Herald of the Storm

Book 1: Steelhaven

by R.S. Ford

Genres: Fantasy; General Fiction

Synopsis

Welcome to Steelhaven..... Under the reign of King Cael the Uniter, this vast cityport on the southern coast has for years been a symbol of strength, maintaining an uneasy peace throughout the Free States. But now a long shadow hangs over the city, in the form of the dread Elharim warlord, Amon Tugha. When his herald infiltrates the city, looking to exploit its dangerous criminal underworld and a terrible dark magick that has long been buried once again begins to rise, it could be the beginning of the end.

Release date: April 25, 2013

Publisher: Headline Digital

Print pages: 403

Sample

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.

Saviour’s Bridge spanned the River Storway where it ran between Steelhaven and the Old City. It was no doubt named to venerate the Teutonian saviour Arlor – that deified hero of old, raised to godhood by the teeming, ignorant masses.

From the centre of the bridge, facing north, the river could be seen slithering its way for miles, wending through the fields and woodland. As it flowed towards the city it brought with it all manner of offerings from the land, the flotsam and jetsam of the Free States, bloated carcasses of a nation condemned.

It was also bringing Forest’s mark.

Rain hammered down, soaking his cloak, bouncing off the bridge and running in a fast flood into the river. Watching from the centre of the bridge, Forest could see the wide river barge sitting low in the water, cruising towards him. Its four oars either side dipped in rhythm, pulled smoothly by powerful rowers. At its prow stood a tall man, his hood thrown back despite the inclement weather. His proud bearing was obvious even from a distance. But that was to be expected – he was a general of one of the famed Free Companies, a mercenary lord, tempered on the battlefield, and not just skilled in the sword but equally cunning of mind – he had to be to have lived for so long. No one survived at the head of one of the Free Companies without a certain shrewd ruthlessness. No one could command men who fought for coin without being able to outwit those who would try to usurp his position.

The general was flanked by his men, grizzled veterans all, ready to give their lives for him, though here at least he need anticipate no danger. This was Steelhaven, seat of power within the Free States, and its enemies, the savage Khurtas, were still hundreds of leagues to the north. Besides, its enemies were not his enemies – the general had not yet pledged the service of his company and his men to the defence of Steelhaven.

And Forest had been sent to ensure he never would.

The barge was within range now, and Forest reached beneath his cloak for his yew bow. In a pouch at his belt was the hempen bowstring, treated with beeswax to resist the wet. Though the rain would eventually slacken the string, he would not linger long enough for it to hamper his shot.

In one swift and graceful movement Forest strung his bow and pulled an arrow from his quiver. Alone on the bridge in the pouring rain, he was unobserved. Though the gate at the eastern side of the bridge was guarded by Greencoats, they were hunkered beneath their shelter and wouldn’t see him. Down on the barge, the general and his men, blinded by the downpour, would not spot him until it was too late.

Forest nocked and drew, aiming through the rain, as the general’s barge came closer with every breath. The slight breeze at his back, blowing in from the Midral Sea, would only make the flight of his arrow swifter.

As he drew in one last breath, the rain seemed to slow. His target was all at once perfectly clear as Forest saw the path of the arrow in his mind’s eye; saw it streaking through the air. In that moment of stillness, in which time seemed to wait in anticipation, he loosed.

The arrow was true; the mercenary general could not even see it through the deluge as it flew towards his head, twisting through the air, the head spinning towards its target. Forest held his breath, watching in anticipation of the kill.

At the very last moment a shield came up. One of the mercenaries had leapt to defend his general; the arrow pierced the wood but stopped short of its target. Aboard the barge the hells broke loose as the other mercenaries rushed to defend their leader with a wall of shields, and orders were barked for the rowers to change direction and make for the nearest bank.

There was no time to lament the miss, or wonder how the bodyguard had intercepted the arrow so deftly. Forest leapt onto the bridge’s parapet, throwing his cloak back so he could more easily reach his quiver. The barge had slowed now, the rowers frantically adjusting themselves in their seats to try and make their way upriver. Oars splashed in the water, men grunted, steam rising from their sweat-soaked bodies.

Arrows hummed from Forest’s bow, one after the other, in quick succession. As the first rower cried out in pain from a shaft buried in his back, two more arrows were already in flight, whipping towards their targets. It was as though a rank of archers was firing down. Eight shots, eight dead men – the last rower managing to stand and turn in a vain attempt to avoid his fate, but he was not quick enough. His lifeless body pitched into the water as Forest nocked a final arrow.

The general’s bodyguard stood in front him, covering him with their shields. Even the best-placed shot would not pierce that defence, and so Forest waited. Lacking rowers to power it through the water, the barge drifted, borne ever closer to Saviour’s Bridge by the Storway’s current. Forest watched the approaching boat, saw the general’s men eyeing him warily, swords drawn, shields raised. But he did nothing, allowing the boat to drift below him and under the bridge.

As soon as the boat was out of sight Forest discarded his bow and quiver, stepped off the parapet and grasped the keystone to enable him to swing under the bridge. He landed at the barge’s stern, drawing rapier and poniard, rapidly assessing the four men who guarded the general, searching for their weaknesses. This was not what he had planned, but the Father had been adamant: the general must die. Forest would adapt to the situation, sweeping them aside like a swift wind through the branches. He knew his duty. His mark could not be allowed to escape.

Three of the men moved forward unsteadily as the barge rocked, while the fourth, the one who had intercepted the arrow, hung back as the last line of defence. The trio of warriors advanced, shields held up, swords low. Forest was impressed with their discipline – though facing a single assailant they remained wary. These men were seasoned and he would need to exact care in taking them down, but that did not mean waiting for them to take the initiative.

Without pause Forest sidestepped, skipped off the barge’s gunwale and leapt at the first warrior. The mercenary raised his shield to block the rapier coming towards him, but Forest had already altered his attack, kicking out with one foot before he landed and knocking the shield upwards. His rapier thrust in as the warrior, realising his defence was open, desperately stabbed out with his own weapon. Forest twisted away, the incoming blade slicing open his tunic but no more. His poniard punched into the warrior’s chest between his ribs. As the first mercenary fell back with a gurgle, a second hacked in. Forest was already spinning, his rapier coming up to deflect the blow. His poniard stabbed forward, taking the second warrior in the neck. The man stared, gritting his teeth against the pain. Forest could see in his eyes that he knew he was doomed and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. When, with a jerk, Forest pulled out the blade, the warrior fell back, vainly clamping his hand to staunch the flow of blood.

The third mercenary charged, screaming in fury, his voice almost lost in the torrential downpour, his shield held forward with the intention of smashing his foe into the flowing waters. Forest waited, presenting himself as an easy target – until the last moment. Then he crouched, his rapier thrusting beneath the shield, allowing the mercenary to impale himself with the impetus of his own attack. The man stopped dead, his sword and shield clattering to the deck before he toppled after them.

Forest saw a flash of fear cross the general’s eyes, but he knew that the last bodyguard would be the most formidable.

The barge had drifted out from underneath the bridge now, heading down the Storway towards the sea, the rudder was free, sending it spinning as though caught in a whirlpool.

The last bodyguard had already saved his general’s life once, blocking a shot that should have been impossible to see, let alone intercept. But Forest was undaunted – there was no way this man’s training could have been as punishing as that given by the Father of Killers. There was no way he could ever be Forest’s match.

As the barge lurched violently, Forest charged, his approach meant to seem rash, as he attempted to draw the mercenary forward. But the man stood his ground, crouching lower behind his shield. With a flourish, Forest feinted to the left, then right, then left again, and cut in with his rapier, but the warrior anticipated his move, blocking it easily with his shield. Forest drew back, ready for the counter, ready with his short blade to slice the mercenary’s sword hand, but no counter came.

‘Kill him,’ shouted the general. ‘What are you waiting for?’

But the mercenary paid no heed. Forest almost felt sympathy for the man – he was clearly a far superior warrior to his commander, and unquestionably loyal. Nevertheless, he stood in the way of Forest’s mark, he had to die.

Forest leapt to the side, dodging the mercenary, sword raised high, aiming at the general. Seeing his commander was about to die the last defender rushed to intercept. Forest had counted on the man’s loyalty – on his determination to guard his leader with his life. A loyalty that would cost him dearly.

Twisting in midair, Forest thrust his rapier, aiming past the shield at the mercenary’s heart. In a last effort to save himself the man brought his sword up, deflecting Forest’s lunge so it only pierced his shoulder. He growled in defiance at the biting pain as Forest quickly tore the blade free, preparing for the killing blow. The mercenary staggered back as Forest lashed in again, but before he could strike the barge smashed against the vast stone curtai