For a moment he thought Cormach might try to stare him down, might call him out and they’d have to draw steel. Before any of that could happen, Cormach smiled.
‘Yeah, course you have,’ he said.
Merrick smiled back. Had he won this bastard over after all?
He turned back to the rest of the men, about to ask for a goblet of his own, when Cormach punched him hard on the arm, striking his armour with a dull thud right where his tattoo was. Merrick almost screamed, gritting his teeth and letting out a low moan.
‘Welcome to the Wyvern Guard, cunt,’ said Cormach, before he walked off and pushed his way towards the barrel of wine.
Welcome indeed, thought Merrick. What the fuck have I let myself in for?
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.
EPILOGUE
They called it Aluk Vadir. It was a bustling port, not like Steelhaven, not huge and imposing, but it had still been busy in recent days. River guessed busier than it had been in many years.
A score of battleships, each carrying a huge trebuchet, had already set sail from the dock, making their way across the Midral Sea. River watched that dock from the balcony of a chamber set high up on the side of a smooth-sided tower. But his mind was not troubled by the ships that even now were making their way towards his home.
All River could think of were the men he had killed.
Forest had told him there were only five men. Just five, and evil men at that. River had consid
ered that an acceptable number. Only it hadn’t been just five, it had been those five men and their guards, their sentries and, when necessary, their servants. River had found the old ways, the killing ways, had come back to him all too easily.
As he stood there on that high balcony in the stifling night heat, he was filled with regret. Regret for all the lives he had taken. If Jay knew what he had done she would hate him for it. She was gentle, an innocent soul, and she would never understand, even though he had only done it for her. To protect her from the Father of Killers.
And what else could he have done? He had made a vow, and to the Father of Killers no less.
River turned as he heard the old man fumble his key in the lock of the door. As he entered River caught his scent, unwashed and musky, wine on his breath and the aroma of pipe smoke on his clothes.
Abda Jadi shuffled inside, closing the door behind him. He had been the one to give River his targets at Keidro Bay. He had been the one to draw up the contract River had presented to his marks, written in strange foreign script and eventually signed in blood.
‘A quiet night out,’ said the old man. ‘Streets are all but deserted now the last of the ships is making ready to leave.’
The last of the ships that would bring carnage to Steelhaven. River clenched his fists, feeling remorse for his part in it.
‘Our business is done then?’ asked River.
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ replied the old man. He was staring, his fingers toying with the soiled white robe that covered his body. River saw a bead of sweat run from beneath Abda’s headwrap.
Something was wrong. It was hot, but this old man was used to it. Surely he would not be sweating unless …
River ducked on instinct, dropping to the floor as something tore through the air. The arrow whipped in, cutting through where he had been standing a moment before. Abda Jadi was not so quick, taking the arrow in his throat.
As the old man staggered back, gripping his neck, River pulled out his blades. The assassin burst through the window, his weapons already drawn.
‘Forest,’ River had time to whisper, before he was on the back foot, his blades quick to parry the rapier and poniard that cut in at his face.
This could not be. He had made a vow. The Father of Killers had promised him.
But had he? He had only promised Jay would live – he had never promised to spare River.
Forest said nothing, attacking with all the speed and venom River had come to expect from his brother. At first River was hard pressed to parry the blows, and Forest’s rapier cut a line through his jerkin, slashing the flesh. He ignored the pain, twisting aside, grabbing Abda Jadi, who still stumbled in his death throes, and thrusting him towards Forest.
His brother just pushed the old man out of the way and took a step back, breathing hard from his exertions. It was clear his skills were rusty and he had not fought for a while, but then it was a long journey from Steelhaven. River on the other hand, still had the killer in him.
The two went at each other again, the only sound their weapons ringing off one another. As Forest’s rapier came down in another thrust, River caught the guard in one of his blades, twisting it and pulling it from his grip. He ducked Forest’s short blade and hooked his own weapon behind his brother’s leg. It sliced Forest’s calf and he grunted in pain, staggering as River stabbed in again, taking Forest in the forearm and causing him to drop his poniard.
With the advantage of his momentum, River bore down, knocking his brother back. They both fell to the ground and River held one blade to his brother’s throat, the other raised for the killing blow. Abda Jadi had breathed his last and with the old man’s dying gasps finished, there was silence in the room.
Forest smiled. It was obvious he was in pain, but he fought it, just as River would have done.
‘What are you waiting for, brother?’ he asked. ‘Do it.’
River stared into Forest’s eyes. There was no fear there. It was as though he wanted to die. As though he had been waiting for it, expecting it, yearning for it.
‘Why have you come here? Why not just let me go?’
‘The Father will never let you go, River. Just like he will never let her go.’
‘He made a vow.’
‘He does not honour vows with traitors,’ Forest replied, seeming to take some small delight in River’s unease. ‘He owes you nothing. By now she is most likely dead. Her city will fall soon after.’
River growled, raising his blade to strike.
But this was his brother. He had already killed one, could he really kill another?
River stood, looking down at Forest bleeding on the floor of the chamber. His brother was helpless and gravely wounded. He would be lucky to survive. Perhaps he was best left to the fates.
‘Do not follow me, brother,’ River said. ‘If you ever come back to Steelhaven, I will kill you.’
Forest did not answer. If he lived, perhaps he would heed his brother’s warning.
Perhaps not.
Without another word, River ran for the window and leapt out onto an adjacent rooftop. What little breeze there was sweeping in from the Midral was warm, almost inviting.
The dock was not far from the tower, and River ran the whole way. He could see the last ship was almost ready to cast off and he rushed to the end of the pier where men were busying themselves loading the last of the ship’s supplies. Without a word River joined them, taking a wooden crate from one of the dock labourers and making his way up the gangplank. No one paid him any attention as he walked onto the ship’s deck. No one said a word as he laid down the crate and made his way to the bow. No one saw as he crouched low in the shadows and waited for the captain to call for sail as they cast off.
As the ship cruised out of dock and made its way northward, River could not take his eyes off the far horizon. It might be days before he saw Steelhaven, and he knew each one of those days would be torment until he knew whether Jay was still alive.
River had to believe she was. If she were not, he vowed that there would be more deaths.
Many more deaths.
Richard Ford, Steelhaven 02 - The Shattered Crown
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