Herald of the Storm

THIRTY-FIVE

The Promenade of Kings was lined with more people than Nobul had ever seen in one place. There were thousands: men and women, children and elders. Rich standing next to poor, warriors next to priests. But despite that mass of people, the air was eerily silent.

Even the dark clouds billowing overhead seemed to be waiting — observing the vigil kept within the city, waiting until the old man had been brought by before unleashing their deluge on the filthy streets below.

Nobul was part of the Greencoat detail posted to control the crowd, but he couldn’t see as how they’d be needed. There might be plenty of tears, but Nobul couldn’t see any sign that there’d be trouble.

They were all there, standing in a row: Kilgar and Denny, Anton, Dustin, Edric, Hake. Hells, even Bilgot was there, waiting in solemn silence, all the piss and bluster gone out of him. It was like there was something in the air, something that had leeched the spirit from every man, woman and dog in the streets.

But it wasn’t every day a city buried its king.

There was a murmur from the crowd. Heads turned, necks stretching to see what was going on. From the front, Nobul could see that the main gate to the promenade had been opened. It wouldn’t be long now.

‘This is a shit business,’ Denny murmured beside him. ‘What the fuck are we gonna do now?’

‘Well,’ Nobul said, trying his best to keep his voice down. ‘We’re gonna stand right here and be all upstanding and respectful as they bring the king past.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

No, Nobul knew exactly what Denny meant, but he didn’t have an answer for him. What were they going to do now they had no king? Cael Mastragall had been the Uniter. He’d brought the Free States together, taken warring provinces and made them a kingdom. Who was going to hold that together now — his daughter? A girl barely old enough to marry? Nobul doubted she’d be much in the way of a strong ruler. Not with the devious bastards that ruled the other provinces vying for their slice of power. She’d be lucky to survive the year.

That wasn’t Nobul’s problem. What he was more concerned with was what the Khurtas might do next. Was he worried though? Did he even give a shit if they came right up to the walls, banging their war drums?

Did he fuck.

It might be his chance to get back to the old days. There’d be no choice then. Yes, he’d most likely get himself killed this time, but what a death he’d have. And he’d make sure he took plenty of those savage bastards with him.

He could see the procession now — armoured knights on two massive destriers leading the way, followed by a palanquin. Nobul couldn’t quite see yet, but he guessed the king was laid out on it, most likely clutching his sword to his chest like every king before him.

The promenade was lined with statues of old kings dead and gone, watching as the latest of their number was carried past. There were too many to count, the promenade leading off further than the eye could see. How many of them had been carried along displayed in all their glory like Cael?

It was a better send off than Nobul would ever get, but then again — dead was dead. He glanced at the crowd, looking at their mournful faces, and wondered if they even knew why they were weeping. Were they sorry for the king they loved, or sorry for themselves — under threat from a foreign horde and with no one left to lead them against it?

King Cael had certainly been loved, but Nobul couldn’t help but wonder if the old man truly deserved it. Nobul had served under him on campaign, seen first hand how ruthless the old bastard could be. At Bakhaus Gate they’d managed to win because they were as much afraid of the king and his strict discipline as they were of the enemy. Nobul had seen one man flogged to death for thieving. He could barely bring himself to remember what they’d done to the two lads caught raping.

It came with the territory, though. Cael had to be a ruthless bastard. Without him the Aeslanti would have run rampant and turned the Free States into a slave nation. As much as Nobul had hated him at the time, he knew they had much to thank Cael for.

‘Here he comes,’ said Denny out of the side of his mouth.

Kilgar leaned over. ‘Another word from you and there’ll be a boot up your arse, boy.’

Denny clamped his jaw shut.

Nobul watched as those white destriers got closer. The Knights of the Blood astride them had done their best to polish their armour and barding, but there was no mistaking men fresh from battle. The red tabards they wore were ripped and bloodstained, the matching flags tattered and torn. One of them had a dented greathelm, the other looked like someone had taken to his spaulder and vambrace with a hammer.

People were weeping openly now, young girls and old men joined in grief. Nobul had to admit it moved him a bit, but he had no tears left. He hadn’t shed any for his son, and he wasn’t about to shed any for an old bastard he’d never even spoke to.

‘Steady, lads,’ said Kilgar, and Nobul wondered if there was about to be trouble when he noticed Hake and Anton. Both of them were weeping like girls. Well, let them have their grief. Nobul had done plenty of weeping in his time, though none of it recent. He’d wept for dead friends, for a dead wife; hells, he’d even wept for himself from time to time. If a man wanted to cry then let him. Anyone who’d ever seen battle knew there was no great shame in it.

The knights had passed them now, their horses shying and skittish, surrounded as they were by the huge crowd. Nobul could see the palanquin and the men that carried it. The knights on horseback had looked battered, but these men looked as though they had been to the hells and back. It wasn’t just the dishevelled state of their armour; Nobul could easily recognise the faces of men haunted by war.

But then who better to carry their king to his final interment? Who better than men who had fought beside him, suffered with him, bled with him. If Nobul was ever to be conveyed to his final rest he would hope it would be by men such as this.

As for the king, he looked more magnificent than ever, lying in his shining armour of office, the ancient sword, the fabled Helsbayn, clutched to his body, his steel crown firmly affixed to his head.

Suddenly one of the soldiers stumbled, fatigue taking his legs away, and he almost fell. The palanquin tipped, the king’s body almost toppling off as the crowd breathed out in horror. Before he could think, Nobul was moving, striding forward to take the palanquin’s weight from the man and righting it once more.

For a moment Nobul locked eyes with the young soldier and he saw something there he hadn’t seen for a long time. It was emptiness, a void that only the true horror of battle could bring, and they shared that look for just an instant.

Nobul nodded to him, taking the weight of the palanquin on his shoulder and allowing the man some respite. He deserved more, but it was all Nobul could give him. Before he knew it they were moving on once more, the relentless momentum of the procession urging the palanquin onwards. Nobul had no time to think, he just moved on, taking the weight on his shoulder and carrying the king to his final resting place, whether he was worthy of the honour or not.

Honour? Was it an honour to carry such a man? Nobul knew he wasn’t in a position to judge anyone. The deeds he’d done in his life were no better or worse than those of King Cael Mastragall. As for being worthy? He’d served under Cael’s command back in the day. Nobul reckoned he was as worthy as any.

As they moved forward, Nobul could smell the other men, their stink permeating the air. Any man who’d spent weeks on campaign started to smell all kinds of awful, but there was another smell beneath the dirt and grime and sweat. It was the stink of rot, of festering wounds gone too long untended, the hollow, putrid stench of teeth gone too long uncared for and feet with too many open sores.

It brought back memories Nobul would rather have left forgot. On the way back from Bakhaus Gate as many men had died from the cold and hunger as had died in battle and he’d almost been one of them. He knew what these men were going through, and it filled him with deep sadness. It wasn’t the death of the king people should have been mourning; it was the thousands of others left by the roadside to go unburied. It was the young lads, shivering in their own shit and crying for their mothers. Bright-faced young men who’d marched off to war with the promise of victory and glory only to find their end in a lonely field, far from home.

But then life wasn’t ever fair, was it?

The vast Sepulchre of Crowns came into view up ahead. Nobul could see the huge building just past the destriers trotting in front of him. It was an ancient mausoleum, housing the coffins of a hundred dead kings and queens. Since half the kings had worshipped the Old Gods and the other half Arlor and Vorena, it wasn’t seen as right that the funeral rites for Steelhaven’s rulers should take place in the Temple of Autumn. So the Sepulchre of Crowns was where they were all laid to rest, under the watchful eye of gods old and new. Nobul wondered whether Arlor and the Lord of Crows were even now arguing over who got to take the old bastard to the hells.

A vast stairway led up to the doors of the Sepulchre, and the lads carrying the front of the palanquin lowered it so as the king didn’t slide right off the back. In front, the horses took the stairs like they were practised, their footing sure on the wide stone steps. Nobul began to feel the strain as they made their way up, but if none of these lads was about to complain then he wasn’t neither. Waiting at the top were representatives from the Temple of Autumn: Shieldmaidens bearing their weapons and arms proudly, alongside white-clad priestesses whose heads were shrouded in respect. They led the way through vast double doors rising almost twenty feet.

Inside, the Sepulchre of Crowns was a magnificent sight. Vast columns rose up to a massive glass ceiling, covered in multicoloured panes that painted everything inside with a differing hue. Lining the walls were friezes hewn from marble and statues depicting every king and queen of Steelhaven, marking their final resting place. For a second Nobul almost forgot the reason he was there, almost forgot the burden he still carried on his shoulder.

As they reached the altar at the end of the long paved aisle, Nobul and the bearers heaved the palanquin from their shoulders, and laid their king before it. Nobul became aware of the rest of the congregation, ‘the great and the good’ of the Free States, and suddenly felt out of place.

The dark-skinned regent, Odaka Du’ur, looked on, his face a stern mask. He had been the king’s adviser; they had shed blood together. Nobul knew well how that could bond one man to another. Beside Odaka Du’ur stood many others, dressed in their robes of state; most of them Nobul wouldn’t have recognised if he fell over them in the street. Only one stood out, and this despite her diminutive size and the modest black gown she wore.

Princess Janessa held herself erect with a grim expression that sat oddly on her pretty face. Nobul could see she was holding back tears, trying to do her duty as she watched them present her father.

Nobul suddenly felt guilty for all the things he’d thought about the old man. Yes he’d been a bastard and sent many a man to his grave, but who could say Nobul Jacks would have done any different if he’d been in Cael’s boots?

He began to feel he’d outstayed his welcome. People were here to mourn, to show their respects and send their king off to the hells or the Halls of Arlor or whatever it was they believed. Nobul was only here because he’d wanted to help some poor lad. Nobul shifted to the back of the Sepulchre, and before they could close the massive doors, he managed to slip outside.

Once the doors had slammed shut behind him, he could only feel relief, sucking in a big gulp of air as the first of the rainfall spattered down around him.

A while later, when the men and women of King Cael’s court had listened to the words of priests and mumbled their prayers, it was the turn of the common folk to say their goodbyes to their king. None of them seemed to mind queuing in the rain, and most of them were drenched by the time they got to enter the Sepulchre.

Nobul stood alongside the rest of the lads, watching as the king’s subjects filed past to see him in state, to lay a flower or two and shed a tear over him. It seemed the whole city had been moved to grief, but Nobul didn’t feel like joining in. If the Khurtas came there’d be plenty of tears to shed soon enough. Wasn’t worth shedding them now over one old man.

‘Makes you think, doesn’t it?’ said Denny.

‘What does?’ Nobul replied.

‘All these people come to cry over one man. Makes you wonder what it might be like when you die.’

‘Not really.’

‘I mean, my old ma will probably come, if I die first. I haven’t got no kids, no wife. What if I never get married? I don’t fancy dying alone.’

‘We all die alone, Denny. Ain’t no one can do it for you.’

They stood for a while longer. As the day wore on the crowd thinned. Once the streets were nearly empty there was no need for Amber Watch to be standing around any longer.

As they made their way back to the barracks, Denny walked beside Nobul, and it was obvious something was troubling him.

‘You’re a veteran of Bakhaus Gate. You’ve killed people before, haven’t you?’ he said finally.

Nobul felt a stiffness in his neck. It was a question that he was not going to answer. If he told Denny ‘no’ it’d be an obvious lie, and if he said ‘yes’ it would only lead to more unwanted questions.

‘I killed someone once,’ Denny said, before Nobul could think of a reply. ‘Weren’t no criminal neither, just a bystander in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

Now that Nobul had not been expecting.

He looked at Denny, and he could tell the lad was uncomfortable.

‘It were an accident … Kilgar and the lads know, but I haven’t told no one else. You won’t tell no one, will you, Lincon?’

Nobul shook his head. He’d killed enough times, and spoken to enough men who’d killed, to know what a bastard it could be to live with. Some handled it better than others, but he imagined Denny of all people wasn’t suited to it.

‘Thanks. I know I can rely on you, mate. I trust you.’

‘We’ve all done things we’re not proud of, lad,’ Nobul said. Gods knew he was testament to that.

‘Yeah … It lives with you though, doesn’t it? Stays with you. Nights are the worst.’ Isn’t that the truth. ‘I can still see him lying there, eyes all dead and glassy, covered in blood. I shot him, see. We was trying to catch a killer, thought we had him too, cornered on a rooftop, and then all the hells happened at once. My crossbow just went off, and when it had all calmed down there was this lad, lying on the roof, stuck with the bolt and bleeding to death.’

Nobul clenched his fists.

Denny had been the one that killed his fucking boy.

‘Anyway, I should shut up. Best not to dwell on things.’

With that Denny walked on, locked in his own thoughts.

Nobul’s fists were clenched so tight his nails almost broke the skin, but he just watched as Denny walked away. Watched as the bloke that killed his boy showed his back to him.

And Nobul didn’t do a thing.