by A. J. Smith
‘The exemplar is here,’ he said in a voice deeper than any man, and waved an enormous hand at the thain. ‘He comes in, out of the cold.’
Samson loped back down the stairs. He was bent over and needed to use all four of his limbs to crawl up and down the narrow space, though his shoulders still rubbed against the wall and gave the impression that he was squeezing himself down a tunnel too narrow for his passing. Algenon ducked under the door frame and steadied himself before gingerly descending the stairs after the old-blood.
‘Samson, is there any way you could walk backwards down these stairs so I’m not faced with your enormous arse the entire way?’
Samson craned his neck round to peer back up at the thain. ‘He is in bad spirits,’ he said, before hurrying down the stairs with unusual dexterity for a man of his size.
Algenon was more tolerant of Samson than were many others, but he still disliked his peculiar manner. Across the north of the Freelands maybe five men in recent memory could claim to be true old-bloods, and all of them had displayed the same swollen appearance and strange speech patterns. Samson was the oldest known – several hundred years by his own reckoning – and was the only one ever to be permitted to live in a town. Algenon knew of another that had once haunted the woods of Hammerfall, a feral creature known as Louhi the Beast – more of a wild animal than a man. Al-Hasim used to talk about a Karesian old-blood he’d known near the town of Rikara in the south. Those with Fire Giant blood in their veins were even more unstable, and the man had been known for waylaying and eating travellers before he was executed by the Hounds of Karesia. As far as the thain knew, the men of Ro had hunted down and killed any men with Giant blood long ago, and Samson and his Ranen kin remained the only real legacy of the Long War.
At the bottom of the narrow staircase the chapel was warm, heated by the ever-burning brazier that Samson maintained. The rocky cave had smooth walls and low passageways leading in a web out from the central chamber. Few men were permitted to enter, and most preferred simply to stand around the dome if they felt the need to pray. Rowanoco was not a demanding god to worship and just required that his followers take time to drink, feast and sing, as had always been the Ranen way. The priests of the Order of the Hammer were the only men to show any formality in their worship, and even they tended to merely drink, eat and sing in greater quantities.
Samson had been allowed to live in the chapel by Ragnar Teardrop some fifty years ago and, though the men of Fredericksand knew he was down there, he was a largely invisible presence to all but Algenon.
The thain stood in front of the fire and warmed his hands, giving Samson time to haul his enormous bulk around the cave and get comfortable. The old-blood had a simple bedroll and a wooden table, upon which were a meagre amount of personal possessions: a small hourglass, a book of poems and a ruby pendant, each with their own significance to Samson. On the floor sat a huge war-hammer, an ornate weapon with well-worn silver engravings of Giants in battle, and to the old-blood’s left sat a simple cooking pot. It was a humble place for a mighty being to live, but Algenon knew that Samson had little need of comforts and was happiest when at rest.
‘The exemplar has done well,’ Samson grunted as he sat on the stone floor.
‘Will you now tell me more, or should I take men to their deaths ignorant?’ Algenon was not bitter, but neither was he naive and he knew how important such information could be.
‘The Ice Father wished it… it is done,’ the old-blood answered cryptically.
‘It’s not done yet, Samson, there’s a lot of blood between now and this being done,’ the thain quickly replied. ‘The dragon fleet will launch. A hundred ships and over five thousand battle-brothers will descend on Ro Canarn.’
Samson smiled broadly and clapped his hands like an excited child. ‘It is well, it is well. The Ice Father desires it. The witch is not outside the word of law. You will show her.’
Algenon sighed. The old-blood was given to hysteria and often appeared quite mad. However, his connection to the Giants could not be ignored and, on the few occasions when he’d shared his vision with Algenon, he’d seemed the wisest man in the Freelands. He stopped clapping and let a frown intrude upon his oversized face.
‘The exemplar needs more?’ he asked with a cunning glint in his eye.
Algenon considered it and said, ‘Yes, I need more,’ with a low nod of his head.
Samson pulled himself across the floor, using only his huge arms, and looked through the flickering brazier at the thain. He leant on a single arm and reached a hand round the fire, inviting Algenon to take it. He hesitated a second before placing his hand in the old-blood’s.
Samson did not hear the voice of Rowanoco either. Instead, he knew the will of Rowanoco. It was a gift that only old-bloods could possess, and most of them went insane the first time they used it. The Giant blood they possessed made it possible for them to reach across countless layers of the world and contact the gods themselves.
Algenon closed his eyes and felt his body relax as he was pulled by Samson into the ice halls beyond the world where sat Rowanoco the Earth Shaker.
He felt detached as he dropped through layers of rock and earth, following Samson into realms that men could not know. His mind was protected from the will of his god by Samson’s power, and Algenon had felt increasingly humble and insignificant each time he’d experienced it. He’d taken Samson’s hand four times before, on each occasion learning more about the nature of his god and the position of exemplar. Each of the three highest gods of men possessed one, and they had been the gods’ generals in the Long War.
The thain didn’t question Rowanoco’s motives when, through Samson, the Ice Giant let his will be known, but Algenon had over the years begun to think of the races of men as mere puppets in the war fought over their land by the Giants. Algenon had even stopped thinking of the world as the lands of men and was now of the opinion that the lesser species simply looked after it for their masters.
Deep in his mind, Algenon felt cold, as if his thoughts themselves now lacked a body in which to stay warm. He couldn’t perceive shapes or colours, but simply the sensation of being tiny in the presence of enormity, as if shapes beyond a size he could comprehend stood over him. He was aware that Samson was still with him, the old-blood’s power the only thing that kept him whole and sane, but he still felt vulnerable and helpless.
When it came, the voice was felt rather than heard, and it was that of Samson. ‘You have questions?’ He was clearer and more lucid, as if the edge of insanity that he wore in the lands of men had been shrugged off.
‘I would know why I take my battle-brothers to war,’ Algenon said in his mind. He felt his lips move but was unsure whether or not he was actually speaking.
‘The rule of law has been broken, you will redress the balance,’ Samson said, channelling the will of Rowanoco. ‘It was not thought possible, but it has happened.’
He sensed fear and something akin to annoyance. These were not his emotions and he doubted they belonged to Samson.
‘Then I would know what has happened in the lands of men to cause such a reaction in the land of Giants. I know only that a servant of Jaa has swayed the servants of the One, though I do not know why… why they have done it and why it concerns my god.’ Algenon now sensed pride mixed with curiosity. Unwittingly, he had said something clever and impressed Rowanoco.
Samson’s voice had an edge of humour to it. ‘Your words have the sharp edge of an axe, exemplar, and cut to the heart.’
The voice in Algenon’s head had another voice cutting through it, as if not every sound came from Samson’s mouth. ‘The exemplar of the One is charged with stopping such interference, much as you are charged with stopping the servants of other gods influencing my people. It is the first rule of law, that the Long War will be fought directly. If Jaa’s witches are coercing the One’s priests, it bodes ill for the exemplar… and it means that the word of Jaa is being ignored by his followers.’
His thoughts were not private within the ice halls and he again sensed pride. Algenon felt even smaller as the crushing sense of his god’s approval washed over him. It was a feeling that every priest of the Order of the Hammer spent his life seeking, but Algenon found it uncomfortable and difficult to comprehend.
He projected his next words gently. ‘It is not possible and yet it is happening… so he who is charged with stopping it must not be able to…’ he paused, ‘or is being stopped from doing so.’
Samson’s voice flowed into a laugh and Algenon almost cried out as his mind bent into impossible shapes trying to understand the concept of the god’s humour.
Algenon felt Samson standing over him in an effort to shield his mind. He tried to ask two final questions. His mind was weak and the words were quiet and mumbled, but he asked, ‘What has happened to the exemplar of the One? And how can the Sisters act against Jaa?’
As he fell into a deep sleep, largely oblivious to his surroundings, Algenon thought of his brother and hoped that the world had not shifted sufficiently for honour to no longer mean anything. Magnus would give his life for Rowanoco, as would any true Ranen, but their fate was being manipulated by others and Algenon feared that the men of Ro were deep within the designs of the Seven Sisters and that Ro Canarn was merely the beginning.
CHAPTER 7
SIR WILLIAM OF VERELLIAN IN THE CITY OF RO CANARN
William had been in Canarn five days. He had been at the vanguard of the assaulting army of knights and he was one of the first to enter the inner keep. He’d seen much death since he arrived in the city and had caused his fair share. He was a veteran of many campaigns and had seen both the best and the worst that the knights of the Red could do. As he stood on the heavy wooden drawbridge of the inner keep, William of Verellian thought that the sacking of Ro Canarn was one of the darker days he had witnessed.
The knights of the Red were pledged to the One God as warriors and conquerors. They served the aspect of war and were called upon by the king whenever battle was required. William had been from a noble house of Tiris and had joined the knights at the age of twelve. His family had served the One for as many generations as could be counted, though William was the first of his line to wear the red tabard.
He was a man of nearly forty years in age and had the scarred face of a seasoned soldier. His head was shaved and he wore no beard, making him distinctive among the Red knights.
As he looked down from the keep into the town square beyond, he was struck with a sense of shame, something he rarely felt. He could see funeral pyres of men – hundreds of burnt, distended bodies littering the cobbled streets. The mercenaries commanded by Sir Pevain were taking their payment from the populace, raping and stealing as they pleased. The city was dark and outside the central square no life could be seen.
William thought himself a true fighting man, a man who had joined the Red knights from choice, unlike the bound men below. He thought their behaviour deplorable and that the red tabards they wore should count for more than this.
Lieutenant Fallon, who stood nearby, had his hand on the hilt of his longsword and was glaring at the mercenaries below.
‘Fallon,’ William said sharply.
The knight saluted his captain. ‘My lord?’
‘Keep that hand steady,’ William said, pointing to his longsword.
‘Sergeant Callis, get those scum away from the women. Let no man take his payment in blood or flesh,’ he said quietly to the man at his left.
Callis nodded and turned to issue orders to other knights. ‘Right, lads, the captain wants those mercenaries taught about proper manners. Get your boots in and let’s cause a few wounds,’ he said plainly, with the practised bluster of the seasoned soldier.
Five knights drew their swords and marched down the drawbridge to the square beyond. Sergeant Callis began shouting orders at the mercenaries as he entered the square. They were silhouetted against the fire as William looked down, a grim expression on his face.
Fallon nodded approval at his captain and released his grip on his sword hilt. He was a good soldier and had been William’s adjutant for six years. The captain thought that if Fallon were in the square he’d probably kill any man that looked at him, whereas Callis would simply follow orders and stop the worst atrocities.
The mercenaries argued as the knights approached, saying that the women were spoils of war and theirs by right. Callis ignored them and simply kicked the nearest one in the groin.
‘Listen, you filthy bastards, you will stop this heathen shit right now or I will personally remove your fucking eyeballs.’ He directed his knights to various mercenaries who had ignored him and stood with his chin thrust out.
William watched as several mercenaries were beaten and one was killed, though he felt no better now that an element of calm had returned to the square. He was still a knight captain of the Red and felt that a vanquished foe should be treated with respect. He was considered old-fashioned by many of the other knights, but he cared little for their approval and preferred simply to challenge and kill any who questioned his ethics too hard.
Knight Captain Nathan of Du Ban appeared over William’s right shoulder and surveyed the square below. ‘You can’t stop this, you know?’
‘I can,’ William replied plainly.
‘Those men have been promised plunder. That means they get to rape, torture and steal to their hearts’ content.’
‘They’re vultures, picking on the bones of a defeated enemy.’ William was angry and let it show in his words.
‘Verellian, you would gladly kill the prisoners if they raised a sword to you. Why are you so squeamish about the afters?’ he asked.
‘If you were in command, you could watch. I am in command and I can’t. It’s simple.’ William was not naive, but he did not like needless suffering.
Nathan smiled and realized he wasn’t going to win the argument. ‘How many dead?’ he asked.
‘Two hundred and fifty during the battle, a hundred in the keep and around two thousand in the last four days,’ William answered. ‘We took the city easily. These men were farmers and tradesmen, not warriors. The men in the keep fought well, but they were outmatched. Father Magnus was the only man to give our knights pause.’
Nathan sneered at the mention of the Ranen priest. ‘He’s a big boy, but I don’t believe he killed ten knights.’
‘He killed twenty-three knights and fourteen mercenaries. He had a huge war-hammer and apparently his eyes turned black. It’s a gift of the Ranen priests, their god gives them strength when they call on it.’
William had seen the huge Ranen kill a number of knights but had been occupied with the duke’s guard for the majority of the battle. Having spoken to the Ranen briefly before he entered the hall, William did not doubt the reports he’d heard. ‘It doesn’t matter now, Rillion will likely torture him to death for what happened in the great hall.’
‘I doubt it,’ Nathan replied.
William looked at him, his eyes betraying an element of suspicion. ‘What do you know, captain?’
‘Just that the Karesian witch seems intent on preserving the big man’s life… Tobias was on guard duty outside the commander’s room after the battle and swears he heard Rillion grunting like a novice whore within five minutes of the bitch going to see him.’
William shook his head. Knights of the Red were forbidden from taking women, and although past commanders he’d known had ignored the rule, he was disappointed that Rillion would be so brazen. It was an insult to the One, who had decreed the knights were to pledge all their energy to worship and to fulfilling the wishes of their g
od. The Gold church priests were infamous for their whoring and the Black tried to take as much out of life as they could, but the knights of the Red were to remain celibate.
Added to that was the unpleasant reality of who the woman was. William was not schooled in the ways of the Karesian witches, but had heard a hundred tales to make him fear and dislike the Seven Sisters of Karesia. Ameira had had too much influence over Rillion’s actions and William thought his honour had now come into question. If the company had been still in Ro Arnon, William would have gone to see the abbot about his commander’s behaviour; but as it was, they were far from home, in a city that had just been sacked, and William had no option but to accept Rillion’s actions.
‘Are you going to have Callis clean up the whole city, or is watching him beat a few heads in sufficient?’ Nathan queried in a mocking tone. ‘I suppose we could fight the mercenaries now there aren’t any men of Canarn left… they might put up a better fight.’
‘Has the abbot found out about your bastard son yet, Nathan?’ William asked with venom.
The other knight scowled and moved to block William’s view of the square. ‘The piety is getting old, Verellian. Half the men under your command have bastards, and the other half haven’t fathered any simply because they’re too scared of you. It might make you better company if you got your cock wet occasionally.’ Nathan cast a vicious grin at William.
He was of the same rank as Verellian but commanded a separate unit. His men were in the great hall, standing guard over the commander and they had been stationed inside the city during the attack on the keep. Nathan’s home, the town of Du Ban, was several leagues north and west of Arnon and famed for producing arrogant and violent knights of the Red.