Richard Ford - Lord of Ashes

Essen, Shirl and Harkas were sat at a table. Surrounding them were other lads — lads from the Guild, from other crews, from Bastian’s retinue and half a dozen other gangs she’d seen before. They were all arguing, the noise cutting through the silence of the tavern and ruining what might otherwise have been a fairly pleasant morning.

None of them knew what to do, where to go, who to see about what was next. Rag had a notion they weren’t gonna get no joy any time soon, since Bastian was a half-eaten lump of flesh and bone.

It’s now or never, Rag. Cut and run or step the fuck up.

She glanced at Harkas. At Shirl and Essen. At Migs and Chirpy, who ran forward when they saw Tidge alive and well.

Fuck it, you’ll probably only get one crack at this anyway.

Rag climbed up onto the bar and grabbed the old tavern bell. She’d never heard it rung — no one had ever needed to before — but she grabbed the rope anyway and smashed the clapper against the bell.

The tavern fell silent, all eyes on her.

‘Bastian’s dead,’ she announced. Immediately the place went up again, lads bickering, panicking and the like. Rag rang that bell one more time, this time longer and louder, making sure she had everyone’s attention.

Then she smiled.

It was the smile she’d given Friedrik, the smile she’d given Harkas and Bastian. A smile that had kept her alive when she should, by all rights, have been a corpse in the ground. A smile she knew she’d have to start using pretty often from now on.

‘Don’t worry yourselves, lads,’ she said. ‘I’ve got an idea …’

He’d found a discarded cloak in the wreckage of the battlefield, which now flapped around him in the stiff morning breeze. Regulus could smell blood in his nostrils, the rotting dead, dying embers. Sorrow. In all his dreams of glorious victory, this had been in none of them.

The enemy was gone at least, fled north from where they had come. The fell beasts that had risen to attack them had also gone back to the pit, dragged back to Hel by sorceries beyond Regulus’ understanding. Word had also reached him that the great warlord Amon Tugha was dead, but then so was the city’s valiant queen.

They were not the only ones. The dead lay all around. It was as though the city harboured more corpses than those left to tend them. Here and there a funeral pyre had been built and in the distance, to the north of the city, Regulus could see graves being dug.

As for the city — where before had stood unparalleled magnificence, now stood a shell. Burned and crumbling edifices. Fallen monuments. This place was a giant cairn, silent and brooding in its victory. Regulus knew he had no place here, if he ever had in the first place.

There was only one thing he had to do before he left. A debt he was determined to pay.

He walked down from the battlements to the huge breach in the wall. The dead lay scattered all about here. Regulus wondered if anyone would even remember their names. There were names he would never forget — Kazul, Hagama, Leandran, Akkula. His warriors. Men he had lived beside, grown beside, and who had ultimately died for the glory of the Gor’tana.

Should it have been he who died in their place? Would it not have been more fitting for him to fall in battle alongside them? That shame would shape itself in its own way. Time would tell if the guilt of their deaths, and of his survival, would weigh on him. For now Regulus had to look to the living.

Beneath the rubble the soft earth was churned up all around. The rain the night before had made it all but impossible to discern any tracks in the mud. Still Regulus walked the battleground, his eyes scanning for a sign, his nose keen to the scent he was searching for. Before long he found it lying discarded; dented and useless in the dirt.

Regulus knelt and picked up the black helm, turning it over in his hands. He glanced about, scanning the bodies that lay fallen all around, but of Nobul Jacks’ corpse there was no trace. As he searched he saw there was something else, nearer to the breach in the wall. Regulus dropped the helmet and moved towards it. Half buried in the soft earth was the hammer, lying there like some ancient weapon lost for a hundred years. He grasped the handle and wrenched it from the ground, wiping away the dirt to reveal the intricate carving on shaft and head.

Nobul Jacks was not here. Perhaps he was dead … somewhere … but not on this field.

Regulus looked to the north. The life debt of the Zatani was a holy vow, an ancient pledge that could not be broken. Nobul Jacks may well have perished, but Regulus Gor’s debt to him would not be satisfied until he knew for sure.

Securing the hammer within his cloak, Regulus stepped through the breach, out onto the devastated plain north of Steelhaven, and began his search.

It was a big old fire, that was for sure. Merrick had never seen its like — the Wyvern Guard had given the old boy the best send-off they could have.

The Lord Marshal lay in full armour, but without his magnificent winged helm. Jared held onto that under one arm as he watched with tears in his eyes. He also held onto the Bludsdottr , the sword Merrick’s father had forced him to take during the last battle.

Most of the previous night had gone by in a haze. Merrick remembered taking up the weapon, remembered the Khurtas, remembered the ghouls. After that he had no idea what happened until they’d had to prise the sword from his hands while he screamed blue murder at the sky. His armour was still covered in gore, but cleaning it didn’t seem to matter right now.

When he’d heard about Janessa his heart had sunk. Merrick had almost died to save her once, but perhaps it had been destined to end this way from the start. The girl had been doomed, that much was clear now, but Merrick was determined not to cry about it.

Because you’re a changed man, Ryder. Made from mountain rock — all iron and blood and the rest of that shit your father spewed. You’re beginning to believe his lies almost as surely as you’ve grown to believe your own.

The stench from a hundred fires was beginning to turn Merrick’s stomach. Burning pork, though none of it he’d want to eat. Didn’t stop the gurgling inside, though. It reminded him he was hungry, though he had no intention of eating anything until he was bloody miles away from here.

Still, he supposed he’d have to stand and watch as they burned the rest of their dead. Of the three hundred men who’d come down from the Kriega Mountains, now remained only thirty-seven. They stood in silence, no more boisterous talk, all solemn observance as they watched their dead burn. It had been a hard-won victory, but a victory nonetheless, though none of them felt like celebrating, Merrick least of all.

As the day wore on and the fires died, Jared gathered them all in one of the Northgate squares. Earlier in the day it had been piled high with bodies but the burial teams had done their jobs efficiently enough that it was almost empty. The thirty-seven Wyvern Guard stood awaiting the word of the Lord Marshal’s second as he clutched that sword and that mighty helm.

‘Our day is won, boys,’ said Jared, with little joy in his voice. ‘It’s what we were born for, and there’s something to be proud of in what we’ve done. Might not feel like it now, but that’s the truth.’ Merrick could see some of the lads nodding their agreement, others just staring, faces still covered in blood and dirt. ‘We’ll be on our way back north soon enough to wait for the next call. Might not be for years, some of you might be old men by the time we’re needed again. But before we go there’s a decision to be made. One that can’t wait.’