Lord of Ashes (Steelhaven: Book Three) (12 page)

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.

R
egulus could see men fighting desperately to the north. He could hear their cries of pain and anger, and the clash of steel. Could smell the fear and blood on the air. His fists clenched and a low growl emanated from his throat, but still there was nothing he could do.

Gaze as he might across the great river to the derelict city beyond, there was still no sign of the enemy. How he yearned for them to pour over the crossing and attack the gate he now stood watch over. How his hand itched to draw black steel and cut a bloody swathe through the screaming horde that attacked the wall just yards away.

‘Hold your nerve,’ shouted the sargent. ‘We have our orders. This is our position and we’ll bloody well defend it.’

The fear in the man’s voice was unmistakable. It sickened Regulus to his stomach. They were useless here, defending a gate that was never going to be assaulted, while to the north their aid was sorely needed.

He turned to his warriors, and each one stared back with anticipation burning in his eyes like a hot brand. Akkula, Kazul, Hagama, Janto, each looking fiercer than the last. Each lusting for battle and ready for the kill.

Who was Regulus Gor to deny them?

They needed no words. Regulus drew his black blade and placed his helm over the locks that cascaded over the pauldrons of his armour. As he turned and made north, his warriors followed, donning their own helms and brandishing their weapons eagerly.

‘You there,’ shouted the Coldlander sargent. ‘Where do you think you’re going? We’re to hold this bloody position.’

Regulus and his men ignored the weary cries of the man. His voice rose in pitch with every word but it was clear he could do nothing to stop them.

With every step Regulus increased his pace. Nobul Jacks the armoursmith had done his work well, and Regulus hardly felt slowed or restrained as his stride widened until finally he and his warriors were sprinting along the walkway towards the battle.

Coldlanders moved from their path, only too eager to allow the Zatani to run towards the fray. Janto roared his battle lust, and Regulus bared his teeth as the war cry filled him with excitement.

Ahead the city’s defenders fought a desperate battle as the painted savages swarmed over the wall. Here and there loose masonry lay across the walkway, and Regulus dodged rubble and bodies as he searched for his first enemy. He didn’t have to search for long.

Four warriors, tattooed and scarred and with an animal stench about them, were hacking at the corpses of men they had recently slain. Their frenzy filled Regulus with a hatred he had not felt for many days, and he welcomed it – embraced it – as he leapt forward, his black sword raised.

Two of them fell before the others realised Regulus was even upon them. To their credit, the remaining two raised their weapons to defend themselves before Regulus could cut them down, his blade hacking against their iron axes. One lifted a shield, and Regulus smashed his sword against it three times in succession until the Khurta retreated from the assault in desperation.

The other Khurta made to attack, but before he could strike, Akkula’s spear tore through his throat. The young warrior whooped with joy as the Khurta staggered back, his weapon forgotten while he desperately tried to staunch the flow of blood.

Regulus saw the remaining Khurta look up with fear as he saw the formidable Zatani charging towards him. All thoughts of slaughter seemed to fly from his mind and he turned tail, leaping over the battlements to his death rather than face being hacked to pieces by the black-armoured daemons who charged at him.

‘Look,’ shouted Hagama, raising his blade towards the ramparts further along the wall.

Taking a step forward, Regulus squinted through the night. In the dark he could see not only the desperate sights of battle, but also fell magicks. A writhing mass had covered the wall and was assailing the magick users of the Coldlands. It attacked remorselessly, hacking apart armoured men and robed sorcerers alike.

Regulus smiled, baring his white fangs to the night. This would be the glory he had waited for. This was where he would earn his name.

With a snarl he raced towards the thrashing beast, his warriors at his shoulder. He hacked through the first squirming branch as he ran past, seeing it die in a shower of dried foliage. He ignored the screams from all around him. Ignored the sorcerers retreating in their panic, ignored the armoured knights as they vainly tried to fight back against the onslaught. His only thoughts were of the glory of the kill.

A screaming Khurta charged out of the night, and Regulus hacked him down almost without thinking. He ducked as a twisting branch of foliage swept overhead, knocking Kazul off his feet. Janto leapt in, hacking at the branch with twin axes, roaring above the sound of battle, his cries carrying over the curtain wall and down towards the Khurtas below.

As though seeing them as the greatest threat, the thrashing foliage turned on the Zatani, focusing its assault on the fiercest fighters. The five warriors roared in unison as they fought, hacking at the branches, sending white sap flying as they fought desperately.

Regulus felt something grip his leg, but before he could hack at it he was pulled off his feet and hoisted into the air. His helm flew off into the night though he managed to keep hold of his black blade. Before he could hack at the branch that held him, another wrapped itself around his arm, pulling tight and threatening to tear him in two. Regulus growled against the pain, feeling his muscle and sinew strain as the branches tried to pull him apart. The growl turned into a roar of agony as he was lifted higher. As he was hoisted up he saw out over the battlements, facing the horde that had come to take this city.