Lord of Ashes (Steelhaven: Book Three) (25 page)

‘Nice work,’ said Hake.

Nobul looked to see the old man standing next to him with a wry smile.

‘It wasn’t so hard,’ Nobul lied.

‘No, didn’t look it.’ Hake knelt down by the huge Khurta’s body. ‘Not every day you get to bring down a Khurtic war chief.’

‘Should I be pleased with myself?’

Hake shrugged. ‘Yes and no. You should be pleased you’re still breathing, that’s for sure. How long you’re breathing for is another matter. You just made yourself a target for every Khurta at this wall who wants to prove himself. Word’s gonna spread. And when it does they’ll all be looking to claim your head and the glory that goes with it.’

Well done, Nobul. If you thought things were tough before you’ve just made them ten times worse. But you never were one for doing things the easy way, were you?

‘Let them come,’ said Nobul, gripping his hammer the tighter.

Suddenly, despite the hurt and the fatigue, he had the urge to smash more heads.

R
iver had stood at the city’s highest promontories countless times and looked out over Steelhaven’s majesty with awe. He had looked out for miles at views no one else had ever been privy to and thrilled at the sight. Now, as he clung to what remained of a crumbling tower, he was only filled with sadness.

Men fought and died by the score defending a wall that looked almost ready to fall. Machines of war flung burning artillery as others trundled across the plain that sat to the city’s north, delivering savage, screaming warriors bent on destroying what had once been a place of such splendour. The enemy teemed, sweeping forward in a wave of savagery, and yet the city’s defenders stood fast against them, despite the odds.

How River would have loved to race down and join them in their fight. How he would have loved to add his strength and skill to protect Steelhaven. Not because it was his city, but because it was hers. But he knew that was folly. To fight and die with everyone else would be courageous, but ultimately he would fall. There was only one way he could end this. Only one way he could save the city, and Jay with it.

Amon Tugha had to die.

With their warlord fallen these savages would have no one to rally to. They would be headless, aimless, and would scatter back to the north. Or so he could only hope.

River moved down from the tower. The rooftops he had known so well were changed now. Bombardment from the north meant that many of the structures he had traversed for years were no longer there or had become perilous to move across. More than once he lost his footing as a strut broke beneath his foot or a hole appeared in a tiled roof, and when finally he managed to reach the outer wall he was breathing hard from the effort.

The Khurtas were concentrating their attack to the north. Here on the eastern side of the city it was relatively quiet but the wall was still heavily guarded. In the dark, River managed to slip past the vigilant sentries, aided by the fact that most of them stared pensively to the north or out over the wall to the east. He easily scaled the bastion of the Lych Gate and slipped over the battlement. The climb to the ground was harder as he slipped down the face of the gate tower, past the two carved figures – hooded warriors holding their swords aloft – and leapt the last ten feet to land deftly in the dark.

He wasted no time, sprinting northwards. The night was black beyond the ambient light of the city and he was aware that there could be enemies lurking in the dark. Though the Khurtas were attacking as a horde to the north it was more than likely there were groups of them lurking elsewhere, ready to fall upon anyone desperate enough to try and escape the attack on Steelhaven.

River gave the massed army a wide berth, running far to the east as the battle raged into the night and skirting a ridge almost a league north of the city. As he reached a crest in the hill River slowed, hunkering down and moving in silence. Beyond the hill he could see the radiant light of campfires and hear voices talking in an alien tongue. As he neared he drew his blades, focusing on his work. The mark would be in that camp somewhere. Amon Tugha was waiting.

A sentry walked idly by as River crouched in the shadows. The man paused, staring south, and in the moonlight River could see a look of yearning in his eyes, as though he envied his brethren. They were unleashing their barbarism on the city, and he lusted to join them, to die beside them as they flung themselves at the wall. River was happy to grant him a death of a different kind.

His blade moved in the dark, opening the Khurta’s throat. The man fell silently, his head almost severed as River moved on, down the ridge beyond and into the camp.

Hide tents of varying sizes and shapes were erected all around, though there were few Khurtas left in the camp, making it easy for River to stick to the shadows, moving unseen as he searched. Surely Amon Tugha would be in the largest tent, the one appropriate for his station. All River had to do was find it amongst this mass of hide coverings.

He stalked towards the centre of the encampment, listening intently for the sounds of voices or footfalls on the soft earth, all the while steering clear of the fires that burned intermittently. Occasionally there would be cries of pain from the Khurtic wounded that lay amidst the tents. They had been left there with no one to tend them, abandoned to live or die on their own. It seemed a cruel practice but River cared little for the savagery of it. They and their warlord were without mercy, he understood that clear enough. He would show just as little mercy when he faced Amon Tugha.

When he was roughly at the camp’s centre he saw a tent that stood taller and wider than the rest. No sentries stood outside it and it seemed all but abandoned. River waited in the shadows, sensing that this could be some kind of trap, but there was no one he could see or hear and no other way he could think to locate his mark other than searching the entire camp.

He darted forward, crossing the clearing to the tent entrance and moving inside in one swift movement, blades at the ready. The tent’s interior was dark but a waning fire was bright enough for River to see. Across the floor, perhaps twenty yards, was a wooden chair and on it, lounging casually, one leg slung over the arm, was a warrior. He smiled at River as he entered, holding that smile even as River moved towards him. As arrogant and powerful as this warrior looked, he was clearly not Amon Tugha, but with luck he might know where River could find him.

The warrior made no move to defend himself, despite River’s clear intent. He showed no fear, and River felt a rising anger. He would make this man fear him, as he had made so many others fear him.

As he trod the ground no more than five yards in front of the wooden chair his foot sank up to the calf. River cursed himself as he felt a noose tighten around his ankle. There was little time to lament his stupidity as the tent suddenly erupted all around, Khurtas with bows and spears suddenly appearing from beyond the hide sidings. River slashed at the snare around his foot, desperate to free himself, but there was already a spear pressed against his back and three Khurtas closed in to point-blank range, aiming their bows at him.

His desperation to find Amon Tugha had made him complacent and now he was cornered. He glanced around, looking for any chance to escape, but there was none; a dozen warriors surrounded him, their yearning to do him harm plain to see.

Calmly the warrior rose from the wooden chair, speaking in the Khurtic language, the words flat and even rather than spat gutturally as River had heard other Khurtas speak before. A knife was pressed to River’s throat, his own blades taken from him swiftly, warily, as though these warriors knew what he was capable of. Swiftly, his hands were bound behind him and he was led unceremoniously from the tent.

They moved south through the camp. All the while River searched for his chance to escape but no opportunity presented itself. It was as though these savages had been warned of his skill, as though they had been handpicked for this task. Their leader was certainly wary, despite his pretence at nonchalance, his hands never straying far from the axe and sword at his hips, his eyes watching all the while for any sign that River might try and escape.

Eventually they came to a ridge. Beyond it was the city, the siege raging into the night, fires rising, arrows falling. Silhouetted there, huge against the distant light, was a figure River knew could only be Amon Tugha. He stood easily seven feet, his bulk massive against the night. Some distance away were two more figures barely visible in the shadows; one was lying prone and still on the ground, the other, a woman from what River could see, crouched over the body in silence.

River was led up the ridge mere yards from Amon’s back. It would have been nothing to make his attack but his hands were bound, his weapons gone. All he could do was stand and wait.

‘You are the student,’ Amon Tugha said eventually, his voice deep as the ocean. ‘The betrayer. The one who turned his back on the Father of Killers for the love of a woman.’

River said nothing. He owed this warlord no explanation. He had come to kill him, not curry words.

Amon Tugha turned and glared with golden eyes, bright in the darkness. ‘I know why you have come. I have seen into your soul, assassin. You would kill me. Save this city and save its queen. You are brave, if nothing else, and that is to be admired. But bravery will not protect you. And it will not save her.’

From the shadows a Khurtic warrior brought forth a huge weapon, a spear made of steel, the head almost two feet long and wide as a man’s hand. Amon took it in his grip as though it weighed nothing. He spoke swiftly in the Khurtic tongue, and two of River’s captors came forward, a knife deftly cutting his bonds. Another Khurta brought forward his blades and River took them, almost in a daze.

‘You have come to slay me, assassin. Now is your chance.’ Amon Tugha held out his arms, as though presenting himself as an easy target. ‘Spare your queen my wrath.’

River needed no further encouragement. He had known in coming here he would most likely die. At least he could take the Elharim warlord with him to the hells.

He rushed forward, wary of the huge spear in Amon Tugha’s hand. He was ready to duck or dodge but the Elharim made no move to defend himself. River leapt, his blade arm stabbing forward to take Amon in the neck, but the spear came up impossibly fast, the flat of its blade hitting River’s outstretched hand and swatting his weapon away into the night.

River landed, stumbling as he did so, his right hand numb. Amon Tugha had moved from his path and was walking nonchalantly, spinning the spear he held as though it weighed nothing. Those golden eyes regarded River without emotion.

‘You are quick for a southron, assassin,’ Amon said. ‘Precise. Dedicated. I would have valued such skill. It is a shame you must die.’

River rushed in again and feinted to the right, just as the warlord swung his spear. He had intended to dodge but his enemy’s attack was simply too fast, taking River’s legs out before he could react. He hit the ground on his back, bracing himself for the killing thrust, but none came. Instead Amon Tugha stepped back, allowing him to rise and attack once more.

As River leapt back to his feet he saw Amon was smiling, and anger welled within him. Frustration forced him to press a final desperate attack. He struck in, expecting the spear to skewer him, but instead Amon released his grip on the weapon and let it fall to the ground. His other hand shot out, taking River by the wrist in which he held his remaining weapon. The warlord’s grip tightened like a vice, forcing the blade from River’s grasp as Amon’s other hand took him by the throat.

‘You knew you could not win,’ said the Elharim. ‘Yet you came anyway. You sacrificed yourself for her and for that you have my admiration.’ Slowly Amon turned River’s head to look at the crouching figure off in the shadows and the body she held vigil over. ‘But you are not the only one to make sacrifices in this. You are not the only one to suffer.’

River could only stare helplessly, choking in the grip of the immortal Elharim prince. This was it; he would die here, throttled to death as battle raged hundreds of yards away.

His vision began to haze, his limbs growing weak, but before he could succumb to oblivion River felt his arms being grasped by the surrounding Khurtas. They dragged him to a nearby tree and lashed him to the trunk so he could only look out onto the city.

‘I am not without mercy, assassin,’ said Amon Tugha. ‘You came here to kill me but despite your failure I will allow you to live. To watch as your city burns. Perhaps before I slay your queen I will allow you to look upon her one last time.’

With that the Elharim disappeared into the shadows, leaving the gaggle of Khurtas to watch over River.

All he could do was stare to the south as the city was attacked. As Steelhaven died and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

J
errol and the ten he’d brought with him, Bastian’s best, made their way east through the deserted streets like rats on the hunt. Hands, faces and blades were blackened with pitch. Even if anyone had been about at that hour of the night no one would have seen them.

The noise from the north end of the city echoed down through the streets. Jerrol didn’t envy the soldiers their job. Facing the Khurtas was a thing for brave men, courageous and true to the Crown. Luckily for Jerrol he was none of those things. He’d never been brave.
Stab a man in the back soon as look at him
– that’s what they said about old Jerrol the Nick.
You wouldn’t see him coming
, they said.
Coward and a liar and a thief
, they said. Jerrol couldn’t argue with any of that. It was always best to know what you were and admit it freely.

Didn’t matter a shit if they were brave, anyway. The bannermen of Steelhaven were wasting their time and their lives defending that wall. Especially since he and his lads were about to let the Khurtas come flooding in through the side door.

Jerrol had troubled himself with the rights and wrongs of it for all the time it took him to sink an ale. He was Bastian’s man – had been for years now – and what Bastian wanted, Bastian fucking well got. Who was Jerrol to question it? Who was he to say whether letting the Khurtas in was a mistake? Bastian had never led them wrong before and there was no need to think he’d be doing it now. Best just to get on with the task and trust they’d all live through it after.