Lord of Ashes (Steelhaven: Book Three)

by Richard Ford

  Nobul took his helmet and placed it on his head, then climbed up on the battlements as best he could without looking an old, tired bastard. As he pointed his hammer forward at the giant Khurta all the noise stopped. They looked at each other across three hundred yards until the Khurta hefted his own massive hammer from his shoulder and pointed right back. Then, as one, the Khurtas turned and headed back north.

  There were audible sighs of relief as they went. Nobul watched for as long as he could before he climbed back down off the wall. Last thing he wanted was to fall – that would have been a fucking stupid way to go after all his posturing.

  Duke Bannon gave him a nod, a wicked grin on his face. ‘You show them, lad,’ he said, before walking off with the rest.

  At least Bannon was looking forward to what was coming. And Nobul reckoned it would be pretty humiliating if he couldn’t live up to the old bastard’s expectations. Not that it mattered much.

  Humiliation didn’t matter a shit if you were dead.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Sleep was threatening to overwhelm him, despite the bright sunlight and the biting cold. River would not succumb, though. He could not. A chance at escape might come from anywhere, and he could not be asleep when it happened.

  A chance at escape? You know there will be no escaping this. You will die here, bound to this frame, watching the city burn in front of your eyes. Watching your queen slain by the Elharim.

  But Jay had not been slain yet.

  When she came to the camp and gave herself to Amon Tugha, River had wanted to cry out, wanted to scream at her to run even though there was nowhere for her to go. Everything had collapsed around him as she had knelt before Amon Tugha. Everything he had fought to protect for so many weeks suddenly shattered. But Jay was brave, he had always known. That she would sacrifice herself for a city of people she hardly knew, because she was their queen, was no surprise. He should have known that no matter what he did to keep her safe he could not protect Jay from herself.

  He could only hope her rescue was successful, that the knights who had ridden into the midst of the Khurtas had managed to take her to safety. Surely they were victorious; otherwise Amon Tugha would have paraded her corpse amongst this camp of savages by now.

  No, better that River think about his own escape. Though it looked almost hopeless, perhaps there was a way.

  Two Khurtas sat by the embers of a fire, furs drawn tight about their shoulders. Maybe if he could goad them enough they might offer an opportunity for him to escape. Bound as he was, River doubted he had much chance, but there was no other way he could see to get himself out of this. And now more than ever he had to return to the city, had to be at Jay’s side to protect her.

  He stared, locking his eyes on one of the Khurtas. He didn’t speak their language and doubted they knew much of his. The only way for him to taunt them was to show his defiance, that he wasn’t beaten. Perhaps it would appeal to their barbarity.

  One of the Khurtas stared back, his expression displaying his hatred. It was obvious he wanted nothing more than to draw the dagger at his side and open up River’s flesh, but still he sat there by the fire, unmoving. It belied all River knew about these barbarians.

  ‘They will not move from their fire.’

  The words were whispered in River’s ear. The voice of Amon Tugha was unmistakable. How he had managed to get so close without River sensing him was a mystery, but then the Elharim were mysterious in their very nature. Hadn’t the Father of Killers been one of them? And River had grown up with the man. All that time he had known very little about his origins.

  ‘The Khurtas are savage. Fearless,’ continued Amon Tugha, coming to stand beside the frame to which River was bound. ‘They respect only one thing – strength. And they are obedient to he who holds power. For all their faults – their savagery, their brutality – they can be relied upon to remain loyal to he who has proven himself worthy of it. And there are none more worthy of it than I.’

  He moved to stand in front of River now, staring at him. The man exuded power, not just in his frame but in his manner. He was like an animal, at once calm and majestic, but with a feral edge that suggested he might explode with ferocity at any time.

  ‘You should understand about loyalty, assassin. You were loyal once, or so I am led to believe. The one you called the Father of Killers put great store by your devotion to him. But you cast that loyalty aside. Only a man who has known betrayal, lived betrayal, can understand the true meaning of loyalty. I am curious … does it hurt that you betrayed the man who gave you everything? The man you called “Father”?’

  River looked up into those golden eyes. Despite the difference in their appearance he saw something of the Father of Killers in the warlord’s visage. Both cold, uncaring, ready to sacrifice anything and anyone for their own ends.

  ‘He was no father to me,’ River replied.

  Amon Tugha smiled. ‘Indeed. He was a son of the Riverlands. And you his southron pup. You were nothing to him in the end. You were right to betray him – he would only have led you to your death.’ The Elharim looked to the northern horizon, a strangely wistful expression crossing his face. ‘We were boys together, he and I. He became Subodai of my mother’s House. She cast him out years ago but he remained loyal. For a century or more he remained devoted, yearning for the chance to return to the Riverlands with honour. Can you imagine how he felt when I offered him that chance? One last chance at redemption?’

  River simply stared. He cared little for the hopes or dreams of the Father of Killers. Neither did he think much of Amon Tugha’s nostalgia.

  The Elharim looked back at River, fixing him in those golden eyes. ‘But of course you also know of redemption. You seek it even now. A man born and bred to kill, brought low for the love of a woman.’ A grin crossed Amon Tugha’s lips. ‘How many have you killed, assassin? How many innocents alongside the guilty? There will be no redemption for you. The only mercy I offer is for you to live long enough to see this city fall. I will rule these lands for a hundred years, long after you are dead. And then, when I have raised an army strong enough, I will return to the Riverlands and claim what is mine by right.’

  River stared into Amon Tugha’s face, straining against the ropes that held him tight. There was nothing he could do; no way he could stop this immortal warrior even if he was free. But perhaps one last show of defiance.

  ‘Good luck,’ River said.

  Amon Tugha’s grin widened before he turned away.

  River could hear his laugh for a long time before it faded into the distance.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘So … that’s it, yeah?’

  Shirl had asked the question a half-dozen times now and it was starting to get right on Rag’s nerves.

  ‘Yes it is,’ she replied. ‘Now stop going on about it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Will you shut the fuck up!?’

  She could understand he had questions. She got the fact that he was most probably shitting himself, but there was nothing she could say to put him at ease. Shirl’s peace of mind was the least of her troubles. Fact was, this probably wasn’t the end. Fact was, Bastian was going to find out it had all gone wrong. He’d already know that the gate wasn’t open and the Khurtas hadn’t come running in. He’d know that his men never returned with the happy news they’d succeeded in their mission. He knew right now, and was most likely trying to find out what had gone wrong.

  Rag should have been hiding. She should have taken her boys and run off to some corner of the city and waited out the siege, for good or bad. But that would have given the game away sure as shit. Bastian would then have known beyond any doubt they were involved. No – she’d just have to blag it, like she blagged every other thing.

  How long she could keep that up only the gods knew – and they weren’t telling.

  Best just to sit tight and pretend like you don’t know nothing. There’s nothing to connect you to what happened. Bastian will think the Gre
encoats found out and killed all his men. There ain’t nothing to worry about.

  But Rag knew there was plenty to worry about. She’d been in the shit before, though, and she weren’t dead yet. She could always keep her mouth shut. It was just a matter of what the other boys had to say.

  Harkas and Essen were sat playing a card game. The big fella didn’t look particularly bothered about what he’d done, which was all of the killing. Rag and Shirl and her boys had helped well enough, causing distractions in the dark so Bastian’s men had walked right onto the end of Harkas’ blade, but it was him done the murders. Eleven men he’d slain in the night. Eleven corpses he’d left lying there for someone to find in the morning light. Rag had always been afraid of the big fucker but she’d never thought him capable of that. And now he sat there all normal, like it didn’t mean a shit.

  Essen hadn’t been involved but he wasn’t about to say nothing. If Bastian found out he’d known about their plan to stop the gate being opened he’d be just as dead as the rest of them. She was sure she could rely on them both to keep quiet; they were solid, she’d learned that well enough. In fact she’d have been playing cards right along with them if she had any idea what the rules were.

  Chirpy, Migs and Tidge were in the corner, eating themselves stupid. Rag knew she should have sent them away to hide but they’d begged to stay with her. She’d abandoned them once before and she’d be fucked if she was gonna do it again. Besides, they’d been her crew for years. She knew she could rely on them to keep it shut. They might be little boys but they were tough as boot leather and loyal as hunting dogs. She’d take them over a grown man any day.

  Then there was Shirl.

  Rag knew he’d never be able to keep his mouth shut about anything. He was a coward and a dullard but at the end of the day he was part of her crew. As much as she wanted to get rid of him she knew she just didn’t have it in her. Only time would tell if that was a stupid mistake.

  As the back door to the tavern opened, Rag realised that time might come sooner rather than later.

  Two men entered. They weren’t in dark clothes but Rag knew they were part of Bastian’s crew just from looking at them. They were lean, eyes moving constantly, either looking out for danger or trying to find their quarry. When those eyes fell on Rag she realised which.

  ‘You Rag?’ one of them said.

  ‘Yeah, what about it?’ Rag answered, even though she had a pretty good idea what.

  ‘Someone wants to see you.’

  ‘Well maybe I’m fucking busy.’ It wouldn’t do to go along too eager. She didn’t want to look like a pussy and all frightened like a child. That might give the game away before Bastian had even had a chance to question her.

  ‘I’m not fucking asking,’ he said, taking a step forward all threatening like.

  From the corner of her eye Rag saw Harkas move one hand down to the knife at his belt, even though he kept his eyes on the cards fanned out in his other. Almost without moving she splayed out her fingers for him to relax. She’d got this – no need for it to turn nasty.

  ‘So who’s fucking telling?’ she said, giving it the tough talk. Wouldn’t do to back down so easy.

  ‘Bastian, you stupid bitch. Who do you think it is?’

  Rag smiled. ‘Well, why didn’t you say so? Lead the fuck on.’

  Both men seemed to relax a bit, though they didn’t take their eyes off the other lads. Rag saw one of them give a lingering look over Chirpy, Migs and Tidge, who’d stopped eating now and were just looking on warily. Then they led her towards the door.

  ‘Where you taking her?’ Shirl blurted as they walked outside.

  Rag didn’t answer and neither did Bastian’s men, though she had a pretty good idea where they were bound.

  Night was drawing in out on the street. There was a chill in the air but that wasn’t all. Sure as shit the Khurtas were coming again, and when the sun had dropped they’d be throwing themselves at the city like madmen. She could almost taste the fear along with the cold. Then again, Rag had her own problems. As she was led through the streets she almost envied those lads up on the wall. At least they knew what was coming and had a chance to defend themselves. She might get a shiv to the neck at any second and not even have the chance to run.

  Before long, Rag realised where they were. She could see the Chapel of Ghouls on its distant hill, sitting behind its brass fence. The entrance to Bastian’s lair weren’t guarded quite as well as the last time she’d been here, but then what was the point? Greencoats had a bit more on their plate than chasing after the Guild right now. If only they knew how much Bastian was in the Khurtas’ pockets they might have taken a different view.

  They walked down through the tunnels beneath the city streets, followed by the constant dripping from the damp ceiling, and into that central chamber. Rag stared at the floor right where Palien had been killed. If she’d expected to feel anything about seeing that spot again she was disappointed – that place where he’d had his throat cut made her feel pretty much nothing at all.

  As her eyes adjusted to the light she realised Bastian wasn’t gonna make no kind of dramatic entrance like he had before. He was already sitting in the shadows waiting for her. From what she could see he looked tired – like someone had just dug the bastard up and dipped him in skin … not that she’d have mentioned it.

  Rag just stood there. Wouldn’t do to speak unless spoken to – that kind of shit might get her killed – so she just waited while he sat and stared.

  ‘How are you?’ he said finally. ‘Well rested after delivering my message? I see you’re looking much less singed than when I last saw you.’

  What was this, some kind of trick? Since when did Bastian give a fuck about anyone’s welfare?

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, taking a quick glance around for the punchline. No one was laughing, though.

  ‘Good.’ Bastian stood up, walking a little ways into the light. His dark eyes shone a bit in the torchlight like ink floating on water. She’d seen a dead shark once on the docks and it reminded her of that a bit too much. ‘Did you have a pleasant evening?’

  This was getting weird. Surely he must have known. Surely he was making her feel at ease so it would be that much worse when he stuck something sharp in her.

  ‘It was okay,’ she replied, wondering which direction the pointy metal was going to come from.

  ‘That’s good. Now ask me.’

  ‘What?’

  He turned to her, his voice lowering. ‘I said ask me about my evening.’

  Rag braced herself. ‘How was your evening?’

  She knew exactly how his evening must have been and she knew what was coming. Her shoulders tensed as she waited for his tirade, but it never came.

  ‘Let me tell you,’ he continued matter-of-factly. ‘It was something of a disappointment. A disaster, you might say. It seems the Greencoats were a little more vigilant than I’d have liked, and my plans to open the Lych Gate came to nothing. As you can imagine, this has vexed me slightly.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Rag said. The words just came out, she hadn’t meant them to. He was just making her so bloody nervous.

  ‘Can you?’ he asked. ‘Can you imagine how vexed I am?’

  Rag stared up at him, trying to give him her best ‘lost puppy’ face. She knew it was pointless. He didn’t give a shit about her and especially not about puppies. She tried shaking her head instead.

  ‘No, you have no idea.’ His face turned stern and he locked her in those shark eyes. ‘I lost a lot of men. I didn’t open the gate either, so essentially I’ve betrayed the man who’s coming to level this city and everyone in it. Which is why that gate is going to be opened no matter what.’ He looked down at her as though she were some kind of tasty morsel. ‘And you’re going to do the opening.’

  That took a bit to sink in.

  ‘I’m what?’ asked Rag.

  ‘You’re clever. Resourceful. You don’t have the muscle but I don’t think you’ll ne
ed it.’

  ‘But how am I supposed to—’

  Bastian leaned in close. ‘You’ll think of something, won’t you?’

  Rag looked back. For a moment she wanted to burst into tears. Instead she cracked the biggest smile she could muster.

  ‘Of course I will,’ she said. ‘You just leave it to me.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  Waylian stood in silence behind his mistress as she stared from the window of the Tower of Magisters. The mosaic glass was cracked where a missile flung from a Khurtic trebuchet had managed to strike the tower lower down. The pattern was still held in place by its lead frame but the picture itself, an Archmaster of old Waylian couldn’t name, was skewed awkwardly, making it look as though he had been sliced in half.

  Magistra Gelredida stood and watched as the skies darkened. It was some way off nightfall but a veil of black cloud had cast its shadow over the city, rolling in from the Midral Sea like a tide covering the sky.

  Waylian dared not interrupt as she stood there, as though keeping vigil. He had so many questions, wanted to know what he could do to help, but couldn’t find any way to ask. If she had one last task for him she’d have given it. It seemed as though all hope had fled.

  Drennan’s apprentices were beaten – half of them dead. Crannock’s veterans had fared worse, only a handful remaining. Lucen Kalvor’s Raven Knights had taken a beating but many still stood resolute, ready to protect their wards until the end, for all the good it would do them.

  ‘The city is all but lost,’ said Gelredida, putting voice to Waylian’s thoughts. ‘Things are going to get much worse. The next attack will most likely see the Khurtas breach the wall. If not this night then the next.’