A Demon in Silver E-Book

R.S. Ford

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

A new stunning epic fantasy for readers of Brandon Sanderson, Michael J. Sullivan and Brian Staveley.In a world where magic has disappeared, rival nations vie for power in a continent devastated by war. When a young farm girl, Livia, demonstrates magical powers for the first time in a century there are many across the land that will kill to obtain her power. The Duke of Gothelm's tallymen, the blood-soaked Qeltine Brotherhood, and cynical mercenary Josten Cade: all are searching for Livia and the power she wields.But Livia finds that guardians can come from the most unlikely places… and that the old gods are returning to a world they abandoned.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

ALSO BY R.S. FORD AND AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

PROLOGUE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

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44

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46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

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55

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

WAR OF THE ARCHONS

A DEMON IN SILVER

ALSO BY R.S. FORD AND AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

A Demon in Silver

The Hangman’s Gate (June 2019)

The Spear of Malice (June 2020)

A Demon in Silver

Paperback edition ISBN: 9781785653063

Electronic edition ISBN: 9781785653070

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

First edition: June 2018

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 R.S. Ford. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO JOHN JARROLD...MAY HE NEVER RETIRE. ONWARDS!

PROLOGUE

SIFF wept as torn banners fluttered in the breeze. The tattered remnants of a dozen armies lay scattered and broken on the once lush plain, and broken armour shone lambent in the sun, where it wasn’t spattered red.

Durius had seduced the guardians of the Blue Tower, twisting them to his will. He had made them promises, given them a new eidolon to worship, and for their loyalty they had been swept aside like dust.

Siff knelt amidst the carnage, Bezial’s body cradled across her lap. He had been her most loyal disciple – captain of her guard, high priest, lover. Now he was dead. Her finger traced a furrow that marred his bright armour. Where her tears fell upon his breastplate it displaced the red as though the blood feared her grief.

Bezial had led the vanguard, bellowing her name, riding forth on a black steed with its hooves aflame, sword aloft. Now he lay still, his voice forever silenced.

Siff felt the loss deeply, and her tears fell until her black hair was abruptly swept about her face by a gust of turbulent air. She looked up to see a creature of unparalleled beauty; a beauty only matched by its cruelty.

Innellan swooped down on nightingale’s wings, landing amidst the shattered landscape with a feather-light touch. Her pure white hair billowed in the breeze, her robe black as a starless night, hands slick with crimson. She paused, surveying the scene of carnage before stepping forward, bare feet treading lithely through the scattered weapons and fallen pennants. The hem of her robe trailed through the gore and the viscera, and soon her feet were stained as crimson as her hands. She smiled, revelling in the butchery.

‘Was all this worth it?’ Innellan said, surveying the scene before settling her eyes on Bezial. ‘All this death?’

Siff recognised the insincerity in that question. Innellan’s lust for slaughter was legend.

‘It has to be,’ replied Siff. Despite her sorrow, she knew the death of Bezial was a small price to pay for the catastrophe she would avert – if they had been in time. ‘And now we have to scale the tower. Who knows what damage has been done.’

Innellan silently nodded in agreement, making for the tower in the distance. It soared up into the darkening sky, blue walls sheer and roiling like the sea.

Siff looked longingly at her First Knight, before gently laying him down on the grass to his final rest. She followed Innellan across the devastated field, eerie in its silence. The battle had been costly but it was a price that had to be paid. The Blue Tower had held the Heartstone in its lofty prison for millennia. When it had come under threat there was no alternative but to fight.

Siff spied Armadon sitting amidst the carnage, wiping his giant blade with one of the worthless banners. He was covered in gore from the top of his horned head to the bottom of his cloven hooves, but he kept his weapon clean. His brutality turned Siff’s stomach, but allying with him had been a necessity. She needed all the Archons she could muster, and Armadon was the most ferocious of their number. If it was to be war, she needed him at her side.

‘The tower awaits us, brother,’ Innellan said.

He looked up, regarding the white-haired Archon with disdain.

‘I am no brother of yours. Once this is done with our alliance will be over—’

‘And we can return to the fight like we always have.’ Innellan smiled as though relishing the thought.

Armadon rose wearily. Naturally, of all the slaughter today, the lion’s share belonged to him. He tilted his huge head to one side, cracking the joints and sinew of his thick neck.

‘Let’s see an end to this,’ he said.

The three of them walked slowly towards the tower, blue marble stretching to the sky. Dread built within Siff as they walked in through the huge carved archway. Seraphs were hewn into the stone, silently trumpeting their entrance.

Marble stairs spiralled upwards into blinding light and Siff took every step with reverence. Behind her Innellan trod the white stairway, leaving bloody imprints in her wake. Armadon brought up the rear, his tread surefooted despite his hulking frame.

When Siff reached the summit, the sky was black. Some might have thought that ominous, but she had come too far to be put off by signs and portents. The Heartstone stood in the centre of the huge gallery, its light shining forth toward the four cardinal points like a beacon.

It was as old as the Archons. The source of their power. A conduit through which they could travel to the plane of mortal men and meddle in their affairs. It had been a century since Siff had sought to banish its power, shattering its core and exiling it to this high and forbidden place.

For a time she had succeeded.

Durius had harboured other plans.

Though the twelve Archons had agreed to an accord – making a pact that none of them would ever again abuse the Heartstone’s power – the Archon Durius had sought to mend the artefact and use it to pass through to the mortal realm. There he would reign as a single monarch, unchallenged by his peers.

If not for Siff, and her alliance with Innellan and Armadon, then Durius may well have succeeded. Now it looked as though his plan had failed.

‘It was a mistake to raise this tower,’ said Armadon. ‘We should have hidden the Heartstone away, deep beneath the earth where none of us could find it.’

‘It would have changed nothing,’ said Siff, remembering how this tower had been her idea. How she had thought it would solve millennia of war. The Archons had left it defended by a legion of warriors they had thought incorruptible. How wrong they had been. ‘It would always have come to this. Hiding it would have done no good. We would all have been drawn to it eventually. It calls to us even now.’

The three approached the glowing jewel. Energy pulsated and roiled within as though a storm was brewing inside. The power at its core churned with the need to be released.

As they drew closer Siff could see hairline cracks on the veneer, myriad imperfections marring its surface.

‘It is still incomplete,’ said Armadon.

After all these years Durius had still not managed to remake the Heartstone anew.

‘But complete enough for us to pass over to the other side,’ said Innellan.

Siff could sense longing in her voice and was unable to quell the sense of foreboding it inspired.

Siff held out a hand toward the Heartstone. The air grew thick as though the burgeoning clouds outside were growing heavy.

‘Durius has not fled,’ she said. ‘He has not gone through.’

‘And the gate?’ Innellan said. ‘Is it repaired?’

‘It is imperfect,’ said Siff. ‘But it could still provide a pathway.’

They stood in silence, waiting. Listening. Then Siff heard it, and she knew the others heard it too.

A prayer from across worlds.

A call to the Archons.

Worship.

1

Canbria, 100 years after the Fall

STARING at the back end of a carriage for mile after mile was no one’s idea of theatre. But it beat watching the back end of a horse, so Josten had that to be thankful for.

His right hand loosely held the reins of his mount, his left gripping the scabbard of the sword at his hip. Idly he flicked the cross-guard with his thumb so the blade popped out of the sheath with a steady rhythm, as though counting the beat of their ride. It kept the weapon loose in its scabbard, ready for action. It was a habit Josten had fallen into when he was young, and the oldest habits were the hardest to break. But a sword stuck in its sheath was about as much use in battle as a broken tree branch, so he reckoned some old habits were worth keeping.

‘This is a shitty detail,’ said Mullen, riding close beside him.

Josten didn’t have to look to know Mullen would be scowling in distaste at the carriage in front of them. Mullen Bull was given to scowling a lot, and you were never in any doubt as to what was on his mind at any moment of the day. If it could be moaned about, Mullen was sure to be the one doing the moaning.

‘How can you say that?’ Josten replied. ‘We have the bright beautiful day above us.’ He gestured to the grey skies that hung over them like a pall. ‘Good company.’ Josten patted the sweating, stinking nag that had carried him for gods knew how many miles along the same muddy track. ‘And best of all we’re being paid a king’s ransom for the pleasure.’

That last raised a smile from Mullen. They both knew there were a lot of shitty things about this shitty detail but the pay was far and away the shittiest.

‘I had dreams about being in the duke’s personal guard,’ Mullen said, raising his big eyes and long stubbly face to the cloudy skies. ‘Visions of prestige. Of travel and adventure. Of a tight uniform, and the women it would bring flocking to me. This is not what I had in mind.’ He wiped the back of his neck with one broad palm, glancing briefly at the sweat and grime left there before cleaning it on his thigh.

‘If it’s any consolation you’ve managed to get yourself the tight uniform.’ Josten nodded at Mullen’s prominent gut, which, despite several days on the road and the meagre rations that went with it, still stuck out like he was smuggling a pig under his hauberk.

Mullen ignored him. ‘And it’s not as if we’re even protecting the duke. Don’t get me wrong, the duchess is a much prettier duty to perform, and who wouldn’t want to guard that body, but—’

He stopped as Josten swiped a hand across his throat in a shut the fuck up gesture. The carriage in front of them might be a solid wooden box designed to deflect a well-aimed arrow, but he was sure it wasn’t soundproof.

The rhythmic beat of galloping hooves cut short any chance of more conversation, and Josten twisted in his saddle, staring down the road behind them. His right hand was on the hilt of his sword, the thumb of his left pushing the cross-guard clear of the scabbard’s locket.

A rider came into view, driving his horse like all the demons of hell were after him. The steed was breathing hard and heavy, mud spattering its legs and flanks, eyes wide with panic just like its rider.

Mullen’s sword was out of its sheath and he spun his own horse to face their pursuer.

‘Steady,’ said Josten. ‘He’s one of ours.’

The rider’s livery was clear to see now. Duke Harlaw’s red eagle clutching a black rose, visible through the mud that caked the rider’s chest.

‘Hold!’ Mullen shouted toward the front of their column as the rider reined in his horse in front of Josten. He was gasping hard and Josten gave him a moment to catch his breath.

‘Bandits,’ he finally managed through heavy gulps of air. ‘Quarter-mile back down the road.’

‘How many?’ Josten asked, trying to stay calm. There was no reason to panic just yet.

‘Twenty? Maybe a few more. But it ain’t the numbers we should be worried about.’

All right. Still no need to panic. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s Tarlak Thurlow,’ said the rider, his voice almost cracking with fear.

Now was the time for panicking.

‘Bollocks,’ said Mullen. ‘Shitty fucking bollocks!’

Bollocks didn’t even begin to cover it.

‘The duke’s at Ravensbrooke, ten leagues north of here,’ Josten said to the scout. ‘Get word to him we’re heading for Fort Carlaine.’ The scout nodded, reining his horse around and setting off at a gallop the way he’d come from.

‘Fort Carlaine’s a ruin,’ said Mullen. ‘Why the hell aren’t we going to Drinsport?’

‘We’d never make it before Tarlak caught up with us. We’ve got more chance defending a ruin than getting caught on the road. Now get to the head of the column and get us bloody moving.’

As Mullen spurred his steed forward, cursing to himself about their inevitable deaths, Josten moved up to the side of the carriage. He rapped his fist against it three times, feeling the solid oak, but knowing it would be no defence if they got caught by Tarlak and his men. A shutter slid back, showing the face of one of Duchess Selene’s handmaids.

‘Tell her ladyship things are about to get a little bumpy,’ Josten said, as the handmaid’s eyes widened in concern. ‘And please pass on my apologies.’

He tried to make the last comment sound as sincere as he could, though the duchess’s comfort was the last of his concerns. If they didn’t get to safety before Tarlak Thurlow caught up with them, a sharp piece of metal in his guts would be a big concern and the duchess would find herself on the wrong end of a hefty ransom demand. If Tarlak’s reputation was anything to go by she’d be lucky to get out of it with her honour intact, so he was damned sure she could stand a bruised arse.

Mullen’s voice cut the quiet of the afternoon air, the sound of birds tweeting replaced by choice language and hooves clapping on the forest path. The column quickened its pace and Josten reined his horse towards the rear of the carriage once more.

They rushed on faster through the forest. Josten could see the carriage bouncing along the path in front of him, imagining the scene within as the duchess and her entourage were flung around the wooden interior. The thought of it brought a smile to his face; but the unwelcome thought of their pursuer quickly wiped it away.

Tarlak was only a quarter-mile behind them. If he was riding at pace he’d catch up in no time. Tales of the Red Forest’s most notorious bandit were legion. Josten had always had a strong stomach when faced with stories of torture and dismemberment but there was no way he wanted to find out if any of them were true. If it came to it he wouldn’t be taken alive.

Before he could start to let the thought of that freeze his insides, Fort Carlaine came into view through the trees ahead.

It wasn’t so much relief that washed over Josten as despair. Mullen had said the place was a ruin. It was in slightly better shape than that, but not by much. Fort Carlaine had been a famous outpost in its time – a watchtower used by the Wolf Brigade during the Age of Penitence. Brave deeds had happened in this place, as well as murders and a royal wedding. Now it looked barely decent enough to take a shit in.

The column trundled over the decrepit drawbridge and at any moment Josten expected it to give way, the carriage plummeting into the moat. Not that it would have been a problem since the moat was only about a foot deep.

He rode in through the gatehouse, thinking it might collapse on his head, before pulling up his horse beside the carriage.

‘Get the duchess inside,’ he barked at the duke’s men-at-arms as the door to the carriage swung open. A handmaid stepped down looking suitably dishevelled after the brief but uncomfortable journey. Selene stepped out after her, helped down from the carriage by two men-at-arms. Despite being buffeted like a flag in the wind she still looked immaculate, hardly a hair out of place on her beautiful head. She gave Josten a glance that was impossible to read before allowing herself to be led up to the keep.

‘What now?’ said Mullen, jumping down from his horse.

‘Now we secure the portcullis and wait to be rescued,’ Josten replied. ‘No point putting ourselves in needless danger, is there?’

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ said a croaky voice behind them.

Josten turned to see an old man, who looked every bit as derelict as the fort surrounding him, standing in the courtyard.

‘Why not?’ Josten asked, dreading the inevitable answer.

‘Portcullis don’t work. Hasn’t for years.’

‘And you’d be?’

‘Gerrard. The castellan of Fort Carlaine. I’ve been here for—’

‘All right, we don’t need your life story,’ said Josten, jumping down from his saddle. ‘Listen up, you lot!’ he shouted, voice ringing out across the courtyard. ‘We’re going to have company any time now, and it’s not the polite conversation and cakes kind of company your mother likes. Secure the gate, check your weapons, and if any of you pray I’d start right about now.’

As men-at-arms went about securing the rickety gate that looked ready to fall off its hinges, Mullen came to stand beside Josten.

‘So, what do you rate our chances?’ he asked.

Josten thought about it for a short while, rubbing the stubble on his chin. ‘Well, Tarlak Thurlow, the most renowned brigand in the Red Forest, is on his way with twenty of his dirtiest bastards to kill us all and kidnap the duchess. We’ve got six men-at-arms, me, you and a couple of handmaids to defend her with. Oh, and that old man there.’ Josten pointed to the frail-looking castellan as he limped across the courtyard, making himself busy with nothing in particular. ‘We’re in an ancient fort with a gate that would blow down in a stiff wind and the only help we’ve got coming is ten leagues away.’

Mullen nodded at the news. ‘So, what you’re saying, in a nutshell, is that we’re royally fucked?’

‘Something like that,’ replied Josten.

‘Great.’ Mullen turned to the men-at-arms and started barking orders of his own as they piled barrels and hefted a broken cart in front of the main gate.

Josten took the stairs up to the roof of the gatehouse, surveying the keep. Its walls were crumbling, of that there was little doubt, but they still had a solid perimeter to defend. The drawbridge and portcullis were out of action but at least there was only one way in and that was through the gate. If they could defend it long enough for help to arrive, they might make it through this.

It was a slim hope.

For a fleeting moment Josten thought that he should just run. That he should grab Mullen and get the hell out of there. But he knew that wasn’t an option. There was one reason this had become more than a job. There was more than just gold keeping him here, and he’d most likely get killed because of it.

‘Everyone gets what they deserve,’ he said under his breath.

The sound of beating hooves echoed through the forest and Josten saw a score or more horses break the tree line. At their head was a fearsome-looking brigand, his beard unkempt, tall even in the saddle. Josten had heard of the man but never seen him in the flesh. Tarlak Thurlow’s appearance was every bit as formidable as his reputation.

With a renewed sense of urgency, Josten moved down the stairs to the gate. The men had done a good enough job of shoring up the defences and it now looked like it might take more than a stiff breeze to knock the gate over. There were gaps in the wooden timbers and Josten could see Thurlow and a couple of his men jump down from their saddles.

‘Who’s in charge?’ Tarlak shouted across the drawbridge.

Mullen glanced at Josten with a shrug.

‘That would be me,’ Josten replied through a gap in the gate.

‘A name would help,’ said Thurlow, like he was talking to an idiot.

‘Josten Cade. Guard Captain of her ladyship, the Duchess Selene of Ravensbrooke.’

‘Cade? I’ve heard of you, son. I’m—’

‘I know who you are.’ Josten could see Thurlow’s mouth twitch into a smile, pleased his infamy preceded him.

‘Then you know why I’m here and what I’ll do if you don’t give her to me. We’re not interested in you, Cade. You and your men can walk away from this. Just hand over the duchess and no one has to die. What do you say?’

Josten had already taken a loaded crossbow from the hands of a man-at-arms. There was a big enough gap in the gate for him to aim and fire through. Unfortunately, his aim wasn’t all it could have been. The bolt crossed the drawbridge before Thurlow could make any more demands, the man to his right taking it full in the chest and dropping without a sound. Josten had been aiming for Thurlow but he’d always been better with a sword than a crossbow. Either way, he’d made his point.

‘Does that answer your question?’ he shouted, as Thurlow and his men scrambled to safety.

Josten handed the crossbow back and looked to Mullen, who just stared in disapproval.

‘So much for negotiations,’ Mullen said.

‘I think I’ve made our position clear,’ Josten replied.

‘And I reckon Thurlow is glad you were so straight with him. I’m sure he’ll return the favour and make his position just as clear while he’s nailing our heads to the nearest tree.’

‘That’s what I like about you, Mullen. There’s always a bright side.’ Josten turned to the rest of the men, who looked a fine mixture of brave and shit scared. ‘Right, lads. Time to earn your coin. It’s going to be a busy afternoon.’

He looked back through the gap in the gate as Thurlow began to muster his men for the fight and realised that busy didn’t even start to cover it.

2

‘PUT your backs into it!’ Mullen shouted for the umpteenth time as he and the men-at-arms braced themselves against the gate.

The gate bowed inwards as Tarlak Thurlow’s bandits battered against it, screaming in rage, desperate to get inside. A spear shot through a gap in the timbers, slicing one of the men-at-arms across the shoulder and he screamed as he backed away.

‘You’ll live,’ said Josten, pushing the man back towards the gate to add his weight to the press.

He finished loading a crossbow, aiming it through the gap and pulling the lever. The bow snapped and Josten grinned at the scream that told him the quarrel had found its mark.

The gate bent in once more as the bandits assailed it with renewed vigour.

‘You’re just making them madder!’ Mullen shouted over the grunting and yelling.

‘What do you want me to do? Start negotiating again?’ said Josten, adding his own shoulder to the press.

‘I think it’s a bit late for that,’ Mullen had time to reply, just as an axe came hacking through the wood in front of his face.

One of the men-at-arms slid a sword back through the gap the axe had made, looking pleased when it hit something solid. The look of satisfaction didn’t last long as an arrow came flying through the breach and lodged in his neck. He staggered back, gripping the shaft, gagging and choking. There was nothing any of them could do but keep pressing themselves against the gate as he died.

‘Where the fuck is Duke Harlaw?’ growled Mullen.

Josten was thinking the same thing, but he knew there’d be no rescue yet. Even if Duke Harlaw rode like Aethel the Stallion God, he wouldn’t reach them before the gate fell and they were slaughtered to a man.

‘All right, enough of this shit,’ Josten said, his patience all but lost. The gate was going to fall eventually; there was no doubt of that now. Better to go down fighting than stuck like pigs in a pit.

He picked up a shield, drawing his sword and bracing himself behind the gate.

‘Open it up,’ he shouted.

One of the men-at-arms said something about him being a mad bastard, but Mullen just nodded. They’d been together a long time, and if anyone knew what a mad bastard Josten Cade was then Mullen Bull was the man.

But he also knew what this mad bastard was capable of.

Josten braced his shield as Mullen pulled open the gate. He almost laughed when he saw the look of surprise on the first brigand’s face. Josten brought his sword crashing down through the brigand’s skull. He fell without a sound and Josten slammed his shield into the face of a second brigand before the rest came at him in earnest.

With Mullen holding the gate half shut they could only reach him one at a time, and Josten went to work as they tried to squeeze through. He felt his heart pumping, violence welling up inside as he braced behind his shield, feeling the thump of sword and axe against it, biding his time, waiting for his moment. When it came, he swung, the keen edge of his sword connecting with a brigand’s arm, slicing flesh and severing sinew to the bone. The brigand screamed, dropping his axe and trying to retreat, but the press of men behind him meant he had nowhere to go but down.

Josten raised his shield again in time to catch another blow, the strength of it jolting up his arm. He gritted his teeth, taking a second strike, before he ducked down low, sweeping his sword against an exposed leg. Another slicing of flesh and muscle, another scream. Another brigand hit the ground.

There was the snapping of a crossbow from over Josten’s shoulder and he felt the cold rush of a quarrel hiss past his cheek. A brigand in front of him took it in the jaw and fell back, eyes wide, not quite understanding what had happened.

Josten pressed in again. This time the shield was forgotten as he hacked at the brigands, not giving them a chance to raise their weapons. One went down as Josten’s sword smashed through his shoulder. Another tried to back away, desperately fending off Josten’s relentless attacks.

‘Retreat!’ someone shouted from the back of the crowd.

The brigands needed no further encouragement after seeing half a dozen of their lads cut down in no time at all.

Mullen watched them retreat for a moment as Josten rushed inside, before he slammed the gate shut. A couple of the men-at-arms gave a little victory cheer, clapping each other on the shoulder at a job well done. Josten almost felt like joining in, but one of them screamed before he had the chance, an arrow buried in his back.

‘Bastards,’ said Mullen, regarding the parapet that ran around the fort.

Josten turned to see a group of brigands had managed to scale the wall on the eastern side of the fort, the last of them still pulling himself over the crumbling merlons.

‘Stay on the gate,’ Josten shouted at the men-at-arms as he raced towards the steps leading up to the battlements. ‘Mullen! On me.’

He could hear Mullen grumbling behind him about how it was always him had to do the following as he mounted the steps. An arrow clattered against the wall at the side of Josten’s head, reminding him to keep his shield up. He felt the thud of a second arrow embed in the wood before he’d taken another two steps.

The walkway was only wide enough for two men abreast and Josten rushed forward, glad that the brigands up here would be funnelled in much the same way they’d been at the gate. Another arrow lodged in his shield as he charged forward, not slowing as he barged into the first brigand who grunted at the impact, the whiff of his bad breath hitting Josten’s nostrils for the briefest of moments before he swung his shield, taking the brigand across the side of the head and toppling him from the walkway. The bandit fell into the keep, slamming onto the cobbled courtyard with a sickening thump that had a finality all its own.

Josten crouched low as the next brigand came screaming at him. That was always a giveaway – if they came at you with a scream on their lips they were shit scared, using noise to hide how terrified they were. The brigand’s axe came down in a desperate hack, and Josten easily caught it on his shield, countering with a quick stab to the groin. The scream of fear rose in pitch to a squeal, the brigand darting back, dropping his axe and grasping a crotch that was fast soaking with blood. The man behind pushed him out of the way, sword held high and Josten rushed to meet him.

This one was silent, not afraid but determined, and their weapons clashed. The pair of them struggled, slamming against the edge of the battlements. Josten saw more brigands coming on behind. Caught up as he was in a wrestling match, there was nothing he could do to defend himself.

Relief washed over him as Mullen squeezed past, a growl coming from his throat as he bowled into the brigands, his sword chopping down relentlessly, each blow punctuated by a word of profanity.

‘Fucking. Bastard. Shit…’ he barked, battering the brigands.

Josten was still struggling with the enemy in front of him. He was wiry but strong, spitting his desperation through gritted teeth. A knee to the bollocks freed him as the bandit squealed and Josten stepped back, his sword flashing, cracking the brigand’s skull.

As his enemy fell he stepped forward, ready to help his friend, but Mullen had already pushed back the rest of the attackers and they now stood alone on the battlements.

Josten glanced back down towards the gate, half expecting the brigands to have attacked anew and the remaining men-at-arms to be fighting desperately for their lives, but they simply stood watching pensively. Then one of them pointed through a gap in the gate.

‘Look,’ he shouted.

Josten moved across the battlements towards the gatehouse, half expecting Tarlak Thurlow to be leading his men across the drawbridge once more. Instead what he saw made him grin the widest grin he’d ever mustered. A column of horses was galloping down the forest road. Even from this distance he recognised the eagle and rose banner carried by the rider at their fore.

‘Well, that’s a bloody relief,’ said Mullen, as Josten rushed down the stairs.

The men-at-arms had already opened the gate, laughing and shouting abuse at Tarlak and his brigands as they desperately leapt atop skittish horses to make their escape. Josten couldn’t help but laugh along with them as he watched from the open gateway.

‘I’ll fucking have you, Cade,’ shouted Tarlak Thurlow, as he reined his horse around.

Josten couldn’t resist firing him a wink in the absence of a loaded crossbow. Thurlow only had time to blow a gob of hateful spit before digging his heels into his horse’s flanks and galloping off to safety.

‘Stand aside,’ came a voice from behind them, and the men-at-arms’ sniggers turned to loud guffaws as they saw the old castellan staggering across the courtyard. He was weighed down by an oversized breastplate and helmet, and a huge halberd slung across his shoulder in an unwieldy manner. ‘I’ll show these bandits what for. I fought with Lord Blodwin at the Battle of Silak Moor. I’m not afraid of common thugs.’

Josten couldn’t help but add his own laughter to the crowd, looking up and seeing Mullen grasping his knees, bellowing his glee to the ground. This was the kind of victory he liked – the painless kind where he didn’t have to have anything stitched up or bandaged.

As he turned back to watch Tarlak’s retreat something hit him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him.

The next thing he knew, he was lying on the cobbles of the courtyard staring up at the grey sky. Mullen was by his side, saying something that Josten couldn’t hear. It was all so confusing, right up until he looked down at his shoulder and saw the flight of an arrow sticking up like someone had planted a flag right through his hauberk.

So much for painless victories.

3

HE was groggy from the herbal tea he’d been given and now his mouth tasted like the inside of a tart’s chamber pot. At least he was still breathing.

The arrow lay in pieces beside the pallet bed he sat on. Thankfully he’d not been conscious when they removed it. There was nothing like the pain and humiliation of being awake while your wounds were treated and he was glad to avoid it whenever possible. Intense agony always had a funny way of changing a man’s demeanour. There was no way to look tough and cry your eyes out at the same time.

Fortunately for Josten, one of Duchess Selene’s retinue was a former Priestess of Maerwynn and fully proficient in battlefield surgery. She was none too gentle, and he grunted in pain as she tightened the bandage that bound his shoulder and chest.

Mullen stood in one corner of the room, arms crossed over his gut, smiling in amusement at his comrade’s discomfort. Josten stared back as the handmaid continued to minister to him, gritting his teeth and doing his best to pretend he wasn’t in excruciating pain. The handmaid tightened his bandage with a final tug and Josten grunted. Mullen opened his mouth and laughed silently. As the handmaid turned to leave Josten offered him a two-fingered gesture.

‘Don’t move around too much or you’ll tear the stitches,’ she said as she reached the door. ‘Drink plenty of water. Boil it first.’

‘What about wine?’ Josten asked.

‘No wine,’ said the handmaid, as though he were an idiot.

‘Ale?’

She shook her head despondently as she walked through the door.

‘Is he allowed spirits?’ Mullen called after her, before sniggering at the lack of an answer. He looked Josten up and down. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘How am I looking?’ Josten replied.

‘I’ll admit, you’ve looked better. Still a lucky bastard though.’

‘Strange then, that I don’t feel it.’ He tried to adjust himself on the pallet bed and winced at the twinge of pain in his shoulder.

‘Another inch or two and that arrow would have made a serious mess of your collarbone. Then you’d have something to moan about.’

‘Coming from you, that’s a bit rich.’ Josten tried moving his arm. It felt like he was being stuck with a hot needle.

‘Apparently, I’m in charge of Duchess Selene’s guard detail while you recover – so it’s not all bad news.’ Mullen grinned from ear to cauliflower ear.

‘At least something good’s come of this,’ said Josten, raising an eyebrow as high as he could. ‘I’m so pleased for your sudden turn of good fortune.’

‘Thanks.’ Mullen couldn’t seem to lose that grin. ‘I thought you’d be happy for me.’

The door to the chamber opened before Josten could tell his friend exactly how fucking happy he was.

A tall knight appeared, the eagle and rose livery of Duke Harlaw on his chest. The knight was young but still had an imperious look to him. He gripped a helmet in one mailed hand, the other on the pommel of his expensive-looking sword.

Despite his youth, the young man walked in like he owned the room. Josten had seen it often amongst the duke’s retinue. He was most likely from the gentry, his knighthood bought for him, his good name seeing to it he wasn’t challenged by the lower orders. As much as Josten had dragged himself up from the gutter to reach his position he couldn’t bring himself to be resentful. These were hard times, and you had to grab what you could and cling onto it, no matter if it was handed to you on a gold platter.

‘Josten Cade,’ said the young knight, staring straight ahead as though he were on the parade ground. ‘I am Sir Percel of Jallenhove. Second Sword in the retinue of Duke Harlaw of Ravensbrooke.’

He paused, as though the information might provoke a reaction. Josten and Mullen merely sat and looked on. They found it was always best to seem unimpressed, especially with young officers in the duke’s entourage – it never failed to put them off their stride.

‘I… er…’ Percel continued.

‘Arrived just in time,’ Josten said, sparing the young knight any more discomfort. Mullen looked disappointed at his friend’s uncharacteristic graciousness. The knight smiled and nodded in that self-assured yes, I did indeed save your arse type manner.

‘Well, almost,’ Mullen said, nodding to Josten’s bandages. ‘There’s two dead men-at-arms could have done with you here a bit earlier.’

Percel bristled at the notion he was to blame for the deaths. ‘We came as quickly as we could. If the scout hadn’t found us on the road and notified us of your predicament you would have all been slaughtered.’

Mullen inclined his head as though that were questionable, but Josten couldn’t be bothered with would-haves.

‘And the duke? Where is he?’

‘Still to the north in Ravensbrooke,’ said Percel. ‘Word has been sent and he should be on his way as we speak.’

‘That’s a relief,’ said Mullen. ‘There was me wondering how we’d manage without him.’

Josten gave his old friend a reproving glance. Percel looked annoyed at Mullen’s insinuation, opening his mouth to speak. The door opened before he had a chance.

Her entrance silenced the room.

Duchess Selene had been on the road for days and spent the night in a decrepit fort under siege, yet she was still the most beautiful thing Josten had ever seen. Her black hair was tied up in braids, loose ringlets caressing her neck. She regarded them with piercing green eyes that could hold a man’s breath in his throat until she saw fit to let him breathe. Behind, her handmaids stood fidgeting in the corridor, sensing their mistress’s ire. Josten could sense it too, and it only made him smile.

‘Captain Cade,’ she said, staring at him. All Josten could do was meet that gaze. ‘Still alive I see.’

‘Not quite kicking, milady, but I’m sure I’ll be dancing the rondel before you know it.’

‘And would you like to explain exactly what you were doing risking your life, and those of my honour guard, by opening the gate and allowing those bandits the chance to enter?’

An uncomfortable silence descended on the room. From the corner of his eye, Josten could see Mullen chewing his lip as though fighting back the need to snigger at his friend’s dressing down.

‘It was a tactical decision, milady. The gate would have been breached eventually—’

‘And you thought it best to open it and allow Tarlak Thurlow to stroll in, rather than keeping him out?’

‘Well, I—’

‘And I am also led to understand Tarlak was willing to negotiate? An option you thought it best to answer with a crossbow?’

‘Milady,’ said Sir Percel. ‘I can assure you, Tarlak Thurlow would have honoured no bargain. Captain Cade’s actions—’

‘When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it,’ said Selene, not even deigning to look at the young knight. ‘As for you—’ She fixed Josten with a firm gaze both withering and thrilling. ‘—my husband will hear about your actions.’

‘Milady, I must protest,’ Percel pressed, despite Selene’s admonishment. ‘Captain Cade acted with the utmost bravery.’

‘It’s true,’ said Mullen, in an unexpected show of support. ‘Cade only had your best interests at heart, milady.’

Silence once more. Selene didn’t take her eyes from Josten. It was all he could do to hold her gaze.

‘Give me the room,’ she said quietly.

Sir Percel didn’t hesitate, bowing low even though she had her back to him, and opening the door. As Mullen followed her out he offered the same throat-slicing gesture Josten had given him on the road earlier. Maybe it was intended as a sign of solidarity. More likely it meant you’re fucked.

When the door closed behind him, Duchess Selene walked slowly towards Josten. She held him in that inscrutable gaze of hers, black pupils like pinpricks in an ocean of green.

‘Does it hurt?’ she asked as she stood not two feet in front of him.

He could smell her, the scent of some perfumed oil, a heady musk that made him grow faint.

‘Only if I move,’ Josten replied. His eyes no longer held hers but slid down, taking in the perfect contour of her left shoulder, just visible above the neckline of her dress.

‘Shame,’ she said, reaching out a hand to run her finger lightly over the bandage that bound his shoulder. Without warning, she pressed her thumb into the flesh above his wound.

Josten grunted at the sudden pain. He reached out and grasped her hips, pulling her towards him so that she straddled his thighs, pressing his face into her chest and breathing deep.

Selene grasped a fistful of his hair and wrenched his head back, forcing him to look at her. She stared intently into his eyes, searching for something in them.

‘I thought they were never going to leave,’ she said, before kissing him hard on the lips.

Josten grasped her buttocks, pulling her close, grinding himself against her. She moaned as she kissed him, one hand still clutching his hair, the other caressing his cheek.

The pain in his shoulder burned like hellfire but Josten ignored it. No torturer in the world could have distracted him from this. The smell of her consumed him, the feel of her in his arms driving him mad.

Selene’s tongue teased the end of his and he felt himself growing hard in his trews as she moved on top of him.

‘You’ve made me wait too long for this,’ she breathed.

Damn right I have, he wanted to say, but he was suddenly too busy fumbling for the hem of her skirts. She leaned back, reaching down to undo the drawstring of his waistband. As she moved against Josten’s grip, his shoulder screamed, but he gritted his teeth. There was no way an arrow through the shoulder was going to hold him back.

He dragged her skirts up, his hands feeling the bare flesh of her thighs. Selene tugged at his trews as he lay back on the pallet bed. No sooner were they round his knees than she was on top of him, easing him inside her so slowly he almost screamed.

They both gasped gently, and for the first time the duchess closed her eyes, fingers grasping at the muscles of his arms, pulling him deeper. Josten grunted against the discomfort in his shoulder, trying his best not to cry out from lust and pain.

Selene opened her eyes again, smiling as she pressed her hips down against him. Josten could stand it no longer, grabbing her around the waist with his good arm and tossing her onto the bed. Again, she grabbed the back of his head, pulling him close and kissing him so hard their teeth clashed.

Josten didn’t care about the danger anymore; he was already lost deep inside her. As always, the last thing that went through his head before he forgot himself was that he’d probably be executed for this. It would be neither quick nor painless.

4

THEY stood in the courtyard, waiting as a breeze rushed through the ageing stones of Fort Carlaine. Josten watched the road, seeing movement in the distance. Mullen was by his side along with the four surviving men-at-arms and Gerrard the old castellan, still wearing his scratched and dented armour. Sir Percel and twenty knights stood behind them, unmoving in the afternoon air, like statues standing in ancient reverence. It seemed apt in such a venerable place as this.

Josten loathed this kind of pomp. Ceremony for ceremony’s sake. They were only waiting for Harlaw, not crowning a new king.

He looked up to where Selene stood with her handmaids. She glanced back, catching his gaze and raising her eyebrow a touch. Josten wasn’t sure how to take the gesture. Was she agreeing this was all horseshit? Or was she remembering what they’d done the day before? Josten was struggling to get that out of his own head, feeling the familiar stirring in his loins the memory of her always induced.

The sound of galloping hooves shook Josten from his thoughts and he turned his attention back to the road. Dust was in the air, horses racing toward the gate, Duke Harlaw’s flag raised high. Sir Percel and his knights seemed to stand yet more stiffly to attention, if that were possible. Even Mullen seemed to puff his chest out that bit further as the first of the riders clattered over the broken drawbridge and into the courtyard. Old Gerrard saluted, his rusty gauntlet clanking on his helmet.

Duke Harlaw was a handsome man well into his fifties. His beard and flowing locks had more than their share of white, but the blue of his eyes shone like crystal. He steered his huge white charger into the courtyard, scanning the waiting honour guard before looking to his wife. As his retinue reined up their horses behind him he leapt down from the saddle with the vigour of a much younger man, mounting the stairs to where Selene stood.

‘My lady,’ he pronounced, his voice echoing for all to hear. ‘It lifts my heart to see you unharmed.’

He reached out and took her hand, brushing it gently with his lips before turning back to Josten and the rest of the men. Selene looked unimpressed with his gesture.

‘And here are the men of the hour,’ said Harlaw, striding back down the stairs towards Josten, Mullen and the men-at-arms. ‘The brave heroes. Defenders of Fort Carlaine.’ He stood before them now, white teeth shining from amidst his lustrous beard. ‘There’ll be reward aplenty. Tales told. Songs sung. I’ll see to it.’

Under the barrage of compliments Mullen couldn’t stop himself. ‘It was nothing, my lord,’ he said. Josten felt like slapping him around the back of the head.

‘Nothing?’ said Harlaw, grasping Mullen by his broad shoulders. ‘Without you my wife would have been taken by brigands. Who knows what would have become of her.’

Josten glanced up to see Selene and her handmaids moving back inside the keep. He knew all too well that she had little enough patience for Harlaw’s blether.

One of the duke’s captains climbed down from his horse and began barking orders. As he did so Harlaw turned to Josten, moving closer.

‘And I’ve heard about you, old friend,’ he said.

Josten nodded an acknowledgement, trying his best to sound modest. ‘Just doing what you pay me for,’ he replied.

Harlaw shook his head. ‘Walk with me.’ He turned and headed toward the weathered staircase that led up to the battlements.

When they’d mounted the wall Harlaw paused, planting his hands between the crenels and taking in a deep breath.

‘I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am,’ said Harlaw. ‘Without you, only the gods know what might have happened.’

‘I think Thurlow’s reputation might have been slightly exaggerated. He’s not as dangerous as he makes out.’ A sudden twinge in Josten’s shoulder reminded him what utter shite he was talking.

‘Well, I’m still grateful,’ said Harlaw. ‘And so is my wife, I’m sure. I hope she showed her appreciation in a suitable manner.’

A fleeting memory of pale breasts and sweet lips flashed through Josten’s head.

‘Yes, her thanks were more than adequate.’

Harlaw nodded, still staring out onto the surrounding forest.

‘And how’s the injury?’

‘I’ll live,’ said Josten, rolling his shoulder, feeling the stitches.

‘Good.’ Harlaw turned to look at him. ‘I’ll need you fighting fit in the days to come. And more men like you. Tough times are coming. I need real warriors beside me if we’re to survive them.’

‘I’m yours to command, my lord.’ Josten felt a twinge of guilt.

‘I know.’ Harlaw smiled. ‘You always have been. The most loyal soldier I’ve got.’

That made the guilt burn hotter. Josten had served Harlaw for years, fought beside him during the Mercenary War, and had a lot to be grateful to him for. His and Selene’s betrayal hurt, but despite his desire for the man’s wife it didn’t mean he would serve Harlaw any less faithfully.

‘If it’s roaming bandits that worries you, I’m sure a few more patrols should see them off,’ said Josten, desperate to change the subject.

Harlaw shook his head. ‘It’s not the likes of Tarlak Thurlow that concern me. The Mercenary Barons across the Crooked Jaw are mustering their armies, ready to take advantage of our war. The Blood Lords of the Ramadi are long dead, but their servants still vie for power to the north. As soon as their civil war is over they’ll be looking to expand their influence. These are trying times, Cade. If I can’t unite the kings of the Suderfeld we could well be done for.’

Ending the War of Three Crowns seemed an impossible task for one man, but if anyone could do it, it was Harlaw.

‘You can rely on me,’ said Josten. He meant it. For all of Harlaw’s bluster and pomp it was obvious the man was in need of help.