Read Lord of Ashes (Steelhaven: Book Three) Online
Authors: Richard Ford
Lord of Ashes (Steelhaven: Book Three)
Copyright © 2015 Richard Ford
The right of Richard Ford to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook in 2015
by HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN: 978 0 7553 9411 1
Cover illustration by Lee Gibbons
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
An Hachette UK Company
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
Contents
Discover the rest of the Steelhaven series
…
Richard Ford hails from Leeds but now resides in Wiltshire, in the first town on the Thames. His first novel,
Kultus
, was published in 2011.
Herald of the Storm
, book one in the
Steelhaven
series, was his epic fantasy debut.
Follow Richard on Twitter
@Rich4ord
or catch up with him on his blog at
https://richard4ord.wordpress.com/
.
‘In a subgenre often bogged down in convention,
Herald
is a breath of fresh air … Definitely a recommended read’
Drying Ink
‘You’ll find yourself looking forward to what Ford dreams up next’
SFX
‘Exciting and different’
The British Fantasy Society
‘A perfect example of tight, gritty, character-driven storytelling’
Luke Scull, author of
The Grim Company
‘Violent, vicious and darkly funny. Book Two can’t come fast enough’
Fantasy Faction
‘A series to watch. Great stuff’
Falacta Times
Herald of the Storm
The Shattered Crown
Lord of Ashes
FIGHT TO THE DEATH …
The queen of Steelhaven has grown in strength. Taking up her dead father’s sword, she must defend the city from the dread warlord Amon Tugha and his blood-thirsty army now at the gates. A vicious, unrelenting four-day battle ensues, the most perilous yet.
… OR BOW TO THE ENEMY
No side is immune from danger as all hell breaks loose, with the threat of coups and the unleashing of the deadliest and darkest magick. Loyalty, strength and cunning will be put to test in the quest for victory. What fate awaits the free states?
For Lynne, Josie, Hamish and … is it Paul?
I can never remember!
As always I need to thank my agent, John Jarrold, for his magnificent taste in books and even better taste in hats.
Big thanks to my former editor and bearded hobbit, John Wordsworth, now carving out a name for himself as a literary agent, and Claire Baldwin, who was almost but not quite my new editor.
As ever the team at Headline have been amazing, so thanks to Sherise Hobbs, Beth Eynon, Joanna Kaliszewska, Patrick Insole, Fran Gough and Tom Noble.
Finally, thanks to everyone who’s read the series and said nice things about it, in particular Marc Aplin of Fantasy-Faction.com and Claire Rowe who is still hiding somewhere in Scotland.
I
t was dark and quiet inside the hide-covered shelter, almost peaceful. Nothing moved but a single piece of animal skin come loose in the night, letting the dawn light flit into the tent as it flapped gently in the breeze.
Endellion took a deep breath, smelling the salt tang of moist flesh and stale sex. Surrounding her on a pile of furs were half a dozen Khurtic warriors, every one of them deep in slumber, every one of them worn out from their long night. She smiled at the memory. They had tried so very hard to keep up but she was Elharim, and not even a half-dozen had come close to satisfying her appetite.
The one lying next to her – she didn’t know his name, had no use for any of their names – bore the mark of her nails on his back, raw and livid on his pale flesh. He was a pretty one, his skin smooth for a Khurta, his face unmarred by war and violence. That was unusual for one of his kind. It had taken her some time to find such boys, the Khurtas were a notoriously ugly race, but after much searching she had managed to take her pick of their youngest and strongest. None had refused her. None had dared.
With a single finger she traced the line one of her nails had left on his skin. The boy stirred at her touch but did not wake. The night before he had cried out as she marked him, as she dug her fingers into his flesh, urging him, stirring his lust. He had been good; one of the best and most eager to please. It was fitting she should have granted him such a battle scar. And these Khurtas so loved their scars.
A noise from outside made her forget her parched throat and fuddled head. It was the sound of stone scraping steel.
Endellion rose from the piled furs, deftly stepping over the bodies that surrounded her. She found her clothes piled in a corner, quickly dressed and pulled on her boots, strapping her sword to her waist and taking one of the furs to wrap around her shoulders against the chill winter air. With a last amused glance back at the spent bodies lying in her tent, she pulled back the hide covering and stepped out into the wan morning light.
He sat not twenty yards away, and though the sun was hidden behind a gloomy bank of cloud it still seemed like he shone. Endellion couldn’t suppress a grin as she walked towards him, watching as he honed that blade, scraping whetstone on Riverland steel. Even though they were a thousand miles from their homeland in the north, when she laid eyes on Azreal it was as though she had never left. He was home to her. All she had ever wanted.
Of course she would never have told him that. There was a time, years ago, when she would have professed her devotion to him; might well have pledged herself to him and him alone. But that time was gone. She was of the Arc Magna, a warrior born, dedicated to the blade and the kill. Azreal was of the Subodai, a silent watcher in the night, a messenger bringing the word of his lord and sometimes with it the gift of death. Any union between them was forbidden, but that had not stopped Endellion taking her pleasure with him so many years before. And what heady nights those had been.
She stood for some time, enduring the cold just to watch him at his work. The stone rang on steel, the blade calling out with each stroke as though singing its joy. How Endellion would love to have made Azreal sing out in joy once more, feeling his flesh against her flesh, hearing his cries of lust mix with her own. It was a temptation she could barely quell.
‘Are you going to stand there staring all morning?’ Azreal said finally, without looking around or pausing in his labours.
Endellion almost laughed. Of course he knew she was watching him. There was little that passed beyond the knowing of Azreal of the Subodai.
‘I could stand here staring until Oblivion claims me,’ she replied.
He only shook his head at that, moving the whetstone along his blade with one last ring of the steel. In a single swift motion he stood, spinning the blade in his grip with a flourish and deftly slotting it into his sheath.
‘Unfortunately neither of us can wait for Oblivion, my love. Our master has summoned us.’
Endellion couldn’t manage to suppress a pang of excitement as he called her
my love
, but she did not speak further as Azreal led the way through the camp. If Amon Tugha had indeed summoned them, it would be madness to keep him waiting.