by Richard Ford
Janessa followed the woman, all the while keeping her head raised, fighting the fear. As they made their way through the sea of tents, Khurtas gathered, some looking on with interest, others with a baleful hunger. On they went, wending their way through until by the time they had reached the midst of the camp there were hundreds surrounding them. Janessa could tell many of the Khurtas wanted to harm her, to fall upon her and do unspeakable things, but this woman with her eyes of gold seemed to have a strange power over them. They feared her, that much was obvious. As much as she knew the woman was her enemy she could only be grateful that she stood beside her now.
Eventually they came to a massive pyre in the centre of the camp. Khurtas milled around it impatiently, as though a night without battle made them agitated. As Janessa approached the fire one of them, a giant compared to the rest, glanced towards her, his face a torn and scarred mess. He grinned hideously and Janessa almost felt herself weaken under that gaze. For a moment she wondered if this was Amon Tugha, but as another figure stood up from his crouched position beside the pyre the Khurtas hushed.
He walked towards her and she knew this must be the Elharim warlord. His hair was spiked, the colour of it seeming to shift in the light of the dancing flames, and his bare torso shone, the thick sinews of his arms and chest glistening. He fixed her with eyes that sparkled gold and as he approached he greeted Janessa with a welcoming smile. It did nothing to put her at ease.
‘Such bravery,’ he said in a deep and thick accent. ‘The Mastragalls are truly a courageous line. You have come to save your city?’
‘You know why I have come,’ Janessa said, in no mood to parlay. ‘End this, and send your horde back from where they came.’
‘Your father was not a man to bandy words either. I liked that about him. But you shouldn’t be so eager for this to be over. Not before you have seen the parting gift I have for you.’
Amon Tugha gestured away from the fire. A group of Khurtas moved aside as he did so, revealing a wooden frame erected in a clearing. Lashed to it, his arms and legs secured with rope, was a broken figure.
Janessa took a step forward, squinting through the light of the fire. As the man lifted his head she gasped and moved towards him, forgetting all else as she did so. River tried to speak but his mouth was filled with blood, his face encrusted with it. Janessa ran to him, cradling his head in her hands, her eyes filling with tears.
‘As you see,’ said Amon Tugha, now standing behind her. ‘I am no monster. I have reunited two lovers for the last time.’
Janessa tried to ignore him; all she could do was stare at River as he looked back from a beaten and bloody face. She could tell he was in pain but would not show it. Could tell he was trying to be courageous for her sake.
‘You will let him go,’ she said, turning to the Elharim warlord. For a moment she realised how ridiculous it was that she would make demands of this creature. He was a beast, there was nothing she could do to intimidate him, but it didn’t seem to matter now.
‘Doubtful,’ said Amon. ‘It is inevitable he will one day return to avenge you. And there will already be enough men out there ready to kill me once I have laid waste to your city and taken its crown as my own. Now come. It is time for this to end.’
‘No,’ she cried, but there was nothing she could do as the Elharim took her by the arm. She had never felt such strength, and bit back a cry of pain as he dragged her away from River. ‘You promised Steelhaven would be spared. You made a vow.’
Amon drove her to her knees, staring down with those golden eyes, so cold in the firelight. ‘Your city will surrender to me, as you have done, or I will raze it to the ground. Every last stone. Every man, woman and child will be crushed.’ He held out his hand and one of the Khurtas brought forth a massive spear which Amon took. ‘Now, bow your head with dignity.’
Janessa stared up at him. Through the tears in her eyes she saw that she was surrounded. There was no escape, nothing she could do.
A tear rolled down her cheek, but it was not for herself.
Janessa Mastragall shed one final tear of sorrow for Steelhaven.
THIRTY-ONE
She was no interrogator. Kaira had already proven that with her failure to infiltrate the Guild. It had taken a child to help her find Friedrik and then he had simply laughed in her face when she tried to question him. And yet here Kaira was, in a cold chamber beneath Skyhelm, alone with a grieving old woman.
Kaira’s guilt bit at her but she pushed it aside. Janessa had almost died in the gardens. Leon Magrida’s complicity with Amon Tugha had fooled them all, but Kaira should still have been vigilant. It was why she took this burden as her own and felt the need to question Isabelle herself.
Baroness Magrida sat in silence. The haughtiness was gone. Her arrogance evaporated with the death of her son. There was still steel there behind the cloudy eyes. Still an element of determination. She was strong, of that there was no doubt, but was she guilty of involvement in a conspiracy to murder the queen?
Janessa had said Isabelle tried to stop her son when he made his attempt at the queen’s life. Whether that was enough to prove her innocence remained to be seen.
‘You say you had no idea your son was in league with the enemy?’ Kaira asked. As much as she felt sympathy for the old woman losing her only child, she knew she couldn’t show it. ‘How can you expect us to believe such a thing? You arrived here together. Were constantly at one another’s side.’
Baroness Magrida glanced at Kaira, looking her up and down as though appraising this woman, this mere bodyguard who had come to judge her. She opened her mouth to speak but changed her mind. Perhaps she considered Kaira beneath her. Despite the grave situation she was in, she still considered herself a noble. But then Kaira supposed she still was. Even if she was guilty of a conspiracy to kill the queen of all the Free States she was still a Baroness of Dreldun. Still had bannermen. Still had her subjects.
‘You understand I must be sure?’ said Kaira. ‘I cannot allow you to walk free until you can prove you were not a part of this. That there are no further conspirators within the palace.’
Magrida smirked, her fingers tugging at the hem of her dress. It no longer looked as regal as it once had. Now it was dishevelled, hanging off her shoulder. The sleeve was torn, though whether it was damaged during the attack in the gardens or the old woman had done it herself out of grief and anger, Kaira could not tell.
‘My son lies dead,’ said Isabelle. ‘The only heir to the Barony of Dreldun. Its villages and farms have been burned. Its capital razed. Even if the Khurtas are defeated, the province will be plunged into anarchy and I will be the one who has to govern in the chaos.’ She fixed Kaira with a stern look, fire in her eyes. ‘Do you think I give a damn about the safety of your queen? Do you think I care if you think me guilty of treason?’
‘I think you are still a noblewoman of the Free States. Protest your innocence or admit your guilt, but say something. It’s better you tell me. Were Seneschal Rogan here with his Inquisition—’
‘He can’t hurt me and neither can you. I owe you people nothing.’
Baroness Magrida waved her hand dismissively. Kaira suddenly felt her anger rising. This woman had shown her nothing but contempt. Had shown the queen nothing but disrespect, despite being allowed to stay here and be sheltered from the roving horde. Her guilt in conspiring with the enemy may well have been in doubt, but she was certainly guilty of arrogance and conceit.
Before Kaira could press the woman further, a bell rang out from above.
At first she had no idea what it was until she heard the shouts of panic. Kaira ran from the cell, feeling her heart beat faster within her chest. Had the Khurtas breached the wall? Were they attacking the palace even now?
She rushed through the door to the cell block, past the two Sentinels who guarded the Baroness. Kaira took the stairs at a sprint, racing towards the sound of a commotion within the palace. Garret’s deep voice rumbled through the corridors as he
barked orders and it took Kaira no time to find him in the entrance hall.
‘She’s bloody gone!’ he shouted as he saw Kaira.
She had no answer for him. He could only mean the queen. The horror of it sank its teeth deep. She had a hundred questions but inside she knew Garret would not be able to answer any of them.
The palace was in upheaval as every maid and manservant was raised from their beds to join the search. Kaira ran out into the front courtyard, trying desperately to think, to remain calm amidst the chaos.
She has gone to face Amon Tugha alone. She has given herself to him in order to save the city.
The thought would not leave. As much as it frightened her, Kaira knew it was the only option. If Janessa had been murdered by an assassin they would have heard of it by now. Amon Tugha would want it known throughout the city that the queen had been slain.
No, it was obvious. Janessa had heard the Elharim’s proclamation that her death would save the city and she had done the noble thing. Foolish, but noble.
A single horse was tethered in the courtyard bearing the livery of a messenger. Kaira leapt atop it. As she pressed her heels to its flanks and pulled the reins towards the main gates she heard someone shout behind her, but there was no time to stop and explain. No time to lose at all. No one knew when she had slipped out of the palace. No one knew how much time their queen might have left.
Kaira galloped out of the palace grounds, the horse’s hooves clacking against the cobbles. She drove the steed on through the Crown District, screaming at the Greencoats to let her pass. Thankfully they were in no mood to try and stop her, opening the gates in time for her to gallop through. In the waxing dawn light she could see the streets were empty and gave silent thanks to Vorena there was no one to stop her as she made her way north.
By the time she reached the Stone Gate the horse was already frothing. Kaira reined in, desperately searching for anyone who could help her. Men milled around looking dishevelled, most looked wounded in some way. She began to despair that she might have to gallop out onto the northern plain alone when she saw a glimmer of bronze armour amidst the uniforms of the city’s bannermen.
She rode along the base of the wall, hoping against hope they would be ready for battle. Her heart leapt as she saw Merrick standing amidst a group of other Wyvern Guard.
‘Ryder!’ The group turned at her call. For a moment she thought that this should remain a secret. That if word was to spread that the queen had given herself to Amon Tugha there would be panic. But if they were not in time to save her there would be panic aplenty. The time for discretion was over. ‘The queen is gone. I think she has fled the city to offer herself to the Khurtas.’
Merrick needed no further encouragement. ‘Get to the fucking horses,’ he shouted.
Before he could acknowledge her further, Kaira had already pulled the reins around and headed back to the gate. Men ran from her path as she rode through the vast archway and out onto the empty battlefield. The sun was only just beyond the horizon but there was little light yet shed on the plain to the north of the city.
As she urged her horse northwards she knew this was madness. If she was wrong, and the queen had not gone north to surrender herself, Kaira was riding alone into the heart of the enemy camp. She would be slaughtered before she even reached its edge. But if Janessa had indeed gone to give herself up to Amon Tugha, she still had to face thousands of Khurtas single-handed. There was no way this would end well.
Arlor is strength. Vorena is courage.
Those words, which had helped her so many times in the past, seemed to do little now. She was going to die and so was the queen, no matter what she did. The folly of it almost made her furious but she could not afford to be angered. She had to fight, to be in control. She had to die as a Sentinel of Skyhelm … as a Shieldmaiden of Vorena.
As Kaira reached the edge of the camp she urged her horse up a ridge, at any moment expecting screaming Khurtic sentries to come charging from the shadows, but there was no one there to guard the camp’s southern extent. The madness of galloping straight into the enemy’s maw filled her with determination. Her sword was in her hand now, and she was eager to strike.
The encampment was dimly lit but still Kaira could see no one. Even with the sun finally peeking over the hills to the east she could spot no enemies. Then, ahead, she saw the gathered crowd.
Her heart sank as she rode. Janessa could already be dead, could already have been executed by the gathered savages, but there were only murmurings amongst the horde, not the cheers she would have expected. A whisper of hope in the dark morning.
Her steed was no destrier but still she urged it on. The Khurtas to the rear of the crowd had enough time to turn and spot her as she galloped towards them, but no time to move from her path. The stallion rode them down. Kaira’s sword flashed in the dawn light. There were screams from her horse, cries of pain and anger from the Khurtas. A roar went up that made her heart sink and then she was through.
In the clearing at the centre of the crowd, Kaira saw Amon Tugha for the first time. He was formidable, of that there was no doubt, but Kaira was undeterred. She had come to die. All that mattered was how she did it.
From the corner of her eye she saw Janessa kneeling on the ground at the Elharim’s feet, her mass of red curls unmistakable.
But Kaira was focused on only one man.
She raised her sword, crying Vorena’s name as she hurtled straight for him. The massive spear in the warlord’s hand thrust forward, impaling the charging horse through the chest and halting its gallop. Kaira went down with the screeching steed, rolling clear as she did so.
She was on her feet in an instant. Her weapon lost. A Khurta ran from the crowd, attempting to skewer her on his own spear, but she twisted, wrenching the weapon from his grip and spinning it deftly, the spearhead taking him in the throat.
Kaira’s eyes were wide to the danger now. Khurtas were crowded all around and they moved forward, their weapons drawn, hunger in their eyes.
Amon Tugha raised his arm, speaking in the guttural Khurtic tongue before hauling his weapon from deep within the dead stallion’s body. He held out a hand and beckoned for Kaira to come forward. A silent challenge between warriors.
This was how she would die. At the hands of the Elharim warlord, defending the life of her queen, no matter how forlorn her chance of victory.
It would be a good death.
As she stepped forward, as though heralding her final battle, the ground began to tremble.
THIRTY-TWO
Merrick had no idea how many Wyvern Guard had leapt on a horse to follow him. It was too dark to see as they rode across the battlefield towards the Khurtic camp, but he hoped it was more than had ridden out to destroy those fire ships. The camp over the rise was full of savage madmen who would boil them alive and shit in their skulls given half the chance. There’d definitely need to be more than twenty of them if they were going to make it through this in one piece.
He tried not to think about it too much. The prospect of someone shitting in his skull, boiled alive or not, didn’t fill him with any joy. Instead he thought about how good he’d look when he got back to Steelhaven carrying the queen. ‘What a fucking hero that Ryder is,’ they’d say. ‘He must be the greatest swordsman that ever lived. Let’s pour our adoration, and not a little gold, all over him. And maybe throw in a couple of dancing girls.’
Don’t be a fucking idiot, Ryder. You’re not coming back from this. You’re going to die in a horrific way and your head’s going to end up on the end of a pointy stick.
He’d always hated pointy sticks and made a vow to avoid them at all costs, just as his horse hit the top of a ridge and galloped into the Khurtic camp. In the light of the campfires he could see there was little resistance. He could also see that there were definitely less than twenty of them riding in to face thousands of Khurtas. But at least Cormach was here. If anyone was going to get killed before Merrick it was bound to be that m
ad fucker, right?
Right?
They galloped between the tents, maybe a dozen of them. Someone screamed over to the left and was instantly silenced. Merrick could only hope it was a Khurta on the receiving end of a Wyvern Guard sword and not the other way around, but he was too enrapt in finding the queen and Kaira to look.
A crowd came into view. There was a commotion in their midst but Merrick couldn’t see what it was. He urged his warhorse on and it grunted as he dug his spurs in twice for good measure.
A storm of confusion erupted as he struck the mob of Khurtas. Men and horses screamed, and the jarring impact rattled his teeth. Merrick struck out with his blade and felt it hit something but he couldn’t tell what. He kicked the destrier again, urging it through the crowd. To his left someone roared above the din as more of the Wyvern Guard joined the fray.
In a rush of clarity he burst through the mess of Khurtas. By the light of a massive pyre he could see Queen Janessa on her knees, Kaira standing with a spear ready to defend her and the biggest bastard he had ever seen watching like this was all some kind of sport.
His eyes glowed gold, his body gleaming in the firelight, covered in arcane markings, an enormous spear held in one bucket-sized hand. It could only be Amon Tugha. No other man on earth could have made Merrick want to shit himself so readily.
He had no time to think as more of the Wyvern Guard burst through the line of Khurtas.
‘Protect the queen,’ someone shouted.
In response Merrick urged his steed forward. He aimed at Janessa, intent on hauling her onto the back of his warhorse and riding off into the sunrise, but before he could reach her Cormach had spurred his own mount in the way. Janessa grasped his hand and leapt up.
Merrick almost cursed the bastard, looking all heroic, that white bear pelt making him stand out like some sort of legendary hero of old.