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.
ONE
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 within the hallowed confines of the ancient tower.
Waylian paused on the staircase, watching them through an open archway as they went at one another with sword, spear and glaive. He could only marvel at their strength and skill — even fully armoured they fought with a speed and ferocity that almost made Waylian’s head spin. He had watched the Wyvern Guard training on the way from the Kriega Mountains and had thought them a fierce and deadly bunch. The Raven Knights almost matched them for raw brutality, and surpassed them in finesse and vigour. Waylian wouldn’t have liked to call which order of knights were the more proficient killers.
He stood and watched, almost mesmerised, until a figure walked from beyond the entranceway, blocking his view. Lucen Kalvor turned slowly, regarding Waylian with those dark arching brows of his. It was still unclear if Kalvor knew who had aided Gelredida in her plotting against the Archmasters. Whether Kalvor knew it was Waylian who had gathered proof that he’d murdered his former master to take his place as Archmaster was impossible to tell. It was clear, however, that he held no love for Magistra Gelredida, and by association it was doubtful he liked Waylian much either.
He probably thinks you’re her pet, like everyone else, Grimmy. People don’t like other people’s pets; always leaving their fur and the stink of their arses where they’re not wanted.
Waylian averted his gaze and hurried down the stairs. He could feel Kalvor’s dark eyes following him as he went, not really wanting to know what the Archmaster was thinking. He was pretty sure it would be nothing complimentary.
Further down, the sound of clashing steel relented, only to be replaced by squabbling voices. The closer he got to the sound the more Waylian thought it reminded him of a gaggle of geese, pecking at one another over a scrap of food.
Again he paused when he reached the source of the noise, peering through the open door of a huge wood-panelled meeting room. In its centre sat Archmaster Crannock Marghil and surrounding him were more than a dozen magisters, all speaking at once, barracking the old man with their protestations.
‘We will all be killed!’ ‘You should have bargained with the Elharim!’ ‘There’s no sense in this, we should flee!’ ‘I’m too old to go into battle!’ ‘I can’t fight, my sciatica’s playing up!’
To his credit, Crannock soaked up the cacophony with a grim defiance that belied his years, taking every panicked excuse on the chin like a seasoned pugilist.
Waylian remembered when Gelredida had given the old man the task of mustering the veteran magisters. At the time she had said they would follow Crannock, that they respected him. Looking through the open door into the room, Waylian could see little evidence of that. Nevertheless, the Archmaster seemed unbowed by the complaints of his fellow Caste members. It seemed they would have to join the fight whether they liked it or not.
When he’d made his way to the bottom of the vast stairway Waylian paused at the double doors standing open before him. He could hear the sounds of strict instruction coming from the courtyard beyond and he was in no hurry to rush out and let himself be seen by his fellow apprentices or their tutor. In the past few days Drennan Folds had put every apprentice left in the tower through their paces, assessing their abilities and training them rigorously in whatever area of the Art they proved themselves most proficient. It had been a harsh few days, and not everyone had survived. If there were any doubt as to the perils of tapping the Veil untrained then they had long been dispelled. The Veil held all the magicks of the world within its confines, and harnessing it was dangerous, even for experienced magisters. For an apprentice it could often lead to catastrophe.
Waylian had heard tell one lad named Mikael had choked on his own vomit after attempting a particularly tricky incantation. Another girl, he didn’t know her name, had died screaming and clawing at her head, pulling out hair in huge knots until she had finally expired. Little wonder then that Waylian was out of favour with his fellows since he had managed to avoid being put at such risk.