Richard Ford - Lord of Ashes

Kaira had accused him of theft, and that much was true, at least. But he was not fleeing the palace with money from the coffers; he was merely taking it to pay Rogan and his Inquisition agents who had been so instrumental in ensuring his schemes were seen through to fruition. Better that she thought him the common thief. Had she thought him guilty of treason then he would be dead already.

Durket made his way down through the palace. With any luck the archer he had sent to the western extent of the city would have sent the signal without incident. Hopefully he was more capable than Durket’s other collaborators.

Leon Magrida had proven to be incompetent beyond words. But then he had been glamoured by Elharim magicks in order to guarantee his loyalty. That in itself had made him unpredictable. In the end he had succumbed to the madness of it all, but at least Durket’s involvement had remained a secret.

Rogan had also proven difficult to the end. It had taken the promise of considerable riches to turn him. But at least Rogan had already served his purpose. He had been the one to persuade the Matron Mother to keep her Shieldmaidens in check within the Temple of Autumn. It had been a job he was uniquely suited to. Besides, when all this was over and Amon Tugha gone, Durket would need someone suitable to act as regent. Rogan would have to be that someone. There was no way Durket was about to peek out from behind his curtain and put himself in the frame. Staying in the background had served him well enough so far. Why change now?

Durket passed a window. In the distance he could just see over the western wall. Beyond it would be Khurtas hard at work in the Old City, burrowing underground. They should have reached the entrance by now. There were forgotten tunnels into the city of Steelhaven, secret ways that only Durket knew of. Those secret ways would see an end to all this.

He walked into the lower chapel, where years before the Old Gods had been worshipped before the veneration of Arlor and Vorena. This place was ancient, older even than the Temple of Autumn.

The thought of that brought a smile to his face. The Temple of Autumn was the key to all this. It was where he had planted his earliest seed. Where the corruption within its organisation had allowed Durket to weave his plans. It was where the queen would meet her end.

He felt no guilt at that — she had always despised him and he knew it. She was a child — weak, inexperienced. This had all been inevitable.

Durket moved to a sconce in the wall, removing one of the torches and twisting the stanchion. There was a click of stone on stone, a grinding of gears as three slabs on the floor twisted out of place revealing a staircase winding downwards. Stale air billowed from the dark and Durket took a breath. This was it, his big gamble. He was bargaining his life on this, trusting to the word of his kingdom’s enemy. But with the greatest risk came the greatest reward.

He held the torch before him to light the way as he gingerly walked down. The stairs wound to a passage at the bottom, wide enough so that five men could walk abreast. As Durket moved along it the torch lit up ancient murals on the walls; scenes of age-old heroes battling daemons, forgotten kings, fabled swords and suchlike. Durket had never put much store by legends but he knew daemons were real enough. There was one waiting for him at the end of this passage.

And there are the ones in your mind, Arun. The ones left there by Dravos. Horas is watching you always …

Durket shook his head, a bead of sweat running down his face as he did so. At the end of the corridor stood a massive door. Beside it a wheel, rusted and crusted with dirt and dust. He laid the torch down, staring at the wheel. This was a job for a much stronger man. Perhaps he should have brought someone with him … but then again perhaps not. There were already enough people who knew his aims and goals. Too many people with whom he had shared so much. This was his task and his alone.

He laid the torch on the dusty ground and grasped the wheel. As he suspected, it would not turn immediately as he applied more and more pressure. The sharp edges of the rusted metal dug into his palms and he gritted his teeth against the pain. The single bead of sweat on his brow was joined by a host of others as he strained, a high-pitched sound issuing from inside him as he exerted himself. Just as he thought he would have to give up, the wheel moved by an inch. Buoyed by his progress, Durket strained against the wheel once more, the noise from inside him turning from squeal to grunt to roar. As he screamed at the top of his lungs the wheel turned and the doors at the end of the corridor began to open.

Cold air rushed through the gap, filling the tunnel. Durket felt the moisture on his brow go cold as the wheel seemed to loosen. Vigorously he turned it, encouraged as the doors widened revealing the chill blackness beyond.

When his labours were over and the door stood wide, Durket picked up the torch and stood waiting. His breath came heavy as he stared into the dark. There was no sign of anyone beyond the doorway and he began to wonder if the Khurtas had seen his signal. Perhaps his archer had failed, or been killed before he could fire his burning arrow. Perhaps the diggers had not been vigorous enough in their work and needed more time. They had, after all, been given the task of unearthing a passageway from the Old City not revealed for centuries.

Just as he began to think his efforts had been for nothing, eyes suddenly peered at him from the shadows. Two pools of red coming closer as he watched. Then a second pair.

Durket began to shake. He had expected to be afraid, but he had not anticipated this.

The eyes came closer, moving like disembodied specks of fire until they reached the threshold of the doorway. They stopped, regarding him from the dark for untold moments. Then there was a growl, a noise that filled him with dread. It was followed by a clawed foot stepping out into the torchlight. A head; a hound’s head, huge and feral, appeared from the dark, glaring at him all the while. Its twin followed, the two huge dogs moving towards him with measured care.

He could feel his legs shaking, his lip quivering, but he did not move. Arun Durket was not a brave man but still he stood as those beasts advanced on him. Was he paralysed with fear? Or was this the fabled magicks of the Elharim he had heard so much about? Whatever the reason, he did not move as one of the hounds stalked right up to him, nose twitching, throat emitting its low growl all the while.

It sniffed at his leg, snout pulling back to reveal huge teeth that could have torn the head from his shoulders with ease.

‘Sul!’

The voice echoed from beyond the doorway and Durket flinched, making a pitiful sound as he did so. To his relief the hound backed off, keeping its eyes on him all the while, but Durket was no longer concerned with animals. There was a creature much more terrible to be feared.

Amon Tugha walked from the dark, his eyes shining gold, brighter than the red of his war hounds. He regarded Durket as a butcher might look at a slab of meat. The huge spear he carried across one shoulder looked keen enough to slice Durket in two. All of a sudden having his throat ripped out didn’t seem such a fearsome prospect.

More figures moved from the dark. Khurtas, painted and scarred, their bodies lean, their weapons drawn. They filed past Durket on either side, ignoring the Chancellor as though he weren’t there. All he could do was stare up into those golden eyes, too fearful to move or make a sound.

Amon Tugha said no words, merely waited for his warriors to stalk up the passage towards the chapel before he himself moved on, his hounds following in his wake.

Arun Durket was left alone in the cold tunnel, the torch sputtering pitifully in the dark. It took him some time to realise that warm piss was running down his leg.