The Long War 03 - The Red Prince

by A. J. Smith

  It was a Gorlan mother, a legendary beast, pulled from the depths of deep time. Myths and fables were told about them in Oron Kaa. Of their father, the old one Atlach-Nacha, of their offspring, the bloated spiders of Leng. But they were all dead, surely they were all dead. Even as it began killing her soldiers, Sasha didn’t believe what she was seeing.

  It crushed some men and ate others, ignoring their feeble attempts to resist. Its beautiful abdomen, hairy and mottled red, twitched upwards, shrugging fine hairs into the air. They formed a mist, sticking foot-long shards into the men’s faces. Screams filled the ruined tower. Men ran and men died. But still she didn’t turn away.

  ‘We must leave, mistress,’ said Randall, clinging to her arm.

  The Gorlan flexed its huge bulk and scuttled towards her, baring its fangs. It reared up and blocked out the light of the sun that seeped through the web. She didn’t move or turn away even as the fangs plunged downwards and entered her chest.

  She was of the Seven Sisters of Shub-Nillurath. She was an ageless enchantress whom no man could attack, but Sasha the Illusionist felt like a terrified child as the Gorlan mother injected her venom and tore out her life.

  * * *

  Randall was confused. He thought he was awake, but he wasn’t sure. Maybe he had seen a fight, maybe he hadn’t. Strange memories filled his head. He wasn’t sure if they were his, but they felt real. Was it a fight? Or was it something else? A woman’s face, a lot of blood, a lot of death. A mosaic of things, real and unreal.

  He had fallen asleep on grass. That much was certain. Everything beyond that was up for debate.

  ‘Hello!’ he said.

  He didn’t know if he had said it aloud or just in his mind, but it had seemed the thing to say.

  ‘My name’s Randall. Is anyone there?’

  ‘I see you, young man,’ said a female voice, sensual and husky.

  ‘Where am I? Who are you? Am I alive? Why can’t I feel or see anything?’

  It must be a dream. It must be. It couldn’t be anything else.

  ‘You are not dreaming,’ replied the woman. ‘You belong to me now. If seeing and feeling are important to you, we will adjourn to somewhere more familiar.’

  He was suddenly in a village of thatch and wood. Smoking chimneys above flaming hearths. Trees and narrow streams bisected the village and the rich smell of red wine filled the air. The weather was fine. Sunny with a chill of cool air. It was autumn and textures of brown and green carpeted the ground. It was the Darkwald, a village near where he had grown up.

  Randall was not tired and his limbs were not sore. His sword was clean and his cloak smelled of lavender as if recently washed.

  ‘A pleasant village,’ said the woman. ‘A good place to grow up.’

  She appeared in front of him. A beautiful, tall woman in a figure-hugging black dress. Her hair was lustrous and rippled gently in the wind.

  ‘I find your memories calming,’ she said.

  ‘You’re an enchantress!’

  ‘Yes, Randall, I am. My name is Saara the Mistress of Pain.’

  He gulped and averted his eyes.

  She laughed. ‘My sweet boy, you are already enthralled. There is no further benefit to resistance.’

  ‘We have never met,’ he replied. ‘Though you’re almost identical to Katja the Hand of Despair. I saw her in Ro Tiris. But how can I be enchanted by you?’

  ‘So full of questions,’ replied Saara. ‘I suppose there is no harm, we have all the time in the world.’ She looked around at the village, taking in the clean air. ‘Your mind is a peaceful place. Much nicer than some I have been forced to endure of late.’

  ‘But... how?’ he repeated.

  Saara rubbed the sides of her head. She was intoxicating to look at, but her brow was troubled. ‘Can we not just enjoy the peace? Before we must return to the whirlwind of real life.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m just a bit confused. Well, a lot confused. Where’s Utha? Is he dead?’

  She frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I do not know, sweet boy.’

  ‘We were in Thrakka... actually, I probably shouldn’t talk to you.’

  Another laugh, though it was pained. ‘I am in your mind, Randall. You are my phantom thrall. Your thoughts and memories are mine to view and manipulate as I wish.’

  ‘I... we... shit.’ They had lost. He remembered nothing after falling asleep in the ruined tower. Nothing of Utha, Voon or Ruth. He couldn’t see how they could be alive if he had been enchanted. His master would not abandon him easily. He’d likely die, foolishly fighting to help his squire, although Voon was less passionate. Hopefully, he would have saved the miserable old albino from a pointless death.

  ‘You have much love in your heart, sweet Randall. But you may relax now, your struggles are over. You are no longer burdened with having to think for yourself.’

  ‘I quite like thinking for myself,’ he replied.

  She cradled his cheek. ‘All men do. Until they experience the clarity of servitude.’ She frowned suddenly. ‘Wait... who is the woman?’

  Randall felt the enchantress delve further into his memories. She watched him mating with Ruth on the floor of Captain Makad’s ship, and then to an isolated clearing, deep in the Fell. He stood next to her, watching Utha and his younger self approach Ryuthula’s cave.

  When the Gorlan appeared, Saara gasped.

  ‘So, the mother comes out of hibernation. I always knew they couldn’t be extinct.’

  She watched and listened, re-reading the conversation. She saw Randall cowering behind his master and she heard Ryuthula offer to be Utha’s guide. She heard of the staircase, the labyrinth and the guardian.

  ‘You killed my sister,’ she mused, watching the Gorlan transform into a woman. ‘I kill one assassin and another appears.’

  Randall’s head felt heavy. The enchantress was becoming agitated and it was affecting him. He didn’t understand sorcery or any of the weird craft he’d seen over the past year. He was uncomfortable that it existed. Tor Funweir was clear of strange magic and he didn’t like having to endure things he didn’t understand.

  Saara looked at him. ‘You retain freedom of thought,’ she said. ‘That is unexpected.’

  ‘Er, sorry,’ he replied. ‘I didn’t mean to have freedom of thought.’

  They left the clearing and returned to the small village nestled on the edge of the Darkwald.

  ‘The Gorlan mother has touched your mind,’ said Saara.

  ‘I advise you to leave the young man alone,’ said Ruth in the depths of his mind.

  She was unseen, but Randall could feel the warmth of her touch and the heat of her breath. Unlike the enchantress, he didn’t feel as if she was manipulating him. Saara’s distortions of his memories made of him a cipher, a window through which to view reality. He was barely involved in the process, whereas the Gorlan mother caressed his mind as if asking to be allowed in.

  ‘How is this possible?’ said Saara, hearing the voice and looking around her. ‘This is not possible. His thoughts are mine.’

  ‘No, they are not,’ was the reply. ‘They are his.’

  Saara sneered. ‘Am I addressing the creature that killed my sister?’

  ‘Ate is a more appropriate term, but yes, you are.’

  The enchantress closed her eyes. The corners of her mouth twitched as if she were experiencing sporadic pain.

  Randall’s mind was clearer now and he thought he remembered what had happened in Thrakka. Sasha the Illusionist had enchanted him. He wrestled with vague memories, trying to locate Utha and Voon, but he couldn’t place them. Were they alive? Or enchanted like he was?

  ‘I wish no conflict with you,’ said Saara, opening her eyes and revealing tears in them. ‘Our goals do not collide. Let us keep it that way.’

  ‘You were right,’ replied Ruth. ‘I care nothing for these lands of men and their inhabitants. But now you manipulate one I do care for. Leave his mind, now!’

  ‘If you were truly so po
werful you would have simply dismissed me,’ said Saara, her eyes darting from side to side. ‘I believe you have no power here. This is my territory, not yours.’

  ‘Yes and no,’ replied Ruth. ‘I have no power in the mind of another. It is the height of bad manners to enter another’s mind unbidden. Walking through thoughts and dreams without being invited is mental rape. You are a rapist, Mistress of Pain.’

  The enchantress laughed, twisting Randall’s memories into something else. She took them to a high tower overlooking the city of Kessia. It was a tall minaret in the centre of the sprawl.

  ‘Step to the edge, Randall,’ she said.

  He did as she asked, unable to resist. Beneath him a sheer drop loomed. He saw smoke rising from buildings, he smelled leather, meat and fish. To the north, the Kirin Ridge rippled across the horizon.

  ‘I could command him to jump and he would do so gladly,’ she said. ‘I could turn his waking body into a mindless shell if I willed it.’

  Ruth didn’t answer.

  ‘Do you hear me, spider?’

  ‘Er, she’s a Gorlan, not a spider,’ corrected Randall. ‘She doesn’t like being called a spider.’

  Saara glared at him through narrow eyes. ‘How is it you are able to talk to me thus?’ she asked. ‘You should be grovelling in the corners of your mind, begging for my favour. You are my phantom thrall.’

  He shrugged. ‘Don’t know. I don’t really like being on the edge of this tower, though. It’s a long way down.’

  Her glare grew deeper, pushing further into his mind. He felt her anchor herself to pieces of him, hooking her sorcery into his thoughts. It hurt.

  ‘Do you have to do that?’ he asked, wincing.

  ‘I will not give up so keen a weapon,’ she replied. ‘You will be a valuable asset against the Ghost.’

  She delved into his past, seeing Sir Leon Great Claw, Brother Torian of Arnon, the encounter in the oubliette of Tiris. It was an open tapestry upon which she could paint anything she wanted, anything she could imagine.

  ‘Please don’t make me betray him,’ he pleaded, wishing he could cry.

  ‘My dear Randall, you have already betrayed him. I know he is bound for Oron Kaa. That is all the information I need. He knows not what power lies in wait there... the City of Insects and the footprint of the Forest Giant.’

  Then Ruth laughed. It was not the velvety and seductive sound made by the Seven Sisters, it was a laugh of malevolence.

  ‘What do you know of power?’ asked the disembodied voice.

  ‘How are you still here?’ demanded Saara. ‘I don’t care what you are, you are not welcome.’

  ‘I tell you again, leave his mind.’

  ‘I will destroy his consciousness,’ screamed Saara. ‘Do not test me.’

  ‘You cannot have him,’ replied Ruth, her voice calm.

  Randall nearly fell forwards, toppling into thin air. Saara was using all her concentration trying to dismiss Ruth and he felt her exertion. Her mind surged in huge waves of power, each wave making Randall gasp with pleasure and pain.

  ‘What are you trying to do, little girl?’ asked Ruth.

  ‘Leave!’ roared Saara, throwing a wall of raw energy into Randall’s mind.

  ‘No!’ replied Ruth.

  His surroundings became unrecognizable. He flew through unformed realities, following the chaos of Saara’s struggle. He felt drunk, but not lost.

  ‘Can I speak?’ he slurred.

  The chaos halted and he returned to the high minaret. Saara was flushed and her tears were constant now.

  ‘I just wanted to ask Ruth something,’ he said feebly. ‘If it’s impolite to enter another’s mind unbidden, why can’t I invite you in? Because I’d like to, if it would help.’

  ‘No!’ muttered the enchantress.

  ‘Yes, Randall, you can. It would have defeated the object to have suggested such a thing,’ replied Ruth calmly.

  ‘You can come in. Really, you can come in.’

  Everything changed. His mind unravelled and came together again. He felt a cool breeze, a clear head, fresh air. He still felt powerless but at least it was within Ruth’s embrace and not Saara’s. The Darkwald village and the Karesian minaret were both unreal but the blue sky above him appeared different. Maybe it was real, or maybe he was dead and all this was the last surge of the power of his mind.

  ‘Can I go home? I’m fed up of magic.’

  ‘But your journey has only just begun,’ answered Ruth.

  He wanted to believe that he was actually resting in her arms, looking up at the blue sky, but he couldn’t trust his senses.

  ‘Look at me, Randall!’

  He craned his neck up and saw her face. She was cradling him in her arms. He could feel his body again. He wiggled his toes and felt the leather of his boots. He scratched at his neck and relieved an itch. It was real.

  ‘Where are we?’ he asked, feeling like a poorly child.

  She stroked his hair out of his eyes. ‘We are sitting on top of a vizier’s tower. Many people are looking for me.’

  ‘Are we safe?’

  ‘We are safer up here than anywhere else. No one saw me climb the tower with you encased in a web.’

  He screwed up his face. ‘I’m not sure how I feel about that. I periodically forget what you really are.’

  ‘Relax, Randall, you need rest. Your mind has been assaulted. It will take time for you to recover.’

  ‘Where’s Utha?’ Once the thought had entered his head, it was all he could think about. ‘Please tell me I didn’t get him killed. I don’t think I could live with that.’

  ‘The old-blood and the exemplar escaped,’ she replied. ‘I killed the enchantress before she could pursue them.’

  Randall smiled. He felt like an idiot, but he smiled anyway. His head was heavy, though the sensation was not unpleasant. His fingertips were sensitive and the wind crackled across his skin. Somewhere, beyond the stress of enchantment, the fatigue of travel and the fear of the unknown, he felt happy.

  CHAPTER 6

  FYNIUS BLACK CLAW IN THE CITY OF SOUTH WARDEN

  THE KNIGHTS OF Ro were stupid. They were arrogant, short-sighted, ordered and easy to trick. They made war in organized lines and became confused whenever their enemy was not right in front of them. He thought it little challenge to outwit them, but with Brytag’s wisdom he was going to do it anyway. He was going to do it with five hundred men of Twilight Company and six hundred idiots of the Crescent. As long as everyone shut up and let him think, Fynius was confident they would take South Warden back from the bastards of Ro.

  He smiled, looking from the tree line towards the northern wall of the city. The Red men were distracted, with plenty of interesting things to look at on the Plains of Scarlet. The Karesian’s estimate of their numbers had been wildly inaccurate, or maybe things had changed since he left. Fynius didn’t care. Either way, there were three distinct armies within sight of South Warden.

  ‘What do those banners mean?’ he asked the man of the sun, crouching next to him on the edge of the Moon Woods.

  ‘Which ones?’ asked Hasim.

  Fynius didn’t answer.

  ‘Hey, which ones?’ repeated the man of the sun.

  ‘The red ones.’

  ‘They’re all red. Be more specific.’

  Fynius guessed that the king was in South Warden and that Lallon of Feith, or whatever his name was, had the wooden stockade to the west. It was the mass of armour and horses to the south that he was worried about.

  Hasim waved a hand in front of the captain’s face. ‘Are you listening to me?’

  ‘On occasion,’ replied Fynius. ‘Those banners.’ He pointed to the huge southern camp.

  ‘I don’t know what they all mean, but the main one – the crossed swords and clenched fist – that’s the banner of the Red cardinal, Malaki Frith. He wasn’t here when I left.’

  Fynius turned to him and smiled. ‘So, how many Ro are on the Plains of Scarlet now?’


  Hasim frowned. ‘You’re a disagreeable bastard, you know that?’

  ‘Answer the fucking question.’ He was still smiling.

  The Karesian maintained eye contact and Fynius studied his face. Hasim wasn’t easy to scare. He was also lucky, and that was a worthy trait.

  ‘Maybe twenty thousand... and change,’ he replied.

  ‘And that Lallon fellow, where’s he?’

  ‘Fallon, his name’s Fallon. He’s in the yeomanry’s camp. The one place with no red banners.’

  Fynius turned back to South Warden. The Red cardinal’s camp was newly constructed, suggesting he had only recently arrived. The camp of the yeomanry was locked up tight, indicating that Sir Fallon of Leith had not yet ventured forth to speak to the general. The city itself was more or less intact, suggesting there would be plenty of Ranen prisoners.

  Interesting. Perhaps a plan was forming. Perhaps the Ro were about to get a lesson in how not to fuck with Fynius Black Claw and the Freelands of Ranen. Either way, he knew something was going to happen. He wasn’t sure what, but whatever it was, it was definitely going to happen.

  ‘You have some kind of idea?’ asked Hasim. ‘Or some magic power to turn your five hundred men into twenty thousand?’

  Fynius ignored him, formulating his plan.

  ‘Maybe we should find a way to approach Fallon.’ The Karesian was clearly uncomfortable with silence. ‘Or send Bronwyn.’

  The walls of South Warden were well defended on the western side, but the rest were largely empty. Few chimneys produced smoke and only the centre looked to be inhabited, though Rowanoco’s Stone was in ruins. His eyes twitched as he thought quickly.

  Hasim didn’t ask any more questions and instead muttered swear words under his breath. He wasn’t a complete fool, so Fynius chose not to be too mean to him.

  ‘I am thinking,’ said the Ranen captain. ‘Your incessant prattling does not help.’

  ‘Incessant prattling? Big words,’ replied Hasim. ‘Not particularly polite, however.’

  Fynius dropped his smile. He rubbed his hands together and spoke to the air. ‘I know he’s a friend, but if he doesn’t shut up, I’m going to hurt him.’