and respected and deadly as a viper. He was Waylian Grimm; a nobody, a neophyte, and he was just as likely to manifest shit from his arse as magick from his fingertips. Mind you, Marshal Ferenz would probably have disagreed about that. Not that Waylian had any idea how he’d managed to crush a man’s head with a word. Hopefully he’d work it out, and soon.
‘Stay behind me,’ Gelredida said. ‘And try not to get in the way.’
No need to worry about that! When the Khurtas came flocking over the wall the last thing Waylian Grimm would do was throw himself into the fray.
The Khurtas were beginning to get restless now, winding themselves up into a frenzy. Their siege engines were being rolled implacably towards the city walls and soon enough they’d be in range. In response, Waylian could sense the unease all around him.
Drennan spoke constantly to the apprentices in his charge, his voice a low grumble, but Waylian could tell his words were more of encouragement than rebuke. The youngsters in his care seemed focused; under the tutelage of the Archmaster they looked strong, mature and more than ready to face the advancing enemy. Waylian could only envy them for that. Though Gelredida had stopped treating him like shit on her shoe, he knew she still considered him beneath her – he still felt like a child in her presence and could only dream of sharing the autonomy the rest of these apprentices had been granted. Perhaps there was more to it, though; maybe it was her way of protecting him. Maybe she did have a beating heart beneath that frosty exterior. Or maybe she just had her own motives for keeping him on such a tight leash.
Further along the wall stood Crannock Marghil with his coterie of venerable magisters. They squabbled and clucked like a shed full of broody hens, some panicked at the rising disquiet amongst the Khurtas, others raising their own ire, as though they would need it to tap the Veil and unleash all the hells on the enemy when it finally attacked. For his part, old Crannock stood silently in their midst, an island of calm amongst the sea of thunderous old magickers.
The last Archmaster paced along the wall in front of his Raven Knights. Lucen Kalvor’s brow was furrowed as he stared out at the Khurtas, hands clenched behind his back, white fingers locked together, as if to unclasp them would unleash his magickal fury all too soon. The Raven Knights themselves stood like onyx statues, spears and swords gripped at the ready. If the Khurtas managed to scale the walls it was the Raven Knights who would stand between them and the magisters. A last line of defence. As much as Waylian had feared them during his time in the tower, he was grateful for them now.
Down below, the Khurtas had begun singing – a dozen different cants from their disparate tribes, some low and guttural like a funeral dirge, others ferocious like a last battle cry. It resulted in a cacophony that Waylian felt to the pit of his stomach, and it made him want to puke. To add to the din they smashed their weapons into their shields, the racket rising up and over the city, drowning out the serjeants and captains who were vainly trying to calm the city’s bannermen, rallying them with speeches and songs of their own.
Then, as suddenly as they had begun, the Khurtas fell silent.
It left a ringing in Waylian’s ears and he could only watch in fear as the echo of their clangour slowly died. From the centre of the horde a single voice cried out, shouting in their guttural northern tongue. There was no way of telling what he said, but it must have been bloody important, for every one of the forty-odd thousand savages stood and listened in silence. At any moment Waylian expected their ranks to break open and for the hellish form of Amon Tugha to come striding through their midst, but it never happened. That single voice just continued to speak, continued to cry above the silence as everyone stood waiting.
Though listening to that voice
‘Stay behind me,’ Gelredida said. ‘And try not to get in the way.’
No need to worry about that! When the Khurtas came flocking over the wall the last thing Waylian Grimm would do was throw himself into the fray.
The Khurtas were beginning to get restless now, winding themselves up into a frenzy. Their siege engines were being rolled implacably towards the city walls and soon enough they’d be in range. In response, Waylian could sense the unease all around him.
Drennan spoke constantly to the apprentices in his charge, his voice a low grumble, but Waylian could tell his words were more of encouragement than rebuke. The youngsters in his care seemed focused; under the tutelage of the Archmaster they looked strong, mature and more than ready to face the advancing enemy. Waylian could only envy them for that. Though Gelredida had stopped treating him like shit on her shoe, he knew she still considered him beneath her – he still felt like a child in her presence and could only dream of sharing the autonomy the rest of these apprentices had been granted. Perhaps there was more to it, though; maybe it was her way of protecting him. Maybe she did have a beating heart beneath that frosty exterior. Or maybe she just had her own motives for keeping him on such a tight leash.
Further along the wall stood Crannock Marghil with his coterie of venerable magisters. They squabbled and clucked like a shed full of broody hens, some panicked at the rising disquiet amongst the Khurtas, others raising their own ire, as though they would need it to tap the Veil and unleash all the hells on the enemy when it finally attacked. For his part, old Crannock stood silently in their midst, an island of calm amongst the sea of thunderous old magickers.
The last Archmaster paced along the wall in front of his Raven Knights. Lucen Kalvor’s brow was furrowed as he stared out at the Khurtas, hands clenched behind his back, white fingers locked together, as if to unclasp them would unleash his magickal fury all too soon. The Raven Knights themselves stood like onyx statues, spears and swords gripped at the ready. If the Khurtas managed to scale the walls it was the Raven Knights who would stand between them and the magisters. A last line of defence. As much as Waylian had feared them during his time in the tower, he was grateful for them now.
Down below, the Khurtas had begun singing – a dozen different cants from their disparate tribes, some low and guttural like a funeral dirge, others ferocious like a last battle cry. It resulted in a cacophony that Waylian felt to the pit of his stomach, and it made him want to puke. To add to the din they smashed their weapons into their shields, the racket rising up and over the city, drowning out the serjeants and captains who were vainly trying to calm the city’s bannermen, rallying them with speeches and songs of their own.
Then, as suddenly as they had begun, the Khurtas fell silent.
It left a ringing in Waylian’s ears and he could only watch in fear as the echo of their clangour slowly died. From the centre of the horde a single voice cried out, shouting in their guttural northern tongue. There was no way of telling what he said, but it must have been bloody important, for every one of the forty-odd thousand savages stood and listened in silence. At any moment Waylian expected their ranks to break open and for the hellish form of Amon Tugha to come striding through their midst, but it never happened. That single voice just continued to speak, continued to cry above the silence as everyone stood waiting.
Though listening to that voice
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