Richard Ford - Lord of Ashes

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 of 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.

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.

With every step Regulus increased his pace. Nobul Jacks the armoursmith had done his work well, and Regulus hardly felt slowed or restrained as his stride widened until finally he and his warriors were sprinting along the walkway towards the battle.

Coldlanders moved from their path, only too eager to allow the Zatani to run towards the fray. Janto roared his battle lust, and Regulus bared his teeth as the war cry filled him with excitement.

Ahead the city’s defenders fought a desperate battle as the painted savages swarmed over the wall. Here and there loose masonry lay across the walkway, and Regulus dodged rubble and bodies as he searched for his first enemy. He didn’t have to search for long.

Four warriors, tattooed and scarred and with an animal stench about them, were hacking at the corpses of men they had recently slain. Their frenzy filled Regulus with a hatred he had not felt for many days, and he welcomed it — embraced it — as he leapt forward, his black sword raised.

Two of them fell before the others realised Regulus was even upon them. To their credit, the remaining two raised their weapons to defend themselves before Regulus could cut them down, his blade hacking against their iron axes. One lifted a shield, and Regulus smashed his sword against it three times in succession until the Khurta retreated from the assault in desperation.

The other Khurta made to attack, but before he could strike, Akkula’s spear tore through his throat. The young warrior whooped with joy as the Khurta staggered back, his weapon forgotten while he desperately tried to staunch the flow of blood.

Regulus saw the remaining Khurta look up with fear as he saw the formidable Zatani charging towards him. All thoughts of slaughter seemed to fly from his mind and he turned tail, leaping over the battlements to his death rather than face being hacked to pieces by the black-armoured daemons who charged at him.

‘Look,’ shouted Hagama, raising his blade towards the ramparts further along the wall.

Taking a step forward, Regulus squinted through the night. In the dark he could see not only the desperate sights of battle, but also fell magicks. A writhing mass had covered the wall and was assailing the magick users of the Coldlands. It attacked remorselessly, hacking apart armoured men and robed sorcerers alike.

Regulus smiled, baring his white fangs to the night. This would be the glory he had waited for. This was where he would earn his name.

With a snarl he raced towards the thrashing beast, his warriors at his shoulder. He hacked through the first squirming branch as he ran past, seeing it die in a shower of dried foliage. He ignored the screams from all around him. Ignored the sorcerers retreating in their panic, ignored the armoured knights as they vainly tried to fight back against the onslaught. His only thoughts were of the glory of the kill.

A screaming Khurta charged out of the night, and Regulus hacked him down almost without thinking. He ducked as a twisting branch of foliage swept overhead, knocking Kazul off his feet. Janto leapt in, hacking at the branch with twin axes, roaring above the sound of battle, his cries carrying over the curtain wall and down towards the Khurtas below.

As though seeing them as the greatest threat, the thrashing foliage turned on the Zatani, focusing its assault on the fiercest fighters. The five warriors roared in unison as they fought, hacking at the branches, sending white sap flying as they fought desperately.

Regulus felt something grip his leg, but before he could hack at it he was pulled off his feet and hoisted into the air. His helm flew off into the night though he managed to keep hold of his black blade. Before he could hack at the branch that held him, another wrapped itself around his arm, pulling tight and threatening to tear him in two. Regulus growled against the pain, feeling his muscle and sinew strain as the branches tried to pull him apart. The growl turned into a roar of agony as he was lifted higher. As he was hoisted up he saw out over the battlements, facing the horde that had come to take this city.