Richard Ford - Lord of Ashes

Merrick looked down at the blade and shook his head. ‘I can’t.’

‘You can. It’s yours. It was always meant to be yours. These men were always meant to be yours.’

Merrick looked up at Cormach. The Whoreson simply stared back, offering no words of advice, though Merrick knew he’d never get any from this bastard.

The blade looked big and heavy but it wasn’t its unwieldiness that filled Merrick with doubt. It symbolised the heart of the Wyvern Guard, only to be wielded by the Lord Marshal. Merrick was no leader of men; he had no right to it. The Wyvern Guard would never follow him. Not these warriors, tempered in battle and hate. Who was he but a drunken fop? How could he ever hope to lead knights?

‘I can’t,’ Merrick said again. ‘I’m not the man you want me to be. I never will be.’

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Cormach said, wresting the sword from Tannick’s weak grip. ‘I’ll fucking do it.’

Merrick looked up just as the shield wall broke. Three Khurtas burst through the defence, leaping over the corpses of fallen Wyvern Guard.

Cormach lifted the sword but stumbled as he did so. All his prowess seemed to leave him as he tried to swing the huge blade and he missed the first Khurta. The second hacked in as Cormach almost fell, the sword seeming to weigh him down as though he was lifting a tree trunk. An axe glanced off his arm and he dodged back, dropping the Bludsdottr to the ground. Jared rushed forward, doing his best to divert the assault, but he was outmatched by the three assailants and it was all he could do to stay on his feet.

Merrick stared down at the sword. His father was unable to speak now, his eyes staring, imploring. The Bludsdottr lay there, huge and cumbersome.

He could hear screaming. The last stand of the Wyvern Guard failing fast now its Lord Marshal was mortally wounded. Merrick stood amidst the confusion. Stepping towards the sword as the battle raged. Men fought and died, the rain pounding down all around them as he stopped and knelt, his hand closing around the handle …

The grip is bigger than any sword you have held but fits in your palm like it was made for you … because it was made for you. When the Bludsdottr was forged by Arlor himself it was gifted to a line of heroes — a line of kings — and now, after the centuries have passed and it has served men in battle for all that time, it is finally yours to wield.

Merrick lifted the blade as though it weighed nothing. Battle went on all around him but he was calm within the seething tempest.

Your blood, and the blood of your ancestors has been spilled in defence of this realm for more than a thousand years and this sword has served them all. It is yours and yours alone. It is part of you; your heart and your soul.

A body came screaming through the rain, an axe raised high. Merrick barely noticed it, but the Bludsdottr spun in his one hand, twisting through the rain as drops bounced off the blade. It cut the Khurta in half, his blood spattering Merrick’s bronze-armoured body.

It will serve you unto death, and afterwards it will serve the blood of your blood until the end of time.

No sooner had the first Khurta fallen than a second came, then a third. Merrick grasped the sword with two hands, feeling his blood course, pumping in his chest, thrumming in his ears. The blade spun again, arcing through the air, severing a head, then a leg.

The Wyvern Guard rallied, falling back to stand beside Merrick who stared out from a bloody face. The Khurtas stood aghast, wary now as Merrick looked back at them with clarity. His fugue was over, the sword in his hand having cast its spell. He knew its worth … he knew his worth.

But no number of magick swords would save what remained of the Wyvern Guard from the thousands arrayed against them.

Merrick smiled as they stood before the enemy. He wanted to speak, to spout some litany worthy of a hero, but for once he had no words. There was no way even he would fuck up this moment by opening his mouth. This time was sacred, he knew that now. To die with these men was an honour even he could not spurn.

Before Merrick could lead their final charge a howl cut the air. A cry of death that froze every man to the spot.

From the city came a swarm of daemons, spewing through the breach, out of the city like all the hells had just been opened.

As it came for them, Merrick Ryder raised his father’s blade and laughed.

From her vantage point on the bastion of the River Gate, Janessa watched again as the Khurtas attacked. She’d lost count of the number of men she’d seen slaughtered, the number of Khurtas cut down by volley fire. And still she watched.

Through the rain she watched as brave men died. She watched as the Khurtas attacked again and again. She watched as they flung themselves at the Steelhaven phalanx. Janessa Mastragall watched until she could watch no longer.

Now was the time to act. Now was the time to fight. All else had to be forgotten — all her pain and grief. All her past doubts. Even River, who she had last seen held prisoner by her most hated enemy. It all had to be forgotten as she led Steelhaven against its unstoppable foe.

A siege tower moved inexorably into view, peppered with arrows, looking like it had been hacked from a mountain of steel. There were barely half a dozen men to stand against it, but still they stood, ready to die to defend the city. Her city.

Janessa’s heels kicked her horse’s flanks as she loosed the reins. The Helsbayn rang from its scabbard as she galloped along the wall. Kaira cried something in her wake but Janessa paid it no mind. Men moved from her path in panic and arrows hissed past her bare head as she made her way towards the siege tower. The ramp fell with a metallic clank just as she reached it and the Khurtas within were unleashed, howling at the night.

The Helsbayn sang its reply.

Janessa felt the excitement of her first kill as the blade took a head from its shoulders. The thrill of that one small victory. A hunger began to burn as she swung again, taking another Khurtic life. Her steed bucked and snorted, its bulk knocking three of the enemy from the ramp. Janessa was screaming now, adding her own battle cry to the dirge. Blood splashed her armour and chin, matting the curls of her hair. She had no idea if any of it was hers but it mattered little to her now.

She turned to see Kaira watching from the saddle of her own horse, the sword in her hand slick with blood. Her eyes were wide with disbelief, but there was also pride. She said nothing, she didn’t need to. Janessa merely gave her a nod, which Kaira returned, and that one gesture meant everything; more than any words could ever convey.

You are a warrior queen now.

Janessa turned her attention back to the battle. All along the wall she could see the Khurtas swarming to attack. Even she knew that every man who stood against them would be slain if she did nothing.

She spurred her horse, riding it along the walkway, shouting at the top of her voice for her men to rally, to hearken to her call. Janessa held the Helsbayn aloft as she rode and saw every eye turn to her. As she rode past one of the wall’s bastions she plucked a flag bearing the Steelhaven coat of arms and raised it up. The flag was drenched from the rain and heavy in her grip but she held it out for all to see the crossed sword and crown emblazoned upon it.

‘Rally to the square,’ she cried. ‘Follow me.’

Janessa rode back down the stairway, her fleet horse managing to stay sure of foot on the slick surface. The open space had few defensible positions but at least her soldiers could form ranks. The Khurtas would be channelled, their numbers less overwhelming in the confines of the square.