Lord of Ashes (Steelhaven: Book Three)

by Richard Ford

  Waylian moved away from the dead tower. All he could wonder was, what next? The queen was dead, the city wounded, perhaps beyond recovery. Where was his place now?

  You could always go back to Groffham. Back to your mother and father. Back to the safety of anonymity. Back to the quiet security of an ordinary life. You are beholden to no one now. There is no Red Witch to taunt you any more.

  He felt the sudden wrench of his gut at the thought of her. Gelredida had been a constant bane, and treated him no better than a dog. And in the end she had sacrificed herself to rescue the city, putting ultimate trust in him to save Steelhaven if her gamble turned out to be folly.

  And you did not let her down, Grimm. You lived up to every task. You made her proud.

  Waylian smiled. He knew it was odd, standing amidst the dust and rubble of a city destroyed, smiling to himself like a bloody loon. But there was still victory in this devastation. They had won. They had defeated their enemy despite the cost and the Free States would endure. The people of this city would rise again, no matter what they had suffered. The only question was whether Waylian would stay here to help.

  The remnants of the city’s Caste sat in what used to be the gardens that surrounded the base of the Tower of Magisters. Waylian walked past an old man mumbling to himself, his robe burned and tattered, though the flesh beneath seemed undamaged. He ignored Waylian as he chuntered to himself, seemingly trying to solve a flood of equations as they ran through his head. Whether he’d been of sound mind before the siege, or if his efforts in repelling the Khurtas had driven him insane, was impossible to tell.

  A group of apprentices sat on a stone bench some yards away. A young boy gently wept on the lap of the girl next to him. Both were flanked by older, yet no less traumatised youths, who sat staring blankly at the crushed and singed foliage that lay strewn around them. Waylian was sure he recognised them, but not well enough to strike up a conversation. Besides, they looked as though they were best left to their own devices.

  Here and there magisters tended to one another, rubbing salves into wounds or bandaging limbs. None of them used any magick, as though the efforts of the last days had expended all their energies. More likely the consequences of tapping the Veil so rigorously over the past days were yet to manifest. Any further use of the Art would likely have dire effects. Everyone was fearful of what the ultimate consequences might be and Waylian could hardly blame them. After what he had felt and experienced on the roof of the Chapel of Ghouls he doubted he would ever want to dabble in the Arts again. Only time would test his courage.

  A figure came to stand beside Waylian as he watched the sad scene, heralded by the crunch of gravel beneath shoes. Aldrich Mundy adjusted his spectacles, one lens cracked, the frame bent awkwardly. Waylian expected him to speak in his usual babble of verbosity, but Mundy didn’t say a word, as though even he recognised the need for solemn silence. It wasn’t long before Waylian could stand the discomfort no longer.

  ‘What now, do you think?’ he asked, preferring Aldrich’s doubtlessly obtuse opinion to his silence.

  ‘Now we rebuild,’ Mundy replied.

  Waylian waited for more, but there was nothing. Aldrich just stared at the gathered magisters with an expression Waylian couldn’t read.

  Perhaps Aldrich was right. Perhaps this was a time to rebuild. To make the tower anew, to forge the Caste in a fresh image. Waylian began to believe that was something he might be able to stay and help with, but when he saw who was approaching down a gravel path to the east, he suddenly changed his mind.

  Lucen Kalvor walked towards the clearing flanked by two Raven Knights. As the last surviving Archmaster he was the surrogate head of the magisters. It was still unclear whether he knew about Waylian’s part in his blackmail. Perhaps he had no idea. Perhaps he was biding his time before he sought vengeance. As the Archmaster approached, Waylian knew he’d be a fool to stay and find out.

  Kalvor stood amidst the burned topiary, flanked by his honour guard, and considered the sorry collection of magisters surrounding him.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Friends.’ At that word his eyes locked on Waylian. It was obvious from that look he was not, nor ever would be, a friend to Waylian Grimm. Perhaps, despite all the work there was to do, this was the time for Waylian to bow out gracefully.

  As Kalvor addressed his remaining magisters, telling them what the future had in store, Waylian slipped from the gardens, making his way north through the city.

  It was obvious there was little here for him now, but was he ready to return to the relative safety of Groffham?

  Don’t be ridiculous, Grimm. You were never going to do that in a million years. Gelredida saw something in you; it would be an insult to her memory for you to waste it.

  Waylian smiled as he made his way north. There was a world out there, a kingdom that might be about to sink into turmoil. The Free States would need all the heroes it could get.

  Besides, Rembram Thule might be out there somewhere, scheming his schemes of domination. There had been no body, smashed and broken, at the base of the Chapel of Ghouls. It was more likely he had escaped death once again and now roamed free, ready to bring about the end of days.

  And who else would stop him if not Waylian Grimm?

  EPILOGUE

  The city had burned for almost a week. Seth watched the smoke rising beyond the eastern horizon, slowly fading as the days went by until there was nothing left but a clear blue winter sky. No one would ever have known the siege of Steelhaven had even happened.

  But Seth knew.

  He had wept for those poor souls lost to the Khurtas. Said prayers to Arlor for the heroes that defended the city so valiantly. And the queen … his queen …

  What would befall them now she was gone? Now the line of the Mastragalls, which had united the provinces in the first place, was gone? Already there were rumblings from Braega and Stelmorn. Talk of the union of Free States collapsing. That would mean war, Seth knew beyond doubt. Nobles would vie for power and the men and women under their yoke would suffer for it.

  Seth could only be thankful he was in a trade that would be much sought after in the months and years to come. He might be old but he was still firm in the arm, and the fire in his forge hadn’t gone out in thirty some years.

  He had been a blacksmith all his life, and his father before him. He had a daughter of his own but she had left many years before, yearning for a life less harsh than the one he could provide for her. He didn’t blame her for that, and since Seth’s wife passed he had been content to work his forge alone.

  The old man glanced through the window of his small cottage, once again thankful for the pane of glass, the only one in his home, that kept out the winter cold. His forge sat across the Great East Road from the cottage and beyond that was the Midral Sea. How much work would he be called upon to perform within its confines in the coming time of strife? How many shoes would he hammer to hooves, how many swords would he sharpen in the coming years of conflict? The thought almost made him hear the ringing of hammer on steel in his head.

  Or was it only in his head?

  Seth frowned, stepping closer to the window, straining his failing ears. Another ring, dull but still unmistakable. Seth opened his front door, taking a step outside into the crisp air, feeling the crunch of morning frost beneath his boot. He paused, wondering if his ears were deceiving him, but no. There it was again, the clank of metal coming from his forge.

  He reached back inside his cottage, grabbing the axe that sat beside his door. As he quickly made his way across the road, his heart began to thump the harder, his grip tightening on the wooden handle. He’d only ever chopped wood with this axe, never in his life had he had reason to raise a weapon in anger, but he’d bloody well do it if need be. Seth might be getting on in years but he was still fit, still able to look after what was his.

  Another clang of metal echoed within the forge as he reached the door, this time accompanied by a muffled curse. Set
h reached for the handle of the door and noticed that his hand was shaking. For a brief moment he tried to tell himself it was because of the morning cold, but the old man had never been one to lie to himself. He knew he was scared. Better to admit it than try and pretend he had ever been a brave man.

  The door swung open silently. Seth felt the last of the forge’s heat blow in his face as he did so. Embers still burned in the fire, casting a dull glow within the building. As quietly as he could, Seth stepped inside, grasping the axe with two hands. He peered through the gloom, staring across the forge towards his anvil.

  A gaunt figure stood beside it, Seth’s hammer gripped in his hand. In the other he held a chisel, pointing it awkwardly at the chains that bound his wrists. Vainly the figure tried to strike the head of the chisel, but the chains that restrained him made it almost impossible. The best he could do was tap weakly, but not so weak that the sound did not echo around the small room.

  The figure cursed, and Seth could see raw and livid welts around those manacled wrists as though they had been bound in irons for weeks.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ sighed the bedraggled intruder, lifting his head forlornly.

  Beneath a tangle of dark hair and wispy beard, Seth saw a young face, handsome yet marred by care. One eye was covered by a makeshift patch; a piece of cloth torn from his filthy robe. Blood had run and dried beneath the patch, staining the young man’s cheek with black.

  ‘What are you doing there?’ demanded Seth, though it was obvious for all to see what the youth was doing.

  With another sigh, the intruder looked across the forge at Seth. Then slowly, as though Seth were some kind of old friend, he smiled.

  It was a cold smile, a smile of death. Seth could feel it right in his heart. At that moment he knew this boy was dangerous, but despite his fear, despite the shaking in his knees and the cold dread that seeped into his bones, Seth knew he couldn’t run.

  ‘I appear to be making a fool of myself with these chains, Seth,’ said the lad.

  It took two heartbeats before Seth realised there was no way the young man could have known his name.

  ‘How did you—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, shaking his head as though already tired with their whole conversation. ‘All that matters is I need these chains gone. And you’re going to help me get rid of them.’

  Despite his fear, Seth tightened his grip on the axe. He wasn’t about to be ordered about in his own forge. Whoever this lad was he couldn’t just expect Seth to do his bidding. Besides, someone had put those chains on him for a reason. Seth would be foolish to take them off without so much as a ‘by your leave’.

  ‘I … I’ll do as I damn well please,’ said Seth. ‘I’m the one with the bloody axe.’

  The lad sighed again. ‘Indeed you are, Seth. But that’s not the only weapon in the room.’ Seth glanced at the hammer in the lad’s hand, but he knew that wasn’t what he meant. There was something not right about this boy and Seth knew he had to be wary – his life might well depend on it. ‘Knowledge is as powerful a weapon as any blade. And I have knowledge, Seth. I know about your daughter in Fleetholme. I know about her children, Dorry and Karl. I know how they’ll all die. I know their last words.’

  Seth felt the forge grow colder as the lad spoke. It chilled him to his very soul. He felt his fingers freeze as they gripped that axe and he knew it would never do him any good. It was obvious now – this boy was doom. For the first time Seth wished he’d been a much more pious man. He could only hope Arlor was watching over him.

  ‘Don’t hurt them,’ he said. He knew it was pitiful and stupid. That he had no bargaining power here, but he had to say it all the same.

  The lad smiled again. ‘Get me out of these, Seth,’ he said, laying the hammer and chisel down on the anvil.

  Seth felt the axe drop from his grip. He hadn’t made a conscious decision to let it go, but still it fell from his numb fingers. He walked forward, feeling a cold tear trace a line down his cheek. As he picked up the hammer and chisel he felt the sudden wrongness of what he was doing – as though he had a brief opportunity to do something good, do something right for the Free States, for the world. If he took the hammer and smashed this boy’s head to offal he would save countless lives and if he died in the process it would all be worth it.

  Instead, Seth braced the edge of one cuff against his anvil. It was secured by a double bolt at the rim. Seth raised his hammer and struck one clear, then again to remove the other. The iron fell from one of the lad’s wrists and with another smile – that cold, dead smile – he placed his other cuff on the anvil. Two more strokes, two more bolts, and the boy was free.

  He stared at his ruined wrists for some moments, as though breathing in his new-found freedom. All Seth could do was stand there with the tools of his trade in his hands, knowing it was probably the last time he would ever use them.

  ‘Thank you, Seth,’ said the lad, looking up at the old man with his one eye.

  Seth saw only darkness in that eye. Saw the death of everything. Saw the end of the world.

  ‘Are you going to kill me now?’ the old man asked.

  The lad paused, as though considering it. Then he laughed, long and loud, harder than any joke should have made any man laugh.

  ‘Seth, I like you,’ he said. ‘And rest assured, you’re going to live.’ All the humour drained from his face, all warmth seeped from every gap in the walls and the light seemed to dim. The lad leaned in and Seth could smell his fetid stench as he whispered. ‘But you’ll wish I’d killed you. When you see what’s coming, Seth, you’ll wish I’d torn the flesh from your bones and left the rest out for the gulls to peck on.’

  Seth felt a second tear roll down his cheek.

  The lad was smiling again now. Smiling as he moved by, walking on thin bare legs. He paused at the door for a second, breathing deep of the cold morning air.

  ‘And when the world is crying out in pain,’ he said. ‘When a thousand thousand souls are screaming for mercy. You can tell them it was Rembram Thule who brought this whole stinking mess down on them.’ He turned to Seth, showing his yellow teeth in a wry smile. ‘And you were the one that helped me do it.’

  With that he was gone through the door, leaving nothing but cold dread behind him.

  Seth stared after, the open door letting in the cold for a long while.

  That day, for the first time in thirty some years, the fire in his forge died.

  Welcome to Steelhaven …

  Under the reign of King Cael the Uniter, this vast cityport on the southern coast has for years been a symbol of strength, maintaining an uneasy peace throughout the Free States.

  But now a long shadow hangs over the city, in the form of the dread Elharim warlord, Amon Tugha. When his herald infiltrates the city, looking to exploit its dangerous criminal underworld, and a terrible dark magick that has long been buried once again begins to rise, it could be the beginning of the end.

  eISBN: 9780755394050

  Heroes must rise …

  The King is dead. His daughter, untested and alone, now wears the Steel Crown. And a vast horde is steadily carving a bloody road south, hell-bent on razing Steelhaven to the ground

  … or the city will fall

  Before the city faces the terror that approaches, it must crush the danger already lurking within its walls. But will the cost of victory be as devastating as that of defeat?

  eISBN: 9780755394081