The Spear of Malice (War of the Archons 3) Read online

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Also by R.S. Ford and Available from Titan Books

  Title Page

  Leave us a Review

  Copyright

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  WAR OF THE ARCHONS

  SPEAR OF MALICE

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

  A Demon in Silver

  Hangman’s Gate

  Spear of Malice

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  Spear of Malice

  Print edition ISBN: 9781785653124

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781785653131

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd.

  144 Southwark Street, London, SE1 0UP

  www.titanbooks.com

  First Titan edition: January 2021

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © 2021 R.S. Ford. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  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.

  PROLOGUE

  The Ramadi Wastes, 107 years after the Fall

  THE wastes were silent but for the occasional snort of oxen, the relentless squeaking of the wagon’s wheels and the flapping of its hide cover in the breeze. The sounds had been Byram’s constant companions for endless leagues of sand. It was enough to drive a man mad and brought to mind the Lament of the Ramadi. The Seven Deserts calling myriad names, Calling thy despair.

  Byram had much to despair about.

  They were on their way to Kragenskûl, that vast city in the desert, and must have journeyed for a hundred leagues. Byram so hated to travel. The poorly secured covering allowed the sand to constantly encroach on the wagon’s interior and despite the welcome breeze, the cart stank of unwashed bodies as the other Priests of Wraak sat sweating in their robes. It was intolerable, but Byram knew he had no choice. At least he could take solace that he was not out riding in the sun like Kraden’s men.

  Byram glanced ahead, past the wagon driver, past the lumbering oxen that pulled them along, to see Lord Kraden riding at the head of the column. He looked perfectly happy despite the elements, sitting proudly, bald head exposed to the sun. His mount was much less content, white froth covering its hide as it plodded along, close to death.

  Dragging his eyes away from the warlord, Byram glanced across at his travelling companions. They were nondescript, their hoods pulled over their faces, hands hidden in sleeves. Only one other stood out. She sat towards the rear of the cart, shaven head focused on the column of soldiers marching in their wake. There was a look of longing on her scarred face. Byram knew the Carpenter yearned for only one thing – to inflict pain – and she was empty without it. Sadism brought her to life, and to most men that would have been anathema. But Byram had long ago learned to appreciate her talent for torture as one might admire a fine painting or sculpture. Beneath the smock he knew she wore close-fitting leather, buckles secured tightly, pinching her flesh, causing her constant discomfort. It was as though the pain was her captor and she its willing prisoner. He was so glad she had come.

  A sudden bark from Kraden diverted Byram’s attention. Looking ahead he saw what had caused the warlord such instant mirth. The desert city of Kragenskûl loomed on the horizon and Byram felt relief wash over him that this hellish journey was almost at an end.

  The city grew larger and Byram thought back to the last time he had seen the place. It had been on some long-distant campaign when one of the Legion’s long-forgotten lords had seen fit to besiege the city. Naturally they had failed – the white walls of Kragenskûl were all but impregnable – but as they drew closer, Byram could see much had changed.

  As impenetrable as those walls might have been, clearly they were not strong enough for the city’s new ruler. Earthworks had been built all around the perimeter and new fortifications were being constructed, but that was not the most striking change. Where before the city’s spires had peered menacingly from behind the city wall, now a colossal tower had been built in its centre, stretching up to the heavens and dwarfing the buildings that surrounded it.

  The flags that now fluttered on the battlements no longer bore the black skull on red of the Qeltine Brotherhood. Now the Qeltine and every other cult of the Ramadi Wastes were gathered beneath a different banner. The white desert songbird flew on every pennant. It had once been the symbol of the dead god Eranin, a deity worshipped by a cult long since lost to history, but now it was reborn as the symbol of Innellan – queen of the Seven Deserts.

  Nobody stood in their way as they passed the earthworks and trundled through the vast open gates. Byram could see members of the Bloodguard standing sentry but they made no move to stop Kraden as he led the way, nor did they try to inspect the contents of the wagon.

  Once inside the city Byram caught sight of the tower in all its majesty. It was a vast monument dedicated to the White Widow, and he could only imagine the effort required to build such a thing in such a short space of time, but then he was sure Innellan could motivate even the most lacklustre servant to the greatest of labours.

  The wagon came to a stop at the base of the tower and Byram wasted no time in climbing down from it. His back was stiff from the journey and his legs unsteady, but still he was in better condition than the team of bulls that had pulled them across the desert.

  Kraden had already dismounted and stood staring up at the massive building like a child in awe of a giant. He turned, regarding Byram with a huge gap-toothed grin.

  ‘Isn’t it magnificent,’ he boomed. ‘We are here, at the heart of Kragenskûl. I had always dreamed I would fight my way in at the head of an army, but instead we just ride right through the gates like we own the place.’

  Ignoring Kraden’s exuberance, Byram made his way inside. If the others were already there it meant he had been tardy. It would be unwise to keep the White Widow waiting.

  As soon as they entered through the arch at the base of the tower they were attended by thin figures dressed i
n white. Their faces were wan, eyes sallow, but the most unnerving thing was their mouths; sealed shut with strands of wire. The Silent Sons beckoned Kraden forward and led the way up the vast, winding staircase.

  Byram was in no mood for such a climb after their long journey, but what choice did he have? He slogged his way up the stairs and before long his breathing became laboured. For his part, Kraden practically bounded up the endless flights, his armour doing little to encumber him.

  When finally they reached the summit, Byram was sweating profusely and he paused to catch his breath before ascending the final stairway to the throne room. Gathered below it were the warriors of various Ramadi cults. They stood in stony silence, tension hanging in the air like an executioner’s axe. The hatred these men and women bore for one another was visceral – they had fought for generations and now they were thrust together as a single tribe. Only the threat of Innellan’s wrath kept their violent natures at bay.

  When Kraden approached the stairs, the Bloodguard barred his way. Before he could protest, Byram stepped forward. Immediately the guards stood aside and allowed him to pass. Kraden growled as he was left behind, but there was little the warlord could do. Both men knew it was Byram who held the real power within the Legion of Wraak – it would have been pointless for Kraden to protest.

  When he reached the summit, Byram could see the rest were already gathered. They stood within the dark room, illuminated by warm red sunlight that shone through a huge arch making up one half of the chamber.

  The High Chieftain of the Hand of Zepheroth stood in one corner having travelled the relatively short distance from Gortanis. He was every inch the savage, dusty animal hides covering his muscular shoulders, his face a brutal mass of barely subdued hatred.

  From the once beautiful city of Mantioch had come the Hierophant of Katamaru’s Faithful. He lingered by the archway, his gold-banded arms folded as he stood impatiently.

  The Reverend Mother of the Daughters of Mandrithar was from distant Isinor, her black garb covered in empty sheaths for her myriad knives.

  There were also representatives from the Doom of Haephon, the Eye of Honoric and even Duchor’s Blades – their delegate looking more like a seasoned pirate than the lord of a Ramadi cult.

  Byram could feel the discomfort in the air. As below, there was a palpable tension. Old vendettas still burned like raw wounds and Byram felt at any moment the unspoken hatred might boil up into violence. All that was dispelled as a door opened at the far end of the chamber. A warm wind blew past them in a single swift gust, all threat of violence was replaced by an overwhelmingly malevolent aura, and every one of these lords of the desert dropped to their knees.

  Byram risked a glance upwards, instantly regretting it as he saw her appear from the dark. Her red gown trailed behind her, white hair flowing down to a wasp-thin waist. As her black-eyed gaze scanned the gathering before her, Byram felt suddenly sick at the sensation of utter evil she cast.

  Gracefully Innellan mounted the stairs to her onyx throne and sat gazing down at the Ramadi warlords, each kneeling in fealty.

  ‘Thank you for attending,’ she said, her words dripping with insincerity. None of them had any choice in this. They were slaves to her will, for now and always. ‘Who will begin?’

  The Hierophant stood. It seemed he truly was impatient for this to be over.

  ‘My queen,’ he said, keeping his head bowed. ‘The invaders to the east are proving ever more troublesome. The Shengen forces have liberated several mines in the area. The Lords of Byzantus have been all but destroyed. Before long the enemy will arrive at the gates of Mantioch. We have done everything we can to repel the invaders but their general is a cunning tactician – always two steps ahead of us. They also have a warrior among their ranks – a woman invincible on the field. We need help in the east, my queen. You must send reinforcements to aid us before the city falls.’

  Innellan didn’t answer, but instead simply stared at the Hierophant. The man hadn’t given a great account of himself and Byram half expected the White Widow to strike him down where he stood. Instead she cast her eye across the rest of the kneeling warlords.

  ‘Next,’ was all she said.

  The Hierophant reluctantly sank to his knees as the veteran pirate of Duchor’s Blades rose to his feet. Understandably, he spoke with a nervous edge to his voice:

  ‘Our spies in Kantor have reported Queen Suraan still holds onto her neutrality. She will neither pledge her loyalty to you nor the Suderfeld king until her son is of an age to take the throne. However…’ He paused, as though afraid to relay the news. Byram didn’t envy him the task. ‘We have learned a Suderfeld contingent is already making its way north and are about to meet with her. I do not know what they might offer her for an alliance, but even if we sent envoys with a counter-proposal now, they may well be too late. Now united, the Suderfeld is strong, their armies mighty, and the resurgence of magic there gives them a distinct advantage. It seems unlikely Queen Suraan will be able to resist their influence for long.’

  Innellan rose from her throne and the pirate took a step back. Relaying such news might not be good for him, and Byram even felt a touch of sympathy for the man.

  ‘On your feet,’ she said. ‘All of you.’

  The compulsion to stand coursed through Byram’s every fibre and he stood with the rest. He was overwhelmed with the yearning to obey Innellan’s word and he had long since learned not to resist.

  The White Widow walked among them. When she passed close to him, Byram felt a heady mix of emotions battling for supremacy – yearning, loyalty, revulsion, fear. He almost shook as these feelings overwhelmed him.

  ‘The Suderfeld is of little concern,’ she said. ‘Its king is a puppet. There is a power behind that throne that I will deal with in due course. The true enemy lies to the east.’

  As she spoke, Innellan walked past the weathered figure of the Reverend Mother. The old woman became agitated, the perspiration that ran down her temple making tracks across her dust-stained cheeks.

  ‘Each one of you will pledge a tithe of troops to march east and relieve Mantioch,’ Innellan continued. ‘The city must not be allowed to fall. This enemy must be destroyed at all costs.’

  As she spoke, Byram saw the Reverend Mother reach a hand behind her back, producing a blade from a hidden sheath in her waistband. He suddenly felt a spark of excitement – of hope. The Reverend Mother was so close, and Innellan’s back was turned. Could this nightmare be about to end? Could one of them at least resist Innellan’s allure for long enough to strike her down?

  The Reverend Mother snarled as she lunged forward, blade raised to plunge into the back of Innellan’s neck. Byram heard the feral cry, his heart pounding as he realised they were about to be freed.

  Innellan didn’t move, simply gazing out of the arched window, as the Reverend Mother froze. She stood transfixed, knife raised high, every muscle trembling as she fought against the White Widow’s glamour.

  Slowly, Innellan turned to face her would-be assassin, a curious look to her pale features.

  ‘Brave,’ she whispered. ‘Your resolve is only to be admired. How long have you harboured such a defiant heart, I wonder?’

  The Reverend Mother gritted her teeth against Innellan’s enchantment. Byram almost felt sorry for her; this woman he had fought against for decades, this deadly warrior who had seen fit to defy a goddess.

  ‘No matter,’ Innellan continued, ‘clearly you have a formidable strength of will. It will be a shame to lose you. But defiance cannot be tolerated.’ She turned dismissively, lazily gesturing with one hand. ‘Cut your throat.’

  The Reverend Mother continued to tremble, and Byram could see a single bloody tear drip from her eye. The knife in her hand drew closer to her neck but the woman fought against it, refusing to obey to the last.

  With a shriek, the Reverend Mother dropped the knife and ran towards the open archway. With a last cry of defiance she pitched herself over the side and into obli
vion.

  Byram watched in amazement. In the end the Reverend Mother had chosen her own way to die. She had defied Innellan’s command. She had disobeyed the god who reigned over them all.

  In that instant Byram realised Innellan could be resisted. That someone with enough determination might be able to strike her down. He also knew that it most certainly wasn’t him.

  Innellan stared after her rebellious servant. It was as though she too understood her own vulnerability. For the first time Byram saw doubt draw over the White Widow’s visage, but it was gone as soon as it appeared.

  ‘You have your instructions,’ Innellan said quietly. ‘Send your levies to Mantioch. The city must not fall.’

  Every one of them bowed low, backing out of the throne room before making their way down the stairs.

  After rejoining Kraden below, Byram ignored his questions while the Silent Sons led them back down the tower. He spoke to no one as they followed an emaciated servant to a chamber near the foot of the stronghold. It was bare but for a single window, while a plain wooden bed stood to one side and a mirror hung on the wall.

  Standing in the centre of the room, Byram tried to clear his mind of what had happened. No matter how he tried to purge himself of Innellan’s influence he knew it would be impossible. There was no way he could ever rid himself of her allure, but neither could he blindly follow her into oblivion. She had to be stopped, but what could he do? He did not possess the will to resist her glamour. The Reverend Mother had shown a strength he had never witnessed before and still she had perished.

  Opening his eyes, Byram caught sight of himself in the mirror. The serpent tattoo that encircled his eye had long since faded. It was still visible though, an indelible part of him, much like his loyalty to the Legion of Wraak. A Legion that was no more. A Legion Byram wanted back with every fibre of his being.

  He knew he had to fight these seditious ideas. There was no way to resist the White Widow and even the most fleeting thought of betrayal might lead to his death. Before he could begin to purge himself of those feelings, his chamber door creaked open.