Lord of Ashes

FIFTY-FIVE

Waylian stood amidst the ruins. The top half of the Tower of Magisters was still mostly intact, laid out across Northgate like the head of some vast wyrm. Entire streets had been crushed beneath its fall. The base was only rubble; a mess of immense stones and timber. The symbolism was not lost on Waylian — along with the death of the tower had also come the death of the Caste. The magisters of Steelhaven were no more. All that remained was a disparate group of casters with scarcely the strength or resources to rebuild a shed.

Drennan Folds had died on the final night, a single arrow piercing his eye — whether the blue or the white Waylian had no idea. Likewise Crannock Marghil had fallen during the night, though details of his demise were not forthcoming. The Raven Knights had been all but wiped out; a handful even now searched through the wreckage of the tower, for what Waylian had no clue. He almost smiled as he watched them — ravens picking through the detritus of battle.

Waylian moved away from the dead tower. All he could wonder was, what next? The queen was dead, the city wounded, perhaps beyond recovery. Where was his place now?

You could always go back to Groffham. Back to your mother and father. Back to the safety of anonymity. Back to the quiet security of an ordinary life. You are beholden to no one now. There is no Red Witch to taunt you any more.

He felt the sudden wrench of his gut at the thought of her. Gelredida had been a constant bane, and treated him no better than a dog. And in the end she had sacrificed herself to rescue the city, putting ultimate trust in him to save Steelhaven if her gamble turned out to be folly.

And you did not let her down, Grimm. You lived up to every task. You made her proud.

Waylian smiled. He knew it was odd, standing amidst the dust and rubble of a city destroyed, smiling to himself like a bloody loon. But there was still victory in this devastation. They had won. They had defeated their enemy despite the cost and the Free States would endure. The people of this city would rise again, no matter what they had suffered. The only question was whether Waylian would stay here to help.

The remnants of the city’s Caste sat in what used to be the gardens that surrounded the base of the Tower of Magisters. Waylian walked past an old man mumbling to himself, his robe burned and tattered, though the flesh beneath seemed undamaged. He ignored Waylian as he chuntered to himself, seemingly trying to solve a flood of equations as they ran through his head. Whether he’d been of sound mind before the siege, or if his efforts in repelling the Khurtas had driven him insane, was impossible to tell.

A group of apprentices sat on a stone bench some yards away. A young boy gently wept on the lap of the girl next to him. Both were flanked by older, yet no less traumatised youths, who sat staring blankly at the crushed and singed foliage that lay strewn around them. Waylian was sure he recognised them, but not well enough to strike up a conversation. Besides, they looked as though they were best left to their own devices.

Here and there magisters tended to one another, rubbing salves into wounds or bandaging limbs. None of them used any magick, as though the efforts of the last days had expended all their energies. More likely the consequences of tapping the Veil so rigorously over the past days were yet to manifest. Any further use of the Art would likely have dire effects. Everyone was fearful of what the ultimate consequences might be and Waylian could hardly blame them. After what he had felt and experienced on the roof of the Chapel of Ghouls he doubted he would ever want to dabble in the Arts again. Only time would test his courage.

A figure came to stand beside Waylian as he watched the sad scene, heralded by the crunch of gravel beneath shoes. Aldrich Mundy adjusted his spectacles, one lens cracked, the frame bent awkwardly. Waylian expected him to speak in his usual babble of verbosity, but Mundy didn’t say a word, as though even he recognised the need for solemn silence. It wasn’t long before Waylian could stand the discomfort no longer.

‘What now, do you think?’ he asked, preferring Aldrich’s doubtlessly obtuse opinion to his silence.

‘Now we rebuild,’ Mundy replied.

Waylian waited for more, but there was nothing. Aldrich just stared at the gathered magisters with an expression Waylian couldn’t read.

Perhaps Aldrich was right. Perhaps this was a time to rebuild. To make the tower anew, to forge the Caste in a fresh image. Waylian began to believe that was something he might be able to stay and help with, but when he saw who was approaching down a gravel path to the east, he suddenly changed his mind.

Lucen Kalvor walked towards the clearing flanked by two Raven Knights. As the last surviving Archmaster he was the surrogate head of the magisters. It was still unclear whether he knew about Waylian’s part in his blackmail. Perhaps he had no idea. Perhaps he was biding his time before he sought vengeance. As the Archmaster approached, Waylian knew he’d be a fool to stay and find out.

Kalvor stood amidst the burned topiary, flanked by his honour guard, and considered the sorry collection of magisters surrounding him.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Friends.’ At that word his eyes locked on Waylian. It was obvious from that look he was not, nor ever would be, a friend to Waylian Grimm. Perhaps, despite all the work there was to do, this was the time for Waylian to bow out gracefully.

As Kalvor addressed his remaining magisters, telling them what the future had in store, Waylian slipped from the gardens, making his way north through the city.

It was obvious there was little here for him now, but was he ready to return to the relative safety of Groffham?

Don’t be ridiculous, Grimm. You were never going to do that in a million years. Gelredida saw something in you; it would be an insult to her memory for you to waste it.

Waylian smiled as he made his way north. There was a world out there, a kingdom that might be about to sink into turmoil. The Free States would need all the heroes it could get.

Besides, Rembram Thule might be out there somewhere, scheming his schemes of domination. There had been no body, smashed and broken, at the base of the Chapel of Ghouls. It was more likely he had escaped death once again and now roamed free, ready to bring about the end of days.

And who else would stop him if not Waylian Grimm?