The Shattered Crown

NINE

The Lych Gate stood in the far eastern side of Steelhaven’s curtain wall. It was housed in a barbican that rose up forty feet, with two figures carved from the stone that flanked it depicting hooded swordsmen. Who these men were supposed to be, Nobul had no idea, but they looked impressive all right, and none too welcoming.

Amber Watch had been posted to gate duty for two days now. It was an easy detail, and Nobul was getting pretty bored. Northgate was dangerous; no doubt about it, but at least there was something to do of an afternoon. Mind you, it beat getting shit and stones flung at you in the Warehouse District, so he couldn’t really complain.

The Lych Gate was open from sunrise to sunset, allowing traders to come along the Great East Road from Ankavern, bringing their wares for trade. Watching the sporadic procession go in and out of Eastgate market wasn’t Nobul’s idea of a good time. Still, there’d be action soon enough. In a few days it wouldn’t be farmers and fishermen trying to get through these gates, but a horde of angry Khurtas. Nobul was pretty sure he wouldn’t be bored then. He was pretty sure he’d have plenty of things to occupy him. Not getting his head cut off would be chief among them.

A horse and cart rolled up, stopping beneath the massive gate. Nobul stepped forward, nodding at the old geezer sat on its seat, gripping the reins in arthritic fingers. The man didn’t deign to nod back. Nobul took the horse by the bridle, placing a hand on its nose and whispering nothing in particular to keep it calm as Anton checked the cart, for what, Nobul didn’t quite know. Perhaps there could have been Khurtic infiltrators in there, waiting to leap out, all painted and scarred, weapons dripping venom, ready to murder the first person they saw. Maybe Amon Tugha himself was concealed in there, ready to take on the city single-handed.

Anton finished his check and gave Nobul the signal to let the cart through.

Obviously it was just full of turnips.

No sooner had the cart passed through the gate than Hake yelled from up on the barbican. The old man was pointing down the Great East Road.

‘Riders!’ he shouted ‘Bloody loads of ’em. And they look tooled up.’

Nobul stared down the road. He couldn’t see a thing at first, other than an endless roadway heading on down the coast. Perhaps Hake’s eyes weren’t all they should have been. Wouldn’t be the first time the old man had seen something that wasn’t there. But then something did come into view, something flapping on the sea breeze — a pennant.

He was about to grab Anton and rush inside, about to shout for the Lych Gate to be closed when Kilgar joined him, squinting into the distance from his one eye. The first rider was in full view, bronze armour glinting, pennant held high — though they couldn’t yet make out what was depicted on it.

‘What do you think, Lincon?’ said Kilgar still unaware of Nobul’s real name. ‘Trouble or not?’

Nobul couldn’t tell yet, but it was no use taking chances. ‘We should close the gate, ask questions from behind the wall. If they’re friendly they’ll understand. If not, then we won’t be caught with our arses hanging in the breeze.’

Kilgar seemed to agree. ‘Close the gate,’ he barked as they stepped inside. Nobul followed the serjeant up the stone stairs of the barbican to the rampart that looked out on the Great East Road. Hake was still standing there, staring out. Nobul was sure he saw a look of glee on the old man’s face.

‘Happy about something?’ asked Nobul.

Hake’s shoulders moved in a silent laugh and he pointed eastward with a bony finger. ‘Don’t you know who they are?’

Nobul looked out, shielding his eyes against the bright sunlight. Though it was cold, the wind whipping in from the Midral like a breath of ice, the sun was still beating down. From their high vantage point he could see the procession more clearly. The longer he looked, the more pennants came into view and it didn’t take too long before he could make out several hundred riders. He couldn’t count exactly how many, but they were all armoured, helms gleaming, pennants flapping in the breeze.

‘One of the Free Companies?’ Nobul asked.

Hake shook his head. ‘Look at their flags.’ Perhaps the old fella’s eyesight wasn’t so bad after all.

Even as they came closer, Nobul found it difficult to read the pennants with them flapping in the wind, but he could just make out …

‘The Wyvern Guard,’ said Kilgar. Nobul saw a smile creep up one side of the serjeant’s stern mouth. ‘Arlor’s Blood, it’s the frigging Wyvern Guard.’

As they watched the row of horses advance. Nobul wondered where they had come from. Even he knew the legend of the Wyvern Guard, the fabled order of knights who would come to Steelhaven’s aid in its direst need. Well, it was in need now, and no mistake.

Every knight had armour of bronze, a sword at his side, and a shield on his arm emblazoned with the wyvern rising. Their helms were domed, sweeping down at the front over their gorgets. Their armour at shoulder and knee flared out in the shape of a wyvern’s wing and each rider’s horse wore barding in a similar style. One of them stood out from the rest. His helm bore wyvern’s wings and he rode at the head of the column, a huge sword strapped across his back.

Nobul noticed an unexpected figure riding with the knights, a young lad in a brown robe. It almost made him smile to see the boy — he looked so out of his depth riding alongside warriors like these.

Just within the city gates a crowd had gathered, some anxious the barbican had been closed, some just nosey bastards. It didn’t take long for rumour of the Wyvern Guard to spread, and the closer the knights drew to the city walls the bigger the throng got.

‘This could be a problem,’ said Kilgar, looking down at the gathering mob, and he shouted for Dustin and Edric to fetch the High Constable.

By now the head of the column had ridden within the shadow of the Lych Gate. The knight at their head, with his winged helm and huge sword, held up an arm. Almost as one, the column, several hundred strong, came to a halt.

Kilgar looked down uncertainly. He glanced at Nobul, who had no clue what to do. Before the serjeant could say anything the young lad in the brown robe piped up from below.

‘Erm … can you open the gate?’ he called. ‘I think they’ll be expecting us.’

It was almost funny, such a young streak of piss speaking for such an imposing column of warriors.

Kilgar turned to Nobul. ‘Go on then,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Open the bloody gate.’

Nobul hurried down to pull back the wooden bars that held the gate fast. Within the structure of the barbican there was also a portcullis that could be slammed down during siege, but that had not been used in decades. Wouldn’t be long before it would be needed again, he found himself thinking, but the gate was now open, and Nobul was staring at an army of armoured riders, whose leader was looking down at him like shit on his shoe.

Without a word the first knight touched spurs to his steed and the column was on the move once more. As he passed by the young lad in the robe looked down at Nobul and said, ‘Thanks,’ with an embarrassed smile.

It was then Nobul recognised him. Recognised him from weeks ago in the Chapel of Ghouls, remembered it was that young face covered in dust he’d seen when Nobul had looked up from cradling Denny’s body.

Whoever the lad was, he certainly got himself about a bit.

‘Right, let’s clear a path,’ said Kilgar, who had followed Nobul down from the barbican. At that, the lads of Amber Watch began to press ahead through the gathered crowd. Old Hake wasn’t much use, but it was work for which Bilgot was uniquely suited as he barged his fat frame through the city folk, shouldering the gawking onlookers out of the way. Nobul, Anton and Kilgar did their best, but it was still slow going as word spread throughout Eastgate and people flocked to see the fabled Wyvern Guard who had returned to Steelhaven once more.

Amber Watch and the new arrivals had almost got through when there was a commotion coming the other way. The crowd was suddenly bundled from the path and Nobul could see Dustin and Edric alongside the High Constable. He had his own retinue of Greencoats and each of them looked on open-mouthed as they saw the parade of bronze-armoured knights working its way through the city streets.

‘You weren’t lying, were you lads?’ said the High Constable as he looked up at the rider leading the column.

The knight looked down from within his winged helm. Nobul could see his neatly trimmed beard and his intense eyes.

‘I am the Lord Marshal of the Wyvern Guard, here to see the queen,’ he said. And that was all. Again he just sat there looking on expectantly, like he was the Duke of bloody Valdor and they should know to give him the red-carpet treatment.

The High Constable looked up agog, clearly unsure of what to do. ‘Er … an audience with the queen might be difficult at short notice,’ he replied.

‘Trust me, she’ll make time for us,’ said the Lord Marshal, and Nobul had to agree; she just bloody might.

Before the High Constable could find any more excuses, other figures pushed their way through the crowd, this time Sentinels from the palace of Skyhelm. They looked up unsurprised, as though they had been expecting the Wyvern Guard all along.

‘You’ll follow us,’ said the first Sentinel. ‘The palace is-’

‘I know the way, son,’ said the Lord Marshal, touching his spurs to his horse once more.

Nobul stood back, allowing the knights to ride on past him. He didn’t get an accurate count, but there were at least a couple of hundred in the column. Not enough to hold back the Khurtas on their own, but a welcome addition to the city’s defences however you looked at it. He hoped he’d be there to see the looks on those savage bastards’ faces when they realised they were up against the greatest knights in all the known world.

‘Don’t see that every day, do you?’ said Hake, as they watched the last of the riders disappear towards the Crown District, followed by a gaggle of cheering city folk.

Nobul just shook his head.

Later, back at the barracks, having already put his weapon back in the store, Nobul was changing out of his green arming jacket. Kilgar stood there watching him with his one good eye. It was obvious he wanted to speak, maybe wanted Nobul to ask what he was standing there for, but then Nobul had never been one for starting up conversations.

They looked at one another for a moment and Kilgar took a deep breath.

‘Good that they’ve come … the Wyvern Guard, I mean.’

‘Aye, reckon it is,’ Nobul said.

Another pause. Kilgar took another breath.

‘It’s coming, you know. It’ll be like the Gate all over again. The piss and the blood. The crying and the screaming. You reckon you’re up for it?’

Nobul nodded, though he reckoned this time it might well be worse. At Bakhaus Gate they could have retreated, but here they only had the sea at their back. He could swim well enough, but doubted he’d make it to all the way Dravhistan in one go.

‘We’ll weather it,’ Nobul said. ‘We’ve done it before.’

‘Aye that we have. And lived to tell the tale.’

Another pause, but this time Kilgar walked forward, leaning in like he didn’t want no one else to hear, even though there was no one else there.

‘It wasn’t your fault you know,’ said Kilgar. ‘It could have happened to any one of us. Any one of us could have been there that night. Any one of us could have ended up dying in that place.’

‘I know,’ said Nobul, not too sure this was a conversation he wanted to be having.

‘Denny thought a lot of you. He’d have been glad you were there … at the end.’

That one stung. Nobul didn’t believe Denny would have thanked him after leaving the lad to fall to his death. But what was he supposed to say? Was he supposed to open his mouth to Kilgar and tell him the facts? That Denny had been the one who shot his boy? That he’d wanted to punish the little fucker, and when he got his opportunity he’d let him drop from that ledge on purpose?

They said unloading your sorrows on someone else was meant to help. Nobul wasn’t convinced. Either way, he had nothing to say he wanted Kilgar to hear. He felt guilty all right, but he reckoned it was his guilt to bear, and bear it he would.

Before he had to make up some reply, Anton walked in. Dolorous as always he regarded the pair of them for a moment then began pulling off his jacket and helm.

‘Just think on,’ said Kilgar, patting Nobul’s shoulder with his one remaining arm. ‘If you want to talk about it, you know where I am.’

Hells, if Kilgar still had both eyes he’d most likely have given a wink too. Nobul wasn’t too sure he liked this side of Kilgar. He’d preferred him when he was hard as stone, a serjeant to be feared. Not acting the priest and confessor.

Kilgar left, and Nobul hung back, giving the serjeant enough time to clear the barracks before he made to follow. By that time Anton had finished with his gear and was leaving too. They walked out side by side, and Anton looked up and smiled. Now that was new. Nobul had never seen so much as a twitch on the lad’s lips since the day he’d started with the Greencoats.

Was everybody going fucking mad?

‘Er … fancy a beer, Lincon?’ Anton said.

This was all he needed. It seemed half of Amber Watch was keen to sit down and have a long chat with him about the great cycle of life.

‘No thanks,’ he replied.

Anton looked downcast, became his usual miserable self. Which only made Nobul feel worse. This was supposed to be his mucker, his comrade-in-arms and he couldn’t even be bothered to go for a beer with the lad.

What a twat you are, Nobul Jacks.

‘Well, all right then. Maybe just the one.’ He’d said it before he could stop himself. But what was the harm? It had been months since he’d been for a drink. Months since he’d just sat back and relaxed. Maybe it was about time. Maybe he even deserved it. In a few days he wouldn’t have the chance to do much of anything but fight. Best grab the laughs while you could.

‘I know just the place,’ Anton said, brightening once more. It was a side of the lad Nobul hadn’t seen. It was certainly better than the side to Kilgar he hadn’t seen — all caring and touchy feely like.

They made their way up through Northgate, past the dilapidated houses, up through the cold streets, the muddy ground frozen almost to stone. It wasn’t a bad time of year to walk through Northgate, if any time could be considered good. At least the cold of winter hid the human stink.

The further they went the more Nobul began to wonder if Anton knew where in the hells he was going.

‘Sure this is the right way?’ he asked.

‘Oh, it’s not far, Nobul,’ he said. ‘Just down here.’

‘All right. If you say so.’

Anton led them down an alley but it didn’t look like a decent spot for no alehouse. In fact it didn’t look a decent spot for much of anything, but who was Nobul to complain. It wasn’t like Anton was one of the rougher lads. It wasn’t like he’d be leading them into some cut-throat shit hole.

As Nobul thought that, he frowned, suddenly realising what had just been said between them. Anton had called him ‘Nobul’.

And he’d answered to it.

Before he could speak something hard hit him on the back of the head. It fuzzed his vision and dropped him to one knee, but it didn’t put him out.

‘Hit him again,’ someone said, panicked, desperate that they hadn’t knocked him unconscious.

Nobul spun around, dizzy, stumbling, seeing the club come down again. He just managed to raise an arm, felt an impact, grunted against the pain. More feet clattered towards him across the hard earth and he knew he didn’t have much time. He reared forward, butting the club wielder and knocking him back but that made Nobul stumble again and by the time he’d righted himself someone had shoved a sack over his head.

They pulled on it, dragging him, tightening the sack round his neck.

‘Fucking hit him!’ screamed another voice more frantic than the first.

Nobul backed up, shoving against whoever held the sack, trying to smash him against a wall, but he lost his footing. Something hit him in the shoulder, a plank of wood, another club maybe. He growled, getting his mad up, ready for the next blow. When it came he lashed out, feeling his foot hit someone who squealed. He grabbed at the sack trying to get it off.

‘Fucking help me!’ someone cried from behind. ‘He’s strong as a fucking ox!’

Nobul’s hand grasped a wrist, dragging it forward. The sack loosened about his neck as he pulled someone in front of him, punching out twice, feeling the impact against his fist, hearing a pained wheeze from someone’s lungs.

Before he could finally drag the sack off something hit him again, bang across his skull, driving him to the ground.

Last thing he heard was the sound of blows smashing in, pummelling him to …