The Shattered Crown

FIFTY-FOUR

The song of steel was not a pretty tune. But Nobul Jacks played it regardless, played it like he never had before.

It had fast become obvious he would never be able to achieve what he wanted alone, so two forges and their smiths had been requisitioned by the Greencoats to help him craft armour for the Zatani. It felt strange to be back in the Trades Quarter, back at his old job, but it was also somehow liberating. No longer did he feel constrained by lack of coin or pressure from the Guild. For the first time in what seemed like an age he was able to take pleasure in his work, revelling in the sound of hammer on steel, the smell of white hot metal, the bright flash of spark on anvil.

This was what he was born to do: to craft mighty armour with nothing but the keenness of his eye and the strength in his arm. To create and fashion and hone, rather than destroy.

But Nobul knew there would be destruction enough to come. There would be carnage and, gods willing, he would be in the middle of it. Not that the will of the gods mattered a shit. They wouldn’t help him, or this city. The only thing that would save Steelhaven was a dirty bloody fight to the death. And Nobul Jacks knew how to do that all right.

Sweat poured off him as he went at it in the little forge. The fire burned white and he was stripped to the waist, enjoying the feeling of strength returning to muscles that had for too long been allowed to go soft. As he paused, reaching for a jug of tepid water to slake his thirst, he heard a commotion outside.

Laying his hammer down on the anvil, Nobul opened the door, letting the chill from outside cool his moist flesh. The noise was like an urgent hum, and Nobul watched as a gathering crowd hurried northwards up the street.

He stepped out, not bothering to put on a shirt, feeling the welcome winter cold on his skin. An old man, stick rattling on the cobbles, shuffled past him as fast as he could.

‘What’s happening, old fella?’ asked Nobul, grabbing him by the sleeve of his jacket. It was a stupid question. Nobul already knew what was going on. It could only be one thing.

‘The Khurtas,’ said the old man. ‘They’re bloody here!’

With surprising strength he pulled his sleeve free of Nobul’s grip and hobbled off up the street.

Nobul Jacks smiled, his mouth widening into a grin. They had arrived, at last.

He grabbed his shirt and pulled it on, feeling the moist cotton stick to his flesh. Swinging the door to the forge shut behind him he moved off northwards with the thronging mass of city folk.

It was an odd feeling, moving along with the crowd of bodies, seeing the concern and fear on their faces where he was just expectant … excited even. This was what he’d waited for. This was his time.

Nobul reached Fernella’s house and paused for a moment outside. He had butterflies, like a child waiting to receive their solstice gifts. As he banged on the door he could hardly contain himself.

When Fernella opened it she had what he’d come for already waiting for him by the door.

‘Knew you’d be coming,’ she said. ‘Knew what you’d be coming for as well.’ Nobul didn’t answer, just looked at that box. ‘Take it then, lad. I’m not standing here with it all day.’

He reached out and picked it up, feeling the weight of it in his arms.

‘I appreciate it,’ he said.

‘No need for that. You just look after yourself,’ she replied.

This might be the last time they ever saw each other, and maybe he should have thought of something nice to say. Nothing came to mind.

As he turned, he heard her shut the door behind him.

The walk back to the forge was quick, but would have been quicker if he hadn’t been moving against the crowds. People shoved past in their eagerness and fear, but Nobul barely noticed. Once he’d reached the forge he laid the wooden box down on a table that stood against one wall. Then he took a step back.

This was it. Open up the box and there’s no going back. Once he had its contents in his grip he knew the old days would be back again — and the old Nobul Jacks.

Was that what he wanted? Those days of blood and slaughter he’d tried for so many years to leave behind him?

But they weren’t behind you, were they, Nobul Jacks? They were never behind you. The old Nobul Jacks has always been here, sleeping maybe, but he’s woken a few times in recent weeks and plenty of people are dead because of it.

As he reached out to open the clasp of the box, he noticed his hand was trembling. He gritted his teeth, flicked the clasp and opened the lid. It was stiff on its hinges, but then it would be after all these years. The contents were still there though, wrapped in a black rag.

Nobul reached inside, grasping the haft and pulling it out, then he unwrapped the rag and let it drop to the ground.

He stared at the hammer. Hefted its weight. Was reassured by the feel of his palm on the leather grip. Admired the carven head, the relief pattern resembling interlocking chains. And he remembered.

Remembered Bakhaus Gate. Remembered the Aeslanti running at him, roaring for all they were worth. He remembered the feel of solid impact, the blood, the dead. He remembered that roar of his own, that victory cry. The emotions it stirred had been left unfelt for more than a decade.

No, the old Nobul Jacks had not returned.

He had never been away.

Nobul walked to a shelf beside the door. On it lay the completed pieces of Zatani armour, but that was not all he had crafted since coming to the forge. He reached out, grasped the black iron helm in his hand and looked down at it. It might not be the same as the one he’d worn at Bakhaus, but it was close enough. Anyone who’d been there would be sure to recognise him. Anyone who hadn’t would know him from the legends.

With helm and hammer in hands, Nobul ventured back out onto the streets. They were all but deserted now, everyone having rushed north to the wall. As he neared it, he could hear the people of Steelhaven, some wailing in lament, some shouting angrily, spitting their rage and defiance out onto the plains.

Nobul pushed his way through the city folk. Some turned angrily as he did so, but on seeing his grim visage not one of them said a word. Eventually he stood on the northernmost battlement, surrounded by the people of Steelhaven. They all looked out at the sight. All stared in awe at what had come.

To the north was an army. A host of thousands. The savage Khurtas had finally arrived with their warlord — the immortal Elharim, who had ventured far from his homeland to claim Steelhaven for his own.

Nobul Jacks donned his black iron helm, lifted the hammer to his shoulder, and waited.