Lord of Ashes

THIRTY-FOUR

Sleep was threatening to overwhelm him, despite the bright sunlight and the biting cold. River would not succumb, though. He could not. A chance at escape might come from anywhere, and he could not be asleep when it happened.

A chance at escape? You know there will be no escaping this. You will die here, bound to this frame, watching the city burn in front of your eyes. Watching your queen slain by the Elharim.

But Jay had not been slain yet.

When she came to the camp and gave herself to Amon Tugha, River had wanted to cry out, wanted to scream at her to run even though there was nowhere for her to go. Everything had collapsed around him as she had knelt before Amon Tugha. Everything he had fought to protect for so many weeks suddenly shattered. But Jay was brave, he had always known. That she would sacrifice herself for a city of people she hardly knew, because she was their queen, was no surprise. He should have known that no matter what he did to keep her safe he could not protect Jay from herself.

He could only hope her rescue was successful, that the knights who had ridden into the midst of the Khurtas had managed to take her to safety. Surely they were victorious; otherwise Amon Tugha would have paraded her corpse amongst this camp of savages by now.

No, better that River think about his own escape. Though it looked almost hopeless, perhaps there was a way.

Two Khurtas sat by the embers of a fire, furs drawn tight about their shoulders. Maybe if he could goad them enough they might offer an opportunity for him to escape. Bound as he was, River doubted he had much chance, but there was no other way he could see to get himself out of this. And now more than ever he had to return to the city, had to be at Jay’s side to protect her.

He stared, locking his eyes on one of the Khurtas. He didn’t speak their language and doubted they knew much of his. The only way for him to taunt them was to show his defiance, that he wasn’t beaten. Perhaps it would appeal to their barbarity.

One of the Khurtas stared back, his expression displaying his hatred. It was obvious he wanted nothing more than to draw the dagger at his side and open up River’s flesh, but still he sat there by the fire, unmoving. It belied all River knew about these barbarians.

‘They will not move from their fire.’

The words were whispered in River’s ear. The voice of Amon Tugha was unmistakable. How he had managed to get so close without River sensing him was a mystery, but then the Elharim were mysterious in their very nature. Hadn’t the Father of Killers been one of them? And River had grown up with the man. All that time he had known very little about his origins.

‘The Khurtas are savage. Fearless,’ continued Amon Tugha, coming to stand beside the frame to which River was bound. ‘They respect only one thing — strength. And they are obedient to he who holds power. For all their faults — their savagery, their brutality — they can be relied upon to remain loyal to he who has proven himself worthy of it. And there are none more worthy of it than I.’

He moved to stand in front of River now, staring at him. The man exuded power, not just in his frame but in his manner. He was like an animal, at once calm and majestic, but with a feral edge that suggested he might explode with ferocity at any time.

‘You should understand about loyalty, assassin. You were loyal once, or so I am led to believe. The one you called the Father of Killers put great store by your devotion to him. But you cast that loyalty aside. Only a man who has known betrayal, lived betrayal, can understand the true meaning of loyalty. I am curious … does it hurt that you betrayed the man who gave you everything? The man you called “Father”?’

River looked up into those golden eyes. Despite the difference in their appearance he saw something of the Father of Killers in the warlord’s visage. Both cold, uncaring, ready to sacrifice anything and anyone for their own ends.

‘He was no father to me,’ River replied.

Amon Tugha smiled. ‘Indeed. He was a son of the Riverlands. And you his southron pup. You were nothing to him in the end. You were right to betray him — he would only have led you to your death.’ The Elharim looked to the northern horizon, a strangely wistful expression crossing his face. ‘We were boys together, he and I. He became Subodai of my mother’s House. She cast him out years ago but he remained loyal. For a century or more he remained devoted, yearning for the chance to return to the Riverlands with honour. Can you imagine how he felt when I offered him that chance? One last chance at redemption?’

River simply stared. He cared little for the hopes or dreams of the Father of Killers. Neither did he think much of Amon Tugha’s nostalgia.

The Elharim looked back at River, fixing him in those golden eyes. ‘But of course you also know of redemption. You seek it even now. A man born and bred to kill, brought low for the love of a woman.’ A grin crossed Amon Tugha’s lips. ‘How many have you killed, assassin? How many innocents alongside the guilty? There will be no redemption for you. The only mercy I offer is for you to live long enough to see this city fall. I will rule these lands for a hundred years, long after you are dead. And then, when I have raised an army strong enough, I will return to the Riverlands and claim what is mine by right.’

River stared into Amon Tugha’s face, straining against the ropes that held him tight. There was nothing he could do; no way he could stop this immortal warrior even if he was free. But perhaps one last show of defiance.

‘Good luck,’ River said.

Amon Tugha’s grin widened before he turned away.

River could hear his laugh for a long time before it faded into the distance.