by Richard Ford
He jumped down as they chanted on, and Hake smiled at him. There was a strange look of approval in the old man’s eyes.
‘Do you think that was enough?’ asked Nobul.
‘Think we’re about to find out,’ said the old man, gesturing back over the wall.
Nobul turned. Through the dark, the Khurtas were coming again.
TWENTY-THREE
They came roaring across the plain once more. This time Regulus and his warriors refused to be banished to the periphery of the battle but stood to the fore, above the main gate. They watched in silence as the Khurtas hit the wall, bracing their ladders and racing up to be met by a hail of arrows and rocks. The ram was also brought across the great plain once more, pushed by burly savages under the lash of their taskmasters. When one fell to a well-placed arrow, another would quickly be whipped into place, his fear of the scourge outweighing his fear of the artillery raining down. When it was finally in position, the great ram was smashed against the gate, shaking the entire wall beneath Regulus’ feet.
The noise from below was deafening, the roaring sound of forty thousand men all bent on bringing the city to its knees. Young Akkula could not contain himself, stepping forward and roaring back down over the battlements, the cry echoing from within his helm and rising above the cacophony of guttural rage.
All the while the rhythmic boom of the ram served to mark out the beat of battle. Regulus stood watching; waiting for the first of the Khurtas to come crawling over the battlements looking for death, but the Coldlanders fought them back with a zeal he had previously not seen. Nobul Jacks had earlier made a spirited speech – stoking a fire within them that Regulus could only admire. As a result the Khurtas did not even make it to the lip of the parapet before being repelled. He was beginning to think he might have to leap over the wall and into the fray as he had done the previous night.
Then the gate gave way.
With a mighty crack of timbers the gate splintered inwards. The wall shook, and Regulus had to steady himself as the iron portcullis buckled beneath them. The head of the ram smashed through the gate one last time, sending sparks of burning wood and metal flying. The face of the ram was visible for a brief moment – a magnificent beast’s head crafted from iron – before it was pulled back through the flaming gap where the gate had once stood. There was a roar of triumph from the Khurtas and panicked shouts from within the wall as the men below realised they were about to be overwhelmed.
Regulus spoke no orders, rushing to the stone stairwell that led down to the foot of the bastion. His warriors followed eagerly, Akkula and Kazul almost falling over one another in their keenness. Janto took up the rear but Regulus knew he was far from reluctant for the fight.
They reached the bottom, positioning themselves in front of the fallen gate. Coldlanders began to gather all around, their war chiefs barking orders. They were organised into rows, their shields raised, but Regulus wanted to hide behind no barrier. He had come here for glory – the honour of the first kill would be his alone.
‘Get behind the bloody shield wall, you mad bastards,’ someone yelled from behind them, but Regulus paid him no heed.
As they watched, a group of Khurtas came screaming through the gap they had made ahead of the horde, eager with bloodlust, desperate to slake their thirst with Coldlander blood. But Janto Sho was thirsty too.
With twin axes held at his sides he walked forward as half a dozen enemies came at him. Regulus could barely contain himself as the Sho’tana warrior hacked his way through the screaming savages, taking the honour of first kill for himself, but he let Janto carry on – there was sure to be plenty for everyone.
As Janto cleaved the head from his final foe a strange silence fell over the men behind. They knew what was coming through the gap where the gate had once stood.
Regulus almost gave a roar of challenge but he kept silent instead. Better the Khurtas didn’t know what waited for them within the city. Better he greet them with black steel instead.
They came running through the open gateway, heedless of the arrows fired at them in a hasty volley, screaming their rage. Regulus felt a flicker of admiration – for a moment he was back on the plains of Equ’un, facing the Kel’tana one final time, their roars rising above the grasslands. Then he too was running, crossing the ground to the Khurtas, flanked by his warriors, black armoured killers all. The Khurtas did not take a backward step, and Regulus was glad of that. He would have hated to chase down fleeing men – better to face an enemy head on, better the taste of victory when defeating a worthy foe.
His sword rang and he roared as he slew. Beside him Akkula and Kazul did likewise, their ecstasy in battle sounding out for all to hear. In the press he lost sight of Janto, but neither did he care, so caught up was he in his own lust for slaughter. And for every Khurta he killed another took his place, screaming his rage, bellowing his hate. Regulus could only thank them for it – he would not grow fatigued, his breath would not grow short. He had a vigour that could not be sated, not by a dozen dead enemies, not by a score.
Behind them, Regulus heard one of the Coldlander war chiefs bellow the order to attack. The shield wall moved forward, spears jutting forth to take on those Khurtas who had slipped past the Zatani. More savages charged through the gate to join the fray and Regulus almost lost himself, almost raced right through the flaming breach to take the fight to the Khurtas outside.
But the second wave of barbarians did not attack alone. Amidst the charging savages Regulus saw two warriors treading with more care. They both wore black, a man and a woman, but even from a distance he could tell they were more than human. She walked with the confident gait of a warrior, her head uncovered, blond hair falling about her shoulders. He wore a hood, a mask across his face, and held a straight silver blade loosely at his side. Both surveyed the field with golden eyes that seemed to catch the firelight and burn of their own volition. In this pair Regulus saw more than savages attacking in fury.
He saw his chance at glory.
‘Kazul. Akkula,’ he barked over the din of battle. Both his warriors dragged themselves away from the fray and attended him at his order. ‘There.’ Regulus pointed his blade across the melee, towards the blackgarbed warriors. A smile crossed young Akkula’s lips and Kazul growled deep in his throat as they caught sight of the warriors and recognised what Regulus had seen – their chance to face a worthy enemy.
Janto was still lost in the battle, his roars audible over the din, leaving Regulus and his two fellow Gor’tana to cut their way towards the two Elharim, hacking aside the Khurtas in favour of more deadly enemies. As the pair came into view, Regulus saw a smile cross the lips of the woman, her eyes burning with lust as she seemed to revel in the prospect of facing him. He would not disappoint.
‘Take him,’ said Regulus, pointing to the hooded killer. Kazul and Akkula obeyed, eagerly charging forward to face the man, who merely stood waiting, sword held at his side, making no attempt to defend himself.
Regulus strode forward to face the woman as the battle raged all around. She continued to smile, regarding him with those golden eyes. There was no fear there, only anticipation, yearning.
With a roar, Regulus leapt at her. Her sword came up to meet his, blinding in its swiftness. His black blade clashed against her silver and they were locked together for a moment. Still she regarded him casually, and her strength belied her frame. Regulus stood a full head taller, dwarfing her with his thickly muscled bulk, but she did not relent under his attack. In that instant he realised it would be foolish to underestimate her.
With a grunt she pushed him away and he stepped back in time to avoid her counter, the silver blade moving with such deft speed it almost took his head off. Regulus knew he could allow her no respite and attacked once more with a growl, his black sword clashing against hers. She spun before he could press his attack, moving to his flank. Before she could strike he lashed out with a claw, rending her leather jacket at the shoulder.
The woman
growled in pain, skittering back from his next attack, and glared briefly at the wound he had left. Now Regulus could see the look of amusement was gone from her golden gaze. Her brow was furrowed as she looked at the claw marks ripped into her shoulder. He took pleasure in that expression of anger. Gone was her arrogance. Now she would take him as seriously as he took her.
They ran at one another. Regulus’ lips had slipped back from his teeth now as he charged, a snarl issuing from deep within him. The woman was silent but there was furious concentration on her face. Her sword spun as they clashed. The black blade in Regulus’ hand jarred violently as their weapons met. She was fast, almost too fast, as her sword hacked a divot in the shoulder plate of his armour.
Regulus fought with all the animal fury of the Zatani, his blade and claws swiping the air, but he could not land another blow on her. As they fought he got the ominous feeling he was being toyed with, that she knew she was too fast, too skilled for him. It only made him angry, almost made him sloppy, and might have cost him dear.
The woman’s blade caught his hand, hacking at his gauntlet and sending his weapon spinning from his grasp. Her foot came up, lightning fast, to strike at his knee, throwing him off his balance. He went down, slipping to the soft earth, and in an instant she was on him, sword raised. In that moment Regulus saw everything clearly; her eyes locked on his, the corner of her mouth raised in amused triumph.
He had been so eager. Now he was dead.
Janto roared. He was covered in Khurtic blood, his helmet gone, his face a mask of red rage. The woman barely had time to turn her attack into a parry before his axes fell. Against the fury of Janto’s assault she could only retreat, hard pressed to fend off his flailing axes.
Regulus staggered to his feet, scrabbling frantically for his fallen blade. As he picked it up, feeling the pain in his hand, he heard a scream of anguish from across the battleground.
Akkula fell as the hooded warrior stepped away from him, pulling his blade free of the Zatani’s chest. Spinning with the grace of a dancer, he easily fended off a challenge from Kazul as Regulus began to move, covering the ground to aid his warrior. Before he could reach him, the hooded warrior’s blade sang once more, slicing Kazul’s spear in two and severing his head.
Regulus snarled, leaping forward, heedless of the pain in his hand and knee. The hooded man looked up with those golden eyes, a brief flash of alarm there as he saw the fierce Zatani bearing down. The Elharim brought his blade up in defence, and Regulus’ black sword clashed with it but his right hand was already shooting forward, faster than those golden eyes could follow. He gripped the Elharim’s neck in a clawed fist, spitting a snarl as he tore out the man’s throat. Those golden eyes regarded him with confusion for the briefest of moments, blood spewing from where his neck had been, before he fell.
Regulus would have roared in victory but the surrounding Khurtas came at him, their attacks frenzied. It was all he could do to fend them off as he was put on the back foot, ceding ground to the enemy with every hack of their blades.
A horn blew, and Regulus looked up to see the Khurtas had been given the order to retreat, though some still fought on, unwilling to flee.
‘Get behind the frigging shield wall,’ bellowed a voice behind Regulus. His knee throbbed; he knew giving chase was futile and he grudgingly stepped back towards the Coldlanders.
Glancing across the field of dead he saw Janto had retreated too, allowing the Khurtas to run back beyond the shattered gate. The blonde woman knelt beside her fellow Elharim, glaring intently at Regulus. Before they could flee she ordered three Khurtas to retrieve the corpse but all the while she stared at Regulus. When the last of the Khurtas had escaped through the open gateway she followed, walking back reluctantly, as though she was in half a mind to run towards the defensive lines and take her vengeance.
Regulus could only watch the woman as she went, hoping against hope he would have the chance to face her again.
TWENTY-FOUR
Waylian could only imagine the battle waging to the north of the city. He had seen it first-hand the night before, had lived it in all its bowel-threatening glory. It was just a relief he didn’t have to experience it now. He was almost grateful that Gelredida had spared him the wall and given him a different mission. In his gut, though, he knew this would be no less dangerous than standing there waiting for the Khurtas to come running at him. In fact, it was likely much more dangerous.
He stumbled through the blackened wreckage of what had been Dockside. Here and there buildings were still standing – islands amidst a sea of devastated property. Fires burned all around and it took all Waylian’s concentration not to trip amidst the detritus. His companion was no more sure-footed either. If anything, Aldrich Mundy was clumsier than Waylian, if that were even possible.
What had his mistress been thinking to partner him with Mundy? The lad was clearly a little bit … challenged. If this mission was as important as it seemed then surely he should be accompanied by a senior magister. Or someone who wasn’t mad, at least.
‘Keep up,’ said Waylian, as the bespectacled apprentice tugged on his robe, which had become snared on a blackened timber jutting from a pile of rubble.
He thought Aldrich might give him some petulant comment, using all the verbose language he’d been led to expect, but the lad merely did as he was told. For a moment Waylian felt guilty. Aldrich had obviously never seen devastation like this. Despite his obtuse nature he was most likely terrified out of his wits.
‘We’re nearly there,’ said Waylian, stopping and waiting for Aldrich, who clomped through the uneven ground like a new-born foal. When he eventually reached Waylian’s side, Aldrich looked up at the night sky, his eyes lighting up from behind his thin-rimmed spectacles.
‘Fascinating,’ said the apprentice.
‘What is?’ Waylian asked, but he needn’t have bothered.
He heard the distant roar, saw Aldrich’s face brighten with light and the lenses of his spectacles turn white, and spun around to look at the burning missile soaring over the sea wall.
‘See how it maintains its structural integrity until the moment of impact?’ Aldrich said, pointing up at the night sky. ‘It takes a great deal of ingenuity to—’
‘Fucking run!’ barked Waylian, grabbing Aldrich’s robe and dragging him away from where the missile was quite clearly going to land.
He stumbled, Aldrich clapping along behind in his sandals. Something scraped against Waylian’s thigh, tearing his robe and lacerating his flesh. He growled but tried to ignore the pain, not daring to look up as the ground all around them brightened like the dawning of a new day.
The heat grew more intense against his back, the noise deafening. Waylian grabbed Aldrich by the shoulders, tackling him to the ground, as what was left of the street exploded behind them. Fragments of masonry soared all about as Waylian sheltered behind a broken wall. Flaming shards burst against the street and Waylian covered his head. He could hear Aldrich squealing beside him as the world seemed to break apart in a searing explosion.
When he could eventually open his eyes Aldrich was mumbling to himself, still curled up in a ball. Waylian was about to reassure the lad when he felt his leg burning. The hem of his robe was in flames, and he started to desperately beat at it with his scuffed hands.
This is madness. You’re going to die here. She’s sent you to die again. You should run, Grimmy. Call it a day. You’ve done enough for her – surely this is a suicide mission too far.
When the fire was out Waylian glanced at the devastation. Through the fires that raged all around he suddenly spotted something in the shadows of a collapsed building. Three sets of eyes peered out from soot-blackened faces. Waylian couldn’t tell if they were children or adults, but the fear written in their features was easy to see, despite the lack of detail. Suddenly he felt a growing sense of urgency to complete his mission.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, rising to his feet and pulling Aldrich with him.
; ‘What a quintessentially stentorian experience,’ said Mundy, his voice quavering.
The left lens of his eyeglasses was now cracked and he stared with a wild look to him. Waylian had no idea what help Gelredida had thought he’d be, but it was doubtful he’d be much use in a state of shock.
You’d best pray for a miracle, then, Grimmy. It’s not like you’re going to be able to destroy that fleet of ships single-handed, is it?
They pressed on south. The Sea Gate was easy to see over the plain of flattened buildings and Waylian was instilled with a sense of foreboding. This place was already like the hells. If they tarried much longer there’d be nothing left but cinders, and whoever else was left cowering in the rubble would be doomed.
Waylian and Aldrich picked their way further through the ruins and when they eventually reached the Sea Gate there were several Greencoats crouching beside the wall. Their green jackets were soot darkened, their faces black, but still they waited. Waylian could only admire their dedication. He doubted he’d have borne the same commitment had it been his job to guard this gate.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ said one of them as Waylian and Aldrich came to crouch beside them. The man’s face was a broken mess and he glowered angrily.
Waylian glanced at Aldrich, but it was obvious he had nothing to say. On any other day he’d have taken that as the blessing it was.
‘We have to get out there.’ Waylian pointed through the blackened iron portcullis, the wooden gate that would have stood in front of it having long since burned down.
‘No chance,’ said the man. ‘This gate stays closed. Those are our orders.’
‘We’re from the Tower of Magisters. We’ve been sent to take care of those ships.’
He could hear the fear in his own voice. Part of him wanted the man to listen, to appreciate what he was doing. Another part wanted the man to tell him to fuck off back to the tower where at least he’d be safe … for now.
