Herald of the Storm
HERALD OF THE STORM
Book One in the STEELHAVEN series
Richard Ford
Copyright © 2013 Richard Ford
The right of Richard Ford to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2013
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN: 978 0 7553 9405 0
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
About the Book
About the Author
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Epilogue
About the Book
Welcome to Steelhaven …
Under the reign of King Cael the Uniter, this vast cityport on the southern coast has for years been a symbol of strength, maintaining an uneasy peace throughout the Free States.
But now a long shadow hangs over the city, in the form of the dread Elharim warlord, Amon Tugha. When his herald infiltrates the city, looking to exploit its dangerous criminal underworld, and a terrible dark magick that has long been buried once again begins to rise, it could be the beginning of the end.
About the Author
Richard Ford originally hails from Leeds in the heartland of Yorkshire, but now resides in the Wiltshire countryside, where he can be found frolicking in the Thames, drinking cider and singing songs about combine harvesters.
For Wendy
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First and foremost I need to thank my agent, industry legend John Jarrold, who took me on after reading a part manuscript and showed a lot of faith where others might not.
Thanks to Gareth Hanrahan, Matt Keefe and Gav Thorpe for their various critiques and help with the manuscript, it’s all the better for your input.
I should also mention the team at Headline: Patrick Insole for making the cover look sexy, my copyeditor and proofreader for making the words sexy, and Caitlin Raynor and Ben Willis for telling everyone how sexy it is.
And last, but by no means least, my editor, John Wordsworth. Remember, if I go down, you’re going with me!
PROLOGUE
Massoum Abbasi hated the sea. The sickly salt smell and the incessant noise bothered him more than he could ever express. He was a Dravhistan nomad, a man of the desert, used to the silence of sand, a parched and arid landscape, and endless blue sky. Roiling cloud, clashing wave and screeching gull were alien to his experience, but Massoum was willing to endure this, for the reward was great indeed.
The fastest route from the Dravhistan port of Aluk Vadir to the cityport of Steelhaven was by ship, and so reluctantly Massoum had paid for his passage and embarked on his voyage. A man could suffer much for riches, they said, and Massoum had believed them, right up until the first storm hit. The Reigning Sceptre was almost entirely crewed by brash westerners who could laugh in the face of the lashing winds and the rumbling skies. Though the caravel was picked up and tossed from wave to towering wave, its crew went about their duties unaffected, as though it were routine.
For Massoum it felt as if the world was ending.
He had clung to the rigging for grim death, his fingers white from the fearsomeness of his grip and the chill of the storm winds. The robes he wore to pass himself off as a merchant were covered in vomit and his headscarf had blown away in the gale, exposing his long hair to the elements, but he cared little. Survival was all that mattered. And, of course, despite the raging torrent that threatened to fling him from the deck at any moment, he had survived.
But then, Massoum Abbasi was a born survivor – a man used to taking risks and claiming the consequent rewards. In the past his skills had been much sought after, his benefactors generous with their payments.
Abbasi had been trained in the differing philosophies of war by the Shadir of Gul Rasa and been military adviser to three desert princes. He had brokered peace between the warring sultanates of Jal Nassan, acted as diplomat to Kali Ustman Al Talib in the court of the Han-Shar Sunlords and been herald for the Egrit of Rashamen. Over the years his reputation had grown so that the mere rumour of his arrival was enough to spur the richest sultan’s court to greet him with a flower-strewn path and a sumptuous banquet. Times had indeed been good, and Massoum had lived the noble’s life, lauded as the wisest of counsellors and surrounded by men of influence and opulence who called themselves his friends.
But all that had changed.
Such a trivial act had brought him low: the slightest of smiles towards the Kali’s twelfth wife – not even his favourite – but it had been enough to spark rumour in court, enough to have the viziers whispering and the eunuchs chortling in their high-pitched voices, and that was that. Banished. Cast out to the four winds. At least he had been spared the executioner’s blade; that was one thing he could thank the Kali for.
The last few years had been hard for Massoum. There was little use for his talents on the filthy streets of Dravhistan’s cities. Where before his honeyed words and impartial wisdom had been much sought after, now they were of little use. Hunger and fear were his constant companions and he had almost become desperate enough to consider manual labour; but just when it looked as if the light of Asta’Dovashu had abandoned him completely, the god of the Desert Wind had suddenly smiled down.
Massoum Abbasi thought back to that night – the night he had been offered riches beyond imagining for the simple loaning of his talents. Acceptance had brought him here, to this place, to this city far from his homeland, and he was suddenly wondering if even all the riches of the eastern kingdoms would have been worth the journey.
From the deck he could just see the city of Steelhaven in the distance, squatting on the coastline like a giant ants’ nest. Unpleasant though Massoum’s journey had been, he knew that worse was to come once he set foot in that foul metropolis. Its reputation was infamous, even in far-off Dravhistan – the danger of its narrow twisting streets, the lack of culture, the savage manners and foul breath of its inhabitants. Not to mention their tasteless food and their insistence on heaving ale down their necks until it made them vomit.
Massoum would have to adjust his usual stringent adherence to etiquette when dealing with these ignorant westerners. His name must be short and sweet – none of them would be able, or even care, to address him properly by his given title of Massoum Am Kalhed Las Fahir Am Jadar Abbasi.
As orders were barked across deck in the gruff Teutonian language, Massoum gripped the embroidered leather bag he carried across one shoulder more tightly, pulling it across the front of his body in a protective gesture. The bag was his lifeline, containing the tools of his trade, and he instinctively wanted to protect them. Though its contents might seem mundane, worthless even, the bag was of more value than anyone could have guessed.
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