by Richard Ford
His desperation to find Amon Tugha had made him complacent and now he was cornered. He glanced around, looking for any chance to escape, but there was none; a dozen warriors surrounded him, their yearning to do him harm plain to see.
Calmly the warrior rose from the wooden chair, speaking in the Khurtic language, the words flat and even rather than spat gutturally as River had heard other Khurtas speak before. A knife was pressed to River’s throat, his own blades taken from him swiftly, warily, as though these warriors knew what he was capable of. Swiftly, his hands were bound behind him and he was led unceremoniously from the tent.
They moved south through the camp. All the while River searched for his chance to escape but no opportunity presented itself. It was as though these savages had been warned of his skill, as though they had been handpicked for this task. Their leader was certainly wary, despite his pretence at nonchalance, his hands never straying far from the axe and sword at his hips, his eyes watching all the while for any sign that River might try and escape.
Eventually they came to a ridge. Beyond it was the city, the siege raging into the night, fires rising, arrows falling. Silhouetted there, huge against the distant light, was a figure River knew could only be Amon Tugha. He stood easily seven feet, his bulk massive against the night. Some distance away were two more figures barely visible in the shadows; one was lying prone and still on the ground, the other, a woman from what River could see, crouched over the body in silence.
River was led up the ridge mere yards from Amon’s back. It would have been nothing to make his attack but his hands were bound, his weapons gone. All he could do was stand and wait.
‘You are the student,’ Amon Tugha said eventually, his voice deep as the ocean. ‘The betrayer. The one who turned his back on the Father of Killers for the love of a woman.’
River said nothing. He owed this warlord no explanation. He had come to kill him, not curry words.
Amon Tugha turned and glared with golden eyes, bright in the darkness. ‘I know why you have come. I have seen into your soul, assassin. You would kill me. Save this city and save its queen. You are brave, if nothing else, and that is to be admired. But bravery will not protect you. And it will not save her.’
From the shadows a Khurtic warrior brought forth a huge weapon, a spear made of steel, the head almost two feet long and wide as a man’s hand. Amon took it in his grip as though it weighed nothing. He spoke swiftly in the Khurtic tongue, and two of River’s captors came forward, a knife deftly cutting his bonds. Another Khurta brought forward his blades and River took them, almost in a daze.
‘You have come to slay me, assassin. Now is your chance.’ Amon Tugha held out his arms, as though presenting himself as an easy target. ‘Spare your queen my wrath.’
River needed no further encouragement. He had known in coming here he would most likely die. At least he could take the Elharim warlord with him to the hells.
He rushed forward, wary of the huge spear in Amon Tugha’s hand. He was ready to duck or dodge but the Elharim made no move to defend himself. River leapt, his blade arm stabbing forward to take Amon in the neck, but the spear came up impossibly fast, the flat of its blade hitting River’s outstretched hand and swatting his weapon away into the night.
River landed, stumbling as he did so, his right hand numb. Amon Tugha had moved from his path and was walking nonchalantly, spinning the spear he held as though it weighed nothing. Those golden eyes regarded River without emotion.
‘You are quick for a southron, assassin,’ Amon said. ‘Precise. Dedicated. I would have valued such skill. It is a shame you must die.’
River rushed in again and feinted to the right, just as the warlord swung his spear. He had intended to dodge but his enemy’s attack was simply too fast, taking River’s legs out before he could react. He hit the ground on his back, bracing himself for the killing thrust, but none came. Instead Amon Tugha stepped back, allowing him to rise and attack once more.
As River leapt back to his feet he saw Amon was smiling, and anger welled within him. Frustration forced him to press a final desperate attack. He struck in, expecting the spear to skewer him, but instead Amon released his grip on the weapon and let it fall to the ground. His other hand shot out, taking River by the wrist in which he held his remaining weapon. The warlord’s grip tightened like a vice, forcing the blade from River’s grasp as Amon’s other hand took him by the throat.
‘You knew you could not win,’ said the Elharim. ‘Yet you came anyway. You sacrificed yourself for her and for that you have my admiration.’ Slowly Amon turned River’s head to look at the crouching figure off in the shadows and the body she held vigil over. ‘But you are not the only one to make sacrifices in this. You are not the only one to suffer.’
River could only stare helplessly, choking in the grip of the immortal Elharim prince. This was it; he would die here, throttled to death as battle raged hundreds of yards away.
His vision began to haze, his limbs growing weak, but before he could succumb to oblivion River felt his arms being grasped by the surrounding Khurtas. They dragged him to a nearby tree and lashed him to the trunk so he could only look out onto the city.
‘I am not without mercy, assassin,’ said Amon Tugha. ‘You came here to kill me but despite your failure I will allow you to live. To watch as your city burns. Perhaps before I slay your queen I will allow you to look upon her one last time.’
With that the Elharim disappeared into the shadows, leaving the gaggle of Khurtas to watch over River.
All he could do was stare to the south as the city was attacked. As Steelhaven died and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Jerrol and the ten he’d brought with him, Bastian’s best, made their way east through the deserted streets like rats on the hunt. Hands, faces and blades were blackened with pitch. Even if anyone had been about at that hour of the night no one would have seen them.
The noise from the north end of the city echoed down through the streets. Jerrol didn’t envy the soldiers their job. Facing the Khurtas was a thing for brave men, courageous and true to the Crown. Luckily for Jerrol he was none of those things. He’d never been brave. Stab a man in the back soon as look at him – that’s what they said about old Jerrol the Nick. You wouldn’t see him coming, they said. Coward and a liar and a thief, they said. Jerrol couldn’t argue with any of that. It was always best to know what you were and admit it freely.
Didn’t matter a shit if they were brave, anyway. The bannermen of Steelhaven were wasting their time and their lives defending that wall. Especially since he and his lads were about to let the Khurtas come flooding in through the side door.
Jerrol had troubled himself with the rights and wrongs of it for all the time it took him to sink an ale. He was Bastian’s man – had been for years now – and what Bastian wanted, Bastian fucking well got. Who was Jerrol to question it? Who was he to say whether letting the Khurtas in was a mistake? Bastian had never led them wrong before and there was no need to think he’d be doing it now. Best just to get on with the task and trust they’d all live through it after.
Eleven men for this job was probably overkill. They had a Greencoat – Platt, his name was – on the payroll who was posted on the Lych Gate. He’d make the way easy for them as it was, so the fact they’d come mob-handed was only a precaution. Always paid to be careful, though, Jerrol knew that better than anyone. No use taking risks, his old man had always said. Not that it had stopped the old fart taking a knife in the belly when Jerrol was only a young lad, but they were still wise words.
The gate loomed at the end of the street. Jerrol felt his stomach turn a little bit as they approached. Didn’t matter how easy it seemed, this job still had to be done right. He would be careful, and no mistake, but there was always something that could go wrong. The consequences if he fucked this up didn’t bear thinking about. You didn’t let Bastian down – that was rule number one. Palien was testament to that.
He’d been clever and strong and earned the Guild a lot of money but in the end it didn’t matter a shit. One fuck-up and you were meat, nothing more. Jerrol had been the one to run his knife across that bastard Palien’s throat. The last thing he wanted was to be on the receiving end.
He halted at the end of the street, crouching down and peering through the gloom towards the gate. One low whistle, the sound of an owl in the night, and he knew the other ten lads would stop and take up positions in the shadows.
The Lych Gate was in utter darkness. Jerrol stared through the night, hoping the moonlight would give him some sort of clue what waited for them, but it was no use. Every torch and lantern for a hundred yards either side of the gate had been extinguished. There was no sound from within the gate’s bastion. No clue if Platt, their inside man, had done his job or not. The place was supposed to be clear for them to just walk in. It was silent enough, but Jerrol didn’t fancy strolling straight into the middle of a bunch of Greencoats just waiting to cut him another arsehole.
He raised his arm, signalling for one of the lads to move forward and check out what was happening. If there was danger, he was damn sure he wasn’t going to be the one running straight into it. Why have a dog and bark yourself?
One of the lads, Kurt, sprinted forward through the dark. Jerrol lost sight of him as he reached the base of the gate tower and there was silence as they waited, breath held in case something went wrong. If it did it’d be the flip of a coin whether or not he ran off as fast as he could or decided to take on whatever trouble appeared. He was scared enough of failure, but that thing was always there in the back of his mind – stay alive, don’t get killed. Right alongside – don’t let Bastian down, it just ain’t worth the death he’ll give you.
Before long Kurt came running back out. He knelt down beside Jerrol taking a moment to get his breath back.
‘Ain’t no one inside,’ he said. ‘Not that I can hear, anyway. Place is all blacked out.’
‘So no one’s guarding the winch for the portcullis?’ Jerrol asked, getting a feeling this was far too easy.
‘Not that I can see.’
Jerrol turned to the rest of his men, ready to give the order to move. They’d planned this to the letter. Two would wait in front of the gate, ready to open it when the portcullis was raised. Four would split into two pairs either side of the bastion to make sure no one came waltzing along the battlements to make a nuisance of themselves. Two would guard the door to the gate tower. The rest would head inside, one taking watch on the roof while the other two would pull the winch to raise the portcullis. Easy.
Or at least as easy as these things ever got in the Guild.
With a flick of his hand, Jerrol led them across the open ground to the base of the gate tower. Immediately four of them split off to left and right, heading for the stairs up to the battlements.
Kurt opened the door, leading them into the black inside. Jerrol followed. All he could hear was the lad’s breathing as he let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Even after they had, all he could see was a scant bit of light from the stairway leading up.
Slowly they crept through the tower. At any moment Jerrol expected someone to come bowling out of the dark, and his unease only grew as they moved further through the building to the first floor.
‘What was that?’ said the lad behind.
They all stopped. Jerrol listened through the dark. He could barely hear a thing. There might have been something from outside. Maybe a whistling noise. Maybe the sound of one of his men signalling in the night, but it wasn’t loud enough to hear properly.
Eventually he shook his head. ‘Fuck this,’ he breathed at no one in particular. ‘We can’t hang around all night. You. Upstairs.’
One of the lads did as he was told, moving up the stairs to the roof of the tower.
Jerrol crept through the dark, looking for the winch that would raise the portcullis. His leg struck something in the dark and whatever it was clattered across the floor, making enough noise to raise the dead.
‘We need some fucking light,’ he whispered.
At first, silence. Then the sound of Kurt’s flint striking tinder. As light flooded the room from the wick of a lantern Jerrol caught something in the corner of his eye. For a moment he thought he saw a child staring up from the stairwell to the ground floor, but a blink and it was gone.
Jerrol stared at the staircase for some moments before shaking his head.
‘Let’s get on with it,’ he said, moving towards the winch.
There was a noise from the roof before he could even grasp the pulley wheel. Kurt looked at him, eyes wide, face all deathly in the lantern light.
‘Go see what the fuck that was,’ said Jerrol.
At first Kurt looked like he wanted to argue, then he thought better of it. He placed the lantern down and drew a blade from his belt, taking the stairs up with caution. Jerrol watched as he disappeared, alone now in the dark of the tower.
There was a whistle, but from where Jerrol couldn’t tell.
Something made a noise on the roof but he couldn’t make it out. Was that a scuffle? Then nothing.
Jerrol stared up at the hole to the roof before whispering, ‘Kurt,’ as loudly as he could into the dark. There was no reply.
A knife was in Jerrol’s hand now. He couldn’t remember consciously drawing it from its sheath, but doing things on instinct had saved his life more than once. He glanced at the winch behind him. Thought about pulling it. Thought about leaving it and running off into the night while he had the chance, but before he could make a decision either way there were footsteps on the stairs from below.
Jerrol just crouched there, waiting. He should probably have taken the offensive and run across the room to attack, but he realised he was too shit scared to move. Better to admit what you are …
An open-faced sallet appeared, followed by a green jacket, stark in the lantern light. Jerrol made to move, willing his paralysed legs into action, but stopped himself when he recognised the face beneath that helmet … Platt.
Jerrol breathed out a sigh. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ he said.
Platt just shook his head. He looked scared. ‘I’ve been doing my fucking job and clearing out the rest of the Greencoats. Speaking of which, did you come alone?’
Jerrol shook his head. ‘Course I didn’t. The rest of mine are outside.’
Platt shook his head right back, looking even more worried. ‘There’s no one outside. And why have you put out all the lights?’
‘I didn’t put out the fu—’ Jerrol glanced at the stairs again, then back at Platt. ‘We need to crank that winch and then get the fuck out of here.’
Before they could move Jerrol caught something from the corner of his eye again. Definitely a child’s face, this time peering down from the trapdoor above where Kurt had gone and not come back. What the fuck is going on? Jerrol had no idea but he was fucked if he’d let it go unanswered.
‘You make a start,’ he pointed Platt at the winch, then made his way up the wooden stairs to the roof.
There was barely enough moonlight to see by, but when his eyes adjusted he saw two bodies lying in heaps on the roof. One was Kurt’s, something pooling around him in the dark.
Jerrol gripped his knife tighter, looking about him for any sign of movement and getting ready to stick it with six inches of steel. He didn’t give a shit if it was a kid, he’d gut the little bastard whoever it was.
A whistle. Jerrol turned to see a young lad standing on the battlements some way off. He stared for a bit, all small and alone in the night. Then the little cunt waved at him.
Jerrol bit back a curse, taking a step forward before realising he had a job to do. Before he could go back down there was another whistle. He spun to see another lad, looking much like the first, waving from the battlements in the other direction. It took a brief moment for Jerrol to realise they were both stood where his men should have been.
He bit back the panic, retreating
off to the trapdoor and back down to the winch room. His eyes darted between those two little fuckers as he made his way down. Once he was back in the room, panting like he’d just run ten leagues, he slowly realised he was alone – Platt had done a runner.
Enough fucking about! Turn the winch and get the fuck out of—
Another whistle, this one loud. It sounded like it was in the same room.
Jerrol turned to see another smiling little face beaming up from the stairwell.
Little bastard!
With a cry of rage he darted at the boy, screaming something unintelligible as he went. The little lad was quick, Jerrol had to give him that, but he wouldn’t get away. He took the stairs three at a time, bursting out onto the street, ready to gut the little shit.
In the darkness outside he went running straight into someone, stopping dead like he’d hit a brick wall. Jerrol looked up, seeing a face he vaguely recognised looking down at him. Was it Barkus? Farkus? Big fucker. One of the crew he’d seen hanging around in the tavern.
He made to speak, but instead of words he spat a gob of blood onto his chin.
Shit, that’s not right.
Looking down he saw he was skewered on a blade held in the big bastard’s hand.
Jerrol wanted to strike out with the knife in his own hand but realised he’d already dropped it.
He staggered back, that blade sliding out of his body with a wet sucking sound. He looked around now, seeing other figures standing there looking at him in the dark. As his knees went out from under him he saw someone walking forward, another kid.
When his face hit the street she knelt down beside him. He recognised her – Rag, she was called, everyone knew her name. The one who’d survived Friedrik and Palien. The one Bastian trusted so much.
She stared at him, no emotion in those little girl’s eyes.
‘That’s the last of them,’ she said. ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here.’
Jerrol kept staring down that street, all skewed on its side, until eventually it faded to nothing.