Lord of Ashes (Steelhaven: Book Three) (5 page)

‘I suppose that makes sense,’ Merrick said.

‘Do you? I doubt that. I reckon you think it’s madness. That you’d be best served sitting behind the wall and waiting for them to attack like a peasant in his stinking hovel hoping the robbers lurking outside his door will eventually slink away.’

Actually, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.

‘No.’ Merrick tried to sound as enthusiastic as he could. ‘I think showing the Khurtas can be hurt will help boost morale amongst the city’s defenders. And when we ride in to smash the enemy I want to be right in the heart of it.’

All right, Ryder, steady on. He may well take you up on that.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Tannick, and for a moment Merrick could have sworn he sensed some pride in the old bastard. ‘But no. As I said, I need you by my side. You’re too important to risk.’

‘How so?’
Because it’s never seemed to bother you before.

Tannick rose to his feet, holding his sword reverently between them.

‘Despite what you might think, boy, I didn’t just come back for this battle. I came back for you.’

It took a moment for that to register. Even when it did, Merrick found it hard to take in.

‘For me? You wouldn’t even speak to me for days. I had to get stabbed through the chest. I almost died defending the queen before—’

‘I needed to know you were up to the job. That I could put my faith in you,’ said Tannick. ‘Because one day this will be yours.’

He held up the sword, the
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, as though it were all the riches in the Free States.

A sword? A fucking sword? You came all the way back here after all these years just to give me a huge bloody sword that I’ll barely be able to lift?

Merrick stared down at it, bewildered.

‘I know. Beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Tannick, as though he held a new-born baby in his arms and not a hunk of cumbersome steel. ‘And it will be yours when I’m gone. Only you can wield it. Only you can take my place.’

‘Take your place? Why? Are you going somewhere?’

‘Not yet,’ Tannick replied, hefting the sword over one shoulder. ‘But by the time I do, you should be ready.’

With that he walked inside.

Merrick stood in the courtyard for some moments, wondering what in the hells that meant.

You should be ready
. Ready for what? To carry a ruddy great sword? He couldn’t say that the prospect filled him with glee.

Not that it was worth thinking on too much. He had to survive the Khurtas first, and from the sounds of it that was going to be no easy feat. Then again, Tannick had told him he was too important to risk, so that meant he was in no real danger. That he’d be safe when the slaughter began.

Right?

All of a sudden the prospect of a wash in freezing cold water didn’t seem the worst of Merrick’s problems.

I
n the days since the Khurtas came he had stood and he had watched. There weren’t many who had summoned the nerve to disturb Nobul Jacks as he kept his vigil, standing there like a statue night and day – but then he was Nobul Jacks no longer.

They called him the Black Helm now, a name he’d not used for years. A name he thought he’d left behind him in the mud and blood of Bakhaus Gate. That had been a war against an invading army, just like now. Nobul had become the Black Helm to face the creatures that tore up from the south intent on destroying the Free States. He’d lived through it then by becoming more than a man … or was it less? When the Aeslanti beast men had rampaged across that valley he’d faced them as an animal himself … the undefeatable Black Helm. Now, as he faced north, at the horde waiting to invade the city, he wondered if he’d be able to become that animal again.

The rest of the men whispered behind his back, talking in hushed tones, spreading word of him along the wall like a plague. For some, Nobul knew that name would bring solace against the coming dark. For others it would mean little – they wouldn’t know or care who he was, and reputations meant nothing if you couldn’t back them up with grit and steel.

It didn’t matter anyway – once the fighting started he’d have to prove himself all over again, and no reputation, no matter how renowned, was going to stop an axe or a blade from caving in your head.

And so he’d stood and waited and thought on whether the years had made him too slow, too weak, too dull in the head and the heart. Part of him didn’t want to know. The other part could barely wait to find out.

Of course Nobul hadn’t stood there day and night. He’d slept. He’d eaten. He’d washed and pissed and shat. Kilgar and the rest of the lads weren’t far away and they were still looking out for him, though things weren’t the same as they had been. None of them, not even Kilgar, thought to question him on what he was doing. On where the helm and hammer had come from. On why he was just watching the horizon instead of mucking in with the rest of the lads. But he was the Black Helm now and the Black Helm didn’t take his turn handing out the gruel or mucking out the latrines with the rest of the lads. It might have pissed some of the other Greencoats or bannermen off, but none of them dared speak to him about it. There was something of the inhuman to Nobul now. Something that wasn’t to be questioned.

One night someone had tried, though – one of the levies, drunk on ale and fear of the Khurtas, had come too close, started with the questions, and when Nobul hadn’t answered he started to get his back up. He’d shouted and screamed and demanded an answer as to who Nobul thought he was. For his part Nobul had just gripped his hammer all the tighter until Hake and Edric came and ushered the bloke away. As much as it would have been easy to give the little bastard what for, it would prove nothing. He didn’t need to demonstrate who he was or what he could do. Didn’t need to relive old glories. Not yet anyway. There’d be fighting soon enough. Hard fighting where you’d either show your mettle or die trying.

They’d heard nothing from the Khurtas, though. Nothing but the occasional bit of shouting and the singing of dirges as their fires burned in the night. They must have been as impatient for the fight as Nobul was, but for some reason Amon Tugha made them wait. Were they going to try and starve the city? Nobul had to admit, that made him more fearful than anything. To get to this stage and then be starved to death wouldn’t be much of an end to it all. He wanted to go out fighting – killing like he’d been born for. But he knew there was little need to worry on that score. Deep inside Nobul had a feeling Amon Tugha wouldn’t disappoint. That the Elharim bastard was just biding his time, just letting the fear settle on the city like a dark cloud until he was ready to burn it down.

As the winter sun rose high in the clear sky, Nobul saw two riders coming from beyond the northern ridge. It was the first bit of movement they’d seen from the Khurtas in days and a swell of panic began to spread across the battlements as lookouts spotted the pair making their way across the flat plain. Nobul simply stood and stared as archers took their places and a serjeant barked for someone to fetch one of the generals.

The riders galloped to within a hundred yards of the main gate, whooping as they came, whipping their horses into a frenzy. Nobul could just make out the paint on their faces, the sharp yellow teeth in their grinning mouths. They wore furs, riding their horses without saddles, the steeds daubed with the same garish markings as the Khurtas atop them.

Once they’d reined in their mounts the two warriors waited, their excited horses churning up the ground in the shadow of the curtain wall. Neither was armed, and it seemed obvious they weren’t about to attack. Nevertheless, the archers standing on the wall could contain themselves no longer. With the hum of a bowstring one of them loosed. The arrow fell to the right of the pair, and they duly kicked their steeds, retreating a few yards from the wall.

‘That was shit,’ said one of the archers, nocking his own bow as he said it.

Another hum and another arrow shot towards the riders, this time flying overhead and causing one of the Khurtas to duck. He yelled in delight, and again both riders kicked their steeds into action, retreating yet more yards up the plain.

‘Volley this time, you useless bastards,’ said another of the archers. ‘On my count.’

From the corner of his eye, Nobul saw the gathered archers nock in unison, aiming at their targets despite how pointless it seemed. Loosing half a dozen times to kill two scouts was just a waste of arrows. There’d be easier targets soon enough when the Khurtas came charging forty thousand strong.

One of the archers counted back from three and there was a rasp of volley fire. The sound of their bows loosing as one was impressive enough, even if their aim was shite. Nobul could probably have done a better job, and he was about as good an archer as he was a milkmaid.

Though close, the volley of arrows seemed to hit everywhere but its target. This time both the Khurtas screamed in delight, moving their horses further away from the wall. It was then Nobul realised what they were doing, but before he had a chance to say so, someone barked at the archers to stop.

It was a deep voice, and old, but it carried enough command to make Nobul turn his head to see who owned it. A white-armoured knight was making his way across the battlements. His hair was down to his shoulders, moustache and beard drooping over his gorget. The armour that covered him from neck to toe was intricately gilded, making it look as though he wore a wolf’s pelt, and at his hip sat a huge sword that no man so old should have been able to wield.

‘Are you bloody stupid?’ said the old man, snatching the closest archer’s bow and rapping it over his head. The archer raised his hands to defend himself but gave no word of protest. ‘Do you think they’re offering themselves up as bloody target practice?’ The rest of the archers looked at one another dumbly, none of them daring to risk an answer. ‘They’re testing your range. They’re seeing how far the horde can advance before it’s in danger of being hit, you bloody dullards!’

The archers could only mumble their apologies. Two of them slunk off back along the parapet and the old knight flung the bow back at its owner who was still rubbing his head.

Grumbling to himself about incompetent morons, the knight turned to leave, then stopped, thinking better of it. Nobul watched as he slowly turned and made his way closer, casually, almost as though Nobul wasn’t there. Then he stopped at the battlements, resting his elbow on one of the merlons and looking out. The pair of them stood in silence for a while, as though the old man were sizing him up, wondering whether it was worth starting a conversation.

‘I remember you,’ he said, finally. ‘Or at least the man they say you are.’ Nobul gave no answer. He knew there were those who doubted he was the real Black Helm. And who could blame them – it had been the best part of sixteen years since he’d fought at Bakhaus Gate. Surely the Black Helm would be old by now, long past his best. This couldn’t be the real one, could it?

‘Don’t suppose it matters if you’re the same man or not,’ the knight continued, ‘as long as you can fight like the Black Helm.’ He looked Nobul up and down. ‘You look the part, at least.’

Nobul would have liked to ignore the knight, to tell himself this old man’s opinion didn’t matter a shit, but there was something about him. The way the man carried himself, the way he spoke, made Nobul want his acceptance. Made Nobul need this old knight to believe him.

‘I’m him, all right,’ Nobul said, still staring out across the plain. ‘Don’t worry yourself on that score.’

The knight nodded. ‘That’s a relief. We’ll need you, and no mistake. You fought like a daemon back then. Hope you’ve still got that in you.’

Well, have you? Have you still got that fight? Can you still swing that hammer? You killed a bar full of naked revellers and kicked a dog to death in recent days, but these are the Khurtas. Savages. Killers to a man. And you’re well past your prime – some might even say over-ripe. Have you really still got it in you?

‘Guess we’ll find out soon enough,’ Nobul said.

‘That we will,’ said the old man with a laugh. ‘I’m Bannon.’ He held out his arm.

Nobul knew the name and for a moment he paused before accepting that arm. The Duke of Valdor was standing next to him, striking up idle conversation about the past and what was coming from the north. Wasn’t every day you got to mull over the old days with nobility.

‘Nobul Jacks,’ he replied, grasping Bannon’s forearm in a warrior’s grip.

‘So that’s the name of the Black Helm?’ said Bannon. ‘Can’t say as I’ve heard of it. Would have thought a man like you would have made a name for himself in the Free Companies. Would have made himself rich.’

‘There’s also high odds in the Free Companies a man like that will make himself dead.’ Nobul released Bannon’s arm and went back to staring out north. ‘I didn’t fancy that.’

The old man chuckled. ‘That makes sense, I suppose. So what’s changed your mind? What’s made you pick that hammer up again? Chances are we’ll all be killed standing on this wall. You could have made a run for it like so many others but instead you chose to stay and fight.’

Nobul had to think on that. Had to go over everything that had happened to lead him here, to this point. All the loss, all the grief, all the pain and death. He would have told Bannon all about it, and he was sure the old man would have listened. But then again Nobul had never been much of a storyteller.

‘Sometimes there just ain’t a choice,’ he replied.

The duke nodded at that and stood beside Nobul, staring out onto the plain. With the archers having stopped their attempts to shoot them, the Khurtic riders had finished their milling and retreated back towards the distant ridge.

‘You’re right,’ Bannon said, still staring north. ‘Sometimes we just don’t choose. Sometimes those decisions are made for us. I lost my son to those savages. To some bastard assassin sent by Amon Tugha himself. I don’t have a choice at all. I’ll fight and I’ll die because there’s a debt I owe.’

Nobul could sense the pain in him, the bitterness. He wanted to admit that he’d lost a boy too. That he knew the sting of it, deep in your heart where no amount of vengeance could ever ease it. He should probably have warned the old man that it wouldn’t get any better no matter how many men he killed, but he guessed Bannon would find out in his own way.