by A. J. Smith
Warm Heart bounded along in front, excitedly sticking his nose into anything the Red knights were doing. They frowned and flapped at him, their fear quickly turning to confusion as the huge hound acted like a playful puppy.
‘Stay!’ commanded Bronwyn, as Frith and Fallon disappeared inside the command tent.
Warm Heart hunkered down and his tongue lolled out over a mass of slobbery teeth. He remained still, lying on the snowy grass outside the tent.
‘Can he understand you?’ asked Micah.
‘Well... if he doesn’t, I expect he’ll get shot.’
The hound whined and pulled in his muscular forelegs, lying as flat as he could to the ground.
They turned their backs on Warm Heart and were led inside the large tent. The temperature rose instantly. The pavilion was divided into several sections, each warmed from a central brazier. Everything was red – the fabrics, the hangings, the furniture. It was a little piece of Tor Funweir and the closest she’d been to home in many months.
‘Take a seat,’ said the general. ‘It’s not a palace, but it’s warm.’
Five senior knights entered with them, standing on guard round the central chamber. Each man was at least a captain. They eyed up Micah’s axe but did not move to disarm him.
She sat in a comfortable chair and her feet rested on thick carpet. ‘It’s strange how nice it feels to sit in a chair,’ she said, smiling.
‘Not strange,’ replied Fallon. ‘I haven’t seen a proper bed in almost a year.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a proper bed,’ said Micah. ‘Bet you have four posts and paid servants.’
‘You forget the silk sheets,’ quipped Malaki Frith. ‘Look, I’ve heard the put-upon barbarian routine. Yes, we have killed a lot of Ranen. Clearly you hate us. Get over it.’
‘Fuck you, Red man,’ spat Micah. ‘Knowledge of your sins does not absolve you of them.’
‘Please, young man. Did your mother not teach you to respect your elders... and men with an army. A fucking big army.’
The young axe-man wrestled with his temper. ‘My mother’s dead. My father too.’
‘So we have something in common. But you don’t see me being disrespectful,’ replied the general.
Fallon of Leith was smiling at her. His expression appeared genuine, as if he shared her frustration at the bickering.
‘No one else needs to die. In a tent or on a battlefield,’ said Fallon. ‘You can hate us... sorry, what was your name?’
‘Stone Dog,’ he replied, ‘of Ro Hail.’
‘I apologize, Stone Dog. But hate us or not, we don’t want to fight any more.’
‘So, it’s time to talk,’ said Bronwyn.
Fallon spoke quietly to the general, gesturing calmly and cooling the situation. His face was open and friendly. He wasn’t flustered or even surprised at what was happening. She’d never seen a knight – or an ex-knight – behave like this. What had happened to him?
‘Let’s keep things diplomatic, shall we?’ said the general, forcing a polite smile.
Bronwyn puffed out her cheeks, preparing to deliver Fynius’s terms. The moment would never be right, so she chose just to blurt it out.
‘The Free Companies and Moon clans of Ranen demand that you prepare to withdraw from the Freelands.’ She paused. ‘Fynius Black Claw, captain of Twilight Company wishes to meet with you, once South Warden is liberated.’
‘Liberated?’ exclaimed Frith. ‘I understand Scarlet Company are no more. Who’s going to live there? We’ll arrest the Purple clerics in due time and then we’ll talk to this captain fellow. But withdrawal takes time... and no one makes demands of me and my men.’
Bronwyn exchanged a nervous look with Micah before she replied. ‘You won’t need to worry about arresting them?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘I am here primarily to keep things calm when... the clerics are dealt with.’
The Red general was a considered and intelligent man. He peered at her, leaning in and digesting the words. ‘And how will they be dealt with?’ he asked.
* * *
Fynius hadn’t stopped smiling since the Red knights filed out of South Warden. It was a simple kind of glee. The happiness of being proven right. Things were moving forward nicely, at a pace confusing to normal people. He’d kept everyone going at breakneck speed, twisting them left and right, making strange demands and generally being a pain in the arse. It had worked brilliantly. They had all done exactly what he wanted.
Outside the gates of South Warden a massive army waited. They thought they were in control, picketing their men, digging ditches, building fences, settling in. They would deal with the Purple men eventually. Bunch of idiots.
The clerics themselves still lined the outer walls, with the boss clerics assembled in front of the mount, nicely clustered in a few big groups, like mould on cheese. They fawned over the chief idiot – Mobius, he was called – and pointedly thrust out their chins at the mere suggestion that they were fucked. They knew the Red men wouldn’t kill them, so at worst they’d have a stern talking to about killing their king, before tea, cakes and a welcome return to Tor Funweir. None of the men of Ro gave a shit about the mess they had left behind or the people they had killed and displaced. They would march back to the lands of Ro and forget about the men of Ranen.
‘Time to learn a lesson, you bastards,’ he muttered.
Fynius was skulking in the cheese tunnels with a good view of the central square. The men of Twilight Company were spread out on either side of the Purple men, hiding in basements and forgotten tunnels. Mathias Flame Tooth and the survivors of Scarlet Company were under Rowanoco’s Stone, poised to join the men of Old Gar when the time came. Two hundred Purple clerics were going to pay for the invasion of the Freelands. If Fynius had been a follower of Rowanoco, the price would have been much higher. They were lucky it was he and not his brother who was about to kill them.
He pulled himself up out of the tunnel and skulked down next to a building. Two dozen men in dark blue tabards followed him, silently moving into position. He signalled to Vincent Hundred Howl on the opposite side of the square, and the rest of Twilight Company ghosted their way through the streets of South Warden. Five hundred fully armoured men could move as quietly as mice when they wanted to.
He passed the word to Scarlet Company. The men and women of South Warden were not gifted with unnatural stealth and had been told to wait until the clerics started screaming. Fynius needed the element of surprise and didn’t want sweaty, bearded, shouty men ruining it. They were tough, dangerous even, but not subtle. Not in the slightest. Luckily, they were doing what they were told.
He drew Leg Biter. The blade was heavy, wide and perfectly balanced. The men of Old Gar were unique among the Ranen. They used swords instead of axes, preferring precision to brutality. Twilight Company were all similarly armed and moved forward with their captain, gliding over grass, cobbles and dead ground.
The central square was lined with overgrown pathways, lancing out into the deserted city. The steep walkways leading to the mount and Rowanoco’s Stone were doused with purple – banners, tabards, people – and the new colour scheme clashed badly with the scarlet of South Warden.
‘Let’s redecorate this place.’
At the corner of a building he stopped. His men encircled the square, tantalizingly close to the Purple clerics. They had guards, lesser clerics tasked with protecting their commanders, as small ice-spiders cluster round their Gorlan mothers. They were unaware that they were about to die.
‘Now!’ he whispered, letting the command be carried round the encircling men of Twilight Company.
They moved as one, breaking cover with a hundred sword thrusts all at once. The men of Ro grunted, wailed, opened their eyes as wide as they would go, and slumped down dead to the ground of Ranen.
Fynius withdrew Leg Biter and took a second to make eye contact with the dying man at his feet. ‘This is your lesson, man of the One.’
He strode into the square,
taking his place within the huge semicircle of Twilight Company, each blade dripping with blood.
‘Men of Ro,’ he growled. ‘Men of fucking Ro.’
The boss clerics were almost bowled over with surprise. They fumbled at their scabbards, pointing at spreading pools of blood.
‘Consider this a lesson,’ he boomed. ‘This lesson will result in your death. If you have words, say them now.’
Lord Mobius, the man most responsible for the troll shit they found themselves in, stood to the fore. He was flanked by dozens of his minions and dozens more were quickly assembling behind their glorious master. They emerged from buildings and ran down roads, swarming like maggots across a rotting corpse. None of them looked superior now. Their chins were not thrust out and their noble foreheads were creased with confusion.
‘You have killed noblemen of the One,’ replied Mobius. ‘Who in the stone halls beyond do you think you are? We are men of Ro... of Tor Funweir. You are nothing... it is our right to rule you and your peasant nation... who are you?’
Fynius chuckled, splitting his face into a broad smile. The Purple fool still thought he had authority. He still thought he had power. ‘Who do I think I am?’ he replied. ‘Well, we could speak about that for decades. Unfortunately, your lifespan is not measured in such huge quantities. And those are shit last words. Try again.’
‘Kill them!’ shrieked the Purple man.
He was a fool and he had ordered his men to attack before they were fully assembled. Most had not buckled on their sword belts and many had still to enter the square. The clerics who were ready ran at them in small pockets, with no organization or unity. So much for the fabled military craft of the Ro.
‘Let me end Mobius,’ he said with a smile as his men attacked.
The clerics were skilled. They wore strong armour and knew how to use their swords. Their weakness was that their foolish leader had ordered them to fight a superior force. Each cleric had at least two opponents and died in a futile attempt to cover his fellows. It was a shame. They were good fighters and deserved a better death. Fynius decided to take it out on Mobius.
He outflanked a cleric and drew Leg Biter across his neck. He thrust at the back of an exposed leg, driving another to his knees. There was no duelling or honourable one-on-one fighting, there was just an outnumbered force being cut down.
Then Scarlet Company arrived and things grew much worse for the men of Ro. The new combatants appeared from the mount, rushing down the hill with frenzy in their eyes. For the people of South Warden, this was more than a fight. They were killing the men who had conquered them, killed their families, their friends, and had tried to enslave them.
Fynius dodged a well-aimed thrust and saw the attacker decapitated by Vincent. Then he was face to face with Mobius. The chief Purple man was vibrating with anger. Veins pulsed on his face and his sword hand shook. Not with fear, but with readiness. He was about to explode.
The cleric appeared mad. He attacked with suicidal abandon, swinging his longsword in circles and forcing Fynius on the defensive. He knew how to fight. This would be difficult if they were fighting a duel. Luckily, Twilight Company didn’t believe in fair fights and quickly had the cardinal surrounded.
‘Is that foam in your mouth, Purple man?’ he quipped. ‘It’s a shame when the mind goes before the body.’
He defended himself admirably, using his sword to keep the attackers at bay, but he couldn’t fight all the men who wanted to kill him. He killed two, but his movements were wild and uncoordinated. An axe thrown from Scarlet Company hit his thigh, then a sword thrust caught his underarm. Fynius let them cut him, standing back until the Purple man was on his knees, bleeding from a dozen minor wounds.
‘Leave him!’ He waved the attackers back. They obeyed without question. A few men of Scarlet Company appeared to want to be the one to kill Mobius, but still they obeyed.
‘Got any more words?’ he asked, resting Leg Biter across his shoulders.
Mobius panted and his face screwed up. His mouth quivered and his eyes bulged. ‘She loves me,’ he gargled, blood and bile on his lips.
‘She’ll get over it,’ he replied, swinging Leg Biter at the man’s head.
Cardinal Mobius of Ro died suddenly, a Ranen broadsword embedded in his brain. Fynius tilted his head and followed the dying man’s eyes. They pulsed and flickered, looking surprised or maybe indignant. A common barbarian of Ranen had killed a nobleman of the One God. The very idea!
Fuck him and fuck his God, thought Fynius.
* * *
‘Well, they will be dealt with by those they have wronged,’ replied Bronwyn, unsure whether she should speak the whole truth.
A Red knight rushed into the tent. He was fully armoured and flustered.
‘My lord general, there is some commotion in the city.’
Malaki Frith turned slowly, keeping his narrow eyes on her face.
‘Define commotion for me?’ he asked.
‘The clerics have abandoned the walls and we heard steel on steel.’
He reacted straightaway, rising from his chair and straightening his tabard. ‘Dealt with, you say?’ he addressed Bronwyn. ‘Sinking feelings are a curiously common sensation here in the Freelands. I think the cold disagrees with me.’
‘General?’ queried the knight. ‘Shall we enter the city?’
He paused, sharing a glance with Fallon and the other knights in the tent. He took a moment to breathe in deeply and close his eyes. Then he drew his sword and levelled the point at Bronwyn.
‘What is going on in the city? Answer in simple words, and answer quickly.’
She was startled and raised her hands. Micah stood up and glanced around, looking for some way to defend himself and Bronwyn.
‘Sit down, boy!’ roared the general. ‘Answer, my lady.’
The other men of the Red drew their weapons and stood stony-faced and solid as a brick wall.
‘I thought you lot had honour,’ barked Micah. ‘What the fuck is this?’
‘If something has happened to the clerics, the Ranen broke parlay first. What were you, my lady? A distraction? I suppose it’s the only way you could defeat us... through trickery.’
He made it sound so much worse than Fynius. She thought of herself as a diplomat, even as the sword point hovered inches from her face.
‘I have the men to annihilate your companies, however many you have left. You should appreciate your position,’ said the general.
Fallon had not stood up or drawn his sword. His demeanour had not changed and he had simply leant back in his chair. If anything, he looked amused. ‘You’re not going to kill her, general,’ said the seated man. ‘You and I agreed, enough have died. The One and Brytag agree on this.’
They all looked at him. For a moment he appeared taller and stronger. The words, simple but powerful, carried sufficient weight for Malaki Frith to withdraw his sword. They were more than words and more than a man spoke them.
‘Agreed,’ said the general quietly.
‘What are you?’ blurted out Stone Dog, squinting at Fallon.
The swordsman stood up. He smiled and the tent appeared to brighten. ‘I’m an exemplar,’ he replied. ‘I speak for the One God.’
‘And I’m a wheel of fucking cheese,’ replied Micah.
Fallon didn’t stop smiling. ‘That explains the smell.’
The senior knights sheathed their swords. Whatever was going to happen in this tent, it would be at the behest of Sir Fallon of Leith, and he did not appear hostile. Something else was happening that she didn’t understand. Though she felt it was a good thing. Whoever he was, Bronwyn was sure that he wasn’t their enemy.
As Frith sat down, Warm Heart poked his head through the tent flap and growled, as if to ask if things were okay. She nodded at him and his huge bulk retreated back outside.
CHAPTER 10
SAARA THE MISTRESS OF PAIN IN THE CITY OF RO WEIR
THE ABBEY OF Oron Kaa was imprinted upon her memory. The s
mooth dome and the high minaret, the slave pens and the jagged, rocky harbour. The sun-kissed fields of blood and despair. The expressionless minions, responding to the whim of their mistress. The buzzing insects, appearing each sunset to maintain the structure. The visions were as real as the bed she lay on, the flesh next to her, and the wind that blew through the open window. She remembered the matron mother. Her wrinkled face, full of hate, her craggy fingers, long and thin, the whip-crack of her voice, denying rest and peace to her acolytes.
An uncontrolled mind was dangerous. Saara was supremely skilled at marshalling her thoughts and maintaining focus, but pieces of her past were leaking into her present. A long life, spent in beautiful pain and debauchery, was seeping from her broken mind to pound at the back of her eyes.
She remembered men and women she had killed, their faces screaming at her. She remembered the deepest deserts of Far Karesia, the heat battering her face. She remembered days, years, decades, centuries. Every moment.
Men spoke to her about the dark-blood. He was dead and they wanted her to be happy, but she couldn’t be. They said that the Thief Taker was a broken wreck of a man. Her mind didn’t permit her to care. Keisha was gone, stolen by the one assassin to escape her, and she was sliding further and further away from reality and couldn’t concentrate.
She had lost many phantom thralls – King Sebastian, Archibald Tiris, cardinals Mobius and Severen, even the young squire, Randall – but the deaths of Shilpa and Sasha had almost destroyed her mind. She was still whole, but she had used up much of her power battling the Gorlan and now she was weak.
She didn’t trust her eyes, her ears or her mind. They lied to her. She wanted to slip into a peaceful sleep, wrapped in a warm blanket of Shub-Nillurath’s love, but her mind would not permit it. So much had happened. So much beyond her control. She bore the burdens of five dead sisters. Their thoughts, their memories, everything. Each dead enchantress was like a new section of her mind opening. An unwelcome intrusion into her already troubled thoughts. She had summoned Isabel the Seductress, her last remaining sister, and planned to use her mind to relieve some of the burden. It would probably send Isabel insane, but it would allow Saara some respite. She didn’t care if the Seductress had to be chained in the catacombs, so long as it allowed the Mistress of Pain to think clearly.