Lord of Ashes (Steelhaven: Book Three) (26 page)

Eleven men for this job was probably overkill. They had a Greencoat – Platt, his name was – on the payroll who was posted on the Lych Gate. He’d make the way easy for them as it was, so the fact they’d come mob-handed was only a precaution. Always paid to be careful, though, Jerrol knew that better than anyone.
No use taking risks
, his old man had always said. Not that it had stopped the old fart taking a knife in the belly when Jerrol was only a young lad, but they were still wise words.

The gate loomed at the end of the street. Jerrol felt his stomach turn a little bit as they approached. Didn’t matter how easy it seemed, this job still had to be done right. He would be careful, and no mistake, but there was always something that could go wrong. The consequences if he fucked this up didn’t bear thinking about. You didn’t let Bastian down – that was rule number one. Palien was testament to that. He’d been clever and strong and earned the Guild a lot of money but in the end it didn’t matter a shit. One fuck-up and you were meat, nothing more. Jerrol had been the one to run his knife across that bastard Palien’s throat. The last thing he wanted was to be on the receiving end.

He halted at the end of the street, crouching down and peering through the gloom towards the gate. One low whistle, the sound of an owl in the night, and he knew the other ten lads would stop and take up positions in the shadows.

The Lych Gate was in utter darkness. Jerrol stared through the night, hoping the moonlight would give him some sort of clue what waited for them, but it was no use. Every torch and lantern for a hundred yards either side of the gate had been extinguished. There was no sound from within the gate’s bastion. No clue if Platt, their inside man, had done his job or not. The place was supposed to be clear for them to just walk in. It was silent enough, but Jerrol didn’t fancy strolling straight into the middle of a bunch of Greencoats just waiting to cut him another arsehole.

He raised his arm, signalling for one of the lads to move forward and check out what was happening. If there was danger, he was damn sure he wasn’t going to be the one running straight into it. Why have a dog and bark yourself?

One of the lads, Kurt, sprinted forward through the dark. Jerrol lost sight of him as he reached the base of the gate tower and there was silence as they waited, breath held in case something went wrong. If it did it’d be the flip of a coin whether or not he ran off as fast as he could or decided to take on whatever trouble appeared. He was scared enough of failure, but that thing was always there in the back of his mind –
stay alive, don’t get killed
. Right alongside –
don’t let Bastian down, it just ain’t worth the death he’ll give you.

Before long Kurt came running back out. He knelt down beside Jerrol taking a moment to get his breath back.

‘Ain’t no one inside,’ he said. ‘Not that I can hear, anyway. Place is all blacked out.’

‘So no one’s guarding the winch for the portcullis?’ Jerrol asked, getting a feeling this was far too easy.

‘Not that I can see.’

Jerrol turned to the rest of his men, ready to give the order to move. They’d planned this to the letter. Two would wait in front of the gate, ready to open it when the portcullis was raised. Four would split into two pairs either side of the bastion to make sure no one came waltzing along the battlements to make a nuisance of themselves. Two would guard the door to the gate tower. The rest would head inside, one taking watch on the roof while the other two would pull the winch to raise the portcullis. Easy.

Or at least as easy as these things ever got in the Guild.

With a flick of his hand, Jerrol led them across the open ground to the base of the gate tower. Immediately four of them split off to left and right, heading for the stairs up to the battlements.

Kurt opened the door, leading them into the black inside. Jerrol followed. All he could hear was the lad’s breathing as he let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Even after they had, all he could see was a scant bit of light from the stairway leading up.

Slowly they crept through the tower. At any moment Jerrol expected someone to come bowling out of the dark, and his unease only grew as they moved further through the building to the first floor.

‘What was that?’ said the lad behind.

They all stopped. Jerrol listened through the dark. He could barely hear a thing. There might have been something from outside. Maybe a whistling noise. Maybe the sound of one of his men signalling in the night, but it wasn’t loud enough to hear properly.

Eventually he shook his head. ‘Fuck this,’ he breathed at no one in particular. ‘We can’t hang around all night. You. Upstairs.’

One of the lads did as he was told, moving up the stairs to the roof of the tower.

Jerrol crept through the dark, looking for the winch that would raise the portcullis. His leg struck something in the dark and whatever it was clattered across the floor, making enough noise to raise the dead.

‘We need some fucking light,’ he whispered.

At first, silence. Then the sound of Kurt’s flint striking tinder. As light flooded the room from the wick of a lantern Jerrol caught something in the corner of his eye. For a moment he thought he saw a child staring up from the stairwell to the ground floor, but a blink and it was gone.

Jerrol stared at the staircase for some moments before shaking his head.

‘Let’s get on with it,’ he said, moving towards the winch.

There was a noise from the roof before he could even grasp the pulley wheel. Kurt looked at him, eyes wide, face all deathly in the lantern light.

‘Go see what the fuck that was,’ said Jerrol.

At first Kurt looked like he wanted to argue, then he thought better of it. He placed the lantern down and drew a blade from his belt, taking the stairs up with caution. Jerrol watched as he disappeared, alone now in the dark of the tower.

There was a whistle, but from where Jerrol couldn’t tell.

Something made a noise on the roof but he couldn’t make it out.
Was that a scuffle?
Then nothing.

Jerrol stared up at the hole to the roof before whispering, ‘Kurt,’ as loudly as he could into the dark. There was no reply.

A knife was in Jerrol’s hand now. He couldn’t remember consciously drawing it from its sheath, but doing things on instinct had saved his life more than once. He glanced at the winch behind him. Thought about pulling it. Thought about leaving it and running off into the night while he had the chance, but before he could make a decision either way there were footsteps on the stairs from below.

Jerrol just crouched there, waiting. He should probably have taken the offensive and run across the room to attack, but he realised he was too shit scared to move.
Better to admit what you are …

An open-faced sallet appeared, followed by a green jacket, stark in the lantern light. Jerrol made to move, willing his paralysed legs into action, but stopped himself when he recognised the face beneath that helmet … Platt.

Jerrol breathed out a sigh. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ he said.

Platt just shook his head. He looked scared. ‘I’ve been doing my fucking job and clearing out the rest of the Greencoats. Speaking of which, did you come alone?’

Jerrol shook his head. ‘Course I didn’t. The rest of mine are outside.’

Platt shook his head right back, looking even more worried. ‘There’s no one outside. And why have you put out all the lights?’

‘I didn’t put out the fu—’ Jerrol glanced at the stairs again, then back at Platt. ‘We need to crank that winch and then get the fuck out of here.’

Before they could move Jerrol caught something from the corner of his eye again. Definitely a child’s face, this time peering down from the trapdoor above where Kurt had gone and not come back.
What the fuck is going on?
Jerrol had no idea but he was fucked if he’d let it go unanswered.

‘You make a start,’ he pointed Platt at the winch, then made his way up the wooden stairs to the roof.

There was barely enough moonlight to see by, but when his eyes adjusted he saw two bodies lying in heaps on the roof. One was Kurt’s, something pooling around him in the dark.

Jerrol gripped his knife tighter, looking about him for any sign of movement and getting ready to stick it with six inches of steel. He didn’t give a shit if it was a kid, he’d gut the little bastard whoever it was.

A whistle.
Jerrol turned to see a young lad standing on the battlements some way off. He stared for a bit, all small and alone in the night. Then the little cunt waved at him.

Jerrol bit back a curse, taking a step forward before realising he had a job to do. Before he could go back down there was another whistle. He spun to see another lad, looking much like the first, waving from the battlements in the other direction. It took a brief moment for Jerrol to realise they were both stood where his men should have been.

He bit back the panic, retreating off to the trapdoor and back down to the winch room. His eyes darted between those two little fuckers as he made his way down. Once he was back in the room, panting like he’d just run ten leagues, he slowly realised he was alone – Platt had done a runner.

Enough fucking about! Turn the winch and get the fuck out of—

Another whistle, this one loud. It sounded like it was in the same room.

Jerrol turned to see another smiling little face beaming up from the stairwell.

Little bastard!

With a cry of rage he darted at the boy, screaming something unintelligible as he went. The little lad was quick, Jerrol had to give him that, but he wouldn’t get away. He took the stairs three at a time, bursting out onto the street, ready to gut the little shit.

In the darkness outside he went running straight into someone, stopping dead like he’d hit a brick wall. Jerrol looked up, seeing a face he vaguely recognised looking down at him. Was it Barkus? Farkus? Big fucker. One of the crew he’d seen hanging around in the tavern.

He made to speak, but instead of words he spat a gob of blood onto his chin.

Shit, that’s not right.

Looking down he saw he was skewered on a blade held in the big bastard’s hand.

Jerrol wanted to strike out with the knife in his own hand but realised he’d already dropped it.

He staggered back, that blade sliding out of his body with a wet sucking sound. He looked around now, seeing other figures standing there looking at him in the dark. As his knees went out from under him he saw someone walking forward, another kid.

When his face hit the street she knelt down beside him. He recognised her – Rag, she was called, everyone knew her name. The one who’d survived Friedrik and Palien. The one Bastian trusted so much.

She stared at him, no emotion in those little girl’s eyes.

‘That’s the last of them,’ she said. ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here.’

Jerrol kept staring down that street, all skewed on its side, until eventually it faded to nothing.

S
he sat all night by his side. The battle had raged on but Endellion barely even noticed. The Khurtas came limping back from the gates of Steelhaven once more, walking past her in sullen silence, and still she had paid them no mind. Even when the sun rose, bathing her and Azreal in a light that bore little warmth, she scarcely even raised her head.

Endellion shed no tears from her golden eyes. The Arc Magna did not weep over their dead. Let the southrons weep over their losses. Let everyone in that city weep as it was torn down around them. Let the dark giants she and Azreal had fought weep until the gates of Oblivion opened in honour of the vengeance she would have.

When she and Azreal had walked through the smashed gateway she had expected to meet little resistance. All that should have waited were broken men fighting with little heart in the face of such overwhelming odds. She could only regret her complacency. What they had faced were beasts, not men. Creatures of the southern deserts; half-men, monsters. Her shoulder still stung where she had been clawed. She should have sought attention in case it became infected but Endellion wanted none. The scars that were left would serve to show the folly of her ways. How foolish she had been to follow Amon Tugha, to obey him without question, to think that Steelhaven would be so easily conquered.

Endellion stared down at the body in front of her. Azreal’s eyes were closed. His throat lay open, the blood having congealed into a torn and fleshy mess. She should have covered it up, it was wrong to see him like this, but she also needed to remember. Above all she needed the hurt to burn inside her, to remain within her heart until she had a chance to avenge him.

She had loved Azreal, that much was obvious now. For a century or more she had yearned for him to be hers. Had followed him wherever he led, but never let him know what lay in her heart. That was not her way, nor that of the Arc Magna. She had lived her life by the tenets of her creed and enjoyed all the pleasures it allowed, but she would have given it all up for Azreal. He would have given up nothing for her, though. He was loyal to the end and had ultimately given his life for his master.

Endellion knew now that she would never do the same.

This was all for the glory of Amon Tugha. He would sacrifice them all, every last one of his followers, to attain his goal. And what was that? Glory? Vengeance? To prove to himself he was worthy of his mother’s crown?

It had seemed so simple at first, it had been an adventure. One Endellion had embarked on with her usual hunger. She had finally been freed of the Riverlands and its stifling edicts. Now, so long after they had embarked on their journey, it seemed like madness to have ever left. In the cold light of morning she would have given anything to be back in her homeland with Azreal at her side.

A shadow fell over her but she ignored it, continuing to stare at Azreal’s face and the wound in his neck.

‘Our prince demands your presence,’ said a voice. Endellion thought she recognised it, though most of these Khurtas sounded the same. She didn’t reply, allowing nothing to sway her from her vigil. Let Amon Tugha demand what he pleased. She was done with him.