them see his face, let them watch his fury as he slaughtered them by the dozen.

  This time the Khurtic attack seemed to end as quickly as it had begun. Regulus watched, staying on his guard, as the survivors of the assault retreated.

  Someone laughed further along the barricade as the defenders started to relax, thinking they had won yet another victory. Janto and the red-clad knight to either side of Regulus still stood vigilant. It was obvious the Khurtas were far from beaten.

  There was fire from beyond the gate. Regulus could see it through the rain, bright burning brands raised high. A bellow rang out in the night, deep and resonant from the belly of a beast. The sound of stampeding hooves built to a rumble before the barricade beneath began to shake.

  ‘Steel yourselves!’ yelled the red knight.

  Janto roared. His cry was met with another bellow as a herd of massive creatures rushed through the open gateway. They resembled huge beasts from the plains of Equ’un, but these were no docile grazing animals – they had tusks, curved and sharpened to points, their hide furred, their hooves clawed and churning up the soft ground beneath their feet.

  There was a cry of woe as someone fled in the face of such terror, but Regulus stepped forward, eyes fixed on the charging herd.

  The beasts trampled the bodies of the Khurtas strewn about the entranceway, their eyes wide in anger and terror as they were driven on by the fires behind them. The first one smashed into the barricade, throwing wood and stone and men all about.

  Archers ran to the fore, firing randomly at the beasts, but the arrows barely seemed to slow them. Regulus stood firm as one of the monsters charged his way. It snorted its anger, vapour shooting from its wide nostrils as Regulus and Janto crouched low, bracing themselves against the impact. The beast hit the barricade, rocking it back but not splitting it apart. With a growl of rage the creature backed away, shaking its head before rushing in again.

  Janto roared, leaping from the top of the barricade and plunging an axe into its hide. Regulus was not to be outdone, bounding forward, his sword skewering the beast’s neck.

  As it fell, both Zatani rolled clear. Regulus barely had time to dodge the charge of another creature before it bowled into the barricade, smashing its way through. When he found his feet, Janto was standing beside him, breath still coming in deep pants from behind his helmet, rain tamping off his armour.

  The sound of the Khurtas rushing towards the gate in the wake of their beasts was like the distant drum of a waterfall crashing down. Regulus ignored it; he was too intent on Janto’s blue eyes regarding him from within that dark helm.

  Regulus nodded. He knew the Sho’tana warrior had made his decision. There was no loyalty left between them. Despite the enemies that would pour through the undefended gate, Janto was to have his day.

  ‘Now?’ Regulus said.
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  ‘What better time?’ Janto replied.

  Regulus roared, leaping forward, his black blade slashing left to right. Janto was forced to back away, his axes barely coming up in time to block the onslaught.

  The Khurtas burst through the gate. All around them the Coldlanders were shouting to form up and defend the way, but Regulus only saw Janto.

  The Sho’tana parried a swing of Regulus’ sword, locking the blade between his axes. They stared at one another as the Khurtas swarmed through the gate.

  ‘We will die here,’ said Regulus.

  ‘One of us will,’ Janto replied, shoving Regulus back and spinning to hack down a charging Khurta. Regulus’ sword spun twice in quick succession, eviscerating two of the savages, and he barely had time to turn and parry Janto’s axe as it struck in once more.

  From the corner of his eye he could see the defenders were being overwhelmed by the sheer numbers in the Khurtic horde, but Regulus had more immediate dangers to consider.

  ‘This must wait,’ he said. ‘You’ll see us both dead.’

  ‘Isn’t that what you wanted?’ Janto said. ‘A glorious end? Like the one you gifted to each of the warriors who followed you from Equ’un?’

  Regulus felt a shot of anger, growling as he pushed Janto back. They both stood and faced one another as the battle raged around them.

  ‘They each made their choice. They each died as a warrior of the Gor’tana should.’

  ‘And yet you still live,’ Janto’s voice sounded hollow and cold from within his helm, like a ghost’s. ‘But you will sacrifice no more to your cause.’

  He made to race forward, but before he could even bring his axes to bear there was a howl from within the city, beyond what remained of the barricade. It was no human voice, no mortal could have made such a sound, and it almost turned the blood in Regulus’ veins to ice.

  Janto seemed to forget his attack, staring to the south from where the noise had come. Likewise the battle around them froze in time when that first howl was followed by a second.