The Long War 03 - The Red Prince

by A. J. Smith

  ‘There you are,’ he whispered.

  A cleric, older and haughtier-looking than the rest, was at the king’s side, arguing with him.

  ‘And you’re the Purple man.’

  He moved closer, trusting in shadow and stealth, until he could hear what they were talking about.

  ‘I know what she wants, my king,’ said the Purple cardinal. ‘She has touched me with her love and blessed me with conviction.’

  ‘Be silent, Mobius,’ said the king. ‘Saara is my love, my life, and I feel her needs better than you.’

  The cardinal grimaced, as if he were fighting the urge to do or say something unwise. The seated man was his king, but some other influence was causing a rift. Was this what Fynius needed to see?

  ‘Educate me, my king... what does she need?’ asked Mobius, containing his anger.

  ‘She needs her king to act with strength and certitude. I have been idle and weak. This Fallon of Leith needs to be taught not to defy his king. The Red general must annihilate the peasants of Darkwald.’

  The king was flapping his hands in the air. He twitched and contorted, moving his body into strange angles. Whatever else he was, the king of Tor Funweir was clearly under the influence of sorcery.

  ‘This is wrong,’ muttered Fynius. ‘This is very, very wrong.’

  ‘My king!’ snapped the Purple cardinal. ‘Please listen to counsel. I know her heart and I know what she wants.’

  The king widened his eyes and his face flushed red. ‘You claim to know her better than me? Insolence!’

  Mobius put a hand on the hilt of his sword. The other clerics did the same, indicating that they were loyal to their cardinal before their king.

  ‘Be careful, my king,’ said the cardinal. ‘I spoke to our beloved allies before you’d even heard of them. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I am your servant.’

  The king, oblivious to the armed men all around him, raised his chin. ‘I do not like the knights of the Red meeting without me. When they parlay, I will attend.’

  Mobius motioned for his men to stand at their ease and they withdrew their hands from their swords. Fynius didn’t understand these men. Even taking into account the sorcery, they were strange creatures. The king was in charge, but not really. The cardinal maintained a strange deceit that he obeyed his monarch, while flexing his muscles and reminding the king how tenuous his power was.

  ‘The situation needs the leadership of nobility, my king. Let your clerics lead.’ The cardinal stepped close to the king. ‘Stay in the hall, be quiet, know your place. Saara has tasked me with keeping you in line.’

  The king began to stand, but was shoved back into his seat by Mobius. He curled up in a mockery of childish emotion, clutching his knees to his chest and crying.

  ‘If you insist on attending the parlay, my men will accompany you and they will be in charge. You will do as you are told.’

  ‘I just want her to love me,’ he wailed.

  ‘We all do, my king, but she only truly loves me,’ replied Mobius, the mania of enchantment bringing a glint to the corner of his eyes.

  ‘So you’re both enchanted,’ said Fynius. ‘Lovely.’

  Around the hall, slouching on chairs and round tables were a dozen men of the Purple. A further squad stood behind Mobius. Fynius had expected the Red men to be in charge, but none of them were in Long Shadow’s hall.

  ‘Right, I know what’s going to happen,’ he told Brytag. ‘And I know how we can help. Excellent.’

  With a jaunty spring in his step, Fynius hopped back across the rafters to the cook’s bedroom.

  * * *

  Five cheese cellars were now full of blue-jacketed men of Twilight Company. Vincent Hundred Howl had moved everyone under the city and they had spread out through the first few tunnels. When it happened, they would be ready, but Fynius had one more thing to do. He had to find the wise woman.

  ‘What about Two Hearts?’ asked Hasim. ‘He’s got a lot of men.’

  ‘He’ll just get in the way,’ replied Fynius. ‘Your lover will be useful, though.’

  The man of the sun chuckled, slumped against the wooden floor of the cellar.

  ‘She’d hate you calling her that.’

  ‘Don’t care,’ replied Fynius. ‘The World Raven likes her, which means I trust her.’

  ‘You trust her, a lady of Ro, and not me?’

  ‘I’d forgotten she was Ro,’ he responded. ‘Gods come before countries. She can speak on my behalf to this Fallon of Leith.’

  ‘You got his name right... well done!’

  Fynius ignored him and again left the bulk of his men. He didn’t need Hasim to accompany him this time and he knew exactly where he was going. He took the same tunnel, ignoring the trapdoor that led up to Long Shadow’s hall, and continuing as far as Rowanoco’s Stone. He could feel the wise woman, huddled under the ruined chapel. At least some of Scarlet Company had not felt the need to die foolishly in the breach.

  The cheese tunnels ended in a central stone chamber. Wooden framing lined the circular walls from the floor to the ceiling twenty feet above. Mouldy wheels of cheese and forgotten cheese-making equipment sat on broken wooden shelves. A sufficiently foolhardy man could use the frames as a ladder to reach the hatch in the centre of the ceiling.

  ‘I’m sufficiently foolhardy,’ he announced, beginning to climb.

  The frame was rickety, but the upright supports were solid enough and Fynius was freakishly dextrous. He reached the central hatch. It was a dirty glass window set in the floor of whatever was up there. There was no way to open it without breaking the glass.

  ‘Hmm, let’s trust to luck, shall we?’

  He knocked on the glass and waited, wedged between an upright wooden beam and the wall. After a minute, dark silhouettes moved across the glass.

  ‘Hello!’ he said, speaking as loudly as he dared. ‘I’m not a Red knight, or a Purple cleric.’

  Whispered voices from above. A man and a woman. The man was suspicious and the woman wanted to open the glass hatch.

  ‘Brytag sent me,’ he said more quietly.

  The silhouettes stopped talking. The larger of the two shapes knelt down and prized away the rusty metal latch. The glass was pulled upwards and Fynius smiled at the two Ranen above.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ asked the man, a corpulent warrior in middle age with a short black beard.

  Fynius ignored him and stretched to reach the lip of the hatch. He got a good hold and pulled himself through. The man stepped back and hefted an old-looking axe. The woman stayed put and smiled at him. Elsewhere in the stone chamber were dozens of men, women and children. Some wore the crimson of South Warden, others the blue of Hail. Many were wounded and many more were starving.

  He felt the man deserved an answer. ‘I’m Fynius Black Claw. I come from Old Gar, following a raven.’

  The man slowly lowered his axe and a tired smile flowed across his face. His wrinkles showed and there were shadows under his eyes.

  ‘Mathias Flame Tooth, axe-master of South Warden. This is Freya Cold Eyes of Hail. Welcome, man of Gar.’

  * * *

  Fynius was pleased with himself. He’d found two more groups of survivors huddled in basements and cheese cellars, trying to stay alive by eating what they could steal and drinking rainwater. Flame Tooth was in charge, and in remarkably good health considering he’d sustained a dozen separate wounds fighting in the breach. He had managed to remain jovial and keep their spirits up as they waited for rescue or death.

  The prisoners had stayed in their sanctuaries, joined by groups of Twilight Company who cared for their wounds and prepared them for what was to come. This proved tricky, as Fynius hadn’t felt the need to explain what was going to happen, even to Mathias Flame Tooth or the wise woman, Freya.

  He’d found caches of weapons, taken by the Ro following the battle, and the bundles of axes, hammers, knives and bows were again in the hands of the Ranen.

  ‘We can’t fight, Fynius,’
said Flame Tooth. ‘It’s nice for the lads to have their weapons back, but we can’t fight them.’

  ‘We won’t have to,’ he replied. ‘Not all of them, anyway.’

  They were in a forgotten basement of the chapel, sealed from Rowanoco’s Stone above and accessed through a hidden passageway behind the assembly steps. Freya and Mathias had escaped the knights and had slowly rescued others until several hundred men, women and children were out of the knights’ clutches. It didn’t surprise him that the Ro hadn’t noticed. They had apparently only taken notice of the captive Ranen when they had needed to assemble a work-gang or had wanted to beat someone up.

  ‘I trust you, man of Gar,’ said Freya. ‘The World Raven will see us safe.’

  He grinned in appreciation. It was the first time a southerner had shown any faith in him.

  ‘The World Raven doesn’t have an army,’ countered Mathias.

  ‘But he has me... that’s almost as good,’ replied Fynius, still smiling. ‘Don’t worry, axe-master, South Warden will be ours again, that’s all you need to worry about. When the time comes, worry for South Warden. Worry not for the king, the knights or the yeomanry. Leave them to me, and to the World Raven.’

  Mathias was a big man, barrel-chested, with a face covered in dense black hair. He was looking at Fynius as if the man of Gar was mad. Or maybe it was just the way he showed his appreciation. Probably the former.

  ‘So what do we do? Wait?’ asked Flame Tooth, cocking an eyebrow.

  ‘You can wait, if you like,’ he replied. ‘Now, if you’d excuse me, axe-master, I have to go and talk to a woman of Ro.’

  * * *

  Gathered at the tree line, cowering behind wide tree trunks and dense bramble thickets, were the men and women of the Crescent. Federick Two Hearts had somehow managed to cajole or threaten the other chieftains into following him south.

  Fynius had left South Warden, with the Karesian idiot trailing along behind, and had found Bronwyn in a small clearing behind Theen Burnt Face and his warriors. They all looked at him, glaring, turning away, or asking their companions who he was. Stories were circulated as the thuggish Moon clans shared their mutual hatred of anyone of culture or sophistication. He was amazed they hadn’t been killed before now. Any idiot with an axe and an army could conquer these fools.

  ‘Have they been treating you well?’ he asked the sullen noblewoman.

  She began to reply, standing up from the rock upon which she was sitting.

  ‘Actually, don’t tell me,’ he interrupted. ‘I don’t care.’

  The young axe-man, Bronwyn’s loyal lapdog, snarled at Fynius. He had a big pointy axe and a generally bad attitude, but he had conviction and that was worth something.

  ‘Don’t bark at me, young man,’ he said, trying to remember the Wraith man’s name. ‘I’ve had enough of bloody southerners and I have no particular desire to talk to you.’

  The man of Wraith was wounded, but hefted his axe angrily all the same. ‘We’re on the same side, fuck-head,’ said the young man. ‘Try to remember that.’

  ‘Fuck-head?’ replied Fynius, filing the insult away for future use. ‘Is that a Ro Hail thing? Some new curse?’

  ‘Micah, he’s not as much an arsehole as he appears,’ said Al-Hasim. ‘He’s just... touched, in some way.’

  Bronwyn shook her head, thinking herself better than the men around her. She was sweet in a naive Ro kind of way, but she was far more important than she knew and should probably grow up.

  ‘You need to grow up, young lady,’ he said.

  ‘Er, what?’ she replied, raising her eyebrow. ‘I didn’t say anything.’

  ‘I didn’t say you did.’

  She opened her mouth, but didn’t speak. She shook her head, grunted in bewilderment, and looked at Al-Hasim.

  ‘Fynius, can you act like a human for a second?’ asked the Karesian. ‘You’re not making any friends here.’

  Why did people keep questioning him? If they would shut up and listen, things would go so much smoother. Hasim was ignorant, Bronwyn was childish and Micah was just some man of no importance. Together, they had somehow managed to stay alive and serve Brytag without knowing it.

  ‘This will be so much easier when the World Raven deigns to give me a shade,’ he said, not caring if they understood. ‘Anyway, you, Lady Bronwyn of Canarn, have something to do.’

  ‘What exactly do I have to do?’ she asked sneeringly.

  ‘Well, if you’re going to be like that, I might not tell you.’

  ‘Fynius!’ snapped Hasim. ‘Time is important here.’

  ‘Yes, yes, whatever. Right, Lady Bronwyn of Canarn, you’re going to be my intermediary with Fallon of Leith. Lots of stuff is going to happen in an hour or two. When it happens, people are going to be surprised. Your job is to tell the good guys that the bad guys are dealt with.’

  ‘And who are the good guys?’ she asked.

  ‘Apparently this Fallon chap is on our side. For now, at least. Don’t worry, Lady Bronwyn of Canarn, you’re only responsible for making sure there isn’t a massive battle. A battle we won’t win.’ He smiled. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find somewhere comfortable to watch the coming antics. And I should probably send a message to the One God. Brytag is nothing if not polite.’

  ‘So, are you going to tell us what’s going to happen?’ asked Hasim.

  Apparently these people weren’t going to trust him. Telling them what the raven had told him would be an easy way to shut them up. They probably wouldn’t believe him, but it would shut them up.

  ‘Okay, I can pander to you lot for a little while longer. Have a seat and let me tell you a story.’ He pointed at Micah. ‘You too, fuck-head.’

  PART 2

  CHAPTER 7

  FALLON THE GREY IN THE REALM OF SCARLET

  A LARGE, BLACK raven flew across the Plains of Scarlet towards the yeomanry’s camp. He followed its trajectory, drifting in decreasing circles, until it came to rest inside the camp.

  The southern horizon was a rippling sea of red. Hundreds of banners hung from countless tents. Horses, carts and men covered the Plains of Scarlet. From the stockade of South Warden, across the yeomanry’s defences, to the huge camp of Malaki Frith, the Freelands of Ranen were brimming with soldiers of Tor Funweir.

  The Red cardinal had spent the morning establishing his camp, south of the city, and Fallon had remained impassive throughout their deployment. He had no idea how the confrontation would play out. He didn’t let the slightest doubt appear in his words or on his face, but in his mind Fallon wanted to bite his lip and pray for a peaceful solution. Maybe Cardinal Frith was an honourable man. Maybe he loathed Mobius and had come to calm the situation, not to make it worse. Fallon was a realist, not a misty-eyed young knight, but he hated having to kill men and order men to their deaths.

  ‘They’re setting up a tent,’ said Vladimir, supping from a brass goblet. ‘In the middle of the field. What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that he’s not just going to attack us,’ replied Fallon.

  ‘Ah, a parlay,’ guffawed the noble, slurring his words. ‘I think I’d be good at parlaying. Never tried, but I’m eager to give it a go, dear chap.’

  ‘How much have you drunk this morning?’

  ‘Nowhere near enough,’ replied Vladimir, draining his goblet. ‘Want some?’

  Fallon tried not to laugh but failed. ‘I’ve not met Malaki Frith. Maybe I should make a good first impression.’

  ‘Go on!’ coaxed the nobleman, waving a half-empty bottle of wine.

  ‘Vladimir, look over there. What do you see?’

  He swayed forward against the wooden stockade. ‘Is that a trick question?’ he asked, belching into the cold morning air. ‘Excuse me. Terrible manners, old boy.’

  ‘What do you see?’ Fallon repeated.

  The drunken noble rubbed his eyes. ‘I see a lot of knights. Five thousand with Tristram and the king. Another... maybe ten, with General Frith.’
r />   He began to reply, but Vladimir belched again and interrupted him. ‘Okay, Fallon, I know what you’re saying. We have six thousand.’

  ‘It’s a blunt lesson, but one worth stating,’ replied the exemplar. ‘We can’t win a fight. I need to find another solution, and I’m better at doing that when I’m sober.’

  Vladimir pouted and looked down at his bottle of wine. ‘Sorry, I must seem awfully naive to you. Here I am, losing men by the cartful, and all I can offer by way of help is drunken blathering.’

  ‘You make me laugh, my lord. That counts for something.’

  The Lord of Mud frowned, as if uncomfortable at being complimented.

  ‘I just wish I could swing a sword or do something useful,’ replied Vladimir, patting his ornamental longsword.

  ‘You’ve had training,’ said Fallon.

  ‘A lord’s training, it’s not really the same thing. I’ve never fought to kill.’

  ‘You’re a lord of Ro,’ countered Fallon. ‘That matters more than a hundred knights. They can ignore me, they can’t ignore you.’

  Vladimir took a messy swig of wine. ‘I’ve been ignored all my life,’ he said, wiping his mouth. ‘I’m not the lord of diamonds or gold, my dear chap.’

  ‘You’re the lord of wine,’ Fallon replied.

  ‘True enough.’ Another, deeper, swig.

  Fallon peered across the fields of Scarlet. The Red cardinal had half emptied the barracks of Arnon to reinforce the king. His forces displayed dozens of banners. Noble knights of Du Ban and the Falls of Arnon showed their personal standards alongside the clenched fist of the Red.

  Maybe Frith knew about the enchantresses, maybe he didn’t. Either way, he wanted to talk to Fallon before he attacked. Curiously, the tent they had erected had only the banner of the Red knights above it. No Purple sceptre or white eagle of the king. Strange. Frith should have clerics of nobility with him, not to mention the presence of Mobius in South Warden. It appeared that neither would be invited to the parlay.