Richard Ford - Lord of Ashes

Another flash of light, and this time Rag saw the Khurta had moved. He was standing right in front of her now, same blank expression but this time palm held out like he wanted her to pay some kind of toll.

With a shaking hand, Rag reached in her pocket and took out the rolled-up message. There was no doubt in her mind that handing it over was the wrong thing to do, but she’d be fucked if she was gonna try and double-cross Bastian now — not with this evil-looking bastard standing right next to her.

She pressed the paper into the Khurta’s hand and felt him take it from her. Another shot of fire brightened the night, and in that light Rag saw the Khurta had disappeared, leaving her and Yarrick wheezing and trying not to shit themselves.

‘Can we get the fuck out of here now?’ said Yarrick, not even trying to hide the fact he was almost crying like a baby.

‘Shit right we can,’ Rag replied, turning back towards the city and padding off as fast as her feet and the slick wooden boards would allow.

The pair of them made good time back through the Rafts. Rag didn’t give a damn about stealth now, she just wanted to be away from this place as fast as she could, and Yarrick certainly weren’t complaining neither.

They’d made it to about halfway back when Yarrick grabbed her shoulder.

‘What the fuck’s that?’ he asked, pointing up towards the wall that ran northwards.

Rag squinted through the gloom, seeing something glowing atop the battlements in the distance.

‘Fucked if I kn-’

A bright ball of flame catapulted from behind the wall before she could finish her sentence. It soared towards the Rafts, and was swiftly followed by a second and a third. Rag could only stand and watch in awe as the first ball of flame went over their heads, smashing into the shacks behind them and exploding in an inferno of light and heat.

It reminded her of the mess those ships had made of the southern half of the city, but this time it weren’t the enemy doing the burning.

‘What the fuck?’ shouted Yarrick, as the other two balls of fire smashed into the Rafts behind them, each one closer than the last.

‘Move,’ Rag yelled, not waiting to see if Yarrick had the sense to heed her warning.

Already there was more fire in the sky. Rag could feel the heat at her back — whatever they were using to burn the Rafts it was doing its job, and no mistake. Must have been oil in those burning missiles, and it didn’t take a magister to work out what would happen if they didn’t move sharpish.

She could feel the heat as more fire shot overhead. Sense the explosion rip through the shacks behind and the vibration of it shake the boards beneath her feet.

You need to move that arse of yours, or you’ll end up so much charred bone at the bottom of the Storway.

Another explosion ripped up the ground behind her, knocking her over. Rag’s head hit the hard wooden boards and she floundered for a moment, trying to regain her senses and get the fuck moving.

Something whined in her ears, something high-pitched that set her teeth on edge, and it wasn’t until she stumbled to her feet that she realised it was Yarrick.

He was on fire, just standing there screaming. Rag took a step towards him but thought better of it. Weren’t nothing she could do now anyway. She squinted, wanting to shut her eyes, but she forced herself to look as he dropped to his knees, the fire consuming him, burning hotter than the hells as the oil that had spilled all over him took flame. He tried to say something, maybe begging for her to help him, but she couldn’t quite make it out as he began to choke and writhe. Rag felt sick to her stomach as she watched on helpless.

You can’t stand around staring at this all night or you’ll be bloody next.

Feeling a short sting of guilt Rag dragged her eyes away, setting off at a run before another ball of fire made ashes out of her too.

Up ahead she could see other people running — those too stubborn or frail to leave the Rafts when they’d been told, now doing their best to avoid their fate. She stumbled past an old man, thinking for a moment that she should help him but then quickly reconsidering. Helping him would most likely have meant both of them dying. Besides, this was the Rafts. He weren’t living here because he was nice and kindly. This place had a reputation and there were plenty who’d say anyone burned to death here got what they deserved. Some might even say it was a fate she deserved for all the things she’d done.

Still, Rag wasn’t gonna hang around and accept it.

She could see the edge of the city now. See the gap in the wall. Not far, only a few more yards and she’d be safe.

Keep running.

Don’t look back.

The walkway to her right erupted in flame and Rag was knocked off her feet again. She could smell smouldering clothes and burning oil. The soles of her shoes were scorched, her hair smoking, but she wouldn’t go down that fucking easy. If she had to sprint back into the city a screaming, burning lantern she’d bloody well do it.

With the world on fire, Rag picked herself back up and ran.

The Helsbayn was heavy at Janessa’s side. For so long it had fuelled her like an elixir but now it felt like a burden, as though not drawing it and spilling Khurtic blood had made it sullen at her hip. She gripped the hilt, feeling the cold of it on her palm and through her fingers, and it seemed to make her equally as resentful that she had not wielded the blade in battle.

How many had died on the wall today? A thousand? Five? It hurt her that she couldn’t do more, but then she was a rallying figure. A shepherdess around which the defenders of the city must flock, must fight for, must believe in. There was no way she could be risked. But Janessa would not shy away from the fight. She was determined to face up to it like any warrior queen should.

‘The Rafts,’ she said, as she was guided back to the palace of Skyhelm.

The Sentinels surrounding her looked on in confusion. ‘Majesty,’ said one, ‘we must get you back to the palace. The bombardment from the south could mean the streets are-’

‘The Rafts,’ Janessa repeated. Even she knew there was strength in her voice. She had power now and none of her bodyguards would make her repeat herself a third time.

The Sentinels led the way to the south-western extent of the city. Much of it lay in ruins, blackened and burned by the bombardment raining in from the harbour. Janessa felt almost moved to tears but she knew no amount of weeping would repair the damage or bring back those who had been burned alive in the onslaught. Besides, there may well be many more dead before sunrise — how many tears could she shed before she ran dry?

As they reached the wall to the south-west of Steelhaven, Janessa could see the row of trebuchets were already waiting to begin their deluge. A steady stream of bedraggled folk were making their way north into the city, and sallow faces glanced her way as they moved past. Though she had done her best to unify her people in the face of the Khurtic attack, she knew there was no love here. These people were the lowest the city had to offer. She could only begin to imagine what they had suffered over the years and yet there was nothing she could offer them but the destruction of their homes.

She watched for some time, seeing those faces file past, knowing what was to come was necessary for the safety of the city. The enemy could so easily flood over the wooden bridge the Rafts provided. Its destruction was a necessary evil — yet another she would have to carry on her already overburdened shoulders. Janessa knew there was no choice in this and the more she watched her people walk to the relative safety of the city the less she was moved. There was no time for lamenting. The Khurtas had to be stopped.