by A. J. Smith
He nudged Vladimir. ‘This should be interesting, my lord.’
‘What? The king fell over. Fear of birds maybe,’ replied the Lord of Mud.
‘Just wait,’ said Fallon. ‘It would seem the gods are not above an alliance.’
Vladimir and Theron looked at him in confusion. He wished Lanry were here. The old cleric would have had wise counsel. He would probably also have seen the two shades meet. As it was, Fallon had to endure being an exemplar alone.
Captain Halan and General Frith did not go to the king. They left the clerics to flap around and help him stand up. Montague allowed Tiris to lean on him and the king was shaking his head and coughing.
‘Perhaps you should return to the city and rest, my king,’ said Frith. ‘The winds of Scarlet seem not to agree with you.’
Sebastian Tiris was standing. His brow was creased and he pushed away the clerics. Montague sought to lead him away but was waved aside.
‘What the devil is going on here?’ he said, looking at himself as if he wanted a bath. ‘I’m in a frightful state.’
‘My king, we should return to Cardinal Mobius,’ said Montague.
‘Mobius? Where is he?’ asked the king, his confused eyes darting from side to side. He noticed the Red cardinal. ‘Malaki! Excellent, someone with sense. Now, tell me what’s going on, old boy. I am in a field... it’s cold... and there are a lot of warriors milling about. I say! A bloody awful lot of warriors.’
His manner had changed completely, as if a fog had lifted. Fallon took a gamble and spoke. ‘What’s the last thing you remember, my king?’ he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the Purple clerics.
‘You do not speak here,’ commanded Montague.
The king frowned at his bodyguard. ‘Er, there’s no need for rudeness, Cleon. I’m sure we can sort this out in short order... obviously if someone tells me where I am.’
‘You’re in the Freelands, your grace,’ said General Frith. ‘And I think Fallon’s question is a fair one. What’s the last thing you remember?’
‘Fallon, yes,’ replied the king, smiling at the Grey Knight. ‘Fallon of Leith, isn’t it? The finest swordsman in Tor Funweir, by reputation. I’m honoured, Sir Fallon.’
Montague whispered in the ear of another cleric and two Purple men wheeled their horses swiftly, riding back to South Warden.
‘Where are they going?’ asked Frith.
‘They are reporting in,’ replied Montague. ‘Lord Mobius will want to know what is happening here.’ His voice was quiet and his tone worried. ‘My king, we should leave. You’re confused, these knights are not what you think. They are traitors.’
Frith and Halan began to respond, but were interrupted by the king. ‘Nonsense!’ snapped Sebastian Tiris. ‘Malaki here is a dear old friend. Isn’t that right, old boy?’
The Red general shoved two clerics out of the way and stood before his king. He smiled and offered his hand. ‘It’s good to see you again, Sebastian.’
They shook hands and the king leant in. ‘I am awfully confused, though. What is going on here?’
‘As Fallon asked, what is the last thing you remember, my king?’
His face screwed up and he chewed on his lower lip. ‘Hmm, a party, I think. Well, a gathering, at the very least. Wine, food, music. My house in Ro Tiris.’
‘You’ve been in Ranen for almost eight months, my king,’ said Fallon. ‘Ro Canarn, Ro Hail, South Warden, you’ve conquered the southern Ranen. Do you not remember?’
Sebastian Tiris studied himself. He looked at his tarnished royal armour, his stained gold cloak. He scratched at his greasy hair and inspected his blackened fingernails. He frowned at what he saw.
‘Have I been ill?’ he asked. ‘I remember nothing since... since meeting that Karesian woman. Cardinal Mobius introduced me to her.’ He rubbed his face and Frith extended a hand to assist him.
‘Thank you, old boy, you’re a loyal servant.’
He leant forward and steadied himself against the Red cardinal. Montague and the Purple clerics stepped back and Dolf Halan joined Frith.
Torian’s shade stood next to Fallon. The figure was brighter, the purple of his armour more vibrant and the sparkle in his eyes more penetrating. There was pride and conviction on his shimmering features, as if a plan had come to fruition.
Vladimir stood. ‘I met him once before, years ago,’ whispered the Lord of Mud. ‘He was exactly like that.’
‘What’s happened?’ asked Theron, less perceptive.
‘The king regains his mind,’ replied Fallon.
They both looked at him, keeping half an eye on the king leaning on Frith’s shoulder. Neither man showed much faith, but they had not seen what he had seen.
‘Right, let’s sort this out,’ announced the king. ‘If Mobius is in South Warden, to South Warden we will go.’
His words were punctuated by the opening of the distant city gates. The two clerics rode inside and the gates closed. Whatever message they delivered to the Purple cardinal, Fallon guessed that the next hour would be rather interesting. But hopefully not terminal.
‘As you say, my king,’ replied Frith. ‘We will accompany you.’
The Red cardinal signalled to his bound men and their horses were returned. Montague and the clerics had already wheeled their horses and left Sebastian Tiris with Frith. The king’s eyes were brighter and he chatted with the general about the weather, the state of his clothes and a hundred other mundane things as they remounted.
‘I hope the Ranen will allow me to have a bath, I smell frightful.’
‘We don’t know how many Ranen are left, my king,’ replied Frith. ‘Many were killed when your knights and yeomen took the city.’
Sebastian Tiris dropped his eyes to the grass. He had lived a sheltered life of power and nobility, but Fallon felt for him; he had woken from an enchanted sleep after many months to be told that he had started a war and killed thousands of men.
‘Are we going with them?’ asked Vladimir, pulling himself back into his saddle.
‘Ask him,’ replied Fallon. ‘I doubt he’ll kill you.’
‘Reassuring. Thanks.’
The Lord of Mud nudged his horse close enough to be heard and coughed politely, interrupting the king’s chatter.
‘Lord Corkoson, isn’t it? Of the Darkwald.’
‘Yes, yes that’s right,’ replied Vladimir, smiling nervously. ‘I don’t know if you remember, but you sentenced me to hang, your grace.’ The words were blurted out. ‘Does that sentence no longer stand?’
‘I should bloody well think not,’ replied the king. ‘Execute a lord of Tor Funweir? Such things should not be done. Well, not without due process and the necessary proof. What are you supposed to have done, my lord?’
The Lord of Mud tried to smile, but his nerves made it a strange mix of pain and fatigue. ‘I disagreed with you on a matter of tactics, my king.’
‘What matter of tactics?’
‘Well, you and Mobius wanted to get all my men killed in the breach and I disagreed,’ replied Vladimir, affecting his best upper-class accent.
Frith chuckled, though the Lord of Mud didn’t relax.
‘Don’t you worry yourself,’ said the king. ‘You come with us, Sir Fallon too, and we’ll sort this out. Lead the way, Malaki, old boy.’
Frith, Dolf Halan and five bound knights encircled the king and nudged their horses forward. Twelve riders left the parlay table with hundreds of eyes watching them from three separate military camps. Nothing had been conveyed to the camp of the yeomanry and Fallon knew that Major Dimitri and Brother Lanry would be exasperated.
Tristram and his adjutant were uncertain, but had said nothing to contradict either the general or the king. Now, as everyone rode towards the city gates, the knight commander fell in beside Fallon.
‘The king regains his senses,’ he said.
‘I said that to Vladimir a minute ago,’ replied Fallon. ‘Good news for both of us.’
‘Not for Mo
bius,’ said Tristram. ‘He will give up control reluctantly.’
‘But you’re with us, yes?’ he asked, giving his former commander a chance to throw his lot in with the Red cardinal.
‘I’m a knight of the Red, Fallon. I do what I’m told. As you once did.’
‘After all of this we may eventually get to go home,’ replied the Grey Knight, surprised at his brief feeling of optimism.
Vladimir interjected, ‘That would be pleasant.’
‘Best be quiet now,’ said Tristram, as the city loomed before them.
Since he had escaped, Fallon had been looking at South Warden for weeks. Each morning and each night, he’d seen its repaired wooden walls and its red-armoured defenders. It was strange now to be at its gates. It was stranger still to be riding with Knight General Malaki Frith and King Sebastian Tiris. If only the One would inform him of a plan before it was enacted. He felt reactive and unprepared, as if something was yet to happen.
‘That blasted raven,’ said Vladimir, ‘it’s perched on the gate. Where they repaired it.’
The large bird was looking down at them, flaring its wings and emitting a mocking caw. Bound men, guarding the forward battlements, aimed crossbows, but could not get a clear shot.
‘If it’s an omen, it’s a good one,’ replied Fallon.
The Lord of Mud frowned at him. ‘I was mostly worried about getting bird shit on my head.’
‘Good omens can still shit on you,’ he said, chuckling.
‘Quiet,’ repeated Tristram.
The riders stopped before the gates, allowing Frith and the king to advance. The men above were bound Red knights, staring at their king in confusion. Through the narrow gaps in the gate, purple tabards shone in the sun. No red could be seen, except on the walls. There were five thousand Red knights in South Warden, picketed somewhere beyond the entranceway.
‘Where are your men?’ he asked Commander Tristram.
‘Mobius ordered us round the edge of the city, guarding the Ranen prisoners. The centre is just for the clerics, two hundred of them.’
‘That’s a lot of Purple,’ he replied.
Fallon looked at the raven. It looked back, silently craning its neck forward. There was intelligence in the small, black eyes, and the bird managed to be more expressive up close.
‘Open the gate!’ commanded Frith in a deep, clear voice. ‘The king returns.’
Men ran across the battlements, their steel-shod boots clattering on wood as they asked for orders. No one took charge and the gates remained closed, indicating a breakdown of command within. Whatever Mobius intended, he was taking his time.
‘Don’t make me ask again,’ roared the Red cardinal.
Dolf Halan kicked his horse forward and banged on the wooden gate, the sound resonating along the walls.
‘Commander Tristram, get your men to open this gate,’ snapped the Red knight.
‘The clerics control the gate, captain,’ he replied. ‘We await the Purple cardinal’s pleasure.’
Fallon remained silent, allowing the situation to play out. The raven had freed the king, somehow removing the chains of enchantment, but Mobius remained an obstacle. If Brytag and the One had formed an alliance, they had done so only to free Sebastian Tiris.
Commands were shouted from within and men dressed in purple hurried to pull the gate inwards. Halan backed away and the riders reined in their horses, preparing to enter the city. Frith and Halan rode either side of the king, and the Red general’s eyes were narrow and wary.
‘What do we do, Fallon?’ asked Vladimir, following the two Red knights through the gate.
‘We let it play out,’ he replied. ‘Keep your eyes open and stay close to Theron.’
The twelve riders entered at a walk, taking in their surroundings as wooden buildings appeared behind ranks of Purple clerics. The inner courtyard, repaired by gangs of chained Ranen, was clear, and a horseshoe of armoured men encircled the riders. From the central mount, leading up towards the ruined assembly, approached the senior clerics, including Montague, just dismounting from his horse, and Cardinal Mobius. They were arriving along a winding road, lined with grass. The mount was steep and the road ended in steps, giving the Purple cardinal a high vantage point.
‘Mobius, old fellow,’ shouted the king, ‘Malaki is here. I told him we’d sort out all this nonsense in short order.’
The Purple cardinal, his face sweaty and red, stopped on the steps, remaining behind his clerics. A quick scan round and Fallon saw over a hundred men guarding him, with more approaching from the Ranen assembly. There were no Red knights to be seen. The Purple cardinal had taken Tristram’s command.
‘How dare you enter here, Fallon of Leith?’ Mobius croaked. ‘You are a dead man, unaware of his own death.’
‘What on earth are you going on about, old cock?’ asked the king. ‘Can’t we dismount and dispense with the formalities? We are an awfully long way from home after all.’
‘Silence, child!’ shouted Mobius. ‘The mistress gave me strict instructions on what to do should your conviction waver.’
Frith rode in front of Sebastian Tiris, waving for Dolf Halan to do the same.
‘We should leave, my king,’ he said quietly, not responding to Mobius’s insult. ‘It’s not safe here.’ He turned to Tristram. ‘Commander, get your men down here and protect the king.’
Fallon saw a man level a crossbow. The Purple cleric stood next to Mobius and took aim. The Grey Knight kicked his horse forward.
‘Crossbow!’ he shouted, trying to get in front of the king.
He was too late. No one else had seen the weapon and the bolt was well aimed, striking Sebastian Tiris in the chest. His armour was poorly maintained and split loudly, buckling inwards. The king wailed in pain and blood spluttered from his mouth.
‘Rally to me,’ ordered Frith, causing Tristram, Theron and the rest of the knights to move forward and draw their swords. Vladimir stayed back, looking imploringly at the open gate behind them.
‘Kill them all,’ commanded Mobius.
More crossbows appeared and bolts flew. The riders were now alert, but the sheet of fire was hard to avoid. Fallon pushed his horse into Frith’s and turned him back towards the gate as Theron took a bolt in the stomach.
‘Fall back!’ shouted Fallon. ‘Ride for the gate.’
He kicked the king’s horse, sending it towards the gate with Tiris slumped over the saddle.
Every man except Vladimir took a wound. Tristram received two bolts, one in the back and one in the ankle. Malaki Frith was shot in the shoulder and the neck, Dolf Halan was knocked from his horse with a wound in the side of his head. Fallon himself was shot in the side and in the thigh.
He kicked his horse, but couldn’t see who was riding with him. Dolf and Theron had both fallen, but the others were just a mess of shouts and the braying of wounded horses. The Lord of Mud was ahead, wailing and flapping his reins, willing his horse to go faster. Behind, Purple clerics reloaded and screamed at the bound men to close the gates.
‘Vladimir, move,’ he roared. ‘Don’t look back, just ride.’
The Lord of Mud passed through the gate, his horse’s hooves suddenly muffled on the grass of Scarlet. The raven cawed as Fallon reached the narrowing gateway and the men trying to close it. His horse barrelled into the wood and stopped abruptly, wedging the gate open. A swing of his sword struck a bound man in the skull and he kicked the gate backwards, creating a larger opening. More bolts hit his horse and Fallon was thrown to the grass beyond the gate, shattering the bolts sticking out of his side and thigh.
‘Fallon!’ shouted Frith, holding a bloodstained hand to the side of his neck. ‘Reach.’ He jumped over the dying horse and passed the gate.
The Grey Knight turned and flung his arms at the approaching Red general, pulling himself up on to the back of the horse. The gate stayed open just long enough for the riders to bolt. Dead and wounded men doubled over in their saddles and three riderless horses joined them.<
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Fallon sat behind the general, watching blood snake out from between his fingers as he clutched at his neck. They rode in chaotic lines, the horses wounded and overburdened.
‘Make for the camp,’ ordered Frith, choking on each word.
Fallon clamped his hands to the general’s neck, stopping the blood. Frith allowed him to do so and clung on to his reins. The crossbow bolt was stopping the worst of the blood flow but the wound was bad.
‘Just ride, my lord,’ said the Grey Knight.
Vladimir was a good distance ahead. Tristram was hugging the neck of his horse and barely moving. Theron’s horse was riderless and Dolf Halan was dead. The king’s horse had taken Sebastian Tiris away from the city, but its rider wasn’t moving.
Men from the general’s camp were aware that something was wrong. They moved from between their tents and formed up to await the riders’ return.
Frith swayed in his saddle and Fallon had to reach round him to grab the reins. ‘Easy, general, nearly there,’ he said, holding the man to stop him falling from his saddle.
They reached the edge of the camp and dozens of Red knights appeared to help the wounded down on to the grass.
‘Fallon, are you alive?’ shouted Vladimir, coming to join him.
‘Just,’ he replied, lowering Malaki Frith to a waiting White cleric.
The general was alive but losing blood. Tristram was helped out of his saddle and was barely conscious. The others were dead or missing. Fallon had two wounds and both of them hurt, but they were minor compared to the others’.
‘What the fuck was that? Really, what the fuck was that?’ demanded the Lord of Mud. ‘He killed the fucking king.’
‘Fallon!’ roared General Frith, allowing the healer to clasp his neck and remove the crossbow bolt.
‘Running every step,’ he replied, pressing at his side.
A bound man assisted the Grey Knight and more White clerics appeared. Tristram was near to death with a bolt clean through his stomach. The king’s horse had been grabbed and the motionless body was being bought into the camp. Theron and Dolf would see no more sunrises.