Tannick nodded. ‘Aye, well you’re back in one piece at least. Well done.’
‘Thanks,’ said Merrick as his father walked away. It struck him that the old man hadn’t seemed overly concerned about the men who hadn’t come back, but over the last few days they’d lost plenty of brothers to the enemy. It was clear Tannick couldn’t mourn them all.
Merrick took some water from a barrel, feeling it cool his parched throat. With all the arse-clenching fear he hadn’t realised just how thirsty he was. As he looked around at the other lads he saw Cormach taking the stairway up to the battlements.
He obviously wants to be alone. He has just saved the queen, after all. He wants to bask in his glory by himself. You definitely shouldn’t interrupt him whilst he’s locked in quiet reflection. He hates you as well, so you’d be a stupid moron if you tried to make conversation now.
Merrick took the stairs after Cormach.
The Whoreson was waiting on the walkway, staring out over the battlements as the sun rose in the east. Merrick casually walked up and stood beside him, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, like this was some kind of accident.
‘I’m sorry for the brothers we lost,’ said Merrick, unsure why he was even bothering with this conversation. ‘I know you knew them longer than me. It must be hard that we’ve lost so many.’
Cormach glanced over at him, then back out towards the rising sun. ‘Not as hard as you might think,’ he replied.
Not quite as unpleasant a reply as you were expecting, Ryder. At least he didn’t call you a cunt.
‘But these are your brothers. Weren’t you brought up with them? Aren’t you all bound by blood and honour?’
Cormach looked at him now, and for the first time there was the slightest trace of a smile on his lips. ‘Don’t have any brothers, do you?’
‘No, I, er-’
‘And if you did would you want them calling you Whoreson all the time? The only reason they call me nothing worse is they know I could end every last one of them.’
‘I see,’ said Merrick, remembering well when he was on the receiving end of Cormach’s swordsmanship and having no doubt he could do exactly what he claimed. ‘So that’s not a term of endearment then?’
Cormach barked a laugh at that. ‘What the fuck do you think?’
‘I thought it might be something to do with your prowess in the whorehouse. Maybe a curse all your enemies shout before you-’
‘My mother was a cheap backstreet whore from Silverwall. It’s no big secret.’
Merrick was a little taken aback by the candid answer, but not all that surprised. ‘But how did you go from that to being the first sword of the Wyvern Guard?’
Cormach fixed him with an amused look.
‘Your father didn’t pick his recruits from the highborn. Did you think he trawled the provinces looking for little lordlings to join his crusade? Every last man of us is scum off the streets. Lads no one would miss. Tannick took us all when we were young enough to obey him without question.’
‘And your mother was happy with that?’
Cormach’s expression darkened. ‘Lord Marshal Tannick bought me for ten copper pennies.’
And you thought he was a bastard for leaving you all alone with your mother when you were nothing but a child.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Merrick.
‘Don’t be. It was a generous offer. She only asked for five, by all accounts.’
‘But still, I’m sorry. That’s an awful-’
‘What the fuck are you sorry about? Why are we even talking? You don’t give two shits about me and I definitely couldn’t give a flying bollock about you. We’ll stand on the wall and we’ll watch each other’s backs and tonight or tomorrow or some other time soon we’ll both be dead. We don’t have to be cocking friends to do it.’
With that he turned and walked on down the battlements.
Merrick watched for a while as that mad bastard made his way along the wall, and for the life of him he couldn’t work out why they had to be friends either.
THIRTY-THREE
Nobul was exhausted but it wouldn’t beat him. It was a matter of not giving in to it, of ignoring the aches and fatigue, but when you were dead on your feet all the ignoring in the world wouldn’t do you any good. He’d slept at least, but that had probably been a mistake. When you woke, that’s when all the hours of swinging a hammer and taking a beating would catch up with you. The stiffness would seep into your joints, the cuts would sting that much more and the bruises would be so sore you couldn’t even touch them. Whatever mad rush of blood you’d had the night before that kept the pain away was gone and all you had to stop yourself weeping from the hurt was the power of your will.
A lot of the other lads had succumbed to it. He’d heard weeping aplenty over the last couple of days, in the early hours of dawn when the Khurtas retreated back north and all that remained was the aftershock of battle. When you took a look around and saw your mates lying dead in a pile of their own guts. When it was time to ask yourself why you’d been the one to live.
Thoughts like that could drive you mad. There was no fairness to war. Sure, you could tip the odds in your favour by being the meanest, hardest bastard on the battlefield, but when your time was up that was it. The Lord of Crows wouldn’t give a shit how tough you were, he’d come for you just the same.
Nobul had never believed in any of that religion crap, but he could understand why men did. Especially when every day you were facing a painful end. Thinking there might be something waiting in the hereafter could well make the knowledge you were gonna die that much more bearable. It might keep you going when it all seemed lost. Nobul Jacks didn’t need any of it, though. He had enough to keep him going. He had his hate.
No matter how much pain he was in, no matter what aches ailed him, that hate would keep him going until the end. Until he could swing his hammer no more. Until some Khurta came screaming at him with just enough fury to put him down.
But until then …
Someone was standing beside him breathing heavily. Nobul glanced up to see Dustin looking at him warily. He’d known the lad a while, fought with him over the past weeks, but there was a distance between them now, like Dustin had no idea how to approach Nobul since he’d seen the Black Helm in action. They’d never been the best of friends, never had a long, lingering chat over beers, but some part of Nobul felt sorry about that. He’d never revelled in being feared, but it just seemed to follow him round.
Couldn’t be helped now, though.
‘What?’ he said rising gingerly to his feet, using the wall to help him more than he’d have liked.
‘It’s Kilgar,’ replied Dustin, taking a step back as Nobul stood to full height. ‘He took a spear to the guts in the last assault. They don’t think he’s gonna make it through the day. He’s been asking for you.’
Nobul nodded, gesturing for Dustin to lead the way. There weren’t many people he’d have taken the time to see, to sit by their bedside as they breathed their last, but if he owed anyone in this city then it was probably Kilgar. The one-eyed fucker had taken him into the Greencoats when he’d had nowhere else to go, and he’d saved his life on the wall. Sparing the bastard a few moments at the end was the least Nobul could do.
Dustin led them down to what they were using as a makeshift infirmary — an old storehouse and stables knocked through to make one big building. It was eerily quiet as Nobul walked in, there was no one groaning, no one crying out for the priest. Here and there a Daughter of Arlor was tending to a wounded man with a damp cloth but other than that there was no movement. It was almost peaceful.
Kilgar was in one corner, Bilgot sat next to him. The fat lad looked a bit leaner than he had done last time Nobul saw him. His face was ashen beneath the grime and it was obvious he was about ready to bawl his eyes out.