Lord of Ashes

FORTY-NINE

‘Hake?’ he shouted, his voice echoing around the battlefield above the distant sound of fighting, of snarling beasts, of dying men. ‘Where are you?’ Nobul could hear a hint of desperation in his own voice, but he’d lost Hake in the confusion of battle. He hadn’t wanted to admit it until now but he needed that old man.

There was no one else left alive at the breach — they’d run or died. When those monsters had come from the dark the rout had been complete. Only Nobul was left standing, but where in the hells was bloody Hake?

He stumbled down from the smashed barricade, feeling his shoulder and knee and back jarring with every step. His clothes were sodden but thank fuck the rain had stopped. The sun was rising over the wall but there was still barely any light down in the shadows.

Nobul gritted his teeth against the pain.

Not yet. Don’t give in to it yet, you’re not finished. Not by a long way. There’s more to be done, more killing to be had before you fall, Nobul Jacks.

The hammer was heavy in his hand. So heavy he could have happily let go of it, let it drop to the ground and never picked it up again. His breath came thick and laboured, casting a mist into the damp dawn air.

Or maybe you are finished. Maybe it’s time to lie down in the mud and the rubble and call it a day.

A Khurta came screaming at him through the breach, just like his brethren had come before him. This one didn’t have a face twisted with rage, though — this one had a face marred with terror, like it was running from the hells. Still Nobul raised his arm to attack and tensed, planting his feet, swinging that hammer again. The impact rang through his every fibre as he almost took the bastard’s head off, silencing his scream of fear.

The body fell in a crumpled heap as Nobul staggered back.

‘Hake?’ he shouted again.

Hake didn’t come.

Someone else did.

They came walking through that gap in the wall all slow and measured. Not screaming like maddened killers, but stalking like hunters. The Khurtas gave him a wide berth, moving round him like he’d kill them if they got too close. And he would, he’d kill them like he killed all the rest.

He should have rushed one of them, not given them the chance to get him enclosed, but Nobul was tired. Oh so tired. The time for rushing had passed. Let them come to him; he’d show them he was no wounded animal ready for the slaughter.

There were six in all, each pair of eyes staring at him intently, every weapon held at the ready. They stopped and glared through the cold as the last of them walked through the breach. His weapons weren’t drawn, sword and axe hung loose at his sides, hands resting on them. He stood there for a while, eyeing Nobul with interest … respect even.

The helmet felt heavy on his head now, weighing him down like he’d forged it from a block of granite, not black iron. Nobul lifted it from his head and let it drop to the ground with a dull clank. Let them look at his face — his beaten, bloody face. Let them see his eyes. That would let them know, without a word, what they were about to get into.

Nobul squeezed the handle of his hammer one last time, taking solace in it. Then the leader spoke a word in their filthy alien language and they were at him.

He picked his target. They were rushing him as one and they’d most likely take him down, but he’d at least drag one of them along to the hells. They didn’t make a sound as they came, which was more unnerving than if they’d come screaming, but Nobul was past being unnerved.

He swung at the one straight in front, but the bastard planted his foot, halting his attack and leaning back from the swing. Nobul cursed, expecting to feel the impact of a blade, the pain of his flesh splitting, but it didn’t come. Instead two Khurtas bowled into him, knocking him off balance, and they all went down into the rubble. One of them had hold of his arm, another around his neck. His hammer arm was free, though, which was all he needed.

He planted his knee on a Khurta’s neck, slamming his hammer down. It crumpled the side of the Khurta’s skull and he went limp. They were shouting now in their weird tongue, as though coordinating their attack. The five of them jumped on him at once and he writhed, shrugging two of them off. His other hand got free and he grasped one by the throat, squeezing for all his might. Nobul roared, raising his hammer, but something snared his wrist, tightening. A rope. One of the Khurtas was on the other end of it, pulling for all he was worth. Nobul snarled in pain but he couldn’t hold onto his hammer. As it dropped from his grip he grasped the rope instead and pulled, dragging the Khurta towards him a pace.

‘Come on, bastards!’ he screamed, lifting the Khurta he held by the throat. The man struggled in the air for a moment before Nobul slammed him down head first amongst the rubble, cracking his skull.

‘I’ll kill all you fuckers!’

They were on him again.

He butted one of them, shattering his nose, but this Khurta was determined enough to keep hold.

They all breathed heavily, locked in a wrestling match, four on one. Nobul staggered, feeling his strength ebb. One of them could easily have pulled a blade, stuck it in his ribs and ended all of this, but they didn’t.

Under their weight Nobul fell to his knees. His breath came in strangled gasps and in front he could see the Khurta with the sword and axe, walking all casual, watching on like this was sport for him.

‘Bastards! Fucking bastards,’ screamed Nobul, his voice hoarse as he tried to spit his defiance.

A rope came over his head, not quite reaching his neck, and he caught it in his teeth, biting down, growling like an animal. More ropes were flung about him, securing his arms, and he could feel them binding his hands behind.

Nobul bit down on that rope, still roaring from his throat. Screaming at that lone Khurta as he stood watching, a smile slowly creeping up his face.

He stepped forward as more rope was tied around Nobul’s beaten body. Then he spoke — words that were soft and slow for a Khurta. Words that spoke Nobul’s defeat louder than the roar of battle or the feel of a knife to the throat.

Then black.