by A. J. Smith
Hasim twisted his face upwards in confusion. ‘Who the fuck are you talking to?’
‘See what I mean?’ he demanded of Brytag. ‘Just because he’s lucky, doesn’t mean he’s helpful.’
‘Are you talking about me?’ asked the Karesian.
‘Don’t interrupt,’ snapped Fynius. ‘I’m talking to someone worth talking to.’
Hasim began to respond, but stopped before he could say anything unwise.
‘Look, man of the sun, I am formulating a plan. This plan does not involve much fighting, so the numbers... they’re irrelevant. I plan to talk to Fallon of Leith if and when I have to, not before. Any more questions?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Just one,’ he said. ‘Are you really mad, or is this all an act?’
Fynius didn’t respond. He sprang to his feet and darted forward through the trees. He waved his hand behind and the line of blue-clad warriors followed. They moved silently over uneven ground, their swords sheathed.
Twilight Company were the misfits, the younger brothers, the short in statue but quick of mind. They were called the rogues, the raven men, the blue twilight and Brytag’s wing. They were Fynius’s men, an extension of his will, and they were lucky and wise, blessed by the World Raven.
‘Vincent, with me,’ he whispered, coming to a stop at the last line of cover before the plains.
Vincent Hundred Howl, his cousin, ghosted next to him. Hasim followed, a look of exasperation on his dusky face,
‘The old cheese cellars?’ asked Vincent.
‘I think so, certainly,’ replied Fynius.
‘The what?’ interjected Hasim.
‘South Warden used to be famed for its cheese, man of the sun,’ answered Fynius. ‘I doubt you got much of it in Karesia.’
‘How does that help?’
Fynius breathed in deeply, fighting the urge to slap the slow-witted Karesian.
‘I wasn’t aware I had to tell you everything, Hasim. You had your chance to ask questions.’
‘Okay, just tell me... do you have a way into South Warden?’
‘I do. It doesn’t smell terribly nice, but I do,’ he replied.
* * *
Fynius didn’t like cheese. The soft, goat’s stuff you got in Old Gar was normally served on toast and tended to ruin the toast. The harder southern stuff smelled less, but its chewy texture made him retch.
South Warden made a tangy, red cheese that was matured in large underground cellars. He doubted that knights of the Red would deign to eat any cheese not blessed by the righteous piss of the One God, so they wouldn’t think to look for the wooden hatches to the north of the city, used to air the cheese.
Twilight Company was arrayed across the northern plains, crouched in the low ground. Everything was pointed away from them and it was easier to stay hidden than he had anticipated. Even the man of the sun was stealthy enough to avoid the occasional glare of a Red knight.
They approached a natural gully with circular wooden hatches at every ten paces. The grass half covered them and Fynius signalled to his men. They clustered, gathering in front of the hatches.
He paused, taking in the surroundings. The wooden walls of South Warden were close, barely a hundred feet away. The yeomanry’s stockade was just visible, its trebuchets poking above the foreground. To the south, the Red general’s camp was obscured. Fynius knew something was going to happen, but he wasn’t sure where. If he was honest with himself, he wasn’t sure what either. Brytag didn’t give his wisdom in clear, concise lines. His visions came as snippets of mist, floating across his eyes. If he grabbed one, it became an idea. When it became an idea, he trusted it. He was still alive, so he must be doing something right.
‘South Warden is a Ranen city,’ he muttered. ‘It must not be in the hands of the Ro. We will take it back.’
With a quick movement he drew his sword. It was called Leg Biter, a gift from his big brother. The hatch was rusted shut from years of neglect and needed considerable leverage to open it. The smell was disgusting – unless you liked mouldy cheese, in which case it was probably quite nice.
Once open, a dark tunnel plunged away from him. Cobwebs and dust covered the smooth wood but the unmistakable smell of cheese carried from the underground cellars.
‘I like dark tunnels,’ he whispered to Vincent. ‘Let’s see where it leads.’
A wave of his hand and Twilight Company opened the other hatches. It would take time to move everyone into the tunnels and Fynius thought he should scout ahead.
‘I’ll get the men assembled in the cellars,’ said Vincent, picking up on his captain’s intentions.
‘Hasim, come with me,’ said Fynius, darting into the tunnel as the Karesian spluttered a whingeing reply.
The wooden planks were treated and bent into a perfect circle. Tufts of weed sprang up from splintered gaps, and the smell grew stronger. Within ten feet he had covered his nose. The cellars had not been used for some time and whatever remained had been left to fester. Hopefully, the knights hadn’t investigated the smell of over-ripe cheese. It was worse than the pungent mushrooms smoked by the Moon clans.
‘How did you know about this place?’ asked Hasim in his annoying, whining accent.
‘My mum loved the cheese from South Warden. She always said we’d go and visit the cheese-makers one day. We never did, but I remembered the cellars.’
The Karesian looked doubtful.
‘Okay, maybe Brytag told me,’ said Fynius. ‘What difference does it make?’
‘None. I’m just trying to figure you out. You’re either full of shit or you know something I don’t.’
Fynius ignored him and moved further along the tunnel. He had to crouch, but not so much that he couldn’t walk quickly. He knew the tunnels led to large cellars, but not much after that. He’d see something when he got there, he was sure.
The cramped, wooden passageway opened up and the two of them hopped down into a dark silo. Shafts of light spread downwards from broken planks, illuminating old tables and cheese-making equipment. From the angle of the light, he estimated that they were just inside the walls of South Warden.
‘Right, things to do, things to do,’ he muttered. ‘The king of Ro, the Purple man, the Red knights, Scarlet Company, the wise woman, Lilon of Foth.’
‘His name’s Fallon of Leith,’ interrupted Hasim.
‘What?’
‘It’s not that difficult a name to remember,’ said the Karesian.
Fynius ignored him. He walked to the middle of the cellar and looked at the ceiling. They weren’t under a building, which was useful, but he needed to get to Long Shadow’s hall. It was quite a way. Luckily, there were more tunnels leading away from the cellar.
‘We’re going to do some exploring,’ he said. ‘That way, I think.’
He picked a tunnel leading into the city and proceeded along it.
‘Seriously, are you full of shit?’ asked Hasim, grudgingly following the Ranen.
The tunnels leading away from the cellar were of cyclopean stone blocks, forced together with dusty grey mortar. Old wheels of cheese sat in wooden frames, gathering moisture and mould from the humid cellars. The floor dust was undisturbed and the torch emplacements rusted into odd shapes.
‘There’s nothing like an invasion to halt cheese-making,’ remarked Hasim.
‘Stopped before that,’ Fynius replied. ‘They’ve made normal, everyday cheese for years. These cellars are an expensive luxury when you’re short on funds and trying to feed a growing population.’
He paused, listening to the wind. It blew from several directions, swirling gently through the tunnels.
‘Shut up now, I’m thinking again,’ said Fynius, creeping slowly past the cheese racks.
They were under the city, moving towards the mount and Rowanoco’s Stone. Light was sporadic, appearing from small, angled holes every few paces. On the outside, the tunnels poked above the ground as semicircles of moss-covered stone. The Ranen of South Warden had abandoned t
hem, so why would the Red knights think to look?
‘Find a loose stone, I need to see where we are,’ he said, testing the blocks with his foot.
Hasim joined him, using a knife to chip away at rotten mortar. He was crouched and foolishly trying to loosen the lower bricks.
‘Perhaps you should try higher up,’ said Fynius. ‘Try not to be too much of an idiot.’
He glared, looking like a sinister gremlin in the dark tunnel. But he seemed to accept his idiocy and moved to a brick that might lead outside.
Together they found a small section where the blocks of stone had crumbled. There was not much of a gap on the outside, but within, a solid shove would cause the stone shell to break. Fynius pulled away chunks of masonry and allowed a thick stream of morning sunshine to flood over his face. The gap was still small, but big enough to allow him to orient himself.
They were between an empty stable and a wooden house, nestled in dead ground. Looming over nearby houses was Long Shadow’s hall, a wooden long house with a sloping roof, thatched with golden straw. Beyond that, the crumbling dome of Rowanoco’s Stone.
‘The Red bastards,’ grumbled Fynius. ‘Is nothing sacred?’
‘This isn’t Tor Funweir,’ replied Hasim. ‘Nothing is sacred outside Tor Funweir. To the knights you’re just peasants and lesser men.’
‘Is that how they won?’
Hasim nodded. ‘They couldn’t take the breach, so they bombarded the assembly and drove the Ranen to frenzy.’
‘Stupid, rage-filled, hairy, southern, Free Company idiots.’
‘That’s a bit strong. They fought like the Ice Giant himself to defend their ground.’
‘They lost... bravery means fuck all if you lose,’ replied Fynius.
The Karesian snorted and shook his head. He cared for these southern Ranen. It was all over his face. He’d fought to defend this city and stayed alive. That put him a little way above Scarlet Company.
‘Why do you care?’ he asked Hasim. ‘This isn’t your land or your god.’
‘My god’s a vicious tyrant... if I’m going to fight for something, it might as well be a god that gives a shit about his followers.’
‘Good attitude,’ he replied.
The opening was in a disused corner of South Warden and moving the crumbling stone to poke his head out was free of risk. Fynius gained his bearings quickly. The tunnel travelled under the hall and snaked its way across the town. It poked above the ground at irregular intervals, forming mounds of grass and brick.
There were few knights in evidence. They appeared between buildings and disappeared again, making their way towards the main gate. Small patrols were far off, keeping their eyes on the western defences. They had hubris enough to ignore the peasants and lesser men of Ranen skulking to the north. The bulk of the king’s forces were in here somewhere, but not looking for a couple of men in a cheese cellar.
He left the spy-hole and carried on along the tunnel, moving quickly again. He counted his strides, judging when he was below Long Shadow’s hall. There was little light now and Fynius narrowed his eyes and trusted in his night vision. The ceiling was flat and the tunnel angled downwards.
‘Are you going to tell me your plan yet?’ asked Hasim.
‘Something’s going to happen,’ he replied.
‘What?’
‘Not sure, but we need to be ready when it does,’ stated Fynius.
The Karesian puffed out his cheeks. He was impatient and needed to relax. Fynius wondered why people were so reluctant to trust him.
‘Are we going to have a problem?’ he asked Hasim. ‘So far you’ve only been slightly stupid. Much more, and we may fall out.’
‘You’re taking all this very lightly,’ replied the man of the sun. ‘People have died. Lots of people. And, unless you’re cleverer than you appear, many more are going to die before this is done.’
‘Don’t worry, I am much cleverer than I appear,’ replied Fynius.
Hasim chuckled. At least he had a sense of humour. ‘You’re funny, man of Gar. But I’m taking a lot on trust.’
Fynius was confused. He didn’t really feel the need or the inclination to explain himself. He was following Brytag and he trusted the World Raven with his life. Why did others not just keep out of his way?
‘Answer me this, man of the sun – what choice do you have?’
He didn’t wait for an answer.
The tunnel had opened into a basement, a cube of grey, mouldy stone. Old doors hung limply on broken hinges, turning a dark green in the musty air. Above, a long-sealed trapdoor and a few slivers of light.
‘Right, first things first,’ he said. ‘I need to see the king.’
‘Er, what?’ asked Hasim.
Fynius smiled, splitting his mouth into a broad grin. ‘I don’t plan to have a drink with him. I just need to see him. Then I can think about Scarlet Company and the wise woman.’
He moved a heavy barrel to the centre of the basement and vaulted on top of it. At full stretch he could reach the trapdoor.
‘Do you know where that leads?’ asked Hasim.
‘Nope. Well, yes... it leads up.’
He grabbed a rusted semicircle of metal that used to be a handle and used his weight as leverage. A few seconds of creaking and falling dust, and the trapdoor buckled downwards. Fynius let go and fell to the stone floor, covered in wooden splinters and thick dust. Two white fabric sacks fell down from above and bounced off his head, eliciting grunts of annoyance.
When the dust had cleared there was an open hatchway leading up.
Fynius coughed and rubbed the grime and dirt from his face, kicking the sacks out of the way.
‘Up we go then,’ he said, getting back on the barrel.
He leapt up and got a good hold on the lip of the opening, pulling himself up into musty darkness. It was another basement, built on top of the cheese tunnels. This one was full, with sacks and barrels in disorganized lines across the slotted wooden floor. Fynius had emerged in the middle of forgotten supplies and under a low ceiling. The wood above was poorly maintained and each floorboard had gaps. The light was flickering, coming from fire-pits in the long hall. Best of all, he could hear muffled voices.
Hasim hauled himself up into the basement of Long Shadow’s hall, crouching amidst the barrels.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Fynius.
‘I’m hiding,’ whispered Hasim in response.
‘From what? There’s no one here.’
The Karesian pointed upwards. ‘There are people up there.’
‘They’re not looking for two sneaky rodents in their basement, though, are they?’
‘Rodents? Fuck off,’ replied Hasim.
Fynius moved across the discarded barrels to the corner of the basement. The gaps between the floorboards were wider here and larger blades of light illuminated his face. The voices were still too far away. He needed to get closer. He tested the floorboards and found them loose. With a lift and a slide, he moved a plank of wood out of the way and poked his head up through the floor.
It was a small room, filled with food and bottles of mead. A door at each end, both latched from the outside. Sides of salted pork, baskets of apples, oranges and rounds of hard bread. The larder of the long hall was well used, with little dust and multiple footprints.
‘Stay down there, man of the sun. Your big, heavy feet will give us away.’
He ignored the grumbled reply and hefted himself into the larder. Voices, footsteps, the clank of armour, all were clear and alarmingly close. The knights and clerics occupying the hall appeared to be flustered. Their voices were raised and their movements quick.
‘The king, the Purple man, the king, the Purple man, the enchantress, the wise woman. What to do, what to do?’
With the tip of Leg Biter, he gently raised the latch on the left-hand door. Glancing into the hall, he saw light, natural and unnatural. Torches in the corridors, fire-pits in the long hall, and the silvery glow of dawn from the windows.
He darted across the corridor to an adjacent room. Two Purple clerics clanked across the carpet a second later, talking about the Red cardinal. They were encased in ornate armour, looking like mobile fortresses of interlocked metal and leather strapping. They hadn’t seen or heard him.
His new location was a bedroom, perhaps formerly belonging to a cook or a kitchen servant. There was blood on the white sheets and sword marks on the wall. Someone had died there. Bastard knights.
‘Up or along, up or along?’ he muttered, hoping for an answer. ‘Up is safer, along is quicker.’
‘Up it is!’
Above the room, a dense criss-cross of interlocked wooden beams held up the thatched roof. There was no lower ceiling and a sufficiently nimble man could traverse the length of Long Shadow’s hall in the rafters.
‘I’m sufficiently nimble. Let’s go and see the king,’ he said to Brytag, making sure the World Raven was still with him.
He put a chair on top of the bed and climbed up. It was tricky to reach the rafters, though the lack of light helped conceal him. Within a few minutes he was hanging in the middle of the small bedroom, clinging to the horizontal wooden beams. He strained with exertion and flexed his forearms, pulling his lean body into the dark rafters.
‘Much better, I can see where I’m going.’
Perched on a beam in darkness, Fynius could see a lot of men. A dozen small bedrooms were occupied by clerics. Ranen prisoners were held in a dozen more storerooms. Ranen women were cleaning the corridors and the long hall was flanked by Purple clerics. The hierarchy was obvious. The Purple men were in charge and the Red men were the muscle. What a strange way to organize an army. What gave them the right to rule? And Purple was a stupid colour.
He moved through the rafters, silently edging his way towards the hall. Raised voices and the crackle of a fire greeted him. South Warden was warm compared with Old Gar, but cold for these men of Ro, and they kept the fire-pits burning.
‘Will the king tell me what’s going to happen?’ he asked Brytag. ‘Hmm, let’s see.’
At the far end of the hall, seated in Long Shadow’s chair and surrounded by men of the Purple, was the king of Tor Funweir. Fynius didn’t know his name but he looked like a manic child.