Might as well just stack it with the rest.
Serjeant Kilgar watched over them all with that one piercing eye, keeping them in check, bolstering their morale when needed. They’d been together long enough now though, they all knew their jobs. Do as the serjeant says and don’t question him. It had worked for them so far, and there had been no casualties to speak of. Even so, they were all still scared.
Nobul knew this weren’t even the real fight. The Khurtas were bringing that south with them, and they’d be bringing it screaming and roaring and with a razor’s edge. Not that it mattered to Nobul Jacks. Let them come. Let them lay siege, let them try to raze this city to the ground. They’d find there were a few folk ready to stand against them, ready to cut a bloody red line through their middle, and Nobul would be right at the front.
Part of him couldn’t wait. But then part of him remembered there was trouble enough to deal with here first.
‘Looks like rain,’ said Anton, glowering up at the grey clouds. He’d said it every day for the past four but there had been no rain as yet, just the miserable sky looking mournfully down on them.
‘That’s the least of your problems, you miserable bastard,’ said Bilgot with that smirk he used to try and mask his fear. No one found him funny but he still took the piss, still made out he was the jester of the bunch. Maybe he’d get the message eventually. Maybe not.
‘Never mind any of that,’ said Hake, pushing himself gingerly to his feet and gesturing with a withered hand. Nobul saw a young, skinny Greencoat emerge from one of the alleys and run towards them.
‘They’re coming,’ shouted the youth.
Men got to their feet, still weary from four days of guard duty. Kilgar strode to the front, the other serjeant, Bodlin, moving to stand beside him. The young lad stopped before them both, gripping his knees, panting for all he was worth.
‘Well?’ Kilgar growled.
‘They’re coming in … through the Rafts …’
‘How many?’
The lad shook his head. ‘Hundreds, it looks like.’
Kilgar swore under his breath. Nobul sympathised; he was none too happy either. The Aldwark Bridge had been closed off so refugees from the Town couldn’t cross the Storway into the city proper, but there was nothing they could do about the Rafts. It was a district unto itself, a flotilla strung across the mouth of the river that connected the old city with the new. There was little they could do to block it short of setting the place on fire.
‘Right lads,’ said Kilgar, turning to the two dozen of them set to defend the warehouse. ‘Time to form up.’ They were already moving into rudimentary ranks, but there simply weren’t enough of them to defend the whole building. All they could do was plant themselves in front of the huge wooden doors and hope for the best.
Bodlin was barking at his own men, setting them to block two of the alleyways that gave access to the front of the warehouse. The alleys were narrow, so a handful of lads with shields could hold them all day, but it was the main thoroughfare that was the problem. There was no way they’d be able to stop a rabble of hundreds.
It would have been an ideal job for cavalry. A few lads on horseback could easily control a mob — one charge into their midst would see them off good and proper, but every man who could sit on a horse was away north. No one had anticipated needing them for something like this, so the Greencoats would just have to do it the old-fashioned way.
Nobul took his place in the rank, right at the front. Right in the middle. It was where everyone wanted him; they all knew what he was capable of. Nobul wouldn’t have it any other way, right at the heart, where the violence was worst. Right where he was most likely to get killed. Right where he belonged.
Anton was to his left, Kilgar to his right and Bodlin next along. Nobul was starting to like the other serjeant almost as much as he liked Kilgar. They were both good men who led by example. Nobul had seen enough officers did their business from the back of the field to know a good one when he saw him. But no serjeant, however good, was going to save you if it was your time to go.
In the past few days they’d had crowds come to take the grain, crowds they’d beaten back — but they had never been numbered in their hundreds. A few good officers could never beat those odds. Nobul hoped the young lad had exaggerated. If he hadn’t … well, they’d find out soon enough.
After the clamour of men preparing themselves — grasping their spears and batons, adjusting their armour — a brief quiet fell over them. It was as though the whole city was deserted. Everything was calm. Peaceful. It brought back memories for Nobul, old and grim and black. It was always the same. Always the quiet moment before the carnage. A moment to stand and think about what you’d done with your life, what you still had to live for, what you’d miss if it all went to shit. Maybe some men took solace in those final thoughts. Not Nobul Jacks.
As they stood there waiting, a seagull fluttered down and planted itself right in front of them. It regarded the Greencoats from the side of its head, one eye staring, darting from man to fearful man until its gaze came to fall on Nobul, as though issuing challenge. It stared at him arrogantly … balefully. A lad further down the line spat, sending a white gob soaring towards the bird to land a foot away. The gull didn’t flinch.
‘This what we were worried about?’ shouted one of the lads. ‘I reckon I can take that bastard on my own.’
There was laughter, some of it too loud, more braying in fear than true mirth. It did little to relieve the tension.
Nobul just watched. Waited.
With a beat of white wings the gull was off, just as the bellowing started. It came from up the street, and they didn’t have to wait long before they saw what was making the noise. They’d come armed, carrying sticks, bricks, whatever they could lay their hands on. A big mob, bigger than before anyways, screaming to the sky.
‘Here they come,’ Kilgar shouted as the rabble filled the street up ahead, advancing like a stinking, unkempt wave. ‘Stand firm. Stand with the man next to you …’
He carried on shouting but the noise from the crowd drowned him out. Even standing right beside him Nobul could no longer make out the words over the shouting and yelping of mad hungry bastards come to take some food for themselves. They were starving. Desperate. But that was none of Nobul’s concern. His business was to stop them. Oh, and maybe to survive the afternoon — that would be a bonus.
They stopped about five yards in front of the Greencoats. Every one of them yelling, spitting their hunger and fury at the men who stood against them. It would be like this for a while until one of them plucked up the courage to attack. He’d be the one to get the hardest kicking.
Nobul tried not to look at them, tried not to focus on the faces. Seeing just one starving pathetic urchin in this human wretchedness might make him pause, might distract him long enough to get a shiv lodged in the neck. Don’t think of them as people. They’re a mob. A mob come to kill and steal.
As they stood baying, Nobul could feel Anton shifting uncomfortably. The lad was most likely ready to shit. There was no getting used to this, no learning to control the fear, you just had to swallow it up and spit it right back as hot fucking rage.
Someone from the back of the mob threw something through the air. It just missed Nobul, clanking off the helm on one of the lads behind him. Nobul heard him shout out in pain over the noise of the mob. More missiles came — sticks and rocks and what looked like mud but was probably shit. A bottle smashed in front of him, whatever it had contained splashing his boots. Piss more than likely.