The Long War 03 - The Red Prince

by A. J. Smith

  A hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her firmly out of the way behind a pillar. Xander held her tightly with one hand, keeping Peacekeeper at the ready with the other.

  The beast consumed another man. It slobbered over its meal, dropping bile on to the floor and making a shrill, repetitive noise. Its tentacles writhed in the air, striking men and wrapping around pillars.

  ‘Cover!’ roared the general, a crack of fear in his deep voice.

  Daganay, still praying, was not frozen, but he could do nothing but shove men out of the way and try not to look at the thing. He held his mace ready but he was not about to attack. The remaining men followed Xander’s orders and, assisted by the Blue cleric, they dragged themselves out of the way and behind pillars. One man was swept up by a tentacle and torn in half.

  Seven warriors remained, all taking cover out of reach of the beast’s tentacles. Xander had pulled Gwen to the floor and they crouched behind a stone pillar, clutching their blades tightly. They locked eyes and the general nodded to the right, indicating they should move round the pillar as the tree advanced, staying out of its field of view. She couldn’t respond with anything more than a feeble nod, but moved with him when two huge tentacles reached round their pillar.

  Xander stood up and grabbed a flaming torch. ‘Stay here,’ he grunted to Gwen.

  With willpower showing on his face, the Red Prince of Haran attacked the beast from behind. He swung the torch first, wedging it between the bark-like plates on the creature’s trunk and eliciting a deafening cry of anguish from the tree. Then he swung Peacekeeper. Roaring with exertion, Xander hacked at a tentacle and cut a chunk of blackened flesh from the thing. It couldn’t turn round quickly and it seemed less frightening when its maw could not be seen.

  ‘To arms!’ ordered Xander. ‘Torches, blades... burn it, cut it, bring it down.’

  Daganay responded with a desperate battle cry and circled round the beast, swinging his mace in controlled circles. Others grabbed torches and flung them at the thing, causing it to howl in pain as the fire caught on its back.

  Gwen’s knuckles had turned white as she gripped her leaf-blades, but she held her breath and forced her legs to move, emerging next to her husband and between the undulating tentacles.

  Joined by Daganay, the three of them struck repeatedly at the creature’s rear, severing tentacles and causing the thing to lose its power of locomotion. It wailed, pulsated and reached into the air, but the fire had spread quickly and with missing limbs it had no chance of escape.

  ‘Back... stand clear,’ shouted Xander, as the tree turned into a massive ball of fire.

  Gwen stumbled back on to the carpet and stood with the others as the fire rose high, engulfing the thing and causing them to back further off. Everyone who remained was wild-eyed and panting, but they looked more clear-headed now as they watched the beast burn to death.

  ‘I think I’ll trust Rham Jas in future,’ muttered Xander to his wife.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ she replied. ‘The Dokkalfar fear them... but they never said exactly why.’

  Daganay stepped forward and forced himself to look at the tree as it burned lower and lower, turning to ash and sickly green slime. ‘If this is part of the Sisters’ new religion, Tor Funweir is truly in danger,’ said the cleric, his face a mask of fear.

  ‘Let’s leave,’ said Gwen. ‘I feel the need of daylight.’

  ‘Agreed,’ offered Xander.

  * * *

  They didn’t talk about the darkwood tree. Two hours later, Gwen and Xander were standing on a balcony halfway up Ranolph’s Hold, looking out over the city. The surviving Hawks from the catacombs had been released to get some rest, though each of them, Gwen included, would feel darker and more solemn after their encounter with the thing in the chapel. Daganay had returned to his church, muttering something about the need to pray, and Xander had busied himself ordering men around and assisting the pestilence-stricken population of his city.

  No Karesians remained and the escaping ships were too far south to be caught. The razing of Ro Haran had been a vile, slow and clinical operation. Thousands would be dead by the time the toll was truly known. Gwen had no words to describe how she felt.

  ‘I love you,’ said Xander suddenly.

  She frowned. ‘Good... but why tell me now?’

  ‘Because I don’t know anything else at this moment... and knowing that I love you makes me feel better.’

  She held his hand and rested her head on his armoured shoulder. They could see into the city, both the noble quarter and the old town where Hawks were clearing the streets and assisting the plague-ridden to the Blue church. Dag would be able to help some of them, but many would die before the week ended.

  ‘Tell me what to do, Gwen... I don’t know,’ he said, with a tear rolling down his cheek.

  ‘Look at me,’ she snapped, causing him to turn and face her. ‘You are duke of Haran, general of the Hawks... and my husband.’ She touched his cheek tenderly. ‘We sail to Canarn to get allies. We take back Ro Tiris, and then we take back Tor Funweir.’

  CHAPTER 8

  RANDALL OF DARKWALD IN THE CITY OF KESSIA

  EVEN WHILE HE was still at sea Randall had decided that Karesia was the hottest place in the world. He was also reconciled to the fact that he was travelling south and it would only get hotter. The wind was abrasive and the rain, when it came, was sudden and like lancing shards of water. Combined with the dust that constantly hugged the surface of the sea, the last few days had been decidedly unpleasant.

  They had joined a queue of slow-moving ships travelling from Tor Funweir to Karesia and had been crawling along under the boiling sun for days. Utha had remained below deck for the majority of the journey. Other than occasionally shouting about his imminent death from seasickness, he had been largely silent. This had left Randall, who was ignored by the sailors, with ample time to smile awkwardly at Ruth.

  The Gorlan mother came to him at least once a day and conveyed her need for physical contact through a complicated array of smiles and glances. Randall had slowly become more comfortable with sex and even engaged in post-coital conversation without feeling the need to say thank you. Their daily trysts had simply become another, more pleasant, part of his routine.

  ‘Young man,’ bellowed Captain Makad from the hatch that led below.

  ‘It’s Randall... as I’ve told you a few dozen times,’ he replied, sauntering across the slowly rocking deck towards the Karesian sailor. ‘Is he awake yet?’

  ‘He’s awake, but still not forming complete words. I thought that clerics were supposed to be tough.’

  Makad had been trying to talk to Utha about their destination for several days now. Unfortunately, he’d refused to rise from his hammock to do anything other than visit the piss-pot or vomit.

  ‘Okay, talk to me instead, captain,’ Randall reluctantly conceded. ‘What do I need to know about Kessia?’

  ‘Come and have a drink, young man,’ said Makad, disappearing through the hatch.

  ‘It’s Randall... not difficult to remember.’

  He walked down the wooden stairs and under narrow beams towards the captain’s cabin at the rear of the ship. Sailors lounged around, sipping strong Karesian liquor and munching on hard bread. They didn’t glare at him any more. The squire’s reluctance to back down in the face of intimidation seemed to have impressed them. More than once, he’d stared down a Karesian who had sought to bully him.

  ‘Come in, boy,’ said Makad, taking a seat behind his cluttered table and reaching for a bottle of dark liquid.

  The squire rolled a little as he walked, though the movements of the ship were easier to negotiate than when he had first boarded. He sat opposite the captain.

  ‘My name is Randall. Yours is Makad.’

  ‘I know,’ he replied with a toothy smile. ‘I like teasing you, boy.’

  A snort of amusement. ‘What is this?’ he asked, pointing to the glass of liquor Makad had placed before him.


  ‘Skaven brandy. It keeps longer than wine.’

  He sniffed the thick liquid and winced. ‘Smells like Utha’s breath.’

  The Karesian pursed his lips and rubbed his ample belly. ‘I still haven’t figured you out,’ he said, gulping back a generous measure of brandy. ‘On one hand, you’re barely twenty years old and nothing but a squire. On the other, you hang around with a cleric of death and don’t put up with shit.’

  ‘Comes from experience, captain.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ he replied, unimpressed. ‘Well, that confidence may be tested when we reach Kessia tomorrow.’

  ‘What do I need to know?’

  Makad relaxed back into his chair and poured himself a second drink. Randall tried a small sip of his own and instantly coughed, feeling the liquid burn his throat.

  ‘You get used to it,’ joked the Karesian. ‘You won’t find any Darkwald red in Kessia.’

  ‘Okay, so what will I find?’

  ‘Most Ro who find their way across the Kirin Ridge end up as slaves. Karesians don’t see you as equals.’ Makad sneered. ‘Pretty lad like you will have plenty of interest. Your master will likely just get himself killed.’

  ‘How do we go about not being taken as slaves?’ asked Randall, attempting to hide his concern.

  Makad chewed on a fingernail and peered across the table. ‘Tricky,’ he replied unhelpfully. ‘Most merchants who make the journey are careful not to leave the docks. You three intend to go on a little trip south... that is not safe. Ro don’t travel the Long Mark.’

  ‘That’s a road?’ pressed Randall.

  ‘The only road.’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘Why are we having this conversation?’

  ‘Well, my boss could help you... I suppose I wanted to talk to the cleric to find out whether or not it was worth my while.’

  Randall could not match his master when it came to threats or intimidation, but he believed that he had the edge on brains. ‘What do you want in exchange for help?’

  Makad grinned. ‘The woman.’

  If Randall had been drinking he would have spat out the liquid. As it was, he merely burst out laughing. ‘You’d be better off asking for the albino. Ruth is... powerful,’ he replied.

  ‘She’d fetch a lot of money on the slave docks. I know a merchant prince who likes just her type.’ He was confused by Randall’s sudden outburst of laughter.

  Randall nodded, suppressing his mirth. ‘Trust me, no amount of money is worth the aggravation it would cause should you try to do her harm.’

  There came a knock at the door – a single thump, accompanied by muffled Karesian voices.

  ‘Come in!’ bellowed the captain.

  The door swung inwards and Ruth glided into the cabin, ignoring the comments the Karesians directed at her. She closed the door and glared at Makad. How could she have known what was being said? The Gorlan mother was largely a mystery to the young squire, but she had vaguely hinted that she knew things no one else could know.

  ‘Captain Makad,’ she said by way of a greeting. ‘I wondered if I might join your discussion.’ It was a demand rather than a question.

  The Karesian spluttered in the manner of a man who has been caught red-handed.

  ‘Of course,’ he said hesitantly.

  ‘This is how we will proceed,’ began Ruth. ‘You will introduce us to the mobster you work for. He will provide us with a writ of passage for the Long Mark and we will part as friends.’ Her eyes conveyed a threat and she walked round the table to Makad as she spoke. ‘Do you understand?’

  He frowned, looking from Ruth to Randall and then back to Ruth. A young man and a slim woman would not normally be very frightening, but the Karesian was not a fool and he realized all was not as it seemed. However, he was not going to give up a lucrative business deal easily.

  ‘What makes you think I give a shit what you want, sweetheart?’

  ‘I’d be polite if I were you, captain,’ said Randall. ‘We had a deal. Probably best that you stick to it.’

  ‘What is your mobster’s name?’ asked Ruth, perching on the edge of the table.

  ‘Claryon Soong. Not someone you want to cross,’ he replied, staring at Ruth. ‘But he’d like you. If your friends want to go south, all you need to do is let him... buy you.’

  She darted forward, flickering from her seat. No exaggerated movement or overt skill was in evidence as the Gorlan mother grabbed Makad’s throat and held him in the air with one hand. His eyes bulged at her unnatural strength and he grabbed feebly at her arm, unable to catch his breath.

  ‘Told you to be polite,’ said Randall.

  Ruth looked angry. It was not an emotion she often displayed, but the prospect of slavery has a strange effect on people – and Gorlan, it would seem.

  Her hand was tightening round the man’s throat and Randall could see dense black hairs sprouting on the back of her neck. She swayed, a throaty gurgle coming from her mouth, more like a spider’s hiss than a woman’s cry. He gasped and stopped smiling as he stood up and put his arm round her shoulder.

  ‘Easy,’ he said. ‘There’s no need for that.’

  Despite their relationship, he was still terrified of the prospect of her changing back to her natural form.

  She looked at her lover, the anger slowly dissipating. ‘He would sell me as property,’ she muttered, as if that explained everything.

  ‘I know, and he’s a scumbag as a result, but we need him for now,’ offered the squire, pulling her towards him, oblivious of the fact that she still held Makad in mid-air.

  Slowly, making sure the Karesian was in no doubt as to who was in charge, she lowered him to the ground. The sailor coughed and grabbed at his throat as she released him, rushing round the table to the opposite side of the cabin.

  ‘Are you an enchantress?’ he spluttered, his voice cracking with fear.

  ‘Of a kind,’ replied Ruth, stepping closer to Randall. ‘All you need concern yourself with is introducing my two friends and me to Claryon Soong.’

  Randall smiled. ‘Assuming Utha doesn’t die of seasickness.’

  * * *

  The Kessian dock was a huge, sprawling mass of floating platforms and sails. Hundreds of troop transports lay at the jetties and more were already sailing north. The Karesian army of Hounds was on its way to Ro Weir, and Randall felt sadness at the war that was going to engulf Tor Funweir. The young squire had never been particularly patriotic – growing up in the Darkwald, well away from Tiris – but he didn’t like what the Seven Sisters were doing.

  He hoped that Tyr Nanon, Dalian Thief Taker and the Kirin bastard who had killed Torian would have a plan, but he also feared that his own path would take him far from his home just as it was engaged in the struggle with the Hounds. Not that he would have been a good soldier – but, try as he might, Randall couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was travelling in the wrong direction.

  They had been in dock for an hour while Makad dealt with paperwork and Utha wandered around, showing how much he liked being on dry land. Ruth sat nearby, looking across the hazy vista of buildings and smoke that was the capital of Karesia. The three of them were all looking southwards and, Randall thought, probably seeing three different things. Utha was probably thinking about the halls beyond the world and his duty as the last old-blood. Randall was thinking about how to keep themselves alive and fed as they travelled through unfamiliar territory. He had no idea what occupied Ruth’s mind, but he doubted it would be any of the usual things that concerned travellers on the road.

  ‘Randall, get down here,’ said Utha from the wooden dock.

  The squire slung his travelling bag over his shoulder and left the ship, resting his hand on the sword of Great Claw.

  He wandered over to Utha. ‘Feeling better?’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky, lad,’ replied the former cleric.

  He was wearing a simple brown shirt and had his weapons – a longsword and a mace – strapped across his back. For a change, realizing that
they were in a land where the Seven Sisters held sway, his distinctive pale face was covered by a hood.

  ‘So, we’re being introduced to a mobster?’

  Randall nodded. ‘Apparently it’s the only way to avoid becoming slaves. We need to travel along something called the Long Mark. I think it’s a road.’

  ‘Slaves, huh?’ said Utha, raising his eyebrows. ‘That would be an interesting encounter. I don’t think I’d be a very good slave.’

  ‘Which is why we need to speak to the mobster. Makad works for him, so I’d guess he’s a smuggler.’

  Utha smiled at his squire. ‘Becoming something of an expert, are we?’

  Randall blushed a little. ‘Just observant. You were dying in your cabin... I had to deal with the travel arrangements.’

  Utha looked at the young man to ascertain whether or not he was being cheeky.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what happens. From what Dalian Thief Taker said, most of the Seven Sisters are in Tor Funweir, not skulking around Karesia.’ He gestured towards Ruth, sitting cross-legged on the dock. ‘Did the sailors behave themselves around her?’

  Randall blushed again, this time his cheeks turned a bright red and he spluttered, not actually using words.

  ‘Okay, different question,’ began Utha, a thin smile on his face. ‘Did you behave yourself around her?’

  The young squire considered his answer, not wanting either to be crude or to give his master any further reason to tease him. In the end, he simply said, ‘I may have misbehaved.’

  Utha erupted into laughter, causing several nearby sailors to look at him in confusion. He didn’t stop laughing and had to wipe his eyes after a few moments of raucous amusement.

  ‘Shut up!’ said Randall, in the manner of small child.

  ‘First time?’ asked Utha, trying to control his laughter.

  ‘None of your business,’ muttered the squire.

  The muscular albino put an arm round his squire’s shoulders and showed him an affectionate smile. ‘And now you are a man, Randall of Darkwald.’