Steelhaven 02 - The Shattered Crown

by Richard Ford

  What could be simpler?

  Waylian had a feeling anything could be bloody simpler. The tasks given by his mistress were never as straightforward as they first seemed and often put him in grave peril. If he admitted it to himself though, Waylian was starting to quite enjoy the danger.

  Yes, he’d whined and moaned when he thought he was going to be eaten alive by some mountain beast, but who wouldn’t? Looking back on it, he had felt no small thrill in those mountains. A thrill at least the equal of that day in the Chapel of Ghouls.

  Waylian was important now. He mattered and he was doing something good, something valuable. Even if he didn’t exactly know how or why.

  He looked back at his desk and the thick tome that lay open on it. The script written on the pages in thick black ink was neat, some of its syntax archaic, but Waylian found himself understanding the gist more readily than any other book he’d had to read. Authority of the Voice it was called. No esoteric title, not even the name of its writer emblazoned on the front in silver leaf.

  It contained entire chapters on how to break the Veil and tap into the magick that could unleash vast cosmic power with a word. Waylian was only too interested in what it could teach him. By unveiling the secrets of this tome he could turn men’s minds. Shatter their sanity. Bend their will to his every whim. With a word he would be able to wither plants, change the weather or send messages with the birds.

  The thought excited him more than he could express, but Waylian didn’t think for a moment that he was close to being able to bring down the heavens with a whisper. For now he would have to satisfy himself with something easy.

  In front of him on his desk was a little mirror. Waylian had never been a huge fan of his reflection, though in recent days he wasn’t quite as dissatisfied as he used to be. Nevertheless, it didn’t stop him trying to shatter it with a word.

  Since the Chapel of Ghouls, since the day he had defeated Rembram Thule, he had wanted to recapture the power he’d felt. A single word, a word he couldn’t remember, had saved his life that day.

  Gelredida had suggested he read up on the talent, rather than practise it, but Waylian knew that soon he might need the powers of magick once more. His life might depend upon it. He couldn’t very well face the Khurtas with nothing more than a frown and garlic-flavoured breath.

  After much study, Waylian had found the word he wanted in the book. Avaggdu was the destroying word. It was used to trick the Veil into transforming inanimate objects. Into smashing them or twisting them or turning them into something else. Considering the potential dangers, Waylian thought it best to start with something small.

  He said the word, while staring into the mirror.

  ‘Avaggdu!’

  All the mirror did was stare back.

  Well, what were you expecting on the first go?

  ‘Avaggdu,’ he said again. This time more forcefully. This time with a different inflection.

  Still nothing.

  The instructions within the book had said it was nothing to do with emotion or need, but proficiency with the Channeller’s Art, whatever that bloody meant. Clearly he needed more practice, but then how had he managed to manifest the ability when he’d been about to die? It couldn’t have just been coincidence, could it? Surely there must have been some emotional connection, something to do with his fear?

  He stared at his reflection again. ‘Avaggdu,’ he repeated, this time trying to do it without thought or feeling.

  Still nothing, but this time on saying the word there was a strange feeling of nausea in his stomach. Rather than fight it, Waylian let it grow in his belly. It was uncomfortable for sure, yet not wholly unpleasant.

  ‘Avaggdu,’ he said again.

  This time as he stared at his reflection a bead of blood blossomed from his eye. The mirror bowed, bending his image, twisting it into something foul.

  There was a bang at his chamber door.

  Waylian jumped, quickly raising his sleeve to dab away the blood on his face. The feeling of nausea abated only to be replaced by one of revulsion at what he had done. This wasn’t right. There was an overwhelming sense of wrongness about the whole thing, but then wasn’t that what magick was all about?

  Another rap at the door. Someone was insistent.

  ‘Coming,’ he said, rising from his desk and moving to the door.

  He opened it, half expecting Gelredida come with another task for him, so the two men who stood there were something of a surprise.

  The first one Waylian recognised. He was short, with a mop of grey curly hair. Nero Laius had an open and friendly smile, so unlike most of the other Archmasters.

  ‘Hello, Waylian,’ said the Master Diviner. ‘May we come in?’

  ‘Yes,’ Waylian replied, stepping aside and allowing the two men to enter his chamber.

  The second figure had to stoop below the lintel as he entered, his black armoured shoulders almost touching each side of the doorframe. He held his helmet in the crook of his arm, revealing a stern face topped with a shock of short white hair. As he strode by his eyes surveyed Waylian, then the desk, his bed, the window, the ceiling – scanning the room as though for any sign of danger.

  ‘You’ve met Marshal Ferenz, of course.’

  Waylian tried to swallow but he found his throat was drying up with each passing moment. ‘Er … no, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.’ The man didn’t offer a hand to shake, and Waylian wasn’t about to offer his own. Of course he had heard of the Marshal of the Raven Knights, but thankfully never had the need to speak with him.

  ‘Please sit down, Waylian,’ Nero said, sitting himself in the chair beside Waylian’s desk.

  The only place left was his bed, and Waylian obediently sat on it. His feather mattress had never felt so uncomfortable. For his part, Marshal Ferenz stood in front of the door and glared.

  ‘Er … what can I do for you, Archmaster?’

  Nero smiled at that, as though Waylian had just made a joke. Ferenz didn’t seem to find it particularly funny.

  ‘It’s more about what I can do for you, Waylian,’ Nero replied.

  Waylian’s eyes flitted from Nero to Ferenz, from the amiable to the imposing. ‘I don’t understand, Archmaster.’

  ‘Oh, come now, young Waylian. Surely Magistra Gelredida has told you what an interest the Crucible had taken in you? It’s common knowledge you’re a student with great potential. A talented prospect for the future.’

  ‘Er … no. She’s not mentioned it.’

  Nero looked shocked. ‘I can’t believe she would keep such a thing to herself. But then she’s never really seen eye to eye with the Crucible, has she Ferenz?’ The Marshal of the Raven Knights shook his granite head. ‘Well, if she’s not told you what promise you’ve shown these past weeks, please allow me to rectify the situation. Word is you’re a student of great diligence, admired by your peers and tutors alike. You helped defeat a great evil at the Chapel of Ghouls, one that might have destroyed us all. You’ve travelled north to the Kriega Mountains taking word to the Wyvern Guard so that they might travel in defence of the city, at great risk to your person. Overcome much adversity, risked your life for the innocent citizens of the Free States. You’re a hero, Waylian, and it’s about time you were recognised as such.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Waylian, doubtfully. ‘But I’m sure Magistra Gelredida appreciates me in her own way.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she does. That’s why she’s got you traipsing halfway across the city on this errand or that.’

  How could he know about that? Waylian’s tasks for the Magistra were supposed to be kept secret.

  ‘They’re not so much errands …’ said Waylian, desperate to cover his tracks.

  ‘Come now, Waylian.’ Nero sat forward in his chair, those little eyes of his holding Waylian in their steely glare. ‘I am the Keeper of the Ravens. Master of Divination. There is nothing that happens in the Tower of Magisters, or indeed the city, which I do not know about. Isn’t that right, Fe
renz?’

  The Marshal of the Raven Knights nodded his head, his eyes glaring at Waylian all the while.

  ‘I can assure you, Archmaster, there is nothing untoward—’

  Nero held up his hands, and Waylian stopped.

  ‘I’m sure there isn’t, Waylian. I’m sure it’s all completely innocent. Harmless chores for your mistress. But then … what if it isn’t?’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Waylian said. But part of him did understand. Part of him knew exactly what Nero was talking about.

  ‘You’re loyal, and that’s to be admired. In fact it’s one of the reasons you’re so well thought of amongst the Archmasters. But sometimes blind loyalty can be used against you. Isn’t that right, Ferenz?’ The Marshal made no move to reply. ‘Sometimes you lose focus. Sometimes by the time you realise what has happened you’re in far too deep to get yourself out again. Do you get my meaning?’

  Waylian nodded, even though he wasn’t exactly sure he did. Was Nero suggesting Gelredida was putting him in danger? He already knew that, but it was for the good of the city. Wasn’t it?

  ‘I understand, Archmaster. But I can assure you I’ve just been sent out on a few harmless tasks. Nothing that need concern you or the other Archmasters.’

  ‘Of course,’ Nero replied. ‘But how long do you think these “tasks” will remain harmless? You’re not the first apprentice Gelredida has sent running off to do her bidding. She’s had apprentices do her dirty work before and it rarely ends well for them, does it, Ferenz?’ The Marshal shook his huge head. ‘I’m only thinking of you, Waylian. Which is why I’d like us to be friends. It’s why I’d like you to work for me.’

  ‘I … I don’t … I can’t …’

  ‘Oh, but you can.’ That smile again. A smile that seemed to put Waylian at his ease. What was it with this man? ‘Gelredida is in her twilight years. Her sky is darkening, whereas mine is just beginning to grow bright. Do you want to align yourself with the future, or be dragged down by the past?’

  ‘I … er …’

  ‘You have great things ahead of you, Waylian. You will have powerful friends. Don’t be blinded by your loyalty to one old woman. She is a danger to you. A danger to us, to everyone. You must not let her destroy you as she has done so many others.

  ‘No … I can’t …’

  ‘Yes, you can, Waylian. You must.’ He was locked in that gaze now. Those eyes boring into him. Soothing him yet compelling him all at once.

  Nero was right – Gelredida was the past. If Waylian ever wanted to make anything of himself he had to side with the Archmasters.

  You’re being used, Grimmy. By Gelredida, by Nero, by everyone. You’re a useless pawn in a shitty game. Stand up for yourself for once you spineless son of a …

  ‘No,’ Waylian replied. ‘I’m sorry, Archmaster, but I just can’t help you.’

  Nero sat back in the chair, a look of dissatisfaction clouding his once-smiling face. ‘That’s unsatisfactory, Waylian. Very unsatisfactory indeed. I thought we could be friends. I thought we could help one another, but obviously that’s not the case. Marshal, please explain how important it is that Waylian does as we ask.’

  Ferenz took a clanking step forward, massive in his black armour; each plate intricately crafted to resemble a raven’s wing. He stared down at Waylian, his face looking as if it had been hewn from stone with a daemonic chisel.

  ‘Listen here, you little shit,’ he said, as though barking at soldiers on the parade ground. ‘We don’t have time to fuck around with the likes of you.’ He leaned over Waylian, his chin jutting forward, the veins in his neck straining against the muscular flesh. ‘The Archmaster has made you a very generous offer. More generous than I’d ever give you. It would serve you well to accept it.’

  ‘I … er … yes but …’

  Nero had come to stand beside Ferenz now. The Raven Knight towered over him, but Waylian was somehow more afraid of the Archmaster than he was of the imposing warrior.

  ‘Don’t make this difficult, Waylian. There is only one way this will end if you do. Don’t make me have to force you.’

  That strange feeling was creeping back into Waylian’s gut. The feeling he’d had whilst trying out his words of power. A wave of nausea engulfed him.

  Was this fear? Was he even gaining some kind of masochistic thrill from this? What the fuck was wrong with him? Something was boiling inside. Something was stirring like molten iron in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘No!’ he bellowed, rising to his feet.

  To his surprise, Ferenz and Nero each stepped back, the Raven Knight almost backing up to the chamber door. Nero regarded him with a furrowed brow, but he seemed more confused than angered.

  The two men glanced at one another, unsure what to do next since it was clear their attempts at intimidation had failed.

  ‘That’s most disappointing, Waylian,’ Nero said finally. His voice was quiet, almost weak sounding. ‘But if that’s how you feel, there’s nothing we can do, is there Marshal?’

  Ferenz shook his head, his confidence clearly reduced.

  Waylian didn’t quite know what to say as Nero fumbled at the door handle. Ferenz just looked on with confusion as Nero finally opened the door and they both left, slamming it behind them.

  As soon as they’d gone Waylian walked to his desk and sat down. His heart was drumming against his chest and he looked down to see his hands were shaking.

  Should he tell the Magistra about this? That he’d been approached by one of the Archmasters and told to betray her? She had enough on her plate to deal with right now. The last thing she needed was Waylian burdening her with yet more problems. And he’d handled it well enough, hadn’t he? Told those two exactly where he stood?

  That creeping sense of nausea was still filling his stomach and Waylian looked down at the book.

  Authority of the Voice.

  Had he just manifested some kind of magick?

  That was an Archmaster and the marshal of the Raven Knights. If they’d wanted to beat you around your bedchamber until you bled and then make you thank them for it, they could have done.

  Couldn’t they?

  Waylian looked into his little mirror. What he saw made him cry out in shock and stagger back, tipping his chair over.

  The glass in the frame was cracked, the mirror now resembling a spider’s web.

  No, this couldn’t be. Was he finally getting it? Was he beginning to learn his Art?

  His stomach turned. The knotted feeling in his belly twisted. Waylian was struck with the sudden and uncontrollable urge to shit.

  He barely managed to unlace his britches and grab his bedpan before his back end opened up in a flood. Waylian squatted, holding his arse cheeks open as the watery contents of his stomach splashed the pan. By the time he was done it was all he could do to lie on his chamber floor surrounded by stinking brown water.

  As Waylian lay there, one thing seemed to be quite evident – if he was beginning to learn his Art, he was more than suffering for it.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The revelry had gone on for three days. Friedrik had laid on wine and ale to apologise to his guests. Something to do with the dogfight not turning out quite the way he’d planned.

  Rag had no idea what had gone on down in that cellar and she was none too keen to find out. She’d spent the last two days keeping her head down while people fucked and fought in every corner of the tavern. She’d never seen anything quite like it before. Of course she knew what happened late at night on street corners. She’d lived long enough to see some dirty things, but this was very different.

  People were going at it three or four at once, men and women sometimes not caring what was stuck where or in who. As everyone got drunker and drunker it just got worse and worse. Part of Rag wanted to run away, as far as she could. The other part, that curious little part she could never quite get rid of, wanted to stay and watch, no matter how sickening it got.

  In the end people started to wander off an
d the crowd thinned out a bit. Rag had no idea who the people left were, but they must have been in Friedrik’s good books. Wasn’t often he extended a welcome like this. Wasn’t often he extended a welcome at all unless he saw something in it for himself.

  When there were only around a dozen people left in the tavern, the rest of Friedrik’s lads turned up. No sooner had they arrived than Yarrick and Essen went about tidying the place like they were housemaids or something. Neither of them looked particularly happy about it but they didn’t complain. But then nobody ever complained when Friedrik told them to do something. Harkas just stood around looking scary and Shirl moped in a corner. He looked a lot better than when Rag had last seen him, but he still looked like someone had kicked the shit out of him and no mistake.

  ‘You all right?’ Rag asked as he limped in and sat himself in a chair all gentle like.

  ‘I’ll live,’ Shirl replied.

  Before she could ask more, Friedrik walked out of the kitchens, chewing on something cook had made. The smell of food wafted out and Rag felt her stomach grumbling.

  ‘Right, I have things to do,’ said Friedrik. ‘You’ll keep the rest of my guests entertained until they’re ready to leave, won’t you, Rag?’

  She nodded, though what he meant by ‘entertained’ she had no idea. Looked like they were making their own entertainment to her.

  ‘The rest of you make sure this place is cleaned up by the time I get back.’ Yarrick looked up from his sweeping and Essen mumbled his agreement as he grabbed a handful of tankards.

  Friedrik walked out of the tavern. Where he was going at this time of night, and with no bodyguards, Rag had no idea, but then she weren’t going to ask.

  She was more concerned about what they’d done to the bloke in the cellar.

  Surely Nobul, or Lincon, or whatever his bloody name was, was dead by now. Still, there was a niggling little voice at the back of her head telling her he might not be. There was only one way to find out, she supposed.

  When no one was looking at her she moved to the back of the tavern. The cellar door was open and it was black as the hells down there. A couple of candles were burning on a shelf, and Rag took one in each hand before taking the stairs down. The candlelight didn’t pierce very far into the dark, but it was enough for Rag to see by, and she remembered the layout well enough to not trip over anything. That was the last thing she wanted down here.