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.
TWENTY-SIX
Nobul 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 ham
mer 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.
‘Nice work,’ said Hake.
Nobul looked to see the old man standing next to him with a wry smile.
‘It wasn’t so hard,’ Nobul lied.
‘No, didn’t look it.’ Hake knelt down by the huge Khurta’s body. ‘Not every day you get to bring down a Khurtic war chief.’
‘Should I be pleased with myself?’
Hake shrugged. ‘Yes and no. You should be pleased you’re still breathing, that’s for sure. How long you’re breathing for is another matter. You just made yourself a target for every Khurta at this wall who wants to prove himself. Word’s gonna spread. And when it does they’ll all be looking to claim your head and the glory that goes with it.’
Well done, Nobul. If you thought things were tough before you’ve just made them ten times worse. But you never were one for doing things the easy way, were you?
‘Let them come,’ said Nobul, gripping his hammer the tighter.
Suddenly, despite the hurt and the fatigue, he had the urge to smash more heads.
TWENTY-SEVEN
River had stood at the city’s highest promontories countless times and looked out over Steelhaven’s majesty with awe. He had looked out for miles at views no one else had ever been privy to and thrilled at the sight. Now, as he clung to what remained of a crumbling tower, he was only filled with sadness.
Men fought and died by the score defending a wall that looked almost ready to fall. Machines of war flung burning artillery as others trundled across the plain that sat to the city’s north, delivering savage, screaming warriors bent on destroying what had once been a place of such splendour. The enemy teemed, sweeping forward in a wave of savagery, and yet the city’s defenders stood fast against them, despite the odds.
How River would have loved to race down and join them in their fight. How he would have loved to add his strength and skill to protect Steelhaven. Not because it was his city, but because it was hers. But he knew that was folly. To fight and die with everyone else would be courageous, but ultimately he would fall. There was only one way he could end this. Only one way he could save the city, and Jay with it.
Amon Tugha had to die.
With their warlord fallen these savages would have no one to rally to. They would be headless, aimless, and would scatter back to the north. Or so he could only hope.
River moved down from the tower. The rooftops he had known so well were changed now. Bombardment from the north meant that many of the structures he had traversed for years were no longer there or had become perilous to move across. More than once he lost his footing as a strut broke beneath his foot or a hole appeared in a tiled roof, and when finally he managed to reach the outer wall he was breathing hard from the effort.
The Khurtas were concentrating their attack to the north. Here on the eastern side of the city it was relatively quiet but the wall was still heavily guarded. In the dark, River managed to slip past the vigilant sentries, aided by the fact that most of them stared pensively to the north or out over the wall to the east. He easily scaled the bastion of the Lych Gate and slipped over the battlement. The climb to the ground was harder as he slipped down the face of the gate tower, past the two carved figures – hooded warriors holding their swords aloft – and leapt the last ten feet to land deftly in the dark.
He wasted no time, sprinting northwards. The night was black beyond the ambient light of the city and he was aware that there could be enemies lurking in the dark. Though the Khurtas were attacking as a horde to the north it was more than likely there were groups of them lurking elsewhere, ready to fall upon anyone desperate enough to try and escape the attack on Steelhaven.
River gave the massed army a wide berth, running far to the east as the battle raged into the night and skirting a ridge almost a league north of the city. As he reached a crest in the hill River slowed, hunkering down and moving in silence. Beyond the hill he could see the radiant light of campfires and hear voices talking in an alien tongue. As he neared he drew his blades, focusing on his work. The mark would be in that camp somewhere. Amon Tugha was waiting.
A sentry walked idly by as River crouched in the shadows. The man paused, staring south, and in the moonlight River could see a look of yearning in his eyes, as though he envied his brethren. They were unleashing their barbarism on the city, and he lusted to join them, to die beside them as they flung themselves at the wall. River was happy to grant him a death of a different kind.
His blade moved in the dark, opening the Khurta’s throat. The man fell silently, his head almost severed as River moved on, down the ridge beyond and into the camp.
Hide tents of varying sizes and shapes were erected all around, though there were few Khurtas left in the camp, making it easy for River to stick to the shadows, moving unseen as he searched. Surely Amon Tugha would be in the largest tent, the one appropriate for his station. All River had to do was find it amongst this mass of hide coverings.
He stalked towards the centre of the encampment, listening intently for the sounds of voices or footfalls on the soft earth, all the while steering clear of the fires that burned intermittently. Occasionally there would be cries of pain from the Khurtic wounded that lay amidst the tents. They had been left there with no one to tend them, abandoned to live
or die on their own. It seemed a cruel practice but River cared little for the savagery of it. They and their warlord were without mercy, he understood that clear enough. He would show just as little mercy when he faced Amon Tugha.
When he was roughly at the camp’s centre he saw a tent that stood taller and wider than the rest. No sentries stood outside it and it seemed all but abandoned. River waited in the shadows, sensing that this could be some kind of trap, but there was no one he could see or hear and no other way he could think to locate his mark other than searching the entire camp.
He darted forward, crossing the clearing to the tent entrance and moving inside in one swift movement, blades at the ready. The tent’s interior was dark but a waning fire was bright enough for River to see. Across the floor, perhaps twenty yards, was a wooden chair and on it, lounging casually, one leg slung over the arm, was a warrior. He smiled at River as he entered, holding that smile even as River moved towards him. As arrogant and powerful as this warrior looked, he was clearly not Amon Tugha, but with luck he might know where River could find him.
The warrior made no move to defend himself, despite River’s clear intent. He showed no fear, and River felt a rising anger. He would make this man fear him, as he had made so many others fear him.
As he trod the ground no more than five yards in front of the wooden chair his foot sank up to the calf. River cursed himself as he felt a noose tighten around his ankle. There was little time to lament his stupidity as the tent suddenly erupted all around, Khurtas with bows and spears suddenly appearing from beyond the hide sidings. River slashed at the snare around his foot, desperate to free himself, but there was already a spear pressed against his back and three Khurtas closed in to point-blank range, aiming their bows at him.