Lord of Ashes (Steelhaven: Book Three) (24 page)

His horse whinnied shrilly as it lost its footing on the ice bridge. It staggered then fell, and it wasn’t until he had leapt from the saddle and rolled clear that Merrick realised the animal had taken a spear to its side. By the light of the fires on deck he could see the silhouettes of three sailors coming at him. Cormach had ridden off ahead and the rest of the Wyvern Guard were still hacking down survivors on the ships behind. He was on his own.

The three mariners surrounded him, their backs to a bright fire still burning on deck. In the glare Merrick could hardly make them out and only narrowly avoided the first thrust of a cutlass. He brought up his shield in time to catch another blow before gaining the wherewithal to counter. There was a cry from the dark and he felt the jarring of sword hitting flesh, but his relief at striking a blow was short-lived. His helmet clanged as something hit it from the side. Merrick slipped back, losing his footing on the deck. The shield fell from his hand as he was bowled backward, the gunwale hitting the back of his legs. He couldn’t stifle a cry of panic as he was pitched back into the water.

His free hand grabbed out as he fell, for something, anything. Somehow he still kept a grip on his sword, fear of losing such a blade almost trumping his desire to survive. Something snagged his armour just as he hit the water. The black consumed him, the freezing dark. His helmet came off and he had to let go of that beautiful sword. To his relief he’d been caught in netting but his armour was still pulling him down, sucking him into the black depths. Merrick’s arm shot from the freezing water, grasping the net. With titanic effort he pulled himself up, dragging his head out from under the sea, snorting salty water and gasping for air.

For a moment he paused there in the cold, breathing heavily, panting the life back into himself. Above he could still hear the sounds of battle. The screams, the whinnying of horses. Something plunged into the water nearby but he couldn’t bring himself to look and see whether it was one of his brother knights or a mariner.

When he’d breathed enough air back into his lungs, Merrick pulled himself up. The going was slow, his armour seeming to weigh twice as much as it had before he’d fallen in the bay. Clapping both hands on the gunwale he dragged himself up over the side of the ship, flopping onto the deck like a landed fish. His breath came hard and he could have closed his eyes and slept if he hadn’t been so bloody cold.

No point lying here all night. What happened to vengeance? What happened to the new Merrick? You’re just as lazy and useless as the old one.

Merrick dragged himself to his feet. His sword was lost and he looked around in the gloom for a weapon, any weapon. One suddenly came at him from the dark – the blade of a cutlass, curved and sharp as fuck. On the other end of it was a scared-looking sailor, eyes all wide and desperate like he’d seen some murder he hadn’t been expecting and was determined he wasn’t going to be next.

‘Why don’t you calm yourself?’ said Merrick, holding his hands up in surrender. The mariner didn’t seem too impressed with that. In fact it seemed to make him angrier and even more desperate. ‘There’s a way out of this for both of us,’ Merrick continued, hoping his mouth would do a better job of getting him out of the shit than his armour and weapons had. ‘We can both survive this but you have to be cle—’

The sailor’s head split down the middle. In the dark it looked like black gore had exploded from his skull. He stood there for a moment, staring in confusion as if he’d just been asked the meaning of life, before collapsing to the deck. Cormach was standing behind him.

Merrick let out a sigh of relief and leaned back on the gunwale, careful not to pitch himself backwards this time. Glancing up and down the row of ships he saw that the Wyvern Guard had already done their work. Fires burned on the deck of every ship and they were already reining their horses in, ready to leave.

‘That makes us fucking even,’ said Cormach when he’d finally managed to free his blade from the mariner’s skull.

Merrick waved an arm nonchalantly, in no mood to argue. He was too busy thinking about what a monumental fuck-up he’d just made. About how he’d bravely ridden onto the ships and managed to almost die without knowing if he’d actually killed anyone. He doubted his contribution would be recorded in the annals of the Wyvern Guard.

So much for vengeance. So much for being the righteous hero.

But at least you’re still breathing.

N
obul watched the siege tower moving towards the wall. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stood and stared. Around him was a ruckus – arrows flying all about, men shouting for reinforcements. Someone was sobbing somewhere. Someone screaming. A dead body lay a couple of yards away, chest all opened up. The severed head of a Khurta was laid on its side in the shadow of the wall, staring at him angrily from the dark. Nobul had no idea what the savage head was so pissed off about – it hadn’t been him that killed the ugly bastard. There were plenty of others he had killed, though. And when that siege tower got close enough there’d be plenty more.

‘Come on, bastards!’ someone shouted beside him.

Arrows flew past his head, clacking harmlessly against the armour of the siege tower. An archer inside the tower fired back, not quite as harmlessly, and someone in the line fell screaming.

Nobul gripped his hammer the tighter as the siege tower came to a stop. An eerie silence fell over the wall’s defenders as they waited for what was about to happen. Nobody knew quite what was going to come screaming from inside but they were ready to kill it, whatever it was.

With a creak, the armour plates that made up the front of the tower fell forward on iron hinges, creating a bridge to the wall. The Khurtas were already running before the thing even landed. Nobul wasn’t about to let them set foot on the battlements without a proper greeting.

He ran forward, ahead of the rest. His hammer connected with a Khurta’s sword, sending it spinning off over the battlements. The bastard was screaming so loud Nobul felt it ringing inside his helmet and his hand reached out on instinct, grabbing that warbling throat and cutting off any noise. Still with the first Khurta in his grip, Nobul swung again, smashing a shoulder and putting another down before he’d had time to step off the ramp.

More noise consumed him as the rest of the wall’s defenders followed his lead, shields raised, spears and swords striking forward. Blood splashed on his arm, and he raised his hammer again, setting it to work, beating his way through the mass of bodies as they became crammed together. Men fell from the ramp to their deaths, the screams mixing with shouts of anger.

The feel of hammer on flesh and bone juddered through his arm, his shoulder starting to ache. In the press all he could see were screaming faces, lurching towards him, easy targets. A blade clanked off his helm. A Khurta fell in front of him and Nobul brought his boot down on the exposed head three times before the rest of him stopped squirming.

Deep in the back of his throat he began to growl, spitting his ire as more and more men fell before him and the press thinned out. Every Khurta that ran from that siege tower was met by blade or hammer or arrow. They came so eager for the kill and that’s what they got. Before long Nobul was standing on his own, bellowing at empty air, with no one else to fight.

He looked over his shoulder and the rest of the city’s bannermen were standing staring at him, their faces masked with shock and blood. Nobul breathed heavy, and it wasn’t until he lowered his hammer that he realised the Khurta he had grasped by the throat was still in his grip, dead eyes staring, tongue lolling. As Nobul dropped the limp body to the ground there was a shout of alarm from the east.

‘They’ve taken the fucking Stone Gate!’

Nobul saw it was a young lad, helmet too big for his head, face a mask of blood. He just stood there, not knowing what to do. As he looked around he could see everyone else was doing much the same.

Slowly Nobul walked down from the siege tower ramp, picking his way through the bodies.

‘Make sure that burns,’ he said to a couple of lads, pointing back to the tower. ‘Rest of you, on me.’

With that he set off at a trot, looking through the dark to the east. He could see a press of soldiers ahead, a tight phalanx on the wall, and beyond them was the bastion of the Stone Gate. Nobul couldn’t see much of what was going on but he could hear the Khurtas shouting in their language.

By the time he reached the bastion, the shouting had risen to screaming, but there didn’t seem to be much fighting going on. Nobul pressed his way through the crowd, men all tightly packed, cowering behind their shields. As he reached the front he saw the Khurtas were waiting opposite the top of the gate tower. They were taunting Steelhaven’s defenders, beckoning them to attack, and it was obvious these weren’t just any savages. They knew throwing themselves at a phalanx of shields would be suicide. They wanted to get their enemy to attack in the open space of the bastion.

Who was he to disappoint them?

Nobul pushed his way past to the row of shield bearers at the front. When he tried to move through the shield wall one of them made to speak, most likely to tell him not to be a stupid bastard, but when he saw that black helm he shut his mouth quick sharp. The wall parted and let him through, out onto the roof of that bastion with nothing between him and the Khurtas but the fear and death on the night breeze.

When they saw him step out onto that platform the Khurtas quieted a touch. Maybe some of them recognised him or had at least heard of the black helmed daemon wielding his hammer on the wall, smashing back their countrymen like they were nothing. Nobul couldn’t suppress a smile at that. For the first time he saw doubt in the faces of the Khurtas, and if any of them wanted to take him on they were none too keen about it.

‘Who’s first?’ he shouted across at the savage mob.

No one moved.

Just when he thought he’d be standing there all night, there was a commotion towards the rear of the crowd of Khurtas. From the shadows at the back walked a warrior a head taller than the rest. He pushed his way to the front, massive axe in hand, beard bursting out of his chin in a black mass. The giant stood there for a moment, weighing up his opponent, and Nobul let him drink in a long look.

The Khurtas started to chant as the giant stared at Nobul. ‘Wolkan, Wolkan, Wolkan,’ they sang, gleeful at what was to come. Behind Nobul his own men were silent, which wasn’t a great vote of confidence, but luckily he’d never needed to be cheered on in a fight. The killing was enough of a reward.

‘He’s a bloody big one.’ Nobul glanced to his left and saw Hake peering over the crowd behind. ‘You sure about this?’

Nobul wasn’t sure, but he knew it had to be done. This Wolkan cunt needed killing. These Khurtas needed showing their champions could be beaten. Besides, no other fucker was going to take him on, so why not the Black Helm?

‘Be careful of that axe,’ Hake shouted as Nobul stepped forward.

‘Thanks for the advice,’ he breathed in reply.

Wolkan barked a laugh of disdain as Nobul came, waving that big axe around his head as though it weighed nothing. Nobul hefted his hammer, staring up, and the Khurta grinned wide, showing his missing teeth. He laughed again, then took a massive stride forward so they were no more than a yard apart. They looked at each other, axe and hammer held at the ready. Then Wolkan brought that axe down like he was chopping a log.

Nobul grasped his hammer at both ends and held it up to block the axe. The hafts of their weapons struck together and Nobul’s arms almost buckled under the weight of the blow, the axe blade clanging against his helmet. The force of it knocked him back a few steps and he staggered into the shields behind. One of the shield men pushed forward, throwing him at Wolkan once more. Nobul was sure it was meant as encouragement but all it did was put him right within range again. Wolkan swung his axe and Nobul just managed to duck, feeling the weapon sweep over him, keen to lop him in half. He spun, bringing up his hammer, but Wolkan was faster, grasping the weapon by the haft and raising his massive axe one-handed.

The huge Khurta opened his mouth to shout his victory cry, proud of himself at so easily besting the champion of Steelhaven. Nobul smashed his helmeted head right in the bridge of his nose, jumping up to reach, feeling the jarring impact like he’d just head-butted a tree.

Wolkan loosed his grip on the hammer, staggering back, his axe almost dropping from his hand. Nobul had to press in – if he gave this giant time for another attack he’d more than likely be done for. Maybe he should have made a spectacle of it. Maybe he should have drawn out the battle to show those Khurtic bastards just who was the best. Then again, the longer this went on, the more chance he had of dying.

Nobul’s hammer came down on the Khurta’s shoulder. There was a dull crack of bone, but to his credit Wolkan didn’t cry out in pain. He instead tried to raise his axe, but Nobul batted it aside with his hammer, sending it skittering across the top of the bastion. Another strike at the shoulder and Wolkan went down, his face a mask of bearded rage. He began to speak in the Khurtic tongue – a garbled rant of hate. Nobul’s next hammer blow caught him in the jaw, shattering it and giving the giant’s face an odd skewed expression. His next strike staved in Wolkan’s head, the hammer embedding itself in his skull, eye popping out of its socket to dangle uselessly on that bearded face.

The Khurtas had gone quiet now. Nobul looked at them as he wrenched his hammer free and let Wolkan’s body fall to the ground in a heap. He thought about shouting for someone else to come forward and take him on, to see if the rest of them had the stones for a fight, but all of a sudden he felt bloody tired. Not that he need have worried. The Khurtas were just staring at him, some in awe, others in fear.

Behind, someone shouted the order to attack. A score of men ran past Nobul, eager to take on the Khurtas, eager to show them as much grit and death as Nobul had just shown this Wolkan bastard. If they expected a fight they were sorely disappointed as the Khurtas suddenly routed. As much as he’d have liked to join them in the chase, Nobul didn’t have the heart.