Lord of Ashes

ELEVEN

To left and right were men stricken with fear. Someone further down the line had pissed himself and Nobul watched as it trickled past his boot in a steaming river. Whoever it was must have had a bladder like a horse.

Nobul gripped the hammer tight, not that it made him feel any better. His heart was thumping fast and hard, seemingly in time to the beat of the Khurtic drums. He looked down at those bastards, come all this way to rape and murder. They were a seething mass of ferocity, their screams thrown forward with more violence than a clenched fist. Nobul stared it down as best he could. He’d been here before, faced worse enemies, and he was still breathing. But then he was the Black Helm — he was fucking invincible.

But are you? Are you the Black Helm or just broken old Nobul Jacks?

Maybe there’d be someone out there who’d stop him. Someone hard enough, someone who was iron and steel and could bring him down. The thought made him scan the horde as they raged, trying to spot their biggest and best. He willed them to charge, desperate for them to stop their howling, impatient for the fight to start.

And then the Khurtas fell silent.

The air was filled with a calm deathlier than anything Nobul had ever felt. His skin rose in bumps and it didn’t matter how hard he gripped that hammer, he couldn’t stop the fear and doubt creeping into his heart.

A single voice suddenly rose from the mass of bodies, holding those Khurtas in its grip like it was holding back time itself. Though he couldn’t understand the words, Nobul knew it chanted a litany of hate and he wanted them to attack now more than ever. He was ready for them, despite the fear, and he would match whatever fierceness they could bring with violence of his own.

The voice ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and from out of the black night air came a thousand whispers that rose into a howl. ‘Take cover,’ someone screamed, and Nobul had the presence of mind to duck his head behind one of the merlons as a massive volley of arrows fell on the curtain wall. More screams carried along the battlements as those not quick enough were struck by the black shafts. A lad fell silent at Nobul’s feet, an arrow buried in his eye and another through his cheek. He’d been standing there all day but not once had Nobul bothered to ask his name. Bit too late now.

More silence fell after the huge volley, and Nobul glanced over the wall to see if the Khurtas were on the way. If he’d been a godly man he would have said his prayers right then as he saw, not more arrows, but huge fucking rocks flying at the wall, one right towards where he was standing.

‘Out the bloody way,’ he shouted, diving aside as the rock struck, smashing the merlon he’d been peering over a moment before. It shattered, spraying shards in all directions as Nobul went sprawling, hammer spilling from his grip. He shook his head, dust and grit spilling from him, and hauled himself up, breath coming hard. His hand scrabbled through the rubble, desperate to find his hammer, and he felt a stab of cold relief when his fingers found the handle.

As he pulled himself to his feet he heard a shout from down the line, ‘Here they bloody come. Give it to ’em, lads!’

A row of archers moved forward, one struggling to push past Nobul’s bulk. Their serjeant gave the order to nock and draw but his voice was drowned out by the deafening noise rising up from below the curtain wall. As one, the Khurtas howled their fury to the night sky as they charged forward.

Myriad arrows cut the air as the archers fired down into the charging horde but it was like throwing snowballs at the sun. There was nothing that would stop the mass of savages reaching the wall.

Nobul girded himself. This was what he’d been waiting for. Yearning for. A chance to fight, and maybe die, facing his enemies. But there was something else, a seed of doubt nestled in the back of his mind.

You’re an old bastard now, and no mistake. This ain’t like it was at Bakhaus when you were strong and full of spunk. Who’s to say you’re not just a dried-up old man with nothing but memories of old glories to fuel him?

Ladders began to clatter against the wall. Archers kept firing down; one lad leaned over with a block of masonry raised high over his head and got an arrow in the throat for his trouble.

With a noisy clack, a ladder came smashing against the wall, right where that rock had made a gap in the masonry. Nobul stood gawping at it. There was a young lad to his left staring too, unsure of what to do, but Nobul was fucked if he knew what to tell him. There were no rules for this kind of shitty business. When the enemy came you fought or you fucking died. Those were rules enough.

Further down the wall came the sound of screaming, of metal ringing on metal as the first of the Khurtas reached the top of their ladders. Nobul paid it no mind, keeping his eyes fixed on the top of that ladder in front of him.

From below came a booming sound that rocked the wall. Battering ram, most likely, but that weren’t none of Nobul’s concern either. Another boom, and Nobul tightened his grip on the hammer.

Hold your nerve, you old bastard. You’ll find out soon enough if you’ve still got it in you. And if not you won’t be around long enough to give a shit.

A hand reached up over the wall, then a face came into view, all carved up like a butcher’s block and painted for war. It stared with hate and lust and violence, and Nobul stared back. But he didn’t move.

Because you’re all dried up, Nobul Jacks. You’re all twisted inside with fear and regret and you’re gonna die here on this wall with a gutful of Khurtic iron.

The lad at the side of him screamed, rushing forward and lifting his blade high. He wasn’t quick enough with the swing, though, as the Khurta pulled himself on top of the battlement and leapt forward, curved blade sinking into the lad’s chest as Nobul stared on.

That’s it, just fucking stand there. Watch while everyone around you gets slaughtered. Do nothing to help, like you did nothing for your boy. Like you could do nothing for Rona. Just stand there and fucking die.

As the lad fell without a sound, the Khurta looked around for his next enemy, bloodlust in his face, battle frenzy upon him. Nobul watched as the Khurta locked eyes with him. Just stood with that hammer in his hand and waited for his reckoning.

The Khurta howled, racing forward, sword raised high. Nobul’s hammer smashed a crater in his cheek, silencing his war cry and sending blood and bone and teeth and hair spraying in a filthy explosion. The impact jolted Nobul’s fist, up through his arm right to the shoulder. It hurt — an old familiar pain that sparked an old familiar lust.

More Khurtas climbed up over the lip of the wall, eyes flushed with the need for death and killing. They had come a long way for murder. Who was Nobul Jacks to deny it them?

He stepped forward, taking the fight to the enemy, meeting an axe swung at his midriff. His hammer smashed the axe aside as though it were kindling, breaking the haft, carrying on through, ramming into the chest of the first savage. The Khurta’s face was a picture, all wide-eyed disbelief as his sternum shattered and he was thrown back, the wind blown from his lungs.

Nobul didn’t wait to gloat, hearing a scream from his left as another of the bastards charged in, big old sword raised high above his head. As the blade came down Nobul spun. He felt the weapon cut the air behind him as he brought his hammer around in an arc, smashing the Khurta square in the side of his head. His enemy’s scream was cut short as he was battered aside, and this time Nobul couldn’t help but see the mirth in it. The bastard had travelled miles, come far from his homeland for a shot at bringing this city to its knees, and there he was, dead, with a last scream of fury wasted on his lips.

As he looked down at that body, Nobul realised he was smiling behind his helm. His lips were pulled right back — so far they almost hurt — and his teeth ground together in a rictus grin of triumph.

You see! You’ve been waiting for this. It’s who you are. There’s no denying you’re an evil bastard. Make no mistake, you’ll most likely die here, but by the hells there’ll be blood aplenty before you …

His helmet clanged as it was struck. The noise rang in his ears like a temple bell and he didn’t even realise he was falling until he hit the stone walkway. The blow had turned his helm and he couldn’t see. On the way down he dropped his hammer, and as he tried to rise he desperately felt around for it, but it was nowhere near.

With a growl of anger Nobul wrenched the helm from his head, any moment expecting to be stuck with a serrated blade. He turned in time to see two Khurtas bearing down on him, one fat at the middle, the other wiry and old, both covered in filth and smelling of death. They were waiting for him to see them. Waiting for him to turn and look in their eyes and see what they were bringing — to see the murder they were about to do, to feed off his fear.

Nobul would be fucked if he’d give it to them.

He stared back, defiant despite being unarmed and flat on his arse. The fat Khurta carried a maul, most likely what he’d just used to rap around Nobul’s head. The other held a spear, its head all serrated so that pulling it out would make even more of a mess than sticking it in.

‘Come on, bastards!’ Nobul screamed above the din of battle.

The smaller Khurta drew back his spear, ready to strike. A blade flashed out of the night, cutting into his shoulder, shattering the clavicle and coming to rest near the nipple. The Khurta dropped his spear and fell, taking the sword with him as his companion spun, raising his maul. Though Nobul’s saviour had lost his weapon he didn’t stop, rushing forward with a head-butt that rocked the Khurta back. Another butt of the head and the fat Khurta went reeling over the lip of the battlement, screaming as he fell the hundred feet to his death.

As the man stooped to pull his blade from the Khurtic corpse, Nobul recognised who it was through the gloom. Kilgar turned, his one eye staring down at Nobul, blood flecking his cheek.

‘Bit rusty, lad?’ he said, half a grin crossing his face.

‘Looks like it,’ replied Nobul, grasping his hammer and helm and pulling himself to his feet.

Before he could speak a word of thanks a noise rose up above the din of battle to the western side of the wall. Where the magisters had placed themselves to defend that section a mass of foliage had risen from below. It carried a horde of Khurtas with it, branches writhing forward to attack the robed magickers as they vainly tried to defend the city.

No words were exchanged as Kilgar and Nobul raced along the rampart. But then nothing needed to be said.

As he rushed headlong to face whatever sorcery the Khurtas had conjured, Nobul felt his stomach churn. He would happily fight any man or beast, but this was an enemy of a different kind. He’d never liked the notion of magick. Back in that arena days ago he’d seen it first hand, and it had terrified him from his throat to his balls.

But he’d beaten his fear back then. As he tightened his grip on the hammer in his fist he knew he’d be certain to beat it back now.