As the first wave of Khurtas surged forward Waylian felt the atmosphere grow heavy, pressure filling his ears and a metallic tang washing the air as a hundred magisters tapped the Veil in unison.
The first charging Khurta exploded in a shower of sparks and blood, his ribcage splitting open as though torn asunder by white-hot gauntlets. A second simply unfurled in curling ribbons of gore while a third was slammed to the floor and crushed as though by an invisible foot.
The animated branches retaliated in an instant, reaching towards the old men and women who had just repelled the first Khurtic onslaught. Waylian covered his ears against the screams as the venerable magisters, who had lived and taught in the city for decades, were torn apart. The Raven Knights ran forward to aid their masters, hacking at the writhing mass of branches, but they were too few to make much difference. An armoured body was flung past Waylian like so much discarded metal, while another’s head was torn from its shoulders like a doll in the hands of an angry child.
One of Drennan’s apprentices rushed forward, hands contorting to trace magickal sigils in the air, lips moving in some ancient incantation. At first the branches reached out for him, then pulled back as though repulsed by the youth’s presence. They began to wither, shedding bark and foliage, rotting before Waylian’s eyes. Then the young lad screamed. He grabbed his head, blocking his ears as though they had been assailed by a sudden massive pressure. Waylian almost covered his own ears as the scream rang out above the sounds of battle. Then the boy’s head burst into flames.
Waylian could only stare in revulsion before he suddenly girded himself against the horror. He darted forward as the youth fell, still on fire. The heat was intense as Waylian reached his side, but he grabbed the lad’s robe nonetheless, vainly trying to subdue the flames that consumed his head. Fire licked at Waylian’s arms, singeing the hairs as his sleeves began to smoulder. The lad’s screaming had ceased now but he still writhed, half fighting Waylian off, half fighting himself as the intense heat consumed him. Waylian beat at the flames as best he could, barely able to keep his eyes open in the face of the heat. By the time he had beaten the blaze down he realised the youth had stopped moving, his head now nothing more than a blackened stump.
All around was carnage as Waylian stared at the treacherous consequence of tapping the Veil before being fully trained. He almost didn’t see the Khurtas begin to flood over the wall. Almost didn’t look up in time to spot a savage eyeing him hungrily, blade in hand, eager for the kill.
Almost.
In a daze, Waylian spotted him at the last moment and he glanced around in panic, all thought of using his own fledgling powers gone from his head.
Well, you don’t want to end up a burned and blackened mess like our friend here, now do you, Grimm!
It was obvious from the look in his eyes the Khurta wasn’t going to hear any pleas for mercy and he certainly hadn’t come climbing over that wall for a chat about the weather.
He was going to kill Waylian without even breaking a sweat.
The Khurta grinned as Waylian began to move. He bared yellow fangs, sensing his prey begin to panic, feeling his blood pump the faster as Waylian tried to make his escape. But it was not escape Waylian was looking for. As the Khurta dashed towards him, sword raised, Waylian lunged for a spear dropped by a dead Raven Knight. His hands closed around the haft and he hauled it up, stunned at how heavy the spear was. He had seen such weapons wielded in the hands of the knights a score of times but could never have believed it would weigh so much.
The Khurta charged regardless, a scream of triumph baying from his twisted lips, just as Waylian levelled the spear tip. The Khurta rushed on, the last thing he expected was Waylian to defend himself. The impetus of his charge skewered him on the spearhead and it pierced his torso just beneath the ribs as he ran onto it a full two feet before realising his error.
His scream of triumph turned to one of dismay. All Waylian could do was stare into the Khurta’s wide eyes as he babbled in that sick northern tongue, screaming insults Waylian could scarce understand, though he didn’t have to be fluent to get the gist.
Still he gripped the spear as blood flowed down the haft. The Khurta weakened, dropping his blade and falling to his knees. His eyes turned hateful as he carried on his litany of curses.
‘I … I’m sorry?’ replied Waylian, not really knowing what else to say.
The Khurta spat a last insult from his lips before collapsing to the ground. Waylian just stared as the fighting raged around him. When he managed to pull himself together he found his nails were digging into his palms and his face was streaked with tears. Through salty eyes he glanced to his left in time to see a Khurta leaping at him. His charge had been silent. Waylian stood no chance against his axe.
The Khurta crumpled in flight, his neck twisting, his arms snapping and that wicked axe falling from his grip before he landed in a heap.
‘I thought I told you to stay behind me,’ said Gelredida, walking forward out of the night, glaring with a look of distaste.
‘I’m sorry, Magistra,’ Waylian replied. ‘But I was just—’
‘Never mind,’ she said, turning towards the battle. ‘There is still much to do. Stay close this time, and do try not to get in the way.’
Waylian nodded, but the Red Witch didn’t see him. She was already making her way towards the enemy. And Waylian had to admit feeling a little sorry for them.
ELEVEN
To left and right were men stricken with fear. Someone further down the line had pissed himself and Nobul watched as it trickled past his boot in a steaming river. Whoever it was must have had a bladder like a horse.
Nobul gripped the hammer tight, not that it made him feel any better. His heart was thumping fast and hard, seemingly in time to the beat of the Khurtic drums. He looked down at those bastards, come all this way to rape and murder. They were a seething mass of ferocity, their screams thrown forward with more violence than a clenched fist. Nobul stared it down as best he could. He’d been here before, faced worse enemies, and he was still breathing. But then he was the Black Helm – he was fucking invincible.
But are you? Are you the Black Helm or just broken old Nobul Jacks?
Maybe there’d be someone out there who’d stop him. Someone hard enough, someone who was iron and steel and could bring him down. The thought made him scan the horde as they raged, trying to spot their biggest and best. He willed them to charge, desperate for them to stop their howling, impatient for the fight to start.
And then the Khurtas fell silent.
The air was filled with a calm deathlier than anything Nobul had ever felt. His skin rose in bumps and it didn’t matter how hard he gripped that hammer, he couldn’t stop the fear and doubt creeping into his heart.
A single voice suddenly rose from the mass of bodies, holding those Khurtas in its grip like it was holding back time itself. Though he couldn’t understand the words, Nobul knew it chanted a litany of hate and he wanted them to attack now more than ever. He was ready for them, despite the fear, and he would match whatever fierceness they could bring with violence of his own.
The voice ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and from out of the black night air came a thousand whispers that rose into a howl. ‘Take cover,’ someone screamed, and Nobul had the presence of mind to duck his head behind one of the merlons as a massive volley of arrows fell on the curtain wall. More screams carried along the battlements as those not quick enough were struck by the black shafts. A lad fell silent at Nobul’s feet, an arrow buried in his eye and another through his cheek. He’d been standing there all day but not once had Nobul bothered to ask his name. Bit too late now.
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 sh
outed, 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 o
f 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.
TWELVE
Regulus 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.