by A. J. Smith
Randall paused and simply looked at the offered blade. ‘My lord, I’m a commoner, not permitted to carry a longsword.’
Brother Torian raised his chin and puffed out his chest. ‘You are now the squire of a Purple cleric and, if I say you can wear a sword, then you can wear a sword. Come now, belt it on and don’t dawdle.’ The cleric began to walk towards the stable entrance. ‘Oh, and you’d probably better take Sir Leon’s horse in addition to his sword,’ he said before disappearing into the street.
* * *
Randall’s first few days as squire to Brother Torian were strange. The cleric was an undemanding master, compared to Sir Leon. He talked a great deal, often unconcerned whether Randall was listening or not, and the young squire’s head was a blur of clerical procedures and service to the One God.
Torian was from the Falls of Arnon and had never been to the capital before. He wore his armour throughout the day and largely ignored the fear he inspired in the general populace, most of whom he dismissed as simply common folk.
Randall learned quickly how to unbuckle the armour and greaves with Torian in a seated position. They were of high quality and needed little maintenance beyond a daily polish of the burnished steel. Torian appeared ill at ease with being waited on, but tried to smile as Randall ran around after him, automatically fetching his food and cleaning his clothes.
They stayed in a quiet tavern near the chapter house of the knights of the Red. It was an unremarkable area of the town, with little crime. The tavern was a low stone building with few comforts, though the rooms were clean and the staff respectful. Randall was permitted to sleep in a bed rather than on the rough bedroll he had been used to, and was even allowed time to himself each day. Torian disliked having Randall with him when he went into the poor quarter to make enquiries, saying that a squire would be a burden when the cleric needed to be focused.
Randall used this time to practise with his new sword and to read the books that Torian carried with him. The squire began to learn about the One God and even learned something of the other lands of men. He’d met Ranen and Karesians before, but had always thought them strange and difficult to understand. The books Brother Torian carried spoke of them as children of other gods, inferior to the One, but worthy of respect as enemies.
They rose early each day and Torian exercised for several hours, running on the spot and swinging his longsword with practised skill. Without his armour, the cleric was a muscular man, covered in scars and puncture wounds from crossbow bolts and longbow arrows. He deflected any talk of his wounds and Randall guessed that true fighting men didn’t generally discuss their past battles. Sir Leon’s tall tales began to make more sense and it occurred to Randall that the old knight had deliberately told different versions of the same story because the reality was neither glamorous nor exciting.
‘Randall… daydreaming again, boy?’ Torian was sitting on his bunk waiting to be attired in his clerical armour.
‘Sorry, master, I was thinking of Sir Leon.’ Randall quickly moved to the wooden chair that acted as an armour rack.
Torian flexed his arms, clearing the soreness from his morning exercise. ‘The old man was a good first master for you, lad. He was demanding and taught you some humility.’
Randall hefted the bulky armour and swayed across the simple tavern room. ‘I was just thinking that you and he may have got on well… If…’
‘If his squire hadn’t covered me in piss the first time we met?’ he interrupted.
‘Yes, master.’ Randall blushed.
Torian laughed in response and held out his arms for Randall to place the breastplate across his chest. The purple undercoat was designed to show at the corners of the armour. The back plate was fastened by heavy leather straps at the waist and connected to the segmented metal of the arm pieces.
‘How’s your reading coming along?’ Torian asked, as the armour went on.
‘It’s coming along well, master. I was learning about the other races of men.’
The cleric raised his eyebrows. ‘So, tell me, what have you learned?’
Randall considered as he buckled up Torian’s armour. ‘The men of Ranen worship an Ice Giant called Rowanoco and they live to the north.’
His master nodded. ‘That’s right, lad, they wear chain mail and normally carry axes. They’re brutal, but cunning men.’
‘Didn’t the Ro once rule those lands, master?’
Torian nodded again. ‘Indeed we did, though that was long ago. The Ranen were organized into work gangs by the Red knights.’ His expression showed his distaste for this practice.
‘You don’t approve?’ Randall queried.
‘No, I do not, lad. The Ranen are primitive, but they were still vanquished enemies and should have been treated with respect.’ He looked up at his squire. ‘And if the knights hadn’t organized them, the Ranen would never have formed the Free Companies and fought back.’
‘Master?’ Randall had not heard the term before.
‘The work gangs were naturally made up of the strongest Ranen and they rebelled, took their wood-cutting axes and turned them on their masters. They called themselves the Free Companies and were surprisingly effective fighting men.’ He stood up and flexed, feeling the weight of his armour. ‘Ro Ranen became the Freelands of Ranen and the knights retreated south to the lands of Canarn… that was some two hundred years ago, but the Free Companies are still as stubborn and dangerous as they were then.’
Randall buckled on his master’s longsword. The cleric raised a leg and rested his foot on a small wooden stool as Randall buckled on the steel greave.
‘And what of the Karesians, master?’
‘Well, we’ve never been truly at war with them, lad. They follow Jaa, the Fire Giant. They keep to themselves for the most part. Any you meet in Tor Funweir will likely be merchants or tavern keepers.’ Torian seemed to have little time for the desert men.
‘Sir Leon used to talk about the Hounds of Karesia.’
‘Yes, the Hounds… the dreaded Hounds.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘The Karesians have little true military craft and so they rely on numbers. The Hounds are criminals, sentenced to serve time in the kennels as soldiers.’ He placed his second leg on the stool. ‘Jaa apparently taught that nobles should not fight… the dying should be left to the lowest classes of criminals and dishonourable men.’ He turned to his squire. ‘There are several hundred thousand of them, though.’
Randall finished dressing his master and took a step back to admire his work. The cleric was an imposing and noble figure when fully clad in his armour. The squire knew that he was a skilled swordsman but thought that, for most people, the flashes of purple would be enough to deflect trouble.
Brother Torian inspected himself carefully, noting any slight imperfections in his armour and pointing them out to his squire for later attention.
‘And who are the Kirin, master?’ Randall asked.
He’d known men claim to be Kirin and heard men referred to as such, but he’d always been confused by what the term meant. They were often swarthy-skinned men, though clearly not either Karesian or Ro and, by implication at least, they were mostly criminals.
Torian raised his eyebrows at this. ‘You have no Kirin in the Darkwald?’
‘Not that I remember, no. A few Ranen, but mostly men of Ro.’
‘Well, the Kirin are the godless race that is produced when a Karesian and a Ro decide, for whatever reason, to mate.’ He clearly took offence at the notion. ‘They are mostly to be found in the forests along the southern shore of the Kirin Ridge, though some come to the Tor Funweir to ply their trade as slavers or rainbow merchants – that’s drug dealers to you and me.’ He picked up his purple tabard from the side of the bed and swung it over his head, letting the purple sceptre of nobility rest across his breastplate. ‘They’re not innately evil, but their mixed lineage makes it difficult for them to pursue an honest trade.’
Sir Leon had been quite hateful towards the Kirin, calling
them all manner of names. Randall now thought this a little unfair, as it wasn’t really their fault that their parents had decided to have sex.
Randall walked over to the windowsill and took a drink of water from the jug that was placed there. He had known that the Darkwald was an isolated area of Tor Funweir, but the sudden realization that Sir Leon had taught him virtually nothing in the time they’d been together was annoying. He’d learned more about the lands of men in the last few days than in the previous three years combined.
‘Today, young Randall, I’m afraid your reading will have to wait. I need you to accompany me into the city.’ Torian pointed to the sword of Great Claw hanging from a hook on the back of the door. ‘You should wear your sword, boy…’
Randall let thoughts of Sir Leon and how poor a master he had been leave his mind. He screwed up his face, having barely been listening to his new master’s words. ‘Sorry, I was somewhere else for a moment. What did you say?’ he asked.
Torian smiled as he spoke. ‘Sometimes I envy the ability of youth to daydream. However, as a cleric I must chide you for your insolence,’ he said warmly. ‘I told you that you would be accompanying me into the city and that you should wear your longsword.’
Randall blushed, still uncomfortable owning such a weapon.
Torian sensed his misgiving and, with a condescending smile, moved to the door and picked up the scabbard. ‘Come here, lad. Let’s see how it looks.’
Randall stood in front of him and was taken aback as the cleric reached down and wrapped the belt around his squire’s waist.
‘Master…’ Randall stuttered as he spoke. ‘I should do that.’
Torian’s smile became friendly as he positioned the scabbard on Randall’s left hip. ‘I gave you permission to wear it, so it seems fitting that I adorn you with it.’ He stepped back and inspected the armed squire. ‘There. Now all you need is armour and you’ll look splendid.’
Randall breathed in and looked at the sword hilt. It was surprisingly light and didn’t restrict his movement in the way he’d imagined it would. Despite his reservations, he felt older and stronger simply carrying such a noble weapon. The sword of Great Claw had been Sir Leon’s pride and joy, and Randall wanted more than anything to do honour to the blade.
‘Did Sir Leon at least teach you the correct way to hold such a weapon, Randall?’
‘Well… not really, master. He showed me some basic positions, but he was drunk at the time and they didn’t make much sense.’
‘Hopefully, you won’t need to use it then,’ he said plainly, as he moved to his purple cloak hanging by the window. Randall was not permitted to touch the purple, aside from when he cleaned it, and Brother Torian treated it much as Sir Leon had treated his longsword.
‘Where are we going, master?’ Randall asked as Torian swung his cloak around his shoulders and fastened it at the neck.
‘You’ll be accompanying me to the Kasbah of Haq, outside the city walls. You’ve been reading about foreigners and so it seems only appropriate that you join me in going to a place where they gather. Be on your guard, though, these men are not friendly to Ro, especially clerics, and they will not want to volunteer the information that I seek.’
Before Randall could ask any more questions the sound of armoured feet began to be heard along the corridor outside. Torian was not concerned as he registered the sound and simply waved Randall away from the door.
The squire backed away and stood by the open window. The sound of metal feet rose in volume, but there seemed to be only one man approaching. Randall began to speak, but a raised hand from his master caused him to stay silent.
The armoured footsteps stopped just outside the door and a solid bang on the wood made Randall jump.
‘Worry not, boy, this man is expected. The door is open, brother,’ Torian called loudly.
The circular door handle turned and a gauntleted hand appeared. As the door was pushed open, Randall saw a burly, pale-skinned man of Ro. He was clad in steel armour of a similar fashion to Torian’s, but more tarnished. He bore a large two-headed axe strapped across his back, but of most interest to Randall was the black tabard he wore, identifying him as a cleric of death. The black fabric showed a skeletal hand holding a goblet.
He was a man of middle years, perhaps in his late thirties. His skin was pallid and his hair white, and he looked like a ghost as he stepped into the room. Randall had never seen an albino and found his pink eyes more unnerving than his tabard. He directed a thin smile at Brother Torian and offered his hand. Randall saw a deep scar across the back of his neck, partially covered by his axe and a braided knot of hair that fell halfway down his back. The scar was old, but it looked to Randall that it must have been from a near-fatal wound.
Torian grasped the other cleric’s hand, but didn’t smile; instead, he bowed his head in a show of deep respect.
‘Brother Utha… it has been too long,’ Torian said, averting his eyes from the albino.
‘Look up, Torian, we’re not in Ro Arnon now and it’s been many years since you needed to bow to anyone,’ the Black cleric said, with what seemed like genuine affection. ‘Besides, averting your eyes from a short-arse shit like me will strain your neck.’
Torian laughed and the tension released from his eyes. ‘Come in, brother. I’ve no wine, but at least we have seats and fresh air…’
Randall knew that most clerics were forbidden from drinking alcohol, but the clerics of the Black were unknown to him – aside from the aura of fear that accompanied their station as brothers of death. They followed the darkest aspect of the One God and were present at funerals and large battles, wherever death was certain.
Utha surveyed the room. ‘Last time we sat together, as I recall, my arse was perched on the only thing soft enough to cradle the arrow wound.’
Torian laughed again. ‘As I recall, you were sitting on a dead mercenary outside a village near Ro Leith.’
Utha turned to Randall, though he still directed his words to Torian. ‘Well, the rabid little shit had buried an arrow in a place that I like to keep free of wounds. It only seemed proper that I cleaved his head in. He was just a Kirin; I doubt the world has missed his stench since I threw him on the pyre.’
Randall withered a little under the cleric’s gaze and looked down at the floor.
‘This lad looks nervous, Torian. Perhaps he should go and fetch me some wine so that I don’t die of fucking thirst while he looks at the floor.’
Torian nodded at Randall. ‘Yes, of course. Go and fetch a couple of bottles, Randall,’ he said.
Utha did not avert his pale eyes from the young squire as Randall quickly crossed the room and exited into the hall. He closed the door behind him and breathed out, more comfortable now that Utha was not standing on top of him. Randall had heard common folk speak of the Black clerics as if their very presence was a bad omen. It was said they could detect death’s presence on the air, as a normal man would smell food or sense a beautiful woman.
Randall didn’t linger outside the door and moved quickly along the corridor. The tavern was well maintained and a far cry from the establishments he had become used to during his service with Sir Leon. The floor was clean and free of dust, the doors all had locks and even the windows were of clear glass rather than shuttered with wood.
Randall spared a moment’s thought on whatever it might be that brought a Black cleric to meet with Brother Torian, but he considered their business beyond him and focused on fetching the wine.
He walked to the end of the corridor and proceeded downwards, only vaguely registering that he was still wearing his sword. At the foot of the stairs, the tavern opened out. The common room had a high ceiling and was vaulted in wood, with church heraldry hanging from metal hooks. The crossed swords and clenched fist of the knights of the Red was most prominent, displayed next to the purple sceptre of nobility and the dove of the White. Randall found the tavern intimidating, as it was frequented mostly by Red knights and the city watch. Eve
n in the morning several squads of armoured watchmen were sitting down to breakfast – small loaves of grainy bread with thick-cut slices of pork and steaming mugs of dark coffee. The kitchen beyond the polished wooden bar was active and Randall could hear orders being shouted amongst the tavern staff.
Randall walked along the bar and stopped in front of the young barmaid. ‘Er, wine, please… red, I think,’ he said.
She looked puzzled and leant on the bar, inspecting the young squire. ‘Are you the one who brought that man of death into my father’s tavern, boy?’
Randall thought her a little younger than himself and objected to being called boy, but he kept quiet. A number of the tavern staff, overhearing the girl, were now looking at him with interest. It was likely that Brother Utha had caused quite a stir when he walked through this room several minutes ago.
‘Not me, exactly… he came to speak to my master,’ Randall replied.
A watchman sitting at a table near the bar said, ‘That was Utha the Ghost, lad… men should not talk to such creatures. Black clerics are barely men at all.’
Assorted nods of agreement flowed over his companions and Randall felt very small. The watchman walked to the bar. Placing several coins on the wood, he turned to Randall. ‘They say the Ghost can see your time of death and smiles when it’s close at hand. He carries an axe because the One will not permit him to carry the weapon of a noble.’ The watchman looked down at the sword of Great Claw, sheathed at Randall’s side. ‘Nor does he permit a lowly squire who consorts with the men of death. I know you serve a man of the Purple, boy, but I object to you carrying that.’
The man was tall and looked down his nose at the squire. Another man joined him, younger than the first and only a few years older than Randall; he carried two short swords sheathed across his back. ‘Leave him be, Robin, the lad’s got enough problems. That’s two clerics he’s got to look after now.’
The first man laughed and returned to his table. The one who’d stood up remained leaning against the bar. ‘More coffee, Lydia,’ he said to the tavern keeper’s daughter, before turning back to Randall. ‘Don’t mind him, boy, Black clerics make everyone nervous… especially that particular Black cleric.’