Lord of Ashes (Steelhaven: Book Three)

by Richard Ford

Merrick stared down at it, bewildered.

  ‘I know. Beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Tannick, as though he held a new-born baby in his arms and not a hunk of cumbersome steel. ‘And it will be yours when I’m gone. Only you can wield it. Only you can take my place.’

  ‘Take your place? Why? Are you going somewhere?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Tannick replied, hefting the sword over one shoulder. ‘But by the time I do, you should be ready.’

  With that he walked inside.

  Merrick stood in the courtyard for some moments, wondering what in the hells that meant.

  You should be ready. Ready for what? To carry a ruddy great sword? He couldn’t say that the prospect filled him with glee.

  Not that it was worth thinking on too much. He had to survive the Khurtas first, and from the sounds of it that was going to be no easy feat. Then again, Tannick had told him he was too important to risk, so that meant he was in no real danger. That he’d be safe when the slaughter began.

  Right?

  All of a sudden the prospect of a wash in freezing cold water didn’t seem the worst of Merrick’s problems.

  THREE

  In the days since the Khurtas came he had stood and he had watched. There weren’t many who had summoned the nerve to disturb Nobul Jacks as he kept his vigil, standing there like a statue night and day – but then he was Nobul Jacks no longer.

  They called him the Black Helm now, a name he’d not used for years. A name he thought he’d left behind him in the mud and blood of Bakhaus Gate. That had been a war against an invading army, just like now. Nobul had become the Black Helm to face the creatures that tore up from the south intent on destroying the Free States. He’d lived through it then by becoming more than a man … or was it less? When the Aeslanti beast men had rampaged across that valley he’d faced them as an animal himself … the undefeatable Black Helm. Now, as he faced north, at the horde waiting to invade the city, he wondered if he’d be able to become that animal again.

  The rest of the men whispered behind his back, talking in hushed tones, spreading word of him along the wall like a plague. For some, Nobul knew that name would bring solace against the coming dark. For others it would mean little – they wouldn’t know or care who he was, and reputations meant nothing if you couldn’t back them up with grit and steel.

  It didn’t matter anyway – once the fighting started he’d have to prove himself all over again, and no reputation, no matter how renowned, was going to stop an axe or a blade from caving in your head.

  And so he’d stood and waited and thought on whether the years had made him too slow, too weak, too dull in the head and the heart. Part of him didn’t want to know. The other part could barely wait to find out.

  Of course Nobul hadn’t stood there day and night. He’d slept. He’d eaten. He’d washed and pissed and shat. Kilgar and the rest of the lads weren’t far away and they were still looking out for him, though things weren’t the same as they had been. None of them, not even Kilgar, thought to question him on what he was doing. On where the helm and hammer had come from. On why he was just watching the horizon instead of mucking in with the rest of the lads. But he was the Black Helm now and the Black Helm didn’t take his turn handing out the gruel or mucking out the latrines with the rest of the lads. It might have pissed some of the other Greencoats or bannermen off, but none of them dared speak to him about it. There was something of the inhuman to Nobul now. Something that wasn’t to be questioned.

  One night someone had tried, though – one of the levies, drunk on ale and fear of the Khurtas, had come too close, started with the questions, and when Nobul hadn’t answered he started to get his back up. He’d shouted and screamed and demanded an answer as to who Nobul thought he was. For his part Nobul had just gripped his hammer all the tighter until Hake and Edric came and ushered the bloke away. As much as it would have been easy to give the little bastard what for, it would prove nothing. He didn’t need to demonstrate who he was or what he could do. Didn’t need to relive old glories. Not yet anyway. There’d be fighting soon enough. Hard fighting where you’d either show your mettle or die trying.

  They’d heard nothing from the Khurtas, though. Nothing but the occasional bit of shouting and the singing of dirges as their fires burned in the night. They must have been as impatient for the fight as Nobul was, but for some reason Amon Tugha made them wait. Were they going to try and starve the city? Nobul had to admit, that made him more fearful than anything. To get to this stage and then be starved to death wouldn’t be much of an end to it all. He wanted to go out fighting – killing like he’d been born for. But he knew there was little need to worry on that score. Deep inside Nobul had a feeling Amon Tugha wouldn’t disappoint. That the Elharim bastard was just biding his time, just letting the fear settle on the city like a dark cloud until he was ready to burn it down.

  As the winter sun rose high in the clear sky, Nobul saw two riders coming from beyond the northern ridge. It was the first bit of movement they’d seen from the Khurtas in days and a swell of panic began to spread across the battlements as lookouts spotted the pair making their way across the flat plain. Nobul simply stood and stared as archers took their places and a serjeant barked for someone to fetch one of the generals.

  The riders galloped to within a hundred yards of the main gate, whooping as they came, whipping their horses into a frenzy. Nobul could just make out the paint on their faces, the sharp yellow teeth in their grinning mouths. They wore furs, riding their horses without saddles, the steeds daubed with the same garish markings as the Khurtas atop them.

  Once they’d reined in their mounts the two warriors waited, their excited horses churning up the ground in the shadow of the curtain wall. Neither was armed, and it seemed obvious they weren’t about to attack. Nevertheless, the archers standing on the wall could contain themselves no longer. With the hum of a bowstring one of them loosed. The arrow fell to the right of the pair, and they duly kicked their steeds, retreating a few yards from the wall.

  ‘That was shit,’ said one of the archers, nocking his own bow as he said it.

  Another hum and another arrow shot towards the riders, this time flying overhead and causing one of the Khurtas to duck. He yelled in delight, and again both riders kicked their steeds into action, retreating yet more yards up the plain.

  ‘Volley this time, you useless bastards,’ said another of the archers. ‘On my count.’

  From the corner of his eye, Nobul saw the gathered archers nock in unison, aiming at their targets despite how pointless it seemed. Loosing half a dozen times to kill two scouts was just a waste of arrows. There’d be easier targets soon enough when the Khurtas came charging forty thousand strong.

  One of the archers counted back from three and there was a rasp of volley fire. The sound of their bows loosing as one was impressive enough, even if their aim was shite. Nobul could probably have done a better job, and he was about as good an archer as he was a milkmaid.

  Though close, the volley of arrows seemed to hit everywhere but its target. This time both the Khurtas screamed in delight, moving their horses further away from the wall. It was then Nobul realised what they were doing, but before he had a chance to say so, someone barked at the archers to stop.

  It was a deep voice, and old, but it carried enough command to make Nobul turn his head to see who owned it. A white-armoured knight was making his way across the battlements. His hair was down to his shoulders, moustache and beard drooping over his gorget. The armour that covered him from neck to toe was intricately gilded, making it look as though he wore a wolf’s pelt, and at his hip sat a huge sword that no man so old should have been able to wield.

  ‘Are you bloody stupid?’ said the old man, snatching the closest archer’s bow and rapping it over his head. The archer raised his hands to defend himself but gave no word of protest. ‘Do you think they’re offering themselves up as bloody target practice?’ The rest of the archers looked at one another dumbly, none of them dari
ng to risk an answer. ‘They’re testing your range. They’re seeing how far the horde can advance before it’s in danger of being hit, you bloody dullards!’

  The archers could only mumble their apologies. Two of them slunk off back along the parapet and the old knight flung the bow back at its owner who was still rubbing his head.

  Grumbling to himself about incompetent morons, the knight turned to leave, then stopped, thinking better of it. Nobul watched as he slowly turned and made his way closer, casually, almost as though Nobul wasn’t there. Then he stopped at the battlements, resting his elbow on one of the merlons and looking out. The pair of them stood in silence for a while, as though the old man were sizing him up, wondering whether it was worth starting a conversation.

  ‘I remember you,’ he said, finally. ‘Or at least the man they say you are.’ Nobul gave no answer. He knew there were those who doubted he was the real Black Helm. And who could blame them – it had been the best part of sixteen years since he’d fought at Bakhaus Gate. Surely the Black Helm would be old by now, long past his best. This couldn’t be the real one, could it?

  ‘Don’t suppose it matters if you’re the same man or not,’ the knight continued, ‘as long as you can fight like the Black Helm.’ He looked Nobul up and down. ‘You look the part, at least.’

  Nobul would have liked to ignore the knight, to tell himself this old man’s opinion didn’t matter a shit, but there was something about him. The way the man carried himself, the way he spoke, made Nobul want his acceptance. Made Nobul need this old knight to believe him.

  ‘I’m him, all right,’ Nobul said, still staring out across the plain. ‘Don’t worry yourself on that score.’

  The knight nodded. ‘That’s a relief. We’ll need you, and no mistake. You fought like a daemon back then. Hope you’ve still got that in you.’

  Well, have you? Have you still got that fight? Can you still swing that hammer? You killed a bar full of naked revellers and kicked a dog to death in recent days, but these are the Khurtas. Savages. Killers to a man. And you’re well past your prime – some might even say over-ripe. Have you really still got it in you?

  ‘Guess we’ll find out soon enough,’ Nobul said.

  ‘That we will,’ said the old man with a laugh. ‘I’m Bannon.’ He held out his arm.

  Nobul knew the name and for a moment he paused before accepting that arm. The Duke of Valdor was standing next to him, striking up idle conversation about the past and what was coming from the north. Wasn’t every day you got to mull over the old days with nobility.

  ‘Nobul Jacks,’ he replied, grasping Bannon’s forearm in a warrior’s grip.

  ‘So that’s the name of the Black Helm?’ said Bannon. ‘Can’t say as I’ve heard of it. Would have thought a man like you would have made a name for himself in the Free Companies. Would have made himself rich.’

  ‘There’s also high odds in the Free Companies a man like that will make himself dead.’ Nobul released Bannon’s arm and went back to staring out north. ‘I didn’t fancy that.’

  The old man chuckled. ‘That makes sense, I suppose. So what’s changed your mind? What’s made you pick that hammer up again? Chances are we’ll all be killed standing on this wall. You could have made a run for it like so many others but instead you chose to stay and fight.’

  Nobul had to think on that. Had to go over everything that had happened to lead him here, to this point. All the loss, all the grief, all the pain and death. He would have told Bannon all about it, and he was sure the old man would have listened. But then again Nobul had never been much of a storyteller.

  ‘Sometimes there just ain’t a choice,’ he replied.

  The duke nodded at that and stood beside Nobul, staring out onto the plain. With the archers having stopped their attempts to shoot them, the Khurtic riders had finished their milling and retreated back towards the distant ridge.

  ‘You’re right,’ Bannon said, still staring north. ‘Sometimes we just don’t choose. Sometimes those decisions are made for us. I lost my son to those savages. To some bastard assassin sent by Amon Tugha himself. I don’t have a choice at all. I’ll fight and I’ll die because there’s a debt I owe.’

  Nobul could sense the pain in him, the bitterness. He wanted to admit that he’d lost a boy too. That he knew the sting of it, deep in your heart where no amount of vengeance could ever ease it. He should probably have warned the old man that it wouldn’t get any better no matter how many men he killed, but he guessed Bannon would find out in his own way.

  ‘There’ll be plenty more sons lost before this is over,’ he said instead.

  Bannon nodded in agreement. ‘And fathers. And brothers. And if we don’t stop them at this wall there’ll be wives and mothers and all the rest too.’

  Nobul continued to stare across the plain. He could just see the dark shafts of arrows in the grass, showing the Khurtas how close they could come to the wall without fear of being shot.

  ‘And if they’re gauging our range you can be sure they’re coming soon.’ Bannon looked at him, looked into the eyes behind his black helmet. ‘Are you ready?’

  Nobul didn’t have to think on it. He already knew the answer to that one. ‘Aye, I’m ready. I’ve been ready for these fuckers a long time.’

  ‘Good.’ Bannon clapped him on the arm. ‘Then I’ll be proud to stand beside you.’

  For the first time in an age, a smile crept across Nobul’s lips. ‘Don’t stand too close, old man. Wouldn’t want you getting in the way.’

  Bannon laughed as he turned and continued to chuckle while he made his way across the battlements. It seemed strange to laugh so long at such a thing, but Nobul knew it was the gallows humour that struck all men in the calm before battle. There was nothing to laugh about here. Death was no laughing matter – whether you were dealing it out, or whether it was coming for you.

  And Nobul Jacks knew full well that when the Khurtas finally came he’d be the one doing the dealing.

  FOUR

  Regulus and his warriors had been posted to the western wall, overlooking the vast river that ran in floods from the north. Crossing the river were three bridges, the centremost having long since collapsed, leaving only an impassable monument that reached up from the fast flowing waters like some drowning beast. On the other side was a vast, derelict city, crumbling and ancient, but still teeming with ragged Coldlanders. Even now they were marching into the city proper, fearing the onslaught that could at any moment descend from the north to consume them.

  Even though these gates would soon be closed and barred with iron they still needed to be defended. There was nothing to stop the enemy moving through the crumbling streets over the river and crossing the two bridges that were still intact. Regulus knew he had been bestowed a great honour, been offered the chance he yearned for – to defend the bridge with black steel and tooth and claw, and earn himself a formidable reputation.

  It was still not enough for Regulus Gor.

  He wanted to be on the northern wall, where the enemy would most readily focus its strength. The vast plain in front of the city was the most likely place for the Elharim warlord to amass his mighty army. Regulus wanted to be where the fighting was hardest, where the killing was the fiercest and the glory would be bestowed on him in a flood.

  Nobul Jacks had been posted to that wall. The honour of meeting the enemy in their greatest numbers would be his, and that stung Regulus deep. He owed Jacks a life debt and it would be difficult to repay while he was stuck here, watching the river run past and hoping the enemy were bold enough to try and cross the bridge. His chance to settle that debt seemed all but lost for now. He could only hope Nobul Jacks would live long enough for him to pay it. Deep inside, Regulus was confident he would.

  In the last few days, the stern Coldlander had become something of a legend amongst the city’s defenders. Once he had donned that helm of his he commanded a strange fear and respect amongst the city’s warriors. Regulus had not realised just how for
midable a reputation the Black Helm bore, and he could only envy Nobul Jacks for it.

  Not only that, but the man had crafted the best armour Regulus had ever donned. It was black steel, to match the sword at his side, each piece crafted to fit his form like a second skin: light, manoeuvrable yet hard as granite. It made Regulus feel invincible. He could only hope that in the days to come he would be able to test its worth in battle. His greatest fear was that he would be needlessly stuck defending the western gate while his chance at glory was to the north.

  The Coldlanders practised their swordplay in readiness for an attack. Below, on the street where ranks of warriors waited in anticipation, they fought one another in friendly bouts. Regulus could only smile at that. What could they possibly hope to learn in the next day or so before the enemy came for them? They would learn more in the first few moments of a real battle than they ever could in a hundred days of practice. Those who were quick enough to learn would most likely survive. Those who weren’t would certainly be the first to die.

  Regulus would have been happy to walk amongst them and impart his own wisdom, the evidence of which was writ in the myriad scars he wore proudly on his flesh, but he knew it would only fall on deaf ears. He and his warriors were still treated with suspicion, despite what they had done to protect the city’s queen.

  Not that Regulus cared. He was not here to make allies. He was here to kill.

  The only men whose opinions he cared for were his own warriors. Even now they took the time to gather their thoughts, to polish their new armour and hone their new weapons. Hagama, Kazul – even the youngest of them, Akkula – were seasoned fighters. They did not practise their skills. This was a time to reflect on what was to come, to picture yourself victorious, to know that there were none who could stand against you. To fill yourself with anticipation of the slaughter. And his warriors knew how to slaughter all too well.

  As Regulus looked out over the wall at the slow moving crowds he heard the sound of movement behind him – the clanking of armour, the slap of weapon against hip, the clumsy footfalls. He didn’t have to turn to know it was one of the Coldlanders, they were always heralded by noise, never seeming able to tread lightly, but then these people were surrounded by stone. On the plains of Equ’un the Zatani had long ago learned how to tread lightly. Every tribe – whether Gor’tana, Kel’tana, Sho’tana or Vir’tana – had learned that it oftentimes meant the difference between life and death. Here such things seemed to matter little.