Richard Ford - Lord of Ashes

Bastian was smiling now. ‘Let me get this straight, Platt. You mean to tell me a dozen of my dirtiest, meanest killers were done over by a bunch of fucking kids?’

The Greencoat held his hands up, trying to take a step away. ‘I … I’m only saying what I saw. I swear it.’

Everyone was looking at the fella now, and Rag could sense they were wondering whether or not to shove their knives in him. She took her chance, stealing into the room, sticking to the wall where there was still shadows.

‘What you saw?’ said Bastian, as Rag skirted the edge of the room. There were crates and sacks in the way containing gods knew what but she wasn’t here for no loot. ‘Or what you want us to think you saw?’

Rag peered round the edge of a wooden box and her heart leapt. Sitting there like it was the most normal thing in the world was Tidge. He was listening to proceedings with a bored look on his face.

‘Why would I make something like that up, Mister Bastian?’ said the Greencoat with a hint more desperation in his voice. Rag waved over at Tidge, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Bastian was silent, as though he were contemplating whether now was a good time to kill the Greencoat. Then one of his men leaned over and whispered something in his ear.

Rag waved at Tidge again. This time he noticed, but didn’t jump or make a sound. Good lad, that Tidge. Lot brighter than he looked.

‘You’re right,’ Bastian said. ‘We do know someone who fits that description.’ Something rumbled overhead, like a storm had just hit right on top of the cave they were in. ‘Don’t we, Rag?’

She froze. Tidge froze too, just staring at her. That was it, she knew there was no point creeping around any more, and slowly she stood up from behind the crate.

‘Come to save your little friend?’ Bastian said, just before there was another rumble. Part of the roof crumbled, dropping to the floor, though no one seemed to notice but Rag.

‘What do you fucking think?’ she said defiantly.

‘I think you’ve come to get bloody gutted,’ Bastian spat between his clenched teeth, signalling to one of his men with a bony hand.

Bastian’s henchman slowly pulled a long dagger from his belt as the cave rumbled once more.

Rag came out from behind the crates, holding an arm out to Tidge. He moved towards her, taking her hand.

‘You let him go,’ she said. ‘He ain’t done nothing to you. He’s no part of it.’

Bastian’s lips curled back in a leer that almost made her sick. ‘It’s not him you should be worried about. It’s y-’

The whole cave suddenly rocked. Bastian was almost knocked off his feet and the other blokes dropped down, covering their heads as the ceiling collapsed here and there.

Rag weren’t about to hang around and wait for Bastian to finish his sentence and she tightened her grip on Tidge’s hand before dragging him towards the exit. The rumbling calmed down as she ran into the dark and she could hear Bastian and his men coming behind, shouting at her and at one another.

As she ran she heard something through the corridor. It was a screech like she’d never heard before; seeming to carry with it all the fear she’d ever known in that one horrible noise. It echoed through the tunnels so loud Rag had no idea which way it had come from.

‘What the fuck was that?’ Tidge said in his little voice. Rag would have felt sorry for him if she hadn’t been so shit scared herself.

‘No idea,’ she replied. ‘And we’re not gonna be down here long enough to find out.’

As she dragged him further through the tunnel she could only hope she wasn’t lying about that.

Endellion watched beside Amon Tugha. He stood in silence, observing the assault from a distance, watching his Khurtas die by the thousand. The main gate to the city was smashed and artillery had blown a massive breach in the wall further to the east, but the warriors of Steelhaven defended it valiantly. She was almost moved by their sacrifice — surrender would have been the more rational response. If Endellion had learned one thing, these southrons were far from rational.

To the west of the city something caught her eye. A single flaming arrow was fired out across the river, soaring far over the derelict city that sat beside the new one like a corpse. It seemed strange; there were no Khurtas attacking from that side of the city, nothing that would require a flaming arrow to see.

Endellion might have dismissed it as a stray shot if Amon Tugha hadn’t smiled beside her. His grin was wide, his expression almost gleeful.

‘It is time,’ he said, turning and heading back towards the camp.

Waiting for him was an honour guard of Khurtas. His best — warriors gathered from each of the eight tribes. The last surviving war chief, Stirgor Cairnmaker, also stood waiting. His demeanour was as arrogant as ever, hands resting on the sword and axe at his hips. His men, lean hunters all, warriors rather than savage fanatics, stood with him awaiting their orders.

‘When the wall is finally breached,’ said Amon to his one remaining general, ‘you will head the final attack. You may take whatever spoils you wish.’

Stirgor smiled. ‘There is only one prize I want. Wolkan and Brulmak were foolish to face him so brazenly. He’ll not find me so rash.’

Endellion knew who he was referring to. The Cairnmaker earned much wealth and praise for his fighters in the Khurtic blood pits. Within the walls of Steelhaven was a warrior who would earn him renown throughout the steppes, if he survived long enough.

Amon turned to Endellion. ‘You will join Stirgor in the final attack. It should be enough to slake your thirst for slaughter, my sister.’

Endellion nodded her reply, keeping her tongue firmly in check. She could only bristle at his words — at his expectation that now, after everything, after she had lost Azreal, that she would fling herself into the fray and give her life for the glory of Amon Tugha.

The warlord whistled and his hounds, Sul and Astur, were at his heel in an instant, their noses twitching at the prospect of being unleashed. Even they sensed the end.

Amon took up his spear and moved south towards the city, his warriors at his heels.

Endellion could only watch him go, half hoping that he was killed, or at the least that she never saw him again. The other half of her was envious of the slaughter, of the glory he would attain when he killed the southron queen and crushed her crown beneath his heel. A crown he had come south to claim. A crown that had cost the lives of countless minions and of the one man she would have gifted her soul to had he but asked.

She glanced over to where they had buried Azreal. He would be left here to rot under the cold ground, and for what? For the exaltation of Amon Tugha. His life wasted along with so many others.

Perhaps she should race into the city alongside Stirgor. Perhaps she should hunt down the black-armoured daemon who had slain Azreal and avenge herself.

And what would be the point in that? You will most likely be killed and even if not, even if you are victorious, Azreal will still be dead.

She had been a fool to come here. A fool to follow the prince. It had all seemed so simple, so valiant, so idealistic. But Amon Tugha had turned out to be far from the hero she had thought. He was selfish, arrogant, quite possibly mad. He had risked them all for this folly and now, on the corpses of his followers, he was about to claim his final victory.

And you would allow that? You would stand and watch as he destroys this southron queen and her city for his own glory? Or perhaps you simply don’t care?

Endellion turned back towards the camp as Stirgor and his men checked their weapons, readying themselves for the final assault. None of them even acknowledged her as she moved northwards, passing the wounded and slain, picking her way past the embers of forgotten fires, past empty tents, their owners dead and rotting. As she reached the centre of the camp she saw him still waiting. But then where else would he be, tied as he was to that wooden frame?