Richard Ford - Herald of the Storm

‘Go on then,’ said Denny, urging Nobul on.

‘ You fucking go on then!’ he replied, not wanting to get close enough to have a piece taken out of him by those claws.

The devil boy heaved in a breath, and for a second Nobul thought he was about to charge. He had no idea what he’d do — shit himself? run like fuck? — but no attack came. Instead, the lad lifted himself up full, raising those black claws high above his head before smashing them down.

Nobul was hit by whatever it was had been unleashed. He felt himself knocked off his feet, heard a din like thunder and took shards of stone and dust in the face.

When he came round, half the platform was missing, just smashed in, a big hole where it had been. He was the only one still on it, clinging to what remained, his green jacket now grey with the dust that hung around in a huge cloud.

‘Lincon!’

He heard the shout, but at first couldn’t work out where it was coming from.

‘Lincon, help!’

He stood gingerly, looking around in a daze, then glanced over the torn lip of the platform.

There was Denny, clinging on to a bit of masonry, dangling fifty feet above the floor of the Chapel.

‘Lincon, I can’t get up,’ he said, tears welling in his eyes, voice all desperate.

Nobul made to reach down, to grab Denny’s wrist and pull him up to safety, when he stopped.

In that instant he wondered if Markus had tears in his eyes when he’d been bleeding to death on that roof. Wondered whether he’d had time to cry out, all desperate like.

‘Lincon?’ said Denny. ‘Lincon, help me. I’m slipping.’

He could see Denny’s grip was loosening. It would have been so easy to reach out and …

Save the bastard that killed your son? Is that what you’re made of now, Nobul Jacks? You used to be feared. You used to have men shitting in their britches and now you’re going to show mercy?

Nobul turned. He could hear Denny crying out, could hear him panicking as he hung there, the desperation in his voice.

Fuck him.

Nobul moved towards the stairway, ready to walk away, ready to leave that bastard to his fate.

You’re a hard one and no mistake, Nobul Jacks. Tough as they come and twice as evil. Leave a lad hanging like that, leave him alone in his last moments. Yeah, you’re the toughest. No wonder you had such a reputation.

No! That wasn’t him! He wasn’t … evil.

He turned, scrabbling his way back up to the platform, lurching over the edge, ready to grab Denny and pull him back up.

But Denny wasn’t there.

Nobul could just see him through the dust, laid out on his back on the floor far below.

Bloody Denny! The lad hadn’t made a fucking sound. Hadn’t cried out. Hadn’t let him know he was falling.

Nobul raced down the stairs.

Stupid boy. What was he doing on that roof in the first place? He should have been at home where he was safe.

There was blind panic inside him now, knotting his stomach as he stumbled to the bottom. When he got there he saw the young lad in robes was helping the old woman to her feet.

Nobul ignored them. Denny was lying in the rubble, not moving, but his eyes were open, looking up like he was enjoying the clouds going by.

But there weren’t no clouds to see.

Nobul knelt beside him.

‘You’re all right, lad,’ he said. ‘You’re gonna be all right. Nobul’s here.’

A sob escaped him. He hadn’t sobbed for years, and something in him tried to hold it back, but that just made it worse.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you. You shouldn’t have been alone.’ The words were strangled, throttled by anger.

Anger at the world.

Anger at himself.

‘I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean anything I said.’ He grabbed the boy now, pulling him into a tight embrace, squeezing him hard, not ever wanting to let go. ‘But it’ll all be fine. It’ll all be okay, you’ll see. We’ll go back home and see your mam and we’ll all be together. It’ll be just like it was.’

He couldn’t hold it in any more. All the pain and all the grief, held inside by so much rage and loathing. It all came out then, and Nobul Jacks didn’t care if anyone saw.

And in the Chapel of Ghouls he held the boy close and wept till he was dry.

The vast stone stairway that led up to the Temple of Autumn was flanked on either side by towering granite braziers. They were constantly lit, day and night, there to guide the beggars and the sick to the great temple gates that they might be given succour.

Kaira was thankful that there were no such almsmen here tonight. Thankful that there was no one here to bear witness to her slinking back into the temple like a thief.

Where else would she go, though? She had failed in her mission. After slaughtering the slavers and freeing those in bondage, there was no way she would be received back into the Guild.

She was most likely marked for death, but had no fear of that. Something else troubled her.

All her life she had been drilled in piety, duty, honour. In recent days she had learned that even the basest person could learn to do the right thing. Merrick had thrown off his ignoble past, had acted heroically, and Kaira had helped prompt this. Was it right, then, that she should turn her back on him, on others like him in the city, and return to the Temple of Autumn?

She made her way up the stairs, seeing the gate come into view before her, its outline seeming ominous in the flickering light. As though she were expected, the gate opened at her approach, revealing the great courtyard within.

Kaira had been anticipating no reception, had wanted no greeting, but there were figures awaiting her: Shieldmaidens in armour, standing in disciplined ranks.

So this was how it would be. She was to be publicly admonished.

She had at least been allowed to leave the Temple in furtive shame, but now on her return she was to be rebuked before her sisters.

For a fleeting moment she thought about going back down the stairs, of turning her back on the temple forever. But Kaira Stormfall had not been bred to turn and run. She had been bred to face adversity head on, to take the fight to her enemies.

Kaira steeled herself and strode through the gates.

The Exalted stood front and centre, flanked by her Shieldmaidens. Kaira could see Samina, her sister in all but blood, at the front of that rank, her features impassive, her body as a statue, bearing shield and spear in the image of Vorena, whose likeness looked down on them all.

Kaira glanced up at that statue a hundred feet above them and wondered if she had truly shamed Vorena’s name. Despite the failure of her mission it didn’t feel as though she had. It felt as though she had fought to the end, despite the odds being stacked against her. Surely no more could be asked of any Shieldmaiden?

She stopped before the Exalted, whose face was encased in a full helm, her body garbed in golden plate and her seven-foot spear gripped in a gauntleted fist.

There was no need for Kaira to kneel: she was a Shieldmaiden no longer; and so she simply stood and waited.

And then the Exalted proffered her a nod. It was a simple gesture, almost casual, but heavy with import. It meant some kind of acceptance; it meant she was not an outcast, a pariah.

The Exalted stepped aside, and the ranks of Shieldmaidens behind her moved without a word, forming a corridor for Kaira to walk through. She took a step forward, looking at Samina, who smiled beneath her halfhelm and offered that same nod of acceptance. As Kaira made her way along the corridor of Shieldmaidens each one acknowledged her similarly, each one honouring her.

This was the last thing Kaira had expected. For a fleeting moment she allowed herself hope, to think that perhaps she might be accepted back into the fold, that her name, her warrior’s name, might be returned to her.