The Long War 03 - The Red Prince

by A. J. Smith

  ‘All things eventually turn to sand, knife-ears,’ said Dalian.

  A clatter of metal sounded from nearby and they both looked up sharply to see four men strolling into the side street. They were Ro guardsmen, city officials of some kind, and though they were armed and armoured none of them looked ready for a fight. Dalian guessed they were on a random patrol and had struck lucky.

  ‘Back to work,’ muttered the Thief Taker, beginning the process of pulling himself back on to his feet.

  The guardsmen were startled for a moment at coming face to face with the notorious wind claw, but quickly drew their swords and stood at the ready.

  ‘You’re to come with us, old man,’ barked one of the men.

  ‘Fuck off,’ muttered Dalian, not having the energy to argue.

  Nanon chuckled. ‘That’s what Rham Jas would say.’ The forest-dweller sprang quickly to his feet and stepped into the middle of the side street. ‘My friend Dalian is a little tired currently, so if you don’t mind, I’ll be killing you,’ he said, sounding sympathetic towards the guardsmen. ‘Though I suppose you could run away.’

  Dalian managed to get to his feet. ‘They can’t run away. They need to die,’ he offered, drawing his kris knives.

  ‘Oh, sorry, apparently you need to die,’ said Nanon. A moment later he had his longsword drawn and a broad smile on his grey features.

  The Ro hadn’t registered that their opponent wasn’t human and Dalian realized how skilled Nanon was at blending in. His height and the cloak he usually wore, along with a habit of staying in the shadows, made him appear no more than a grey-skinned man.

  The leading Ro lunged first, extending his sword arm well away from his body, aiming at Nanon’s stomach. The Dokkalfar parried swiftly and offered a skilful riposte, shifting position and driving his own blade through the watchman’s chest. It was a smooth motion and the blade emerged through the man’s back, making blood spray from his mouth. Nanon then raised a leg and kicked out, sending the dead body to the floor.

  ‘Next,’ he said.

  ‘Just kill them, Nanon,’ snapped Dalian, worried that the men would get away.

  ‘All right, don’t get annoyed,’ replied the forest-dweller, advancing on the three remaining Ro.

  Luckily, none of them seemed about to run. The next attack came quickly. A high strike launched at Nanon’s head. He sidestepped the blow and sliced open the Ro’s stomach, advancing again to meet an incoming lunge. The Dokkalfar twirled with inhuman skill and slapped away the blade, disarming the man and cleaving in his head with a downward swing. The last Ro stood in awe for a moment, before raising his sword and attempting to stop the forest-dweller. Nanon simply directed a feint at the man’s side and spun round, then decapitated the guardsman with a graceful swing of his longsword.

  ‘See, they’re dead. There was no reason to get annoyed.’ He moved over to Dalian and helped him upright.

  The Thief Taker shook his head, but laughed at the Dokkalfar’s manner.

  ‘I hesitate to say this, but thank you,’ muttered Dalian, reluctantly conceding that he probably couldn’t have bested the four men of Ro in his current condition.

  ‘You don’t need to thank me. We’re friends, remember.’

  Another snort of amusement and Dalian replied, ‘Yes, I suppose we are, grey-skin.’

  Nanon helped Dalian out of the street and in moments they were skulking through a multi-levelled garden, well away from the main street of Weir. He could hear raised voices behind them, muffled by intervening buildings, but unmistakably the sounds of men discovering the guardsmen they had recently killed.

  ‘We should hurry up and find somewhere to skulk,’ Dalian muttered, brushing away Nanon’s help and standing more easily on his own.

  ‘I think I’m quite good at skulking. If that means being quiet and stealthy,’ replied the forest-dweller.

  ‘Precisely,’ confirmed Dalian, pointing to a wide street that led away from the central road.

  Their pace quickened. Within a minute they were bounding across the garden and down wide steps. Dalian’s boots struck cobbles and they turned sharply away from the port side of Ro Weir. A few locals – men of Ro up and about their business at an early hour – were startled by the two running figures, but the blood on their clothing and weapons at their sides made the common folk turn away and pretend they hadn’t seen anything. There were no sounds of pursuit and the Thief Taker slowed down, preserving his energy and looking for a place to stop.

  The street climbed ahead of them at a steep incline and was flanked by low stone buildings, windowless and in bad repair. They were far from the port here, the populace were mostly destitute and, it appeared, largely foreign. Kirin and Karesian faces regarded them as they stopped running, but no one looked too closely or with any suspicion.

  ‘Now we skulk,’ Dalian said, wrapping his cloak around the two sheathed kris knives in his belt.

  Nanon ducked into a narrow alley beside a crumbling and empty stable. He made sure no one saw him and then drew his sword and began to clean the blood from the blade. ‘We should probably skulk over here. Out of the way.’

  Dalian joined him and took up a watchful position just inside the alley, though his breath was coming fast and his limbs ached. A few minutes of running, it would seem, was too much now for the greatest of the wind claws.

  ‘Relax,’ offered Nanon, sitting down on a barrel well away from prying eyes. ‘You work better when you’re in control.’

  ‘And how would you know that, risen man?’ The response was barbed and tinged with irritation.

  Nanon chuckled. ‘A minute ago I was your friend and now I’m a risen man. That kind of attitude shift is the sign of a man not in control.’

  Dalian glared at the forest-dweller – a dark-eyed stare that had made men cry in the past. However, his companion’s reaction was one of laughter. It seemed Nanon was both difficult to kill and difficult to scare.

  ‘We have half an hour until my quarry leaves his chamber,’ said Dalian through gritted teeth.

  ‘And who are we following?’

  ‘A Black cleric, he’s the Mistress of Pain’s creature and he should lead us to the witch herself.’

  ‘She’s gone to ground?’ Nanon had only recently arrived in Weir and was not abreast of the situation.

  ‘I suspect that the Kirin executed another of her sisters,’ replied the Thief Taker, smirking at the thought of Saara in distress. ‘Their deaths seem to affect her. All I know is she’s somewhere in the catacombs. I need the cleric to lead me to her if I’m to help Rham Jas do his work.’

  Nanon finished cleaning his sword and stood up, stepping close to Dalian and inspecting his face. ‘You need to rest, Karesian man.’

  ‘While I can walk, I serve Jaa. I don’t need rest, food, sleep or any help from you. I fear nothing but Jaa.’

  ‘That’s admirable, but you are a man of flesh and blood. Flesh and blood needs rest... and all that other stuff you mentioned.’

  He puffed out his cheeks and looked around for somewhere to sit. Seeing only dirty barrels and refuse, Dalian decided to lean against the wall.

  ‘I am tired, grey-skin. I’m tired of fighting and killing. I want a beach, several glasses of wine and a woman to massage my feet. Unfortunately, none of this can happen until my people are freed from the Seven Sisters, who have made the worship of my god illegal.’ He almost shouted the last few words, but maintained sufficient control to realize that stealth was still important.

  The forest-dweller paused before responding. He tilted his head and searched for something in Dalian’s face. His eyes had no pupils and resembled deep wells of multilayered black.

  ‘I like you, Karesian man. I hope you survive this and get to your beach and your wine.’

  ‘I intend to,’ he replied. ‘But first I need to follow Elihas of Du Ban.’

  Nanon smiled suddenly – a toothy grimace that would have been comical if it had come from a less dangerous creature. ‘So, let’s
get moving,’ he said.

  Dalian shook his head at Nanon’s manner and rocked back on to his feet. Testing each leg, he thought he could probably manage a few more minutes of running, though he had to concede that a good night’s sleep in a warm bed would do his body no end of good. ‘Okay, the Black chapel is off the main street, if we cut across we can get there in a few minutes. Stay hidden when we get near.’

  The forest-dweller nodded and sheathed his longsword. ‘Lead the way.’

  They left the alley and, with cloaks obscuring their weapons, made their way back towards the port side of Ro Weir and the Black chapel. They were just two more anonymous travellers in the crowded city.

  Once they had crossed the border back into the old town, Dalian grew more wary. The steep road that ran the length of Weir would be filled with watchmen and wind claws looking for the Thief Taker and he was not eager to engage in any more fighting. Gaining his bearings from the knight marshal’s office in the distance, he led Nanon towards the tidal channels that littered the city. A dozen small bridges and outlet pipes dotted the area and made it easy for them to keep off the main roads. Many of the channels were used by Kirin smugglers and they were notoriously difficult to police.

  ‘Why does a cleric of the One God follow the Seven Sisters? From what Rham Jas said, the man’s not even enchanted,’ asked Nanon, as they neared the Black chapel, nestled in a small courtyard in a quiet area of the old town.

  ‘From what I hear, the man’s insane. The common folk of Weir say he’s obsessed with death... I know all Black clerics are, but Elihas of Du Ban apparently takes it to extremes.’

  ‘Doesn’t explain it,’ replied the grey-skin.

  ‘Maybe you should ask him once the Kirin has killed Saara.’

  ‘Maybe I will.’ Nanon had a vacuous but maddening smile on his face.

  They crossed a street and emerged in a small blacksmith’s yard. On the other side of the yard, Dalian could see the black spire of the chapel thrusting above the adjoining buildings and displaying the sign of a skeletal hand holding a goblet. There was a line of stone buildings blocking their way and the easiest, stealthiest route would take them over several rooftops.

  Unfortunately, lounging around on barrels and passing a bottle of wine between them, was a squad of watchmen. The five men were presumably on duty, but they looked relaxed and only rose slowly when Dalian and Nanon entered the yard.

  ‘Are these people a problem?’ asked Nanon.

  ‘I would think so, yes,’ replied the Thief Taker, frowning at the forest-dweller’s strange manner.

  The five men of Ro stopped talking and gathered into a small group, facing the two intruders. They were watchful and confused, but they could not see Dalian’s face and so they had no immediate reason to attack.

  ‘Walk on, lads,’ said one of the Ro.

  Nanon leaned in to his companion and whispered, ‘Shall we kill these ones?’

  Dalian smiled slightly. ‘So sorry, sirs,’ he muttered to the watchmen, ‘we’ll move on.’

  The men of Ro were suspicious, but they allowed the two strangers to move hurriedly out of the yard and into a side street. Dalian made sure they were not being followed before he stopped and skulked against a wall.

  ‘We don’t need to kill everyone,’ he said to Nanon. ‘I could really do with a fight-free morning from this point.’

  ‘Thought I should ask before they attacked us,’ replied the forest-dweller, looking up at the buildings that flanked them. ‘I think we can still get to the chapel over the rooftops. Do you need a hand?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ grunted the Thief Taker, rubbing his sore back and flexing his arms. ‘We should move, Elihas is nothing but punctual.’

  * * *

  Elihas of Du Ban slept on a stone bed under a narrow window scarcely big enough to see out of. He had no items of fabric or wood in his quarters and his personal belongings, what few he had, were kept on stone shelves by the door. The only possession he cared for was his armour and this was stowed on a metal mannequin, along with his Black tabard and longsword.

  He rose at dawn each day and ran for an hour. He was at his most relaxed during this time and it reminded him that peace could still be achieved, despite the other demands on his time. After his run, he donned his clerical armour and attended the duke’s residence and the Mistress of Pain. Each day he had to remind himself that his alliance with the Seven Sisters was a necessary evil in his austere life and that service to the One God was not as simple as his Purple and Gold brothers believed.

  He was not her thrall, nor her servant, her lover or her friend. Elihas of Du Ban was her ally, nothing more, and this would last only as long as their goals coincided. With the betrayal of Utha the Ghost and the death of Roderick of the Falls of Arnon, Elihas believed himself to be the senior Black cleric in Tor Funweir, and his duties had of late required making some hard decisions. He’d tortured the Kirin apostate, Rham Jas Rami, assisted the enchantresses in annexing the south of his country, and helped in any way he could to exterminate the risen men and to birth more Dark Young.

  He knew that his assistance confused Saara. He had done everything asked of him without the need for enchantment, and he had continually expressed his devotion to the One even while betraying his people and his church.

  Elihas knew his mind was difficult to penetrate and secretly he believed that Saara enjoyed having an ally who did not need sorcery to make him compliant. He had not attempted to explain his actions, considering her understanding too limited for her to comprehend why he was willing to assist her. It was only in his quiet moments of prayer that he doubted this conviction.

  As a cleric of the Black, Elihas was infused at all times with death. Long ago he had apprehended the divine nature of death and had realized it was a state to be aspired to, rather than feared. His life had been devoted to assisting the common folk of Tor Funweir to ascend to a divine death through the worship of the One. He had been called deranged, unstable and, on numerous occasions, insane, but Elihas heard the voice and will of the One and he was sure that his actions were right. If assisting Saara the Mistress of Pain to raise her Dead God would hasten the death of the Ro, he would remain her ally until his god told him to desist.

  He took in the morning air and checked that his armour was spotless and his sword properly sheathed. Elihas liked to appear correctly attired at all times and he disliked slovenliness in others. Unfortunately, as he was currently resident in Ro Weir, he was surrounded by unwashed and degenerate scum – people who deserved more pain than a divine death offered.

  Leaving his quarters, he quickly ascended the stone steps that led outside and left the small Black chapel. The building was deserted, the other clerics having been purged already, and as quiet as the tomb it resembled. Duke Lyam was not a pious man and permitted only unremarkable chapels in his city. Even the Purple church was small and easy to overlook.

  He turned sharp left and looked down the steep road that bisected the centre of the city. From the gates to the harbour, the citizens of Ro Weir had to look down towards the Kirin Ridge. It was a large city, but filled with narrow streets and slum areas. The inlets that lanced through the old town held small, self-contained worlds populated by criminals of every kind. Many Kirin rainbow merchants plied their trade around the harbour, and hundreds of Karesian smugglers used the secret waterways and private docks that littered the old town. Even with the presence of so many Hounds, the city was still lawless. If anything, the foreign criminals had become emboldened. With few watchmen and even fewer clerics, the Kirin and Karesians controlled half the city. Many of the Ro had left already and the remainder huddled in the merchants’ quarter, surrounded by paid guards, hoping that the Hounds would leave them alone so long as they caused no problem.

  Elihas made no effort to disguise his clerical office, for he knew that he was feared by the common folk, who would not bother him. The only exception was the large presence of wind claws. The faithful of Jaa were Saara’s closest
followers. Many of them had willingly given themselves to her cause and now followed the Dead God, defying the Fire Giant and turning their back on the religion of Karesia. These men sickened Elihas and he refused to have anything to do with them. This went doubly for the ranks of merchant princes and mobsters who had come to Weir from Kessia and had begun to follow a perverted religion of which Saara was the high priestess. Much of the Mistress of Pain’s time was spent leading bizarre ceremonies in worship of the Dead God – ceremonies that Elihas had glimpsed out of the corner of his eye and which seemed to involve a lot of nudity and self-mutilation. When she was occupied, Elihas found himself the leader of their cause. He met with their spies, directed the Hounds around Tor Funweir, and managed the day-to-day duties of intimidation and death that the annexation of Ro Weir required.

  Next to the duke’s residence were many large manor houses, newly occupied by rich Karesian followers of the Mistress of Pain. They had killed the Ro nobles who owned the dwellings and appropriated their wealth for the cause, adding it to the funds that had been gained from the razing of Cozz. Elihas sneered at the buildings as he made his way round the cloistered yard between the duke’s residence and the huge harbour. The lowest levels of Weir were better maintained and the freshness coming from the sea even made the area seem pleasant.

  ‘My lord Elihas,’ said a Karesian accent from the yard.

  The cleric turned to see a group of wind claws at attention behind several wide pillars. They wore billowing black robes and wielded scimitars and wavy-bladed kris knives.

  ‘What?’ he replied.

  ‘You are asked to accompany us.’

  Elihas slowly walked over to them, keeping his eyes on the Karesian. He said nothing in response and the wind claw began to look nervous after a few seconds of silence.

  ‘My lord?’ prompted the man.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked the cleric after another moment.

  ‘The mistress is still in prayer and asks that you attend her in the chapel.’

  The chapel was the quaint and inappropriate name for the cavernous vaults under the knight marshal’s office. It had formerly been used as Weir’s grain silo, but had been cleared and was now the centre of Saara’s new flock, the place where her debased followers met to worship the Dead God. It was also the place where the darkwood trees had been placed – those that had not already been shipped to other parts of the world.