by Richard Ford
Then Amon Tugha made his move.
He raised that massive spear far too quickly for a weapon of its size. The warlord looked powerful, all right, but even a man with that much muscle should have struggled with such a weapon. With measured grace he drew back for a throw, aiming at Cormach as he attempted to flee.
Before he knew what he was doing Merrick stuck spurs to flanks again. His warhorse bolted forward as he moved to block the throw. The spear strike that was aimed at Cormach hit Merrick’s shield, piercing the top and slicing a gash in his pauldron. His horse reared back as Amon Tugha wrenched the weapon back, pulling the shield from Merrick’s grip.
‘Get the fuck out of here,’ he screamed at Cormach, who needed no further encouragement, spurring his mount and galloping southwards.
The rest of the Wyvern Guard had made it through now, and they flanked Cormach as he made for safety.
Merrick would have happily joined them, but he was too busy staring in awe at the seven-foot Elharim warlord who had him fixed in a gaze that would have wilted flowers. Amon Tugha drew back his spear once more. This time Merrick had no shield, not that it would have done him any good anyway.
You wanted to be a hero, Ryder. Well, are you happy now? They’ll be singing songs about how you died saving the queen for years.
The Elharim suddenly ducked as a spear almost took him in the head, missing by mere inches. Someone jumped on the back of Merrick’s horse, the panic of it almost making him squeal, but he quickly realised he was not under attack.
‘Ride!’ shouted Kaira as she gripped the buckles of his breastplate.
Merrick didn’t need asking twice and neither did his steed as it bolted after the rest of the Wyvern Guard. They’d made a gap in the crowd and he headed straight for it. Broken and stunned Khurtas littered the way and Merrick’s horse seemed only too eager to trample them further into the dirt.
‘Down!’ screamed Kaira, grabbing Merrick’s head and pulling it to the side as Amon Tugha’s massive spear careered through the air after them. It thudded into the ground some way ahead of their path and Merrick stuck spurs to horse again, more eager than ever to leave this place behind.
Their steed did its best to navigate the maze of hide tents as Merrick headed back towards the city, but they trampled several on the way. A Khurta came roaring at them but Merrick’s blade was faster. He could hear screams all around and his heart leapt as he reached the edge of the camp, with only an open field between him and safety.
Arrows zipped overhead as they made their way down onto the plain. In front, Merrick could see the remaining Wyvern Guard carrying the queen back to safety. He counted only half of their original dozen.
When they’d galloped hard enough to beat the range of the Khurtic arrows, Merrick slowed his horse down to a trot.
‘You all right?’ he asked over his shoulder.
Kaira nodded, breathless. ‘I’m unhurt.’
‘If you’d wanted to take on the entire Khurtic army single-handed you should just have said. I would have stood on the wall and waved you off.’
She didn’t seem to see the funny side.
The Wyvern Guard eventually rode through the Stone Gate. If Merrick had expected a rapturous welcome he was sorely disappointed; no one seemed in any particular hurry to ask them what in the hells they were doing charging out into the night. Janessa had already climbed down from Cormach’s horse, her cloak drawn about her head.
‘Get down,’ Kaira ordered. Merrick didn’t have the energy to argue, clambering down as Kaira beckoned for Janessa to join her on the mount. ‘No one must know about this,’ she said as the queen climbed up behind her. Then she kicked the steed and headed south towards the palace.
‘Don’t mention it. All in a day’s work,’ Merrick said under his breath, watching the pair of them go.
When he got back to the compound, close to the wall where the Wyvern Guard had been posted, he saw his father waiting. Each of the half-dozen he came back with were patted on the shoulder as Tannick commended them for their bravery. Even Cormach Whoreson was given an approving nod. Merrick smiled at his father, expecting much the same. He should have known better.
‘What the bloody hells were you thinking?’ said Tannick, keeping his voice low.
He doesn’t want to embarrass you in front of the other lads, at least. Something to be thankful for.
‘I was thinking the queen was in danger,’ Merrick replied, fast losing patience with his father’s constant coddling. ‘I was thinking that her life is a little bit more important than mine and it was probably worth risking to save her.’
Not strictly true – if you’d had time to think you probably wouldn’t have gone at all, but no one has to know that.
Tannick nodded. ‘Aye, well you’re back in one piece at least. Well done.’
‘Thanks,’ said Merrick as his father walked away. It struck him that the old man hadn’t seemed overly concerned about the men who hadn’t come back, but over the last few days they’d lost plenty of brothers to the enemy. It was clear Tannick couldn’t mourn them all.
Merrick took some water from a barrel, feeling it cool his parched throat. With all the arse-clenching fear he hadn’t realised just how thirsty he was. As he looked around at the other lads he saw Cormach taking the stairway up to the battlements.
He obviously wants to be alone. He has just saved the queen, after all. He wants to bask in his glory by himself. You definitely shouldn’t interrupt him whilst he’s locked in quiet reflection. He hates you as well, so you’d be a stupid moron if you tried to make conversation now.
Merrick took the stairs after Cormach.
The Whoreson was waiting on the walkway, staring out over the battlements as the sun rose in the east. Merrick casually walked up and stood beside him, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, like this was some kind of accident.
‘I’m sorry for the brothers we lost,’ said Merrick, unsure why he was even bothering with this conversation. ‘I know you knew them longer than me. It must be hard that we’ve lost so many.’
Cormach glanced over at him, then back out towards the rising sun. ‘Not as hard as you might think,’ he replied.
Not quite as unpleasant a reply as you were expecting, Ryder. At least he didn’t call you a cunt.
‘But these are your brothers. Weren’t you brought up with them? Aren’t you all bound by blood and honour?’
Cormach looked at him now, and for the first time there was the slightest trace of a smile on his lips. ‘Don’t have any brothers, do you?’
‘No, I, er—’
‘And if you did would you want them calling you Whoreson all the time? The only reason they call me nothing worse is they know I could end every last one of them.’
‘I see,’ said Merrick, remembering well when he was on the receiving end of Cormach’s swordsmanship and having no doubt he could do exactly what he claimed. ‘So that’s not a term of endearment then?’
Cormach barked a laugh at that. ‘What the fuck do you think?’
‘I thought it might be something to do with your prowess in the whorehouse. Maybe a curse all your enemies shout before you—’
‘My mother was a cheap backstreet whore from Silverwall. It’s no big secret.’
Merrick was a little taken aback by the candid answer, but not all that surprised. ‘But how did you go from that to being the first sword of the Wyvern Guard?’
Cormach fixed him with an amused look.
‘Your father didn’t pick his recruits from the highborn. Did you think he trawled the provinces looking for little lordlings to join his crusade? Every last man of us is scum off the streets. Lads no one would miss. Tannick took us all when we were young enough to obey him without question.’
‘And your mother was happy with that?’
Cormach’s expression darkened. ‘Lord Marshal Tannick bought me for ten copper pennies.’
And you thought he was a bastard for leaving you all alone with your mother
when you were nothing but a child.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Merrick.
‘Don’t be. It was a generous offer. She only asked for five, by all accounts.’
‘But still, I’m sorry. That’s an awful—’
‘What the fuck are you sorry about? Why are we even talking? You don’t give two shits about me and I definitely couldn’t give a flying bollock about you. We’ll stand on the wall and we’ll watch each other’s backs and tonight or tomorrow or some other time soon we’ll both be dead. We don’t have to be cocking friends to do it.’
With that he turned and walked on down the battlements.
Merrick watched for a while as that mad bastard made his way along the wall, and for the life of him he couldn’t work out why they had to be friends either.
THIRTY-THREE
Nobul was exhausted but it wouldn’t beat him. It was a matter of not giving in to it, of ignoring the aches and fatigue, but when you were dead on your feet all the ignoring in the world wouldn’t do you any good. He’d slept at least, but that had probably been a mistake. When you woke, that’s when all the hours of swinging a hammer and taking a beating would catch up with you. The stiffness would seep into your joints, the cuts would sting that much more and the bruises would be so sore you couldn’t even touch them. Whatever mad rush of blood you’d had the night before that kept the pain away was gone and all you had to stop yourself weeping from the hurt was the power of your will.
A lot of the other lads had succumbed to it. He’d heard weeping aplenty over the last couple of days, in the early hours of dawn when the Khurtas retreated back north and all that remained was the aftershock of battle. When you took a look around and saw your mates lying dead in a pile of their own guts. When it was time to ask yourself why you’d been the one to live.
Thoughts like that could drive you mad. There was no fairness to war. Sure, you could tip the odds in your favour by being the meanest, hardest bastard on the battlefield, but when your time was up that was it. The Lord of Crows wouldn’t give a shit how tough you were, he’d come for you just the same.
Nobul had never believed in any of that religion crap, but he could understand why men did. Especially when every day you were facing a painful end. Thinking there might be something waiting in the hereafter could well make the knowledge you were gonna die that much more bearable. It might keep you going when it all seemed lost. Nobul Jacks didn’t need any of it, though. He had enough to keep him going. He had his hate.
No matter how much pain he was in, no matter what aches ailed him, that hate would keep him going until the end. Until he could swing his hammer no more. Until some Khurta came screaming at him with just enough fury to put him down.
But until then …
Someone was standing beside him breathing heavily. Nobul glanced up to see Dustin looking at him warily. He’d known the lad a while, fought with him over the past weeks, but there was a distance between them now, like Dustin had no idea how to approach Nobul since he’d seen the Black Helm in action. They’d never been the best of friends, never had a long, lingering chat over beers, but some part of Nobul felt sorry about that. He’d never revelled in being feared, but it just seemed to follow him round.
Couldn’t be helped now, though.
‘What?’ he said rising gingerly to his feet, using the wall to help him more than he’d have liked.
‘It’s Kilgar,’ replied Dustin, taking a step back as Nobul stood to full height. ‘He took a spear to the guts in the last assault. They don’t think he’s gonna make it through the day. He’s been asking for you.’
Nobul nodded, gesturing for Dustin to lead the way. There weren’t many people he’d have taken the time to see, to sit by their bedside as they breathed their last, but if he owed anyone in this city then it was probably Kilgar. The one-eyed fucker had taken him into the Greencoats when he’d had nowhere else to go, and he’d saved his life on the wall. Sparing the bastard a few moments at the end was the least Nobul could do.
Dustin led them down to what they were using as a makeshift infirmary – an old storehouse and stables knocked through to make one big building. It was eerily quiet as Nobul walked in, there was no one groaning, no one crying out for the priest. Here and there a Daughter of Arlor was tending to a wounded man with a damp cloth but other than that there was no movement. It was almost peaceful.
Kilgar was in one corner, Bilgot sat next to him. The fat lad looked a bit leaner than he had done last time Nobul saw him. His face was ashen beneath the grime and it was obvious he was about ready to bawl his eyes out.
As Nobul approached, Kilgar waved Bilgot off then held out his hand. Nobul took it, feeling how weak the serjeant’s grip was. He was stripped to the waist, the dressings round his stomach turned red and there was an unmistakable stink of infection.
‘They can’t do nothing for it,’ said Kilgar, seeing that Nobul was looking at his wounded guts. ‘Khurtas cover their weapons in all sorts of shit. If they don’t get you on the battlefield, infection will get you later. This spread bloody quick, though. Must have been some dirty bastard kind of poison.’
‘You comfortable?’ Nobul asked. ‘You need water? Food?’ It seemed only right to ask. He didn’t have anything else to say.
‘No point wasting it on me,’ said Kilgar with a grin. It turned into a grimace and he coughed, spitting a fleck of blood across his cheek. Nobul gripped his hand tighter until the coughing fit had gone.
‘I always knew who you were, you know,’ he said when he’d finally calmed enough to speak. ‘From that first day you were stood in the courtyard of the barracks. I recognised you straight away. The fucking Black Helm. Here to be a Greencoat. I knew you must have been in some kind of shit, or times had gotten bloody hard.’
‘I appreciate you keeping it to yourself,’ said Nobul.
‘Weren’t nobody’s business but yours, I reckoned. I guessed you had your reasons. And why was I gonna argue having the Black Helm as part of my watch? There was no one gonna mess with us. Not with you around.’
Nobul nodded, though he doubted the truth of it. There’d been plenty to mess with him over the past weeks. There’d been a lot of men almost done for him too, but he was still here and they were dead.
‘She came, you know,’ said Kilgar, his one eye drifting to the ceiling.
‘Who?’ asked Nobul.
‘The Red Witch. She stood right where you are now.’
Nobul knew exactly who he was talking about. He’d seen her on the roof of the Chapel of Ghouls a few weeks previous but not known her name then. He’d seen her on the wall too, though he’d given her a wide berth. He wasn’t ashamed to say she frightened the fuck out of him.
‘What did she want with an old warhorse like you?’
Kilgar smiled. ‘Me and her go a long way back. Not many people trust that woman, but for some reason she’s always made me feel safe.’
Nobul had no idea what Kilgar meant by ‘safe’ but he wasn’t about to ask. ‘And what did she say to you?’
Kilgar looked at Nobul then. He fixed him with his one eye and there was some kind of peace in there. ‘She told me I’d done enough.’
Nobul nodded at that. ‘I reckon she’s right.’
For a moment something burned in Kilgar’s eye, something of the old warrior coming back. ‘But you’re not done, Nobul Jacks,’ he said, gripping Nobul’s hand tight. ‘You’re a long way from fucking done.’
Kilgar closed his eye, his hand going slack. Nobul couldn’t say whether the serjeant was dead or passed out, but he placed that hand gently on the bed anyway and took a step back. With nothing left to say he walked out of the makeshift infirmary.
As he made his way back up towards the wall he knew Kilgar was right. The aches and the pains were still there, but Nobul wasn’t done by a damn sight. He’d make sure he didn’t die on no bed either. He was going down in the fight, screaming and roaring and spitting his last breath at the enemy.
When he got back to
the wall he saw a crowd had gathered. Archers were congregated in ranks and the nervous silence told him something was wrong. Nobul ran up the steps, hefting his hammer, expecting the worst. The Khurtas hadn’t attacked in the day yet, but he wouldn’t put it past them to change their tactics.
He squeezed past some of the levies till he made it to the front, looking out between the merlons. Over on the plain, just beyond the range of their arrows, were about a thousand Khurtas. They didn’t look ready to attack, they were just standing there waiting.
As they all watched, a single Khurtic voice rose up as it had done that first night. It was a loud call, something long and nasty in their ugly tongue, answered by a choral groan as the Khurtas fell to one knee, all one thousand of them at once. That voice continued to chant, and the thousand with it answered. They punched themselves in the chest all in unison, changing the tone of their cries as they did so, screaming their lungs out. Nobul could see why some of the lads would be terrified of that, but the Khurtas weren’t moving. They were no danger from this distance.
‘It’s a war salute,’ said a voice at Nobul’s shoulder. He turned to see Bannon Logar standing next to him, his armour more dented and bloody than he’d last seen it but the old man’s eyes were more alive than Nobul remembered. ‘It’s a tribute to one of our warriors.’
‘Which one?’ Nobul asked.
‘You know which one, lad. The Black Helm killed one of their war chiefs. You’ve challenged for the tribe. They’ll be sending their best to test you.’
As if the old man had heralded it, the Khurtas split apart, allowing someone to walk through their midst. At first Nobul thought it might be Amon Tugha himself. The prospect of fighting that Elharim bastard filled him with no particular thrill, but when he could finally see their champion he was even less keen to jump straight into the fight.
The Khurta was bigger than the one he’d killed on the roof of the gatehouse. From this distance his features were hard to pick out but Nobul could still tell he wasn’t pretty. He stood at the front of his thousand and bellowed, just standing there with a war maul over his shoulder, shouting his shit in Khurtic like it might make the walls of Steelhaven crumble.
