The Long War 01 - The Black Guard

by A. J. Smith

  ‘We pledge ourselves to the Dead God, the Forest Giant of pain and pleasure with a thousand young. We are your servants in the Long War and we will claim these lands in your honour.’

  As Saara finished her prayer to the Dead God, Zel gasped as he saw the black tree move. The golem stepped away and stood silently, as all of the enchantresses looked on in silent euphoria.

  The bark of the tree cracked and splintered, flowing more like flesh than wood, and the branches began to coil up. A deep rumbling sound accompanied the movement, like the throaty growl of a beast, indistinct, but organic.

  ‘As Jaa stole your power and gifted it to us,’ proclaimed Saara, ‘we now use it to awaken your Dark Young and worship at their feet… the priest and the altar… the priest and the altar.’

  Zel froze in place as the Dark Young of the Dead God shrugged off its torpid state and reared up, its many thick, branch-like tentacles thrashing in the air, before firmly bracing on the marble floor and slowly lifting the trunk out of the earth.

  The base of the tree shook off the earth and Zel saw a mass of smaller tentacles, like feelers, and in the centre of the trunk a gaping maw was revealed. The mouth and feelers had been buried in the ground, somehow providing the creature with nutrition and keeping it alive.

  The trunk swivelled forward until it was horizontal and the tentacles could function as legs. The Dark Young now resembled a tree only vaguely, and Zel could no longer comprehend that it had ever been anything other than the tentacled monstrosity before him. Its mouth was toothless but each of its numerous feelers was tipped with a fine, needle-like appendage.

  The realization that he was to be a sacrifice only slowly dawned on Zel, as Saara looked with genuine tenderness at her slave.

  ‘You are the son of a man called Rham Jas Rami, my dear Zeldantor,’ she said. ‘You have served me well, but we no longer have any need to keep you close. Your father will now be powerless to harm us and the Dark Young is hungry.’

  ‘The priest and the altar… the priest and the altar,’ chanted the Seven Sisters.

  Zel tried to maintain his serenity as the Dark Young moved towards him, its mouth growing wider and its feelers writhing in the air. There was no pain, only a sweet taste in his mouth, when the needles entered his body and he became limp and began slowly to dissolve.

  CHAPTER 9

  RANDALL OF DARKWALD IN THE MERCHANT ENCLAVE OF COZZ

  Just outside Cozz there was a strange local curiosity, long ago purchased by an affluent Ro silk dealer. It was supposedly the only remaining darkwood tree in Tor Funweir and the silk dealer had fought for years to keep it safe from the Purple clerics who desired its destruction. Randall had never seen one before, though he’d known people who claimed to have seen them in the Darkwald. It looked like no tree he’d ever seen, with a short, squat trunk and strange branches that bore no leaves or fruit of any kind.

  ‘People actually pay to climb it, you know,’ said Elyot as he pulled his horse in next to Randall.

  ‘Why?’ Randall was unnerved by the tree and couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to be close to it.

  ‘Because it’s forbidden, I suppose. The clerics claim it is blasphemy just to acknowledge it.’ He gestured towards where Torian and Utha rode, just ahead of the others.

  Neither of the clerics had slowed to look at the tree and they were focused on the town of Cozz, just over the next hill.

  It had taken two weeks for them to reach Cozz and Randall was saddle-sore. The merchant enclave was at the halfway point between Ro Tiris and Ro Weir, and Utha had insisted they stop for the night. The watchmen had been good company on the journey, assisting Randall each night with erecting a tent for Brother Torian and lighting a campfire, but he missed the comfort of a proper bed.

  Elyot, the youngest of the watchmen, had ridden next to Randall for most of the journey and they had developed a friendship of sorts. He was a good swordsman for his age and delighted in appearing the seasoned soldier next to Torian’s inexperienced squire.

  Sergeant Clement had spent much of the time complaining about his poor treatment at the hands of the clerics. The names he called them in private were always whispered and Randall knew he was terrified that he would be overheard. Clement was particularly afraid of Brother Utha and always referred to him as the Ghost when the cleric was out of earshot.

  Randall had heard a hundred stories in the last two weeks, mostly about risen men and Utha’s legendary exploits. Strangely, none of the watchmen could agree on precisely what those exploits were. Elyot claimed that Utha was a crusader for the One and hunted down the risen throughout Tor Funweir. Whereas another man, called Robin, was certain that Utha had spent two years living amongst the risen men, learning their ways in order the better to hunt them. The most consistent story was that Brother Utha had once made a friend of a risen man during the siege of Kabrin, when he’d been wounded by a Karesian horse archer.

  Randall had heard the story told a few different ways, but the details were always roughly the same – that Utha had been shot from his position in a watchtower, near the town, and had fallen into dense forest below. As the Karesians passed him, he was dragged into the woods by a risen man and his wounds were treated and he was nursed back to health. Elyot believed that his white hair and pale skin were a legacy from this encounter. Strangely, this was the only thing that Utha himself denied when he overheard them talking one night. The Black cleric had apparently been born an albino and took offence when it was suggested otherwise.

  Randall didn’t like the Black cleric. He took pleasure in mocking other men and used the fact that most were afraid of him to display his wit. He also thought Randall should attend to him as much as he did to Brother Torian. He was clearly aware of what a squire was supposed to do, and for whom, but he took the opportunity to make Randall feel uncomfortable.

  ‘I think there’s a cosy little place near the river, can’t remember the name, but the woman that runs it is definitely called Beatrix,’ Utha said from horseback as they approached Cozz.

  ‘Is it a clean and moral establishment,’ asked Torian, ‘or am I going to have to share lodgings with whores and drunkards?’

  ‘This is Cozz, brother, not the back streets of Ro Tiris. When I say cosy I mean it has a nice drinking terrace and a roaring fire, not a hundred willing women.’

  Utha and Torian always rode in the lead, with the watchmen fanned out behind. They let Randall position himself wherever he wanted, which normally meant at the back since he was an average rider at best.

  The clerics had slowed as they reached the grassy verge beyond which sat the merchant enclave of Cozz. It was a moderate-sized town, with no duke and no church, having been founded by the traders’ guild some fifty years before. It functioned as a way station for most of the trade that passed through the western duchies of Tor Funweir. The merchants of Cozz set the prices for goods all over the country, with traders from Ro Leith to Ro Tiris having to keep their charges at the same level. Randall had been here before with Sir Leon and he was not fond of the place. He was not a greedy person and found the avaricious nature of the traders annoying.

  The town was walled, with four open gates at the points of the compass. Signs at the northern gate indicated that Cozz was no more than two weeks’ travel from any of the great cities of Tor Funweir: Ro Arnon to the east, Ro Haran to the west, and Ro Weir to the south. Randall, the watchmen and the two clerics had travelled along the King’s Highway from Ro Tiris and were still two weeks from their destination.

  The group moved slowly along the highway towards the northern gate of Cozz and Randall found himself riding close to all manner of traders coming and going from the enclave. Torian and Utha wore their cloaks gathered around their armour and were not obviously churchmen, meaning that the common people no longer gave them a wide berth or made warding signs at the sight of a Black cleric. If anything, Utha’s white hair and pink eyes made people look at him with interest, even pointing him out to their friends and
sharing a laugh at the albino. Utha didn’t appear to notice, although Randall had spent enough time with the Black cleric to think it likely that he saw and heard more than he let on.

  Randall was surprised to see many different races of men on the highway leading to Cozz. Ranen steel merchants from the north mixed happily with Karesian spice traders and Ro craftsmen. He saw wagons containing racks of swords and blacksmithing equipment queuing to be registered to trade in Cozz. Most were owned by Ranen, and the Ro watchmen on the gate were being deliberately awkward in letting the northmen proceed. Merchants of Ro, many from Tiris, were allowed in with nothing but a cursory glance, and Randall guessed that being foreign was not an advantage in Cozz. The watchmen were accepting money from the Ro; the bribery was overt and Randall wondered if Brother Torian would take offence at the evident corruption.

  ‘How old are you, Randall?’ asked Elyot as they approached the north gate.

  Randall thought for a second and realized that, with the upheaval of the last few weeks, he’d failed to notice that his eighteenth birthday was fast approaching.

  ‘I’ll be eighteen before winter,’ he replied, pulling back on his reins and moving to ride next to the young watchman. ‘Sometimes I feel older.’

  Elyot spoke louder so the other watchmen could hear. ‘Is this the first time you’ve grown a beard?’ he asked with good humour, evoking a ripple of laughter from the other men.

  Utha and Torian were further ahead and were engaged in their own conversation, though a backward glance from Utha showed that he had acknowledged the laughter.

  Randall smiled politely, but didn’t like being made fun of. He turned away from Elyot and looked at the road ahead before he spoke. ‘My old master didn’t let me grow a beard and before that I was too young.’

  ‘Don’t worry, lad,’ said Sergeant Clement, ‘we’ll make a man out of you with all this travelling. You never know, a good fight might make that beard sprout full and bushy.’

  Randall shivered at the thought of having to fight. He knew that Clement was trying to be kind, but he had still not drawn the sword of Great Claw and was afraid of doing so.

  The chatter continued as Randall and the watchmen followed the clerics off the main King’s Highway to ride past the approaching merchants and enter the town.

  * * *

  Randall breathed in deeply as he stepped out of the tavern and into the dusty streets of Cozz. He was tired and his head was more of a blur than usual, filled with all manner of things, from clerics to watchmen, the Black Guard and risen men. He knew he should go and sleep, but sharing a room with five other men did not give him the peace he currently craved. He wanted some time alone with his thoughts, to walk and think and relax into his current position, maybe even to spare a few moments to remember Sir Leon Great Claw.

  Utha and Torian had sequestered themselves away in the loft room of the tavern, and the watchmen had claimed a large area of the common room in which to drink and relax. It was rapidly growing dark and Randall wanted to spend the twilight hour walking around Cozz before returning to his duties.

  The registered market square was half empty, with most merchants having already closed their stalls and returned to warehouses, homes and taverns. A few remained, though Randall thought they must be the lesser stallholders, perhaps relying on the extra custom that would appear late in the day.

  As the squire ambled along the outer road of stalls he thought that night-time business looked thin on the ground, and he saw several merchants nervously counting their day’s take. A few looked up as he walked past, hoping he’d have business for them, but most sat behind their stalls bemoaning their bad luck.

  The registered market was a tough place to do business as the prices were all set by the merchants’ guild, making competition fierce. The closer to the centre of the spiral market your stall, the greater your business. Those that languished on the outer ring had to rely on leftover business and opportunistic shoppers. The alternative was the unregistered market, towards the southern gate. There, goods and prices were not regulated, and it was full of unscrupulous merchants.

  Randall quickened his pace to leave the market square and find a nicer area for a walk. He was still a simple man at heart and, for the first time in weeks, admitted to himself that he really needed a rest.

  Beyond the square the town was tinged with green, and several small hills, each surmounted with a manor house, rose around the walls. It lacked the opulence of Ro Tiris as the money was made here by common men rather than nobles, and they had a different idea of how to live well on their fortunes.

  Randall stopped on a leafy road encircling a rugged-looking hill. The street lamps were being lit by bound men and the cobbled road was pleasantly free of rubbish. Randall was the only person out for a walk and he breathed in, enjoying the quiet street. He perched on a wall and looked around, watching a darkening sky and hearing the merchants’ bell tolling the end of registered trading for the day. A few shops in the blacksmiths’ quarter were still open, but the market stalls were obliged to close by this same time.

  Once the bell had sounded, the merchant enclave of Cozz became quiet, the only sounds of activity coming from the taverns. A few bound men, performing the functions of watchmen, began to patrol the streets, wearing rough leather armour and carrying crossbows, but otherwise Randall was mostly alone.

  He settled back on to the low stone wall, raising his feet off the ground and slouching over, a position Torian would have chided him for adopting. The Purple cleric insisted that his squire sit up straight at all times, and Randall smiled as he realized he’d missed being able to slouch.

  The sword at his side made his position slightly awkward, but hefting the scabbard across his lap meant he could get comfortable fairly easily. He sat below a flickering street light – a large candle in a glass orb – one of the many that illuminated the area. His seated position was between the market square and the street of blacksmiths, on a winding road flanked by well-maintained shrubbery and tall trees.

  Randall was too tired to think of anything in much detail, but he was enjoying being away for a while from the teasing of the watchmen, Utha’s insults and the work required by Torian.

  He rubbed his patchy beard and gazed blankly into the grey twilight. He could feel his eyelids begin to droop and he knew that shortly he’d need to be heading back to the tavern.

  Just as Randall made a move to stand up, he heard a sound from behind the wall. Turning round, he could see over a large bramble bush into the yard of a smithy, apparently still open for business. Three men stood talking under a wooden lean-to in a secluded area of the yard, with their backs to him.

  One of the men was a fat blacksmith, still wearing his stained apron and absently toying with a huge hammer resting on an anvil. The other two were obviously not tradesmen. One was a Kirin and had a longbow slung across his back and a curved katana belted at his side. The other was a tall man of Ro with curly black hair and a fierce-looking beard. He looked young, but his steel-reinforced leather armour and ornate longsword made Randall take note. The sword had a cast of a raven on its hilt and looked to be the weapon of a noble. The Kirin was glancing around the yard and something about the way his eyes darted from side to side made the squire think him a dangerous man. The young Ro was engaged in animated conversation with the blacksmith and Randall gasped when he heard the name Brom.

  The squire leant in and listened as best he could across the small area of grass between the wall and the yard.

  The blacksmith was upset about something. ‘I’m not your dad, your brother or your friend, so tell me why I should help you… for so little money?’

  The man of Ro considered for a moment and Randall saw a youthful smile appear on his face. ‘Because you hate the knights of the Red as much as I do and you know we have few other options.’

  The Kirin interjected in a thick accent, ‘And if you don’t help us, Tobin, I’m going to shove your head into your anvil until both you and it are v
ery red indeed.’

  Randall ducked down and thought for a moment. He was sure he hadn’t been seen and the darkness would act as cover if he tried to get closer. However, he would look very foolish if he were to be found out and give the Black Guard a chance to escape. Weighing up his options, he decided to run back to the tavern and alert the clerics that he’d seen Lord Bromvy of Canarn.

  * * *

  ‘How the fuck did he get here so quickly?’ Utha demanded in irritation as he hurriedly pulled on his black armour. ‘It took us two weeks to get here from Tiris and that bastard has made it to Weir and back.’

  ‘The criminal classes have their ways, brother,’ Torian replied.

  Randall had been allowed to enter the loft apartment and had found the clerics deep in conversation about something relating to Utha’s past. The squire had interrupted and weathered a barrage of abuse from the Black cleric before he managed to explain that he’d identified their quarry.

  The watchmen waited by the door, having only to pull on their chain mail to be ready. However, Randall was sure several of them were the worse for drink and not in prime fighting condition.

  ‘A yard in the street of smiths, yes?’ Torian asked his squire.

  Randall nodded. ‘A little way past the market. I saw them from the road.’

  ‘And you’re sure you remained unobserved?’ Torian pressed.

  ‘As sure as I can be. I didn’t hang around because the Kirin man looked quite watchful.’

  ‘That would be Rham Jas Rami, then,’ exclaimed Utha. ‘One less assassin in the world is no bad thing.’ The Black cleric picked up his axe and placed it across his back. ‘So, we give them the chance to stand down and then kill the Kirin and capture the young lord?’

  The Purple cleric considered it. ‘Let’s just hope they are still there, brother.’

  Randall spoke. ‘They were arguing with the blacksmith, so I’d say they’ll be there a while, at least until their business is concluded.’