Richard Ford - Lord of Ashes

Lucen Kalvor bellowed for his men to brace themselves as yet more flailing tentacles appeared over the lip of the wall. In the dim light Waylian could see that they were not the arms of some land-borne leviathan but roots, as though the bowels of a tree had been animated and ordered to climb the wall. For a moment his mind flashed back to the arena days before, when that ancient tree had sprung to life intent on murder. Was this the same fell sorcery at work?

Does it actually matter a shit? You may well be about to die!

Branches battered against Raven Knight shields as the Khurtas began to seethe over the wall, their climb made easy by the vines and foliage that were even now growing up the sheer surface. One of the old magisters bellowed something long and loud and it wasn’t until Waylian squinted through the dark that he saw the old man had been impaled on a spiked branch.

‘At them,’ Crannock croaked, his voice rising above the din.

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.

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.