Herald of the Storm s-1

by Richard Ford

  Nobul could just see him through the dust, laid out on his back on the floor far below.

  Bloody Denny! The lad hadn’t made a fucking sound. Hadn’t cried out. Hadn’t let him know he was falling.

  Nobul raced down the stairs.

  Stupid boy. What was he doing on that roof in the first place? He should have been at home where he was safe.

  There was blind panic inside him now, knotting his stomach as he stumbled to the bottom. When he got there he saw the young lad in robes was helping the old woman to her feet.

  Nobul ignored them. Denny was lying in the rubble, not moving, but his eyes were open, looking up like he was enjoying the clouds going by.

  But there weren’t no clouds to see.

  Nobul knelt beside him.

  ‘You’re all right, lad,’ he said. ‘You’re gonna be all right. Nobul’s here.’

  A sob escaped him. He hadn’t sobbed for years, and something in him tried to hold it back, but that just made it worse.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you. You shouldn’t have been alone.’ The words were strangled, throttled by anger.

  Anger at the world.

  Anger at himself.

  ‘I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean anything I said.’ He grabbed the boy now, pulling him into a tight embrace, squeezing him hard, not ever wanting to let go. ‘But it’ll all be fine. It’ll all be okay, you’ll see. We’ll go back home and see your mam and we’ll all be together. It’ll be just like it was.’

  He couldn’t hold it in any more. All the pain and all the grief, held inside by so much rage and loathing. It all came out then, and Nobul Jacks didn’t care if anyone saw.

  And in the Chapel of Ghouls he held the boy close and wept till he was dry.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  The vast stone stairway that led up to the Temple of Autumn was flanked on either side by towering granite braziers. They were constantly lit, day and night, there to guide the beggars and the sick to the great temple gates that they might be given succour.

  Kaira was thankful that there were no such almsmen here tonight. Thankful that there was no one here to bear witness to her slinking back into the temple like a thief.

  Where else would she go, though? She had failed in her mission. After slaughtering the slavers and freeing those in bondage, there was no way she would be received back into the Guild.

  She was most likely marked for death, but had no fear of that. Something else troubled her.

  All her life she had been drilled in piety, duty, honour. In recent days she had learned that even the basest person could learn to do the right thing. Merrick had thrown off his ignoble past, had acted heroically, and Kaira had helped prompt this. Was it right, then, that she should turn her back on him, on others like him in the city, and return to the Temple of Autumn?

  She made her way up the stairs, seeing the gate come into view before her, its outline seeming ominous in the flickering light. As though she were expected, the gate opened at her approach, revealing the great courtyard within.

  Kaira had been anticipating no reception, had wanted no greeting, but there were figures awaiting her: Shieldmaidens in armour, standing in disciplined ranks.

  So this was how it would be. She was to be publicly admonished.

  She had at least been allowed to leave the Temple in furtive shame, but now on her return she was to be rebuked before her sisters.

  For a fleeting moment she thought about going back down the stairs, of turning her back on the temple forever. But Kaira Stormfall had not been bred to turn and run. She had been bred to face adversity head on, to take the fight to her enemies.

  Kaira steeled herself and strode through the gates.

  The Exalted stood front and centre, flanked by her Shieldmaidens. Kaira could see Samina, her sister in all but blood, at the front of that rank, her features impassive, her body as a statue, bearing shield and spear in the image of Vorena, whose likeness looked down on them all.

  Kaira glanced up at that statue a hundred feet above them and wondered if she had truly shamed Vorena’s name. Despite the failure of her mission it didn’t feel as though she had. It felt as though she had fought to the end, despite the odds being stacked against her. Surely no more could be asked of any Shieldmaiden?

  She stopped before the Exalted, whose face was encased in a full helm, her body garbed in golden plate and her seven-foot spear gripped in a gauntleted fist.

  There was no need for Kaira to kneel: she was a Shieldmaiden no longer; and so she simply stood and waited.

  And then the Exalted proffered her a nod. It was a simple gesture, almost casual, but heavy with import. It meant some kind of acceptance; it meant she was not an outcast, a pariah.

  The Exalted stepped aside, and the ranks of Shieldmaidens behind her moved without a word, forming a corridor for Kaira to walk through. She took a step forward, looking at Samina, who smiled beneath her halfhelm and offered that same nod of acceptance. As Kaira made her way along the corridor of Shieldmaidens each one acknowledged her similarly, each one honouring her.

  This was the last thing Kaira had expected. For a fleeting moment she allowed herself hope, to think that perhaps she might be accepted back into the fold, that her name, her warrior’s name, might be returned to her.

  Kaira could now see Daedla waiting for her at the temple door. The feeling of elation she had permitted herself suddenly disappeared like a feather on the wind.

  ‘Greetings, Kaira,’ said the stooped priestess.

  Kaira was quick to notice Daedla had left out her ceremonial title. It was not to be returned to her after all.

  ‘Daedla,’ Kaira acknowledged with a nod.

  ‘The Matron Mother awaits you.’

  Daedla turned and entered the temple, and Kaira followed.

  As they made their way through the corridors and anterooms, Kaira realised she had not missed this place. She had grown used to the city streets of Steelhaven, and despite its scum and its filth, had felt a freedom she’d never experienced here. Her birthplace felt cold, sterile and unlived in. Did she even belong in the Temple of Autumn any more?

  The Matron Mother was waiting in her chamber, her head, as always, bowed over her desk, feather quill scratching at a piece of vellum parchment.

  Kaira walked forward and stood to attention. It seemed the proper thing to do.

  When the Matron Mother had finished she placed her quill in its pot and sprinkled a fine cloud of pounce over the script. Then she looked up, her features inscrutable.

  Kaira waited. There was no indignity that could be worse than had already been inflicted.

  ‘Please, sit,’ said the Matron Mother, gesturing to the rigid wooden chair opposite her own.

  As Kaira eased herself into the seat, she felt oppressed by the place — the rigidity, the discipline, the weight of duty. Out in the city, even with the importance of her mission affecting her every action, Kaira had never felt such pressure. Only in this place, within these walls, did she feel this way … like a child.

  ‘Your mission,’ said the Matron Mother, reclining in her seat. ‘It was a success?’

  Kaira found it curious that she would ask such a question. By now she must know the outcome. Buttercup would have told her of the Guild’s fury, of the slavers’ massacre, of the freed slaves. What need for such a question?

  ‘You know it was not,’ Kaira replied, in no mood for games. ‘I failed. The Guild will by now know I was a spy. And even if they don’t suspect me as an agent of the Temple of Autumn, they will still wish me dead after what I did at the docks.’

  The Matron Mother nodded. ‘Of course, but was it a success?’

  Kaira felt anger rising; she had not returned to be mocked, to be scorned by this old woman. She almost stood to rail in anger at the ceiling, but she managed to hold the fury in.

  ‘I saved scores of people,’ she said, not trying to hide her annoyance. ‘But for my actions they would have been condemned to lives in bondage. Fa
milies would have been split asunder. Children would have been …’

  Kaira stopped. She didn’t want to go any further; the thought of what might have happened to those innocents overwhelmed her.

  Besides, she realised, she had raised her voice in the presence of the Matron Mother. Even though she was no longer a Shieldmaiden, this shamed her into silence.

  The Matron Mother gave her an appraising look. Then she nodded. ‘So it was indeed a success.’

  ‘What?’ Kaira struggled to understand the Matron Mother’s reaction. ‘That was not my mission. My mission was to infiltrate the Guild and eliminate its leaders. I failed in that.’

  ‘But you succeeded elsewhere. As you say, scores were freed from bondage. The wicked were punished for their sins. You have acted as the spear hand of Vorena, and for that you must be rewarded.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  The Matron Mother smiled. ‘No, my child. But then you do not have to understand. Merely obey.’

  Kaira suddenly felt a stab of shame, but that was what this old woman did to her — shamed her, belittled her. All Kaira had ever done was serve this place, all she had ever done was carry out the bidding of others, and how had she been rewarded?

  ‘You have done well, Kaira Stormfall. And so we shall return things to as they were before your … indiscretion.’

  For a moment Kaira thought she had misheard.

  ‘My standing as a Shieldmaiden?’

  ‘Will be returned to you with full honours.’

  Kaira felt dizzy, nausea almost overwhelming her. For a brief moment, a frivolous moment, Kaira almost accepted, almost laughed with joy — but then she looked around the bare room, its austerity, its cloistered confines.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  The Matron Mother looked confused. ‘What do you mean, “no”?’

  It was madness. What was she doing? She was being given everything she wanted, everything she had yearned for, and was now turning her back on it. But something inside told her this was the right thing to do. Something inside knew that deep within this temple beat a corrupted heart. If the High Abbot’s behaviour hadn’t told her that so many days ago, then the Matron Mother’s arrogance certainly did now.

  ‘I am yours to use no longer.’ Kaira stood, towering over the old woman. ‘I will serve you no longer. I am a servant of Vorena, but I can enact her will without this temple, and without you.’

  The Matron Mother shook her head in disbelief. ‘We live to serve,’ she said. ‘You live to serve, Kaira Stormfall. Would you so readily turn your back on your home … your sisters?’

  The feeling of sickness did not dissipate, but Kaira’s head was suddenly clear. She was not turning her back on her sisters, but opening her arms to the city. There was nothing left for her here. She could never go back to how things were.

  ‘I cannot ignore the plight of this city. Or its people. And that is why I must refuse you.’

  With that she turned, not waiting to be dismissed, and made her way out of the temple.

  Kaira had thought her name and position were all she’d wanted. Thought they were something to be proud of, but it had all been hollow. She would praise Arlor, be an example of Vorena’s might, but not by serving under this authority. An authority that would use her in its games; make her believe she was deserving of shame.

  As she made her way out into the courtyard her sisters still awaited her. Perhaps they had been expecting her back in her armour of office, perhaps they had thought she would be accompanied by the Matron Mother, but when Kaira appeared alone in her drab attire they looked to one another questioningly.

  Kaira strode across the courtyard, past the Exalted who took a step towards her, but stopped when Kaira gave her no acknowledgment. Past Samina, who looked on with sorrow at her sister.

  She was done with this place, done with its cloistral ways. There were those who needed her in the city, and she would offer them that help on her own terms.

  And as she made her way down the wide stone stairs, flanked by the beacon flames on either side, she realised exactly who would need her help first.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  He would have taken a ship, would have fled far across the oceans where no one would ever find him, but he had no coin for passage. Of course he’d had plenty of coin right there in his hands. More than he could have ever spent, at least this year, but someone had given all that away. Merrick couldn’t even begin to express how fucking annoying that was, how much that fact vexed him. So instead of trying to find the words he was trying to hide himself inside a bottle of dubious spirits. The barkeep had told him where it was from and what it was called, but Merrick didn’t care. He just wanted to get blind drunk, and from the taste of whatever was in the bottle, that wouldn’t take very long.

  Of course, he could have left the city northwards, but where would he have gone? There was a marauding army on its way south, refugees wandering the provinces, and he had no friends anywhere but here. Not that he had many friends here, either.

  Well … any friends for that matter.

  Even if he’d had friends, how would they have hidden him from the long arm of the Guild? He could have gone anywhere in the Free States, visited any of its cities and towns and backwaters, and it still wouldn’t have been far enough.

  And so Merrick sat in a dockside alehouse, trying his best to persuade himself that the stink of fish and sweaty sailors wasn’t giving him a headache.

  As he tried to drink away the inevitable, the door to the alehouse opened as it had done a dozen times already, and he stiffened as he had done on each of those dozen occasions. It was just another seaman, though, skin tanned, arms painted in faded tattoos. It wasn’t one of the Guild’s assassins come to cut his throat and watch him choke on his own blood.

  There was still time to run, time to make his break, but nowhere would be far enough. It was just a matter of time. Why not waste the last moments he had left on foreign spirits … at least for as long as he could afford them.

  He fished in his purse and pulled the remaining coins from within, opening his fist and letting them drop onto the table in front of him.

  Six coppers. Wouldn’t last long, but then he didn’t have long left. What would that get him, maybe another two bottles? It would be enough to make him pass out, that was for sure. With any luck he’d never wake up again, and then he could avoid the whole messy event of drowning in his own blood.

  The door opened again, and he looked up, not even bothering to reach for the sword at his side. It had served him well against Bolo and his men, but it would do him no good now. Sure, he could kill any lone assassin sent to do him mischief, but this was the Guild; there were always more assassins. Eventually they’d send one good enough to do the job right.

  A young lad walked in, wooden tray in hand, selling cockles in vinegar.

  Merrick let out a long breath. It had all seemed so right in that warehouse, sword in hand, remembering the old days. It had all come back to him so easily: parry, riposte, thrust, guard. Move with your opponent, not against him. Strike first, strike fast, strike hard, strike last.

  And then there’d been that speech … what had he said?

  ‘I am the shepherd,’ he whispered under his breath.

  What a load of shit. I am dog meat, more like.

  Merrick took another sip from the glass, draining the rest of the peaty- tasting spirit. It made him grimace — cheap crap, lacking the smooth edge of the more expensive liquor he was used to. It was doing the trick, though, sending him blurry round the edges. He almost didn’t care about what was going to happen.

  Almost.

  ‘Cockles, mister?’

  The young lad made him jump, appearing out of nowhere with his tray. Merrick could smell fish and wondered if it was the cockles or the boy who stank the most. He looked down at the grim selection, and it did nothing to stir his appetite.

  ‘No thanks,’ he said, then noticed the little lad eyeing his remaining coins on the
table. Well … why not? ‘Want to earn yourself one of those?’

  The lad looked at him warily, as if this was some trick, and then nodded.

  Merrick slid five of the coppers to one side, leaving one in the centre of the table. ‘If you can grab it before me, you can have it. If you’re too slow I get a pot of cockles for free.’

  There was a short pause as the boy considered the offer. He must have been able to tell Merrick was drunk and fancied his chances, because he gave a sharp nod and put his wooden tray on the floor.

  ‘Right,’ said Merrick, flexing his fingers. ‘On the count of-’

  Before he had time to begin his count, the lad’s hand shot out and swiped the coin off the table.

  Merrick looked at the empty spot for a brief moment, before he started to laugh.

  He couldn’t really argue with that, could he?

  ‘Is giving money away becoming a habit, Ryder? Perhaps there’s hope for you after all.’

  Merrick almost jumped out of his skin. He hadn’t heard her enter the tavern, and she’d managed to walk right up to him without him even noticing.

  Kaira nodded at the boy to be on his way, and he quickly picked up his tray of cockles and scampered off before anyone could take his winnings from him. When he’d gone she sat in the seat opposite Merrick, and he looked her over for a second: those broad shoulders, that chiselled look to her attractive face. Despite everything, despite her having condemned him to certain doom, he couldn’t help but admire her.

  ‘Come to gloat, have you?’ he asked. What other reason could there be?

  ‘You don’t know me very well at all, do you, Merrick?’

  ‘I know you well enough.’

  But did he? Fact was he hadn’t known her even slightly. Hadn’t known how she could fight. Hadn’t known the goodness in her heart. Merrick had been ready to run with that money and leave those people destitute. Setting them free was enough. Not for her. She simply gave the money away without a second thought for the consequences. Deep down Merrick knew it had been the right thing to do, but the side of him that wanted to stay alive couldn’t help but think he’d made a shit choice.