Lord of Ashes (Steelhaven: Book Three)

by Richard Ford

  He dodged her blow, hacking down, striking the sword from her hand, turning his blow in mid strike and hacking the spearhead into her thigh. Kaira screamed in rage and pain for the briefest moment before the warlord swung the haft of his weapon into her face, a hammer blow that smashed into her cheek, throwing her to the ground.

  Amon Tugha spared no time to gloat – his prize was waiting. Through blurred vision Kaira could only watch as he turned to Janessa, and in turn the girl limped to face him. She showed no fear, her father’s sword in her hand, ready for the death this monster would give her.

  Kaira tried to speak, but her face wouldn’t form the words as blood dripped from her mouth and nose onto the ground. When she couldn’t rise to her feet she tried to claw her way towards him but it felt like she was swimming against the mightiest current.

  Amon Tugha stopped before Janessa, speaking to her for one last time, but Kaira couldn’t hear the words. The queen simply stared back at the giant Elharim, defiant to the last.

  The warlord raised his blade.

  The Helsbayn shook in Janessa’s hand. Despite her fatigue, despite her crippled leg, she stepped forward with uncanny speed, the sword thrusting like an arrow from a bow, piercing Amon Tugha’s body. He grimaced, his face contorting in rage at her unexpected attack, and he staggered backwards, but not before delivering a thrust of his own, the point of his spear cutting through Janessa’s breastplate.

  Kaira screamed as the Elharim pulled his weapon free and the queen fell to her knees, all the vigour, all the defiance now gone from her. Amon Tugha took another step back, grasping the blade of the Helsbayn and pulling it from his body, blood spouting from the wound in a red river. He stared at the blade as though shocked that it had pierced his flesh, then flung it aside, where it bounced once before spinning from the wall and into the sea far below.

  As he stepped towards where Janessa knelt, Kaira felt herself screaming, but in her malaise she couldn’t form any words. Still she crawled, still she fought her way towards him though there was nothing she could do now to stop him.

  Amon Tugha raised his spear one last time.

  A figure sprinted past, stripped to the waist, his body lean, powerful. He leapt, arm raised high. Before the warlord could make his killing blow the man, one side of his face a mass of criss-cross scars, plunged a dagger into his neck. The Elharim dropped his spear, stumbling on his mighty legs as the lone attacker grasped the warlord’s spiked hair and stabbed the knife in again and again.

  Kaira could only watch as the Elharim staggered, blood spurting from the wounds in his throat that not even his massive hands could stem. He stared wildly, disbelief written large in those golden eyes as his attacker clung fast to him, pulling him away from Janessa. For the briefest moment Amon Tugha fixed those eyes on Kaira, one last look of confusion. Then he and his attacker were gone, toppling back over the wall, following the Helsbayn into the Midral Sea far below.

  Kaira crawled to Janessa, who now knelt silently, her head of red curls bowed forward. Every yard was agony, but Kaira fought back the pain, fought back her tears. When finally she reached her queen she held out a hand, unable to speak. Janessa collapsed against her, resting her head on Kaira’s shoulder.

  The sun had come up now, bathing them in a light by which Kaira could see she was too late. Janessa was gone.

  At the foot of Vorena’s statue, Kaira held her queen close until the light of the morning seemed to fade. Until the shadow of exhaustion took her …

  FORTY-NINE

  ‘Hake?’ he shouted, his voice echoing around the battlefield above the distant sound of fighting, of snarling beasts, of dying men. ‘Where are you?’ Nobul could hear a hint of desperation in his own voice, but he’d lost Hake in the confusion of battle. He hadn’t wanted to admit it until now but he needed that old man.

  There was no one else left alive at the breach – they’d run or died. When those monsters had come from the dark the rout had been complete. Only Nobul was left standing, but where in the hells was bloody Hake?

  He stumbled down from the smashed barricade, feeling his shoulder and knee and back jarring with every step. His clothes were sodden but thank fuck the rain had stopped. The sun was rising over the wall but there was still barely any light down in the shadows.

  Nobul gritted his teeth against the pain.

  Not yet. Don’t give in to it yet, you’re not finished. Not by a long way. There’s more to be done, more killing to be had before you fall, Nobul Jacks.

  The hammer was heavy in his hand. So heavy he could have happily let go of it, let it drop to the ground and never picked it up again. His breath came thick and laboured, casting a mist into the damp dawn air.

  Or maybe you are finished. Maybe it’s time to lie down in the mud and the rubble and call it a day.

  A Khurta came screaming at him through the breach, just like his brethren had come before him. This one didn’t have a face twisted with rage, though – this one had a face marred with terror, like it was running from the hells. Still Nobul raised his arm to attack and tensed, planting his feet, swinging that hammer again. The impact rang through his every fibre as he almost took the bastard’s head off, silencing his scream of fear.

  The body fell in a crumpled heap as Nobul staggered back.

  ‘Hake?’ he shouted again.

  Hake didn’t come.

  Someone else did.

  They came walking through that gap in the wall all slow and measured. Not screaming like maddened killers, but stalking like hunters. The Khurtas gave him a wide berth, moving round him like he’d kill them if they got too close. And he would, he’d kill them like he killed all the rest.

  He should have rushed one of them, not given them the chance to get him enclosed, but Nobul was tired. Oh so tired. The time for rushing had passed. Let them come to him; he’d show them he was no wounded animal ready for the slaughter.

  There were six in all, each pair of eyes staring at him intently, every weapon held at the ready. They stopped and glared through the cold as the last of them walked through the breach. His weapons weren’t drawn, sword and axe hung loose at his sides, hands resting on them. He stood there for a while, eyeing Nobul with interest … respect even.

  The helmet felt heavy on his head now, weighing him down like he’d forged it from a block of granite, not black iron. Nobul lifted it from his head and let it drop to the ground with a dull clank. Let them look at his face – his beaten, bloody face. Let them see his eyes. That would let them know, without a word, what they were about to get into.

  Nobul squeezed the handle of his hammer one last time, taking solace in it. Then the leader spoke a word in their filthy alien language and they were at him.

  He picked his target. They were rushing him as one and they’d most likely take him down, but he’d at least drag one of them along to the hells. They didn’t make a sound as they came, which was more unnerving than if they’d come screaming, but Nobul was past being unnerved.

  He swung at the one straight in front, but the bastard planted his foot, halting his attack and leaning back from the swing. Nobul cursed, expecting to feel the impact of a blade, the pain of his flesh splitting, but it didn’t come. Instead two Khurtas bowled into him, knocking him off balance, and they all went down into the rubble. One of them had hold of his arm, another around his neck. His hammer arm was free, though, which was all he needed.

  He planted his knee on a Khurta’s neck, slamming his hammer down. It crumpled the side of the Khurta’s skull and he went limp. They were shouting now in their weird tongue, as though coordinating their attack. The five of them jumped on him at once and he writhed, shrugging two of them off. His other hand got free and he grasped one by the throat, squeezing for all his might. Nobul roared, raising his hammer, but something snared his wrist, tightening. A rope. One of the Khurtas was on the other end of it, pulling for all he was worth. Nobul snarled in pain but he couldn’t hold onto his hammer. As it dropped from his grip he grasped the
rope instead and pulled, dragging the Khurta towards him a pace.

  ‘Come on, bastards!’ he screamed, lifting the Khurta he held by the throat. The man struggled in the air for a moment before Nobul slammed him down head first amongst the rubble, cracking his skull.

  ‘I’ll kill all you fuckers!’

  They were on him again.

  He butted one of them, shattering his nose, but this Khurta was determined enough to keep hold.

  They all breathed heavily, locked in a wrestling match, four on one. Nobul staggered, feeling his strength ebb. One of them could easily have pulled a blade, stuck it in his ribs and ended all of this, but they didn’t.

  Under their weight Nobul fell to his knees. His breath came in strangled gasps and in front he could see the Khurta with the sword and axe, walking all casual, watching on like this was sport for him.

  ‘Bastards! Fucking bastards,’ screamed Nobul, his voice hoarse as he tried to spit his defiance.

  A rope came over his head, not quite reaching his neck, and he caught it in his teeth, biting down, growling like an animal. More ropes were flung about him, securing his arms, and he could feel them binding his hands behind.

  Nobul bit down on that rope, still roaring from his throat. Screaming at that lone Khurta as he stood watching, a smile slowly creeping up his face.

  He stepped forward as more rope was tied around Nobul’s beaten body. Then he spoke – words that were soft and slow for a Khurta. Words that spoke Nobul’s defeat louder than the roar of battle or the feel of a knife to the throat.

  Then black.

  FIFTY

  The roof of the Chapel of Ghouls provided the perfect vantage point from which to view the city. On any other day Waylian would have appreciated it. Revelled in it. Not now, though. What he could see filled him with dread. A horror he had never felt before, even with everything he had been through.

  It was better than what lay on the roof, though.

  Behind him his mistress was dead, her body already blackened by the unholy canker she had allowed Bram to infect her with. But her plan had worked.

  As the rain poured, the Khurtas had come again, swarming over the walls and through the smashed Stone Gate. The ghouls had met them with all their fury. From the top of the chapel Waylian had been able to see the carnage, their hunger for slaughter, the torn and wasted bodies they left behind. It was for good reason they had been imprisoned for so long – nothing could stand against them.

  As the sun came up and the rains halted it seemed the Khurtas had been routed, unable to withstand the feral hunger of the ghouls. They had done enough. It was time for them to return to their prison.

  Waylian turned to Bram, whose head was bowed, face hidden by the mass of sodden black hair. He did his best not to glance at Gelredida, whose body lay prone on the roof of the chapel.

  ‘Call them back,’ Waylian said, as a scream rose from over the city. It was accompanied by an unearthly howl from the depths of the hells itself, reminding him that he needed to act with urgency before the creatures destroyed what remained of Steelhaven.

  Bram slowly looked up through his matted hair. Waylian felt his heart stutter as he saw those eyes, blacker than the deepest pit, glaring at him. Though Bram’s hands were still secured in iron manacles it did little to reassure Waylian that he was safe.

  ‘Why?’ asked Bram, the hint of a smile on his face.

  Waylian took a threatening step forward, or at least as threatening as he could muster.

  ‘This has to end. You’ve done enough.’

  Bram shook his head. ‘No, Grimmy. I haven’t done enough by a long sight. I haven’t done enough until this city is flattened and the heads of the dead are piled and rotting higher than the palace of Skyhelm.’

  ‘You can’t,’ said Waylian, half pleading, half demanding.

  ‘And who’s going to fucking stop me, Grimmy? You?’

  ‘If I have to,’ answered Waylian, taking another step across the roof.

  Rembram Thule laughed through his yellowing teeth. His manacles jangled as he pulled something from the sleeve of his tattered robe and Waylian stopped when he saw it was the iron dagger he’d used to sacrifice Magistra Gelredida.

  ‘You’ve got brave in your old age, Grimmy.’ He spun the knife in the air, catching it deftly by the handle. ‘Not that whimpering little puppy you were when I first found you.’

  ‘I’ve been through a lot,’ said Waylian. ‘And I’m not scared of you.’ His words might have had more impetus if his voice hadn’t cracked while he was saying them.

  Bram laughed again. ‘What do you think you’re going to achieve? This city is doomed anyway, look around you.’ He pointed with his knife at the destruction evident in all directions. ‘Let it crumble. Then we can build it anew, in our own image, Grimmy. Imagine that.’

  ‘What? You think I’m just going to join you?’

  ‘Yeah, why not? I know we’ve had our disagreements in the past, and we did try to kill one another, but why let a little thing like that get in the way of ruling a kingdom? Think about it; the old order is dead. We are the new, Grimm. You and me.’

  Waylian shook his head, eyeing the knife in Bram’s hand. ‘You’re insane.’

  ‘Now, now,’ said Bram with a frown. ‘There’s no need to be rude.’

  ‘You are insane.’ Waylian could feel the rage bubbling up inside once more. ‘You’ve always been mad. I thought you were just arrogant and selfish at first but no – you’re a fucking lunatic.’

  ‘Be careful Gr—’

  ‘It’s not as if there’s any hiding it now, is there? You’re absolutely barking. Look at you! Rule a kingdom? You couldn’t rule a fucking privy!’

  ‘I’m not fucking mad!’ Bram yelled, rushing across the rooftop.

  Waylian let him come, watching as he held the dagger high in his hands, measuring every step as his feet splashed across the soaked roof. Bram screamed as he came, eyes of black, skin pallid and waxy like he was half ghoul himself.

  When he was within reach Waylian kicked out, one swift boot to the bollocks. He was relieved when he struck home and Bram collapsed, his cry of rage rising a couple of octaves. The knife went spinning from his hand and Waylian pressed in, leaping on top of Bram as he fell.

  ‘Call them off, Bram,’ shouted Waylian, grabbing him by the lapels of his robe and slamming him back to the tiled roof. ‘Call them off!’

  He slammed Bram down again, smashing his head against the rooftop.

  ‘Fuck you,’ Bram answered, punching out with his manacled hands and catching Waylian under the chin.

  Blood spurted into his mouth as Waylian was thrust backwards, falling from Bram and splashing in a puddle on the roof. As he foundered, Bram stood up, glaring down with black eyes.

  ‘I’ll destroy this fucking city,’ Bram said, black smoke emanating from his hands as they began to elongate, talons springing from their tips. ‘But first I’ll destroy you like I should have done last time.’

  Waylian could taste the copper tang of blood on his lips, his head spun, but still he managed to focus on Bram. In the air his former friend was tracing a sigil with those black talons, magicks of the most dark and evil nature. Waylian could feel something stirring from beyond the Veil, could sense whatever it was would consume him utterly, perhaps even eat his soul.

  It would not happen. He would not let it.

  He slapped a hand on the shallow wall that ran around the roof, staring through his muddled sight as he dragged himself to his feet. Bram opened his mouth to speak, to unleash all the hells, but he was not quick enough.

  Waylian uttered a word.

  In that instant he understood it all. He tapped the Veil, feeling the planes of magick that hid in the shadow of the plane of men. It was terrifying and beautiful all at once, birth and death, elation and agony. And Waylian Grimm embraced it; let himself flow beyond and within it like he had been born to the task.

  A voice from deep within issued forth, a command he could no
t comprehend, and Bram screamed, high-pitched and deafening, as his left eye exploded from his head in a shower of crimson gore. He clapped a clawed hand to his face and, still whining, he staggered to the edge of the rooftop, the backs of his knees catching on the wall behind him. Bram reached out, but with manacled hands he could not stop himself as he was tipped back off the roof of the chapel.

  Waylian didn’t rush to see what had happened. There was no time left to check if Bram was dead. He half stumbled, half crawled to the centre of the rooftop where lay the sacrificial dagger. Grasping it in both hands, feeling the iron unnaturally cold to his touch, he closed his eyes, gritting his teeth …

  The beast had a thousand eyes. With them he could see every street and alley in the city, could see the dead as they lay amidst the carnage, see the fleeing masses as they were hunted down and slain. The beast lay fat over the land, spreading its girth from the apex where Waylian stood. From the prison whence it had been released. Unleashed to hunt and kill as it had done so many aeons ago.

  No more.

  Waylian drew it in. Breathing deep and pulling back the beast.

  It protested – it mewled and it whined and it clawed at the ground, desperate to remain free.

  He could not allow that …

  Waylian knelt atop the Chapel of Ghouls, gripping tight to that dagger, his lips moving silently as he recited ancient and forbidden litanies he would never remember in any waking moment, nor would ever want to.

  Monsters that should never have been allowed to roam the lands of men were dragged back to their eternal prison.

  And the city screamed.

  FIFTY-ONE

  The tunnels seemed like they’d collapse at any minute. And the howling. Rag almost felt the need to press her hands over her ears as she sprinted through the darkness but she couldn’t, she daren’t let go of Tidge’s hand for an instant in case she lost him in the black.