Lord of Ashes (Steelhaven: Book Three) (16 page)

‘You mean the Rafts? That was necessary. A pragmatic decision that had to be made. And remember, the city has been suffering for days. We are beset, my child. Do not blame yourself for this.’

Janessa felt fury rising within her. All the pain, all the misery of the past days rose within her like a well overflowing.

‘I am not your child!’ she screamed. ‘I am no one’s child. I am a queen and I have just watched my people die. Innocents who were killed on my order. I am to blame for that. Me!’

Isabelle nodded solemnly. There was no trace of malice in her expression, no deceit. Hers was a look of genuine sympathy.

‘And that is your burden … Majesty. I have felt it too, as did my husband, Arlor rest him. But it is better that a hundred perish than a thousand. Than ten thousand. We must all do what is necessary.’

Janessa just stared into the woman’s eyes, looking for some excuse, some trace of scorn, some trickery, but there was none there. Slowly she nodded.

Before Janessa could speak any word of thanks, the door to the hall opened. Kaira walked in; even from this distance Janessa could see the blood that spotted her bodyguard’s armour. She could only hope that it was not Kaira’s.

‘Majesty, the wall stands. Victory is ours for the night.’

‘Yes, I …’ Janessa turned but Baroness Isabelle had already left the hall. She looked back to Kaira, whose eyes stared out with a fire from behind the blood staining her face. ‘Victory is ours.’

Even as she said the words there was no thrill in it. No sense of triumph.

As though to confirm as much, Kaira stepped in close. ‘They will be back, Majesty. As soon as they have regained their breath, they will attack again.’

Janessa nodded, resisting the temptation to grasp the hilt of the Helsbayn.

‘And we will be waiting.’

W
aylian’s ears were ringing so bad it hurt his head. There were bruises on his body but he couldn’t remember for the life of him where they’d come from. He’d been in a fight all right, there was no forgetting that, but no one had struck him. Surely he shouldn’t have been aching this much.

He sat in his small chamber, just remembering the horror of the previous night. He had tried to sleep since, but all he’d managed were a few minutes before the nightmares in his head jolted him awake. As if the Khurtas hadn’t been bad enough, the magick of their wytchworkers had left an indelible imprint in Waylian’s mind. That writhing, thrashing thing reaching over the wall. So swift, so deadly.

The horror of it had almost made killing a man seem insignificant.

Waylian could still see his face, still hear his voice screaming in anger and pain.

‘I’m sorry,’ he had said.

Bloody sorry?

It was too late for sorry now, but what did it matter anyway? It wasn’t the first man Waylian had killed. Many more attacks like the one last night and it would most likely not be the last. Kill or be killed definitely seemed to be the order of the day – and Waylian was in no mood to be dead any time soon.

He opened his mouth wide, trying to relieve the ringing in his head. He made a sound through his nose. Stuck a finger in one ear and waggled it. That seemed to work a little as the noise changed from a ringing to a dull drone. It was almost as though someone were calling his na—

Something hit him over the back of the head. It cleared the ringing in his ears instantly and he turned to see Magistra Gelredida standing there looking none too pleased.

‘Are you deaf, Grimm?’ she demanded.

He scrambled to his feet. ‘Er … no, Magistra. I was just …’

‘Come along. There is much to do before the next assault.’

She turned and left the room, Waylian following obediently in her wake.

The next assault.
The words filled him with dread. Part of him wanted to believe the Khurtas had thrown everything they had at them the first night, but he knew that was unlikely. They’d probably just been testing the city’s defences and tonight would be even worse – more savage, more deadly.

Waylian was about as far from a battlefield general as you could get, but even he knew that first attack had cost the city dear. As he and his mistress moved through the tower he began to get an idea of just how dear.

Raven Knights and magisters filled the corridors and chambers. The dead and dying were strewn all around being tended by those magisters and apothecaries fit enough to offer them aid. One Raven Knight reclined against a wall, his eyes staring blankly, his leg missing below the knee. It had been hastily bandaged but blood still pooled around him. Beside him was one of his fellow knights, his breastplate removed, a hole in his chest. Waylian couldn’t tell if he was still breathing or not.

More bodies were laid out on the next floor down. These were clearly corpses, their faces covered with sheets. The frail bodies of old magisters lay beside the hulking forms of knights in smashed and rent armour, protocol and hierarchy seeming to matter little in death.

Down another flight of stairs and more voices were raised in agony. Waylian expected more wounded, but instead he saw a young novice, her fingers gripping her knees so hard there was blood on her robe, her mouth moving, spouting unintelligible words as she rocked back and forth. Beside her stood a magister, uncertain of how to help the girl from her malady. Looking in the chamber as he passed, Waylian saw yet more figures, and not all of them young, babbling inanities, the horrors of battle and tapping the Veil having taken their toll.

Past all this Magistra Gelredida walked impassively, not sparing a glance for any of the dead or dying or insane. For a moment Waylian could only admire her callousness; he would have much preferred to ignore it himself. But as he thought on it he knew she could never be so pitiless as to feel nothing for these people.

Or could she? Over the past weeks she’s put you in danger enough times. Not given a shit whether you lived or died to further her aims.

But they weren’t
her
aims. It was never for herself that she had sacrificed those around her. Everything she had done, everyone who had died as a result of her actions, had done so for the greater good. To preserve Steelhaven. To keep it safe from the enemy, when everyone else would have shirked the hard choices.

Waylian knew that had it fallen to him to make such impossible choices he would have failed utterly.

Gelredida led them into the library. It had become the surrogate meeting room for the Archmasters; the Crucible Chamber obviously meeting with his mistress’ distaste. Inside they waited for her patiently – Folds, Marghil, Kalvor. It was obvious that each man had been affected deeply by the night’s slaughter and none of them seemed able to hide the fact.

Drennan Folds gripped his thick arms, his mismatched eyes glaring at Gelredida as she entered. Crannock sat at a desk, drumming his arthritic fingers against the table top, one lens of his eyeglasses broken in a web of cracks. Lucen Kalvor reclined against a bookshelf, feigning indifference as he always did, but the blood he had yet to wash from his face and robe showed he had seen as much death as any of them.

Gelredida fixed them all with her inscrutable gaze. If they wanted any sympathy from the Red Witch they were about to be sorely disappointed.

‘Drennan?’ she said. ‘How do your apprentices fare?’

Drennan Folds held her with that glare, his white eye unblinking. ‘How the fuck do you think they fare? Of twenty-eight, seven are dead. Four have been driven mad by the horrors they endured and the rest are scared so shitless I doubt they will be able to perform so much as a parlour trick tomorrow.’

Gelredida took this in with an understanding nod. ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to motivate them,’ she replied. Drennan made to speak, but she had already turned her attention to Crannock. ‘And our veterans?’

The old magister continued to drum his wrinkled fingers against the desk as though he hadn’t heard her. Waylian began to feel a little uncomfortable at the prospect that his mistress might have to repeat herself, but slowly the old man looked up.

‘We lost twelve,’ he said. ‘Twice that number are wounded, I doubt they’ll be fit for tonight.’

Gelredida nodded at his solemn news. ‘We will need—’

‘I know we will,’ said the old man, wearily. ‘And I will do my best.’

‘Yes. You will.’ She turned to Lucen Kalvor.

‘Around thirty casualties. Leaves us around forty fit for the fight,’ he said without looking up. Kalvor didn’t seem to give a damn that his Raven Knights had suffered the most, but then he didn’t seem to give a damn about much.

‘I know this seems bad, but on a positive note their wytchworker is dead,’ said Gelredida. ‘Last night was particularly bloody. From now on we should face no more magick. Nevertheless, there’s every chance the fighting will get worse before the end.’

‘Get worse?’ spat Drennan through gritted teeth. ‘How could it get worse? We are losing magickers by the dozen. And do you know how long it takes to train Raven Knights? By the time we get to the end the Tower of Magisters might be nothing but an empty shell.’

‘And what would be the alternative?’ said Gelredida, her voice even and calm as she refused to rise to Drennan’s complaints.

‘We should have taken the bargain he offered us. We should have stayed out of the fight.’

‘You’re still as blind as that left eye of yours,’ said Gelredida. ‘Still hiding your cowardice behind a voice of reason.’

‘You fucking led us to this!’ he screamed. ‘You’ll see us all dead. You’ll see the Caste destroyed. The only thing holding the Free States together and it’ll be gone because you refused to bargain.’

There was silence. Waylian felt like backing from the room before the real shit started to fly, but he managed to keep himself together enough to stay put.

‘Have you finished?’ Gelredida asked eventually. Drennan stayed silent, thinking better of venting his ire any further. ‘Good.’

She made as though to continue when the sound of running feet stopped her. Waylian turned in time to see a boy, probably a little younger than he was, run into the room. His face was aglow from his exertions, his regalia marking him as holding no allegiance to any particular administrative department within the city and yet still he had been allowed into the Tower of Magisters.

The boy dropped to his knee before the Archmasters, bowing his head as though he might be turned into a mouse if he showed improper deference. In his hand he held out a sealed scroll.

Gelredida impatiently signalled for Waylian to take the message, and he swiftly obeyed. It was sealed with white wax that bore no marking. He stared at it for a moment, unsure of what that meant.

‘Well, open it then.’ Her tone seemed to stretch beyond impatience, if that were possible.

Waylian broke the seal and unfurled the scroll. He read with all the haste he could muster.

‘It is from the … Inquisition, Magistra,’ he said. ‘Seneschal Rogan demands that the magisters do their utmost to resolve the problem of the fire ships anchored in the bay.’

Gelredida sighed a sigh that asked if she didn’t already have enough on her quite considerable plate. ‘Oh, he does, does he?’ She directed the comment at the young messenger. To his credit the boy resisted the temptation to look up, and Waylian knew all too well that he must have been scared for his life at the displeasure of the Red Witch.

‘Very well,’ she said finally. ‘Tell the Seneschal we shall do our utmost to deal with it.’

The young lad needed no further encouragement and scampered off, almost bowling Waylian over on his way out.

‘Gentlemen, if there is nothing further,’ she directed at the three Archmasters. ‘I’m sure we all have much to be getting on with.’

She walked from the room, each of the men following her with eyes full of loathing. Waylian would have tried a smile before he followed her but he knew that was as dangerous as it was pointless.

Down she went, through the tower, and Waylian had to give silent thanks for the fact there were no more dead and dying lining the stairwell as they descended.

‘What will you do, Magistra?’ Waylian asked, unable to contain himself. He knew she had a lot on her mind but even he wanted to know how she proposed to destroy over a dozen artillery ships in the bay.

‘What will I do?’ she asked in return. ‘Why, I will go and seek help.’

Waylian let out a silent breath. For a moment he had feared the worst – that she’d be volunteering him for yet another perilous mission, this one involving a rowboat and some flammable materials.

He couldn’t resist. ‘Who from, Magistra?’

‘From the Wyvern Guard,’ she replied. ‘The Lord Marshal still owes me a favour or two.’

Waylian pondered that for a moment. There was something amiss with this plan and he just couldn’t stop himself.

‘But how can warriors manage to defeat ships anchored out to sea? We don’t have any boats to transport them across the bay, and even if we did surely they’d come under fire before they can even reach the first artillery ship.’

‘Very good, Waylian. You’re thinking this through. I like that. But they won’t be attacking the artillery ships by boat.’

Waylian couldn’t help but furrow his brow. He had to know.

‘So … how are they going to do it?’

Gelredida turned and flashed him an ever so rare smile.

‘Well, my young apprentice. That’s where you come in …’

Oh. Shit.

I
t had been the longest night of Merrick Ryder’s life. Thankfully most of it had gone by in a haze of blood and violence. The never ending screams, the hack and slash, the piss-filled undergarments. But strangely, despite the death all around him, Merrick had never felt so alive. Had never felt like he belonged as much as he did when standing amongst the Wyvern Guard, when raising shield and sword with men he almost considered his brothers.

Riding at the enemy with nothing between him and them but the night air had seemed insane enough, but standing atop that wall when they’d come to attack had been the maddest thing he’d ever seen. Even though he knew it was coming he could never have prepared himself for the slaughter. And the Wyvern Guard were oh so good at the slaughter.