by Richard Ford
Waylian had no idea whose room this was, though from the books and paraphernalia that adorned the shelves it must have been a senior magister. It was unusual indeed that an apprentice like him should be granted the honour of a hot bath rather than a rub down with a damp soapy rag, and in the chambers of a senior member of the Caste, no less. But then Waylian had accomplished a most unusual and dangerous mission.
Upon his return with the Wyvern Guard he had been ushered back to the Tower of Magisters by two Raven Knights sent specifically for the task. Waylian had expected Magistra Gelredida to be waiting for him, but of her there was no sign. Instead he had been guided to a chamber, given food and wine – wine, oh how he had loved the wine – and a bath hastily filled with steaming water. There was even perfumed soap.
As he lay there in the water, now murky from the filth of his body, he began to think how easily he could get used to this. Maybe his perilous mission had been worthwhile after all. Maybe he should ask for similar tasks, with ever greater rewards.
Then again, maybe not.
The memory of that cold mountain range gave him the shivers. Just thinking about his close encounter with the jaws of some savage beast made his arse clench in terror. As it turned out, being rescued in such a timely fashion hadn’t been the end of his woes, either.
The knight who had saved his life had led him through the snows to a place they called Wyvern Keep. Waylian later discovered the knight’s name was Cormach Whoreson, and at the time he had wondered why a knight of such a fabled and noble order would have such an ignominious title. It wasn’t until he entered the keep that he learned the Wyvern Guard weren’t exactly the heroes of legend they were made out to be.
They were disciplined all right. Constantly training and honing themselves for a war they were eager to fight. But they were also mean-eyed and haughty, staring at Waylian with scarcely masked contempt. They brooked no weakness, either in themselves or others, and they didn’t come much weaker than Waylian Grimm.
After what seemed like an age of him waving around his sealed missive and asking to see the man in charge, he got the attention of the Lord Marshal. If Waylian had been expecting any more understanding from him than from the rest of the knights he was sorely disappointed. The Lord Marshal totally disregarded Waylian though he read the letter with interest. When he announced to his men that they would ride to war, the news was greeted with enthusiasm, but Waylian got the impression they were looking forward more to the fighting than saving the Free States.
Waylian received not a word of thanks for risking his life to bring the message. He was all but ignored as the Wyvern Guard prepared to travel the long road south, and he was reduced to begging for food and drink when none was offered. And what he received wasn’t fit for a dog – food was in extremely short supply up in the mountains. Such short supply that the Lord Marshal had felt the need to slaughter his prized goats to bolster provisions for the journey to Steelhaven.
The Wyvern Guard went about their preparations as though Waylian wasn’t there. He would most likely have been left behind in the empty keep, in the middle of the freezing mountains, had he not insisted to the Lord Marshal that he be conveyed back to the city.
Begrudgingly they had allowed him to accompany them, though on the mangiest horse they had. It was an angry and unpredictable beast, nipping at Waylian when he least expected it. Perhaps it was just animals in general that didn’t like him. Perhaps he was just unlucky.
Either way, the journey back to the city had been almost as traumatic as the journey to the mountains, but he survived it. He had endured and come through the other side, and here he was enjoying the rich rewards.
The Wyvern Guard had arrived in the city – surely Steelhaven’s troubles were over? Surely Amon Tugha and his hordes would not stand a chance now? Maybe they’d even call off their attack once word spread they would have to face these fabled warriors of renown.
Waylian guessed he was clutching at straws there. Deep down he knew this was only the beginning. That this bath might well be the last bit of respite, his one last piece of luxury, before the butchery began.
In that case he was determined to get the most from it. Closing his eyes, he sank down into the water, allowing it to come up to his nose, allowing the warmth to consume him.
This was truly the life.
The door to the chamber opened.
Magistra Gelredida walked in and stared at him as he lay there in the bath. Waylian thanked the gods that the filth on his body had rendered the water too murky for her to see his privates – not that she’d have been in the slightest bit interested in seeing those.
‘So, you survived.’ she said. He nodded, his mouth still beneath the surface of the water. ‘I can’t begin to tell you how much that fills me with joy.’
To be frank, she didn’t look very joyous, but then she never did. Not that Waylian cared either way. She’d sent him on a perilous mission. He’d almost died … more than once. On several occasions he’d cursed her to the hells, and worse.
‘Anyway, well done, Waylian. I’m proud of you.’
Oh well, that’s all right then. That more than makes up for me nearly being eaten, and having to suffer the company of fierce warriors who would have left me to perish in the elements if I hadn’t begged them for help.
‘Thank you, Magistra,’ he said, his lips barely breaking the surface of the water.
‘Don’t lie there all day; you’ll only go wrinkly. Besides, there is still much work to do and I require your help.’
‘Yes, Magistra. I’ll be with you presently, Magistra.’
She nodded before leaving him alone in the bath.
He wanted to ignore her, to throw a foul gesture in her wake, to tell her, albeit under his breath, to go and fuck herself for what she’d put him through.
Instead he eased himself out of the water, feeling the chill of the room despite the fire in one corner. He dried himself quickly and donned the fresh robe that had been left for him beside the bath.
You’re a mug, Waylian Grimm. Chasing after that woman like a little lapdog. Craving her approval. Licking at her heels until she throws you a bone of appreciation.
He regarded himself in the mirror for a moment. It had been a long time since he’d looked in a mirror and some of what he saw he rather liked. His hair had grown longer – well, there was nothing to cut it with on the trail northwards – and he liked the way it framed his face. His chin and top lip had developed a subtle growth of stubble. He was leaner, his jawline more prominent. Might some say he was even growing handsome?
Not bloody likely.
No, despite what he’d been through he was still the same old Waylian. Still pretty useless. Maybe that was why she’d sent him. Because he was expendable. Because if he’d died up there in the mountains no one would have missed him.
He was inconsequential. Surplus to requirements.
Yes, the Magistra made noises about needing him by her side, but who didn’t need a faithful companion? What witch didn’t have her familiar?
Waylian shook his head at that reflection.
‘You’re a waste of space,’ he said to himself, before leaving the room.
He didn’t have to go far to find his mistress; she was waiting for him at the end of the corridor. Like a needy pup he followed her as she trudged her way up through the Tower of Magisters. It wasn’t until they made it all the way to the magnificent hallway at the tower’s summit that Waylian realised they were in store for another audience in the Crucible Chamber.
‘I have no doubt that this will be yet another waste of our time,’ said Gelredida as two Raven Knights secured the strange bracelets around her wrists that would nullify her powers. ‘But we have to try.’
The great doors were pulled open and Waylian followed her inside. It was as though nothing had changed. Each of the five pulpits loomed like ancient standing stones, and behind them awaited the five Archmasters.
Waylian’s eyes swept over them: Hoyle
n Crabbe, dark haired and severe; Crannock Marghil, his ancient face peering down over thin eyeglasses; Drennan Folds, his hirsute features set in a permanent state of rage, his eyes, one blue and one white, furious as ever; Nero Laius looking amiable, though Waylian had seen him demonstrate his power first hand and knew he was not to be taken lightly; and finally young Lucen Kalvor, who might perhaps be the most dangerous of all.
As Gelredida came to stand before them, Drennan Folds leaned forward, shaking his head, his impressive chin whiskers quivering as he did so.
‘Here again?’ he said, his furious expression softening to one of feigned amusement. ‘Have we not already given you our answer, Gelredida? Or do you come on another matter?’
‘No, Drennan,’ she replied. ‘I have come once more to ask that you all see sense. Amon Tugha will not stop until Steelhaven is ashes. The Wyvern Guard have already come down from their mountain holdfast to defend us. With the aid of the Tower of Magisters there is no way the Elharim could breach the city walls. There is nothing to fear if you stand beside the defenders of this city. Do nothing and you will all surely die.’
‘You cannot say that with any certainty,’ said Crannock Marghil, peering over his spectacles with rheumy eyes. ‘There is no way you could be sure of the outcome were we once again to pool our powers in defence of the Free States.’
Gelredida shook her head. ‘I know the consequences were you all to sit on your hands, Crannock. It would mean your doom, and the doom of every man, woman and child within the walls of Steelhaven.’
‘You have had our answer, Red Witch,’ said Hoylen Crabbe. ‘We are neutral in this.’ He glanced down, as though his words had shamed him, yet maintained the perpetual frown about his brow. ‘We sympathise, but there is too much at stake.’
‘What, Hoylen?’ said Gelredida. ‘What could be at stake? What could matter more than the safety of this city? The safety of the queen, her people? What is it that you all fear …?’ She paused, looking at them all in turn. Then she nodded as though realising the reasons for their cowardice. ‘He has truly cowed you all – the great Archmasters, the Crucible, scared into inaction by a single Elharim prince. You are the greatest casters in all the known world! Where is your courage?’
Her shout echoed from the top of the chamber.
None of the Archmasters responded.
Gelredida took a step closer. ‘Drennan,’ she said, almost pleadingly. ‘There is no love lost between us, but surely you can see we must fight?’ He would not look at her. ‘Hoylen.’ She took a step closer to the stern Archmaster. ‘You helped me before, helped me save this city, this land, from the Aeslanti. If that was worth anything you must help me now.’ He only shook his head and she moved on. ‘Crannock, look inside yourself. You know we cannot trust the Elharim. You know I’m right.’
The old man reached up a quivering hand and pulled the eyeglasses from his face.
‘We appreciate everything you have done for this city, and not just in recent times,’ he said. ‘Your strength and your wisdom have been invaluable to us. But we cannot act.’
She took a step back, her fists clenching in her red velvet gloves, the ones she had taken to wearing so many weeks before when Waylian had left for the Kriega Mountains. ‘Cowards! Cowards all of you! I wonder if you’ll even find the breath to defend yourselves when the Elharim outcast comes for your heads, for he will brook no rivalry to his power, mark me. He will not suffer any of you to live.’
‘Have you finished with your doomsaying, woman?’ said Lucen Kalvor, clearly tired of Gelredida’s chastisement.
‘Not yet,’ she replied, and she stared at the young Archmaster until he could hold her gaze no longer. ‘I would have you think on this for a time. Think on your fate should you do nothing. Then I would have you vote.’
‘But we have already given you our answer,’ said Crannock.
‘I think some of you may change your minds as the horde nears the gates. And I would give you each the chance to reconsider.’
‘We can vote right here and now,’ said Hoylen Crabbe.
‘No. It is my right as a member of the Caste to demand a vote, and at a time of my choosing. And I choose five days from now.’
There was silence.
Waylian wasn’t familiar with the protocol involved, he was not yet a member of the Caste, but it appeared Gelredida spoke true. The Archmasters regarded one another before Drennan said, ‘Very well. Five days from now, but our minds are already made.’
Gelredida looked back and smiled. ‘I am confident good sense will come to you all in the end.’
With that she turned to leave. Waylian was once again fast on her heels.
They walked from the Crucible Chamber, and Gelredida led the way back through the tower to her room at the top of those winding stairs. Waylian had remembered her chamber being spick and span when he left so many weeks ago, but those weeks must have been troubling for Gelredida. Now the room was a jumble of parchments and books. Quills, ink and other paraphernalia were scattered across her large desk, every shelf and surface strewn with one piece of clutter or another.
Gelredida sat in her chair and steepled her fingers.
‘There is much to do, Waylian,’ she said, clearly deep in thought.
‘Then I’ll leave you in peace, Magistra,’ he replied, turning to go.
‘No, Waylian. I mean there is much for us to do.’
‘Us, Magistra?
A smile crept across her face. If he didn’t know better he’d have sworn there was a trace of sadism in that smile. Hadn’t she already put him through enough?
Clearly not.
‘I have bought us some time. Nothing more. The way things stand the Archmasters will never agree to put their weight behind Steelhaven’s defence. They are frightened of what they might lose. They must be persuaded there is more to fear than this warlord.’
‘But what could they possibly fear? And what does that have to do with us?’
Or, more to the point, with me?
‘We have five days to put our case across. Five days to persuade our illustrious Archmasters to come to the right decision. Of course we don’t need this to be unanimous – three in favour will seal their compliance – but let’s not hedge our bets.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘No.’ She rose to her feet. ‘But then you don’t have to. Trust, Waylian. Trust is all you need. And to do exactly what I tell you. Come,’ she said, leading him out of the room.
Waylian began to think it wouldn’t be long before she got him a collar. A nice studded one. Or maybe something with jewels in; gemstones for the Magistra’s favourite pet.
They made their way down through the Tower of Magisters, down below the entrance hall, down into the bowels of the massive construction. The stairs wound down, guarded here and there by imposing Raven Knights. The passages down below twisted in a labyrinthine pattern and Waylian soon found himself hopelessly lost.
Eventually, Gelredida led them through a creaky wooden door into a musty chamber. It was freezing, and lit scantly by tall red candles. An old man seated in one corner looked up suddenly from his dusty old tome as they entered.
‘You’re here,’ he said in surprise. Gelredida didn’t answer, merely waiting there as the man closed his book. ‘I’ll be off then,’ he said despondently, walking past Waylian and, with a shrug of his eyebrows, leaving the room.
Waylian might have felt sorry for the man, but he’d had more than his share of being treated like shit by the Red Witch, so it was a bit much to expect any sympathy from him when someone else was on the receiving end.
As he focused through the gloom and saw what awaited them in the chamber, his shoulders sagged. Not again. Hadn’t he had his fill? Just how much death was one person supposed to endure?
Gelredida moved to the table at the centre of the chamber. With a flourish, she pulled back a grimy white sheet to reveal beneath the desiccated corpse of an old man – or what could have been an old man, it wa
s almost too far-gone to tell.
She looked up at him expectantly. ‘The instruments for dissection are on that table over there.’ Waylian looked round to see a selection of blades, saws and callipers glinting in the candlelight. ‘Be so good as to bring me the filleting knife and we’ll begin.’
No! No I won’t. I’ve had enough of this and I’ve had enough of you and your bloody unreasonable expectations. Do your own dirty work from now on, you old witch!
‘Yes, Magistra,’ Waylian replied, and looked along the row of instruments for the sharpest knife.
FOURTEEN
With every new day the air seemed to grow colder. The further they trod through the lands of the Clawless Tribes the more hostile the elements seemed, the wind howling in their faces as though screaming at them to turn back, to abandon this folly. Regulus and his warriors had hunted much game – deer, wolf and the like – and taken to donning their hides to shield themselves from the cold. Kazul, cowed by the weather and in no mood for hunting, had satisfied himself by slaughtering some docile beast with a curly white pelt. It had not even attempted to flee as he leapt upon it. The cries it made in its death throes had been brief.
Of the Coldlanders they had seen little. Small settlements dotted the landscape, and it had been difficult for the warriors to resist their natural urge to fall upon those wooden huts and pillage them for what they had. But this was not where they would wage war. Not yet anyway.
‘How much further?’ said Akkula, as they crested a hill looking down on a wide valley. ‘This wind chills my bones.’
Regulus would have admonished him for his complaint if he hadn’t been so cold himself. This land seemed determined to freeze them where they stood and only through a massive effort of will did they keep moving ever onward.
‘You will be warmed soon enough, young Akkula,’ Leandran replied. The old warrior must have felt the cold more than most, but he complained the least. ‘When we offer our spears to the Steel King he will unleash us upon his foes with all the rage of an inferno. Then you can warm yourself in a pool of our enemy’s blood.’