by A. J. Smith
‘Randall, hurry the fuck up,’ shouted Utha from the door.
‘They’re coming.’ Randall was breathless as he joined his master.
Out of the central room, Randall shut the door, jamming his dagger into the lock to keep it from being opened again. They ran out of the oubliette, the freed Dokkalfar behind them. Randall didn’t look at the risen man and tried to focus on getting out of the royal compound alive. When he reached the door that led up to the house of Tiris, Utha frantically flung it inwards.
‘Stop.’ Randall placed his hand on Utha’s shoulder. ‘There are guards and servants up there. How are we going to get out?’
Utha growled, ‘I’m going to kill anyone that tries to stop me and then we’re going to steal that wagon.’ With no more words, he slapped away Randall’s hand and ran up the stairs.
The squire wiped sweat from his forehead and went to follow him, but was stopped by a restraining hand from the risen man. The tall creature had been silent as he ran and Randall felt his presence intimidating. The creature’s skin was grey, and as more light played across his features the young squire could see no pigment or colour of any kind in the Dokkalfar’s face. He was simply a non-human, a living being not of the race of men, and Randall involuntarily shied away from the creature.
‘Do not think to stop the Shadow, young man of Ro,’ it said in a sonorous voice. ‘His now is more important than yours or mine.’
Randall didn’t try to understand as he wriggled out of the creature’s grasp and ran up the steps after Utha.
The Black cleric was moving, sword in hand, across the carpets. He was covered in blood and looked terrifying as he ran towards the courtyard. Randall followed and saw servants cowering, unwilling to challenge the enraged cleric and too afraid to run for help. They crossed the entranceway quickly, reaching the door unchallenged.
Utha paused at the door until Randall and the Dokkalfar had joined him. ‘There are at least a dozen guardsmen in this courtyard,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘There’s also a wagon. You go for the wagon, I’ll go for the guards. Clear?’
‘As it needs to be,’ replied Randall, too frantic to be scared.
Utha nodded and put his hand on Randall’s shoulder. ‘You’ve saved my life twice, boy, now get in the wagon and let’s stay alive a while longer.’
Randall looked down to see that his hand was no longer shaking and the longsword of Great Claw felt lighter in his fist.
Utha breathed in deeply and scowled, opening the large door with an aggressive growl and tightening his hand around his new longsword. The glare of sun that hit them as they entered the courtyard made Randall squint as he followed his master.
Beyond, the gate was closed, and more than a dozen gold-armoured king’s men stood in groups or walked in lone patrol around the yard, evidently unaware of what had transpired in the oubliette. The wagon was close, with three horses attached to the front and two guardsmen removing Dokkalfar knives from the carriage.
Utha didn’t pause before running at the first two guardsmen. They saw him too late, and Randall saw the other king’s men slowly realize that a roaring Black cleric was in their midst.
Utha swung with power at the first man, half severing his head, before spinning round and driving his blade through the breastplate of the second man. In a moment he’d cleared the wagon of guards.
‘Guardsmen, to arms,’ roared one of the king’s men, standing at the main gate.
‘Randall, the wagon,’ Utha shouted as he kicked the dead bodies out of the way and turned to face the other guards, who were beginning to gather their senses.
The squire didn’t take in the overwhelming odds arrayed against the cleric as he climbed into the wagon’s driving position and grabbed the reins. The Dokkalfar, his face still masked by his hood, wrenched two knives from the wood and jumped up to sit next to Randall.
Utha picked up a second longsword from a fallen man and swung his two blades with intimidating skill, roaring at the guardsmen while running at them. The Black cleric moved like an enraged monster and Randall saw fear come into the eyes of those who were preparing to fight him.
Utha did not wait for the men to overwhelm him as he plunged into the mass of them. He lashed out with both blades, aiming to maim rather than kill as he severed one man’s sword arm at the elbow and cut another viciously across the face.
‘The gate,’ he shouted to Randall, without looking back, and the squire flicked the reins roughly to spur the three large horses into movement.
As the wagon moved across the courtyard, two crossbow bolts thudded into the wood inches from where Randall sat. Looking up, he saw more armoured men emerge from the building behind him, reloading their crossbows. The squire recognized one of them from the oubliette and guessed that the enchantress would also be in pursuit.
To his surprise, the Dokkalfar stood up gracefully on the wagon’s forward seat and launched both his newly acquired knives at the men surrounding Utha. Two died instantly as they were struck in the neck, and Utha killed another who had turned to see where the knives had come from. The Black cleric was now surrounded and only the two longswords he wielded kept his adversaries from closing in.
‘Hold tight,’ Randall said to the Dokkalfar, as the horses barrelled into the ornate gates of the royal compound.
The wagon juddered violently as the metal bent and buckled under the weight of the horses and the heavy wagon.
‘Utha, move,’ roared the squire over his shoulder. The way ahead was tantalizingly clear.
He pulled up on the reins to slow the carriage and turned to see Utha surrounded. Without thinking, Randall leapt from his seat and drew his sword. A guardsman with his back to the squire became the first man Randall had wilfully killed when the sword of Great Claw struck him at the neck and sheared down into his body. A second turned to engage the new combatant, but a moment later caught a Dokkalfar knife in the neck.
Utha roared again as an opening appeared among the encircling guards and he plunged forward, deflecting thrusts from the other men. With a skill and ferocity Randall had never seen, Brother Utha the Ghost engaged five men at once and fought to reach the carriage.
A glancing blow to his leg made the cleric buckle and it looked as if he’d be driven back until Randall moved in to join his master. He tried not to think, letting his mind forget Utha’s lessons and just relying on instinct. He was not a match for these men in terms of skill or training, but the distraction provided by the ferocious cleric of Death gave Randall the chance he needed. His second kill came in the form of a thrust that pierced a young guardsman in the side, through the exposed middle section of his breastplate.
Through the press of guards, Randall saw Utha take another blow, this time a deep cut across his chest. The cleric forced himself upright and whirled his two swords in wide, skilful arcs, pushing the guardsmen back.
Then another knife was thrown and, for a second, there was no one between Utha and Randall. They locked eyes and Utha ran forwards. He caught several blows, but determination and anger spurred him on and he dived past the encircling knights into an ungainly forward roll on the flagstone courtyard.
Randall could see men emerging from the compound with drawn crossbows, and standing behind them was the cackling figure of Katja the Hand of Despair. With a wildness in her voice, she was directing men to stop Utha.
‘He killed the prince, stop him at all costs.’ Her voice cracked as she spoke.
Randall grabbed Utha and hefted him up as the Dokkalfar threw his last two knives, killing two more men and buying them a moment to haul themselves up into the wagon.
‘Move,’ shouted Utha weakly, and the carriage sprang into life again as the risen man grabbed the reins and drove the prison wagon forward.
Bolts thudded into the wood, but the shouting quickly died down as they made their escape. Utha was bloodied and pale even for an albino, as Randall pulled the wagon door shut and pushed open the front window to address the Dokkalfar.
‘We will not stop and they will not stop us,’ the creature replied, as Randall slumped back inside the wagon beside Utha.
‘That’s three times, young Randall.’ The cleric wore a thin smile. ‘Take my hand.’ Utha raised a blood-covered hand to the squire, which Randall grasped firmly. ‘I would call you brother, Randall of Darkwald,’ he said quietly, as his eyes began to close.
CHAPTER 7
RHAM JAS RAMI IN THE STRAITS OF CANARN
Rham Jas was cold and disliked the weather of the north. The ship was cheap and the captain had asked no questions, but comfort was in short supply. It was late and the temperature had dropped sharply as darkness had fallen. Their journey through Tiris had been swift and, with a little coin thrown around, relatively easy. Kohli and Jenner had remained in the city, planning to find a way of returning to Karesia and leaving Rham Jas and Bromvy with the words Don’t get killed and say hello to Al-Hasim.
This advice had been playing on the Kirin’s mind and he had spent the past week, as they’d crawled slowly north across the straits of Canarn, thinking how best to keep Brom and himself alive.
They were close now, within a day of the coast and the beach where Rham Jas had instructed the captain to put them ashore. The forests of Canarn were small, but their dense, tall trees provided perfect cover for the Dokkalfar that lived there. Rham Jas remembered the direction of travel, but his head was full of ways in which his plan could go wrong. But he’d agreed to help his friend and, try though he might, Rham Jas could not bring himself to abandon Brom. It had ceased to be about repayment for the young lord having saved his life and had become a personal goal – to see this done, to take Brom to his home and to play whatever part fate had in store for him.
It was approaching midday and Rham Jas could feel no warmth. The sun was permanently behind the rolling grey clouds and the sky was dark. Brom was below deck, as he’d been most of the past few days. He’d eaten and slept, but had otherwise done very little save sit in his cabin and mope. Rham Jas was used to spending time on his own, but still he would have liked a more talkative travelling companion. The Kirin had hoped for a relaxing evening of whores and wine in Ro Tiris, but Brom had not been keen and insisted they leave straightaway. Rham Jas had been forced to watch Kohli and Jenner stroll into the red-light district with smiles on their smug Karesian faces.
‘Rham Jas…’ The words came from Captain Makad, the Karesian trader who owed him a favour and had agreed to do the job for little money. ‘The sea will be getting choppy. If you want me to put you ashore on that beach, you’re going to have to row. I’m not getting near the rocks.’
‘Don’t worry, captain, we’ll row,’ he responded. ‘And you’d better stay clear of Canarn.’
‘That was the plan,’ the captain said with a smile, before returning to his duty.
They had not been able to reach the barracks or the king’s harbour, so neither Rham Jas nor Brom knew how many knights were in Ro Canarn. If Captain Makad were to come too close, he would risk being spotted and boarded by knights of the Red, and Rham Jas had no doubt that the captain would sell them out for very little money. Not that the knights would be able to find them in the Deep Wood, but it was still better if he and Brom remained invisible for now.
The sea was starting to get rough and Rham Jas doubted he would be able to sleep. They’d reach the coast tomorrow, and the Deep Wood a few hours after that, and he hoped he’d hear the song of the Dokkalfar for a few moments before they kicked him and Brom out of their realm.
* * *
The forest was dark and Rham Jas disliked not being able to see the sun through the dense canopy. The trees in the Deep Wood were tall and imposing, having been there long before the duchy of Canarn had been founded, and they had a solidity like towers constructed of wood and bark. The forest floor was free of the usual detritus of fallen branches and uneven ground, with only a thick scattering of leaves covering a grassy floor.
Despite having spent most of his young life within a few hours’ travel of the Deep Wood Brom had never ventured into it before, and the look of awe on his face as he perceived the huge, majestic trees was testament to their near-magical presence.
Each tree had a name in the Dokkalfar language and though Rham Jas had never tried to learn, or even pronounce, their names, he knew that the reverence in which the Dokkalfar held the trees was more than a simple respect for nature. Long ago, the Dokkalfar had been bound to a Forest Giant and, unlike men, they understood that nature was both beautiful and terrible, deserving of fear as well as love. Animals of the forest were locked in a daily struggle for survival, constantly hunting and being hunted in an endless game of life and death. This had made the Dokkalfar suspicious, on edge at all times, never at rest.
Rham Jas liked them. Despite the opinion the majority of other men held, he respected their synergy with the woods and their ancient acceptance of persecution as something that had to be endured. As he led Brom deeper into the woods, the Kirin assassin felt a sense of calm that he rarely experienced. A quick look behind showed that Brom did not share this feeling, and Rham Jas had to remind himself that other humans were uneasy around the forest-dwellers.
‘How much further?’ asked the young lord.
‘I don’t know… maybe another hour, maybe two. They’ll approach us when and if they choose to.’ Rham Jas knew that actually looking for them was rather pointless. The Dokkalfar could remain hidden indefinitely; they hadn’t survived for so long by being easy to find.
‘This forest reminds me of the Fell.’ Brom was walking slowly behind his friend and craning his neck to look up at the towering tree trunks.
‘That’s because the same trees grow here. I think the Fell is their… homeland, I suppose. Though I’m not sure if the term really applies.’ Rham Jas slowed his pace to allow Brom to take in their surroundings.
‘This forest has never been hunted by the Black clerics, so far as I know, so they should be more relaxed… shouldn’t they?’
Rham Jas raised an eyebrow. ‘It doesn’t really work like that, I’m afraid. They communicate somehow over long distances; each settlement shares the pain of every other settlement that’s attacked and every Dokkalfar that’s killed. They call it the Slow Pain.’
‘Interesting people,’ Brom replied simply.
‘They’re not people, my friend, they’re Dokkalfar.’ It was a basic distinction, but a very important one. ‘They don’t like being compared to men.’
‘But they look like men, don’t they? I mean, I’ve never seen one, but I always imagined… two arms, two legs, a head.’ Brom was nervous and Rham Jas allowed him to ask his questions.
‘They have the same limbs and roughly the features as us, just a bit… different,’ the Kirin replied, realizing that this answer was not hugely helpful. ‘They’re taller than you or I and they… they’re just not human. You’ll see.’
They walked through the dense wood slowly, Rham Jas taking note of familiar landmarks, but making no particular effort to be stealthy. He knew that to try and remain hidden in the Dokkalfar woods was largely pointless as they’d probably already have been seen. He guessed that the decision about what to do with the two humans who had wandered into the Deep Wood was currently being made somewhere out of view. He knew that he wouldn’t be killed, but worried about Brom. The young lord was an outsider here and, as a noble of Tor Funweir, he was directly related to the noble families that had hunted the forest-dwellers throughout their lands – and the Dokkalfar were able to sense such things.
Rham Jas stopped as they reached a small patch of open ground, a clearing between the huge trunks of half a dozen trees where a single ray of sunshine lanced down through the canopy. The forest floor was flat and featureless, save for the ever-present carpet of green and brown leaves upon which they walked. Rham Jas recognized the place and decided to stop for a
rest.
‘Let’s stop here for an hour or two and give the watchers a chance to get a good look at us.’ He removed his longbow and sat at the base of a tree.
‘They’re watching us?’ asked Brom, a little alarmed by the news.
‘They have been since we entered the woods. It’s their way.’ Rham Jas knew that his friend was impatient, but the Kirin was not going to rush this encounter. The more insistent the visitor to the Deep Wood, the less likely he was to survive.
‘Sit down, Brom, we may as well take some rest.’
Hesitantly, he joined Rham Jas against the broad tree trunk. From ground level, the forest had a strange ethereal quality and the single ray of sunlight made the leaves glint and shine. Distantly, Rham Jas could hear a slight sound, the rhythmic chanting of the Dokkalfar. It sounded like no other noise the Kirin had ever heard – a chorus of high-pitched notes that rose and fell with beautiful and elongated timing, each note swelling before lowering, only to rise again.
Brom heard the sound too and raised his head the better to listen to the beautiful song of the forest-dwellers. His eyes closed involuntarily and his head began to sway slightly as the rhythm increased in tempo and volume.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Brom said as he listened. ‘Is that really them singing?’
Rham Jas nodded. ‘They say that it’s how they talk to the trees and pass messages to other Dokkalfar settlements,’ he said quietly, so as not to interrupt the song. ‘My wife used to spend hours just listening to it in Oslan.’
They sat and let the song flow over them, neither of them speaking. Rham Jas sat cross-legged and Brom lay back as if bathing in the ethereal glow, letting the ray of sunlight play over his face. The song had calmed the young lord considerably, and Rham Jas allowed himself to hope that they would indeed find help from the forest-dwellers of Canarn.
The minutes stretched and flowed together as the two friends listened, until another sound came from high above. This sound was not music and it caused Brom to sit up sharply and reach for his sword.