Merrick wanted to tell them to wait. That maybe he wasn’t the right one for this. That he wasn’t worthy — all he could do was lift a sword, not lead a band of warriors — but none of them seemed to want to hear it.
They’d gone along the row now, and Jared walked up to him, eyes bright despite the filth that surrounded them.
‘Lord Marshal,’ he said, and took to his knee, holding up that huge sword and presenting it like Merrick was some kind of prince. Merrick took the blade, still barely able to believe something so big weighed so little.
As soon as Jared went down, the rest of the Wyvern Guard followed his lead, each one dropping to his knee, head bowed towards Merrick. All but one of them.
‘This is fucking bullshit!’ shouted Cormach Whoreson. ‘Not him. It can’t be fucking him.’
‘Mind your mouth, Whoreson. This is the new Lord Marshal,’ said Jared.
‘Fuck you, old cunt,’ Cormach spat. ‘He’s not my fucking Lord Marshal. I’ll not follow this prick anywhere.’
‘The decision’s been made.’
‘Not by me it fucking hasn’t.’
‘Makes no odds,’ said Jared, rising to his feet. ‘You’re a man of the Wyvern Guard. You’re bound to it.’
‘Like fuck I am,’ Cormach shouted, tearing off his helmet and flinging it to the ground, where it bounced with a hollow clang before rolling off across the square.
‘Whoreson-’
‘Fuck you and fuck this,’ said Cormach staring at Jared, not backing an inch. ‘I’ll not follow that arsehole anywhere.’ He jabbed a finger at Merrick. ‘I’ve had enough of all this shit anyway. I’m done.’
With that he turned, ripping the dishevelled white fur cloak from around his shoulders.
‘You’re going nowhere, lad,’ Jared shouted. ‘You don’t just walk away from the Wyvern Guard.’
Cormach stopped but didn’t turn around, gripping his fur cloak in one hand, the other hovering over the hilt of his sword.
‘And who the fuck’s going to stop me, old man?’
He waited for someone to tell him, but neither Jared nor the rest of the Wyvern Guard were about to tell Cormach Whoreson what to do. Merrick was damned sure he wouldn’t be the one, Lord Marshal or not.
When there was no reply, Cormach walked the rest of the way across the square, only pausing to fling his fur cloak into one of the waning funeral pyres before disappearing.
Once he’d gone, Jared turned back to Merrick expectantly.
They want you to make a speech. They want you to lead them. Good luck with that, Ryder.
Merrick glanced down at the Bludsdottr, as though it might fill him with inspiration. That he might open his mouth and give a rousing speech about the future of the Wyvern Guard and how this was only the first of many glorious victories. How word would spread of their legendary prowess in battle and how they would unite the Free States and make it a better place for all the little children.
‘Gather your equipment and prepare the horses for the journey,’ Merrick said.
Some of the lads looked at each other for a moment, wondering if that was it, before moving to obey. Merrick was relieved at that. He’d half expected to start giving orders and be told to fuck right off, but it looked like they were taking notice of him … at least for now.
As the remaining Wyvern Guard went about their preparations, Merrick noted a figure approaching from across the square. He recognised the man even from a distance, his walk so slippery Merrick expected him to leave a trail.
Seneschal Rogan came to stand beside Merrick as he buckled on his sword.
‘Congratulations on your appointment, Lord Marshal,’ said Rogan, with a smile dripping with insincerity. There was a fresh cut on his neck that had barely begun to heal over, though how he had managed to see any action was a mystery.
‘What do you want, Rogan?’ asked Merrick, in no mood for the Seneschal’s veiled compliments.
Rogan let out a sigh, as though even he were bored of the pretence. ‘I merely wondered when you and your men were leaving and whether there was anything I could do to make your journey more … fleet.’
‘We’ll be going as soon as we’re ready. Before sundown, I would imagine.’
‘And the queen? You will be paying your respects before you leave?’
Merrick shook his head. ‘Our respects will do her no good now.’
‘Indeed,’ said Rogan, and for the queerest of moments Merrick thought he heard a hint of sorrow in the man’s voice. ‘Rest assured, in your absence the city will be in safe hands.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Merrick. ‘With the end of the Mastragall line I guess that makes you regent, doesn’t it?’
‘Quite,’ said Rogan, his eyes twitching as he said so. ‘A duty you can be sure I will fulfil with the utmost thoroughness.’
‘I bet you will,’ Merrick replied, fast losing patience. ‘What of the Sentinels? What of the Knights of the Blood? Do you still control them?’
‘The Knights of the Blood have refused to show fealty to a regent in the absence of a monarch. They served the Mastragalls, not Steelhaven. As a consequence they are now little more than just another Free Company.’
‘And the Sentinels?’
‘Alas, no more. Wiped out in defence of the queen and the city.’ Merrick felt his heart grow heavy. ‘But there was one survivor. Your former colleague Kaira Stormfall yet lives … for now.’
‘For now?’
‘She may well have proven troublesome in the last day’s fighting. There are rumours she turned traitor. Led the queen into the ambush that saw her murdered at the hands of Amon Tugha. When she is well enough she will stand trial for treason.’
‘No,’ said Merrick, fighting to control his emotions. ‘She couldn’t have. She loved Janessa like a sister. She would never have betrayed her.’
‘That is not for me to determine, I’m afraid,’ said Rogan.
Merrick turned on the man, staring deep into his eyes. He found himself gripping the hilt of the Bludsdottr, drawing strength from it, even though the weapon remained sheathed. For all Rogan’s arrogance, for all his self-assuredness, Merrick saw doubt cloud his usually confident expression.
‘No,’ he said. ‘There will be no trial. Let me tell you what’s going to happen …’
FIFTY-FOUR
Something cold touched her forehead, moisture dripping down her temple and into her hair. Kaira’s hand flashed out, grasping a wrist. She heard a gasp of pain before she opened her eyes and squinted in the daylight that glared through an open window.
As her eyes adjusted to the light she saw the sparse details of a room, more a cell than a bedchamber. She was holding tight to a thin arm, squeezing hard, and when she could finally see she realised it was one of the Daughters, her hand still grasping the damp cloth she had used to dab at Kaira’s brow.
She let go and the girl stumbled back. The Daughter of Arlor’s face was veiled but her fear was obvious. Kaira opened her mouth to speak, to tell the girl she was in no danger, but her throat was so parched no words would come. By the time she had cleared her throat enough to speak, the Daughter of Arlor had fled into the corridor.
As she tried to slide her legs over the edge of the bed Kaira winced. She saw her left thigh was heavily bandaged, the pain of it stinging intensely. Memories of battle flooded her mind. Of Amon Tugha, of Janessa … cradling a head of red curls until the welcome dark of unconsciousness took her.
Gritting her teeth, Kaira forced herself to sit. She gripped the edge of the bed as tightly as she was able, taking the pain, swallowing it up along with her grief.
‘You live.’
Kaira looked up at the voice, feeling something burning inside. Samina stood watching from the doorway, her expression giving away nothing of her emotions.
‘And yet I’m not sure why,’ Kaira replied. ‘Did you want the pleasure of killing me yourself?’