Richard Ford - Lord of Ashes

From within the mass of Khurtas a figure came forward holding aloft a banner. He pushed his way through and planted it in front of the Khurtic lines, as though taunting his enemies with his prize. Through the gloom, Merrick could see the banner bore a red dragon on a yellow field, despite how burned and grimy it was. The standard of Dreldun, there in the hands of the bastard enemy. Merrick had never considered himself a patriot; most of the time he couldn’t care less about loyalty to kings and countries, but seeing that standard in the hands of some foreign savage made him want to spit his ire. They’d come down from their steppes to the north and raped and murdered and burned their way south. That standard was a symbol of the carnage they’d left in their wake, of the innocents slaughtered needlessly. Even Merrick couldn’t let that stand.

Tannick spurred his horse, gripping his reins tight and riding forward a few yards. More arrows flew but missed their target.

‘Whoreson!’ Tannick bellowed above the din. Merrick saw Cormach look up, staring eagerly from beneath his helm as the Lord Marshal pointed at the Khurtic horde. ‘Bring me that flag.’

Cormach said something as he drew his sword, along the lines of about fucking time , but Merrick couldn’t make it out exactly. Then he spurred his horse. The steed reared then set off at a gallop, clear of the Wyvern Guard line and headed straight towards forty thousand Khurtas.

Merrick watched wide eyed. It was either the bravest thing he’d ever seen or the most insane.

Never get you doing anything like that, would they, Ryder? You stay in the crowd; you watch your own back. Don’t bother risking your life for anyone.

Cormach galloped at the enemy, arrows peppering the ground at his horse’s feet. The front line of Khurtas began yelling in a frenzy, as though they were shouting encouragement, waiting for the moment they could kill one of these defiant, arrogant Wyvern Guard.

He’s going to die. He’ll be cut down in a hail of arrows or a storm of blades and you get to sit here and watch. But then, you never liked that fucker anyway.

Merrick found himself gripping his reins the tighter, felt his hand straying to the hilt of his sword. Found his stomach begin to tighten with excitement as he watched Cormach Whoreson riding to the most glorious death he would ever witness.

Don’t even think about it, Ryder. You’re not cut out for any of that bravery shit. You’re a self-serving coward and everyone knows it. What do you think you’ll prove by getting yourself killed?

His sword rang from its sheath. It felt good in his hand. Felt hungry. He felt hungry. Before he knew what he was doing, Merrick had put spurs to his steed’s flanks and was yelling at the top of his voice. What he said he had no idea, it could have been something about the glory of the Wyvern Guard, could have been unintelligible nonsense. Either way it pushed the fear aside as his horse hit a gallop and he pressed his heels down so as not to be bucked from the saddle.

Someone shouted behind him. Was it Tannick? Were they words of encouragement? More likely words of admonishment for being such an idiot. Whatever they were, Merrick ignored them as he galloped across that empty plain, riding after a madman and into the face of countless savage killers intent on mounting his head on a spear.

What the fuck are you doing, Ryder? You’re going to die!

Merrick gritted his teeth, the shield on his arm slapping against his thigh, the sword in his hand pointed forward at the enemy.

Up ahead he could see Cormach had almost reached the line. The Khurta standing at the forefront with the flag of Dreldun was beckoning him forward, screaming from the bottom of his lungs. Cormach flung his shield over his shoulder, and Merrick could see the mass of arrows protruding from it. As he got within ten yards of the Khurtic line, a group of savages ran forward, spears at the ready. Cormach tore at his reins, turning his steed and halting its gallop right in front of the standard bearer. A swipe of his sword silenced the screaming Khurta, who dropped to the ground in silence. Before the standard of Dreldun could fall, Cormach snatched it up with his free hand.

Spears thrust up at him, but Cormach’s sword arm seemed to predict every wayward strike, slapping them aside with a chorus of metallic rings. He kicked his horse and it backed away, seeming to obey its rider’s commands instinctually.

Merrick continued his gallop. He’d stopped screaming now, his voice gone hoarse. It would have done him no good anyway; the noise echoing from the massed ranks of Khurtas had drowned him out several yards back.

The sword still felt eager in his hand. His need to strike — to prove himself to his father, the Wyvern Guard and most of all to this mad bastard Cormach — had overcome him completely.

Before Merrick could reach the enemy, though, Cormach had put spurs to his horse once more. It bucked, leaping away from the Khurtic spears, and raced back towards the city.

By now the Khurtas had bellowed for more archers to the front, and a hail of arrows followed in Cormach’s wake. Merrick slowed his mount, raising his shield, as black shafts slammed down all around him. Two pierced the shield, another sliding off his horse’s barding. When he looked up from behind the shield, he saw Cormach was almost upon him.

‘Wrong way, you fucking idiot,’ Cormach shouted as he galloped past.

Merrick reined his horse around and followed as best he could.

Well done, Ryder. You’ve just made yourself look a complete prat. But don’t worry, it’s doubtful anyone has noticed.

Cormach was yards ahead as more arrows rained around them. Over the bellowing of the Khurtas, Merrick suddenly heard an inhuman squeal as Cormach’s steed went down, a black arrow protruding from its flank. Cormach fell rolling with his horse, the standard of Dreldun spilling from his grip.

Merrick pulled hard on his reins, halting his mount as Cormach stood groggily, his helmet lost as he looked around desperately for the standard.

‘Come on,’ yelled Merrick, holding his hand out.

Cormach ignored him, retrieving the standard from where it lay and glancing back to the Khurtic line. Two more arrows hissed into the dirt at his feet and he held the standard out to Merrick.

‘Take it,’ he said. There was no fear there, no doubt; as if he was ready to stand and die. As if a flag was more important than his life.

‘Get on the horse,’ Merrick yelled, unable to quell the panic in his voice. ‘Before we’re fucking shot!’

Cormach stared back at him as more arrows flew overhead. He looked up with contempt, like he realised Merrick was saving his life and would rather have let the Khurtas gut him than suffer that indignity.

Just as Merrick was about to kick his horse and leave the mad bastard, Cormach grasped his outstretched hand and vaulted up behind him.

The screams of the Khurtas grew louder as they saw their quarry riding away. More arrows slammed into the earth all around but it was clear they didn’t have a decent archer among them. Merrick kicked his horse harder, desperate to put as much distance between himself and the Khurtas as he could until eventually he made it back to the row of Wyvern Guard, his breath coming as fast as his steed’s.

He reined his horse in before Tannick, staring at his father who glared from beneath his winged helm. Up on the wall he could see men cheering, raising their swords and bows in victory, as if they’d just hacked the head from Amon Tugha himself. Merrick paid them little attention, too intent on his father’s reaction. ‘I want you close,’ he’d said. ‘No harm must come to you,’ he’d said. Well, Merrick had certainly done a shit job of paying attention to that.