The Shattered Crown

Book 2: Steelhaven

by R.S. Ford

Genres: Fantasy; General Fiction

Synopsis

Heroes must rise.... The King is dead. His daughter, untested and alone, now wears the Steel Crown. And a vast horde is steadily carving a bloody road south, hell-bent on razing Steelhaven to the ground. Or the city will fall.... Before the city faces the terror that approaches, it must crush the danger already lurking within its walls. But will the cost of victory be as devastating as that of defeat?

Release date: March 13, 2014

Publisher: Headline Digital

Print pages: 400

Sample

They called it Aluk Vadir. It was a bustling port, not like Steelhaven, not huge and imposing, but it had still been busy in recent days. River guessed busier than it had been in many years.

A score of battleships, each carrying a huge trebuchet, had already set sail from the dock, making their way across the Midral Sea. River watched that dock from the balcony of a chamber set high up on the side of a smooth-sided tower. But his mind was not troubled by the ships that even now were making their way towards his home.

All River could think of were the men he had killed.

Forest had told him there were only five men. Just five, and evil men at that. River had considered that an acceptable number. Only it hadn’t been just five, it had been those five men and their guards, their sentries and, when necessary, their servants. River had found the old ways, the killing ways, had come back to him all too easily.

As he stood there on that high balcony in the stifling night heat, he was filled with regret. Regret for all the lives he had taken. If Jay knew what he had done she would hate him for it. She was gentle, an innocent soul, and she would never understand, even though he had only done it for her. To protect her from the Father of Killers.

And what else could he have done? He had made a vow, and to the Father of Killers no less.

River turned as he heard the old man fumble his key in the lock of the door. As he entered River caught his scent, unwashed and musky, wine on his breath and the aroma of pipe smoke on his clothes.

Abda Jadi shuffled inside, closing the door behind him. He had been the one to give River his targets at Keidro Bay. He had been the one to draw up the contract River had presented to his marks, written in strange foreign script and eventually signed in blood.

‘A quiet night out,’ said the old man. ‘Streets are all but deserted now the last of the ships is making ready to leave.’

The last of the ships that would bring carnage to Steelhaven. River clenched his fists, feeling remorse for his part in it.

‘Our business is done then?’ asked River.

‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ replied the old man. He was staring, his fingers toying with the soiled white robe that covered his body. River saw a bead of sweat run from beneath Abda’s headwrap.

Something was wrong. It was hot, but this old man was used to it. Surely he would not be sweating unless …

River ducked on instinct, dropping to the floor as something tore through the air. The arrow whipped in, cutting through where he had been standing a moment before. Abda Jadi was not so quick, taking the arrow in his throat.

As the old man staggered back, gripping his neck, River pulled out his blades. The assassin burst through the window, his weapons already drawn.

‘Forest,’ River had time to whisper, before he was on the back foot, his blades quick to parry the rapier and poniard that cut in at his face.

This could not be. He had made a vow. The Father of Killers had promised him.

But had he? He had only promised Jay would live – he had never promised to spare River.

Forest said nothing, attacking with all the speed and venom River had come to expect from his brother. At first River was hard pressed to parry the blows, and Forest’s rapier cut a line through his jerkin, slashing the flesh. He ignored the pain, twisting aside, grabbing Abda Jadi, who still stumbled in his death throes, and thrusting him towards Forest.

His brother just pushed the old man out of the way and took a step back, breathing hard from his exertions. It was clear his skills were rusty and he had not fought for a while, but then it was a long journey from Steelhaven. River on the other hand, still had the killer in him.

The two went at each other again, the only sound their weapons ringing off one another. As Forest’s rapier came down in another thrust, River caught the guard in one of his blades, twisting it and pulling it from his grip. He ducked Forest’s short blade and hooked his own weapon behind his brother’s leg. It sliced Forest’s calf and he grunted in pain, staggering as River stabbed in again, taking Forest in the forearm and causing him to drop his poniard.

With the advantage of his momentum, River bore down, knocking his brother back. They both fell to the ground and River held one blade to his brother’s throat, the other raised for the killing blow. Abda Jadi had breathed his last and with the old man’s dying gasps finished, there was silence in the room.

Forest smiled. It was obvious he was in pain, but he fought it, just as River would have done.

‘What are you waiting for, brother?’ he asked. ‘Do it.’

River stared into Forest’s eyes. There was no fear there. It was as though he wanted to die. As though he had been waiting for it, expecting it, yearning for it.

‘Why have you come here? Why not just let me go?’

‘The Father will never let you go, River. Just like he will never let her go.’

‘He made a vow.’

‘He does not honour vows with traitors,’ Forest replied, seeming to take some small delight in River’s unease. ‘He owes you nothing. By now she is most likely dead. Her city will fall soon after.’

River growled, raising his blade to strike.

But this was his brother. He had already killed one, could he really kill another?

River stood, looking down at Forest bleeding on the floor of the chamber. His brother was helpless and gravely wounded. He would be lucky to survive. Perhaps he was best left to the fates.

‘Do not follow me, brother,’ River said. ‘If you ever come back to Steelhaven, I will kill you.’

Forest did not answer. If he lived, perhaps he would heed his brother’s warning.

Perhaps not.

Without another word, River ran for the window and leapt out onto an adjacent rooftop. What little breeze there was sweeping in from the Midral was warm, almost inviting.

The dock was not far from the tower, and River ran the whole way. He could see the last ship was almost ready to cast off and he rushed to the end of the pier where men were busying themselves loading the last of the ship’s supplies. Without a word River joined them, taking a wooden crate from one of the dock labourers and making his way up the gangplank. No one paid him any attention as he walked onto the ship’s deck. No one said a word as he laid down the crate and made his way to the bow. No one saw as he crouched low in the shadows and waited for the captain to call for sail as they cast off.

As the ship cruised out of dock and made its way northward, River could not take his eyes off the far horizon. It might be days before he saw Steelhaven, and he knew each one of those days would be torment until he knew whether Jay was still alive.

River had to believe she was. If she were not, he vowed that there would be more deaths.

Many more deaths.

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 curtain wall that ran along the Storway. The vessel listed violently and the mercenary lost his footing. He was pitched over the side, plunging into the water as the sound of snapping timbers cracked the air.

The deck was fast filling with water now, and Forest turned to the general. The man’s sword was drawn, his face twisted in anger, but there was fear in his eyes.

Forest advanced through the ankle-deep water as the barge smashed against the wall once more. He could hear the decking crack and splinter, the noise ringing out over the sound of the heavy rain hitting the river. The general was crouched at the bow, grasping his sword in a defensive posture. His form was perfect, but it was still not enough to deter Forest.

The general growled in defiance, pressing to attack, but he was old and sluggish, his best days long behind him. Forest easily parried and countered the clumsy blow. There was a clang of metal on metal as he swept the general’s sword aside, before thrusting his rapier into the mark’s chest. As Forest pulled his bloody weapon free, for a brief moment the general looked bewildered, as though he could barely believe he was dead. Then the light in his eyes slowly dimmed and his body slumped to the bottom of the barge.

Forest saw the vessel was headed straight at the stone stanchion of Steelhaven’s derelict Carrion Bridge. He waited in the deepening water as the barge span towards its final doom. In the last moment before it hit, he leapt from the boat’s prow, grasping the crumbling stanchion and pulling himself up. The barge smashed against what remained of the bridge, broke in two, and was quickly consumed by the river. The bodies of the general and his men were swept into the treacherous arms of the Midral Sea.

It was nothing for Forest to scale the wall into Steelhaven. Nothing for him to avoid the attention of the Greencoats, their duty ineffectual as they sheltered from the rain.

The streets were deserted, swept clear of the drudges who usually filled them by the torrential rain. Forest was glad of it; he would rather have suffered the cold and rain any day, than endure the multitude of city folk who walked this place as though in a stupor. He hated them, hated this place, but he was bound here by his devotion to the Father of Killers. Nothing would ever see that devotion questioned.

It took little time to return to the sanctum where the cloying dark of the subterranean tunnels offered shelter from the driving rain. In places the tunnels were flooded, the rainwater flowing in rivers through the underground passages, but Forest knew the secret ways, and in no time was at the central cavern.

He knelt in silence waiting for the Father. It could be a long vigil; the Father of Killers came at his own behest and Forest had sometimes waited for days. Mercifully, the Father was eager to learn that his son had succeeded.

‘The general?’ came a deep voice from the darkness.

‘Is dead.’ Forest kept to himself that achieving this had been neither quick nor easy.

The Father moved closer. ‘I am pleased,’ he said, stepping into the winking torchlight, his face drawn, troubled. For days he had mourned the loss of Mountain, and even more the loss of River – his favoured son. Forest hated River for that. Hated him more than ever for his betrayal and what he had done to their Father.

‘I live to serve, Father. I live to destroy the enemies—’

‘I know, my son,’ the Father interrupted. His voice held an edge of annoyance and for a second Forest wondered if he would indeed feel the sting of the whip, but instead the Father of Killers laid a hand on his head. ‘You are the most loyal of all, my one remaining son. And I have a further task for you.’

‘Name it, Father,’ Forest replied looking up eagerly, yearning for another chance to make his Father proud. As he did so he noticed the Father held two iron nails in his hands, rubbing them between his thumb and finger as though they gave him comfort.

‘You might be less willing when you learn of the task I would have you perform.’

‘I will do anything you ask.’

The Father smiled. ‘I know you will, my son.’

He took a step back and gestured for his son to rise. Forest obeyed, eager to know what would be asked of him.

‘River is at Keidro Bay. The Lords of the Serpent Road are being brought to heel as we speak and his task almost done. You will travel to Aluk Vadir. When River has completed his mission, he will travel there to receive his next instruction.’ The Father fixed Forest with his stare. ‘And there you will kill him.’

Forest understood the Father’s words, but could barely believe what he was hearing. Any other time he would have obeyed immediately, would already be on his way to carry out the Father’s bidding. Instead, he shook his head.

‘But we entered into a pact with him. He has upheld his part of the bargain. Why are we—?’

‘Do you question me, Forest?’

The Father’s words stung more than any whip and Forest quickly bowed his head in shame.

‘No, Father. I will do as you command.’

The Father of Killers laid a hand on his shoulder, saying again, ‘I know you will, my son.’ His words were calm once more, his ire forgotten. ‘I understand your concern; we have entered into an accord and it should be honoured, for without honour we are nothing. But there are greater things to consider, Forest. Things you are not yet able to understand.’

Forest trusted his Father, trusted his words, and he could only think those ‘things’ were something to do with the message and the battered leather wallet that had been delivered all those days ago by the foreign herald. Since then, his Father, usually so composed, had behaved strangely, his mood erratic, at times almost anxious and Forest had become concerned. On occasion he had spied the Father staring inside that wallet, his lips moving silently, though Forest had never had the courage to ask what lay inside.

Some things he simply could not question.

‘I do not need to understand, Father. I will do your bidding.’ Yet Forest wondered if it was the bidding of his Father or of the warlord Amon Tugha, to whom his Father seemed beholden.

‘That pleases me, my son. I know I ask much of you. River was your brother, and it is only natural you would retain some feeling for him.’

‘I bear no loyalty to that traitor.’

The Father of Killers smiled. ‘His betrayal burns inside you as it does in me. But fear not. You will have your vengeance. And I will have mine.’ With that he pressed the iron nails to his lips, as though they brought him some kind of comfort.

Forest’s brow furrowed. ‘You will, Father?’

‘Yes. River’s beloved queen still lives. But before your brother dies you will tell him that the pact we made was a traitor’s bargain, and worthless. And by the time you reach him, I will have torn out his lover’s heart and laid it at Amon Tugha’s feet.’

‘Then I will leave immediately,’ Forest said.

As he walked from the cavern he could sense the Father’s eyes on him, and felt the weight of this mission on his heart.

River had betrayed them, had murdered Mountain and turned his back on their Father. But was it right to break a pact – even a so-called traitor’s bargain?

Whatever the rights or wrongs of it, Forest knew he had no choice.

River would soon be dead. And so would his queen.

Waylian had never known cold like it. It crept through his cloak and his jerkin, into his very bones. The chill giving way to shivers giving way to numbness.

Of course there had been tough winters in Ankavern. The little hamlet of Groffham had been cut off for almost a month one year, but a judicious use of their stores had meant they could weather the isolation with nothing worse than a few grumbling bellies. Waylian had been small then, barely seven summers old, and hadn’t appreciated the danger. All he had wanted to do was play in the drifts and throw snowballs at trees to loosen the icicles hanging from their branches. He’d been wrapped up against the elements, and when his fingers had started to go numb there had been a hearth to warm himself in front of and hot broth to stoke a fire in his belly.

Well, there’s no hot broth now, is there! There’s not much of bloody anything up here other than the prospect of a cold and lonely death!

The wind howled, whipping the snow into his face; it blew his cloak about him, making it flap like an unkindness of angry ravens. Occasionally its fierceness threatened to sweep him off the mountain path and send him spinning to his death far below. He wanted to cry, to weep in sorrow at his lot, but the tears would have only frozen on his cheeks. If he could remember the way back down the Kriega Mountains to Silverwall he would have taken it, but he was hopelessly lost. Every path looked the same up here and it wasn’t like he could even see with the thick snow flurries blinding him at every turn. Of course there was a map – there was always a bloody map – but right now it was about as much use as a paper axe.

Waylian tried to find shelter, huddling behind a rock, but the wind still screamed in his ears, still whipped through his clothes. He wrenched the pack from his shoulder and opened it. Before he looked he knew what would be in there – a damp and useless map, a single apple and half a hunk of bread. All his dried beef was gone, along with the cheese. As though to remind him he’d been an idiot for eating it all so quickly his stomach suddenly grumbled.

Waylian let out a sob. He stared hopefully into the pack again, as though he might somehow conjure more food from the ether, but there was still just that apple and the mouldy old bread. Oh, and the letter she’d given him – the little roll of paper with the wax wyvern seal. He still had that at least. Good old Magistra Gelredida.

The fucking bitch.

This was all her fault. Every bit of it. He was going to die up here, of starvation or from the cold, and it was all her bloody fault. Why had he said yes? He was no grand explorer, no kind of hero. But how could he have refused? It had been his one big chance to prove himself. His one opportunity to show her he was more than just an apprentice.

And you’ve well and truly fucked that up, haven’t you.

All at once Waylian yearned for Groffham. For the quiet life he could have led – not the silent death that was slowly creeping up on him. He yearned for that winter so long ago, when the snows had seemed so harmless, and he cursed the day he had ever been sent to the Tower of Magisters. This was where his ambition had got him: an ignominious end on a lonely mountaintop.

Well, we all get what we deserve, don’t we, Waylian Grimm.

He should have known it was never going to end well. It was written in the stars – the omens were there for him to see. The journey from Steelhaven to Silverwall had been uneventful enough, if you discounted saddle sores and a randy horse, but that had been nothing compared to what awaited him once he reached the city. Oh, it had looked impressive enough – high spires and vast walls under the shadow of the mighty Kriega Mountains – but what Silverwall possessed in splendour it certainly lacked in integrity. Or that’s what Waylian decided when three robbers stripped his coinpurse from his belt then demanded his sandals for good measure. They’d been kind enough to leave him his robe, so at least he didn’t have to suffer the shame of wandering around Silverwall’s streets naked.

Could things have become any worse after that?

Of course they could.

When Waylian had finally tracked down Crozius Bowe, he was not a stuffy scholar as he’d been led to believe, but a mad old codger, crazy as a bat. Half a day it had taken Waylian to convince the venerable loon who he was and why he was in Silverwall in the first place. He had almost been tempted to stuff the sealed letter up the man’s nose. Even after Bowe had decided to believe Waylian, he still made little sense, blithering on about ancient pacts and distant mountain keeps.

It was Bowe who’d given Waylian his altogether useless map and directions into the Kriega Mountains. He’d also given him travel advice, but Waylian had chosen to ignore that, making his way to a supply house for the requisite equipment and some sane guidance. Of course said ‘sane guidance’ had been not to travel at all. Venturing into the mountains alone was tantamount to suicide, but Waylian had been given his task and he was determined to see it through. And so, raising his chin like some fabled hero, he had set off to complete his task.

Looking back, such stubbornness had been foolish – suicidal even. Not much he could do about it now, though.

As he squatted down on the icy ledge he waited for the grumbling in his stomach to subside. It had got to the stage where he only ate if he was feeling sick or light headed. Who knew how much longer he would have to wander the mountain passes be