Richard Ford - Herald of the Storm

‘You in a rush?’ Nobul asked.

Markus looked up. It was a guilty look if ever Nobul had seen one, but his son shook his head nonetheless. He slowed his eating somewhat, but still finished well before Nobul, quickly getting up and taking his trencher and spoon to the bucket that stood in the corner. Nobul watched his son clean his plate, stack it by the windowsill to dry, then turn, anxiously.

‘Am I keeping you?’ Nobul asked.

Markus shook his head, but his leg was twitching, quivering like the hind end of a rutting stallion; it was obvious he wanted to be somewhere, anywhere, else.

‘It’s getting late. Sun’s gone down. You know I don’t like it when you-’

‘I’ll be careful,’ Markus said. ‘And I won’t be out later than last bell.’

Nobul nodded, then bent his head towards the door in a go on then, get out gesture.

Markus gave a half smile, and was rushing towards the door when Nobul suddenly reached out to stop him. He had only wanted to tell him to keep a lookout, and not stray too far, but when he grabbed his son’s arm he felt something hard beneath the sleeve.

Whatever he was going to say was forgotten as he pulled Markus towards him, dragging up the sleeve of his cotton shirt and seeing the tiny pouch tied to his forearm. He didn’t speak but pulled the pouch free and wrenched it open. He could already tell what was inside. Four tiny coins sat at the bottom: three coppers and one silver piece. Enough to feed them for a week.

Nobul stood up slowly as he poured the coins into his open hand.

‘Where did you get these?’ Rage was building, and it wasn’t helped by the fact that Markus looked so guilty, like someone caught red-handed. There was no answer, and his anger bubbled up like that thick broth, in the stew pot. Nobul towered over the slight form of his son. ‘Tell me!’ he shouted. ‘Did you steal it? Who did you-’

Then he froze. It wasn’t possible, it couldn’t be, but deep down he already knew it was.

‘Did you get this from under my bed? For what? To give to those urchins you’ve taken up with? What have I told you about that street scum?’

The tear that suddenly ran down Markus’ cheek spoke the confession his lips didn’t dare.

The slap was loud as Nobul’s meaty palm struck his son’s cheek. It was hard enough to knock Markus off his feet and send him sprawling, his gangly limbs flailing. It had been instinctive, a result of the rage, and as Nobul watched his son fall he instantly regretted it.

He took a step forward, reaching out to pick the boy up, his mouth open to speak a word of regret, perhaps even to say he was sorry, but Markus was immediately up on his feet and at the door. Nobul didn’t even have time to call out before Markus had wrenched open the door and run out into the night.

Nobul could only watch him leave.

The coins were still in his hand. They seemed to burn in his palm like he was holding a searing brand, reminding him of his guilt. With a feral growl he flung the coins across the room where they bounced and scattered.

Slowly, with each breath, he calmed, the rage cooling, his eyes tightly shut. For another man, a weaker man, they might have been shut to quell the tears of his regret, but Nobul had done all his crying twelve years ago. He had no tears left.

He closed the door and went to the hearth to sit in the chair. Her chair.

Rona had been young when they met. Too young for Nobul, or so everyone had told him. At first he’d ignored them, just happy that she had shown him any attention, happy that they were together. He’d never met anyone like her before, anyone so innocent and sweet and kind. Eventually though he had listened to the voices: his old friends, or what Nobul had in the way of friends, and also her parents, though they had never spoken ill of him to his face. He’d responded by trying to put her off, tried to explain he was no good and she should find someone better, someone younger. It hadn’t worked at first, not until he got drunk one night and into a bar fight. Then she had seen the real Nobul Jacks, the fast Nobul Jacks, tough and ruthless. Yet two days after, when all the dust had settled, she’d come back to him. He hadn’t been able to turn her away, and he had promised, as she asked, not to fight any more.

They were married north of the city, just the two of them under an old elm tree. Just them and the druid, a wedding looked over by the Old Gods just as she’d wanted. They returned to the city and hadn’t been back more than a day before Nobul got the call up. There had been rumblings in the south for months. The Wardens of the South had come back with reports that there were Lion Men abroad, beating the drums of war with their eye on the Free States. As an ex-mercenary Nobul was expected to fight, expected to offer his sword arm to the cause, despite the promise he had made to Rona. He had no choice.

Before he travelled south with the armies, he promised Rona he would come back, promised he would return with everything he went with still intact. Nobul had asked nothing of her. How could he? She was young, and if he died she would have to move on, find someone new to take care of her.

War against the Aeslanti had been worse than any of them could have thought. They’d heard the tales that the beast warriors of Equ’un were giants who lived on the flesh of men. The truth had been much worse.

The Battle of Bakhaus Gate was legendary now; a thousand brave men holding the pass against a horde of roaring monsters. Fighting valiantly with the flags of the Free States held aloft with pride.

Reality was somewhat less glorious — it always was.

They had been closer to ten thousand, every one of them pissing in fear. No one gave a fuck about flags or pride or glory, they just wanted to run, and they would have if they hadn’t been more afraid of their commanding officers than the enemy. The vast host they faced had been enough to make them question that fear though, and their loyalty to officers or even the king. An armoured sea of bestial daemons, waving massive blades and roaring louder than a thunderstorm, had swept towards Bakhaus Gate.

But somehow they had won.

Nobul kept his promise to Rona, and brought himself back with all parts still working, but what he had seen down in the south, the slaughter and the cruelty, had deadened him inside. Deadened him to her joy at having a baby and deadened him to watching that child grow. Instead he had learned a trade, a hard punishing trade — and busied himself with it heart and soul. What heart and soul he had left.

When Rona fell ill with the Sweet Canker, Nobul only flung himself into his work still further.

Only when he found her corpse lying in bed, her blue eyes staring at the ceiling, her body eaten away by sickness, did he realise just what he had missed … what he had lost.

All he had left was Markus, and now it seemed he had managed to drive the boy away. He needed Rona, needed her sweet touch, her careful words and her kindness, but she was gone.

Now he had nothing.

Nobul picked himself up from the chair, pulled on his boots and walked the short distance to the forge. He was pleased to find the embers of the fire still burned.

With a heavy heart he picked up his hammer and began the song of steel anew. Perhaps, with luck, he might lose himself in it once more.

The chamber was on the north side of the Tower of Magisters, its single window looking out onto the Storway and the Old Stone Road where they both began their long journeys. It was far from the highest room, only at the mid point of the vast citadel, but the view from its window still rivalled that from any other spire in the city of Steelhaven.

At one end of the chamber stood a pitch-blackened chalkboard covered in sigils, ciphers and runes, arranged in a web-like pattern of equations. To any man literate enough to read it would have seemed like a random scrawl, a pretty pattern of outlandish characters that might represent some ancient and forbidden language. To the members of the Caste, those within the Free States who were given licence to practise the arts of magick, it represented the source of their power, the meaning behind the Veil, a way to tap sorceries from the diabolical storms that raged unseen throughout the lands of men.