Lord of Ashes

TWENTY-NINE

She sat all night by his side. The battle had raged on but Endellion barely even noticed. The Khurtas came limping back from the gates of Steelhaven once more, walking past her in sullen silence, and still she had paid them no mind. Even when the sun rose, bathing her and Azreal in a light that bore little warmth, she scarcely even raised her head.

Endellion shed no tears from her golden eyes. The Arc Magna did not weep over their dead. Let the southrons weep over their losses. Let everyone in that city weep as it was torn down around them. Let the dark giants she and Azreal had fought weep until the gates of Oblivion opened in honour of the vengeance she would have.

When she and Azreal had walked through the smashed gateway she had expected to meet little resistance. All that should have waited were broken men fighting with little heart in the face of such overwhelming odds. She could only regret her complacency. What they had faced were beasts, not men. Creatures of the southern deserts; half-men, monsters. Her shoulder still stung where she had been clawed. She should have sought attention in case it became infected but Endellion wanted none. The scars that were left would serve to show the folly of her ways. How foolish she had been to follow Amon Tugha, to obey him without question, to think that Steelhaven would be so easily conquered.

Endellion stared down at the body in front of her. Azreal’s eyes were closed. His throat lay open, the blood having congealed into a torn and fleshy mess. She should have covered it up, it was wrong to see him like this, but she also needed to remember. Above all she needed the hurt to burn inside her, to remain within her heart until she had a chance to avenge him.

She had loved Azreal, that much was obvious now. For a century or more she had yearned for him to be hers. Had followed him wherever he led, but never let him know what lay in her heart. That was not her way, nor that of the Arc Magna. She had lived her life by the tenets of her creed and enjoyed all the pleasures it allowed, but she would have given it all up for Azreal. He would have given up nothing for her, though. He was loyal to the end and had ultimately given his life for his master.

Endellion knew now that she would never do the same.

This was all for the glory of Amon Tugha. He would sacrifice them all, every last one of his followers, to attain his goal. And what was that? Glory? Vengeance? To prove to himself he was worthy of his mother’s crown?

It had seemed so simple at first, it had been an adventure. One Endellion had embarked on with her usual hunger. She had finally been freed of the Riverlands and its stifling edicts. Now, so long after they had embarked on their journey, it seemed like madness to have ever left. In the cold light of morning she would have given anything to be back in her homeland with Azreal at her side.

A shadow fell over her but she ignored it, continuing to stare at Azreal’s face and the wound in his neck.

‘Our prince demands your presence,’ said a voice. Endellion thought she recognised it, though most of these Khurtas sounded the same. She didn’t reply, allowing nothing to sway her from her vigil. Let Amon Tugha demand what he pleased. She was done with him.

Still the Khurta stood behind her. She could sense his unease.

‘Please, we must go to him.’

Endellion continued to kneel beside Azreal, trying to remember what had been between them. What could have been had she told him all that lay in her heart.

The Khurta placed a hand on her shoulder.

‘The prince will be angered if you do not-’

Endellion’s blade was out of its sheath and buried in his gut before the Khurta could finish his sentence. She glared at him as he looked back at her with surprise, then fear. When he slumped to the ground before her she recognised him — one of her lovers. He had been a favourite; energetic, vigorous. As he fell dead she realised she had never even known his name.

Once the Khurta had breathed his last she knelt beside Azreal once more, not bothering to retrieve her sword from the corpse. Not caring any more if she raised her blade again. Endellion simply stared, the cold seeping through her clothes and chilling her to her core.

There was no telling how long she knelt until another shadow eventually fell over her. She felt herself anger again, reaching for her blade, but it wasn’t there, still buried as it was in the Khurta’s corpse. Slowly she turned her head, hoping to frighten away any more of Amon Tugha’s lapdogs before she had to kill them too, but standing behind her was no Khurta.

‘A sad day,’ said Amon Tugha. ‘A black day I will never forget. Azreal was my most faithful. He will be sorely missed.’

And not only by you, she wanted to say. You will forget him in time as your thirst for power grows, but I will never forget.

Endellion said nothing. Despite her grief, she had no desire to join Azreal in Oblivion.

‘Come,’ said Amon Tugha, walking towards the city. He paid no heed to the fresh cadaver Endellion had made but merely walked by as though she had crushed an ant rather than one of his Khurtic warriors. Perhaps he did understand her grief after all. Or perhaps he simply didn’t care for the lives of those beneath him.

Endellion plucked her blade from the corpse as she walked by, wiping the blood from it onto her sleeve. As she placed it back in her scabbard she felt the sting of the wound in her shoulder again. The lacerations had stopped bleeding, her Elharim blood having long since clotted, but still the pain was there. A reminder that she was not immortal, perhaps? A reminder that any of them could be killed … even Amon Tugha.

And yet he walked ahead of her, through the plain filled with bodies. He walked without fear, as though nothing could touch him, as though they could fling all the rocks and arrows and fire from the walls of Steelhaven and it would pass him by as though he were a ghost.

For a fleeting moment she considered drawing her blade. Considered thrusting it into his broad, scorched and tattooed back and into his heart to prove he was just a man. In an instant that thought was gone, though. As hate filled as she was, as grief stricken as she felt, she had no desire to die. Not here on this southern plain, far from her homeland.

The two Elharim picked their way towards the city and in the cold light of day Endellion could see the havoc the Khurtas had wreaked. The battlements of the city were smashed and blackened. Here and there men cowered in the gaps. At the foot of the wall bodies were piled high amongst the debris. Arrows peppered the field to the north; burned siege towers and the husks of artillery weapons stood all about. The smell of burned wood and flesh was vile, but it was nothing she had not experienced before. Nothing she had not taken pleasure in. She took no pleasure in it now.

Amon Tugha stopped within a hundred yards of the wall. Endellion could see archers scrambling into position, levelling their bows as though the Elharim prince might try to besiege the city single-handed, overcoming the city’s defences where his Khurtas had failed. Instead he merely stood and waited, watching as word of his arrival passed from one end of the battlements to the other.

When a large enough crowd had amassed on the smashed walls Amon Tugha drew in a deep and cleansing breath.

‘Warriors of Steelhaven,’ he bellowed, that deep voice ringing out across the plain. ‘Sons and daughters of the Teutonian Free States.’ He spoke the word ‘Free’ with just a hint of disdain, as though it were misplaced and irrelevant. ‘You know who I am. You know what I have done.’ He paused then, as though waiting for some kind of answer, but Endellion knew there would be none. The southrons would listen in silence; that was their way. ‘You have been told I have come to slaughter. To destroy. To raze this city to ash and massacre all who cower here behind its walls.’ Again, another pause. Endellion expected at any moment for a volley of arrows to come their way, but nothing did. Every man looked down in awe at Amon Tugha, most of them seeing for the first time what they faced — not a man, but a god.

‘Lies!’ spat Amon. His fists were clenched now, his eyes scanning the wall as though searching for someone to defy him, to call him deceiver, to question his word. If such a man existed he did not speak. ‘I have not come to destroy you. I have come to liberate you. To save you from your bondage. I would not hold you in thrall with lies. I would ask you to be loyal to no gods or flags. Dedicate fealty to me and you will be free men. All of you. This butchery can end. Your inevitable destruction will be averted. Your women and your children spared. I ask only one thing. That you give me your queen.’

For the first time the men on the wall began to grumble. Amon Tugha had obviously touched a nerve. It seemed they were as loyal to their queen as they were stubborn in defence of their city. It did not seem to faze Amon, though.

‘You have one night to consider my offer. Tomorrow there will be no chance of clemency. No mercy.’

With that he turned and made his way back to the Khurtic camp. Endellion expected jeers and insults to follow them but the southrons kept their uneasy silence.

‘You think they will betray her so easily?’ Endellion asked as they crested the ridge where Azreal still lay.

‘No,’ Amon Tugha replied, the trace of a smile playing across his broad mouth. ‘But word of my offer will reach the queen as surely as if I had whispered it in her ear. And who knows what she might do to save her city and her people.’