Herald of the Storm

TWENTY-ONE

They called it the Town. It had borne many names in the past, most of which Nobul didn’t know, ancient names in old languages long dead. Back then it was most likely a group of fishermen’s huts built where the river met the sea; a huddled community fending for itself in the leanest of times. Later it would have been a makeshift fort, with a wooden palisade defending it from the land to the north and with the sea at its back. Over the centuries the wooden buildings had become stone, the palisade of tree trunks a curtain wall. The rickety wooden jetties built by the fishermen of old had been stripped down and rebuilt as a vast harbour, turning an ancient hamlet into a massive port — a hub for trade and commerce with countries from three continents.

With its trade in arms — its artisans crafted the finest weapons and armour in the provinces — and its standing as the most impregnable fortress the Teutonians had ever built, it had taken on the name of Staelhafn in the old tongue — Steelhaven. It was a bright beacon in a time of shadows, a monument to the dawn of a new civilisation.

But times changed.

In the days of Arlor it was an inhuman threat the Teutonians faced, and the Sword Kings had been raised to face it, tribal leaders given powerful weapons hammered and tempered in the forges of Steelhaven. However, in the early years of that conflict they had faced an infernal foe, and could do nothing to save the great port from the daemons that wanted the races of man enslaved or dead. The city had been destroyed: fires burned and the dead screamed from one winter to the next, they said.

The Old City, as it became known, had been abandoned, only its ghosts left to walk the shattered streets. A new Steelhaven was built alongside, greater than the old one had ever been, a testament to the enduring spirit of Arlor and his Sword Kings, but in its shadow the Old City stood, a constant reminder that even the greatest metropolis can fall.

Despite its reputation as a sepulchre of revenants, people still lived amongst the ruins. It was a haven for the desperate and the mad, those who cared little for the spectres, real or imagined, who might stalk the shadowy ruins. The inhabitants called it the Town. A quaint name that hid its sinister nature.

‘This place is a right shit hole.’

Denny had a way of summing things up.

Nobul just grunted his assent, keeping a careful look out. Amber Watch was alone here — the other watches were clearing out other sections of the Town. This place made him nervous — too many places to hide, too many blind spots where someone could be waiting with a knife … or worse. Dustin had almost been decapitated by some desperate bastard jumping out from the ruins of an old chapel, screaming at the top of his voice and waving a rusty cleaver around like he was trying to chop up the flies swarming round his head. Dustin, Edric and big Bilgot had managed to subdue the man. Then Bilgot had kicked him until he stopped moving. Nobul hadn’t liked that, but he knew it was necessary. Not safe to leave someone who might get up and threaten you again. Nobul had kicked enough men like that over the years. He had no room to complain about someone else doing it.

‘Right!’ Kilgar appeared above them, standing on an old, fallen pillar. ‘We’ve another two streets before sundown. Keep your eyes open. We don’t want any casualties.’

‘This is a shithouse detail,’ Denny complained as they moved after their serjeant. ‘What good’s it gonna do anyway? We move these fuckers on and they’re back again like rats.’

‘It’s our orders,’ Nobul replied. ‘Best just get on and do it.’ He liked Denny, though the boy could go on a bit. And he had a point.

Amber Watch was the first of a group sent in to ‘clear out’ the Town. Apparently they were making it habitable for thousands of refugees flooding towards the city. How many, though, would turn tail and head straight back towards the Khurtas, once they caught sight of the digs laid aside for them?

Once the filth and scum had been removed from the streets, labourers were due to come in and make the buildings safe, removing loose masonry and repairing fallen walls. Whether they’d get that chance before the evicted came back to reclaim their hovels was another matter.

Kilgar led the way, moving down the thoroughfare, or at least what remained of it. Almost totally overgrown, the flora that had thrust through the flagstones now smothering the ancient stone buildings in a leafy embrace. Stray dogs hung on every corner, snarling defiance, then slinking off like the curs they were. Human waste lay all around: the place was a stinking open sewer. Even the hovels of Northgate didn’t smell this bad; the men of Amber Watch found themselves continually gagging. Anton tied an old scarf across his face, but his retching every ten paces confirmed its uselessness.

Nobul planted his foot against a pile of rotten planks blocking a doorway and shoved. They all but crumbled, leaving the way open. Stupidly, they had neglected to bring any torches with them so he was left to enter the dark interior slowly, hoping his eyes would adjust before anyone still lurking could leap out at him. Denny was at his shoulder, but though he talked bold, it was unclear how much help the lad would be in a fight.

Once inside, he realised there was nothing to fear, apart from rats and spiders. A clutter of broken furniture and a blackened hearth suggested someone might have tried to make a home of it — long years ago. It was like that with many of the hovels — despite the Town’s reputation as a hive of the lost and villainous, it was only sparsely populated. Whether it was the dangers of cutthroats and rapers, or of ghouls stalking the Town’s moonlit streets, people had kept away, and every empty building they came across gave Nobul some relief.

‘Who the fuck’s going to want to live in here?’ Denny demanded, his nose scrunched up in disgust, though the smell inside was nowhere near as bad as outside.

‘People will live anywhere if they’re desperate enough. Streets in the city are already filling up.’

‘You’d have to be pretty desperate to want to live here. Think I’d rather take my chances on the streets of the city than get a roof in the Town.’

‘It’s dangerous either way.’

‘I’ll say. Word is there’s refugees going missing. Dozens of them. People have been complaining to the Greencoats all week about it. They’ve disappeared just like that, grown men and all.’

Nobul had heard the rumours but, with no reliable numbers of how many refugees were entering the city, it was hard to know the truth.

‘No point worrying about tales from the streets. Let’s just concentrate on what we can do something about.’

‘It’s all right saying that.’ Denny took on a grave look that didn’t suit his face. ‘What about the bloody murder up Northgate? That witch from the Tower said it was nothing, just some mad bastard, but Kilgar didn’t believe her. He says there’s something diabolical afoot, and I know who I believe.’

‘If there is a magicker on the loose, there’s not much wecan do about that, is there? Let’s concentrate on the job at hand. Worrying about shit elsewhere’s only going to distract from shit right here. And I need you focused.’

Denny nodded. Though he was more experienced in the Greencoats, Nobul clearly had more experience in general. The boy was willing to accept his orders almost immediately, especially on these dangerous, shitty streets.

Nobul wasn’t questioning Kilgar’s judgement either, though if one of the wizards from the Tower said there were no rogue casters who was he to argue? As for missing refugees … all sorts of rumours were rife at the moment, from tales of dragons or gremlins, to men taking on the shapes of beasts at the full moon. Nobul believed in the things he could see with his own eyes, and let everyone else worry about the rest. He’d seen enough of the horrors men could inflict on other men to worry about the horrors in other folks’ heads.

Moving outside, they came on old Hake and the twins dragging someone into the open. The bloke was screaming insults to the sky and gave such a struggle that they lost their grip on him and he was off down the broken streets. Kilgar’s raised hand checked any pursuit

‘Let him be. There’ll be plenty more like that and if we chase every wretch we find we’ll be worn out by noon.’

They worked their way up the street, but this particular part of the Town was mostly abandoned but for mangy dogs and mangier rats. Not until they reached what must once have been a main square were there any further signs of life.

Once it might have been a hub of the Old City, where stallholders sold their wares and wealthy merchants came to trade. Now it was a wasteland, covered in detritus, with ragged sheets draped over large fallen statues pinned together to shelter the hunkering masses. So many men, women and children — just sitting there.

Nobul’s heart dropped at the task ahead. They would have to be careful here. Though none of these wretches looked in a fit state to put up much of a fight, together, and provoked, they could turn into a dangerous mob.

‘All right,’ said Kilgar, careful not to raise his voice. ‘Stay within sight of one another and let’s take this steady. No need to rouse them if we don’t have to, but we’ve got a job to do and we’ll bloody well do it.’

They moved forward, cautiously. Kilgar approached the first of the homeless rabble, nudged him with his foot and ordered him firmly but calmly to ‘move on’. The man didn’t put up much of a protest, gaining his feet unsteadily and moving off with nothing more than a scowl. The rest of the lads followed his lead, and began moving the loitering rabble on. At first it went well, and the square slowly began to clear. Nobul began to think they might well get away with this unscathed — until Bilgot homed in on an old woman sitting by a dead tree.

‘Come on, you old bitch,’ Bilgot said, quietly as he could, but still far too loud. ‘On your way, by order of the king.’

‘Fuck off, you fat bastard,’ she replied, spitting the words from a toothless mouth.

‘I said, fucking move.’ Bilgot punctuated his words with a harsh kick. The old woman barely registered he’d even struck her.

‘Take it easy, Bil,’ said Denny, moving closer. ‘She’s an old woman.’

Nobul looked across the square, seeing other squatters taking an interest. Bilgot needed to calm down.

‘Don’t tell me what to do, you little arsehole,’ Bilgot responded. Denny backed off, anxious not to provoke his hulking comrade. ‘I told you to move, you old cow. Do it!’

Bilgot reached forward but Denny stopped him. The big Greencoat rounded on Denny, and Nobul was pleased to see the youngster stand his ground.

‘She’s an old woman, Bil. Just take it steady.’

Bilgot puffed himself up, readying for a fight.

Nobul had seen enough. If Bilgot wanted a fight it was time he bloody well got one, but before he could intervene, the old woman struck.

Where she’d pulled the blade from Nobul could only guess, but, despite her years, she moved with frightening speed. Denny screamed and clutched his arm, his cry attracting the attention of everyone in the square.

Before Nobul could stop him Bilgot was kicking the old woman in the head. ‘Fucking bitch,’ he snarled, stamping down with his massive boots.

Nobul pulled Bilgot away. Kilgar was shouting something from behind them but it was too late. A piece of masonry flew right at Denny, as he clutched his arm, blood running red and free through his fist.

‘Enough,’ Nobul growled. The old woman lay still on the ground, her matted grey hair partially covering the mangled mess Bilgot had made of her face. ‘We need to get the fuck out of here,’ he urged Denny as another jagged piece of rock from somewhere in the crowd clanged off Denny’s halfhelm.

‘Fucking hells!’ said the lad, staggering back from the escalating barrage.

With sudden jeering the vagabond mob seemed to mobilise. Seeing one of their own, an old woman, being kicked worse than a dog had sent them into an instant frenzy.

‘With me,’ shouted Kilgar, moving back to the south of the square from where they’d come. Nobul grabbed Denny, who was staring vacantly, and dragged him along.

‘Bastards!’ someone yelled, as a hail of rocks pelted them from all sides. ‘Kill the fuckers!’ yelled someone else.

This was turning from bad to worse.

Anton, Dustin and Edric led the way and Nobul shoved Denny after them. ‘Keep moving,’ he barked, waiting only for Hake as the old man limped along behind. Bilgot could look after his fucking self.

Before they were clear, a scream alerted Nobul to a wild-eyed man leaping at him, wielding a blunt shank. He spun away as the shank tore a strip out of his jerkin. Nobul knew he had to put the fella down fast. He grabbed his attacker’s knife hand at the wrist and stabbed viciously with the fingers of his other hand, deep into the desperate bastard’s throat — once, twice. The man went down choking, dropping his shank and lifting his hands to his shattered throat, for all the good it would do him.

‘Come on,’ shouted Kilgar, as though Nobul was hanging around for the laughs. He didn’t need encouragement. As the mob began to charge forward he turned tail and ran.

They raced back down the overgrown thoroughfare. Ahead, Nobul could see Kilgar and Bilgot, that fat bastard, huffing as he was forced to heave his bulk down the street, jumping over fallen masonry and squelching through the dog shit.

They were quickly hemmed in by the incensed mass of wild squatters at their heels and there was trouble ahead.

Dustin and Edric were rolling around on the ground, trying to fend off some red-haired youth with a knife. Hake and Anton were nowhere to be seen. Kilgar and Bilgot waded into the fight. Denny screamed as he struggled with some wild-haired ruffian and Nobul could see he was going to lose: his slashed arm was useless, and his free arm only just warding off a vicious piece of sharpened slate from his throat.

Forgetting the others, Nobul shot forward, pulled out his short sword and stabbed in, taking the guy below the ribs before he could stick his own makeshift blade in Denny. The man squealed, falling back a pace. He glowered hatred at Nobul, standing there with dripping blade, then staggered off trying to cover the bloody gash in his side.

Nobul spun to face the oncoming crowd, pulling Denny behind him. The lads had subdued the red-headed fella and also turned to face the mob.

The crowd closed in slowly on Amber Watch, hungrily baying for blood, keen to vent their anger.

‘Steady, lads,’ Kilgar said, gripping a sword in his one remaining hand. ‘Looks like we’re scrapping after all.’

‘There’s too fucking many of them,’ said Denny, fear in his voice.

‘Then we’ll go down fighting,’ Kilgar replied.

Nobul nearly laughed.

He’d survived Bakhaus Gate. Survived the Guild. Now he was going to die at the hands of a load of homeless bastards from the Town.

Then again, he reckoned one death was just as good as another.

As the first murderous bastard made ready to charge, he suddenly screamed, hand shooting to his chest to grip the quarrel shaft that had appeared there. As he fell, a volley of bolts flew overhead, some hitting their targets, others bouncing off the surrounding ruins. That was all it took to send the mob scuttling away through the foliage, only too keen to escape before a second volley was fired at them.

Nobul turned to see half a dozen crossbowmen on a crumbling rooftop — Greencoats!

‘That you, Kilgar?’ one of them shouted.

‘Aye. Just in bloody time, Serjeant Bodlin. We were about to dispense the King’s Justice on those bastards.’

‘Course you were, Kilgar,’ replied Bodlin. ‘Even so, I reckon that’s still one Amber Watch owes us.’

‘If you like, Bodlin,’ said Kilgar, his face almost cracking a smile. ‘Right, I think we’ve had enough for one day, lads. Let’s get the fuck out of here.’

None of the lads complained.