Lord of Ashes

Book 3: Steelhaven

by R.S. Ford

Genres: Fantasy

Synopsis

The concluding third novel of R. S. Ford's Steelhaven trilogy has enough thrills, valour, guts and glory to satisfy any die-hard fan of David Gemmell and Joe Abercrombie. The prince has come . . . to take his crown. 'Violent, vicious and darkly funny' Fantasy Faction The queen of Steelhaven has grown in strength. Taking up her dead father's sword, she must defend the city from the dread warlord Amon Tugha and his blood-thirsty army now at the gates. A vicious, unrelenting four-day battle ensues, the most perilous yet. No side is immune from danger as all hell breaks loose, with the threat of coups and the unleashing of the deadliest and darkest magick. Loyalty, strength and cunning will be put to test in the quest for victory. What fate awaits the free states? Praise for R.S. Ford: 'You'll find yourself looking forward to what Ford dreams up next' SFX 'Exciting and different' The British Fantasy Society 'A perfect example of tight, gritty, character-driven storytelling' Luke Scull, author of The Grim Company

Release date: May 7, 2015

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 354

Sample

The city had burned for almost a week. Seth watched the smoke rising beyond the eastern horizon, slowly fading as the days went by until there was nothing left but a clear blue winter sky. No one would ever have known the siege of Steelhaven had even happened.

But Seth knew.

He had wept for those poor souls lost to the Khurtas. Said prayers to Arlor for the heroes that defended the city so valiantly. And the queen … his queen …

What would befall them now she was gone? Now the line of the Mastragalls, which had united the provinces in the first place, was gone? Already there were rumblings from Braega and Stelmorn. Talk of the union of Free States collapsing. That would mean war, Seth knew beyond doubt. Nobles would vie for power and the men and women under their yoke would suffer for it.

Seth could only be thankful he was in a trade that would be much sought after in the months and years to come. He might be old but he was still firm in the arm, and the fire in his forge hadn’t gone out in thirty some years.

He had been a blacksmith all his life, and his father before him. He had a daughter of his own but she had left many years before, yearning for a life less harsh than the one he could provide for her. He didn’t blame her for that, and since Seth’s wife passed he had been content to work his forge alone.

The old man glanced through the window of his small cottage, once again thankful for the pane of glass, the only one in his home, that kept out the winter cold. His forge sat across the Great East Road from the cottage and beyond that was the Midral Sea. How much work would he be called upon to perform within its confines in the coming time of strife? How many shoes would he hammer to hooves, how many swords would he sharpen in the coming years of conflict? The thought almost made him hear the ringing of hammer on steel in his head.

Or was it only in his head?

Seth frowned, stepping closer to the window, straining his failing ears. Another ring, dull but still unmistakable. Seth opened his front door, taking a step outside into the crisp air, feeling the crunch of morning frost beneath his boot. He paused, wondering if his ears were deceiving him, but no. There it was again, the clank of metal coming from his forge.

He reached back inside his cottage, grabbing the axe that sat beside his door. As he quickly made his way across the road, his heart began to thump the harder, his grip tightening on the wooden handle. He’d only ever chopped wood with this axe, never in his life had he had reason to raise a weapon in anger, but he’d bloody well do it if need be. Seth might be getting on in years but he was still fit, still able to look after what was his.

Another clang of metal echoed within the forge as he reached the door, this time accompanied by a muffled curse. Seth reached for the handle of the door and noticed that his hand was shaking. For a brief moment he tried to tell himself it was because of the morning cold, but the old man had never been one to lie to himself. He knew he was scared. Better to admit it than try and pretend he had ever been a brave man.

The door swung open silently. Seth felt the last of the forge’s heat blow in his face as he did so. Embers still burned in the fire, casting a dull glow within the building. As quietly as he could, Seth stepped inside, grasping the axe with two hands. He peered through the gloom, staring across the forge towards his anvil.

A gaunt figure stood beside it, Seth’s hammer gripped in his hand. In the other he held a chisel, pointing it awkwardly at the chains that bound his wrists. Vainly the figure tried to strike the head of the chisel, but the chains that restrained him made it almost impossible. The best he could do was tap weakly, but not so weak that the sound did not echo around the small room.

The figure cursed, and Seth could see raw and livid welts around those manacled wrists as though they had been bound in irons for weeks.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ sighed the bedraggled intruder, lifting his head forlornly.

Beneath a tangle of dark hair and wispy beard, Seth saw a young face, handsome yet marred by care. One eye was covered by a makeshift patch; a piece of cloth torn from his filthy robe. Blood had run and dried beneath the patch, staining the young man’s cheek with black.

‘What are you doing there?’ demanded Seth, though it was obvious for all to see what the youth was doing.

With another sigh, the intruder looked across the forge at Seth. Then slowly, as though Seth were some kind of old friend, he smiled.

It was a cold smile, a smile of death. Seth could feel it right in his heart. At that moment he knew this boy was dangerous, but despite his fear, despite the shaking in his knees and the cold dread that seeped into his bones, Seth knew he couldn’t run.

‘I appear to be making a fool of myself with these chains, Seth,’ said the lad.

It took two heartbeats before Seth realised there was no way the young man could have known his name.

‘How did you—’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, shaking his head as though already tired with their whole conversation. ‘All that matters is I need these chains gone. And you’re going to help me get rid of them.’

Despite his fear, Seth tightened his grip on the axe. He wasn’t about to be ordered about in his own forge. Whoever this lad was he couldn’t just expect Seth to do his bidding. Besides, someone had put those chains on him for a reason. Seth would be foolish to take them off without so much as a ‘by your leave’.

‘I … I’ll do as I damn well please,’ said Seth. ‘I’m the one with the bloody axe.’

The lad sighed again. ‘Indeed you are, Seth. But that’s not the only weapon in the room.’ Seth glanced at the hammer in the lad’s hand, but he knew that wasn’t what he meant. There was something not right about this boy and Seth knew he had to be wary – his life might well depend on it. ‘Knowledge is as powerful a weapon as any blade. And I have knowledge, Seth. I know about your daughter in Fleetholme. I know about her children, Dorry and Karl. I know how they’ll all die. I know their last words.’

Seth felt the forge grow colder as the lad spoke. It chilled him to his very soul. He felt his fingers freeze as they gripped that axe and he knew it would never do him any good. It was obvious now – this boy was doom. For the first time Seth wished he’d been a much more pious man. He could only hope Arlor was watching over him.

‘Don’t hurt them,’ he said. He knew it was pitiful and stupid. That he had no bargaining power here, but he had to say it all the same.

The lad smiled again. ‘Get me out of these, Seth,’ he said, laying the hammer and chisel down on the anvil.

Seth felt the axe drop from his grip. He hadn’t made a conscious decision to let it go, but still it fell from his numb fingers. He walked forward, feeling a cold tear trace a line down his cheek. As he picked up the hammer and chisel he felt the sudden wrongness of what he was doing – as though he had a brief opportunity to do something good, do something right for the Free States, for the world. If he took the hammer and smashed this boy’s head to offal he would save countless lives and if he died in the process it would all be worth it.

Instead, Seth braced the edge of one cuff against his anvil. It was secured by a double bolt at the rim. Seth raised his hammer and struck one clear, then again to remove the other. The iron fell from one of the lad’s wrists and with another smile – that cold, dead smile – he placed his other cuff on the anvil. Two more strokes, two more bolts, and the boy was free.

He stared at his ruined wrists for some moments, as though breathing in his new-found freedom. All Seth could do was stand there with the tools of his trade in his hands, knowing it was probably the last time he would ever use them.

‘Thank you, Seth,’ said the lad, looking up at the old man with his one eye.

Seth saw only darkness in that eye. Saw the death of everything. Saw the end of the world.

‘Are you going to kill me now?’ the old man asked.

The lad paused, as though considering it. Then he laughed, long and loud, harder than any joke should have made any man laugh.

‘Seth, I like you,’ he said. ‘And rest assured, you’re going to live.’ All the humour drained from his face, all warmth seeped from every gap in the walls and the light seemed to dim. The lad leaned in and Seth could smell his fetid stench as he whispered. ‘But you’ll wish I’d killed you. When you see what’s coming, Seth, you’ll wish I’d torn the flesh from your bones and left the rest out for the gulls to peck on.’

Seth felt a second tear roll down his cheek.

The lad was smiling again now. Smiling as he moved by, walking on thin bare legs. He paused at the door for a second, breathing deep of the cold morning air.

‘And when the world is crying out in pain,’ he said. ‘When a thousand thousand souls are screaming for mercy. You can tell them it was Rembram Thule who brought this whole stinking mess down on them.’ He turned to Seth, showing his yellow teeth in a wry smile. ‘And you were the one that helped me do it.’

With that he was gone through the door, leaving nothing but cold dread behind him.

Seth stared after, the open door letting in the cold for a long while.

That day, for the first time in thirty some years, the fire in his forge died.

It was dark and quiet inside the hide-covered shelter, almost peaceful. Nothing moved but a single piece of animal skin come loose in the night, letting the dawn light flit into the tent as it flapped gently in the breeze.

Endellion took a deep breath, smelling the salt tang of moist flesh and stale sex. Surrounding her on a pile of furs were half a dozen Khurtic warriors, every one of them deep in slumber, every one of them worn out from their long night. She smiled at the memory. They had tried so very hard to keep up but she was Elharim, and not even a half-dozen had come close to satisfying her appetite.

The one lying next to her – she didn’t know his name, had no use for any of their names – bore the mark of her nails on his back, raw and livid on his pale flesh. He was a pretty one, his skin smooth for a Khurta, his face unmarred by war and violence. That was unusual for one of his kind. It had taken her some time to find such boys, the Khurtas were a notoriously ugly race, but after much searching she had managed to take her pick of their youngest and strongest. None had refused her. None had dared.

With a single finger she traced the line one of her nails had left on his skin. The boy stirred at her touch but did not wake. The night before he had cried out as she marked him, as she dug her fingers into his flesh, urging him, stirring his lust. He had been good; one of the best and most eager to please. It was fitting she should have granted him such a battle scar. And these Khurtas so loved their scars.

A noise from outside made her forget her parched throat and fuddled head. It was the sound of stone scraping steel.

Endellion rose from the piled furs, deftly stepping over the bodies that surrounded her. She found her clothes piled in a corner, quickly dressed and pulled on her boots, strapping her sword to her waist and taking one of the furs to wrap around her shoulders against the chill winter air. With a last amused glance back at the spent bodies lying in her tent, she pulled back the hide covering and stepped out into the wan morning light.

He sat not twenty yards away, and though the sun was hidden behind a gloomy bank of cloud it still seemed like he shone. Endellion couldn’t suppress a grin as she walked towards him, watching as he honed that blade, scraping whetstone on Riverland steel. Even though they were a thousand miles from their homeland in the north, when she laid eyes on Azreal it was as though she had never left. He was home to her. All she had ever wanted.

Of course she would never have told him that. There was a time, years ago, when she would have professed her devotion to him; might well have pledged herself to him and him alone. But that time was gone. She was of the Arc Magna, a warrior born, dedicated to the blade and the kill. Azreal was of the Subodai, a silent watcher in the night, a messenger bringing the word of his lord and sometimes with it the gift of death. Any union between them was forbidden, but that had not stopped Endellion taking her pleasure with him so many years before. And what heady nights those had been.

She stood for some time, enduring the cold just to watch him at his work. The stone rang on steel, the blade calling out with each stroke as though singing its joy. How Endellion would love to have made Azreal sing out in joy once more, feeling his flesh against her flesh, hearing his cries of lust mix with her own. It was a temptation she could barely quell.

‘Are you going to stand there staring all morning?’ Azreal said finally, without looking around or pausing in his labours.

Endellion almost laughed. Of course he knew she was watching him. There was little that passed beyond the knowing of Azreal of the Subodai.

‘I could stand here staring until Oblivion claims me,’ she replied.

He only shook his head at that, moving the whetstone along his blade with one last ring of the steel. In a single swift motion he stood, spinning the blade in his grip with a flourish and deftly slotting it into his sheath.

‘Unfortunately neither of us can wait for Oblivion, my love. Our master has summoned us.’

Endellion couldn’t manage to suppress a pang of excitement as he called her my love, but she did not speak further as Azreal led the way through the camp. If Amon Tugha had indeed summoned them, it would be madness to keep him waiting.

She walked close behind him as he moved through the Khurtic camp. They had been here for almost a week and the place was beginning to stink of unwashed bodies and rotting meat. It was not good for these savages to spend so much time amongst one another with no one to fight. Though Amon Tugha had united the nine tribes, old rivalries still burned bright and there had been many a feud settled in blood over the past few days. For her part, Endellion relished the violence and had even been eager to join in the fighting, but her master had forbidden it. He would have no dissent amongst his ranks, at least not before the city of Steelhaven had fallen. For every man slain in anger another had been executed at her master’s hand, but the threat of a swift and permanent reckoning had still done nothing to curb the killing instinct of the Khurtas. Almost three hundred heads sat atop spears, looking towards the city they had come so far to besiege.

Further through the camp, a vast wooden stockade stood, housing prisoners chained to one another in their droves. The stink from them was worse than anything the Khurtas could have mustered and they were indeed a pitiful sight. Endellion could not take her eyes from them as she passed by. They were a mark of her master’s power, his victories since they had first come to these foul lands. Once proud warriors brought low, stripped of their arms and armour, humiliated, starved and beaten. Every day they suffered was a day her lord was elevated above them. Each of them that died only served to raise her master’s repute yet higher.

Azreal turned his head away as he passed by the stockade. It made Endellion smile to see his disdain for such treatment. Mercy was a rare quality amongst the Subodai, but Azreal had little time for the suffering of prisoners. He saw it as a needless indulgence, and did not appreciate its value. Some would have regarded such an attitude as weakness, but Endellion knew only too well how deadly he was. For all Azreal showed mercy for the weak and helpless, he had none for those who would oppose him with a naked blade.

As they moved through the camp there came the sounds of saws and hammers. Those Khurtas with the acumen for it had been selected to craft Amon Tugha’s weapons of war – vast siege towers, ballistae, mangonels and the like. Endellion had been surprised at how well the savage Khurtas had turned their hands to such labours, but then she had also underestimated their prowess in other areas and been pleasingly surprised at their ability to adapt.

The two Elharim crested a ridge to see the land rise yet further. Atop the next promontory stood a windmill, lonely against the morning skyline, its sails burned to rags by the Khurtic scouts who had first reached this position. Beside the sad sight of the ruin awaited their lord, Amon Tugha.

He stood as still and solid as that mill, staring out over the bleak fields of the Free States towards the city that was his ultimate prize. At his feet were his two hounds, Astur and Sul, one chewing hungrily on the bone of some beast, the other watching vigilantly as Endellion and Azreal approached.

As they mounted the hill, Endellion saw that the rest of his generals were also present. Brulmak Tarr picked impatiently at the scarred flesh of his face, looking on furiously as though it were he the Elharim had kept waiting. Wolkan Brude also looked on with hate from behind a mass of beard and hair, though he was as unmoving as Amon Tugha. Leaning against the wall of the mill, almost hidden in the shadows, was Stirgor Cairnmaker, hands resting on the handles of the sword and axe at his belt. Endellion could read nothing on his features; as though he cared little for the killing to come, but she knew from seeing his skill in battle, the hunger for slaughter he showed on the field, that he cared a great deal.

Azreal was the first to drop to his knee before their prince. Endellion followed suit, feeling the damp of the grass soak into her leather trews. For some moments Amon Tugha stood and stared southward, ignoring his Elharim bodyguards and the Khurtic chieftains in his thrall. All the while one of those hounds stared as the other noisily cracked at the bone in its jaws. Endellion glanced up as she waited; noticing that the bone the animal dined on belonged to no beast, but was the thigh bone of a man.

‘Rise,’ said Amon Tugha, without turning around, his golden eyes still fixed on that city as though it were built from all the jewels of the Riverlands.

The Elharim both stood and Endellion glanced to Azreal, who gave no sign as to what was going on. Were they just to stand here admiring Steelhaven from afar? They all knew why they were here; they had watched the city for days without so much as a single arrow fired in anger. What now?

‘My ships from across the Midral have arrived,’ said Amon, finally. ‘Their bombardment will begin at sunset. It will be our sign to attack from the north.’

‘About fucking time,’ growled Brulmak Tarr in the guttural Khurtic tongue. Endellion thought it foolish of him to speak unless spoken to, but it was clear Amon Tugha had learned to give his savage warriors some latitude to their behaviour in recent weeks. They were barbarians and would never adapt to the traditions and manners demanded of Elharim warriors.

Amon Tugha turned, and Endellion saw him smiling, the blond spikes of his hair all but shining atop his handsome face, the ritual scars and burns to his chest and arms livid against his bronzed flesh. ‘I know you grow restless,’ said Amon. ‘All of you have fought hard for many days only to be stopped in your tracks when our goal is in sight. Tonight your patience will be rewarded. The waiting is over.’

Endellion could have laughed at that. Though they had been camped here for almost six days the Khurtas had done little waiting; instead fighting and fucking amongst themselves as though their lives depended on it. It was rumoured Brulmak Tarr had already killed a dozen of his own men, such was his impatience for battle.

Amon Tugha looked to Azreal. ‘How go our preparations?’ he asked.

‘We will be ready, my prince,’ Azreal replied. ‘The siege engines will be completed by sundown. The location to the west of the city has been found, our warriors are already making the preparations you ordered.’

Amon Tugha nodded. ‘Good. It is important we begin our attack now. We can wait no longer. The Father of Killers has failed and the queen of this city yet lives. I will see Steelhaven fall and take her crown with my own hands.’

Despite his master’s words, Azreal shook his head. There was something he wanted to say, something that Amon Tugha might not want to hear. For a moment Endellion almost reached out to stop him, but it was too late.

‘My lord, I must ask,’ Azreal said, his head still bowed. ‘We have the advantage. The city is cut off from land and sea. This kingdom is riven by feuds and the other nobles within it will not come to the city’s aid. So why attack? Why make such a sacrifice when we could wait them out? Starve them? Put them on the offensive or force their surrender?’

Endellion could hear one of the Khurtic war chiefs snort in derision at the notion they would starve their enemy rather than fight, but she was more concerned with Amon Tugha’s reaction. It was rare he would allow anyone to question his wishes without repercussion, even Azreal, who he favoured above all.

The prince looked at his assassin for some moments, and Endellion feared the worst. Then a smile crossed her master’s face.

‘You speak sense, my brother,’ he said finally. ‘But it is not enough to starve this city and pick at the flesh that remains. I want it razed. I want it destroyed. I want to walk its shattered stones and wade through the broken bones of its slaughtered defenders.’ Amon Tugha’s voice rose as he spoke, and both his hounds grew unsettled at their master’s anger. ‘I want its queen to suffer at my hand. I want to tread her smashed crown beneath my heel.’ Endellion could see the golden fire in her master’s eyes now. His lips turned up in a maniac grin and spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth. ‘And I will have it within the next four days, no matter the sacrifice. No matter if every Khurta in my service dies for it. No matter if you die for it, broken and beaten in the dirt.’ He stopped then and stared at Azreal, who could only hold his master’s gaze for the briefest of moments.

‘Yes, my prince,’ Azreal replied, bowing his head.

Amon Tugha said nothing further, just turned back to the city of Steelhaven and glared at his prize, so close but still out of reach.

At such a signal, Endellion and Azreal backed away, leaving their master to his thoughts. Before they turned to make their way back down the hill Endellion saw that Brulmak Tarr and Wolkan Brude were grinning at Azreal’s cowing. How she would have loved to punish them for such an insult, but it would only have served to stir Amon Tugha’s ire still further, and there was no way she would survive that.

‘Pleased with yourself?’ she whispered as they made their way back through the camp.

‘It had to be said,’ Azreal replied. ‘Every doctrine of siege warfare states we have the advantage. Needlessly pressing to raze the city will cost us dearly.’

‘And yet we will still follow him,’ she said.

Azreal stopped at that, turning to regard her with those eyes she found so beautiful. He was angry, that much was obvious, but all she wanted to do was grab him and kiss his lips till they bled from the passion of it.

‘Yes, we will follow him,’ he said. ‘Unto death if we have to.’

She could feel the smile slowly dropping from her face.

Back in the Riverlands, two years ago, when the man they now called Amon Tugha had been banished, it had seemed they had no choice but to follow him. He was their master and despite his betrayal of the queen, his own mother, they were still bound to their prince. They were sworn to him, loyal without question, but ever since they had left their homeland doubt had begun to creep into Endellion’s mind. Now, so many hundreds of miles from home, she was beginning to question that loyalty. She was Arc Magna, a peerless warrior, respected and feared by her kith and kin. Here it seemed she was just another of Amon Tugha’s horde. Expendable like all the rest.

‘You follow him like a sheep,’ Endellion said, trying to keep the anger from her voice, but failing. ‘What have we come here for? We are as disgraced as he is, we owe him nothing.’

‘He is still our prince.’ Azreal sounded as though he was trying to convince himself as much as her.

‘And he will lead us to our deaths. For what? An ugly, stinking city a thousand miles from our home? That’s not a good enough reason for me.’

‘That is not the only reason. We are here to regain what we have lost. To build his name anew so they will hear it echoing back into the Riverlands. So they will know it was an injustice to banish him so. He is a king, and those that stand at his shoulder are kings alongside him.’

Endellion could see the light in Azreal’s eyes as he spoke, hear the vehemence in his voice. It seemed he had lost none of his zeal, whereas she had almost none left at all. How would she persuade him of his folly? He would never listen if she pointed out the truth Azreal chose to ignore. That the man they called Amon Tugha had tried to usurp the crown of the Riverlands from his brother, the rightful heir, in a failed coup. That the ‘injustice’ as Azreal called it was more a mercy. By all rights their queen should have taken her son’s head rather than cast him into exile. But she knew Azreal would hear none of it.

‘You’re right,’ she said with a smile, adopting a mask she hoped he would not see through. It would not do to argue with Azreal when he was in such a fervour. ‘We made our vows and we must serve. Even if it means we will die.’

Azreal smiled back at her. ‘You won’t die,’ he said. ‘There’s no one alive can match you.’

At that, he left her standing amid the camp with the smell of fresh lit fires in the bite of the morning air. As she glanced towards the city in the distance, grey and imposing against the dark iron sky, she wondered if he was right, or if there was someone waiting within who could finally best her and leave her body to rot alone and forgotten in this cold and bleak land.

Breakfast had become a pitiful affair in recent days and Waylian Grimm wasn’t sorry to miss it. Though it was unlike him to skip a meal, especially since his time in the Kriega Mountains when he’d almost starved to death, he just couldn’t bring himself to eat. There was a fight coming, a fight that might see the end of everything he knew, and the consequent knot in his stomach was twisted too tight to allow room for watery gruel.

He stared north out of his chamber window, probably not the best thing to do under the circumstances, looking forlornly towards the horde that would come to destroy the city any day now. But what else was he supposed to do? Try and ignore them? Offer some tea and cakes? Run like the bloody hells?

That latter option was off the cards, at least. The last ship had sailed from port three days previously and in the night a huge fleet had arrived to blockade Steelhaven’s crescent bay. The way north was barred by a mass of cutthroat savages, and who knew what lay in wait to east and west. Waylian couldn’t go anywhere, even if he wanted to.

Just have to sit tight and wait for the fighting to start, won’t you, Grimmy.

But when would the bloody fighting start? The Khurtas were just sitting there, lighting their fires in the night, singing their brutal dirges. They’d made a pretty good show of scaring the shit out of everyone in the city, but so far made no move to attack.

Perhaps Amon Tugha had got bored. Perhaps he’d seen the imposing curtain wall and barred gates of Steelhaven and thought better of it.

Waylian was pretty sure that was a wish too far.

Amon Tugha had come a long way to take Steelhaven for his own. There was no way he’d be leaving without a fight.

Waylian washed his face in a bowl of cold water and donned his robe before leaving the chamber and making his way down the vast stairway that wound its way through the core of the Tower of Magisters. The corridors had become all but deserted in the days leading up to Amon Tugha’s arrival. Where before there had been aimless chatter there was now silence. The atmosphere of studiousness replaced by an air of steely determination that seemed to hang over the place now that his mistress, Magistra Gelredida, had mobilised the Archmasters to her cause.

It had not been easy. His mistress had brought the most powerful magickers in the Free States to heel through subterfuge and blackmail, and Waylian had helped her do it. He could only hope that when all this was over he wouldn’t be the one who had to face their ire.

Don’t worry about that right now, Grimmy. You have to survive the forty thousand Khurtas about to rain all the hells on the city you’re stuck in. You’ll most likely be long dead before any of the Archmasters has a chance to seek vengeance.

Making his way down the oak staircase, Waylian could hear the guttural shouts of combat and the clash of steel echoing up towards him. One of the floors had been cleared completely of desks and shelves and other paraphernalia and converted into a fighting gallery where the Raven Knights could practise. Their normal training yard in the tower grounds was being used by Archmaster Drennan Folds and his apprentices, where their inexpert attempts at magick would do less harm. Consequently, the Raven Knights trained inside, the clashing of their weapons making an almighty racket wit