by Richard Ford
As the warring factions stood transfixed, the barricade burst apart. At first Regulus thought the animals of the Khurtas were attacking again, but these were no beasts of burden.
Though these things bore the bodies of men they were twisted and misshapen, their limbs elongated and ending in talons to rival any Aeslanti. Their heads were likewise huge, their lower jaws distended to house their massive fangs. Black eyes were sunken deep into each head, staring out balefully, full of hate and a thirst for slaughter.
The creatures fell upon the Khurtas with a ravenous hunger, though many of the defenders were likewise caught in the onslaught. They howled as they slew, tearing heads and arms from shoulders, rending with claws, biting the faces off their victims. Regulus stared in awe at the level of carnage until a shadow fell over him. He looked up to see one of the creatures bearing down, slaver and blood dripping from a black maw.
But Regulus did not falter. If this was to be his end he would meet it as a son of the Gor’tana.
With a roar he leapt forward, black blade sweeping in. The creature moved with preternatural speed, ducking his blade and batting him aside as though he were made of straw. Regulus landed hard, rolling with the impact and rising to his feet, just as the beast was on him. His sword came up ready, impaling the fiend’s chest. It screamed at him as black blood spewed from the wound. Regulus could not resist, bellowing back from the bottom of his lungs as the creature took hold of his wrist, pulling itself towards him along the blade, ready to take a bite with those infernal jaws.
In a plume of dark cruor its head spun from its body. Janto stood behind the beast, his twin axes still dripping. Regulus stumbled back as the beast fell, his sword still buried in its chest, and Janto came on, glaring down from behind his helm. It seemed Regulus’ saviour had only rescued him to satisfy his own need for blood.
Regulus stood tall, ready for the final blow that would end his life.
With a hellish scream, two more of the fiendish beasts bowled into Janto. He raised an axe, hacking into one of them as the second tore his breastplate asunder with its talons. The Sho’tana roared as he was dragged away into the melee, his axes rising and falling in a desperate flurry as the monsters ripped with their claws and bit into the black steel plate that encased him.
With Janto gone, Regulus stumbled away from the battle, looking around for his sword; though he knew that in the fray it was hopeless he would find it. The defenders of Steelhaven were in full rout now, and the hellish creatures that had attacked seemed to be concentrating their fury on the Khurtas.
As he moved away from the slaughter Regulus caught sight of red armour through the dark and rain. The knight who had stood so resolute beside him was prone, struggling to crawl away from the battle.
Without a word Regulus helped him up. If he were not to gain glory in battle this day, then he could at least help a fallen warrior. As the battle raged on, Regulus guided the knight to safety.
FORTY-FOUR
Arun was always a greedy boy. His mother had often chastised him for being so. As a child he always wanted more on his plate, always wanted to play with everyone else’s toys, always yearned for the things he couldn’t have. Arun had never been the sweetest or prettiest of boys, and so to get these things he’d had to think of ways that didn’t involve a pleasant smile or a kind word. He’d learned fast that sleight of hand and subterfuge were all well and good, until you were caught. And so it hadn’t taken him very many beatings with the birch branch to learn how not to get caught.
Never let anyone know what you’re thinking. That had always been his tenet. Keep your own counsel, don’t appear a threat, smile in all the right places no matter how ugly the smile. These simple rules had seen him go a long way. Had seen him rise from the son of a cooper to take his place in the palace of Skyhelm. To become one of King Cael’s most trusted aides. It had been a long road, but one he had committed to.
And if nothing else, Arun Durket was a committed man.
Commitment could only bring a man so far, though, and Chancellor Durket, as he had become, found himself presented with many fortunate opportunities. Indeed, fortune had smiled upon him with its bounteous offerings many times, but only a man of true vision would have the stomach to grasp those opportunities and make them blossom.
When he had been given the opportunity to seize yet more power by the agents of Amon Tugha he had grasped it like the neck of a viper and held on tight. He had stuck with it despite the considerable dangers to his wellbeing, because he realised if he was ever to rise from beneath the shadow of the Crown, of the rightful rulers of Steelhaven and the Free States, he could only do so through betrayal.
Betrayal. Such a nasty word. Durket had never been afraid of it, though, not as other men were. Braver men. No one survived a coup or an attempted murder by being courageous or loyal. And if Chancellor Durket knew one thing it was how to survive.
Not that survival had been easy or his plans and schemes run smooth. The passing weeks and months and years had seen his path strewn with cow shit from Arlor’s very own divine herd.
Recently, Kaira Stormfall had been the main thorn in his side, protecting the queen at every turn. Then the arrival of Azai Dravos with his offer of marriage. Durket had done his best to appease the man but he had been ever so persuasive. On that occasion Kaira had solved his problem for him, but not before Dravos had used his magicks.
Magicks that haunt you even now. Darkness that threatens to consume your every waking hour.
The aftermath of witnessing Azai Dravos and his fell sorcery had indeed taken its toll. When Kaira had confronted Durket outside the treasury his act at insanity had been no mere mummer’s play. Dravos had left an indelible mark – the nightmares, the voices – but Durket had faced adversity before and he was damned if he would give in to it now. Not when he was so close.
Kaira had accused him of theft, and that much was true, at least. But he was not fleeing the palace with money from the coffers; he was merely taking it to pay Rogan and his Inquisition agents who had been so instrumental in ensuring his schemes were seen through to fruition. Better that she thought him the common thief. Had she thought him guilty of treason then he would be dead already.
Durket made his way down through the palace. With any luck the archer he had sent to the western extent of the city would have sent the signal without incident. Hopefully he was more capable than Durket’s other collaborators.
Leon Magrida had proven to be incompetent beyond words. But then he had been glamoured by Elharim magicks in order to guarantee his loyalty. That in itself had made him unpredictable. In the end he had succumbed to the madness of it all, but at least Durket’s involvement had remained a secret.
Rogan had also proven difficult to the end. It had taken the promise of considerable riches to turn him. But at least Rogan had already served his purpose. He had been the one to persuade the Matron Mother to keep her Shieldmaidens in check within the Temple of Autumn. It had been a job he was uniquely suited to. Besides, when all this was over and Amon Tugha gone, Durket would need someone suitable to act as regent. Rogan would have to be that someone. There was no way Durket was about to peek out from behind his curtain and put himself in the frame. Staying in the background had served him well enough so far. Why change now?
Durket passed a window. In the distance he could just see over the western wall. Beyond it would be Khurtas hard at work in the Old City, burrowing underground. They should have reached the entrance by now. There were forgotten tunnels into the city of Steelhaven, secret ways that only Durket knew of. Those secret ways would see an end to all this.
He walked into the lower chapel, where years before the Old Gods had been worshipped before the veneration of Arlor and Vorena. This place was ancient, older even than the Temple of Autumn.
The thought of that brought a smile to his face. The Temple of Autumn was the key to all this. It was where he had planted his earliest seed. Where the corruption within its organisation had al
lowed Durket to weave his plans. It was where the queen would meet her end.
He felt no guilt at that – she had always despised him and he knew it. She was a child – weak, inexperienced. This had all been inevitable.
Durket moved to a sconce in the wall, removing one of the torches and twisting the stanchion. There was a click of stone on stone, a grinding of gears as three slabs on the floor twisted out of place revealing a staircase winding downwards. Stale air billowed from the dark and Durket took a breath. This was it, his big gamble. He was bargaining his life on this, trusting to the word of his kingdom’s enemy. But with the greatest risk came the greatest reward.
He held the torch before him to light the way as he gingerly walked down. The stairs wound to a passage at the bottom, wide enough so that five men could walk abreast. As Durket moved along it the torch lit up ancient murals on the walls; scenes of age-old heroes battling daemons, forgotten kings, fabled swords and suchlike. Durket had never put much store by legends but he knew daemons were real enough. There was one waiting for him at the end of this passage.
And there are the ones in your mind, Arun. The ones left there by Dravos. Horas is watching you always …
Durket shook his head, a bead of sweat running down his face as he did so. At the end of the corridor stood a massive door. Beside it a wheel, rusted and crusted with dirt and dust. He laid the torch down, staring at the wheel. This was a job for a much stronger man. Perhaps he should have brought someone with him … but then again perhaps not. There were already enough people who knew his aims and goals. Too many people with whom he had shared so much. This was his task and his alone.
He laid the torch on the dusty ground and grasped the wheel. As he suspected, it would not turn immediately as he applied more and more pressure. The sharp edges of the rusted metal dug into his palms and he gritted his teeth against the pain. The single bead of sweat on his brow was joined by a host of others as he strained, a high-pitched sound issuing from inside him as he exerted himself. Just as he thought he would have to give up, the wheel moved by an inch. Buoyed by his progress, Durket strained against the wheel once more, the noise from inside him turning from squeal to grunt to roar. As he screamed at the top of his lungs the wheel turned and the doors at the end of the corridor began to open.
Cold air rushed through the gap, filling the tunnel. Durket felt the moisture on his brow go cold as the wheel seemed to loosen. Vigorously he turned it, encouraged as the doors widened revealing the chill blackness beyond.
When his labours were over and the door stood wide, Durket picked up the torch and stood waiting. His breath came heavy as he stared into the dark. There was no sign of anyone beyond the doorway and he began to wonder if the Khurtas had seen his signal. Perhaps his archer had failed, or been killed before he could fire his burning arrow. Perhaps the diggers had not been vigorous enough in their work and needed more time. They had, after all, been given the task of unearthing a passageway from the Old City not revealed for centuries.
Just as he began to think his efforts had been for nothing, eyes suddenly peered at him from the shadows. Two pools of red coming closer as he watched. Then a second pair.
Durket began to shake. He had expected to be afraid, but he had not anticipated this.
The eyes came closer, moving like disembodied specks of fire until they reached the threshold of the doorway. They stopped, regarding him from the dark for untold moments. Then there was a growl, a noise that filled him with dread. It was followed by a clawed foot stepping out into the torchlight. A head; a hound’s head, huge and feral, appeared from the dark, glaring at him all the while. Its twin followed, the two huge dogs moving towards him with measured care.
He could feel his legs shaking, his lip quivering, but he did not move. Arun Durket was not a brave man but still he stood as those beasts advanced on him. Was he paralysed with fear? Or was this the fabled magicks of the Elharim he had heard so much about? Whatever the reason, he did not move as one of the hounds stalked right up to him, nose twitching, throat emitting its low growl all the while.
It sniffed at his leg, snout pulling back to reveal huge teeth that could have torn the head from his shoulders with ease.
‘Sul!’
The voice echoed from beyond the doorway and Durket flinched, making a pitiful sound as he did so. To his relief the hound backed off, keeping its eyes on him all the while, but Durket was no longer concerned with animals. There was a creature much more terrible to be feared.
Amon Tugha walked from the dark, his eyes shining gold, brighter than the red of his war hounds. He regarded Durket as a butcher might look at a slab of meat. The huge spear he carried across one shoulder looked keen enough to slice Durket in two. All of a sudden having his throat ripped out didn’t seem such a fearsome prospect.
More figures moved from the dark. Khurtas, painted and scarred, their bodies lean, their weapons drawn. They filed past Durket on either side, ignoring the Chancellor as though he weren’t there. All he could do was stare up into those golden eyes, too fearful to move or make a sound.
Amon Tugha said no words, merely waited for his warriors to stalk up the passage towards the chapel before he himself moved on, his hounds following in his wake.
Arun Durket was left alone in the cold tunnel, the torch sputtering pitifully in the dark. It took him some time to realise that warm piss was running down his leg.
FORTY-FIVE
They hunkered behind the barricade as the rain fell. Merrick kept his head down, sheltering within his helmet, watching through the breach in the wall for any sign of the enemy. So far they had been lucky – the main Khurtic attack had centred on the Stone Gate to the east and the River Gate to the west. Very few Khurtas had appeared from the dark. For the most part Steelhaven’s archers had managed to deter any attack on the breach with volley fire, and the piles of rubble that were spread across the foot of the curtain wall were covered in dead savages.
Merrick had to admit, he was growing impatient with the waiting. As though the prospect of being attacked was worse than someone actually trying to cut his head off. It was clear his father shared his anxiety.
Tannick stalked up and down the defensive line, grumbling to himself as he did so. No one dared question him as he tried his best to quell a rage that yearned to be unleashed on the enemy. For their part, the Wyvern Guard stood resolute, awaiting their chance, eager for the kill. Their attitude wasn’t shared. As much as the rest of the defenders had acted bravely over the past days, they looked tired now. It was as though every man could sense the end was near, and it was most likely not going to be a good end. The only man who didn’t seem affected by the atmosphere of gloom was the one they called the Black Helm. He had come to join them some time in the night, his body soaked from the rain, his clothes stained with blood. He seemed more animal than man, and Merrick was only thankful he was on the same side.
There was noise to the east. Another attack. Merrick couldn’t see through the rain and the dark but he was sure he could hear the braying of animals. Every man looked across, wondering if this would be the time the Khurtas broke through. Even Tannick stopped his pacing, glaring over towards the Stone Gate, clearly desperate to be a part of the fight.
Then there came noise from the west, towards the River Gate. The Khurtas were attacking again, sending the last of their siege engines and ladders at the wall. Somewhere over there was the queen, come to the fore to marshal her bannermen. He could only hope she was up to the task.
Merrick looked back through the breach, into that black yawning gap, and knew the Khurtas were waiting for them. The tension across the line only grew as the noise of battle carried across the wall. It didn’t sound like things were going well for the city’s defenders as the roaring grew louder. Men all around were praying, knowing that whether they would live or not was in the hands of the gods, but Tannick Ryder was not a man to let the gods decide his fate.
The Lord Marshal stepped forward across the barricade, s
taring through the breach. Then he turned.
‘Wyvern Guard,’ Tannick shouted. ‘The enemy waits, picking their moment to attack. I will not allow them such a luxury.’ He drew his sword, the Bludsdottr, and held the massive blade easily in one hand. ‘We choose our own fate. We choose how we die – not cowering behind a barricade waiting to be overrun, but on the field, with steel in our hands and a curse on our lips.’ Some of the Wyvern Guard moved forward now, and Merrick couldn’t stop himself, caught up in the bloodlust that suddenly seemed to grip them. ‘Remember what I’ve taught you. Every last man here is a heartless bastard fed on blood and steel. My sons and brothers both.’ Some of the Wyvern Guard cheered, drawing their blades. Tannick was staring straight at Merrick now, a mad smile on the corner of his lips.
With that the old man turned and began to run. Without a word or an order the Wyvern Guard followed, Merrick running as fast as any of them straight at the breach. They charged over the rubble, leaping through to the other side of the broken wall. Merrick’s breath came in a flurry of mist as the rain continued to beat down. His feet churned up the soft earth and for a moment, with the light of the city behind, he was plunged into blackness. Then he saw them – the entire Khurtic army standing in the rain, waiting silently for their order to attack.
When he had charged them on horseback it had been suicidal. He had chased Cormach Whoreson into the enemy’s maw, but at least there had still been a chance he would survive, one glimmer of hope that he’d make it back alive.
Now he knew that chance was gone. And for the first time he didn’t care.
Every man died, he knew that now. All his life he’d been avoiding it, staying one step ahead of the Lord of Crows. Now he knew he was going to die, a horde of Khurtas would see to that, but all he wanted was to give them a taste of steel before he went.