Herald of the Storm s-1

by Richard Ford

Before the door could swing fully closed after them, she moved forward, jamming her arm inside. Once she’d slipped through the gap, Rag squinted against the lantern light that illuminated the room, until her eyes adjusted. Her heart began to beat a little faster as she spotted the dark passage leading downwards.

  She picked up the lantern off the table and stepped down towards the cellar. It smelled stale, and she wrinkled her nose against it, but considering there was a dead body down there, at least it didn’t stink of rot.

  Or she hoped there was a dead body down here. If not she was in deep shit.

  The lantern did its job piercing the darkness as she reached the bottom of the stairs, but it didn’t stop the ominous feeling in her stomach. The walls were covered in damp, and somewhere she could have sworn she heard a rat squeak.

  This all paled when she saw that in the centre of the cellar, lying on a wooden table, was a body. She couldn’t see its face — someone had draped a brown woollen blanket over him — but Rag knew who it was, lying there in the dark and the cold.

  Her courage almost gave out right then. She almost dropped the blade and turned and ran back up the stairs.

  Almost.

  Weren’t no one going to do this for her. Weren’t no one ever going to do anything for her again. This was her chance. Her one last chance.

  She sat the lantern to one side and walked forward. Any moment she expected the body to move, to sit up and throw the sheet aside and look at her and say, ‘All right, Sweets? Shall we carry on where we left off?’ And then he’d take her by the throat and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze.

  But Krupps didn’t do that, because he weren’t there no more. There was a body all right, but it weren’t him. Krupps was gone now, off to wherever bastards went when they died.

  All that was left was meat on a slab.

  With that in mind, Rag reached out and grabbed the edge of the sheet. No point in doing it slow, prolonging the act, and she pulled it aside, showing Krupps to the world. Or at least what was left of him.

  She hadn’t been far wrong about meat on a slab. Those Greencoats had done a job on him all right. His face was a mess of blood, the flesh all blue and black beneath, his mouth hung slack and she could see the teeth within smashed and ruined. Weren’t nothing of his eyes but swollen lumps.

  Rag looked at him for a while, wondering how she felt about this. He’d tried to do her in, right enough, but she still couldn’t bring herself to hate him totally for it. If she’d had the guts and the strength, wouldn’t she have done the same to him?

  Right now, though, she didn’t feel nothing for him. And for what she was about to do Rag reckoned that was just about the right way to feel.

  The blade suddenly felt heavy in her hand, but she lifted it anyway, pausing to take a breath before sinking it into his neck as he lay there. Krupps didn’t make no sound or protest as she went at it, carving him up like a hunk of meat. The going was tough even though the blade was keen all right, but she guessed cutting a head off weren’t no easy thing. There was less blood than she’d expected, and she reckoned that was a blessing — she still wasn’t good with blood. As she continued, Rag resorted to using the blade like a saw, heaving back and forth like cutting through a log, and it seemed to be the best way. There was bone and gristle in the middle — that was the hardest to get through — but when that was done, the rest was easy.

  Once she’d sawed right the way through that neck to the table beneath, Krupps’ head moved all of a sudden. Rag stepped back, just watching as it rolled right off the table and hit the cellar floor with a thud. She stared at it, wondering what to do next, feeling the weight of the knife in her hand, strangely tempted to start carving other bits off him, but there weren’t no time for that.

  Rag grabbed the brown blanket he’d been laid under and rolled the head inside, wrapping it up tight. A bloodstain appeared in the wool, but there weren’t nothing she could do about that now. Besides, it was dark and with any luck no one would even notice.

  Leaving the blade behind, she grabbed the lantern and made her way back up the stairs, only too glad to be leaving the cellar behind her. Someone was going to get a big surprise when they went down there later, and she almost laughed as she imagined them shitting themselves in fright at finding a decapitated body.

  Once at the top she ditched the lantern and opened the door to the corridor beyond. It was still dark and quiet, no sign of anyone, and Rag slipped out, letting the door close behind her.

  She had no idea where she was, or how to get out, but it wouldn’t do to stand around and wait for someone to give her directions. She padded along quiet as the grave, her bare feet making barely a sound as she worked her way around the building, into a wide courtyard. There was still no Greencoat in sight as she hurried across the yard, spurred on by her fear and her excitement, her bruised face and fuddled head all but forgotten.

  The yard led out onto the street, a quiet street she didn’t recognise, but it didn’t matter. She was out now, and she had her prize and it would all be worth it.

  As she ran, with the filth of the streets squelching beneath the soles of her feet, she got to thinking that all her troubles were almost finished.

  FORTY-TWO

  Waylian had heard nothing.

  Gerdy had seemingly returned to her own chamber without raising any alarms. If she knew whose room she had awoken in she didn’t care — or at least not enough to notify anyone important. Later, when he’d come back to his room and found it empty, relief washed over him like the evening tide.

  He’d not seen Gerdy since, which was a blessing he could not stop giving thanks for. As for Rembram Thule — he could rot in the hells.

  For a long time he’d tried to work out why Bram had done it. Waylian thought he was a friend, but what kind of bastard drugged someone and left them in a friend’s bedchamber?

  Surely that wasn’t normal?

  As he sat and stewed about it, Waylian realised he couldn’t bear to be in his room any more, and so he grabbed one of the thick tomes he’d been given by the Magistra and fled.

  When he finally reached the top of the tower he remembered it had been here that he and Bram had looked out over the city. Now it seemed even when Waylian tried to find some semblance of solitude, Bram was there to ruin it for him. Nevertheless, there was nowhere else he could go, nowhere else he could be guaranteed privacy.

  He sat in the shadow of the parapet and opened his book. The Invoker’s Art by Samael Hayn. Another great masterwork no doubt. How could he ever hold himself back from delving into this rich opus of knowledge?

  Quite easily, he reckoned.

  Waylian read for some time. None of the words sank in. Even the introduction was dry as a desert and twice as endless, more interested in the author’s notably dull life than in introducing the subject in question. It was so bloody pointless.

  He clenched his teeth against the pain of it, the humiliation of it. This book was just the final straw. Yet it was useless to blame anything, anyone but himself; it was his own fault. He’d decided to come here, he’d decided to pack his bags and leave everyone behind and come to the big city. It was his arrogance and pride and ambition that had led him to this. It was nobody else’s fault everything had turned to shit.

  With a snarl he flung the book over the side of the tower, hearing its pages flap desperately for a second before it soared off on the wind. Someone, somewhere, would probably find it, most likely quite battered and missing some pages — and they were bloody well welcome. Waylian could only hope they made more sense out of it than he ever would.

  He put his head in his hands. When he looked up his vision was blurred with tears. Waylian hadn’t wanted to cry and he’d managed to stop himself so far, but a sob followed the tears, and was itself followed by a flood as he broke down on that roof. He hated it here. He wanted to go home, back to his mother, back to his brother and his bloody dog. And he hated that dog. It had snarled whenever he came near and had even tried to
bite him once. It hadn’t drugged anyone and left them in his room though, so it was one up on Bram ruddy Thule.

  In that moment it all came out, all Waylian’s misery and self-loathing and regret, as he poured out his tears on that lonely roof, overlooking a city he hardly knew, miles away from home. And never mind his loneliness and his uselessness — there was an invading army on its way to the city gates, and a rogue magicker on the loose within its walls.

  What in the hells was he even doing here?

  It was clear then what he had to do. There was no point waiting to be dismissed, waiting for the inevitable. Waiting for an army of savages to descend and cut him and everyone else in the city to offal. He had no friends here, he had no life here and he didn’t want the title of Magister enough to suffer all this.

  It was time to go.

  He opened his eyes and made to stand when he saw her there, watching him. Magistra Gelredida stood on the stairway that led up to the tower summit, her face an emotionless mask.

  This was all he bloody needed. Though it didn’t matter now what she said or how she said it. He was going. She could ridicule him all she wanted. It wouldn’t make any difference.

  Even so, he wiped the tears away with the sleeve of his robe, sniffing up the snot that had gathered in his nostrils.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked.

  Like you bloody care.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ he answered, using the parapet to help him gain his feet.

  ‘You don’t look fine.’ Here we go, let the ridicule commence. She could do her worst, it didn’t matter a shit now. ‘Is there something you wish to talk about?’

  Was this a trick?

  ‘I … er … it’s nothing, Magistra.’

  It was nothing. It was all for nothing.

  ‘It doesn’t look like nothing to me, Waylian. People don’t burst into floods of tears for no good reason. Or are you prone to outbursts of unbridled emotion?’

  Here we go. ‘No, Magistra. I’ve just …’ Oh, what did it matter now? ‘I’ve just had enough. I’m failing in my studies, I’m not making any friends and I’m missing my family. I think I’d like to leave the Tower and return home. I think that’s for the best.’

  She studied him, looking deep into his eyes as though searching for something. ‘Best for whom, Waylian?’

  ‘Best for …’ For me! For you! For everyone! ‘Best for … It’s just best if I go now, before I’m dismissed.’

  ‘I see.’ She nodded, considering his words. ‘So you’re giving in? Throwing away any potential future you might have here to go back to your ordinary, provincial life?’

  ‘I’m not …’

  But then he was, wasn’t he.

  He was giving in, he was running away. What choice did he have? ‘Yes, I guess I am. But it’s only a matter of time before I’m dismissed. This way I’m not wasting any more of anyone’s time. Especially yours.’

  Gelredida sighed, then looked out across the city. ‘That’s a shame, Waylian. I had high hopes for you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Magistra?’

  She looked at him with an expression that could only have been sympathy. ‘Come now, Waylian. I know I’ve been a little hard on you, but it was only for your own good. Some students require nurture. Others, a boot in the arse. It’s always been clear which one you’ve needed. Do you think I’d have spent so much time on you if there was no potential?’

  ‘I … Potential? But I’m completely out of my depth.’

  ‘You’re an apprentice, Waylian. A neophyte. Do you expect to be calling down thunderstorms and turning iron to gold in your first year? It takes some people decades to learn their first geas. Loyalty is as much a virtue for apprentices as anything. And it is clear you are loyal, Waylian.’

  ‘So I’m not going to be dismissed?’

  That raised a smile. Only a small trace of a smile that looked like it might split the skin at the corners of her mouth, but it was, for only the second time, a definite smile.

  ‘Of course not, Waylian. Good apprentices are hard to find, and I’m not in the habit of taking on a new one every tenday. It’s bad enough I have to put up with you.’

  The smile was gone now, and Waylian was unsure if she was joking. Not that it mattered. She’d said he wasn’t useless, or at least implied it. That was good enough for now.

  He stood tall, ready to begin his work anew. Magistra Gelredida thought he had potential, and that was all the affirmation he needed.

  ‘Shall we continue with our lessons then, Magistra?’

  ‘We shall. Since those fools in the Crucible Chamber have decided to sit on their hands, it may well be up to the two of us to save this city. It looks like we have a lot of work to do.’

  Had anyone else said that to him, Waylian might have found it frightening, but beside his mistress he suddenly felt as if he could accomplish anything, even hold back the Khurtic hordes. Who knew? Maybe he’d be the one to take the head of Amon Tugha and present it to the … well, whoever ended up ruling this place. The queen, he supposed.

  ‘Have you never thought of sitting on the council, Magistra?’ he asked as they made their way towards the stairs. ‘You never wanted to become an Archmaster?’

  ‘The traditions of the Crucible Chamber go back centuries. Each of the Primary Arts is represented by one man, and one man only. None of those who represent their Art can show any of the talents of the others. I am doubly blessed and cursed, in that I have more than one talent at my disposal, but it also means I am tainted in the eyes of the council. I can never be an Archmaster.’

  ‘It seems an outdated tradition. Surely the Archmasters should be picked for their wisdom and power.’

  That seemed to amuse Gelredida.

  ‘Ah, you have much to learn of tradition, Waylian. Many of our customs hark back to the days of the Sword Kings and the War of the Red Snows. They are traditions that have kept us safe, but also kept us from progressing our Art. That is why three of the Arts have been lost over the years. But our traditions are there to protect us. Much of our knowledge and lore was taken from ancient tribes whose ambition and lust for power far exceeded their ability to control it. Our traditions keep us safe from such lusts.’

  It reminded Waylian of what he and Bram had talked about days before, of the ancient histories of war and blood. ‘I’ve read about those first days of the Caste. What was it … they took our words of power with hearts of dark stone?’

  Gelredida stopped in her tracks and turned to look at him.

  ‘What did you say?’

  She asked the question as though he’d just called her a wrinkled old prune. Waylian suddenly blanched. Perhaps he was being too familiar; perhaps he’d overstepped the mark.

  ‘Er … it was just something I heard …’

  ‘Say it again,’ she snarled, reaching forward to grasp his robe.

  ‘They took our words of power … with hearts of dark stone.’

  ‘Black stone! Hearts of black stone! Where did you read those words?’

  ‘I … I didn’t read them, someone told them to me.’

  ‘Who? Who told them to you?’

  Waylian’s mind was reeling. Gelredida was furious, her ire aimed directly at him. The change from just moments ago was enough to almost loosen his bowels. He thought for a moment of lying to save his friend, but what in the hells did he owe Bram?

  ‘It was Rembram Thule. We were just talking about-’

  ‘Where is he? Where is he right now?’

  ‘I–I’m not sure … he could be in his chambers or the refectory …’

  Gelredida grasped him firmly by the arm and led him down from the tower roof. He clattered after her down the stone staircase, at pains to keep up.

  They sped to the apprentice chambers but Bram was not there. Neither was he in the refectory, and Waylian was beginning to worry for the lad’s safety, such was the Magistra’s growing ire. Other apprentices could only watch in surprise, moving out of their path as she dragged
Waylian through the corridors. Clearly they thought he had done something to offend his mistress, but then they already considered him a moron, so it mattered little what they thought.

  ‘He’s not here, Waylian. Where is he? We must find him.’

  She was holding both his arms now, staring into his eyes as if the roof might fall in and the tower collapse about their ears. Her nails dug into his flesh and Waylian began to get a dread sense of foreboding.

  ‘I don’t know where he is. I don’t understand. What could he have done?’

  ‘Those words. I know you didn’t read them in any book and I know you don’t speak the tongue they were originally uttered in. In every place we’ve found a body, a mutilated corpse, there have been sigils on the walls, signs and ciphers in ancient tongues long dead. And on the wall of each place we’ve been to was written “they took our words of power with hearts of black stone”. It’s an ancient curse, left by the shamans of the north. Part of a vow made after the War of the Red Snows. Only a few people know that language. Only a very few.’

  ‘But Bram’s just an apprentice.’

  ‘That’s why we have to find him. He has no idea what he might unleash. No idea what he might bring down on this city, so think, Waylian. Where could he be?’

  It was impossible. Where could he be? There were very few places left to look. He definitely wouldn’t be in the library; that was a certainty. Perhaps …

  ‘Gerdy! He was … friendly with a girl called Gerdy.’

  Gelredida pulled him back towards the apprentice chambers, scattering several students who dared get in her way. They eventually found Gerdy’s door nestled within the heart of the female chambers. Without knocking, the Magistra turned the handle and strode inside.

  There was no Gerdy, but the room was in disarray, as though someone had fought hard against an intruder.

  The Red Witch let go of him now. She moved with a speed that belied her years as she made her way up through the tower.

  ‘Where are we going, Magistra?’ Waylian asked. ‘How will we find them? If they’re not in the tower they could be anywhere in the city by now.’