The Long War 03 - The Red Prince

by A. J. Smith

  There were three Karesians, each man off guard and not expecting trouble. Elihas thought for a moment and tried to hide the anger he felt at being spoken to by lesser men. He decided to remind them that they were not to speak to him.

  He stepped closer to the wind claw and drew the punch-dagger he kept on his right forearm. The steel was a foot long and deadly sharp. It slid smoothly into the Karesian’s neck and his expression moved through the stages of death while Elihas watched him. The cleric enjoyed seeing the light disappear from the eyes of men and he savoured the feeling, not wrenching out the blade so as to kill him quickly. The other wind claws instinctively moved their hands to their scimitars, but as Elihas withdrew his bloodstained dagger and stepped over the slumped body in front of him they held up their hands in submission.

  ‘You are not to talk to me,’ snarled the cleric.

  The Karesians exchanged a worried glance. After a moment, one of them pointed towards the catacombs and the two men parted to allow Elihas to lead the way. Neither spoke again as the cleric cleaned his punch-dagger and placed it back along his forearm.

  The cloistered yard was one of the oldest parts of Ro Weir and contained dozens of low entries leading into the vast tunnels beneath the city. When Saara was not seeing to her administrative duties in the duke’s office, she would be in the catacombs practising her perverse religion in hedonistic isolation. Of late, since her latest sister had been killed, she had spent more and more time in the chapel, leaving the city in the hands of wind claws and her Ro thralls. Elihas did not fully understand why Saara became increasingly unhinged each time she lost a sister, but he had counted several dozen unfortunate men who had encountered her during such moments of madness and had been viciously killed. He had challenged her about it and had been told simply that she needed their energy to quieten her mind. He snorted with contempt at this answer, but did not care enough to press the issue.

  The stone passageway became dark within a few strides, with no windows to allow in the morning light. It led downwards, though the stone ceiling stayed at the same height and contained a number of small balconies from which prisoners used to be thrown from the dungeons above. The catacombs had seen no use for centuries, until Saara had developed her liking for dark, underground places in which to worship her god.

  ‘Good morning, Elihas,’ a young woman’s voice spoke from an adjoining chamber.

  ‘Good morning, Keisha,’ he replied, nodding his head at Saara’s Kirin body-slave.

  She was around eighteen years of age and a compliant young lady. ‘The mistress asked me to escort you to the chapel,’ she said, with a flirtatious curtsy. It was a habit she had presumably developed during her years as a pleasure-slave, and she had not yet broken the habit despite the cleric’s failure to respond. ‘She’s been in a better mood this morning. Apparently we have an ally against the dark-blood.’

  Elihas looked at her. ‘Your mistress doesn’t keep many secrets from you.’

  ‘A body-slave should know all of her mistress’s business. The better to assist her every need.’

  Keisha led him to the huge central chamber, deep under the knight marshal’s office. It was barely lit and the high ceiling was domed and filled with dancing shadows. Balconies were dimly visible around the dome. The central platform, raised, with steps at the corners, was adorned with a macabre altar of twisted tentacles. The statue’s construction had driven three stonemasons insane. Its angles were strange and caused the light to play off it in bizarre patterns.

  ‘I see her altar is finished,’ said Elihas as they approached the platform.

  ‘Vile, isn’t it?’ replied Keisha. ‘I try not to look at it.’

  Beyond the stone tentacles he could see a number of darkwood trees, sitting in the shadowy expanse of the catacombs. They were each surrounded by a small patch of earth and looked like nothing so much as a thinly spaced forest. A dozen or so could be seen, but the darkness beyond suggested that many more hid in the catacombs beneath Ro Weir. The trees were smaller than others he’d seen and Elihas surmised that they were not fully grown, having only recently sprouted from dead forest-dwellers.

  Seated on the platform, Saara the Mistress of Pain was flanked by robed fanatics – men and women of Ro with wild eyes, fidgeting manically. The enchantress, with deep bags under her eyes and pallid skin, beckoned Elihas forward.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ said Keisha with a bow.

  She broke off and walked towards her new quarters – a large side room with several adjoining chambers, which she shared with her mistress.

  * * *

  Dalian crouched in darkness, his form hidden behind the balcony’s edge. Nanon skulked next to him and the two companions looked down into the catacombs of Ro Weir. They had followed Elihas of Du Ban to the cloistered yard and, thinking it suicide to follow him down, had found another means of entry. Through the bottom level of the knight marshal’s office were empty dungeons – no bars or doors remained, merely rusted chains hanging from mossy and rotten brickwork – and they had managed to keep track of the cleric below them by poking their heads over the many balconies that looked down. They were too far above him to be seen, but Dalian was irritated that he couldn’t hear what was being said or see much past the grotesque altar in the centre.

  ‘Who’s the girl?’ he asked the Dokkalfar next to him.

  ‘At a guess, I’d say that is Keisha of Oslan.’ He smiled. ‘Rham Jas’s daughter.’

  He frowned at this news. ‘That will be a distraction for the Kirin. Perhaps we shouldn’t tell him.’

  Nanon tilted his head. ‘That seems a little... cold-hearted.’

  ‘Killing the enchantress will be hard enough,’ replied Dalian, ‘without worrying about rescuing the girl.’

  ‘But she is a dark-blood,’ said Nanon. ‘Perhaps it’s sensible to see her safe.’

  The wind claw thought for a moment. Keisha would have been born after Rham Jas had gained his unnatural abilities, making it possible that his gifts had been passed on.

  ‘Does it work like that?’ he asked.

  ‘I believe so,’ replied the forest-dweller.

  ‘So we should encourage the Kirin to father many children... just to have spares.’

  Nanon again tilted his head. ‘You are strange, Karesian man.’

  Dalian nearly laughed at the irony, but kept himself under control and tried to focus down into the catacombs.

  He could see the bulky black-armoured form of Elihas standing before the twisted altar and the Kirin girl walking towards the side door. In front of the cleric, seated and flanked by robed devotees, was a slim Karesian woman with flowing black hair. This was Saara the Mistress of Pain, a woman Dalian had not seen since he left Kessia months ago. She was too distant for them to discern her facial expression, but the leader of the Seven Sisters was resting her head on her hands and her body shape – slumped over and undignified – indicated that she was either tired or in some kind of distress.

  ‘Would something simple like a rope work?’ asked Nanon. ‘Rham Jas is pretty nimble.’

  ‘He is,’ agreed Dalian, ‘but he’d never get back up the rope.’

  ‘So one of us stays up here and helps him. He’s not very heavy.’

  ‘It’s a shame there isn’t a clear shot. The Kirin is good with that Dokkalfar bow,’ said the Thief Taker.

  ‘Impossible shot, even for him.’

  Dalian scanned the catacombs. They were mostly hidden in darkness and the entrance, leading up towards the cloistered yard, was well guarded by wind claws and Ro flunkies. To fight their way in, with or without Rham Jas, would be difficult. Dalian and Nanon were both fearsome killers but superior numbers could still overwhelm them and to die this close to their quarry would serve no purpose.

  ‘We need a viable way in,’ said the Thief Taker.

  ‘I’m still supporting the rope idea,’ replied Nanon.

  ‘It’s a stupid idea.’

  ‘You’re stupid,’ replied the fore
st-dweller.

  ‘Is petulance a common failing among your people?’ Dalian asked. ‘I thought you were all calm and stoic.’

  ‘You’re being mean,’ stated Nanon. ‘I thought we were friends.’

  ‘Just shut up. I’m trying to think.’

  Far below them, casting multiple shadows on the stone floor, Elihas and Saara were deep in conversation. The cleric was impassive and was listening to the animated enchantress, fidgeting in her chair and scratching her head in agitation. The Seven Sisters were known for always being in control, never letting stress or anger intrude upon their serenity, but to watch Saara now, even from afar, was to watch a woman at the edge of her sanity. By Dalian’s count she’d lost four of her sisters, and through some connection unknown to him she was feeling their loss deeply.

  ‘I have an idea,’ he said after a minute of looking into the dark catacombs. ‘A distraction.’

  Nanon tilted his head again. ‘Now, that’s a good idea.’

  CHAPTER 10

  LORD BROMVY BLACK GUARD IN THE CITY OF CANARN

  HIS DREAMS WERE never simple, even after boring days spent talking to fools. Seeing the faces of noblemen turn into braying donkeys was a particular favourite during the hours of darkness. How much these dreams reflected Brom’s subconscious was unclear, but it made a nice change to wake up smiling rather than sweating.

  There were no braying donkeys on this occasion. He was standing in a dense and snowy wood with the cawing of a raven for company. It was in the north, cold and windswept. Somewhere in the Freelands. The trees were swaying in the wind, shaking a thin mist of snow into the air.

  Shadowy figures surrounded him. Some were dressed as Red knights, some as Free Company men and Fjorlan battle-brothers. A few black-armoured Hounds mixed with others covered in blue markings and carrying wooden weapons. Standing close to him were Hawks, the warriors of Ro Haran, with short swords and heavy shields. No more than a handful of each force, standing impassively in the snow.

  Only the raven showed signs of life, hopping from one branch to another above the heads of the frozen warriors. Behind it, silhouetted against the trees, was another force of warriors. They were mounted and dressed in dark blue leather coats.

  ‘I wish you could talk,’ said Brom, smiling weakly at the bird.

  It stopped hopping and pointed its large, black beak at him.

  ‘I know who you are, but I don’t know what you want,’ he said, not sure if he was really dreaming.

  ‘Brom!’ sounded a familiar voice.

  He spun round, looking past a group of motionless Fjorlanders. Through the snowy trees, he could see Magnus Forkbeard. His old friend was armoured in chain mail, with Skeld hanging from his belt. His beard and hair were golden and his eyes a sparkling blue.

  The lord of Canarn smiled. He had missed the stubborn Ranen priest.

  ‘You look the same, friend,’ said Brom.

  ‘You look ill,’ replied the smiling priest. ‘Are you eating properly?’

  They both laughed. The raven cawed as if it understood their humour.

  ‘I know you’re not real,’ said Brom. ‘I saw you die. But it’s still good to see you.’

  ‘Death, it seems, is little impediment to conversation,’ said Magnus in his deep, rumbling voice. ‘But, you’re right, I’m not real.’

  ‘Is the raven?’ asked Brom.

  The bird flapped awkwardly to the ground, flaring its wings and snapping its beak.

  ‘Few of our gods can truly perceive the lands of men. We move and grow too quickly for them,’ said Magnus, smiling at the agitated raven. ‘Only Brytag has the wit to reach from the halls without an old-blood.’

  ‘And he doesn’t speak Ro,’ said Brom. ‘Tricky.’

  The frozen warriors around him began to move. Each one raised a weapon and sneered: axes, swords, bows and scimitars in the snowy forest.

  Brom jumped in surprise as the figures swung their weapons. They ignored him and quickly created a chaotic melee of blood and steel. The Ranen attacked the knights, the Hounds attacked the Hawks. Each man fought with no sense for self-preservation and all of them died brutally, hacked to pieces. The last man standing was a young Red knight who died slowly from an arrow wound to the neck. The force of blue-clad riders did not take part. They stayed back, observing the carnage.

  The raven cawed angrily.

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ shouted Brom. ‘I’ve seen you when I’ve slept ever since I was a boy. So has Bronwyn. But we’ve never been able to understand you.’

  ‘You have gifts you don’t appreciate, you and your sister,’ said Magnus. ‘Noble twins are a rare thing. Bullvy and Brunhilde, Bromvy and Bronwyn. The World Raven likes twins. Somehow he can see you more clearly than others.’

  The dead bodies disappeared. The forest shook with a strong wind, shaking ice and snow into his face. Cold was cold, whether he was asleep or not. It was both a dream and more than a dream.

  ‘You’ve shared dreams with Bronwyn, haven’t you?’ asked Magnus. ‘When Canarn fell?’

  His shivering increased, his teeth chattered and his hands shook.

  ‘I’m Ro, why does a Ranen god care?’ he asked, his breath appearing as a cloud of steam.

  ‘You were born on the earth of Rowanoco, across the sea from your Tor Funweir.’

  ‘I’m a traitor to my own people, I have no allegiance there. But he needs to tell me what he wants.’

  Magnus strode over the hard snow and beckoned to the raven. His thick beard was flecked with glittering snowflakes and his eyes narrowed against the white glare.

  The raven flapped its wings. In an ungainly flutter, it hopped from the grass to perch on Magnus’s forearm. The force of riders, shadowy and opaque, was still in the distance. Their standard showed a raven flying over a half-moon.

  ‘The World Raven doesn’t like what is happening to the lands of men,’ said Magnus.

  ‘I didn’t think the gods truly cared,’ replied Brom.

  ‘Do you care about rats, goats, sheep and cows?’

  Brom smirked and shook his head. ‘Why is Brytag different?’

  The raven cawed, hopping on Magnus’s forearm.

  ‘He was never a Giant. He ascended with his friend and became a god, but he is just a raven.’

  A shrill caw.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Magnus, ‘he was just a raven.’

  Brom approached the bird and tentatively stroked its glossy head. Was this actually Brytag the World Raven, or just a vivid dream?

  Another caw and the raven pulled back its head, snapping at Brom’s hand. Its eyes were black, but they conveyed more emotion than they should. What did it want him to know?

  ‘Do you understand it?’ he asked Magnus.

  ‘After a fashion. I can see what he wants to show you.’ His old friend narrowed his eyes.

  He was so real, Brom felt sad. He hadn’t realized how much he had valued Magnus until he saw him, bloodied and cloven on the floor of his great hall.

  ‘Did he send you?’ he asked.

  ‘Rowanoco did,’ replied Magnus, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. ‘The gods have their own reasons for the things they do. They scheme and twist in ways we can’t understand.’

  ‘So they’re allies? Rowanoco and Brytag?’

  ‘They’re friends,’ he replied. ‘In the lands of men, all that requires is a few drinks and shared interest in whoring.’ He grinned, and Brom recalled a hundred debauched nights they’d spent together. ‘But in the halls beyond the world it’s a deeper understanding. Imagine being friends for a few thousand years.’

  Brom blinked. ‘I can’t really imagine a thousand years. Only in stories.’

  ‘That’s what this is,’ he replied. ‘It’s an old, old story. Happens to be true. They call it the Long War. In the end, it’s the only story that matters, the only one that never ends.’ He bowed his head, his broad forehead creasing in concern.

  ‘Tell me what you see?’ asked Brom. ‘What does he wa
nt to show me?’

  ‘Fire,’ he replied. ‘And pain.’

  ‘My end?’

  ‘Your beginning,’ he answered. ‘But he wants to say sorry.’

  * * *

  Winter was slowly fading away and the citadel of Canarn was no longer enveloped in endless storms. The sheer drop from the highest tower, down a wall of stone and another of cliffs and rock, was clearer in the daytime, with less snow and fewer ferocious waves. The way down was a greater distance than Brom could imagine falling, and to look down at the sea for too long brought him headaches and dizziness, though he still came to the tower and he still looked down.

  Brom had become a more thoughtful man of late, less reckless and impulsive, more willing to consider his actions and to avoid conflict. He had successfully rebuilt his city, brought back some of its previous joy, replanted the crops, rebuilt the farms and returned life to the duchy of Canarn. He had even managed to keep the humans and Dokkalfar integrated to some extent. The forest-dwellers had begun to socialize more outside of their species and a few had become watchmen, lending their leaf-blades to the defence of the city. Many farmers and non-military men had also volunteered and were being trained in an informal barracks to the north. After the occupation, the populace had developed a stern determination never to be subjugated people again. An already strong-willed people had become even more so.

  As for their lord, he played the part of duke while not being one and tried his best to project confidence and optimism about the future. In reality, Brom was frustrated and becoming more impatient with each passing day. He knew that the Freelands were under attack and that Tor Funweir was under the sway of the Seven Sisters. Canarn was in the middle of the two conflicts. Not currently engaged in hostilities, it was a bastion of peace in the lands of men. Brom enjoyed the peace, but his sword hand twitched whenever he received a report from Tiris or the Freelands.