Richard Ford - Lord of Ashes

There were six in all, each pair of eyes staring at him intently, every weapon held at the ready. They stopped and glared through the cold as the last of them walked through the breach. His weapons weren’t drawn, sword and axe hung loose at his sides, hands resting on them. He stood there for a while, eyeing Nobul with interest … respect even.

The helmet felt heavy on his head now, weighing him down like he’d forged it from a block of granite, not black iron. Nobul lifted it from his head and let it drop to the ground with a dull clank. Let them look at his face — his beaten, bloody face. Let them see his eyes. That would let them know, without a word, what they were about to get into.

Nobul squeezed the handle of his hammer one last time, taking solace in it. Then the leader spoke a word in their filthy alien language and they were at him.

He picked his target. They were rushing him as one and they’d most likely take him down, but he’d at least drag one of them along to the hells. They didn’t make a sound as they came, which was more unnerving than if they’d come screaming, but Nobul was past being unnerved.

He swung at the one straight in front, but the bastard planted his foot, halting his attack and leaning back from the swing. Nobul cursed, expecting to feel the impact of a blade, the pain of his flesh splitting, but it didn’t come. Instead two Khurtas bowled into him, knocking him off balance, and they all went down into the rubble. One of them had hold of his arm, another around his neck. His hammer arm was free, though, which was all he needed.

He planted his knee on a Khurta’s neck, slamming his hammer down. It crumpled the side of the Khurta’s skull and he went limp. They were shouting now in their weird tongue, as though coordinating their attack. The five of them jumped on him at once and he writhed, shrugging two of them off. His other hand got free and he grasped one by the throat, squeezing for all his might. Nobul roared, raising his hammer, but something snared his wrist, tightening. A rope. One of the Khurtas was on the other end of it, pulling for all he was worth. Nobul snarled in pain but he couldn’t hold onto his hammer. As it dropped from his grip he grasped the rope instead and pulled, dragging the Khurta towards him a pace.

‘Come on, bastards!’ he screamed, lifting the Khurta he held by the throat. The man struggled in the air for a moment before Nobul slammed him down head first amongst the rubble, cracking his skull.

‘I’ll kill all you fuckers!’

They were on him again.

He butted one of them, shattering his nose, but this Khurta was determined enough to keep hold.

They all breathed heavily, locked in a wrestling match, four on one. Nobul staggered, feeling his strength ebb. One of them could easily have pulled a blade, stuck it in his ribs and ended all of this, but they didn’t.

Under their weight Nobul fell to his knees. His breath came in strangled gasps and in front he could see the Khurta with the sword and axe, walking all casual, watching on like this was sport for him.

‘Bastards! Fucking bastards,’ screamed Nobul, his voice hoarse as he tried to spit his defiance.

A rope came over his head, not quite reaching his neck, and he caught it in his teeth, biting down, growling like an animal. More ropes were flung about him, securing his arms, and he could feel them binding his hands behind.

Nobul bit down on that rope, still roaring from his throat. Screaming at that lone Khurta as he stood watching, a smile slowly creeping up his face.

He stepped forward as more rope was tied around Nobul’s beaten body. Then he spoke — words that were soft and slow for a Khurta. Words that spoke Nobul’s defeat louder than the roar of battle or the feel of a knife to the throat.

Then black.

The roof of the Chapel of Ghouls provided the perfect vantage point from which to view the city. On any other day Waylian would have appreciated it. Revelled in it. Not now, though. What he could see filled him with dread. A horror he had never felt before, even with everything he had been through.

It was better than what lay on the roof, though.

Behind him his mistress was dead, her body already blackened by the unholy canker she had allowed Bram to infect her with. But her plan had worked.

As the rain poured, the Khurtas had come again, swarming over the walls and through the smashed Stone Gate. The ghouls had met them with all their fury. From the top of the chapel Waylian had been able to see the carnage, their hunger for slaughter, the torn and wasted bodies they left behind. It was for good reason they had been imprisoned for so long — nothing could stand against them.

As the sun came up and the rains halted it seemed the Khurtas had been routed, unable to withstand the feral hunger of the ghouls. They had done enough. It was time for them to return to their prison.

Waylian turned to Bram, whose head was bowed, face hidden by the mass of sodden black hair. He did his best not to glance at Gelredida, whose body lay prone on the roof of the chapel.

‘Call them back,’ Waylian said, as a scream rose from over the city. It was accompanied by an unearthly howl from the depths of the hells itself, reminding him that he needed to act with urgency before the creatures destroyed what remained of Steelhaven.

Bram slowly looked up through his matted hair. Waylian felt his heart stutter as he saw those eyes, blacker than the deepest pit, glaring at him. Though Bram’s hands were still secured in iron manacles it did little to reassure Waylian that he was safe.

‘Why?’ asked Bram, the hint of a smile on his face.

Waylian took a threatening step forward, or at least as threatening as he could muster.

‘This has to end. You’ve done enough.’

Bram shook his head. ‘No, Grimmy. I haven’t done enough by a long sight. I haven’t done enough until this city is flattened and the heads of the dead are piled and rotting higher than the palace of Skyhelm.’

‘You can’t,’ said Waylian, half pleading, half demanding.

‘And who’s going to fucking stop me, Grimmy? You?’

‘If I have to,’ answered Waylian, taking another step across the roof.

Rembram Thule laughed through his yellowing teeth. His manacles jangled as he pulled something from the sleeve of his tattered robe and Waylian stopped when he saw it was the iron dagger he’d used to sacrifice Magistra Gelredida.

‘You’ve got brave in your old age, Grimmy.’ He spun the knife in the air, catching it deftly by the handle. ‘Not that whimpering little puppy you were when I first found you.’

‘I’ve been through a lot,’ said Waylian. ‘And I’m not scared of you.’ His words might have had more impetus if his voice hadn’t cracked while he was saying them.

Bram laughed again. ‘What do you think you’re going to achieve? This city is doomed anyway, look around you.’ He pointed with his knife at the destruction evident in all directions. ‘Let it crumble. Then we can build it anew, in our own image, Grimmy. Imagine that.’

‘What? You think I’m just going to join you?’

‘Yeah, why not? I know we’ve had our disagreements in the past, and we did try to kill one another, but why let a little thing like that get in the way of ruling a kingdom? Think about it; the old order is dead. We are the new, Grimm. You and me.’

Waylian shook his head, eyeing the knife in Bram’s hand. ‘You’re insane.’

‘Now, now,’ said Bram with a frown. ‘There’s no need to be rude.’

‘You are insane.’ Waylian could feel the rage bubbling up inside once more. ‘You’ve always been mad. I thought you were just arrogant and selfish at first but no — you’re a fucking lunatic.’