The Long War 01 - The Black Guard

by A. J. Smith

  Dalian had not spoken to his son in nearly ten years and had no idea now how to go about finding him, but he was convinced that finding the nameless Kirin who’d managed to kill one of the Seven Sisters should be his primary goal.

  The Seven Sisters had been dispersed throughout Tor Funweir by Saara the Mistress of Pain and they were now speeding to the cities of the Ro. They would be able to sway dukes and clerics to their will with minimal effort now that the king of Ro had been enchanted. Lillian the Lady of Death had been sent to Ro Arnon, Shilpa the Shadow of Lies was on her way to Ro Haran, and Isabel the Seductress was travelling east to Ro Leith. Katja the Hand of Despair was already in Ro Tiris, and Ameira the Lady of Spiders resided over the sea in Ro Canarn. He knew it was only a matter of time before all the civilized lands of men would be under their sway, with only the barbarian north free from their influence.

  Dalian steeled himself for a brash escape and marched out of the tent. The muster field of Ro Weir was a sea of tents accommodating ten thousand Hounds of Karesia, fully armoured and ready for action. This was not an invasion and the Hounds were unsure how to act as an occupying force. They were all convicted criminals or low-born peasants, kept in line by enchantments, drugs and the savage whip-masters. Most were brutal and semi-suicidal, glad to give their lives for Karesia the moment they were required. Each wore black armour and a full-face helmet, and carried a heavy bladed scimitar, so that they appeared almost identical.

  Dalian walked confidently through the camp, keeping half an eye on Izra and Turve’s command tent at the end of the row. He could see a great deal of activity in front of the large tent and it looked as if the whip-masters were sending squads of Hounds into the city to suppress the small outbreaks of disobedience that had arisen since the Karesians had arrived in Ro Weir.

  He moved between tents, stacked scimitars and small cooking fires, trying to identify the best way to leave the muster field. He knew that the horses were corralled to the north and near to the King’s Highway, but they were guarded and the Hounds on duty were unlikely to let him take one. The Karesian Hounds rarely used horses, but Saara had insisted they were necessary. She had also sent messages, via fast riders, to Katja and Ameira. The Mistress of Pain was very concerned to locate a man they called the Ghost. Apparently, he was a Cleric of the One and Saara had instructed her sisters, already installed in Tor Funweir, to apprehend him at all costs. Travelling towards Ro Tiris was all Dalian had managed to learn concerning the Ghost from a returning messenger whom he’d tortured for information.

  He smiled as he approached the horses, thinking the underworld of Tiris would be the perfect place to start looking for his son. Dalian even began to think what he’d say when he came face to face with Al-Hasim.

  ‘I am your servant as always, my lord.’ Dalian once again spoke skywards, addressing the Fire Giant. ‘But a glass of wine and someone to massage my feet would be welcome before I set off.’

  PART 2

  CHAPTER 6

  RANDALL OF DARKWALD IN THE CITY OF RO TIRIS

  Returning to Ro Tiris was not a happy homecoming for Randall. A hardness had come over him since leaving Cozz, but he didn’t like his new view of the world. Each time he’d raised a mirror to his face during the journey, he’d seen a man he didn’t recognize looking back at him – bearded and solemn, with a sadness previously unknown to him.

  Brother Torian’s body was wrapped in a white shroud and laid across a wooden cart which Randall was driving. The Purple cleric had been treated with various preserving ointments and an image of his serene face could be made out through the weave of the shroud.

  Utha had refused to talk about his friend’s death since leaving Cozz. The Black cleric had changed in manner and appearance over the last few weeks. With no replacement armour, he wore a simple grey robe and now looked less like a warrior and more like a monk or Brown cleric. He’d begun to teach Randall how to hold a sword, concerned at the way he’d thrown himself into the fray against Rham Jas, and the young squire finally felt comfortable holding the sword of Great Claw.

  Utha had become less caustic and showed more respect towards Randall, as a result of the way the squire had handled himself during the fight in Cozz. He even grudgingly accepted that the squire had probably saved his life.

  ‘Now, attack high,’ Utha said, as they engaged in their daily practice.

  Randall swung at Utha’s shoulder, meeting his axe in mid-swing and holding the position.

  ‘Good, now answer my riposte.’ The cleric swung low towards Randall’s body and their weapons clashed again. ‘Move your feet more, don’t stay too still.’

  They were a little way off the King’s Highway, a few hours from the southern gate of the capital, and had spent the night under canvas rather than enter the city after dark. It was a bright and clear morning and Randall could see plumes of smoke rising from Tiris.

  Randall stepped to the side and delivered a thrust towards Utha’s side, his axe swinging down to answer the attack.

  ‘Excellent, we’ll make a swordsman out of you yet,’ Utha said with a smile. ‘Just don’t attack any Kirin assassins and you should be fine.’

  ‘The sword is still heavy in one hand,’ Randall said.

  He had tried using the blade with both one and two hands and found the single-handed technique made his shoulder ache.

  ‘Of course it is, it’s a big chunk of metal. If it was too light, it’d break.’

  Utha hadn’t entirely got over his dismissive attitude towards the young squire, but Randall thought that now there was a note of good humour to his jibes.

  Elyot and Robin had remained in Cozz to recover from their wounds, so Randall had had only the Black cleric for company during the two weeks it had taken them to return to Ro Tiris. It had been a difficult journey for the first few days, with Utha saying little and Randall deep in thought. After they passed the town of Voy, the Black cleric had loosened up a little and begun to chat with Randall. The change had taken some getting used to, but the squire had found Utha pleasant enough company when he wasn’t delivering barbed insults.

  He had talked briefly about what would happen when they reached the capital, and Randall thought Utha’s insistence on staying outside the city for one more night was largely to do with him not wanting to hasten his own punishment. The death of a Purple cleric, added to the trouble he was already in for disobeying orders, did not bode well for the Black churchman. Utha feared he’d be blamed for Torian’s death and, despite Randall’s insistence that it hadn’t been his fault, his mood remained grim when he spoke of it. Secretly, Randall was terrified at the thought of accompanying Utha to the Black cathedral in Tiris, but, as the only witness able to speak about what had happened, he knew he had no choice. If his testimony could save Utha’s honour, then it would be worth a few hours of discomfort.

  They continued their morning practice for another hour, until the sun was just visible through the thin cloud. Utha’s tutelage was good and Randall felt comfortable with his sword in hand. His strength had grown over the last month, and Utha’s patient style of fencing had suited Randall’s initial hesitancy. The cleric’s axe was called Death’s Embrace, and Randall had come to realize that if Utha were further disgraced as a result of his actions in pursuit of Brom, his weapon would be taken from him. This evidently worried the cleric and Randall often caught him gazing lovingly at the axe, in a manner similar to the way Sir Leon had stared at his longsword before Randall inherited it.

  ‘You’re still over-extending your arm,’ Utha said, after Randall had lost his footing attempting a high strike. ‘Don’t let the blade get too far away from your body. It’s a long sword, remember; it has enough reach without you sticking your arm out.’

  ‘That’s what happened to Elyot, isn’t it?’ Randall remembered the way the young watchman had been opened up by Brom and had lost his arm.

  Utha nodded. ‘Yes, he relied on having two blades to Brom’s one, but forgot about the reach he was conceding
to the longer blade. Never assume you have the better of your opponent, just fight and let your skill decide the result.’ He smiled. ‘And don’t be afraid to kick or punch. You’re using a one-handed blade, so it’s not like your other hand is doing anything. Remember how Bromvy knocked me down?’

  Randall found revisiting the encounter strange, though he knew that many valuable lessons could be drawn from the combat.

  ‘He took you out of the fight,’ he replied plainly.

  ‘Indeed. He recognized me as the greatest threat and put me down so he could deal with Elyot and Clement, neither of whom was his equal.’

  Swordplay, Randall realized now, was about much more than just hacking at men with a blade.

  ‘How’s the porridge?’ Utha asked, as he sat down on his bedroll and placed his axe carefully on the saddle of his horse.

  ‘It’s done.’ Randall spooned a large portion into a small wooden bowl.

  They had eaten porridge every morning since leaving Cozz. Tomorrow they would be in Ro Tiris and could eat heartily at an inn – an enticing thought after the thick, slimy substance they had been living on.

  They ate slowly and with little talk, both of them in their own world of contemplation. Randall thought of his life and the unexpected turns he’d endured over the past month, and he guessed that Utha was worrying about the Black cathedral. The Black clerics had their headquarters in Ro Tiris, unlike the other clerical orders, which were based in Ro Arnon. Utha had frequently spoken about the tradition of keeping the clerics of death close to the king and away from the Purple cardinals. He had been evasive as to the reason for this tradition, but the implication was that they were the one order that was always under the eye of the king.

  ‘Time to go, young Randall,’ Utha said, finishing his porridge. ‘Get the camp together and I’ll deal with the fire.’

  Utha was wearing his cleric’s boots – tough leather, with tight steel buckles – the only remnant of his armour that remained. He was still a huge, broad-shouldered lump of a man, but without his black armour he looked less intimidating. His pale skin and pink eyes were less striking and the scar down his neck was hidden by the hood of his grey robe.

  They pulled down the small camp quickly and largely in silence. Randall tried to speak, but his light attempts at conversation met with a glare from Utha. The cleric spoke no words as he packed up his few belongings and sheathed his axe, taking a moment to look at the double-headed weapon before he stowed it for what might be the last time.

  ‘Right, just so we’re clear, Randall, as we ride through Tiris, keep your mouth shut. I don’t want to talk to you. Understood?’ He didn’t look at the squire.

  ‘I understand, but remind me again why I should obey your orders?’

  The Black cleric shot him a threatening look. ‘Because I will knock your teeth through your head if you don’t.’

  ‘I need to be able to speak to defend you, remember?’ Randall had lost much of the fear he used to feel towards Utha and had no compunction about speaking his mind. ‘It’s not like I’m a squire any more.’

  The cleric stood up and flexed his back, making a show of considering Randall’s words. Then he turned and crossed quickly to stand in front of the squire. He saw the punch coming but couldn’t get out of the way in time to avoid being knocked to the floor. He tasted blood on his lips, but the blow had not been meant to injure him.

  ‘We’re going to ride to the Black cathedral and you’re going to keep your fucking mouth shut until I tell you to speak.’ Utha reached inside his robe and threw a gold piece on the floor in front of Randall. ‘There, now you’re my paid squire, so do as you’re fucking told.’

  * * *

  Randall kept his mouth shut as the two of them rode into Ro Tiris. He kept feeling the swelling on his lip and testing his teeth to make sure the punch hadn’t loosened any of them. Utha was not a man to argue with, but Randall was fairly sure the Black cleric had lashed out from fear of returning to the cathedral.

  They entered via the southern gate, the watchmen on duty recognizing Utha the Ghost and not daring to approach him as they rode into the city. Randall heard the customary whispered comments about the Black cleric – otherworldly suspicions and stories of risen men – but the young squire had become immune to the aura of fear that surrounded his new master and he barely listened as they rode along the King’s Highway into the capital of Tor Funweir.

  The Black cathedral was a smaller building than Randall had expected. It was nestled west of the guild square, in the shadow of the huge barracks of the knights of the Red. The streets were largely empty and Randall surmised that only the knights used the road between the two churches, rendering it off limits to the common men of Tiris. The cathedral was a plain building of black stone, with no adornments other than a single irregular spire which rose at an angle from the castellated roof.

  He thought, as they rode through the streets, that the training grounds on each side of them were strangely empty. The knights of the Red were based in Ro Arnon, but the barracks of Ro Tiris were huge and held the king’s army.

  Utha noticed the empty streets too, and took a good look at the training grounds. ‘A lot seems to have happened while we’ve been hunting the Black Guard,’ he said. ‘The last time I was here, the barracks held eight or nine thousand knights.’

  ‘Where would they have gone?’ Randall asked the cleric, momentarily forgetting that Utha had ordered him not to talk.

  ‘I’m not sure, but the cynic in me suspects northwards. Look at that.’

  He pointed to the White Spire of Tiris, the mark of the king. The banners displaying the white eagle of Ro Tiris were flying at half mast, indicating that King Sebastian Tiris was not currently in the city.

  ‘I think someone has made a huge mistake,’ Utha said, shaking his head. ‘I might have cared about that a month ago.’ He nudged his horse onwards.

  Ahead of them, a small group of guardsmen stood, formally attired in gold, outside the vault-like door to the Black cathedral. There were six of them, each carrying a longsword at his side and a tall lance in his hand.

  The leader of the group, a grey-haired warrior without a helmet, noticed the approaching cleric and stepped into the road, motioning his men to follow.

  ‘Utha the Ghost,’ he stated with a formal nod.

  ‘It’s actually Brother Utha of Arnon,’ said Randall without thinking.

  The guardsmen all looked at the squire and the grey-haired leader shot him a hard glance. ‘Silence, boy.’

  ‘That’s my squire, guardsmen. If anyone tells him to shut up, it’ll be me,’ Utha said, turning to look at Randall. ‘Thank you, lad. I’m glad someone remembers my actual name.’ He smiled thinly at the squire before turning back to the leading guardsman. ‘What do you want, lieutenant?’

  ‘By order of Prince Christophe Tiris, you are to be taken into custody.’ The six guardsmen had moved to form up round Utha and Randall, their lances held in practised fashion, pointing inwards at the two riders.

  Utha didn’t move and kept his hands in view as the lieutenant moved next to him. ‘I’ll have to take your axe, brother.’

  ‘Careful, guardsman, I don’t answer to you. My authority is in that building and I could with all legality take you and your men apart for hindering me.’ He spoke quietly and Randall detected fear in the guardsmen’s faces.

  ‘Now, why am I being arrested?’ Utha asked calmly.

  ‘His highness does not reveal his mind to me, brother, but you will be coming with me.’

  The huge black door that led to the cathedral of death began to open and everyone present turned to look. A black-robed figure had appeared in the doorway. His features were masked and his hands remained inside the sleeves of his robe, but he spoke clearly.

  ‘Brother Utha is not yet expelled from the church, which places his fate in my hands… not yours, guardsman. He is God’s man, not king’s man.’ The speaker did not raise his head or identify himself.

  �
�Brother abbot, we have instructions to arrest this cleric and if you interfere, we are prepared to use force to do so. The house of Tiris rules here, not the Black church.’ The guardsman spoke confidently and, from what Randall knew, the king’s men were unswervingly loyal to the crown and unlikely to be cowed by the clerics.

  Utha reached behind his back and placed his hand on the hilt of Death’s Embrace. ‘You are close to actions that will get you killed, lieutenant,’ he said with anger in his pale eyes. ‘The prince is brave indeed if he thinks he can overrule the One.’

  The grey-haired lieutenant banged his longsword loudly on his gold breastplate and within moments another two squads of guardsmen had appeared from either side. They’d been hidden and waiting in the side streets should their commander call for aid, and now they lowered their lances and joined the first squad encircling Randall and Utha.

  ‘Please, Brother Utha. This can be cordial or it can be bloody.’ The guardsman spoke with sincerity. ‘No one needs to die.’

  The Black abbot, standing in the doorway, raised his head and Randall saw dark eyes regarding the large group of king’s men. Utha slowly moved his hand from Death’s Embrace and held his arms wide.

  ‘You had better be sure of your actions, lieutenant,’ he said.