Herald of the Storm

PROLOGUE

Massoum Abbasi hated the sea. The sickly salt smell and the incessant noise bothered him more than he could ever express. He was a Dravhistan nomad, a man of the desert, used to the silence of sand, a parched and arid landscape, and endless blue sky. Roiling cloud, clashing wave and screeching gull were alien to his experience, but Massoum was willing to endure this, for the reward was great indeed.

The fastest route from the Dravhistan port of Aluk Vadir to the cityport of Steelhaven was by ship, and so reluctantly Massoum had paid for his passage and embarked on his voyage. A man could suffer much for riches, they said, and Massoum had believed them, right up until the first storm hit. The Reigning Sceptre was almost entirely crewed by brash westerners who could laugh in the face of the lashing winds and the rumbling skies. Though the caravel was picked up and tossed from wave to towering wave, its crew went about their duties unaffected, as though it were routine.

For Massoum it felt as if the world was ending.

He had clung to the rigging for grim death, his fingers white from the fearsomeness of his grip and the chill of the storm winds. The robes he wore to pass himself off as a merchant were covered in vomit and his headscarf had blown away in the gale, exposing his long hair to the elements, but he cared little. Survival was all that mattered. And, of course, despite the raging torrent that threatened to fling him from the deck at any moment, he had survived.

But then, Massoum Abbasi was a born survivor — a man used to taking risks and claiming the consequent rewards. In the past his skills had been much sought after, his benefactors generous with their payments.

Abbasi had been trained in the differing philosophies of war by the Shadir of Gul Rasa and been military adviser to three desert princes. He had brokered peace between the warring sultanates of Jal Nassan, acted as diplomat to Kali Ustman Al Talib in the court of the Han-Shar Sunlords and been herald for the Egrit of Rashamen. Over the years his reputation had grown so that the mere rumour of his arrival was enough to spur the richest sultan’s court to greet him with a flower-strewn path and a sumptuous banquet. Times had indeed been good, and Massoum had lived the noble’s life, lauded as the wisest of counsellors and surrounded by men of influence and opulence who called themselves his friends.

But all that had changed.

Such a trivial act had brought him low: the slightest of smiles towards the Kali’s twelfth wife — not even his favourite — but it had been enough to spark rumour in court, enough to have the viziers whispering and the eunuchs chortling in their high-pitched voices, and that was that. Banished. Cast out to the four winds. At least he had been spared the executioner’s blade; that was one thing he could thank the Kali for.

The last few years had been hard for Massoum. There was little use for his talents on the filthy streets of Dravhistan’s cities. Where before his honeyed words and impartial wisdom had been much sought after, now they were of little use. Hunger and fear were his constant companions and he had almost become desperate enough to consider manual labour; but just when it looked as if the light of Asta’Dovashu had abandoned him completely, the god of the Desert Wind had suddenly smiled down.

Massoum Abbasi thought back to that night — the night he had been offered riches beyond imagining for the simple loaning of his talents. Acceptance had brought him here, to this place, to this city far from his homeland, and he was suddenly wondering if even all the riches of the eastern kingdoms would have been worth the journey.

From the deck he could just see the city of Steelhaven in the distance, squatting on the coastline like a giant ants’ nest. Unpleasant though Massoum’s journey had been, he knew that worse was to come once he set foot in that foul metropolis. Its reputation was infamous, even in far-off Dravhistan — the danger of its narrow twisting streets, the lack of culture, the savage manners and foul breath of its inhabitants. Not to mention their tasteless food and their insistence on heaving ale down their necks until it made them vomit.

Massoum would have to adjust his usual stringent adherence to etiquette when dealing with these ignorant westerners. His name must be short and sweet — none of them would be able, or even care, to address him properly by his given title of Massoum Am Kalhed Las Fahir Am Jadar Abbasi.

As orders were barked across deck in the gruff Teutonian language, Massoum gripped the embroidered leather bag he carried across one shoulder more tightly, pulling it across the front of his body in a protective gesture. The bag was his lifeline, containing the tools of his trade, and he instinctively wanted to protect them. Though its contents might seem mundane, worthless even, the bag was of more value than anyone could have guessed. And that was the whole point. If stopped and questioned Massoum could easily pass himself off as a merchant here to broker trade. The city guard or inquisition would be hard pressed to prove him complicit in any crime, for should they suspect his intentions only one crime would fit the bill — treason. The last thing he wanted was his head spiked atop Steelhaven’s front gate, ready to greet Amon Tugha’s army as it arrived to raze the city to ash.

‘Almost there, my eastern friend.’

It was a deep voice that nudged him from his thoughts, the words spoken in a rare northern dialect of Teutonian, but Massoum recognised the language and inflection as though it were his own. His mastery of the many western tongues was second to none. That was, after all, one of the reasons he had been chosen for this task.

‘Indeed,’ he replied, turning with a smile to face the first mate, whose bald head gleamed in the afternoon sun. ‘As pleasant as this journey has been, it must unfortunately come to an end all too soon.’

The first mate gave him a knowing wink — it was clear to all the crew that Massoum had loathed the voyage from start to finish.

‘You have business in Steelhaven, easterner?’

Massoum felt the skin prickle at the nape of his neck, though he kept his warm smile firmly affixed to his face. Though most likely an innocent question, simple small talk, it would be foolish to take risks and reveal the truth, especially when he was so close to shore where he could become lost in the labyrinthine streets and leave anyone taking too much of an interest far behind.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I am a merchant brokering trade. A seller of spices. I understand Steelhaven is a great market and its traders are willing to pay a fair price.’

This brought a wide grin to the first mate’s lips. ‘Fair price, eh? Well, just be careful where you tread, traveller. You might find yourself with something you didn’t bargain for. Steelhaven takes no prisoners, especially not the foreign sort. Watch your back and your purse at all times, y’hear?’

Massoum merely bowed his thanks for the needless advice, touching a finger to his brow then his lips in the traditional manner of the Dravhistan nomad. The first mate nodded before making himself busy elsewhere on deck.

Turning back towards the prow, Massoum watched the city looming ever larger. The ship became a hive of activity as burly seamen cut the sails, barking at one another above the cry of seagulls. Steelhaven, which before had appeared from the distant sea as a massive stone monolith, slowly revealed itself in all its glory. Towers rose from beyond the vast battlements of the curtain wall — not the domed spires he was so used to in his homeland, but square, robust affairs, looming and oppressive. If such was the architectural preference of the city’s tallest and most opulent minarets he could only imagine what kind of squat monstrosities had been built within their shadow. Above them all rose two great statues depicting warriors, a man and a woman; he carrying a vast hammer, she a spear and shield. Arlor and Vorena, the ancient heroes revered as gods by the Teutonians. Seeing these monoliths for the first time, peering across the city with ancient stone eyes, Massoum couldn’t help but be impressed.

The ship cruised in towards port, and Massoum took yet more solace from the huge harbour, constructed in a crescent shape and forming a bay filled with an array of different boats flying sails of every colour. The Reigning Sceptre wove expertly between them, heading for an empty mooring that sat in the apex of the bay, directly below the shadow of Steelhaven’s vast harbour gate.

Ropes flung ashore were deftly caught by diligent dockworkers and hastily secured to mooring plinths. Before the Reigning Sceptre had even come to rest against a wooden pier, a gangplank was thrust out from the bow and a dozen sailors began to loose ropes and nets constraining several piles of cargo secured on deck.

Massoum moved forward, not waiting to be told to disembark. He had paid his passage in full, and was not about to ask permission to rid himself of the ship that had been so troublesome to his faculties.

The gangplank wobbled beneath his feet as he carefully traversed it, causing his heart to thunder in his chest for a second before the stark sweat of relief washed over him as he set foot on the wooden pier. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the stench of stale fish, but he cared little; it was the first breath he had taken on dry land for days.

Massoum began the long walk uphill towards the harbour gate, but immediately tottered as though the very ground beneath his feet were moving. He had heard the seamen of the Reigning Sceptre talk about ‘sea legs’ but he thought it was only a malady that would afflict experienced sailor-types. Clearly he was wrong, as a wave of nausea joined in the dizziness and he had to clench his teeth lest he retch all over the harbour.

Suddenly all Massoum wanted was a glass of anise tea, to feel its warmth soothe his stomach and the sweetness of the cinnamon and honey take away the stinging bile that threatened to rise from his gullet. Reluctantly he reached into his shoulder bag, that precious bag, and fished within, rifling through the random contents until his hand closed around a small pewter flask. Frantically he pulled it out, unscrewing the cap and pressing the spout to his lips. The thick spirit burned his throat as it went down, but it stifled the taste of vomit and within moments the nausea passed.

Feeling a little more himself, Massoum proceeded up the cobbled ramp towards that huge gate, hemmed in by merchants and sailors making their way to and from the city with heavy bales, crates, and various beasts of burden laden with their wares. Drawing closer he could see over the gate’s threshold into the city proper, as the thronging crowd moved off like a vast swarm into the myriad streets beyond. Massoum had to pass the gate guards who scrutinised those that might enter, sporadically pulling a merchant or sailor from the crowd to question them and check their possessions for contraband. What was considered contraband in this pit of iniquity Massoum did not know, but he was well aware that with invading forces at the country’s border the city’s custodians would be on the lookout for any kind of spy or infiltrator.

Keeping his head down, Massoum moved with the crowd. His best chance was to avoid eye contact, not draw attention to himself, though he realised that might be impossible. His dress alone marked him out as a foreigner, and he instantly regretted not adopting a more drab attire that would have allowed him to fit in with these filthy western masses.

Regret turned to dread as the two merchants on his left-hand side were roughly bundled out of the way and a thick hairy hand planted itself on his shoulder.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ said an amused voice as he was pulled from the crowd and quickly surrounded by burly looking militiamen. There were three of them, wearing identical green jackets, and Massoum could barely tell them apart. Each had a flat broken nose, missing teeth and piercing, porcine eyes. One of them pulled the bag from his shoulder and Massoum felt panic suddenly grip him. Nevertheless he adopted his usual easy smile; a smile that had helped secure peace in five nations and charmed sultans and warlords across all the eastern lands.

‘My lords,’ he said, touching a finger to forehead and then lips, ‘I am merely a merchant brokering trade — a seller of spices. I understand Steelhaven has great need of such-’

‘Shut it, camel shagger,’ said one of the guards, using an insult Massoum had been told to expect from these uncouth westerners. ‘What’s in the bag?’

‘Meaningless trinkets. Keepsakes from my homeland,’ he replied, but the burly guard was already rummaging through its contents. He pulled out a small rag doll, the lifelike horsehair on its head flopping back and forth pathetically before it was dropped back in the bag. The guard dipped his hand in again and this time pulled out a small leather wallet and a smile crossed his face. He dropped the bag to the floor, the rest of its worthless contents now forgotten.

‘What’s this then?’ he said, opening the wallet and looking eagerly inside. His face dropped as he saw what it contained. ‘What the fuck is this load of shit?’

Massoum opened his mouth to frame some answer, but he didn’t have a chance to speak before the guardsman dropped the wallet to the floor and reached forward, grasping him by the front of his robe and lifting him from his feet. From the delicate silk hem came a painful ripping sound and Massoum prepared himself for the worst.

‘Enough!’

At the command the guard froze in mid strike. He looked left, and Massoum followed his gaze to see a tall, fine-looking figure standing just inside the gate, flanked by two towering knights in armour, thorn branches of etched brass entwined around the crimson plates. They were Knights of the Blood, the personal retinue of King Cael Mastragall himself.

‘We’ll take it from here, serjeant,’ said the handsome westerner, but the guardsman had already released Massoum’s robe and taken a step back. Massoum quickly stooped and picked up the wallet, stuffing it into his bag of precious trinkets and protectively pulling it close to his chest.

With an authoritative gesture, the man beckoned Massoum forward. He was only too glad to accept, moving past the guards who now stood back, staring warily either out of respect or fear, Massoum didn’t care which.

‘This way,’ said the man, moving off, and Massoum followed obediently. He had been told his contact would be waiting, but a member of the King’s Guard of Honour? That was something he hadn’t foreseen. But if this man wasn’t his contact? Perhaps … no, that didn’t bear thinking about. He couldn’t have been discovered — not so quickly.

He was led through the streets, the tall man in front, his fitted uniform neat and rigid, its collar high and severe, with the two knights at the rear, their armour clanking quietly as they walked behind, not too close, not too distant.

It was when he was marched into a dark alleyway, far from the thronging crowd, that Massoum suddenly began to fear the worst. His instinct for self-preservation took over. It was time to do some talking.

‘Although I am grateful for your aid, and you have my undying thanks for pulling me from the jaws of a certain beating, I can assure you I am able to proceed through the streets of your city without such a … sturdy escort.’

The man stopped ahead of him, the knights behind. Slowly he turned, and in the shadows of the alleyway his face became grave, the square cut of his uniform giving him a dark and ominous bearing.

‘Massoum Abbasi,’ he said. Curses — he knows my name, thought Massoum. I am dead. ‘Did you think that King Cael would not have agents of his own? You were tracked all the way from Dravhistan. We have been expecting your arrival for days.’

With a nod, the man signalled to the knights behind, and Massoum heard them draw their broadswords.

‘Wait,’ he said, panic rising within him. ‘I have information. You should interrogate me at least.’

‘Oh, we will. And we will find out everything the Elharim prince has planned, even if we have to flay the flesh from your bones.’

‘I can assure you that won’t be necessary,’ said Massoum, his voice growing shriller. ‘You’ll find I can be most compliant.’

‘But where would be the fun in that?’ replied the handsome soldier, the corner of his mouth rising in a sadistic sneer.

Massoum spun around to stare at the two knights, his eyes wide and fearful. The first of them stepped forward, reaching out with one massive gauntleted hand, his well-oiled armour barely making a sound as he did so.

It was then the shadows moved.

Something shone for the briefest instant despite the dimness of the alley and the knight’s arm, even encased as it was in sturdy plate, suddenly fell to the ground. He grunted, staggering back and gripping at the stump, which spurted dark blood in an arterial spray. A figure, black as shadow and fast as the sea wind, shot forward. Another flash, and Massoum could see a sword, thin as a sabre but straight as an arrow. It sliced forth with precision, above the knight’s gorget but beneath the lip of his full helm, cutting a red line across his throat. As he fell back gurgling, the second knight raced forward, growling in rage, the sound amplified from behind his helm; but the shadow moved faster. Massoum heard that flashing blade cut the air twice in quick succession and the knight fell silently, his head still in the full helm rolling to the left, his arm lopped off at the shoulder sliding to the right.

All this happened in a blink, and still the shadow moved in a fluid motion, spinning and flinging something past Massoum’s head. He felt the air whistle close to his ear, then heard a sickening thud as the missile embedded itself in the uniformed man behind him.

Massoum saw him drop, his face slack, a sliver of silver skewering his eye. He collapsed in a heap, his hand still on the hilt of his duelling blade, still only halfway out of its scabbard.

There was silence in the alley. Massoum dared not turn back towards the deadly shadow, even though it had saved him from certain death. He trembled as the figure slid silently past him, its tread not making a sound in the soft earth. It knelt, pulling the metal sliver from the eye of the corpse.

‘Amon Tugha sends his greetings,’ came a silken voice as the shadow turned to regard Massoum. The face was half hidden behind a cloth mask but the eyes were two golden pools, unmistakably Elharim. ‘I was sent here to watch over you, Massoum Am Kalhed Las Fahir Am Jadar Abbasi. To make sure you complete your task in one piece.’

‘Thank you,’ Massoum replied. ‘And my thanks to Amon Tugha.’

‘My lord and master does not require your thanks, but for the reward he has agreed he does demand your loyalty. An offer to betray him so quickly at the first sign of adversity might be seen as treacherous — might be rewarded with certain death. But luckily for you, my master is merciful.’

Massoum was about to speak, to protest his innocence, to try to say he would have revealed nothing, even if tortured by the most merciless of King Cael’s inquisitors, but he knew the words would be worthless. This Elharim could see right through him and into his heart, that much was clear, so he merely bowed low, touching his finger to brow then lips.

When he stood upright once more the Elharim assassin was gone, but Massoum knew he would not be very far away. Without a further glance at the corpses, Massoum made his way down the alley, eager to carry out his task.