The Long War 01 - The Black Guard

by A. J. Smith

  Al-Hasim was not a Ranen, let alone a man of Wraith Company, but he responded to Horrock’s order with only a slight pause, moving quickly away and across to the north side of the courtyard. Bronwyn followed his movements, mostly to confirm that Stone Dog was still alive.

  ‘You did well, my lady,’ Horrock said suddenly. ‘You’re covered in blood, have dents in your shield and you’re still alive… this bodes well.’

  ‘Freya had to save my life and I tried to stay away from the main fight, but yes, I’m still alive. A lot of your men aren’t,’ she responded sadly, unable to turn away from the butchered men in the courtyard.

  Freya and several young Ranen from the basement were taking note of the dead and moving the wounded to the safety of the underground complex. The dead knights were treated with respect, but with no space to take them inside, they were simply stacked off to the side in a rough pyre. Haffen was still doing his best to repair the main gate. The wooden fortifications would function as axe-throwing platforms, but would be useless as a defensive position.

  ‘You need a longer reach,’ Horrock said to her out of the blue.

  ‘Er, sorry… what do you mean?’ Bronwyn asked.

  ‘The shield works fine, but you actually need to attack occasionally, and that short sword and your short arms don’t help.’ Bronwyn laughed at his familiar manner. ‘Ever swung an axe?’ he asked.

  ‘My brother taught me how to use a sword, but I hadn’t attacked to kill until a month ago when we escaped Canarn,’ she said quietly. ‘I hadn’t really thought about killing men. I suppose there were too many other things to think about.’

  Horrock narrowed his blue eyes. ‘I met Brom once. A cold bastard from what I remember.’ He smiled. ‘You’re the same. Most people agonize over their first kill. You didn’t even think about it.’

  ‘There’s a lot at stake… my home, my people, my family’s honour…’ She bowed her head. ‘While Canarn is occupied, I’m not allowed to be squeamish.’

  CHAPTER 9

  BROTHER LANRY IN THE CITY OF RO CANARN

  It was just beginning to get dark as Lanry began his nightly walk to the marshal’s office. Sir Pevain insisted he arrive before the mercenaries’ nightly drunken ritual began. They were difficult enough to deal with when sober, but Lanry disliked the viciousness that accompanied their more drunken moments. He had a great need of extra food and water. The people of Ro Canarn who had stayed indoors during the battle were beginning to suffer starvation. The mercenary knight had turned off the water pumps and was using his control over food and water to keep the population in order. The common people were being denied basic necessities, and those who had recently lost their homes and families faced an uncertain future.

  ‘Fulton, hurry up,’ Lanry said to the former taverner who pulled the cart behind him. ‘It’s getting dark.’

  ‘Why don’t you pull the cart?’ Fulton shot back, with droplets of sweat forming on his forehead.

  Lanry put a hand on the man’s shoulder and smiled. ‘Because I’m a fat old man with a bad back and, if I was pulling it, we’d not get there till tomorrow,’ the cleric said with humour.

  Lanry tried to stay jolly despite the broken town around him, and since the death of Duke Hector the people had looked to the cleric for leadership. He was not a man to abandon his home to the ravages of war, and being a churchman of the Brown meant he was largely immune to the torture and death that his fellow men of Canarn had to endure. He’d seen much of both over the last month and had come to realize that the knights of the Red had a very different way of doing the One’s work. The Brown clerics represented the One’s aspect of poverty and charity, and Lanry had devoted his life to the care of the people of Ro Canarn. He had been the only churchman in the town and Duke Hector had allowed him to stay on sufferance. It had taken Lanry several years to convince the duke of his good intentions and now, twenty years after he had built the small Brown church, he was needed more than ever.

  He smiled to himself as he recalled drawing his heavy quarterstaff and joining the duke’s guard in defence of the town. He felt a little embarrassed at having actually clubbed a Red knight over the head and he secretly hoped that the man was all right. Lanry was not a fighter, but he had felt it was his duty to fight for his home as much as any other man of Canarn.

  They led the cart past the main square and towards the lord marshal’s office overlooking the docks. Pevain had killed the marshal and taken over the stone building, holding court like a conquering hero and dispensing random justice upon those who displeased him. The mercenary knight had executed more people than Lanry wished to recall, and he found himself ministering now to less than half the population. They still looked to him for guidance, but he was secretly crying over the torment his people had to endure. He’d seen children die of starvation, and with the lack of clean water disease was beginning to appear. Pevain gave him a daily ration, but it was barely enough for a hundred people and Lanry found himself having to arrange a rota system for the survivors. If a man got water one day, he’d have to do without the next. It was a painful thing for the cleric to have to do, but so far it had kept most of them alive.

  ‘What if we just wait until they pass out with the wine and then help ourselves?’ suggested Fulton, as they neared the tower of the World Raven.

  ‘Interesting idea… though please be good enough to tell me what happens the day after you pass out from drinking?’ responded Lanry, trying to be as tolerant as possible.

  ‘You wake up with a headache… I do, anyway.’

  ‘And what do you think these men will do when they wake up with a headache and realize we’ve pilfered their food and water?’

  The taverner considered this. ‘I suppose they’d come looking for us,’ he eventually conceded.

  ‘Endurance is our greatest weapon now, my friend,’ Lanry said gently, placing a reassuring hand on Fulton’s shoulder. ‘Mark my words, your tavern will be open for business again one of these days.’

  Lanry tried to remain optimistic when he was around the other men of Canarn, even going so far as to suggest that young Lord Bromvy would return to set them free. In private, however, the Brown cleric was close to despair and held out precious little hope that their situation would improve.

  They rounded a street corner and the marshal’s office came into view. Previously, the area had been a thriving port, with several good-humoured taverns and a small auditorium for fish trading. Now, everywhere was boarded up or torn down and the only activity was in the office itself, which had been turned into an improvised drinking establishment and headquarters for Pevain’s mercenaries. Lights were on throughout and, even half a street away, activity could be seen and heard. The mercenaries were too numerous for all of them to find quarters within the building and so a rough camp had formed in the open square outside. They lounged around small fires, passing bottles of stolen wine and telling unlikely tales of their sexual prowess. Lanry recognized the faces of rapists, murderers and thieves – men who had been living off the bones and flesh of Ro Canarn for more than a month. With the exception of the dozen or so men on patrol in the town, they could all be found here, and Lanry gritted his teeth as he prepared to walk among them.

  ‘Just keep your head down and ignore them,’ he said over his shoulder to Fulton, who was becoming increasingly agitated.

  They were noticed quickly and Lanry heard a number of off-colour comments thrown at them – nasty challenges to their masculinity and some physical gestures that the Brown cleric didn’t fully understand. Dirty, bearded faces looked up at them, displaying unpleasant sneers. Lanry smiled politely, aware that these men wouldn’t harm him, but making sure that Fulton stayed close behind him.

  ‘What do you want, boy-fucker?’ barked a toothless mercenary who stood nearby, on guard outside the marshal’s office.

  He was often the man who greeted Brother Lanry as he arrived for supplies each evening. The mercenary was illiterate and had no doubt had a poor start in l
ife, but Brother Lanry still smiled at the thought of smashing his quarterstaff into the scumbag’s face.

  ‘I’m sorry, are you talking to me?’ Lanry replied absently.

  ‘You know I’m fucking talking to you, cleric,’ said the mercenary with well-practised aggression.

  ‘And you know what I want, so we’re both being stupid.’ Lanry directed a laconic expression at the idiot and then shooed him away dismissively. ‘I’m not here to speak to you… I don’t even like looking at you, so get out of my way,’ the Brown cleric added.

  Fulton narrowly suppressed a laugh and the mercenary looked confused, confirming Lanry’s suspicions about his lack of education, but he got out of the way and they proceeded towards the open doorway.

  ‘How do you get away with that?’ asked Fulton quietly, with a nervous smile on his face.

  ‘Because these people are worthy of nothing but scorn and sharp metal implements, my dear Fulton, and they’re stupid enough not to realize how hateful they are.’ He paused and turned to direct a serene smile at the taverner. ‘I like to think that subconsciously they know they deserve these insults.’ Lanry resumed walking, leaving Fulton looking confused as he followed on behind.

  The door to the marshal’s office used to be permanently open and any citizen of Canarn was able to enter freely. Since Sir Pevain had taken over, he’d stationed guards outside and only admitted people he wanted to see. The daily inquiries about food, water and housing bothered the mercenary knight and he had killed several men who had complained that their wine storehouse had been pillaged and burned down. Subsequently, the door had remained closed. Brother Lanry was the only citizen of Ro Canarn who Pevain would tolerate, and that was only because the mercenary was under orders not to harm him.

  As Lanry and Fulton entered, an overpowering stench of wine and vomit assaulted their nostrils and both men involuntarily moved their hands to their mouths.

  ‘Do they ever clean the place?’ Fulton asked quietly.

  ‘About as often as they clean themselves,’ replied Lanry, ‘and that, by the state of them, is infrequent.’

  The door opened into the old town hall of Ro Canarn – a large, airy space that had been used variously as fish market, meeting place and assembly hall. The fishermen had stopped fishing now and the hall was little more than a dosshouse for Pevain’s more trusted lieutenants. They lounged around on pillaged furniture, drinking stolen wine and eating stolen meat. These men were all of Ro, but belonged to the lowest level of society. They were swords for hire, men who’d found a way to indulge their fondness for killing, stealing and raping while still somehow remaining within the law. Lanry knew that criminality was a sketchy concept where war was concerned, but he still hoped that these scum would some day be made to answer for their cruelty.

  They walked through the entrance hall, past small groups of black-armoured mercenaries, most of them the worse for drink, and ascended the central stairs to the marshal’s office on the first floor. No more comments were directed at them and Fulton appeared a little more relaxed once they were away from the main force of mercenaries.

  The taverner stopped at the top of the stairs and Lanry saw an expression of surprise and anger come over his friend’s face.

  ‘Fulton, what is it?’ the cleric asked.

  ‘That man…’ he replied, pointing with a shaking hand at a large, bearded mercenary slouching on a bench outside Pevain’s rooms. ‘He’s the one who… took Bella.’

  Lanry frowned and remembered Fulton’s cheerful wife. She was a cook who worked with her husband in the tavern they had owned. A mercenary had smashed his way into their home on the night of the attack and Bella had tried to fight him off with a kitchen knife. As a result, she’d been taken to the prison pens in the town square. Fulton had been trapped in the Brown church at the time and had only seen his wife again several nights later, as she was raped and beheaded by the man she’d tried to fight off – the man now laughing at some off-colour joke while relaxing outside his master’s new office.

  Lanry placed a restraining hand on Fulton’s shoulder. ‘Nothing will be served by you dying today, my friend,’ the cleric said in a whisper. ‘Just keep your head down and don’t look at him.’

  Fulton began to sob quietly, but he nodded and took heed of Lanry’s counsel. The Brown cleric was as close to a leader as the people of Ro Canarn had left. Fulton was no warrior and he knew full well that Lanry’s instruction was wise.

  They walked past the man, who barely looked up from the conversation he was having with another mercenary, and Brother Lanry knocked on the office door.

  ‘I’m busy,’ was the immediate response from within.

  ‘He’s busy, brother,’ repeated the man outside. ‘Piss off and come back later.’

  ‘If I do that, I’ll be told that he’s still busy,’ said Lanry with as much pateince as he could muster. ‘We do this every day. Can’t I just glide past the usual dance of cock-waving and get to the part where I return to my church with food and water?’

  The man laughed heartily and slapped Lanry on the back.

  ‘You’re all right, cleric,’ he said with a smile, and banged on Pevain’s door himself. ‘Hallam, it’s that Brown cleric.’

  There was a momentary pause and then a frustrated voice from within said, ‘All right, Lanry, get your clerical arse in here.’

  Lanry smiled politely at the mercenary, taking care to keep Fulton as close to him as possible, turned the door handle and entered the marshal’s office.

  Within, he immediately averted his eyes from the spectacle of Sir Hallam Pevain, lounging back on his chair, his rough hand on the back of a young girl’s head. Pevain’s leather trousers were pulled down and the girl was crouched between his legs. There was a look of twisted pleasure on his face as he roughly jerked the girl’s head back and forth, and she gripped his chair with red, trembling hands.

  ‘I hope we’re not disturbing you?’ asked Lanry through gritted teeth, looking down at the floor.

  ‘I said I was busy, cleric…’ He didn’t look at them.

  He grabbed a handful of the girl’s hair and pulled her away, making a loathsome sound of contentment as he did so. Lanry glanced up and recognized the girl. She was a servant from the inner keep, one of Lady Bronwyn’s attendants. The cleric couldn’t remember her name, but recalled having heard her sing at Duke Hector’s birthday celebrations.

  As Pevain roughly shoved her towards the door, the look on her face was of fear and revulsion. Brother Lanry stopped her momentarily, whispering, ‘Strength, sister, strength and we will overcome.’

  He hoped the words might help, but he also knew how petty they must sound to a young girl, no more than sixteen, who was daily being abused.

  ‘Same time tomorrow, darlin’,’ said Pevain with a chuckle, as the girl hurriedly left the room.

  Fulton hadn’t looked up and Lanry thought that he ought to come alone in future, or at least leave his companion outside with the cart.

  Lanry tried not to show his anger as he crossed the small office to stand in front of the desk. Pevain styled himself as some kind of military governor – a lesser master of Canarn now that Sir Rillion had made it clear he cared nothing for the common people. The knights of the Red were more honourable and, in their own way, kinder than the mercenaries. However, Lanry had not seen any of them since the larger force had moved through some two weeks ago, and he’d been stuck with Pevain and his bastards. Lanry wasn’t sure whether the bastards was actually their name or just a fitting description, but either way the term had entered common usage.

  ‘Food and water is it, Lanry?’ asked Pevain, making a show of standing to fasten his trousers and stretch his back and arms.

  ‘It is indeed. A little more than yesterday would be appreciated,’ replied the cleric.

  ‘You’ll get what you get.’ Pevain remained standing and glowered at Lanry. ‘I only have so many supplies and my men need to eat and drink too.’

  ‘But your men
take it when they want it, my people have to ration the little I am allowed. People are dying, Pevain.’

  The matter was serious and Lanry was responsible for their well-being now there was no duke to speak for them.

  The mercenary laughed as though Lanry had said something funny. ‘So, some peasant cunts lose a bit of weight… what’s the big deal?’

  Lanry clenched his jaw and felt a sudden urge to have a wash when he got home. Having to be in the presence of so refined a scumbag each day was not an easy thing to put up with.

  ‘Just because you’ve killed half the population, it doesn’t mean the remainder need any less food and water,’ Lanry said, with as much restraint as he could manage. ‘Wine we can do without, huge feasts of meat and fish are barely a distant memory, but bread, grain and water are essential… sir knight.’

  Pevain moved round the desk and stood close to Brother Lanry. The knight was a very tall man and carried an unpleasant odour with him. The cleric had wondered recently whether Pevain actually cultivated the smell in order to make himself more memorable.

  ‘Don’t take things so seriously, Lanry. Why don’t we open a bottle together and get some peasant bitch to make us glad we’re men for a couple of hours?’ Pevain’s smile was almost as bad as the smell, and dirty, rotten teeth poked through his straggly black beard as he spoke.

  ‘I am a cleric of the Brown first and foremost. I’ll be sure to remind myself that I’m a man at a later date. For now, can I please have some supplies?’ Lanry asked, allowing some offence to show in his voice.

  Fulton was still looking at the floor and, aside from the odd frown of discomfort, the taverner had remained silent and expressionless. Pevain had not paid any particular attention to him up to this point but now he directed a questioning look at Lanry.

  ‘Your friend looks nervous. Maybe he should be the one to remember he’s a man.’ The mercenary stepped in front of Fulton. ‘How about it, little man? You want a girl to fuck?’