Herald of the Storm s-1

by Richard Ford

  Waylian felt his mouth suddenly go dry. This was the herald of Amon Tugha himself. The man who had invaded the Free States. The warrior who had slain their king.

  ‘Speak then,’ said Master Folds. ‘And be gone from this place while you’re still able.’

  The foreigner smiled nervously, bowed once more and reached into the bag at his side. The Archmasters shifted slightly as he did so, clearly afraid of what he might produce, especially since they were all wearing the iron manacles that meant their magick was useless should it be a weapon. But Abbasi simply pulled out an old ragged doll and placed it on the ground. He reached into his bag a further four times, pulling out another four dolls and placing them on the floor in front of him.

  Waylian almost let out a sigh, but the Archmasters did not share his relief.

  As Abbasi sat the final doll on the ground, Master Folds shot to his feet. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ His milky eye looked as if it might pop out of its socket.

  Massoum Abbasi stepped back, holding his hands up as though unsure of what he had done to cause such offence.

  ‘Apologies, masters. I did not mean to cause you alarm.’

  ‘Then you clearly have no idea of what these represent,’ said old Crannock Marghil, looking mournfully at the small dolls.

  Waylian had no idea either. They were crudely made rag dolls, like any pauper’s child might own. Each was dressed in a different colour, with differing hair styles, some grey, some dark, one wispy and … as he looked … Waylian couldn’t help but think they reminded him of …

  ‘My lords,’ said Abbasi. ‘I am aware of what these represent … as are you. But the Prince of the Riverlands does not show this as a sign of his intent, merely as a show of the power available to him. A power he vows not to use in return for your … inaction.’ The Archmasters shifted uncomfortably but none of them spoke. ‘Now your king is dead and your armies routed, there will be no one to stand against the horde that sweeps towards your city. But fear not. Amon Tugha is generous, and those who refuse to stand against him will be not only spared, but also rewarded.’

  Waylian felt anger well up inside. Who did this messenger think he was, to offer such a bargain? To think they might betray their city, their people, for the mercy of a foreign invader?

  But the Archmasters still did not move and gave no reply.

  It was as much their cowardice as the messenger’s arrogance that filled Waylian with a sudden fury. He couldn’t stop himself from wanting to take a step forward, opening his mouth to shout at this cur, and telling him the Crucible would not just stand by and allow this foreigner to insult them in their own hallowed chamber.

  He felt a hand grip his arm so tightly he almost cried out. It was clear the Red Witch was also moved to anger, but she was wise enough not to speak. As her fingers dug into the flesh of his arm, Waylian decided it was best he follow her example.

  Crannock Marghil finally nodded his ancient head. ‘Your message is delivered. Return to your Elharim master and tell him we will think on it.’

  Massoum Abbasi bowed, touching his forehead and lips one last time. ‘That is all he asks, O great master.’

  With that he backed away from the five pulpits and retreated from the chamber, followed by the Raven Knights, and leaving the five rag dolls behind.

  Gelredida strode forward, careful not to step near the dolls. ‘It is clear you all have much to discuss,’ she said.

  ‘And it’s clear you have much to do,’ said Master Folds, obviously disturbed by what had occurred. Waylian had no idea of the dolls’ significance, but felt it must have been grave indeed.

  Gelredida inclined her head then turned to leave. Waylian followed her out of the huge brass doors, daring a single glance back as they were closed behind him. If the Archmasters had much to discuss they were in no hurry to begin; and, as the door slammed shut, each of them looked solemn in his own way, his mouth closed, eyes fixed on the dolls that bore such a striking resemblance to each of the five men.

  ‘You are not to speak of what you have witnessed here today,’ said the Magistra after the manacles had been removed from her wrists and they made their way down the huge winding staircase that ran the entire height of the Tower.

  ‘I don’t understand any of it, anyway.’

  She stopped before him, turning to look him in the eye. He could see her assessing him, as though she were weighing up the value of explaining things to such a useless apprentice.

  ‘There is a high price to pay for the use of magick, Waylian. It is a price you may one day have to pay, if you ever manifest any talent. The Archmasters are fearful old men, and Amon Tugha has just exploited that fear. Those dolls represent the magicks of the old days, of the wytchworkers and the shamans of the northern lands. Each of the Archmasters is now marked, cursed with old magicks that will exact a heavy cost in the countering. But Amon Tugha has made it clear there will be no price to pay if they sit on their behinds and do nothing.’

  ‘And is that why they would not offer you any more aid in capturing the rogue? Because of what it would cost?’

  Gelredida smiled at him. It was a small gesture, but one Waylian had never received before, and it took him aback.

  ‘You are learning, Waylian. We might make an apprentice of you yet.’ With that she turned and made her way down the stairs. ‘That will be all for today. I think you’ve earned some respite from my company.’

  It was a respite Waylian would gladly have accepted on any other day, but he had to admit: the old bird was starting to grow on him. Nevertheless, he wasn’t one to pass up a free afternoon, so as soon as she headed off to her chambers, Waylian could barely stop himself sprinting for his own.

  When he finally reached them, almost breathless from his run and grateful he hadn’t bumped into any of the other apprentices, he stopped suddenly. The door to his chamber was ajar, and there was the faintest flicker of candlelight from within.

  Waylian gingerly pushed his door open, wondering what would be waiting to greet him. What he saw inside was beyond anything he could have imagined.

  On his bed, laid out as though ready for her funeral, was the naked form of Gerdy. Her hair had been splayed out on his pillow, her flesh smooth and soft in the winking light. Beside her, smiling from ear to ear, stood Rembram Thule.

  ‘Ta da!’ he said, gesturing to Gerdy’s supine body as if he’d just conjured her from thin air.

  Waylian quickly entered the room and slammed the door behind him before anyone else saw what Bram had brought him.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ he asked, his voice shriller than he’d have liked, but under the circumstances it was probably appropriate.

  ‘I’ve brought you a gift, Grimm,’ replied Bram. ‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes … no … well, not like this. What have you done to her?’

  Bram stepped forward and tousled Gerdy’s hair. ‘Oh, just a couple of drops of mugwort infused with tangleroot. Elementary stuff, Grimm. Even you could manage it.’

  ‘You’ve drugged her?’

  Bram frowned. ‘How else was I supposed to get her here?’

  Waylian could only look down at Gerdy in dismay. ‘But … what am I supposed to do with her now?’

  ‘Anything you want, Grimm. That’s kind of the idea.’ He gave a suggestive wink. ‘Anyway, I’m guessing you don’t want an audience, so I’ll see you later.’ As Waylian stared at Gerdy on his bed, Bram sidled past and opened the door, pausing for a moment. ‘Do let me know how you get on, won’t you?’ And with another wink, he was gone, closing the door behind him.

  Waylian stared after him, suddenly not wanting to look at the naked girl on his bed.

  What in the hells was Bram thinking?

  And what was he supposed to do now?

  He supposed he could wait for her to wake up, then try to explain what had happened. But then, Bram wasn’t here. There was no one to back up his story. If Gerdy woke up naked in a strange room she was likely to screa
m the place down. Waylian was damned if he was going to hang around for that.

  Half-heartedly he grabbed a spare blanket and flung it over Gerdy in a limp gesture to spare her modesty. Then, without a glance back, he ran out the door and fled down the corridor.

  He could only hope she’d wake up, wonder how in the hells she’d got there and just go back to her own chamber.

  With any luck she wouldn’t wake up yelling for the Raven Knights that she’d been drugged by some raper. And who would they all point the finger at then?

  Yes, Waylian Grimm, that’s who.

  As he ran down the corridor, he’d never wished for the quiet boredom of his hometown of Groffham quite so much.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The Promenade of Kings was lined with more people than Nobul had ever seen in one place. There were thousands: men and women, children and elders. Rich standing next to poor, warriors next to priests. But despite that mass of people, the air was eerily silent.

  Even the dark clouds billowing overhead seemed to be waiting — observing the vigil kept within the city, waiting until the old man had been brought by before unleashing their deluge on the filthy streets below.

  Nobul was part of the Greencoat detail posted to control the crowd, but he couldn’t see as how they’d be needed. There might be plenty of tears, but Nobul couldn’t see any sign that there’d be trouble.

  They were all there, standing in a row: Kilgar and Denny, Anton, Dustin, Edric, Hake. Hells, even Bilgot was there, waiting in solemn silence, all the piss and bluster gone out of him. It was like there was something in the air, something that had leeched the spirit from every man, woman and dog in the streets.

  But it wasn’t every day a city buried its king.

  There was a murmur from the crowd. Heads turned, necks stretching to see what was going on. From the front, Nobul could see that the main gate to the promenade had been opened. It wouldn’t be long now.

  ‘This is a shit business,’ Denny murmured beside him. ‘What the fuck are we gonna do now?’

  ‘Well,’ Nobul said, trying his best to keep his voice down. ‘We’re gonna stand right here and be all upstanding and respectful as they bring the king past.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  No, Nobul knew exactly what Denny meant, but he didn’t have an answer for him. What were they going to do now they had no king? Cael Mastragall had been the Uniter. He’d brought the Free States together, taken warring provinces and made them a kingdom. Who was going to hold that together now — his daughter? A girl barely old enough to marry? Nobul doubted she’d be much in the way of a strong ruler. Not with the devious bastards that ruled the other provinces vying for their slice of power. She’d be lucky to survive the year.

  That wasn’t Nobul’s problem. What he was more concerned with was what the Khurtas might do next. Was he worried though? Did he even give a shit if they came right up to the walls, banging their war drums?

  Did he fuck.

  It might be his chance to get back to the old days. There’d be no choice then. Yes, he’d most likely get himself killed this time, but what a death he’d have. And he’d make sure he took plenty of those savage bastards with him.

  He could see the procession now — armoured knights on two massive destriers leading the way, followed by a palanquin. Nobul couldn’t quite see yet, but he guessed the king was laid out on it, most likely clutching his sword to his chest like every king before him.

  The promenade was lined with statues of old kings dead and gone, watching as the latest of their number was carried past. There were too many to count, the promenade leading off further than the eye could see. How many of them had been carried along displayed in all their glory like Cael?

  It was a better send off than Nobul would ever get, but then again — dead was dead. He glanced at the crowd, looking at their mournful faces, and wondered if they even knew why they were weeping. Were they sorry for the king they loved, or sorry for themselves — under threat from a foreign horde and with no one left to lead them against it?

  King Cael had certainly been loved, but Nobul couldn’t help but wonder if the old man truly deserved it. Nobul had served under him on campaign, seen first hand how ruthless the old bastard could be. At Bakhaus Gate they’d managed to win because they were as much afraid of the king and his strict discipline as they were of the enemy. Nobul had seen one man flogged to death for thieving. He could barely bring himself to remember what they’d done to the two lads caught raping.

  It came with the territory, though. Cael had to be a ruthless bastard. Without him the Aeslanti would have run rampant and turned the Free States into a slave nation. As much as Nobul had hated him at the time, he knew they had much to thank Cael for.

  ‘Here he comes,’ said Denny out of the side of his mouth.

  Kilgar leaned over. ‘Another word from you and there’ll be a boot up your arse, boy.’

  Denny clamped his jaw shut.

  Nobul watched as those white destriers got closer. The Knights of the Blood astride them had done their best to polish their armour and barding, but there was no mistaking men fresh from battle. The red tabards they wore were ripped and bloodstained, the matching flags tattered and torn. One of them had a dented greathelm, the other looked like someone had taken to his spaulder and vambrace with a hammer.

  People were weeping openly now, young girls and old men joined in grief. Nobul had to admit it moved him a bit, but he had no tears left. He hadn’t shed any for his son, and he wasn’t about to shed any for an old bastard he’d never even spoke to.

  ‘Steady, lads,’ said Kilgar, and Nobul wondered if there was about to be trouble when he noticed Hake and Anton. Both of them were weeping like girls. Well, let them have their grief. Nobul had done plenty of weeping in his time, though none of it recent. He’d wept for dead friends, for a dead wife; hells, he’d even wept for himself from time to time. If a man wanted to cry then let him. Anyone who’d ever seen battle knew there was no great shame in it.

  The knights had passed them now, their horses shying and skittish, surrounded as they were by the huge crowd. Nobul could see the palanquin and the men that carried it. The knights on horseback had looked battered, but these men looked as though they had been to the hells and back. It wasn’t just the dishevelled state of their armour; Nobul could easily recognise the faces of men haunted by war.

  But then who better to carry their king to his final interment? Who better than men who had fought beside him, suffered with him, bled with him. If Nobul was ever to be conveyed to his final rest he would hope it would be by men such as this.

  As for the king, he looked more magnificent than ever, lying in his shining armour of office, the ancient sword, the fabled Helsbayn, clutched to his body, his steel crown firmly affixed to his head.

  Suddenly one of the soldiers stumbled, fatigue taking his legs away, and he almost fell. The palanquin tipped, the king’s body almost toppling off as the crowd breathed out in horror. Before he could think, Nobul was moving, striding forward to take the palanquin’s weight from the man and righting it once more.

  For a moment Nobul locked eyes with the young soldier and he saw something there he hadn’t seen for a long time. It was emptiness, a void that only the true horror of battle could bring, and they shared that look for just an instant.

  Nobul nodded to him, taking the weight of the palanquin on his shoulder and allowing the man some respite. He deserved more, but it was all Nobul could give him. Before he knew it they were moving on once more, the relentless momentum of the procession urging the palanquin onwards. Nobul had no time to think, he just moved on, taking the weight on his shoulder and carrying the king to his final resting place, whether he was worthy of the honour or not.

  Honour? Was it an honour to carry such a man? Nobul knew he wasn’t in a position to judge anyone. The deeds he’d done in his life were no better or worse than those of King Cael Mastragall. As for being worthy? He’d served under Cael’s c
ommand back in the day. Nobul reckoned he was as worthy as any.

  As they moved forward, Nobul could smell the other men, their stink permeating the air. Any man who’d spent weeks on campaign started to smell all kinds of awful, but there was another smell beneath the dirt and grime and sweat. It was the stink of rot, of festering wounds gone too long untended, the hollow, putrid stench of teeth gone too long uncared for and feet with too many open sores.

  It brought back memories Nobul would rather have left forgot. On the way back from Bakhaus Gate as many men had died from the cold and hunger as had died in battle and he’d almost been one of them. He knew what these men were going through, and it filled him with deep sadness. It wasn’t the death of the king people should have been mourning; it was the thousands of others left by the roadside to go unburied. It was the young lads, shivering in their own shit and crying for their mothers. Bright-faced young men who’d marched off to war with the promise of victory and glory only to find their end in a lonely field, far from home.

  But then life wasn’t ever fair, was it?

  The vast Sepulchre of Crowns came into view up ahead. Nobul could see the huge building just past the destriers trotting in front of him. It was an ancient mausoleum, housing the coffins of a hundred dead kings and queens. Since half the kings had worshipped the Old Gods and the other half Arlor and Vorena, it wasn’t seen as right that the funeral rites for Steelhaven’s rulers should take place in the Temple of Autumn. So the Sepulchre of Crowns was where they were all laid to rest, under the watchful eye of gods old and new. Nobul wondered whether Arlor and the Lord of Crows were even now arguing over who got to take the old bastard to the hells.

  A vast stairway led up to the doors of the Sepulchre, and the lads carrying the front of the palanquin lowered it so as the king didn’t slide right off the back. In front, the horses took the stairs like they were practised, their footing sure on the wide stone steps. Nobul began to feel the strain as they made their way up, but if none of these lads was about to complain then he wasn’t neither. Waiting at the top were representatives from the Temple of Autumn: Shieldmaidens bearing their weapons and arms proudly, alongside white-clad priestesses whose heads were shrouded in respect. They led the way through vast double doors rising almost twenty feet.