Richard Ford - Lord of Ashes

‘I am not worried,’ River replied. At least not for myself.

‘Once we’ve delivered the barrels of pitch and fresh supplies we’ll be on our way back,’ continued the sailor, as though River hadn’t spoken. ‘Shame, too. It might be quite a show watching this city fall.’

River tightened his grip on the gunwale at the comment, but said nothing. He was not close enough yet to the city. He could not risk everything now on a simple pique of anger.

‘How do you know it will fall?’ he asked. ‘Steelhaven is well defended. It will take more than fire from the sea to break its walls.’

‘Yes, it will.’ The man gestured casually with his hand towards the city. ‘Amon Tugha attacks from the north. Even now he will be mustering his Khurtas for an attack, if he isn’t already assaulting the front gate. I imagine that’s quite something to see.’

River watched as they approached, saw another ball of fire light the darkening sky. It seemed the city was to be assailed from all sides and there was but one man responsible.

Amon Tugha. The warlord who held so much sway over the Father of Killers. The one who had ordered Queen Janessa’s death. Jay. Her name is Jay. He wanted to raze this city and slaughter every soul within it. While River had breath he could never allow the Elharim to succeed. He had to focus, had to prepare himself. If he was ever going to save Jay it would take all his wits and skill.

Night fell as they made their way closer to the city. By the time they were in sight of the artillery ships, all that could be seen of Steelhaven was a dark silhouette against the skyline. Aboard each of the waiting vessels fire burned in iron braziers, each one stoked high so that they might set light to their pitch-soaked missiles.

Every supply ship made its way towards a waiting artillery boat and River stood his ground patiently, as the fisherman at shore . Hidden beneath his tunic were his blades, which he had taken such great pains to conceal these past days. He watched while on deck sailors went about their business, furling the sails and uncoiling ropes to secure to the artillery ships. This was the closest they would come to the city.

Now was the time.

The first rope was thrown and deftly caught by a mariner aboard an adjacent artillery ship, then another, which was swiftly tied to one of the vessel’s cleats. River was already standing behind the pilot at his own ship’s wheel. Some days ago River had been told his name, had watched as he laughed and gambled with his fellow mariners. The man had seemed harmless enough and River had even heard him tell tales of a family back to the south. Something in his head told him this was unfair, that he had done nothing to deserve what was to come. But River could have no mercy now.

Silently his blade slid across the pilot’s throat and River pushed him aside to gurgle his last onto the deck. Grabbing the wheel firmly he spun it hard, directing the ship straight into the artillery boat it had come to supply.

Men shouted in panic as the ship veered sharply, but in the dark no one could see what had happened to the pilot at his wheel. A barrel rolled across the deck as the ship listed violently in the water. More shouting pealed out in the night as the crew of the artillery vessel realised they were about to be rammed.

‘What’s going on?’ shouted a voice close by, and River saw it was the first mate he had spoken to so recently. A blade slipped between the man’s ribs and River grasped him as he fell, lowering his body to the deck as he gasped blood into punctured lungs. Looking up he saw the prow of the ship had almost met its target, moving closer in what would be the most brutal of kisses.

‘Brace yourselves!’ someone yelled in the dark, but River ignored him, moving towards the prow.

The ship lurched as it smashed into the artillery vessel. Men cried out as they were thrown across the deck. River moved fast, feeling himself propelled forward, but his footsteps were sure as he broke into a run. Aboard the artillery ship men began shouting in panic as the braziers they had stoked so high spilled hot coals at their feet and the trebuchet on deck lurched violently, though it did not spill its already burning missile.

River leapt from the crumpled prow and onto the artillery ship’s deck. A mariner glared at him as he landed and made to speak, but River silenced him with a deft cut to the throat.

As River surveyed the scene of panic and confusion, the artillery ship slewed in the water, turning on its axis to face along the row of other ships which had been bombarding the city these past days. He darted to the trebuchet and sliced the rope securing the twenty-foot throwing-arm to its frame. The counterweight swung down with a creak of wood, sending its flaming load soaring along the row of ships. River barely noticed as the missile smashed into one of the artillery vessels further down the row, exploding in a shower of burning debris.

Fiery embers still glowed on the deck of the ship and River raced to an open barrel of pitch, kicking it over and spilling it onto the waiting coals. Flames took immediately, spreading across the deck in a pool of molten fire, and he heard men crying out in panic all around him.

‘What are you doing, you fu-?’ River spun and silenced his would-be assailant with two swift slashes of his blades.

By now the two ships were in disarray, locked together and burning in the night as men rushed around in panic. River went unseen as he made his way to the gunwale, sheathed his weapons and dived into the black waters.

The cold engulfed him, but River fought against the shock of it as it threatened to freeze his extremities. He swam further into the dark, every powerful stroke pulling him towards the city. As the ships burned behind him all he focused on was the distant shore, moving through the water like a fish against the current . By the time he reached the quayside that ran in a great arc around the bay, the conflagration on the far-off ships had risen into a pyre.

River pulled himself from the water and breathed deep. The swim had been hard, he was already shivering and could barely feel the tips of his fingers. As he glanced up to the burned walls of Steelhaven, he knew the climb would be harder. Steam drifted from the charred walls — the result of days of bombardment. At least now, as the artillery ships recovered from the damage he had inflicted, their attack would abate … for a while.

Still feeling the cold numbing his limbs, River found a handhold in the blackened wall of the city and began his climb.

The sun had gone down leaving a blank, starless sky, but there was so much light from both within and without the city that Waylian could see almost clear as day. On the flat plain the Khurtas waited, torches burning bright as they bayed to the hidden moon in their grim foreign tongue.

Waylian had to admit, it scared the shit out of him.

The scores of magisters that surrounded him did nothing to ease his rising panic. They were the most powerful magickers in all the Free States, gathered in one place to do battle, but Waylian could not see how they would ever defeat the overwhelming number of savages waiting to swarm over the curtain wall.

The Wyvern Guard had gone out to greet them. Waylian didn’t really know what he’d been expecting — for them all to get slaughtered, more than likely. They’d trotted forward in a row, defiantly facing the thousands, just sitting there until the Lord Marshal had given his order to attack. Only two riders galloped forward to face the horde, though, and they’d both come back alive and with a standard of the Free States as their prize. It looked impressive enough, and had shown the Khurtas weren’t the indomitable force everyone thought.