Lord of Ashes

FORTY-TWO

Endellion watched beside Amon Tugha. He stood in silence, observing the assault from a distance, watching his Khurtas die by the thousand. The main gate to the city was smashed and artillery had blown a massive breach in the wall further to the east, but the warriors of Steelhaven defended it valiantly. She was almost moved by their sacrifice — surrender would have been the more rational response. If Endellion had learned one thing, these southrons were far from rational.

To the west of the city something caught her eye. A single flaming arrow was fired out across the river, soaring far over the derelict city that sat beside the new one like a corpse. It seemed strange; there were no Khurtas attacking from that side of the city, nothing that would require a flaming arrow to see.

Endellion might have dismissed it as a stray shot if Amon Tugha hadn’t smiled beside her. His grin was wide, his expression almost gleeful.

‘It is time,’ he said, turning and heading back towards the camp.

Waiting for him was an honour guard of Khurtas. His best — warriors gathered from each of the eight tribes. The last surviving war chief, Stirgor Cairnmaker, also stood waiting. His demeanour was as arrogant as ever, hands resting on the sword and axe at his hips. His men, lean hunters all, warriors rather than savage fanatics, stood with him awaiting their orders.

‘When the wall is finally breached,’ said Amon to his one remaining general, ‘you will head the final attack. You may take whatever spoils you wish.’

Stirgor smiled. ‘There is only one prize I want. Wolkan and Brulmak were foolish to face him so brazenly. He’ll not find me so rash.’

Endellion knew who he was referring to. The Cairnmaker earned much wealth and praise for his fighters in the Khurtic blood pits. Within the walls of Steelhaven was a warrior who would earn him renown throughout the steppes, if he survived long enough.

Amon turned to Endellion. ‘You will join Stirgor in the final attack. It should be enough to slake your thirst for slaughter, my sister.’

Endellion nodded her reply, keeping her tongue firmly in check. She could only bristle at his words — at his expectation that now, after everything, after she had lost Azreal, that she would fling herself into the fray and give her life for the glory of Amon Tugha.

The warlord whistled and his hounds, Sul and Astur, were at his heel in an instant, their noses twitching at the prospect of being unleashed. Even they sensed the end.

Amon took up his spear and moved south towards the city, his warriors at his heels.

Endellion could only watch him go, half hoping that he was killed, or at the least that she never saw him again. The other half of her was envious of the slaughter, of the glory he would attain when he killed the southron queen and crushed her crown beneath his heel. A crown he had come south to claim. A crown that had cost the lives of countless minions and of the one man she would have gifted her soul to had he but asked.

She glanced over to where they had buried Azreal. He would be left here to rot under the cold ground, and for what? For the exaltation of Amon Tugha. His life wasted along with so many others.

Perhaps she should race into the city alongside Stirgor. Perhaps she should hunt down the black-armoured daemon who had slain Azreal and avenge herself.

And what would be the point in that? You will most likely be killed and even if not, even if you are victorious, Azreal will still be dead.

She had been a fool to come here. A fool to follow the prince. It had all seemed so simple, so valiant, so idealistic. But Amon Tugha had turned out to be far from the hero she had thought. He was selfish, arrogant, quite possibly mad. He had risked them all for this folly and now, on the corpses of his followers, he was about to claim his final victory.

And you would allow that? You would stand and watch as he destroys this southron queen and her city for his own glory? Or perhaps you simply don’t care?

Endellion turned back towards the camp as Stirgor and his men checked their weapons, readying themselves for the final assault. None of them even acknowledged her as she moved northwards, passing the wounded and slain, picking her way past the embers of forgotten fires, past empty tents, their owners dead and rotting. As she reached the centre of the camp she saw him still waiting. But then where else would he be, tied as he was to that wooden frame?

His hair covered much of his beaten face but Endellion could still see him watching, staring as his city burned. Perhaps as his one love died.

But more likely the queen yet lived. Endellion could only envy him that, and in another time, another place, that envy would have seen him skewered on the end of her blade. But not tonight. Not in this place.

She stood beside him as he stared, watching his eyes, unblinking as they were, light dancing from them in the firelight. She could sense his hate, masking his despair. He would have done anything to be released. Anything to be allowed a chance at freedom, a chance to save his queen.

‘I know your pain,’ she said. ‘I have felt it too. The loss. The helplessness.’ He gave no answer, merely continued to glare at the city beyond. ‘To know that there is nothing you can do to save her.’

He glanced at her then, a fleeting look of sorrow before he turned back to the city with hate. ‘You know nothing,’ he said from his split lips.

‘Oh but I do.’ Endellion leaned in close, her words little more than a whisper. ‘I know how torn you are. How conflicted with love and hate. You would give everything to save her. And failing that, you would give everything to kill him.’

He looked at her then, his eyes burning through the darkness. ‘Have you just come here to mock me?’

She smiled back at him. ‘Perhaps I have. Or perhaps I have come here to end your misery.’

‘Then get on with it,’ he said.

Endellion smiled at that. It was much more entertaining when they resisted. That little spark of defiance in the face of despair.

She ran her finger down one side of his face, collecting a clump of congealed blood.

‘What reason would I have to kill you? When I would much rather use you.’

River looked back to the city. ‘I will not be used as your toy, Elharim.’

‘No? Not even if it meant saving her?’

He looked at her suspiciously. ‘You would never-’

‘The temple,’ Endellion said, pointing towards Steelhaven. ‘That will be your city’s last defensible position. That is where he will find her, and that is where he will take her head.’ She stared deep into his eyes. ‘Unless you can stop him.’

His look of suspicion drained to be replaced by disbelief. ‘Why? Why would you …’

Endellion stepped back and drew her blade in one swift motion. Four deft cuts and he was freed from his bonds. He dropped to the ground and she wondered if he would even be able to stand, let alone fight. As he rose to his feet, eyes glaring with hate, she had her answer.

The sword in her hand was lowered at her side. Endellion hoped he would have the sense not to attack. What a waste that would have been.

‘You can avenge yourself on me … or you can save her.’

No sooner had the words come from her lips than he ran. Endellion was impressed by his vigour — an energy born of urgency … of love.

She watched him disappear in the shadows to the south, wondering if he would reach his queen in time. Wondering if Amon Tugha would kill her first. She didn’t wonder for long before realising she didn’t really care.

Without a second glance back, Endellion turned to the north and started to walk.