Richard Ford - Lord of Ashes

When finally the Greencoats had ushered the last of the people from their homes and taken their place some distance away, a serjeant shouted for the order to fire.

Three trebuchets up on the wall had their payloads lit. Even from such a distance, Janessa could feel the heat as the oil went up in flames. At the pull of a lever the arm of the first trebuchet swung up, unleashing a fiery ball upon the Rafts. She could only watch as it soared through the night, smashing into the shacks in the distance. The first missile was closely followed by two more and within quick moments the Rafts was up in flames.

Janessa forced herself to witness the act. Seeing the fire consume part of her city, no matter how rundown that part was, twisted her insides.

You must let this feed you. You must put this loss with all the others and let it fuel the hate you have for Amon Tugha.

The trebuchets were swiftly reloaded and the serjeant shouted again. More fire in the sky. More flames rampaging through the Rafts.

A scream went up from below, quickly followed by another, and Janessa felt her heart stop. She had known they would never be able to clear the place out completely, at least not in time, but she had not thought to witness anyone’s death.

But she knew she must. What was it Odaka had said to her all those weeks ago? For every decision you make there will be consequences.

Another scream, so high-pitched Janessa wanted to cover her ears, but she didn’t. She stood and watched, hand still on the pommel of the Helsbayn, though it gave her little comfort now.

Someone came running from the burning wooden buildings still in flames, but they collapsed before they could reach the city. And still she watched, drinking it all in. Feeding on the pain and the hurt.

It took a full hour for the Rafts to burn, the rotten timbers finally collapsing into the Storway to be swept off into the sea along with anyone still trapped inside.

As she stared across the river towards the enemy beyond, Janessa vowed there would be a reckoning for this. Vowed she would not be ushered away to safety again while her city suffered. When the Khurtas attacked once more she would take the fight to them.

She didn’t speak as her Sentinels guided her back to Skyhelm. Her hand trembled at the reins and if she had spoken she might have betrayed some weakness, might have sobbed, might have given away some tremor in her voice.

When finally they got back, the palace seemed empty. Dead. And she stood helpless within it. The palace walls rose high and proud, its defenders fearless, but she knew they would be as nothing when the Khurtas came. There would be little they could do against the horde, even here in this place where she had felt safe all her life. But Janessa did not care. She did not fear the enemy, she only feared defeat.

‘The Khurtas are repelled,’ said a voice that echoed through the hall.

Janessa saw who it was and something soured in her mouth. Baroness Isabelle Magrida stood in all her glory, formal regalia glinting in the torchlight. She had foregone any jewellery, though, and her face was stern. Where her son Leon hid was anyone’s guess. Janessa could only hope he was cowering somewhere beneath his bed and would remain far from her sight.

How Janessa loathed this woman now. The Baroness had been given shelter here in the palace ever since the destruction of Dreldun. She and her son had accepted that shelter and shown their gratitude with nothing but arrogance and disdain. For a fleeting moment Janessa considered how satisfying it might be to turn the woman out into the cold and let the Khurtas deal with her, but quickly put the thought to the back of her mind. Besides, it was more likely the Khurtas would be the ones to suffer when faced with Isabelle Magrida.

‘Victory is ours, for the night,’ the Baroness continued. ‘The defenders of this city have acquitted themselves with honour and courage. You should be proud.’

Janessa could only stare. What was Isabelle after now? Was she goading her? If she was, Janessa was struggling to discern the barb, but from what she knew of the woman there had to be one somewhere.

‘I am proud,’ said Janessa. ‘Of them. Not of me.’

‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. There was little else you could do.’

‘No? Little I could do other than stand and watch as my city burns?’

‘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.’

Waylian’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-