Lord of Ashes (Steelhaven: Book Three)

by Richard Ford

  ‘Our day is won, boys,’ said Jared, with little joy in his voice. ‘It’s what we were born for, and there’s something to be proud of in what we’ve done. Might not feel like it now, but that’s the truth.’ Merrick could see some of the lads nodding their agreement, others just staring, faces still covered in blood and dirt. ‘We’ll be on our way back north soon enough to wait for the next call. Might not be for years, some of you might be old men by the time we’re needed again. But before we go there’s a decision to be made. One that can’t wait.’

  A sudden wind blew up around them, a cold gust rolling in off the sea, and Merrick felt it chill him to the bone. None of the other lads gave a sign it affected them, so he was damned if he’d do any different.

  Jared passed the helm to one of the other lads and took the Bludsdottr in two hands.

  ‘You all know this blade,’ he said. ‘You all knew the man that wielded it. This sword was his by rights, passed down through his bloodline for over a thousand years. It’s the blade of our order, wielded by our Lord Marshal. And last night it showed us who would take Tannick’s place.’

  Merrick swallowed hard. He could sense what was coming and it didn’t feel a bit bloody right.

  ‘No,’ said Cormach quietly, his word echoing Merrick’s thoughts.

  ‘Only one man can wield the blade,’ Jared continued. ‘Only one man has the right. That man stands right there.’ He pointed at Merrick, and the rest of the Wyvern Guard moved aside, giving him some space so they could all see.

  ‘This can’t be happening,’ said Cormach, though none of the other lads paid him any mind.

  ‘But we’ll do this by the old ways,’ said Jared. ‘It’s not just my word we’ll go by. All those in favour, say “aye”.’

  The first three lads said it together, no hesitation. Then they went along the row of Wyvern Guard, one after the other, none of them showing any doubt, all of them looking straight at Merrick as they said ‘aye’.

  Merrick wanted to tell them to wait. That maybe he wasn’t the right one for this. That he wasn’t worthy – all he could do was lift a sword, not lead a band of warriors – but none of them seemed to want to hear it.

  They’d gone along the row now, and Jared walked up to him, eyes bright despite the filth that surrounded them.

  ‘Lord Marshal,’ he said, and took to his knee, holding up that huge sword and presenting it like Merrick was some kind of prince. Merrick took the blade, still barely able to believe something so big weighed so little.

  As soon as Jared went down, the rest of the Wyvern Guard followed his lead, each one dropping to his knee, head bowed towards Merrick. All but one of them.

  ‘This is fucking bullshit!’ shouted Cormach Whoreson. ‘Not him. It can’t be fucking him.’

  ‘Mind your mouth, Whoreson. This is the new Lord Marshal,’ said Jared.

  ‘Fuck you, old cunt,’ Cormach spat. ‘He’s not my fucking Lord Marshal. I’ll not follow this prick anywhere.’

  ‘The decision’s been made.’

  ‘Not by me it fucking hasn’t.’

  ‘Makes no odds,’ said Jared, rising to his feet. ‘You’re a man of the Wyvern Guard. You’re bound to it.’

  ‘Like fuck I am,’ Cormach shouted, tearing off his helmet and flinging it to the ground, where it bounced with a hollow clang before rolling off across the square.

  ‘Whoreson—’

  ‘Fuck you and fuck this,’ said Cormach staring at Jared, not backing an inch. ‘I’ll not follow that arsehole anywhere.’ He jabbed a finger at Merrick. ‘I’ve had enough of all this shit anyway. I’m done.’

  With that he turned, ripping the dishevelled white fur cloak from around his shoulders.

  ‘You’re going nowhere, lad,’ Jared shouted. ‘You don’t just walk away from the Wyvern Guard.’

  Cormach stopped but didn’t turn around, gripping his fur cloak in one hand, the other hovering over the hilt of his sword.

  ‘And who the fuck’s going to stop me, old man?’

  He waited for someone to tell him, but neither Jared nor the rest of the Wyvern Guard were about to tell Cormach Whoreson what to do. Merrick was damned sure he wouldn’t be the one, Lord Marshal or not.

  When there was no reply, Cormach walked the rest of the way across the square, only pausing to fling his fur cloak into one of the waning funeral pyres before disappearing.

  Once he’d gone, Jared turned back to Merrick expectantly.

  They want you to make a speech. They want you to lead them. Good luck with that, Ryder.

  Merrick glanced down at the Bludsdottr, as though it might fill him with inspiration. That he might open his mouth and give a rousing speech about the future of the Wyvern Guard and how this was only the first of many glorious victories. How word would spread of their legendary prowess in battle and how they would unite the Free States and make it a better place for all the little children.

  ‘Gather your equipment and prepare the horses for the journey,’ Merrick said.

  Some of the lads looked at each other for a moment, wondering if that was it, before moving to obey. Merrick was relieved at that. He’d half expected to start giving orders and be told to fuck right off, but it looked like they were taking notice of him … at least for now.

  As the remaining Wyvern Guard went about their preparations, Merrick noted a figure approaching from across the square. He recognised the man even from a distance, his walk so slippery Merrick expected him to leave a trail.

  Seneschal Rogan came to stand beside Merrick as he buckled on his sword.

  ‘Congratulations on your appointment, Lord Marshal,’ said Rogan, with a smile dripping with insincerity. There was a fresh cut on his neck that had barely begun to heal over, though how he had managed to see any action was a mystery.

  ‘What do you want, Rogan?’ asked Merrick, in no mood for the Seneschal’s veiled compliments.

  Rogan let out a sigh, as though even he were bored of the pretence. ‘I merely wondered when you and your men were leaving and whether there was anything I could do to make your journey more … fleet.’

  ‘We’ll be going as soon as we’re ready. Before sundown, I would imagine.’

  ‘And the queen? You will be paying your respects before you leave?’

  Merrick shook his head. ‘Our respects will do her no good now.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Rogan, and for the queerest of moments Merrick thought he heard a hint of sorrow in the man’s voice. ‘Rest assured, in your absence the city will be in safe hands.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Merrick. ‘With the end of the Mastragall line I guess that makes you regent, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Quite,’ said Rogan, his eyes twitching as he said so. ‘A duty you can be sure I will fulfil with the utmost thoroughness.’

  ‘I bet you will,’ Merrick replied, fast losing patience. ‘What of the Sentinels? What of the Knights of the Blood? Do you still control them?’

  ‘The Knights of the Blood have refused to show fealty to a regent in the absence of a monarch. They served the Mastragalls, not Steelhaven. As a consequence they are now little more than just another Free Company.’

  ‘And the Sentinels?’

  ‘Alas, no more. Wiped out in defence of the queen and the city.’ Merrick felt his heart grow heavy. ‘But there was one survivor. Your former colleague Kaira Stormfall yet lives … for now.’

  ‘For now?’

  ‘She may well have proven troublesome in the last day’s fighting. There are rumours she turned traitor. Led the queen into the ambush that saw her murdered at the hands of Amon Tugha. When she is well enough she will stand trial for treason.’

  ‘No,’ said Merrick, fighting to control his emotions. ‘She couldn’t have. She loved Janessa like a sister. She would never have betrayed her.’

  ‘That is not for me to determine, I’m afraid,’ said Rogan.

  Merrick turned on the man, staring deep into his eyes. He found himself gripping the hilt of the Bludsdottr, drawi
ng strength from it, even though the weapon remained sheathed. For all Rogan’s arrogance, for all his self-assuredness, Merrick saw doubt cloud his usually confident expression.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘There will be no trial. Let me tell you what’s going to happen …’

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Something cold touched her forehead, moisture dripping down her temple and into her hair. Kaira’s hand flashed out, grasping a wrist. She heard a gasp of pain before she opened her eyes and squinted in the daylight that glared through an open window.

  As her eyes adjusted to the light she saw the sparse details of a room, more a cell than a bedchamber. She was holding tight to a thin arm, squeezing hard, and when she could finally see she realised it was one of the Daughters, her hand still grasping the damp cloth she had used to dab at Kaira’s brow.

  She let go and the girl stumbled back. The Daughter of Arlor’s face was veiled but her fear was obvious. Kaira opened her mouth to speak, to tell the girl she was in no danger, but her throat was so parched no words would come. By the time she had cleared her throat enough to speak, the Daughter of Arlor had fled into the corridor.

  As she tried to slide her legs over the edge of the bed Kaira winced. She saw her left thigh was heavily bandaged, the pain of it stinging intensely. Memories of battle flooded her mind. Of Amon Tugha, of Janessa … cradling a head of red curls until the welcome dark of unconsciousness took her.

  Gritting her teeth, Kaira forced herself to sit. She gripped the edge of the bed as tightly as she was able, taking the pain, swallowing it up along with her grief.

  ‘You live.’

  Kaira looked up at the voice, feeling something burning inside. Samina stood watching from the doorway, her expression giving away nothing of her emotions.

  ‘And yet I’m not sure why,’ Kaira replied. ‘Did you want the pleasure of killing me yourself?’

  Samina smiled and shook her head. ‘Why would I want to kill you? We are sisters, after all.’

  ‘We are sisters no longer. You have betrayed our city. Our queen. You turned your back on everything we stood for …’

  ‘Everything we stood for was a lie. You know that, Kaira. Why else would you have walked away from this place when you were welcomed back so readily? The Temple of Autumn had to be born again. Raised anew. And it had to be done in the blood of those who allowed it to become so diseased. The Matron Mother. The Exarch.’

  Kaira shook her head. ‘Whose words are these? Are they the words of Amon Tugha?’

  Samina threw her head back and laughed. ‘You think this was all about him? You think we gave a damn about the Elharim and his crusade? This was about us. About our order. About making it pure once more. Amon Tugha was a means to an end. Had he not died at the queen’s hand then it would have been someone else’s.’

  ‘You’re a fool,’ said Kaira, rising unsteadily to her feet, feeling the hot sweat of fever sticking her shirt to her back.

  ‘Am I? Who stands victorious, sister? Who lives when so many are dead? The Khurtas are fled. The warlord is perished and our queen is no more. A new order beckons.’

  Kaira felt her gut tighten at the words. Janessa was dead. She had failed.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Samina continued, taking a step forward. ‘I knew you were close. Her death was unfortunate … but necessary.’

  Kaira held up a hand to stop Samina coming any closer. Her breath came quick between her gritted teeth as she bit back her anger.

  ‘Necessary? She was your queen.’

  ‘And she was weak. A child. She would never have held the Free States together.’

  ‘And who will do it now? You?’

  ‘I will be amongst those who will strive to keep the provinces united. You could be too, Kaira. You can still join us. You can still save the city, the kingdom.’

  ‘And if I refuse? I’ll be killed, executed as a traitor?’

  Samina shook her head. ‘That was never the fate I would have chosen for you, sister, but there were those who would have forced the issue. It appears they have since had a change of heart, though. If you will not join us, you are free to leave.’ She stepped aside from the doorway.

  Kaira limped forward, taking the pain in her thigh, feeling the freshly stitched wound protest with every step. As she reached the doorway she paused, offering Samina a sidelong glance. In that moment she would have given anything for her armour, for a weapon. Wounded as she was they would most likely have served her little, but at least she would have been able to make one last show of defiance.

  As though she could sense it, Samina took a further step back out of Kaira’s reach, her hand never straying far from the hilt of the sword at her hip.

  Without a word, Kaira limped through the doorway and out of the temple. Bodies lined the great courtyard, Daughters of Arlor kneeling beside them, whispering the last rites. Kaira couldn’t bring herself to look, knowing there were sisters she had known and loved amongst their number. There was nothing she could do now, unless she wanted to add herself to the list of dead.

  The wound in her leg continued to burn as she made her way out of the main gates and proceeded north through the city. There was an eerie quiet cast over the streets now. Burned and smashed buildings sat in sorrowful silence as she walked past. Here and there dishevelled souls were scraping through the wreckage of their former homes in a vain attempt to reconstruct their lives. Kaira wished them well; though she was sure they would ultimately see the folly of it.

  When she had limped halfway across the city she stopped. Ahead she could see a sorry procession making its way into the Crown District. Kaira could only guess what it was – the grieving masses come to bid goodbye to their queen. To see her lying in state for the last time. They filed in through the gates of the district, some weeping openly, others simply staring at the ground, all hope fled from them.

  Kaira knew she should have joined them, should have said her goodbyes, should have begged Janessa’s forgiveness. But what good would it do? The girl was dead and no amount of mournful pleading would bring her back.

  She moved on, feeling weariness piling onto her shoulders with every laboured step, but she could not stop. This place was cloying, strangling her, and she would only be free of that feeling once she was out of the city. There was nothing left for her here, no friends, no duty. It was clear now she had been abandoned, even by Vorena herself.

  Kaira Stormfall owed nothing to this city, not any more. It had taken everything from her.

  By the time she reached the Lych Gate she could hardly walk, but Kaira would not be stopped. Horses milled around the courtyard before the gate and a group of men looked set to leave. As she reached them she recognised a number of faces – the Wyvern Guard – unarmoured, swords and shields tied to their saddles, making ready to return to the Kriega Mountains. They looked odd without their battledress; like any normal band of travellers, if a little broader in the shoulder and arm. When her eye fell on the welcome face of Merrick Ryder, Kaira could barely hold back her tears.

  He saw her watching him, offering a smile before walking towards her.

  ‘You are wounded?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll live,’ she replied.

  He nodded, a regretful look falling over him. ‘Look, I’m sorry about—’

  ‘Don’t,’ she said, fighting to stay in control. Her pain and grief were threatening to spill over and were she shown sympathy, especially from Merrick, she thought she might break.

  ‘Come to see us off then?’ Merrick said, and Kaira was thankful for him changing the subject.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I am leaving. There is nothing for me here now.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ he said, glancing up at the ruins that used to be Steelhaven. ‘You could always come with us. We could use a good sword.’

  Kaira smiled but shook her head. ‘No. I have served enough for one lifetime. It has brought me only sorrow.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Merrick. Behind him the rest of the men were mounting up
. ‘If you change your mind, go to Silverwall. I’m told if you find a man called Crozius Bowe he’ll be able to put you in contact with us. He’s been our agent in the city for decades, so you know you can trust him.’

  Kaira gave him a nod of thanks, offering her hand. Merrick took it in both of his, squeezing it warmly. Without another word he turned and mounted his horse.

  ‘All right,’ he shouted, his voice echoing around the courtyard. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  With that the Wyvern Guard filed out of the Lych Gate as Kaira stood and watched them go. Merrick was at the rear and he turned for one last glance, a last smile from the corner of his handsome mouth, before disappearing through the gate.

  When they had gone, Kaira limped towards the gate herself, pausing at it, staring out east onto the long road that led from it. There was emptiness out in the Free States. No one she knew or cared about. Without turning to look she knew there was even less behind her.

  She had nothing and no one. No duty, no monarch. Perhaps even her goddess had abandoned her. What would she do if she left the city but wander?

  Perhaps she should remain here. Perhaps Samina’s offer was her only remaining option. If she stayed at least she could serve. At least she could try and do some good for the city and the kingdom.

  Or perhaps Kaira Stormfall had done enough.

  Gritting her teeth against the pain, she walked through the gate and took the road eastward.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Waylian stood amidst the ruins. The top half of the Tower of Magisters was still mostly intact, laid out across Northgate like the head of some vast wyrm. Entire streets had been crushed beneath its fall. The base was only rubble; a mess of immense stones and timber. The symbolism was not lost on Waylian – along with the death of the tower had also come the death of the Caste. The magisters of Steelhaven were no more. All that remained was a disparate group of casters with scarcely the strength or resources to rebuild a shed.

  Drennan Folds had died on the final night, a single arrow piercing his eye – whether the blue or the white Waylian had no idea. Likewise Crannock Marghil had fallen during the night, though details of his demise were not forthcoming. The Raven Knights had been all but wiped out; a handful even now searched through the wreckage of the tower, for what Waylian had no clue. He almost smiled as he watched them – ravens picking through the detritus of battle.