Lord of Ashes

TWENTY-FIVE

They rumbled through the streets on horseback. Twenty of them, fully armoured with shield and sword. This had all seemed like such a good idea at the time — and fact was, they were riding away from the battle that raged to the north — but now Merrick was beginning to see the error of his ways. Just twenty men against a phalanx of ships anchored south of the city. Just twenty men taking on an entire fleet. Granted, they were the meanest, hardest bastards Merrick had ever had the misfortune to meet, but still; they were only human.

The Lord Marshal hadn’t said a word to him as they prepared their destriers for the mission. Merrick had half expected the old man to approach him, demanding that he change his mind, but Tannick said nothing. Maybe deep down he was proud. Maybe some part of him was glad Merrick had volunteered for the most perilous of tasks. Or maybe he just didn’t want to lose face in front of the Wyvern Guard by chastising his son who’d volunteered for such a perilous mission.

Whatever the reason, Merrick was glad of it. There were enough things to think on without arguing with the old man. Things like not getting stabbed or burned or drowned were much higher on his list than worrying about the punishments Tannick Ryder could come up with for his disobedience.

As they made their way further south through the city, Merrick got to see first-hand what carnage the artillery ships had wrought, and for the first time he appreciated the importance of their mission. Dockside and the Warehouse District were in ruins. To the south-east the Temple of Autumn seemed relatively untouched, but that did little to assuage the devastation that had been wreaked on the rest of the city’s southern quarters. Merrick only hoped there had been no one living here when the bombardment began. Deep down he knew there must have been. Deep down he knew most of these houses would have bodies in them, burned and black and clawing at the sky with dead hands.

And that makes you angry, doesn’t it? That makes you want to kill. That moves you and you don’t fucking like it, Ryder.

Merrick gripped his reins tighter, his jaw setting. He tried not to look, not to think, but it was impossible. This wasn’t war, this was murder. For all his selfishness, for all his self-indulgence and arrogance and acting the jester for so many years, this hurt. There needed to be a reckoning for this.

But you’ve never been the vengeance type, Ryder. You’ve never given enough of a shit. Revenge is a waste of time; it just gets in the way. What happened to Merrick Ryder the pragmatist?

‘He’s dead and gone,’ he said through gritted teeth.

Only time will tell, Ryder. Let’s wait and see, shall we? There’s still plenty of time for you to prove you haven’t changed.

The twenty horses gradually made their way to the sea wall. Cormach led the way, the white pelt he wore across his shoulders bobbing in time to the stride of his warhorse. Just before they reached the gate a fireball cut the sky above them, smashing into a street a hundred yards away. It was an unnerving reminder of why they were here, but did little to curb Merrick’s determination.

They reined in, their horses milling before the great portcullis. It was blackened and charred and Merrick wondered if the mechanisms that opened it would still work.

‘Open the gate,’ Cormach shouted.

Merrick looked at the base of the portcullis. In the dark he hadn’t even seen the soot-encrusted men cowering there.

‘What the fuck is wrong with everyone tonight?’ said one of them. ‘This gate stays closed. By order of the queen.’

Cormach trotted his horse forward, staring down from the saddle.

‘Open the gate,’ he said, his tone measured in that don’t fuck with me way he had about him.

The gate guard looked up at him. Merrick could tell he wanted to argue, but a quick glance at the twenty Wyvern Guard, all armed and armoured and ready to kill something, and he quickly changed his mind.

The filthy Greencoat gave a nod at the rest of the men. Three of them scuttled into the small wheelhouse and within moments the gate started moving. It shuddered and creaked, soot and charcoal falling from it in great clumps as the three men wound the winch. Merrick could hear them gasping from inside the tiny building as they strained to turn the wheel. All he could do was stare through the gate at the harbour below.

The ships were waiting, sitting there like they were beckoning him forward. He was most likely going to die down there and he’d bloody well volunteered to do it.

Remember those shattered houses? Remember the bodies inside them? What happened to vengeance, Ryder? What happened to the old you being dead and gone?

Before he had time to think on it further, Cormach spurred his horse through the open gate. The rest of the Wyvern Guard did likewise, the sound of their hooves on the cobbles ringing out like bells across the harbour. Trot turned to canter turned to gallop as they headed down towards the crescent bay. Cormach’s sword rang from its sheath, nineteen others ringing after it. The sound of the horses’ hooves changed timbre as they galloped from the cobbled road and onto the wooden jetty.

Merrick could feel the wind in his face now, the thrill of the charge. There must be a plan to this, something he hadn’t been told, because how they were going to ride across the bay and onto those ships was a question he hadn’t been made privy to.

As they clattered along the boards he kept his eyes fixed on the ships, wondering if at any moment they’d send one of their burning missiles hurtling towards the Wyvern Guard. He quickly realised he needn’t have worried. The artillery ships weren’t designed to be manoeuvrable. They’d never have a chance to aim before the Wyvern Guards’ steeds reached the end of the jetty … and plunged straight into the water.

Cormach’s horse pulled ahead and he raised his blade. It was almost impossible to see where they were going, their way lit only by the moon, but thankfully it was bright enough so that none of them rode off the edge of the boardwalk.

Just when Merrick thought they’d run out of pier, Cormach yanked his reins violently, steering his horse to the left and off the side of the gangway. Merrick felt his heart lurch at the insane manoeuvre, thinking Cormach would plunge headlong into the freezing cold bay, but he saw the horse was still running, its hooves clacking against a new surface.

Without thinking, without even considering how mad this was, Merrick followed, his horse snorting in agreement with the insanity of the whole thing. As he reined the steed after Cormach’s he felt the difference under its hooves, heard the clacking and cracking as though he had just ridden onto a bridge of … ice?

The Wyvern Guard galloped down onto the sea, following Cormach as he rode towards the first of the artillery ships. They were approaching at the fleet’s flank, the bridge spanning out before them, taking them right up to the gunwale of the first vessel. Merrick could hear the mariners aboard their ships, shouting in panic. They’d heard the approaching knights now, and could more than likely feel the rumble of hooves on the ice bridge.

As he followed Cormach up the slope onto the deck, Merrick was almost blinded by the fire still alight on board the ship. He just had time to see Cormach cut down a sailor, just had time to see another member of the crew trapped under a sheet of ice that had consumed the deck, his eyes staring up in blank terror, before he was off the other side, his steed leaping the gunwale.

Cormach didn’t stop, and Merrick was determined not to let him get too far ahead. There were twenty Wyvern Guard, all eager for the kill. No use crowding the first ship when there were over a dozen more to go at.

The second ship was better prepared, sailors shouting, brandishing their billhooks and cutlasses threateningly, but Cormach’s steed bowled past them as though they weren’t there. They rode on, taking the third ship, the fourth. Merrick could hear the sounds of battle behind as the Wyvern Guard engaged those sailors still able to fight and not trapped in the ice. He began to think this might not quite be the suicide mission he had first anticipated. Maybe his righteous anger would be sated after all. Those women and children burned alive back in the city avenged by his hand. The hand of Merrick Ryder. Reborn as a divine weapon of-

His horse whinnied shrilly as it lost its footing on the ice bridge. It staggered then fell, and it wasn’t until he had leapt from the saddle and rolled clear that Merrick realised the animal had taken a spear to its side. By the light of the fires on deck he could see the silhouettes of three sailors coming at him. Cormach had ridden off ahead and the rest of the Wyvern Guard were still hacking down survivors on the ships behind. He was on his own.

The three mariners surrounded him, their backs to a bright fire still burning on deck. In the glare Merrick could hardly make them out and only narrowly avoided the first thrust of a cutlass. He brought up his shield in time to catch another blow before gaining the wherewithal to counter. There was a cry from the dark and he felt the jarring of sword hitting flesh, but his relief at striking a blow was short-lived. His helmet clanged as something hit it from the side. Merrick slipped back, losing his footing on the deck. The shield fell from his hand as he was bowled backward, the gunwale hitting the back of his legs. He couldn’t stifle a cry of panic as he was pitched back into the water.

His free hand grabbed out as he fell, for something, anything. Somehow he still kept a grip on his sword, fear of losing such a blade almost trumping his desire to survive. Something snagged his armour just as he hit the water. The black consumed him, the freezing dark. His helmet came off and he had to let go of that beautiful sword. To his relief he’d been caught in netting but his armour was still pulling him down, sucking him into the black depths. Merrick’s arm shot from the freezing water, grasping the net. With titanic effort he pulled himself up, dragging his head out from under the sea, snorting salty water and gasping for air.

For a moment he paused there in the cold, breathing heavily, panting the life back into himself. Above he could still hear the sounds of battle. The screams, the whinnying of horses. Something plunged into the water nearby but he couldn’t bring himself to look and see whether it was one of his brother knights or a mariner.

When he’d breathed enough air back into his lungs, Merrick pulled himself up. The going was slow, his armour seeming to weigh twice as much as it had before he’d fallen in the bay. Clapping both hands on the gunwale he dragged himself up over the side of the ship, flopping onto the deck like a landed fish. His breath came hard and he could have closed his eyes and slept if he hadn’t been so bloody cold.

No point lying here all night. What happened to vengeance? What happened to the new Merrick? You’re just as lazy and useless as the old one.

Merrick dragged himself to his feet. His sword was lost and he looked around in the gloom for a weapon, any weapon. One suddenly came at him from the dark — the blade of a cutlass, curved and sharp as fuck. On the other end of it was a scared-looking sailor, eyes all wide and desperate like he’d seen some murder he hadn’t been expecting and was determined he wasn’t going to be next.

‘Why don’t you calm yourself?’ said Merrick, holding his hands up in surrender. The mariner didn’t seem too impressed with that. In fact it seemed to make him angrier and even more desperate. ‘There’s a way out of this for both of us,’ Merrick continued, hoping his mouth would do a better job of getting him out of the shit than his armour and weapons had. ‘We can both survive this but you have to be cle-’

The sailor’s head split down the middle. In the dark it looked like black gore had exploded from his skull. He stood there for a moment, staring in confusion as if he’d just been asked the meaning of life, before collapsing to the deck. Cormach was standing behind him.

Merrick let out a sigh of relief and leaned back on the gunwale, careful not to pitch himself backwards this time. Glancing up and down the row of ships he saw that the Wyvern Guard had already done their work. Fires burned on the deck of every ship and they were already reining their horses in, ready to leave.

‘That makes us fucking even,’ said Cormach when he’d finally managed to free his blade from the mariner’s skull.

Merrick waved an arm nonchalantly, in no mood to argue. He was too busy thinking about what a monumental fuck-up he’d just made. About how he’d bravely ridden onto the ships and managed to almost die without knowing if he’d actually killed anyone. He doubted his contribution would be recorded in the annals of the Wyvern Guard.

So much for vengeance. So much for being the righteous hero.

But at least you’re still breathing.