‘Thanks,’ Merrick replied, suppressing what he actually wanted to say, his shoulder burning like it was on fire.
Tannick walked forward, carrying his massive sword, his helmet covering most of his face.
‘Stand,’ he said, his voice stern and commanding.
Merrick rose to his feet, doing his best not to show any discomfort. He was being inducted into an order that showed no pain or fear. Now wasn’t the time for whining.
‘You bear the mark,’ said Tannick. ‘But do you bear the will to serve?’
Merrick had already been drilled in the ceremony and knew the words. Whether he believed them or not was another matter.
‘I bear the will,’ he replied. ‘And the courage.’
‘Show me,’ said Tannick holding out the sword.
Merrick didn’t hesitate. He’d never been surer of anything in his life. There had been a time, and not too long ago, when he would have baulked at this, taken the piss, laughed at the solemnity of it all. Not now.
With his right hand he grasped the blade, feeling its keen edge break the skin of his palm. It stung, but only for a second, as he removed his hand and made a fist. Without waiting for instruction, he walked to the barrel that sat in the centre of the courtyard and held his hand over it. He could smell the wine inside. How he wanted to just stick his head in and take a long gulp of it. But he didn’t; he held his hand over the barrel and let the blood run from his fist until he could squeeze out no more.
About a dozen Wyvern Guard walked forwards then, each one holding a goblet. Merrick saw that one of them was Cormach, the man who had bested him so easily in the palace gardens. Each man dipped in his cup and then held it up.
‘Wyvern Guard,’ said Tannick. ‘We have a new brother. Let his blood mix with yours, now as it will in battle.’
With that the dozen knights drank deep of their cups, swilled the wine around their mouths and then one after the other spat it back into the barrel. Merrick noted that Cormach swallowed his mouthful and just spat in a gob of phlegm, but then what had he expected?
When they’d finished, one of the knights offered him a goblet. Again Merrick didn’t hesitate, dipping it into the wine barrel. As he raised the full goblet to his lips all he could hope was that he hadn’t fished out Cormach’s gobbet. Thankfully, as it went down it just tasted of wine, and he drank deep, gulping it as if it was the last drink he’d ever have.
He was surrounded then. Someone took the goblet from his hands and the dozen knights began to deck him in armour. Gauntlets, vambraces, greaves, breastplate and the rest, all strapped on. The lad who buckled the rerebrace to his upper arm was none too gentle either and Merrick fought back a grimace against the pain from his new tattoo.
When they’d finished they stood back, revealing Tannick standing there with that bloody great sword again. Bludsdottr they called it, an ancient name for an ancient blade.
‘You’ve shared our blood, Merrick Ryder. Are you with us until death?’
There was silence. This was it, devoting his life to this crowd of nutcases.
It was all he’d ever wanted
‘I am with you. Beyond death and to the hells,’ Merrick replied, kneeling and kissing the blade Tannick held in his hands.
With that a cheer went up from the gathered Wyvern Guard. Each man came forward to pat Merrick on the back or hug him in brotherhood. It reminded him a little of his days in the Collegium of House Tarnath where he’d learned to fight. Back then, he’d never appreciated any of the camaraderie, considering himself above it — but this was different. This felt like he belonged, not least because his father was in charge here. And because he’d been given the choice of joining with these men, not forced into it at an early age, whether he liked it or not.
As he was welcomed by his fellow knights Merrick could see his father standing and watching.
Was that a smile on the old bastard’s face?
No, you must have just imagined it.
As the knights laughed and helped themselves to wine, clearly none too concerned about what exactly they were sharing, Tannick walked over.
‘You’re one of us now, lad,’ he said. ‘Make me proud.’
‘I will,’ Merrick replied. ‘Don’t worry about that.’
They looked at each other, and for a moment Merrick wondered if his father was searching for any sign of doubt. It was too late now, though; he’d taken the mark and said the words. Merrick wasn’t about to show any regrets. When his father eventually gave a nod, Merrick knew he’d passed the test.
‘There’ll be chance to prove yourself soon enough,’ said Tannick. ‘I for one can’t wait.’
With that he turned and, as he did, Merrick spotted something of a mad glint in his eye. Whether he should be worried about that, only time would tell.
As he stood there, Merrick sensed someone at his shoulder. He turned to see Cormach Whoreson glaring at him with dark eyes, his face looking anything but welcoming.
‘One of us now, are you?’ he asked.
Merrick glanced down at his bronze armour. ‘It certainly looks that way,’ he replied.
‘Takes more than a suit of armour and a few words to be a man of the Wyvern Guard. Takes steel and blood and heart.’ He tapped the centre of his breastplate. ‘Think you’ve got that in you?’
Merrick fixed Cormach with as icy a glare as he could muster. He reckoned it came somewhere between frightened kitten and surprised washerwoman. ‘I know I have,’ he replied.
For a moment he thought Cormach might try to stare him down, might call him out and they’d have to draw steel. Before any of that could happen, Cormach smiled.
‘Yeah, course you have,’ he said.
Merrick smiled back. Had he won this bastard over after all?
He turned back to the rest of the men, about to ask for a goblet of his own, when Cormach punched him hard on the arm, striking his armour with a dull thud right where his tattoo was. Merrick almost screamed, gritting his teeth and letting out a low moan.
‘Welcome to the Wyvern Guard, cunt,’ said Cormach, before he walked off and pushed his way towards the barrel of wine.
Welcome indeed, thought Merrick. What the fuck have I let myself in for?
FIFTY-FOUR
The song of steel was not a pretty tune. But Nobul Jacks played it regardless, played it like he never had before.
It had fast become obvious he would never be able to achieve what he wanted alone, so two forges and their smiths had been requisitioned by the Greencoats to help him craft armour for the Zatani. It felt strange to be back in the Trades Quarter, back at his old job, but it was also somehow liberating. No longer did he feel constrained by lack of coin or pressure from the Guild. For the first time in what seemed like an age he was able to take pleasure in his work, revelling in the sound of hammer on steel, the smell of white hot metal, the bright flash of spark on anvil.
This was what he was born to do: to craft mighty armour with nothing but the keenness of his eye and the strength in his arm. To create and fashion and hone, rather than destroy.
But Nobul knew there would be destruction enough to come. There would be carnage and, gods willing, he would be in the middle of it. Not that the will of the gods mattered a shit. They wouldn’t help him, or this city. The only thing that would save Steelhaven was a dirty bloody fight to the death. And Nobul Jacks knew how to do that all right.
Sweat poured off him as he went at it in the little forge. The fire burned white and he was stripped to the waist, enjoying the feeling of strength returning to muscles that had for too long been allowed to go soft. As he paused, reaching for a jug of tepid water to slake his thirst, he heard a commotion outside.
Laying his hammer down on the anvil, Nobul opened the door, letting the chill from outside cool his moist flesh. The noise was like an urgent hum, and Nobul watched as a gathering crowd hurried northwards up the street.