‘Volley this time, you useless bastards,’ said another of the archers. ‘On my count.’
From the corner of his eye, Nobul saw the gathered archers nock in unison, aiming at their targets despite how pointless it seemed. Loosing half a dozen times to kill two scouts was just a waste of arrows. There’d be easier targets soon enough when the Khurtas came charging forty thousand strong.
One of the archers counted back from three and there was a rasp of volley fire. The sound of their bows loosing as one was impressive enough, even if their aim was shite. Nobul could probably have done a better job, and he was about as good an archer as he was a milkmaid.
Though close, the volley of arrows seemed to hit everywhere but its target. This time both the Khurtas screamed in delight, moving their horses further away from the wall. It was then Nobul realised what they were doing, but before he had a chance to say so, someone barked at the archers to stop.
It was a deep voice, and old, but it carried enough command to make Nobul turn his head to see who owned it. A white-armoured knight was making his way across the battlements. His hair was down to his shoulders, moustache and beard drooping over his gorget. The armour that covered him from neck to toe was intricately gilded, making it look as though he wore a wolf’s pelt, and at his hip sat a huge sword that no man so old should have been able to wield.
‘Are you bloody stupid?’ said the old man, snatching the closest archer’s bow and rapping it over his head. The archer raised his hands to defend himself but gave no word of protest. ‘Do you think they’re offering themselves up as bloody target practice?’ The rest of the archers looked at one another dumbly, none of them daring to risk an answer. ‘They’re testing your range. They’re seeing how far the horde can advance before it’s in danger of being hit, you bloody dullards!’
The archers could only mumble their apologies. Two of them slunk off back along the parapet and the old knight flung the bow back at its owner who was still rubbing his head.
Grumbling to himself about incompetent morons, the knight turned to leave, then stopped, thinking better of it. Nobul watched as he slowly turned and made his way closer, casually, almost as though Nobul wasn’t there. Then he stopped at the battlements, resting his elbow on one of the merlons and looking out. The pair of them stood in silence for a while, as though the old man were sizing him up, wondering whether it was worth starting a conversation.
‘I remember you,’ he said, finally. ‘Or at least the man they say you are.’ Nobul gave no answer. He knew there were those who doubted he was the real Black Helm. And who could blame them — it had been the best part of sixteen years since he’d fought at Bakhaus Gate. Surely the Black Helm would be old by now, long past his best. This couldn’t be the real one, could it?
‘Don’t suppose it matters if you’re the same man or not,’ the knight continued, ‘as long as you can fight like the Black Helm.’ He looked Nobul up and down. ‘You look the part, at least.’
Nobul would have liked to ignore the knight, to tell himself this old man’s opinion didn’t matter a shit, but there was something about him. The way the man carried himself, the way he spoke, made Nobul want his acceptance. Made Nobul need this old knight to believe him.
‘I’m him, all right,’ Nobul said, still staring out across the plain. ‘Don’t worry yourself on that score.’
The knight nodded. ‘That’s a relief. We’ll need you, and no mistake. You fought like a daemon back then. Hope you’ve still got that in you.’
Well, have you? Have you still got that fight? Can you still swing that hammer? You killed a bar full of naked revellers and kicked a dog to death in recent days, but these are the Khurtas. Savages. Killers to a man. And you’re well past your prime — some might even say over-ripe. Have you really still got it in you?
‘Guess we’ll find out soon enough,’ Nobul said.
‘That we will,’ said the old man with a laugh. ‘I’m Bannon.’ He held out his arm.
Nobul knew the name and for a moment he paused before accepting that arm. The Duke of Valdor was standing next to him, striking up idle conversation about the past and what was coming from the north. Wasn’t every day you got to mull over the old days with nobility.
‘Nobul Jacks,’ he replied, grasping Bannon’s forearm in a warrior’s grip.
‘So that’s the name of the Black Helm?’ said Bannon. ‘Can’t say as I’ve heard of it. Would have thought a man like you would have made a name for himself in the Free Companies. Would have made himself rich.’
‘There’s also high odds in the Free Companies a man like that will make himself dead.’ Nobul released Bannon’s arm and went back to staring out north. ‘I didn’t fancy that.’
The old man chuckled. ‘That makes sense, I suppose. So what’s changed your mind? What’s made you pick that hammer up again? Chances are we’ll all be killed standing on this wall. You could have made a run for it like so many others but instead you chose to stay and fight.’
Nobul had to think on that. Had to go over everything that had happened to lead him here, to this point. All the loss, all the grief, all the pain and death. He would have told Bannon all about it, and he was sure the old man would have listened. But then again Nobul had never been much of a storyteller.
‘Sometimes there just ain’t a choice,’ he replied.
The duke nodded at that and stood beside Nobul, staring out onto the plain. With the archers having stopped their attempts to shoot them, the Khurtic riders had finished their milling and retreated back towards the distant ridge.
‘You’re right,’ Bannon said, still staring north. ‘Sometimes we just don’t choose. Sometimes those decisions are made for us. I lost my son to those savages. To some bastard assassin sent by Amon Tugha himself. I don’t have a choice at all. I’ll fight and I’ll die because there’s a debt I owe.’
Nobul could sense the pain in him, the bitterness. He wanted to admit that he’d lost a boy too. That he knew the sting of it, deep in your heart where no amount of vengeance could ever ease it. He should probably have warned the old man that it wouldn’t get any better no matter how many men he killed, but he guessed Bannon would find out in his own way.
‘There’ll be plenty more sons lost before this is over,’ he said instead.
Bannon nodded in agreement. ‘And fathers. And brothers. And if we don’t stop them at this wall there’ll be wives and mothers and all the rest too.’
Nobul continued to stare across the plain. He could just see the dark shafts of arrows in the grass, showing the Khurtas how close they could come to the wall without fear of being shot.
‘And if they’re gauging our range you can be sure they’re coming soon.’ Bannon looked at him, looked into the eyes behind his black helmet. ‘Are you ready?’
Nobul didn’t have to think on it. He already knew the answer to that one. ‘Aye, I’m ready. I’ve been ready for these fuckers a long time.’
‘Good.’ Bannon clapped him on the arm. ‘Then I’ll be proud to stand beside you.’
For the first time in an age, a smile crept across Nobul’s lips. ‘Don’t stand too close, old man. Wouldn’t want you getting in the way.’
Bannon laughed as he turned and continued to chuckle while he made his way across the battlements. It seemed strange to laugh so long at such a thing, but Nobul knew it was the gallows humour that struck all men in the calm before battle. There was nothing to laugh about here. Death was no laughing matter — whether you were dealing it out, or whether it was coming for you.
And Nobul Jacks knew full well that when the Khurtas finally came he’d be the one doing the dealing.
FOUR
Regulus and his warriors had been posted to the western wall, overlooking the vast river that ran in floods from the north. Crossing the river were three bridges, the centremost having long since collapsed, leaving only an impassable monument that reached up from the fast flowing waters like some drowning beast. On the other side was a vast, derelict city, crumbling and ancient, but still teeming with ragged Coldlanders. Even now they were marching into the city proper, fearing the onslaught that could at any moment descend from the north to consume them.