The Long War 01 - The Black Guard

by A. J. Smith

  ‘No one needed to die here, you Kirin pig,’ said Utha. ‘Death should not be so casually handed out.’

  Randall could see real pain in Utha’s eyes, not from any wound, but from the experience of being around swift death. For a moment, the young squire didn’t see the caustic man who had bullied him, just an enraged cleric of death.

  ‘Tell it to your One God, because I’m not fucking listening,’ replied Rham Jas, as he pulled the crossbow bolt from his side.

  Utha did not attack with the ferocity he’d levelled at Brom but was increasingly measured, as if he considered the Kirin the more dangerous opponent. The katana, too, was a weapon that required a different approach, and Utha adopted a defensive stance.

  As they circled each other, the Kirin’s face came into view and Randall thought for a moment he looked confused.

  ‘You’re Utha the Ghost!’ the Kirin said. ‘I’ve heard of you, you’re friend to the Dokkalfar.’

  The word meant nothing to Randall, but Utha’s reaction was instant. He levelled the head of his axe at the Kirin and demanded, ‘Where did you hear that name?’

  Rham Jas merely smiled and nimbly darted forward with the elegance of a dancer. Utha pulled back his axe just in time to deflect the katana as it whirled within inches of his face, and Rham Jas disengaged to begin circling him again.

  ‘They wouldn’t like it if I killed you, cleric… but I doubt you’d just let me leave with Brom, so I’m afraid I must put you down,’ he said, his grin returning.

  Randall could barely believe how fast Rham Jas moved – he almost blinked from one spot to another as he launched single attacks at Utha. No combinations, just a series of swift, darting runs from one side to the other. Each attack left Utha off balance and his axe was now cumbersome and ill suited to duelling with the Kirin.

  ‘Stay fucking still, you coward,’ the cleric shouted with frustration, as a glancing blow from Rham Jas opened up a shallow cut on Utha’s left cheek.

  ‘Yes, that sounds like a good idea. I’ll definitely do that,’ mocked the Kirin.

  He pressed a hand to his side and checked his wound. No blood was visible and Randall thought the arrow hole had begun to close.

  Rham Jas didn’t stop smiling as he ran at Utha again, this time spinning at the last moment and delivering a solid blow to the cleric’s back. His armour bore the brunt of it, but Utha was still pushed sharply forwards and lost his footing, stumbling awkwardly to the ground.

  The Kirin was quickly on him and kicked out at his axe, sending the weapon skidding from Utha’s hand. He then drove his katana downward, piercing the cleric’s shoulder and pinning him to the ground.

  Utha shook violently, but remained still, and slowly turned his head to look at the blade protruding from his shoulder. ‘Do it clean, you Kirin horse-fucker.’

  ‘As I said, the forest-dwellers wouldn’t like it if I killed you. They seem to think you are worthy. Personally, I think you are a troll cunt, but what do I know? I’m just a man.’ Rham Jas grasped the hilt of his katana and pulled it quickly from Utha’s shoulder, making the cleric cry out in pain and move his hand to the bloodstain between the steel plates.

  ‘Boy…’ Rham Jas called out to Randall, ‘you’d better help him get his armour off and clean that wound.’

  Randall was stuck in place with fear, barely able to feel his legs, as the Kirin assassin calmly sheathed his katana and crossed the yard to retrieve his longbow and quiver.

  ‘Get to it, lad, we wouldn’t want the fabled Utha the Ghost to die such a pointless death, would we?’

  Randall slowly walked towards the shaking form of Utha. He tried not to look at Torian’s lifeless body as he wiped the sweat from his eyes and knelt to pick up the sword of Great Claw. He couldn’t focus clearly but he saw Rham Jas stow his weaponry and move to help Lord Bromvy of Canarn, who was just regaining consciousness and spitting out blood.

  ‘You killed a Purple cleric, Rham Jas,’ said Utha weakly. ‘The One doesn’t forget.’

  Rham Jas helped Brom to his feet. ‘The One can go fuck himself. Pray to him and tell him that, Ro.’

  Randall reached the bleeding body of Utha and knelt down, allowing the Black cleric to grasp his hand firmly. The squire focused on Utha, but he could hear Rham Jas and Brom leaving and Utha’s hate-filled eyes didn’t move from the departing pair. The wound looked bad and blood was flowing on to the dusty floor of the yard. Slowly, and with his eyes still focused over Randall’s shoulder, Brother Utha the Ghost lost consciousness.

  * * *

  Bound men began to appear as soon as Rham Jas and Brom had left. Men holding crossbows in shaking hands and wearing ill-fitting chain coats and pot helmets appeared from both sides of the blacksmith’s yard. Two of them were instantly sick at the sight of the mutilated bodies and copious blood. Another one left quickly when he saw a dead Purple cleric, and several more looked around nervously, trying to fathom what circumstances could have led to a cleric of nobility being shot in the neck with an arrow. Ten or more bound men spread around the yard, but this was clearly an uncommon sight in Cozz and it was a few minutes before they noticed that three men were still alive.

  Randall was unhurt and sat cradling the unconscious Utha. Nearby, Robin was lying on his back with an arrow protruding from his stomach, calling weakly for help. Within the blacksmith’s lean-to, Elyot lay against a wooden wall. He’d regained consciousness, but he was deathly pale from loss of blood and fighting to stay awake as he held the stump of his arm firmly under his armpit to stop the bleeding.

  Randall was certain that Clement, Torian and the other two watchmen of Tiris were dead. Rham Jas had cut one of them in two and he lay in an undignified slump in the small space between two wooden buildings. The other man had died from a katana thrust to the head and his face was mostly unrecognizable.

  ‘The One preserve us,’ said one of the bound men as he moved to help Elyot. ‘What happened here, lad?’ he asked Randall across the yard.

  The squire didn’t answer straightaway. He took a minute to look around him before he said, ‘What do you think happened? People are dead. Maybe you should help those that aren’t.’ He spoke with deliberate anger and the note of authority in his voice surprised the bound man.

  If his head had been clearer, his words would have surprised himself as well, but with so much blood and death Randall had no time for propriety.

  ‘Yes… of course, sir,’ said the bound man, unaware that Randall was just a commoner.

  ‘Get some more men here… and a healer,’ Randall grunted. ‘Now!’ he shouted.

  Several of the men saluted and moved quickly out of the yard, while others helped Elyot and Robin into more comfortable positions, lying flat on the floor. Torian was not moved at first as the bound men clearly didn’t want to touch a Purple cleric, dead or not, so Randall walked slowly over to the body of his master.

  Brother Torian of Arnon was lying in a pool of blood spreading from the wound in his neck. The longbow arrow had hit his jugular and travelled downwards, exiting close to the angle between shoulder and neck. Randall guessed he’d died quickly as the arrowhead was wide and designed to cause large entry and exit wounds. His sword was still in its scabbard and his armour was unmarked. By any definition, the cleric had not died well; he had not even seen the face of his killer. Randall thought a man like Torian deserved better.

  Two bound men helped him move the body and place it in a dignified position next to the other dead men. Randall then turned his attention back to Utha. The Black cleric was hurt, but with proper care his wounds would not be fatal. He was still unconscious from the pain and the wound in his shoulder was wide and jagged.

  ‘You there,’ shouted a man from the yard entrance, ‘explain this mess immediately.’

  He was a fat man of Ro wearing a heavy felt overcoat and carrying a slender rapier. The tabard he wore across his chest showed that he was a town official of some kind. Cozz had no traditional heraldry like the major cities of Tor Fun
weir, although the merchants in charge had adopted the image of a purse as their symbol.

  Without paying much attention to the man, Randall replied, ‘What kind of explanation would you like? A short explanation, a long explanation, or maybe you could tell me why your bound men were so close at hand and yet did nothing to help.’ Randall’s voice rose in volume as he finished speaking.

  The fat man spluttered as he replied. ‘I… er, we… didn’t think it our place to interfere,’ he said, with less confidence than he’d initially displayed. ‘We only arrived at the end of the encounter anyway. We could have been no real help.’

  Randall looked up and glared at the man. ‘And you didn’t think to apprehend the men that did this? The men that killed a cleric of the fucking Purple.’ The last words were shouted and Randall chided himself for letting his anger show.

  His wrath had the desired effect and the official quickly barked out orders to the bound men to close the town gates and make an effort to stop Rham Jas and Brom from leaving Cozz. Randall thought it a little too late.

  * * *

  It was well past dawn before Utha regained consciousness. Randall had drifted off into a restless sleep several times since arriving in the guildhall of Cozz. Although he had not been given a bed, he had managed to position two wooden chairs to give him a degree of comfort. The town official, who had identified himself as Marshal Lynch, was awkward, disrespectful and, in Randall’s estimation, an idiot.

  The town had no White chapel and no dedicated healer. The townsfolk accepted the inevitability of having to ride to the duchy of Voy, some days’ travel northwards, if they needed serious healing. All other wounds were patched up by the bound men, unless the injured party was lucky enough to employ a healer of his own. Randall had directed a string of coarse insults at Lynch, which rather took the man aback, in an attempt to get a healer, any healer, to come and tend to Utha. The man who had been sent was in the employ of a horse trader from Leith, more used to wounds from riding accidents or horseshoes to the face than fighting injuries, but his skill was sufficient to stop the bleeding and stabilize the Black cleric.

  They had been given a chamber in which to recuperate in the guildhall, ordinarily used for private business dealings, and Randall had insisted that a bed be positioned in the small room. On reflection, the squire wished that he’d insisted on two beds as his neck was stiff from sleeping on the wooden chairs. Elyot and Robin were back at the inn and the healer assured Randall that both would recover fully in time, though Elyot would be without his left arm.

  The bodies of Torian and the watchmen had been stored, with as much dignity as possible, in the only church building in town – a small chapel to the Gold aspect of the One God – and Randall had insisted that Torian’s corpse be guarded until they were ready to claim him and leave Cozz.

  ‘I assume I’m still alive… or that the One has not blessed me with a place in his hall beyond the world,’ said Utha weakly, jolting Randall awake.

  ‘You’re awake,’ the squire said excitedly.

  ‘Where’s my armour?’

  Randall pointed to a crumpled pile of black plate steel in the corner of the room. ‘I don’t know how much use you can salvage from it, we had to cut a lot of it off you. The Kirin was stronger than he looked.’

  Utha looked paler than usual, if such a thing were possible, and he lay on the bed in nothing but a simple blue cotton gown. Randall had been close at hand when the healer had seen to him and the squire repeatedly had to tell him to shut up when Utha’s reputation and his albinism were mentioned.

  ‘Where’s Torian?’ Utha’s eyes betrayed the fondness he had developed for his brother cleric.

  ‘I made sure they will keep his body safe until we’re ready to leave. These people aren’t used to clerics and, between you and me, most of them aren’t overly encumbered with brains.’

  Utha laughed, wincing as he did so. ‘I told you to keep your mind sharp, lad, it looks like you took that advice to heart.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Well, with the exception of trying to fight that Kirin.’

  ‘I didn’t know what else to do. I wasn’t thinking very clearly.’ Randall was spluttering a bit and trying to think of a justification for his foolish attempt to take on Rham Jas.

  ‘Randall,’ Utha interrupted, ‘you did well. I’m alive and Torian is being treated with respect in death…’ he paused a moment, ‘though the death of a Purple cleric is no small thing and, mark my words, I at least will have to account for what we did here.’

  ‘You did nothing wrong,’ Randall said without really thinking.

  ‘Did I not?’ Utha asked rhetorically with raised eyebrows. ‘I got him killed. Whichever way you look at it, my reckless insistence on making a show gave the assassin his shot… and he took it well.’

  Randall had not considered this and felt a sudden pang of anger at the idea of Utha being blamed for the encounter. He had many reasons to dislike the Black cleric – his constant teasing, his aggressive manner – but he knew that Utha and Torian had been friends, almost brothers, and to blame one for the death of the other was unfair.

  ‘Don’t worry, young Randall, any recriminations are far off. I need to rest and we need to conspire a way to return to Tiris,’ he said, as his eyes closed again and weariness took hold.

  ‘Brother Utha,’ Randall began, with a questioning tone to his voice.

  ‘Yes, Randall…’ said Utha wearily, not opening his eyes.

  ‘What does that word mean? The one Rham Jas said to you, Dokkal… something.’

  Utha turned to the squire, opened his eyes, and grew more alert. Randall thought the cleric was about to unleash a string of his customary insults, but instead he paused and considered his reply.

  ‘Dokkalfar… it’s a very old word in a very old language. Not a word you’ll hear on the streets of any of the cities of men.’

  ‘The word seems to bother you,’ Randall pointed out, ‘but it also seemed to be the reason Rham Jas didn’t kill you.’

  Utha smiled thinly and shook his head, as if conceding defeat. ‘You’re too clever to be a squire, Randall of Darkwald, but you should be careful where you direct that mind of yours.’ Utha was still smiling but seriousness showed in his pale eyes. ‘Some knowledge is dangerous… and some knowledge can get you killed.’

  ‘He said that you were their friend.’ Randall was sure that Utha didn’t want to talk about this, but his natural curiosity got the better of him. ‘Who are they?’

  The Black cleric flexed his neck and moved the white pillow beneath him into a more upright position, the better to direct his pale eyes at Randall. ‘Did Torian tell you why I was sent to accompany him? It must have looked strange for a cleric of death to be helping to track down one of the Black Guard. Not our usual kind of work.’

  Randall had not really thought about it. Utha was the first Black cleric he’d met and, for most of the weeks they’d spent together, Randall had tried to avoid the caustic churchman. ‘I didn’t…’

  ‘No, I suppose a simple squire would have little knowledge of the clerical orders,’ Utha replied gently, and Randall thought that he was less on guard than usual, probably as a result of his weakened condition. ‘I was disgraced and relieved of my previous duties. Torian was an old friend and needed help so I requested I be allowed to accompany him while the Black cardinal of Tiris decided what to do with me.’ He had a look of shame in his eyes and Randall again thought that the cleric didn’t want to talk about it.

  ‘I don’t mean to pry. We can leave it for now, if you wish,’ the squire said.

  Utha smiled, more genuinely this time. ‘I’m not your master, Randall, and given a few weeks to recuperate, I suspect I’ll be ministering death rights to pigs in Ro Leith, so don’t worry.’

  Randall shared the cleric’s smile and poured a glass of water from the jug he’d placed on a nearby table. He rested it next to Utha’s lips and helped him drink. ‘The healer put some kind of soothing root mixture in the water. He said
it’ll help you relax.’

  ‘I don’t recall doing anything to warrant such kind treatment, lad. In fact, I’m fairly sure that I’ve given you every reason to hate me.’

  Randall didn’t reply to this, but sat back down in his wooden chair and waited for Utha to continue. The cleric blinked a few times to regain some focus and made an effort to sit more upright.

  ‘I was a crusader, a hunter of risen men. It was my calling, my… duty. From as early as I can remember I was trained to find them and… kill them.’ He said the last two words with a deep well of regret in his eyes, and for the first time Randall saw a simple man under the armour of caustic wit the churchman usually wore. ‘I have scars from fighting them and burn marks from killing them,’ he said, showing Randall an unpleasant mark on his leg.

  ‘Why would you have burn marks?’

  ‘Dokkalfar burst into flames when they die. It’s not something that we tell people about. It makes them seem strange, and the One dislikes deviance.’

  Randall was listening intently and again thought that the world was a more complicated place than he could have imagined.

  ‘I was disgraced because I disobeyed orders and refused to continue killing them…’ He paused, as if remembering. ‘I betrayed the One, I betrayed my church… and…’ he closed his eyes, ‘I know I was right.’ The last words were spoken with stubborn indignation.

  ‘But why?’ asked Randall. ‘The risen are monsters that prey on the living, aren’t they?’

  Utha kept his eyes closed and rubbed the stiffness from his wounded shoulder. ‘The list of people who have saved my life is a short one. You can make a claim to it – getting a healer, stopping my wound from festering, insisting I be cared for properly. But before today only one name was on that list, a risen man called Tyr Weera.’