River could only stare helplessly, choking in the grip of the immortal Elharim prince. This was it; he would die here, throttled to death as battle raged hundreds of yards away.
His vision began to haze, his limbs growing weak, but before he could succumb to oblivion River felt his arms being grasped by the surrounding Khurtas. They dragged him to a nearby tree and lashed him to the trunk so he could only look out onto the city.
‘I am not without mercy, assassin,’ said Amon Tugha. ‘You came here to kill me but despite your failure I will allow you to live. To watch as your city burns. Perhaps before I slay your queen I will allow you to look upon her one last time.’
With that the Elharim disappeared into the shadows, leaving the gaggle of Khurtas to watch over River.
All he could do was stare to the south as the city was attacked. As Steelhaven died and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Jerrol and the ten he’d brought with him, Bastian’s best, made their way east through the deserted streets like rats on the hunt. Hands, faces and blades were blackened with pitch. Even if anyone had been about at that hour of the night no one would have seen them.
The noise from the north end of the city echoed down through the streets. Jerrol didn’t envy the soldiers their job. Facing the Khurtas was a thing for brave men, courageous and true to the Crown. Luckily for Jerrol he was none of those things. He’d never been brave. Stab a man in the back soon as look at him — that’s what they said about old Jerrol the Nick. You wouldn’t see him coming, they said. Coward and a liar and a thief, they said. Jerrol couldn’t argue with any of that. It was always best to know what you were and admit it freely.
Didn’t matter a shit if they were brave, anyway. The bannermen of Steelhaven were wasting their time and their lives defending that wall. Especially since he and his lads were about to let the Khurtas come flooding in through the side door.
Jerrol had troubled himself with the rights and wrongs of it for all the time it took him to sink an ale. He was Bastian’s man — had been for years now — and what Bastian wanted, Bastian fucking well got. Who was Jerrol to question it? Who was he to say whether letting the Khurtas in was a mistake? Bastian had never led them wrong before and there was no need to think he’d be doing it now. Best just to get on with the task and trust they’d all live through it after.
Eleven men for this job was probably overkill. They had a Greencoat — Platt, his name was — on the payroll who was posted on the Lych Gate. He’d make the way easy for them as it was, so the fact they’d come mob-handed was only a precaution. Always paid to be careful, though, Jerrol knew that better than anyone. No use taking risks, his old man had always said. Not that it had stopped the old fart taking a knife in the belly when Jerrol was only a young lad, but they were still wise words.
The gate loomed at the end of the street. Jerrol felt his stomach turn a little bit as they approached. Didn’t matter how easy it seemed, this job still had to be done right. He would be careful, and no mistake, but there was always something that could go wrong. The consequences if he fucked this up didn’t bear thinking about. You didn’t let Bastian down — that was rule number one. Palien was testament to that. He’d been clever and strong and earned the Guild a lot of money but in the end it didn’t matter a shit. One fuck-up and you were meat, nothing more. Jerrol had been the one to run his knife across that bastard Palien’s throat. The last thing he wanted was to be on the receiving end.
He halted at the end of the street, crouching down and peering through the gloom towards the gate. One low whistle, the sound of an owl in the night, and he knew the other ten lads would stop and take up positions in the shadows.
The Lych Gate was in utter darkness. Jerrol stared through the night, hoping the moonlight would give him some sort of clue what waited for them, but it was no use. Every torch and lantern for a hundred yards either side of the gate had been extinguished. There was no sound from within the gate’s bastion. No clue if Platt, their inside man, had done his job or not. The place was supposed to be clear for them to just walk in. It was silent enough, but Jerrol didn’t fancy strolling straight into the middle of a bunch of Greencoats just waiting to cut him another arsehole.
He raised his arm, signalling for one of the lads to move forward and check out what was happening. If there was danger, he was damn sure he wasn’t going to be the one running straight into it. Why have a dog and bark yourself?
One of the lads, Kurt, sprinted forward through the dark. Jerrol lost sight of him as he reached the base of the gate tower and there was silence as they waited, breath held in case something went wrong. If it did it’d be the flip of a coin whether or not he ran off as fast as he could or decided to take on whatever trouble appeared. He was scared enough of failure, but that thing was always there in the back of his mind — stay alive, don’t get killed. Right alongside — don’t let Bastian down, it just ain’t worth the death he’ll give you.
Before long Kurt came running back out. He knelt down beside Jerrol taking a moment to get his breath back.
‘Ain’t no one inside,’ he said. ‘Not that I can hear, anyway. Place is all blacked out.’
‘So no one’s guarding the winch for the portcullis?’ Jerrol asked, getting a feeling this was far too easy.
‘Not that I can see.’
Jerrol turned to the rest of his men, ready to give the order to move. They’d planned this to the letter. Two would wait in front of the gate, ready to open it when the portcullis was raised. Four would split into two pairs either side of the bastion to make sure no one came waltzing along the battlements to make a nuisance of themselves. Two would guard the door to the gate tower. The rest would head inside, one taking watch on the roof while the other two would pull the winch to raise the portcullis. Easy.
Or at least as easy as these things ever got in the Guild.
With a flick of his hand, Jerrol led them across the open ground to the base of the gate tower. Immediately four of them split off to left and right, heading for the stairs up to the battlements.
Kurt opened the door, leading them into the black inside. Jerrol followed. All he could hear was the lad’s breathing as he let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Even after they had, all he could see was a scant bit of light from the stairway leading up.
Slowly they crept through the tower. At any moment Jerrol expected someone to come bowling out of the dark, and his unease only grew as they moved further through the building to the first floor.
‘What was that?’ said the lad behind.
They all stopped. Jerrol listened through the dark. He could barely hear a thing. There might have been something from outside. Maybe a whistling noise. Maybe the sound of one of his men signalling in the night, but it wasn’t loud enough to hear properly.
Eventually he shook his head. ‘Fuck this,’ he breathed at no one in particular. ‘We can’t hang around all night. You. Upstairs.’
One of the lads did as he was told, moving up the stairs to the roof of the tower.
Jerrol crept through the dark, looking for the winch that would raise the portcullis. His leg struck something in the dark and whatever it was clattered across the floor, making enough noise to raise the dead.
‘We need some fucking light,’ he whispered.
At first, silence. Then the sound of Kurt’s flint striking tinder. As light flooded the room from the wick of a lantern Jerrol caught something in the corner of his eye. For a moment he thought he saw a child staring up from the stairwell to the ground floor, but a blink and it was gone.
Jerrol stared at the staircase for some moments before shaking his head.