‘What’s in it?’ he asked.
‘Dunno.’ She held out the parchment to him. ‘But you’re free to open it and have a look.’
Yarrick held up his hands like he was surrendering. ‘Not a fucking chance,’ he said. ‘Who’s it for?’
‘Dunno that neither,’ said Rag. ‘But Bastian reckons there’s someone waiting over the other side of the Rafts and he’ll know me when he sees me.’
‘Sounds fucking dodgy to me,’ said Yarrick, a hint of sympathy in his voice.
‘Is there anything round here that ain’t dodgy?’ Rag gestured around the tavern, at the gathered crowd of maniacs sharpening their weapons and waiting for trouble.
Yarrick nodded his agreement at that. ‘When you off?’
‘Soon as, I reckon. No point hanging around.’
‘Suppose I’d better come with you then.’ Though even as he said it Rag could sense the doubt in his voice.
‘Bastian gave this job to me. No need for you to take the risk as well.’
Yarrick shrugged. ‘Looks just as risky hanging round here.’ He looked fearfully at the tavern full of cutthroats.
Rag couldn’t argue with that logic. Neither would she say no to the company. Maybe she’d be better suited to this alone, better able to move unseen and get the job done, but deep down she knew she’d feel better with someone watching her back, even if it was only Yarrick.
‘All right then. Let’s go.’
With that they made their way out of the tavern, neither of them daring to look any of Bastian’s men in the eye, just in case. Shirl looked at her, opening his mouth with a question on his lips, but Rag shook her head and he took the hint, sitting back in his chair and keeping it shut.
Out on the street the sun was just setting and the smell of smoke and fire drifted up on the sea breeze from the south. It was eerily quiet, as if all the folk off the street were hidden and just waiting for the chance to jump out on her and yell ‘Surprise’ like they was throwing her a bloody party.
‘What the fuck’s going on?’ asked Yarrick, also sensing something was amiss.
‘Wait here,’ Rag said, moving towards a derelict chapel building across the street from the tavern.
It was one of those old buildings, some place of worship for the Old Gods long since abandoned. They built them high back in those days, and Rag was hoping it would give her a decent enough vantage point to see what was going on.
The climb didn’t take long; the old stonework provided enough handholds for her to reach the top in no time. On the roof she could see out across most of the city, from the blackened seawall to the south all the way to the River Gate and beyond to the north.
Rag’s grip on the stonework tightened. At the curtain wall all along the northern battlements stood a mass of armoured men, all looking out to the plain beyond. Past them, filling the plain, was a massive horde moving towards the city. Torches shone in the night, showing their numbers, showing the mass of savages moving on Steelhaven. Amongst the horde were huge machines — catapults, siege towers, battering rams and things Rag didn’t even know the names for — all moving south like there weren’t nothing that could stop them.
She watched for as long as she dared before she realised her mouth was hanging open and her fingers were starting to hurt they were gripping the stone so tight. Almost as quick as she’d climbed she made it to the ground where Yarrick was waiting.
‘Well?’ he asked. ‘What’s happening?’
She stared up at him, hands shaking from the climb and the fear.
‘We need to get a frigging move on, is what’s happening.’
EIGHT
Forty thousand screaming, braying Khurtic bastards were massed outside the city, making all the noise in the hells. Merrick sat on his horse facing the deathly racket they were making, with nothing between him and them but a hundred yards of dark, grassy plain.
He had to admit, he’d spent better evenings having the shit kicked out of him in Dockside taverns.
The horse whickered beneath him, stamping its foot nervously. Merrick patted it reassuringly but it seemed to do little good.
You think you’re bloody nervous? I had plans — ambitions. What did you have other than a nosebag in front and a pile of shit behind?
Beside him, to the left, sat Tannick. They hadn’t spoken but it was obvious the old man wanted to keep him close, maybe to look after him and make sure he’d be able to take that bloody sword one day, or maybe just to make sure he didn’t bring shame on the Wyvern Guard and the family name. Either way, Merrick took some strange solace from the fact his father was nearby.
The Wyvern Guard had ridden out as the Khurtas arrived. A few hundred men on horseback trotting out to face a horde of forty thousand. The savages were arrayed against them now, just standing there screaming, four hundred yards from the city wall. Every now and again a Khurtic archer would take a pot shot at them, his arrow whistling overhead or clanging against a shield, but other than that they were happy just to stand and shout. Of the great Amon Tugha there was no sign, and Merrick took no small reassurance from that. Howling savages he could just about stomach — an immortal giant from the Riverlands might well have been a foe too far.
‘See them?’ Tannick yelled above the din. ‘They’ve come to take this city. Come to prove they’re the hardest, deadliest bastards in all the corners of the world. Look at them.’ He pointed, his arm sweeping from left to right as he took in the whole Khurtic front line. As he did so an arrow whistled past the winged helm on his head, but Tannick never flinched. ‘They’ve come south to prove their might. To prove they’re the greatest killers the Free States have ever seen. And we’re going to prove them wrong.’
This time it was the turn of the Wyvern Guard to howl. Merrick had to admit, his father’s words stirred him a bit, but he still couldn’t bring himself to join in with their cheering.
From within the mass of Khurtas a figure came forward holding aloft a banner. He pushed his way through and planted it in front of the Khurtic lines, as though taunting his enemies with his prize. Through the gloom, Merrick could see the banner bore a red dragon on a yellow field, despite how burned and grimy it was. The standard of Dreldun, there in the hands of the bastard enemy. Merrick had never considered himself a patriot; most of the time he couldn’t care less about loyalty to kings and countries, but seeing that standard in the hands of some foreign savage made him want to spit his ire. They’d come down from their steppes to the north and raped and murdered and burned their way south. That standard was a symbol of the carnage they’d left in their wake, of the innocents slaughtered needlessly. Even Merrick couldn’t let that stand.
Tannick spurred his horse, gripping his reins tight and riding forward a few yards. More arrows flew but missed their target.
‘Whoreson!’ Tannick bellowed above the din. Merrick saw Cormach look up, staring eagerly from beneath his helm as the Lord Marshal pointed at the Khurtic horde. ‘Bring me that flag.’
Cormach said something as he drew his sword, along the lines of about fucking time, but Merrick couldn’t make it out exactly. Then he spurred his horse. The steed reared then set off at a gallop, clear of the Wyvern Guard line and headed straight towards forty thousand Khurtas.
Merrick watched wide eyed. It was either the bravest thing he’d ever seen or the most insane.
Never get you doing anything like that, would they, Ryder? You stay in the crowd; you watch your own back. Don’t bother risking your life for anyone.
Cormach galloped at the enemy, arrows peppering the ground at his horse’s feet. The front line of Khurtas began yelling in a frenzy, as though they were shouting encouragement, waiting for the moment they could kill one of these defiant, arrogant Wyvern Guard.