The Long War 03 - The Red Prince

by A. J. Smith

  ‘I’m Tyr Nanon of the Dokkalfar. I was Dalian’s friend.’

  ‘I am the shade of Dalian Thief Taker and you are not the exemplar of Jaa.’

  He cawed quietly. The sound would have been a grunt of interest. As it was, it was a caw. Shades were known to him. In the oldest tales, the gods used them when their followers needed guidance. When their exemplars and their old bloods were not sufficient.

  ‘Can we be friends?’ he asked.

  ‘No, but we are not enemies.’

  He considered it. ‘I can live with that. Just tell me... is Dalian at peace?’

  ‘Not yet. His journey has one more turn before it ends, then he will be honoured in the fire halls beyond the world.’

  Nanon slowly pulled back his mind. The shade had enveloped Dalian’s mind within a blanket of serenity. It was a benevolent presence, gently lulling the man’s mind into tranquillity and preparing him for death. Perhaps Jaa wasn’t as helpless as the Seven Sisters believed.

  He remained in the cage, peering at his friend through small, black eyes. He snapped his beak, padded his feet and flared his wings. He wanted to do more for Dalian.

  ‘You have done all you can,’ said the shade, appearing as a ghostly apparition in the cage. ‘This one had fondness for you. You should return to safety.’

  Nanon looked at it. He had travelled widely, lived many lives and seen many creatures, beasts and monsters, but he had never seen a shade. He had read tales in The Edda and other ancient texts, but had never spoken to one. It looked like Dalian, unhurt, wearing fine, black armour. The glare was the same, the dark eyes were the same, but something was missing, some depth of personality. It was a remnant of the Karesian man, but not all of him.

  He slowly left the cage, backing away and squeezing through the rusted bars. He was humble enough to realize when he was out of his depth. Whatever Jaa had in store for Dalian Thief Taker, it was outside Nanon’s influence. Their journey together was over.

  He fluttered from the cage and caught a breeze, gliding away through the cavernous catacombs of Weir. Red stone and moss-covered mortar wove away from the hanging cells. Arched entrances and shadowy alcoves plunged into darkness, spreading away from him like a honeycomb. It was mostly deserted, but balconies and flickering torch lights revealed more cavorting humans and a few guards. They ignored the hawk soaring gently through the wide stone passages.

  He fluttered to the ground, flexing his large black wings. He was in a globe of light before Saara’s throne. On the ground was a pool of dried blood and a katana. Beyond the throne, in the pitch black, swayed darkwood trees. A lot of darkwood trees. They were torpid, but their maddening presence infected the stone and Nanon could feel it more than most. It was a grimy itch in his wings, a tense need to snap his beak. He cawed quietly, feeling the aberration that had been Rham Jas vibrating in the darkness.

  It was the worst kind of defilement. The defilement of a mortal by a god. It disgusted him. Saara had birthed the thousand young. She had tried to harness power that could destroy her. It would infect her in a way that no human, however powerful, could withstand for long. The madness of a god was the madness of chaos, of the void, of the halls beyond the world, and she was but a human.

  But that didn’t change anything. She could die tomorrow and there would still be a hundred thousand Hounds milling around in Tor Funweir. There would still be darkwood trees in every corner of the world, and the Giants would still need shades to talk to their followers. The world was already broken. Rham Jas was just the latest piece to break.

  He returned to his normal form, crouched over the bloodstain. Looking around, the catacombs were empty. Nearby, he could sense Dalian lying on the floor. The Karesian man had watched Rham Jas die. They had fought from the entrance to the catacombs and killed many warriors, but Saara had not revealed her plan until the last minute, when Kale Glenwood appeared. He felt dark and pessimistic, as if a piece of Nanon had died there.

  He retrieved the katana, wiping blood from its blade and tucking it into his belt. It had been a gift from the Kirin’s wife and it should not remain discarded on the cold stone.

  He turned his back on the darkness. The walkway to the surface was bloodied and blades had cut chunks out of the walls. The silence was total. Even the wind that stroked his face made no sound. Off to the right, Nanon could sense Glenwood’s confusion. When Saara had grasped his mind the Ro man had tried to fight it. He had not wanted to betray his friends. He was not to blame but, wherever he was, Nanon feared for his state of mind.

  Further away, he could feel the girl, Keisha. By the sound of her mind, he guessed that she was asleep. She didn’t know that her father was dead. He was just another victim of her mistress. One of hundreds, maybe thousands.

  He could help Keisha. She might be the only person here that he could help. Rham Jas was dead, Dalian was on another journey, and Glenwood was with the enchantress.

  He nimbly ran from the throne room, ducking into a side passage. Torches provided light but there was no warmth to the place. Once out of the huge catacombs, the stone corridors were carpeted red. Wooden doors, splashed with grotesque black designs of spirals and sharp lines. Each one was closed and no sounds came from within. The orgies were occurring elsewhere.

  The further he walked from the catacombs, the stronger Keisha’s mind became. She had the same edge as her father and it showed in her thoughts.

  Round a corner two Karesian guards stood with their backs to him. Saara kept her servant under guard even when they were apart.

  He wasn’t in the mood to be gentle to the humans. He loved so much about their culture and their quirks, but he hated their servile nature. Independent thought was a luxury to these men, a burden they had gratefully discarded.

  He drew the katana and his own longsword, making just enough noise to alert the two men. They turned round and exchanged a look of confusion at the strange being, wielding two swords, in the corridor.

  ‘I’m afraid you don’t get the chance to run,’ said Nanon, dancing forward, whirling his blades.

  He attacked both men at once, slicing the neck of the first and driving his longsword into the chest of the second. Fighting with two weapons came naturally to the Dokkalfar, though he’d never done it with such heavy blades.

  The Karesians died with a muted clatter of armour on carpet and, though a slight echo travelled down the corridors, no one came running to investigate. He thought Saara must have mustered her followers elsewhere.

  He sheathed both blades and approached a securely barred door. There were no symbols and it opened easily. Within was a comfortable sitting room and an adjoining bedroom. Red wall hangings of thick fabric masked the stone and free-standing braziers provided warmth. The chairs were unused and the space felt bare and unwelcoming.

  He ghosted to the bedroom and moved the silk partition aside.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Keisha.

  The girl had heard him and was sitting up in her bed, clutching golden sheets to her terrified face.

  He came in and looked at her. She was pretty but had a sadness in her eyes. Her dark hair was tangled and her bare shoulders bore a tapestry of whip marks.

  ‘You have good ears,’ he replied. ‘Do you know how your senses came to be so sharp?’

  She didn’t answer. The girl played the part of a terrified youth but Nanon suspected that was not the whole story. Her hands were not shaking and her eyes remained still. Fear would have made her shake and blink.

  ‘You are not afraid of me. Why?’

  ‘I’m... I’m sorry, my lord... I am but a servant.’

  Nanon chuckled. ‘That’s good, you didn’t flinch. But you didn’t answer my question either.’ He stepped into the light and pushed back his hood, revealing his grey skin and pointed ears. ‘Do you know where your power comes from?’

  The revelation had the desired effect. Keisha showed genuine surprise and her mask of meekness cracked. She rolled to the side, sliding her hand under the pillow
and producing a scimitar. Beneath the sheets she wore form-fitting clothing with the shoulders adjusted, mimicking the look of a nightgown.

  ‘There we go,’ said Nanon, tilting his head. ‘You move well.’

  She crouched like a cat and showed uncanny speed.

  ‘Take another step, freak-face, and I’ll cut something off you,’ she barked.

  He took another step. ‘Go on, then. But when I take that weapon off you, you have to answer my question.’

  She was not naive, nor was she impulsive. Her scimitar swayed in the air and she stepped slowly sideways. Nanon found her interesting. Then she attacked. It was an acrobatic leap, ending in a full stretch and a powerful lunge.

  ‘You’re quick, too,’ he said, dancing backwards. ‘Good ears and good reflexes. A mere quirk of fate?’

  She pulled back and held her blade close.

  ‘I knew your father, Kirin girl.’

  ‘What? Who are you?’ she asked, lowering her blade.

  Nanon glanced behind him and listened. There was still no sound. Perhaps he had come down here to rescue the girl rather than Dalian. He couldn’t be sure, but it was worth the gamble.

  ‘I’m called Tyr Nanon. I’m not human.’ He grinned.

  ‘I see that,’ she replied. ‘You’re a risen man.’

  ‘A risen man who was a friend of your father’s. Perhaps we should continue this conversation elsewhere.’

  She was remarkably unemotional for a young girl. She had tight control over her emotions and even tighter control over her movements. It was obvious – even vulgar to think it – but she moved like Rham Jas.

  ‘The mistress doesn’t let me leave,’ she replied.

  ‘Feels good to break a rule now and then.’

  Keisha became flustered. Her eyes shot around the room as she tried to weigh up the situation.

  ‘What do you want with me?’ she snapped. ‘And don’t say you knew my father. I never knew him, so you knowing him matters little.’

  ‘You’re not just a servant, Keisha, you’re a dark-blood, like your father.’

  She had heard the term, probably whispered in fear by Saara or Elihas. Though she had no reason to trust the strange forest-dweller standing in front of her.

  Nanon liked her. For some reason he found her manner refreshing. She was barely eighteen years old but had lived a hard life of slavery and abuse. It had taught her to be wary and calculating. He enjoyed the sensation of being near her, feeling the sharp intellect that she tried to hide.

  ‘That Kirin was called the Dark Blood. What does it mean?’ she asked.

  ‘It means a number of things. The main one being that that Kirin was your father.’

  She barely reacted. Nanon could sense that Rham Jas had said something to her before he died and that it was preying on her mind.

  ‘What did he say to you?’ he asked.

  Her mouth quivered at the corners and her forehead wrinkled up in agitation. ‘He said that I looked like my mother,’ she replied, a tear appearing. ‘There was something in his face I recognized. I didn’t allow myself to think about it. Thinking gets me in trouble. I do what I’m told and I don’t think.’

  Nanon stepped closer to her, sensing the young Kirin’s barely contained anguish.

  ‘He told me that you were four years old when you were taken... when his wife, your mother, was killed. I know that you believe me.’

  She dropped the scimitar and broke down on the floor. The tears now flowed and she wept frantically, her hands clasped to her face. Nanon could feel each tear as if it was his own. It took months, even years for him to read most people, but she was Rham Jas’s daughter and the normal rules didn’t apply. He saw a broken young girl, hanging on to life through stubbornness and intelligence. She smiled, nodded, did what she was told, all the while wishing a brutal death on those who harmed her. Above all, she was patient. She looked at the older men who used her and remained determined to outlive them. She looked at pampered nobles and bowed politely, while wishing she could be anywhere else in the world.

  She raised her head. Her eyes were red and her cheeks flushed. ‘What was his name?’ she asked. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Rham Jas Rami,’ replied Nanon. ‘Your brother, Zeldantor, was killed by Saara the Mistress of Pain.’

  Her thoughts now formed into spirals of anger. The tears continued, but now they flowed over a snarling face. Keisha was confused, tired, emotional and angry. Most of all, she was angry.

  ‘I can offer you freedom,’ he said. ‘I can’t bring back your parents or your brother, but if you come with me, you will never be a slave again. No man will use you, no man will harm you. No woman either.’

  ‘Why do you care?’ she asked, clenching her fists.

  ‘I told you, he was my friend. I have few and he meant a great deal to me.’

  ‘What’s a dark-blood? What power do I have?’ She was speaking quickly, her mind frantic.

  He raised his hands and tried to soften his face. ‘We have time, Keisha, but we cannot remain here.’

  ‘What was your name again?’ she asked, wiping tears from her red face.

  ‘Nanon. I’m Dokkalfar. We won’t be alone here for long.’

  ‘Yes, we will,’ she replied. ‘The mistress has planned a huge celebration for the Thief Taker’s death. The flock must be well rested. Only a few flesh addicts are still here. I don’t think she cares about me any more.’

  He smiled. The expression must have appeared strange because Keisha frowned with revulsion.

  ‘Don’t smile, it looks odd,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry. I try to blend in... humans smile, so I smile. It’s a foolish habit.’ He scanned the bedchamber. ‘Do you have belongings, personal items? You should gather what you need.’

  She peered at him, chewing her lower lip in thought. He could feel her anger and her distrust. It wasn’t directed specifically at him. He thought that Keisha distrusted everything and everyone. It was a lonely way to live, but it had kept her alive.

  ‘I have nothing I need. Except this,’ she said, raising her scimitar. ‘We can leave when you’re ready.’

  ‘You trust me?’ He knew the answer.

  ‘Do I need to trust you? You’re offering me freedom. I’ve never had that, so I’m willing to gamble.’

  He smiled again. This time, Keisha didn’t grimace.

  ‘But if you touch me, I’ll kill you,’ she said with a sweet smile.

  Nanon frowned. ‘I won’t touch you. I’m not interested in touching you, I’m interested in helping you.’

  ‘So, let’s go.’

  * * *

  He liked her more and more as they skulked out of the catacombs and back to the northern wall. She wasn’t shy and she liked to make comments as they hurried through the streets of Weir. Fat men, overdressed women, tough guardsmen, each group elicited a barbed witticism from the young Kirin girl.

  ‘Grotesque stomachs must be a sign of virility around here,’ she quipped, pointing out a rotund merchant surrounded by young women.

  ‘I think it’s the coin, not the stomach,’ replied Nanon.

  ‘Or maybe the sweat. I’ve been calling it Ro perfume. I’m surprised they don’t sell it in shops – the underarm scent of fat bastards, guaranteed to make idiot women swoon.’

  ‘Let’s keep quiet and stay off the main streets for now.’

  Any commotion he had caused by killing the guards had been drowned out by the noise of the evening festivities. Saara’s flock was preparing for the death of Dalian Thief Taker.

  They had reached the ruined drainage channel through which Glenwood and Rham Jas had entered the city and were close to the northern muster fields of Weir. As Keisha squeezed through the gap in the brickwork, he felt an itch at the back of his neck.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Keisha, as her new companion stopped by the wall.

  It was hard to explain his intuition but he felt a great pain from his brethren, as if many Dokkalfar were being gravely hu
rt. There was a wave of pain, a surge of anger and a punctuation of despair. It was sudden and interrupted the excitement of his escape with Keisha.

  ‘My people,’ he replied. ‘They are doing something very unwise.’

  ‘They sound like every human I’ve ever met. I’m sure they’ll get over it.’

  She scuttled away, pulling herself up into the drainage tunnel that led from the city. Her nihilism was generally refreshing, but when applied to the Dokkalfar of the Fell the comment hurt.

  What was Vithar Loth up to? Had he managed to coax life into the Shadow Flame?

  ‘We need to hurry.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  He followed her into the tunnel and crawled away from the abandoned warehouse.

  ‘Your life is about to become very interesting, Kirin girl. We are bound for the Fell.’

  ‘What’s the Fell?’

  He looked at her. ‘It’s a forest. A big one. Where the Dokkalfar live.’

  CHAPTER 9

  BRONWYN OF CANARN IN THE REALM OF SCARLET

  THE COLD MORNING brought a film of snow, framing the ranks of Red knights assembled before the city. Malaki Frith had cleared his camp and mustered ten thousand armed men. They had formed up slowly, allowing the occupiers of South Warden to see them. They didn’t know it, but they were also allowing the Moon clans and Twilight Company to assess their strength.

  Gleaming armour and high pennants, snapping in the snowy breeze. Red knights, White clerics, nobleman of Tor Funweir. Bound men, squires, blacksmiths and auxiliaries. There were a lot of men on the Plains of Scarlet. In comparison, the few thousand Ranen huddled at the tree line were no more than an armed mob.

  Fynius Black Claw was somewhere in South Warden, watching the drama play out. So far, he had been maddeningly right about everything. The king was dead, the new army had sided with the yeomanry and not with the clerics. If he were right about what would happen next, Bronwyn would need to be ready.