by A. J. Smith
The cheering had become a dull squawk, as if her followers were a flock of geese pecking at their seed. It was too much. The roar of those below, the thick blood falling at her feet... and the surge of Jaa’s eyes.
Dalian’s corpse lolled to the side as Elihas dumped him to the ground. His head turned and the eyes again sought her out. She ran from the balcony, barely containing a scream behind the pounding in her head.
* * *
Saara’s phantom thralls were like predatory animals, scratching at her mind when she was at her weakest. They pounced from corners and out of shadows as soon as she fell face-down on to her bed.
You cocky, Karesian bitch.
Didn’t expect that, did you?
Ha ha, not so powerful now, sweetheart.
She couldn’t shut them out. Some were dead, some still living. Their anger stabbed at her, unleashed as her control wavered.
‘Leave me,’ she wailed.
Make us!
You can’t, can you? You’re weak, aren’t you?
She buried her face in the pillow and cried. She didn’t want to know who spoke. The apparitions spoke with the voices of Sebastian Tiris, the squire Randall, Cardinal Mobius and others. They mocked her, viciously revelling in her failure. Had she failed? Had everything fallen apart? She had lost Ranen, for now at least, but Tor Funweir was in her grasp. Fjorlan was still in the balance as armies moved against her. Was this failure?
Of course it’s fucking failure.
The speaker was Cardinal Mobius, an honourable man, living a life of servitude to his god. Then he met Katja in Ro Tiris and became a thrall. He had been the hardest to enchant. His will and faith were almost as strong as Dalian’s. His weakness had been loyalty to his king, a man much more easily swayed.
We are free of you!
‘You are lesser beings,’ she whimpered, barely believing her words.
‘No!’ stated a new voice.
The chattering stopped. Saara panted heavily against her pillow, terrified of turning round. She knew who it was.
‘Look at me,’ said Dalian Thief Taker, his voice clear and sonorous.
She pushed herself away from her bed and slowly turned round. He was standing next to the window, wearing black armour and glowing with a hazy red aura. He wasn’t real. At least, Dalian Thief Taker was dead and what was before her was more than a man.
‘You remain just to torment me?’ It was barely a whimper.
The apparition smiled. She could never remember Dalian smiling. ‘I do not remain for you, but I choose to address you before I leave. You are a feeble creature, ignorant despite your centuries of life. You have not won, nor has your god the power you believe. All your endeavours, all your treachery, there is no great reward for you.’
Tears filled her eyes, flooding down her cheeks. They were salty on her lips and tasted like weakness. He was right. She couldn’t summon the power to dismiss him, whether he were real or not.
‘I am the shade of Dalian Thief Taker and I am beyond your control. You are a petty priestess of a dead god.’
‘No!’ she roared. ‘I have power... I live while you die. Leave me!’
There was no reply. The shade just looked at her, slowly fading from view until it was no more than a wisp of red smoke. And then it was nothing, as if it had never been there.
* * *
Yacob Black Guard of Weir disliked Cozz. He’d been here before the Hound occupation and he hated the uppity merchants and their arrogant sneers. They’d got what they deserved when the Karesians swarmed over their tiny empire. Those that didn’t learn their place had been burned alive. The Hounds called it ‘immolation’, as if that made it less violent. Yacob didn’t care. He’d enjoyed seeing the smouldering pyres that lined the King’s Highway. Their bodies were black and cracked, dropping flakes of burned flesh on to the ‘hallowed ground’ of Tor Funweir.
If you had to choose a side, you should always choose the winning side, and the Karesians were clearly going to win. Money was easy to come by when you could convince the powerful that you were useful.
Yacob was a killer and the new rulers of Tor Funweir needed killers. He’d already had much gold from the Karesian woman and he would receive more when the job was done. They had a lot of gold and he intended to see as much of it as possible. There were hundreds of people that needed killing. Clerics, knights, lords and merchants – anyone that didn’t bend knee to the new rulers was a potential contract for Yacob. He hoped they wouldn’t surrender too easily.
Izra Sabal was a strange woman. She had accepted Yacob and the Hounds with whom he’d arrived, but she hadn’t conversed with him. She’d grunted out of her mangled jaw and returned to her duties, allowing him to wander freely around Cozz. He was one of few Ro who weren’t in chains or locked up. Some merchants and nobles had surrendered to Izra, pleading their compliance and offering service. Like Yacob, they had realized when they couldn’t win and had been sent with their fortunes to Ro Weir.
The majority of the enclave’s citizens had not been so wise. Cattle pens had been set up at the four corners of Cozz, housing thousands of men and women. Rich merchants scratched in the earth next to the lowliest servants, trying to find food or clothing that wasn’t soiled. The Hounds watched, playing sadistic games with the captives, revelling in their misery. Izra was reluctant to kill every citizen of Cozz and now she had prohibited her Hounds from random killing. However, that didn’t stop them bullying, beating and degrading their playthings.
Yacob didn’t like the Hounds. They wore identical armour and helmets, wielded identical swords, and appeared to have virtually no personality. Each day they stood in lines before huge covered wagons to receive their dose of drugs, and each day they twitched and laughed manically as their narcotic collars took effect. A steady stream of carts made the journey to and from Weir and the logistics involved in keeping the Hounds in pungent Karesian black was staggering. It was the one thing they were good at – keeping their faceless masses well stocked with drugs.
Izra and her captains didn’t partake of the daily regimen. According to Pevain, they were kept in line by enchantment and by a deranged sense of pride in following their orders. They were only truly compliant when they were near an enchantress. Out here in Cozz, the Hounds would grow rebellious as well as cowardly if they were not tightly controlled by fear and drugs.
Kasimir Roux, a senior Hound with an ugly scar from his forehead to his chin, was on the wooden battlements watching the northern plains. He had some grievance with Izra and kept his distance from the whip-mistress. Yacob had been told to report to him.
‘What’s a Black Guard?’ asked Roux.
‘A member of a traitorous house,’ replied Yacob, slouching against the wood and massaging his feet. ‘My father... could be wicked.’
Kasimir sneered. The concept of wickedness was relative when speaking to a Hound.
‘And you?’ asked the Karesian. ‘Are you wicked?’
‘Not really, I’m just greedy.’
Kasimir nodded approvingly and turned back to the northern plains. The King’s Highway was mostly empty. A few broken caravans and the constant stream of drug wagons lent texture to the otherwise barren horizon. Close to the northern gate was the stump of a darkwood tree, cut down by Marshal Wesson within the last year. The wooden mound was black and had started to rot within a few days. Yacob peered down at it. It didn’t look anything special. To hear Pevain talk, the thing had some hidden power over the weak-willed. Clearly, that power had not been strong enough to prevent it being cut down. Swords and paid men to wield them would always trump sorcery.
‘You clear on what you have to do?’ asked Kasimir.
‘I am. As long as the gold in my pack isn’t counterfeit.’
‘You have your coin. You’ll have more when you get back to Weir.’
Yacob removed one of his boots and flexed his toes, relieving the soreness. His feet stank and his woollen socks needed repair. There was a time when he would have had servants to fix h
is clothing and massage his feet. And there was a time when he would have been able to rest indoors, out of the wind. The strong gusts that blew across Cozz did help soothe his aching limbs but they made him feel like a peasant. It was a miserable excuse for a town, built in a stupid place for stupid people.
‘Do you know what you have to do?’ he asked Kasimir.
‘Don’t worry about me and my men, Black Guard. When Izra falls we’ll give them the surprise of their lives.’
‘Your men are losing their edge, whip-master,’ he replied with a sneer. ‘Your Karesian black don’t seem to be quelling their cowardice. Sure you’re getting the purest stuff?’
‘They’re a long way from home. The drugs only do so much without regular enchantment.’
‘If they run away, I won’t get paid,’ grunted Yacob.
‘Think of them as cattle. They can be herded and used. In the end, their purpose is to die.’
From further along the battlements a woman called to Kasimir. ‘Commander,’ she said. ‘Look two points off north.’
Kasimir followed the directions from the lesser Hound. It was early evening but not yet dark. The sun was low in the sky and a dusky glow covered everything.
‘Two riders approaching,’ said Kasimir.
‘They’re here,’ replied Yacob.
CHAPTER 11
GWENDOLYN OF HUNTER’S CROSS IN THE MERCHANT ENCLAVE OF COZZ
THEY HAD RIDDEN for two days and two nights. On barely an hour’s sleep, the small company was now approaching Cozz. The grassy fields and gravel roads melted into one as they covered the ground on tired horses. The sun was disappearing, casting a dull glow over the wooden stockade. Everything seemed unreal. The horses, the grass, the enclave, all were hazy and indistinct, as if she were still asleep and dreaming the moment.
Gwen rode with five hundred men and forty Dokkalfar. The largest company they could spare. The Hawks were stretched thin. They had sailed and fought, and had not rested. Despite that, every man was lean and hungry for combat. The majority of their force was still in Tiris, securing the city and calming a volatile population.
Cardinal Cerro and Captain Brennan were an odd combination, but they were now jointly in charge of the capital of Tor Funweir. A soldier and a cleric, perhaps that was the best leadership they could hope for. In time, a distant cousin of Xander might be found as a new duke. Perhaps a Tiris dwelling in Du Ban or the Falls of Arnon, but until then the reluctant duo would rule. Markos of Rayne, the White paladin, had left ahead of them, bound for Ro Arnon, intending to join them at Cozz with the White knights of the dawn.
She was riding behind Bromvy and Xander, allowing them to get a little way ahead of the column. The two lords of Ro looked to the front and had done so ever since they first mounted their horses. Their armour had been repaired, their swords sharpened and their minds were as focused as their tiredness would allow.
It was hard to read them. She made her judgement based on her own fatigue. Brom had sat in his hall for months and she hoped that he wasn’t keeping up with Xander through stubbornness alone. He was hot-headed enough to get himself killed rather than admit he needed rest. Gwen would need to keep an eye on him during the coming combat. Or maybe Xander would be sufficiently intimidating to force a surrender. She hoped he would try.
Xander and Brom reached a rise within sight of Cozz. The glow of dusk spread over them, reflecting off their armour and making both men shine. They looked at one another and reined in their horses, trotting to a stop on the high ground. The general raised his arm and the column formed up in ranks behind them.
The merchant enclave of Cozz was smaller than she had expected. It was an irregular circle of wood, bisecting the King’s Highway. There were trees and jagged rocks to the south, but otherwise the plains were featureless. The merchants who had established the enclave had insisted that the settlement be built in the centre of Tor Funweir, within easy travel of all the great cities of Ro. It was now the northern outpost of the invading Hounds.
Xander wheeled his horse in full view of the enclave. He shielded his eyes from the glare and studied the wooden structure. They had catapults, a large gateway and a perimeter wall of wooden poles driven deep into the earth. The walls were solid and perhaps twenty feet high.
Gwen smiled. The Hounds within Cozz had no organization. Their catapults were not loaded and they had no crews, the gate was not secured and the battlements were barely patrolled. They had two thousand warriors, but she did not consider them to be true fighting men.
‘Brothers!’ said Xander, his voice carrying across the plains. ‘We are outnumbered... shall we surrender?’
A laugh rippled through the company.
‘This is Tor Funweir and that is Cozz. It’s not Kessia, Thrakka, or any city of Karesia. It’s ours and we’re taking it back.’ He drew Peacekeeper. ‘Who here remembers my old squire, Wesson?’
Men nodded. Gwen remembered the prickly man of Haran. He was a good squire and a good man.
‘There is a Hound in Cozz who left him to bleed to death on the King’s Highway.’ He was shouting, his eyes bloodshot and emotional. ‘That Hound does not get the chance to surrender. But the others may.’ He turned back to the enclave.
He nodded to Brom, who ordered Sigurd and the Dokkalfar to dismount. They ran to the east, quickly disappearing into the glow of dusk. Their lord remained, mounted next to the general.
‘With me,’ Xander commanded, nudging his horse forward.
In a column, three ranks deep, they advanced. It was not a charge but a steady and considered approach, giving the Hounds a chance to see their numbers.
Gwen appreciated the benefit of making this kind of statement, but she also wished for some cover or a way to sneak up on the enclave. Luckily, the Karesians were not sufficiently organized to use the time they had been given to mount a proper defence. They didn’t run to their catapults or position men on the northern battlements. Those that did appear, pointed and exclaimed, flapping their arms in the air like untrained peasants. One or two commanders ran along the walls trying to get their men to load the artillery, but their movements were sluggish and they caused further alarm by fumbling with boulders and breaking the controls of the winches. It was almost laughable how poorly coordinated they were.
‘A mob, not an army,’ she whispered, glaring through narrow eyes.
They rode to within a hundred paces of the enclave and stopped. Xander and Brom trotted ahead.
‘Is there a man within who can treat with me?’ roared the general, resting Peacekeeper across his shoulders. ‘I speak for Tor Funweir.’
Faceless Hounds now rushed over the battlements, forming up into some kind of line. From the centre, above the gatehouse, three Hounds emerged without helmets. It was unusual to see them as people rather than as blank suits of armour.
Two men and a woman stood before them. All Karesian, one man wore a scar down his face, and the woman, standing in the centre, sneered above a mangled jaw. She looked barely sane, with drool falling from her mouth, and carried a two-handed scimitar across her back.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ asked the woman in broken language.
‘The defender speaks first,’ replied Xander. ‘Tell me your name, Hound.’
She grunted and snarled. ‘I am Izra Sabal, whip-mistress of Karesia. I command here.’
‘Well met, Izra Sabal,’ replied the general. ‘I am Alexander Tiris, the Red Prince of Haran. I claim this land. You may withdraw.’
He maintained eye contact, glaring up at the Hound. He didn’t waver or blink and the woman could barely contain her anger.
To the east, Gwen caught a glimpse of black shapes darting between shadows. The Dokkalfar were in position, flanking the enclave. They were inhumanly fast, covering the ground like a slick of darkness. The dusk light was now grey and shimmering, providing the forest-dwellers with additional cover.
Gwen nudged her horse forward.
‘Sigurd lies in wait, my general,’ she whispere
d to her husband.
He nodded, maintaining his glare.
‘I say again, you may withdraw,’ Xander shouted up at Izra Sabal. ‘We are prepared to kill you, but we would rather not.’
‘You are prepared to kill us?’ exclaimed the woman. ‘I will eat your heart and rape your corpse, man of Ro.’
Xander smiled. ‘Are you the one?’ he asked. ‘Did you kill Marshal Wesson?’
Her face twisted into a frown, her cheekbones taut and her mouth asymmetrical. ‘Easily,’ she replied.
He nodded. ‘Then you will remain... your men may withdraw south.’
Izra spluttered, drawing her huge scimitar. It was a cleaving weapon, with little elegance. She banged it against the wooden battlements and screamed in rage.
‘I said...’ roared Xander, ‘you will remain. Your men may withdraw south.’
‘Load catapults,’ she ordered, sending men scurrying across the walls.
‘Big mistake,’ countered the general.
From out of nowhere, leaf-blades arced through the air, cutting down anyone near a catapult. Sigurd and his Dokkalfar appeared from the east, vaulting over wooden buildings and causing panic among the nearby Hounds. They had found a way into the enclave and were fanning out, clearing the gateway of soldiers.
‘Sigurd, the gate,’ shouted Brom, drawing his longsword.
The wooden frame began to creak and a sliver of light appeared in the middle. Grey, bloodied hands appeared in the gap and two Dokkalfar pushed the large gate outwards, opening the gateway into Cozz.
‘Forward!’ commanded Xander, leading the way.
They rode slowly, moving into a single column to pass through the gateway and keeping their formation tight. Gwen was near the front of the column, watching dead Hounds fall from above. Sigurd and his Dokkalfar were holding the gatehouse in a semicircle, cutting off any chance of the Hounds reaching their artillery.
The first dozen Hawks entered the enclave and met with no resistance. Within, she saw a town of broken wood turned into a military camp. Small black tents were squeezed between buildings and bedrolls lay around smouldering fires. Most of the buildings were intact, used as dosshouses by the Hounds. There were no men or women of Ro within view. Perhaps they were all dead, or corralled at the edges of the enclave.