by A. J. Smith
‘I am as sure as I can be, brother… as sure as my orders came from the house of Tiris and must be followed to the letter.’ He continued, ‘And, now, Brother Utha, I must take your axe.’
With lightning speed, Utha drew Death’s Embrace and held it at arm’s length, making the guardsmen jump. When it became clear that the Black cleric did not intend to fight, the lieutenant moved in and grasped the hilt of Utha’s axe.
‘Take care of that weapon,’ the albino cleric said. ‘It is dear to me.’
* * *
Randall and Utha had dismounted, been disarmed and were led under close guard through the streets of Ro Tiris. Utha was silent during the journey, taking note of landmarks and the route they had taken, as if he was attempting to ascertain where they were being led.
As they turned from a wide boulevard north of the guild square, Randall was taken aback for a moment as the royal compound came into view. The house of Tiris was a large white building set back from the rest of the city and overlooking the harbour. The smell of the sea carried down the street and hit Randall’s nostrils, masking the city’s usual odour and making him smile. He turned to Utha but saw no sign of a smile or anything other than concern on the cleric’s face. He didn’t appear to be surprised by their destination, and Randall wished he hadn’t agreed to accompany him into the city.
‘Utha,’ Randall whispered, ‘why are we being taken to the palace?’
‘I don’t know, Randall, but Prince Christophe must have either lost his mind or else be privy to more information than us to treat the Black church with so little respect.’ He spoke quietly so the guardsmen couldn’t hear, and his eyes were narrow and suspicious. ‘Keep your mouth shut when we get inside and let me do the talking. Understand?’
Randall nodded and their march continued towards the White Spire of Tiris, towering over the royal compound.
The gates were open and within the ornate fence, a large area of courtyard separated the street from the huge golden doors. Ranks of armoured king’s men patrolled the area, walking in step and turning to salute the White Spire whenever they passed the front of the palace. The barracks lay off to the side, behind a second fence and, just as he had at the Red cathedral, Randall thought the place strangely empty.
Most strange of all, however, were the covered prison wagons standing within the courtyard. They were empty, but Randall noted that all of the windows had been boarded shut and on the outsides were odd-shaped knives that had been thrown at each of the wagons. As they were led through the gates and into the courtyard, he could see guardsmen on stepladders trying to pull the weapons from the wood. They were struggling, for the leaf-shaped knives had evidently been thrown with some considerable force.
Utha noticed the knives too, and turned to address the lieutenant. ‘Since when do guardsmen hunt risen men?’ he asked, having recognized the strangely shaped weapons.
‘Since we were ordered to,’ the man replied. ‘The house of Tiris has a new adviser who has provided intelligence on the monsters, enough to make hunting and capturing them easier.’
‘Does this adviser have a name?’ asked Utha.
‘She’s a Karesian enchantress called Katja… the Hand of Despair, or something. I think she’s of the Seven Sisters.’ The lieutenant had spoken the name with little judgement and Randall couldn’t be sure how he viewed this woman.
Utha had recognized something in the man’s words, however. It may have been the woman’s name or the name of her order, but he visibly clenched his jaw at the news.
Randall moved to walk next to the cleric and asked, under his breath, ‘Who are the Seven Sisters?’
‘Enchantresses that shouldn’t be here… shouldn’t be counselling the prince and shouldn’t be helping them hunt Dokkalfar,’ he answered. ‘She’ll enter your mind if you let her, so if we should have to address the witch, keep your will strong.’
‘And how do I do that?’ Randall asked, unsure how he would keep his will strong.
‘Just stand near me and look at the floor,’ Utha responded dismissively.
The huge golden door was opened with an audible creak as they approached. As the interior came into view, the squire gasped once more at the golden opulence on display. This was the house of King Sebastian Tiris, his wife, the Lady Alexandra, and their son, Prince Christophe. It was formal and decorative in equal parts and Randall could see little in the way of comfort.
There were servants moving through the wide, carpeted rooms, cleaning and polishing the wooden and gold surfaces, and there were no small number of ceremonially attired guardsmen on duty. The squire thought it odd that they’d been led here rather than to a prison cell and wondered again what business the prince could have with them.
The entrance hall was dominated by a huge staircase that led up from the floor and curved round, forming a circular balcony above. The guardsmen led them past it and towards a less ornate door at ground level.
‘We’re not going to the bedchambers, then?’ Utha asked with irony.
One of the guards took offence at this attempt at levity and slapped Utha across the back of the head. Several others glared at him, challenging the Black cleric to react.
Utha chuckled to himself and reached up to feel where he’d been hit. His hand came away with no blood on it and he nodded before turning to the man who’d struck him and punching him square in the face. The guardsman fell loudly, dropping his lance on the ornate carpet.
Utha just stood there, hands held wide in a gesture of submission to the other men, and made no further attempt to attack the man who’d fallen.
‘You hit me, I hit you, it’s really that simple, boy.’ The imposing cleric spoke confidently.
The lieutenant interrupted, ‘That’s enough. Soldier, keep your hands to yourself.’ He pointed to the man on the floor. ‘Any reprimands will come from me. Brother Utha, I apologize, this man will be whipped for striking a cleric of the One.’ He spoke formally, showing respect. ‘You, get up and report to the guard marshal.’
The guardsman stood quickly, saluted and left, nursing what was quite possibly a broken jaw. Utha didn’t look particularly happy or content with the result, and Randall guessed he was still deep in thought.
The door they approached was made of wood and iron, and was in sharp contrast with the opulence surrounding it. It was reminiscent of a door to a dungeon and Randall didn’t like what that implied. The lieutenant opened it and they were led quickly down some narrow stone steps. The detachment of guardsmen spread out, with a few remaining at ground level, closing the door behind them.
The stairs were dimly lit and the bright morning sunshine did not penetrate into the basement. They were led in single file into a long corridor. As the group made its way further into the dungeon, on each side of the passageway Randall saw doors with steel gratings, indicating prison cells, although they were all empty.
‘We’re being taken to the oubliette?’ asked Utha as they neared a single door in the middle of the corridor.
The lieutenant nodded. ‘The prince wants to meet you as far away from others as possible. He seems to think you’re dangerous, Brother Utha.’
‘What’s an oubliette?’ asked Randall, suddenly feeling afraid.
‘A place of forgetting,’ replied the Black cleric. ‘It’s the worst kind of dungeon. The king uses it only when someone has committed treason and he wants to forget about them.’ He locked eyes with the lieutenant. ‘Have we committed treason?’
‘I was only instructed to bring you here.’ The guardsman was just following orders and was unlikely to be able to answer more questions.
The Black cleric looked at Randall and raised an eyebrow.
The man in the lead reached the door at the end of the corridor and produced a key. The door was well used and built for security rather than elegance. The key turned readily and the large door opened outwards, revealing a sizeable square room beyond.
The lieutenant stepped inside and motioned for the other guardsme
n to lead Utha and Randall into the oubliette. The Black cleric was hesitant for a moment, then he entered slowly, placing his hand on his squire’s shoulder and ushering him in.
Randall was afraid, but he tried to not let it show as he took in his surroundings. The room was large and filthy, with straw pallets arrayed across the floor. Around the edges of the room were a dozen or so cells, each separated from the main room by a steel gate. Randall thought he could see figures in most of the cells, but they were all hunched over or wrapped in brown blankets and he couldn’t see who they were. In the corner of the oubliette was a staircase leading up to a large hatchway in the ceiling, which appeared considerably more ornate than the rest of the dungeon complex.
‘Okay, we’re here. You have done your duty, now tell me what the fuck is going on?’ Utha demanded.
‘You are to wait here until the prince is ready to see you. Now, if you’ll excuse me…’ The lieutenant moved to the staircase and climbed up to the hatch. He knocked and the door was unbolted and opened from the other side, allowing him to disappear above. He had taken Death’s Embrace with him.
The remaining guardsmen placed their lances against the wall and encircled Utha and Randall. Their eyes looked hostile and Utha spoke with a wry smile. ‘I don’t think your lieutenant would like it if you decided to give us a beating.’
‘Maybe you tried to escape,’ said one of the guards, a bearded man, removing his gauntlets as he spoke.
‘And maybe I’ll break your face if you take another step towards me, piss-stain,’ Utha said venomously, clenching his fists. ‘You’ve only got nine friends, are you sure you don’t want to go and get a few more to make it fair?’
Randall was within the circle, standing next to Utha, and was trembling. He did not share his new master’s bravado.
When the hatch reopened, Randall’s breathing slowed as he realized they had probably been saved a beating at the hands of the king’s men. Utha looked disappointed and continued to clench his fists as he stared down each of the guardsmen in turn.
They retrieved their lances and, still glaring at the cleric, resumed their guard duties.
‘Remember who you are and remember who I am and we’ll get along fine,’ Utha said with a vicious grin, turning to see who was coming through the hatch.
Out of the corner of his eye Randall caught movements in several of the cells, and in the nearest one he saw dark eyes peer out from under a thin blanket. It looked to be a man, but in the minimal light his skin looked grey and Randall couldn’t make out his features or guess where he came from.
The first figure to descend the stairs made a considerable noise. He was quickly identifiable as an armoured Purple cleric of middle years. His longsword was sheathed and its scabbard bore elegant pictures of rampant lions, embossed in silver. He was older than Utha and the possessor of a mangled nose.
Behind him came a beautiful Karesian woman, who made Randall gasp. She swayed her hips as she walked down the stairs and wore a figure-hugging dress of deep red. As she reached the bottom of the steps, Randall could see a tattoo on her face showing a howling wolf and stretching from her neck across her left cheek.
On seeing the woman, Utha stepped next to his squire and whispered, ‘We are in the presence of an enchantress, young Randall, so keep your wits about you.’
Again, Randall wondered how he was going to do this, but he tried not to look at the woman once she had noticed him and smiled.
The grey-haired lieutenant had come back through the hatchway but stood at the top of the stairs, as if waiting for someone else to enter. He was no longer carrying Death’s Embrace.
‘I think we can dispense with the guards,’ said the Purple cleric. ‘Go about your duties, gentlemen. You’ll be summoned if necessary.’
The armoured men appeared reluctant to leave, but they did so with only a moment’s hesitation. The door was again closed, leaving only the Purple cleric, the enchantress and the lieutenant in the oubliette with the prisoners.
‘Brother Utha,’ said the Purple cleric, bowing his head in a gesture of respect. Recognition had appeared on both their faces and it was clear to Randall that the two clerics knew each other.
‘Brother Severen,’ replied Utha, though he did not bow his head and displayed little evident affection for the older cleric. ‘This is my squire, Randall of Darkwald. Say hello to Severen of Tiris, the prince’s confessor.’
Randall managed to stumble through the moment and say, ‘Hello, my lord.’
‘A squire, Utha? That is highly irregular.’ Severen spoke with a decidedly upper-class accent.
‘So was the means of his employment. He was Torian’s squire,’ Utha replied. ‘That is, until Torian was killed by the Black Guard’s friend, a Kirin called Rham Jas Rami.’
Severen showed displeasure at the news that Torian was dead, but the most interesting reaction was the expression that came over the enchantress’s face when Rham Jas Rami was mentioned. She seemed momentarily afraid at the name, though she quickly recovered her poise and resumed smiling.
‘And you were with Brother Torian when he died?’ Severen asked.
‘I was standing a few feet away when a longbow arrow pierced his neck.’ Utha was solemn and kept a tight rein on his emotions as he spoke of his friend’s death.
‘And yet you still did not apprehend Bromvy,’ interjected the Karesian woman in a sultry drawl.
‘And who are you to ask anything of me?’ Utha growled.
‘Mind your manners, Utha,’ barked Severen. ‘This is Katja the Hand of Despair. She is advising the house of Tiris on certain matters and she’s worthy of your respect.’
Randall thought the name sharply at odds with the woman’s pleasing appearance and girlish smile. She was a Karesian and had an exotic beauty that few women of Ro could match, but there was nothing in her demeanour to indicate that she was a hand of despair.
‘The Seven Sisters are advising the prince?’ Utha asked suspiciously.
‘And the king,’ stated Katja, with another disarming smile. ‘We have been welcomed for the knowledge we possess and the advice we can give.’
‘And why is the oubliette filled with risen men?’ Utha gestured to the cells around them.
The Black cleric had not previously paid attention to the small cages and Randall thought it strange he should know who was in them without looking.
‘I’m surprised to hear a crusader concerned with the fate of the risen,’ Severen responded with an imperious glare.
‘I’m not a crusader any more, as you well know.’ Utha was not cowed by the Purple cleric or the enchantress, but Randall also noted that his master was on edge, keeping his fists clenched and trying not to look at Katja.
‘The risen men are a danger to the stability of Tor Funweir and, with our assistance, the church of Ro has been able to hunt them with more success than before,’ Katja responded. ‘We plan to have them all imprisoned or killed within the year.’
Utha glared at her before addressing Severen directly. ‘Brother, you and I have never been friends, but answer me this, why is this witch afforded such respect?’
Katja laughed and the room brightened visibly as she did so. Severen directed a gleeful smile at her and the lieutenant raised his head the better to hear the sound of her laughter. Randall and Utha looked at each other and the squire sensed that something was very wrong here.
‘Answer me, Severen,’ repeated Utha, more insistent this time.
‘All answers will come in time, my dear Ghost,’ replied Katja, not allowing the Purple cleric to answer.
‘I don’t recall speaking to you, witch,’ shouted Utha, becoming angrier with each passing moment.
Severen was still smiling euphorically as he stepped forward and slapped Utha hard across the face. ‘Mind your manners, Ghost,’ he said, with a maddening smile.
Utha looked as if he were about to attack Severen, but was interrupted by movement from above. The lieutenant held the hatchway open as a man emerg
ed. He was young, barely older than Randall, and his ornate gold armour spoke of ceremony rather than action. He carried a sword at his side, but the hilt and scabbard looked unused and his face betrayed little experience of hardship. He was blonde-haired and clean-cut, with no beard or blemishes on his face, lending him an almost angelic appearance.
This was Prince Christophe Tiris, heir to the throne of Tor Funweir. Both Katja and Severen bowed as the prince entered the oubliette, but Utha merely gave him a shallow nod.
‘My prince,’ said Severen respectfully. ‘This is Brother Utha the Ghost, betrayer and turncoat.’
Utha nearly exploded with anger at these words, but a raised hand from Prince Christophe cut off his response.
‘Brother Utha… why do they call you the Ghost?’ Christophe asked with a lisp. He had evidently not registered the fact that Utha was an albino. The prince wore the same look of gleeful euphoria on his face as Severen.
‘He is called the Ghost because he was cursed at birth, my prince,’ responded Katja, levelling her beautiful brown eyes at Utha.
‘Ah, I see… yes, the One can be cruel to unworthy men,’ the prince said, sneering down at the Black cleric. ‘Does he know why he is here?’
‘No, my prince, we were awaiting your arrival.’ Severen made sure he was standing between Utha and the prince. Randall thought whatever they believed his master had done must be very serious indeed.
‘Well, now that I am here, we can begin, yes?’
‘Indeed, your highness.’ Severen turned to Utha. ‘Brother Utha the Ghost, you are hereby found guilty of treason against the crown and people of Tor Funweir.’ He spoke the words formally and motioned for the lieutenant to enter the oubliette and stand in close guard behind Utha.
Randall had been ignored up until this point and he was conscious of the fact that his longsword had not been taken. Utha seemed to realize this as well, and Randall caught his master glancing towards the sword of Great Claw.
Then Utha laughed. ‘Treason? And here was I thinking we were being serious. Your highness, I do not know the purpose of this charade, or why you and Severen bend your knee to this witch, but I do not answer to the Purple. I am a cleric of the Black and I demand to be taken back to my order.’