All around was carnage as Waylian stared at the treacherous consequence of tapping the Veil before being fully trained. He almost didn’t see the Khurtas begin to flood over the wall. Almost didn’t look up in time to spot a savage eyeing him hungrily, blade in hand, eager for the kill.
Almost.
In a daze, Waylian spotted him at the last moment and he glanced around in panic, all thought of using his own fledgling powers gone from his head.
Well, you don’t want to end up a burned and blackened mess like our friend here, now do you, Grimm!
It was obvious from the look in his eyes the Khurta wasn’t going to hear any pleas for mercy and he certainly hadn’t come climbing over that wall for a chat about the weather.
He was going to kill Waylian without even breaking a sweat.
The Khurta grinned as Waylian began to move. He bared yellow fangs, sensing his prey begin to panic, feeling his blood pump the faster as Waylian tried to make his escape. But it was not escape Waylian was looking for. As the Khurta dashed towards him, sword raised, Waylian lunged for a spear dropped by a dead Raven Knight. His hands closed around the haft and he hauled it up, stunned at how heavy the spear was. He had seen such weapons wielded in the hands of the knights a score of times but could never have believed it would weigh so much.
The Khurta charged regardless, a scream of triumph baying from his twisted lips, just as Waylian levelled the spear tip. The Khurta rushed on, the last thing he expected was Waylian to defend himself. The impetus of his charge skewered him on the spearhead and it pierced his torso just beneath the ribs as he ran onto it a full two feet before realising his error.
His scream of triumph turned to one of dismay. All Waylian could do was stare into the Khurta’s wide eyes as he babbled in that sick northern tongue, screaming insults Waylian could scarce understand, though he didn’t have to be fluent to get the gist.
Still he gripped the spear as blood flowed down the haft. The Khurta weakened, dropping his blade and falling to his knees. His eyes turned hateful as he carried on his litany of curses.
‘I … I’m sorry?’ replied Waylian, not really knowing what else to say.
The Khurta spat a last insult from his lips before collapsing to the ground. Waylian just stared as the fighting raged around him. When he managed to pull himself together he found his nails were digging into his palms and his face was streaked with tears. Through salty eyes he glanced to his left in time to see a Khurta leaping at him. His charge had been silent. Waylian stood no chance against his axe.
The Khurta crumpled in flight, his neck twisting, his arms snapping and that wicked axe falling from his grip before he landed in a heap.
‘I thought I told you to stay behind me,’ said Gelredida, walking forward out of the night, glaring with a look of distaste.
‘I’m sorry, Magistra,’ Waylian replied. ‘But I was just-’
‘Never mind,’ she said, turning towards the battle. ‘There is still much to do. Stay close this time, and do try not to get in the way.’
Waylian nodded, but the Red Witch didn’t see him. She was already making her way towards the enemy. And Waylian had to admit feeling a little sorry for them.
ELEVEN
To left and right were men stricken with fear. Someone further down the line had pissed himself and Nobul watched as it trickled past his boot in a steaming river. Whoever it was must have had a bladder like a horse.
Nobul gripped the hammer tight, not that it made him feel any better. His heart was thumping fast and hard, seemingly in time to the beat of the Khurtic drums. He looked down at those bastards, come all this way to rape and murder. They were a seething mass of ferocity, their screams thrown forward with more violence than a clenched fist. Nobul stared it down as best he could. He’d been here before, faced worse enemies, and he was still breathing. But then he was the Black Helm — he was fucking invincible.
But are you? Are you the Black Helm or just broken old Nobul Jacks?
Maybe there’d be someone out there who’d stop him. Someone hard enough, someone who was iron and steel and could bring him down. The thought made him scan the horde as they raged, trying to spot their biggest and best. He willed them to charge, desperate for them to stop their howling, impatient for the fight to start.
And then the Khurtas fell silent.
The air was filled with a calm deathlier than anything Nobul had ever felt. His skin rose in bumps and it didn’t matter how hard he gripped that hammer, he couldn’t stop the fear and doubt creeping into his heart.
A single voice suddenly rose from the mass of bodies, holding those Khurtas in its grip like it was holding back time itself. Though he couldn’t understand the words, Nobul knew it chanted a litany of hate and he wanted them to attack now more than ever. He was ready for them, despite the fear, and he would match whatever fierceness they could bring with violence of his own.
The voice ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and from out of the black night air came a thousand whispers that rose into a howl. ‘Take cover,’ someone screamed, and Nobul had the presence of mind to duck his head behind one of the merlons as a massive volley of arrows fell on the curtain wall. More screams carried along the battlements as those not quick enough were struck by the black shafts. A lad fell silent at Nobul’s feet, an arrow buried in his eye and another through his cheek. He’d been standing there all day but not once had Nobul bothered to ask his name. Bit too late now.
More silence fell after the huge volley, and Nobul glanced over the wall to see if the Khurtas were on the way. If he’d been a godly man he would have said his prayers right then as he saw, not more arrows, but huge fucking rocks flying at the wall, one right towards where he was standing.
‘Out the bloody way,’ he shouted, diving aside as the rock struck, smashing the merlon he’d been peering over a moment before. It shattered, spraying shards in all directions as Nobul went sprawling, hammer spilling from his grip. He shook his head, dust and grit spilling from him, and hauled himself up, breath coming hard. His hand scrabbled through the rubble, desperate to find his hammer, and he felt a stab of cold relief when his fingers found the handle.
As he pulled himself to his feet he heard a shout from down the line, ‘Here they bloody come. Give it to ’em, lads!’
A row of archers moved forward, one struggling to push past Nobul’s bulk. Their serjeant gave the order to nock and draw but his voice was drowned out by the deafening noise rising up from below the curtain wall. As one, the Khurtas howled their fury to the night sky as they charged forward.
Myriad arrows cut the air as the archers fired down into the charging horde but it was like throwing snowballs at the sun. There was nothing that would stop the mass of savages reaching the wall.
Nobul girded himself. This was what he’d been waiting for. Yearning for. A chance to fight, and maybe die, facing his enemies. But there was something else, a seed of doubt nestled in the back of his mind.
You’re an old bastard now, and no mistake. This ain’t like it was at Bakhaus when you were strong and full of spunk. Who’s to say you’re not just a dried-up old man with nothing but memories of old glories to fuel him?