She had done it; she had claimed her father’s seat, and none of them would take it from her now. At least not while she still breathed.
As she watched them, kneeling there before her, she knew this wasn’t enough. Suddenly seeing these so-called nobles in supplication was empty and hollow. She was cloistered in here, kept away from her people … the people that mattered.
Due to the threats to her life, Odaka had deemed it prudent to keep the ceremony within the bounds of the palace, but tradition dictated the kings and queens of Steelhaven should be received by the city’s people upon their coronation.
Safety be damned. This was not just her day, not just the day for her noble subjects to receive her. She had to be seen, had to show the city that she was there for them, there to serve them unto death.
‘Odaka,’ she said, clutching that heavy sword to her side. ‘I will see my people now.’
He frowned, a glimmer of concern flashing across his grim features, only to disappear beneath a veneer of obedience.
‘As you command, my queen.’
He bowed and Janessa almost smiled at that. ‘My queen.’ It sounded good to her, as if she had always been waiting to hear those words.
Odaka led the Sentinels from the hall. Janessa did not even deign to look at the nobles, still on their knees, as she left the throne room. And leave it she did, a different woman from the one who had entered. She had walked into the great hall a timid girl, but left it a grown woman, and a queen to boot.
As she neared the front of the palace she could hear the crowd. They had been allowed into the Crown District, its gates flung open so that they might honour the queen’s coronation.
The city had gathered to mourn her father, coming in their droves for his funeral. The sheer multitude of that thronging crowd had done nothing to prepare her for this.
Odaka flung open the doors to the front balcony of the palace which overlooked Skyhelm’s grounds and the Crown District. Beyond the great steel gates they had come, rich and poor alike, beggar and merchant, soldier and serf.
All come to see her crowned.
And as she appeared, even from such a distance, the crowd acknowledged her. It was a cheer that went up over the city, shrouding it under a cloak of noise, filling her with pride and a sense of the task ahead.
As the deafening noise rang out over Steelhaven, Janessa Mastragall, Queen of Steelhaven and the Free States, only hoped the warlord Amon Tugha could hear it.
If he was coming to her city with murder in his heart then it was only fitting he should know what was waiting for him.
T
he town burned.
Azreal had no idea what they had called it before the flames took, licking at the buildings with rapacious greed. He was only glad he had come late enough to miss the screams of innocents as they were beaten, violated and put to the sword … in whatever order the Khurtas thought best.
Through eyes of gold he watched as the savages danced in the firelight. He did not begrudge them their pleasures for they lived such short lives, but he did not have to stay and watch, and he certainly would never have joined them in their sport.
Unlike Endellion, his sister in service to their master.
She was most likely down there now, already slaked of her thirst for cruelty, indulging her other lusts. The thought of it amused Azreal, but also made him envious of her. He wondered if their master would tolerate him if he decided to satisfy his own desires so often, and with such wanton callousness. It was doubtful, but then Endellion was so very beautiful, it was difficult to refuse her anything, as Azreal had discovered on many occasions.
He moved through the camp unseen. Past the fires as they burned, past the crude hide tents, past the pennants and banners won from the enemy as they fluttered wretchedly – the torn and blackened symbols of a nation on the brink of destruction.
The Teutonians would do well to surrender now and spare themselves the suffering to come, but Azreal knew they would not. They would fight on until the end, throwing their lives away needlessly as nations always did. Since the days of the first great conquerors there had always been those that would stand against them, occasionally victoriously, oftentimes ruinously.
Azreal had no doubt that on this occasion all that awaited the Free States was its ultimate doom.
Making his way past these strangers in this foreign land, Azreal only felt a yearning for home. The Riverlands were weeks to the north, with league upon league of blasted country between him and the verdant fields and waterways. The prospect of the journey filled him with dread, but he would gladly have made it in bare feet had his master willed it. Amon Tugha had other ideas though, and Azreal wondered if he would ever see the beauty of his homeland again.
At the centre of the camp was Amon Tugha’s command tent. It was unadorned, a construction of wood and animal pelts with no banner or pennants of allegiance. Azreal’s master held no allegiance; the outcast prince followed no crown or code but his own. The only flags that he took into battle were those he had won, those he had earned with blood and steel.
Of course the tent was guarded, though his master needed no bodyguard. Despite the sentries, Azreal slipped in without a sound, unseen by either of the guards posted at the entrance.
Inside there was welcome warmth, as Azreal’s master held court. Braziers were lit, their yellow glow permeating the air, leaving enough shadows in the recesses of the vast tent for those who did not want to be seen.
And Azreal rarely wanted to be seen.
He paused for a second, observing his master’s court. The Elharim prince sat on his wooden seat, a chair carved from the thrones of defeated chieftains. There had been nine tribes of the Khurtas, tribes in a perpetual state of war until the coming of Amon Tugha. He had united them – united them in blood and slaughter, challenging their war masters and their battle lords to mortal combat, and defeating them all. Those that had survived stood beside him now. Wolkan Brude, hulking, bearded savage that he was. Brulmak Tarr, a man who had mutilated his own body so far beyond recognition it was doubtful any wound inflicted on him could make his features worse. Stirgor Cairnmaker – dark, brooding and deadly, a peerless warrior who had almost been a match for Amon Tugha … almost.
Of the six other war chiefs there was nothing but blackened bones and ash, their tribes subsumed into one vast army. An army that now marched south to victory.
At the prince’s feet sat two massive warhounds, gifts from his new tribe, vicious beasts as loyal to their master as Azreal was. They would fight for him, die for him, each attacking with a monster’s strength and a warrior’s cunning.
Azreal watched all this from the dark and no one was the wiser to his presence.
No one but his master.
‘Step forward, Azreal, my brother.’
Silence filled the tent at Amon Tugha’s words.
As Azreal walked from the dark, all eyes turned to him. When he appeared one of the hounds – Astur or Sul, Azreal could not tell which – lifted a lip in snarling challenge. A raised hand from Amon Tugha silenced his pet.
‘My prince,’ said Azreal, dropping to one knee and bowing his head.
He could feel the disquiet amongst his master’s Khurtic generals. They thought the Elharim supernatural creatures, able to come and go at will, able to kill with nothing but a word. It was true the Elharim lived centuries longer than the lower races, but there was nothing supernatural about them. They simply took advantage of their longer lifespan to learn their craft, to hone their talents beyond the ken of the Khurtas, the Teutonians or any other tribe that chose to face them. Let these barbarians think them immortal. Let them show the deference owed the Elharim for their ancient sacrifice.
As Azreal rose he saw Amon Tugha smile.
His master was a peerless specimen. A prince of the Riverlands, cast out by his own mother, a warrior queen, lest he challenge his eldest brother for power of dominion. Yet with all his shame, all his dishonour, Azreal would still have followed his prince to the gates of the Abyss.
Amon Tugha was not his master’s real name, it was a name given him by the Khurtas, one they could speak and understand and, most importantly, one they could follow. Azreal and his sister Endellion were the only ones who knew his true name, but they had been forbidden to speak it. Their master no longer bore the title given by his homeland. Those so-called nobles of the Riverlands had turned their backs to him, and he in turn had vowed to show them the folly of that decision.
When standing, Amon Tugha was almost seven feet, his naked torso marked with the ritual scarification and scorching that signified his rank. His hair was blond and cropped to his temples; his eyes burned with flecks of gold. Despite all of Azreal’s skill, despite all his talent and prowess, he knew he could never compete with the awesome strength of his master. To try would mean his end.
‘What news, Azreal?’ said Amon Tugha. ‘Has the herald earned his pay?’
‘He has, my prince, and he has now returned across the seas to his home.’
‘And what of the city?’
‘The magisters of Steelhaven are cowed within their tower. They will show us no resistance. The Guild has, as yet, given no answer. I believe they are still awaiting your arrival, but I would expect them to submit to your offer as soon as your warhost is in sight of Steelhaven’s gates.’ He paused, choosing his next words carefully. Though Amon Tugha was not so wasteful as to punish a messenger, Azreal still feared his wrath. ‘The slaves intended for your allies at Keidro Bay were lost.’
‘How?’
‘They were freed by a renegade, my prince, but fear not. The Father of Killers was informed and has dispatched one of his sons to bring the pirate lords to heel. I am assured they will still aid us when the time comes.’
‘And what of our brother? How does he fare?’
‘The Father of Killers has received your instruction, but has not yet managed to fulfil his obligation. He still has an eye close to the queen. I am sure he will strike again soon.’
This last news seemed to trouble the prince and his brow furrowed as he brooded. Azreal could see it made the Khurtic generals nervous.
‘This is not enough,’ Amon Tugha said. ‘I need her dead. Once their queen has fallen the rest will crumble around her and the city will be mine. But there is more than one way to reach her.’
Amon Tugha glanced to the shadows of the tent, to the Khurtic shaman who sat in silence consulting his knucklebones. The prince’s dark mood slowly eased.
‘What now, my lord?’ Azreal was keen to have his instructions and be away from here. Though it shamed him, he could not shake the fact that this place, these people, disturbed him.
‘Now you go and wash the stink of the streets from your body,’ said Amon Tugha. ‘And then we will make our way south where my city awaits.’
This brought murmurs of assent from the Khurtas, Brulmak Tarr loudest of all.
‘As you wish.’ And with that, Azreal left the tent.
Once outside he took a deep breath of the night air. He would have followed Amon Tugha across all the lands and seas of the world, such was his love for his prince, but he could not help but feel this was all folly.
His master was a brave man, and it was an injustice that his name and position had been destroyed, and for nothing, but this was no way to regain glory. To take the lands of another nation, to reduce its capital to ruin and slay its queen was no way to prove your worth to a land that had rejected you.
But where Amon Tugha led, Azreal would follow.
And he would bring his hordes with him.
And they would not stop until Steelhaven had fallen.