by A. J. Smith
Lanry moved Fulton gently to the side and took his place under Pevain’s glare. ‘If you could… we are in a hurry,’ he said politely.
‘Very well.’ The mercenary knight was irritated. ‘You’re all business, you church types. Follow me.’
Lanry breathed a little easier as Pevain walked to the side door and down the stairs beyond. The marshal’s office was a stone structure on the outside but inside a latticework of wooden staircases led to various grain silos and food warehouses. In times of peace the storage spaces were used for salting and smoking meat and fish, and for stockpiling goods for the harsh winters of Canarn. While under the knights’ occupation, the warehouses were largely used as a means to control the starving population.
Lanry and Fulton walked after Pevain and descended two flights of wooden stairs to a tunnel below. This led under the cobbled streets of the port side of Ro Canarn and was one of several entrances to the grain silos. They had been built underground by Duke Hector’s father in order to protect against theft and to help preserve the goods. Formerly, the lord marshal had been responsible for them, but over the years Lanry had been in the town they’d been used less and less, as business flourished and the people had enjoyed several good harvests.
At the end of the tunnel more wooden staircases led back up to the streets. A small group of mercenaries was hanging around, watching the warehouses while drinking themselves insensible.
‘All right, boss,’ said one of the mercenaries by way of greeting to Pevain.
The knight ignored him and motioned for Lanry to ascend the nearest set of stairs.
‘Are we not going to the warehouse?’ the cleric asked.
‘No,’ replied Pevain. ‘I thought that I’d have a few of my lads prepare your supplies ahead of time. It’ll stop you looking longingly at the stuff you can’t have.’ His grotesque smile returned and Lanry felt a little sick. ‘You see, brother,’ he said, placing a patronizing arm round the cleric’s shoulders, ‘you need to know your place. I’m in charge here and that’s not going to change. Get it?’
Lanry didn’t look away from Pevain and smiled through gritted teeth. ‘And if the supplies your men have prepared are not enough?’
‘Then people may go hungry. It’s up to you to make sure it goes far enough, brother. Isn’t that what you Brown fuckers are all about? Charity and that?’
Pevain was as ignorant of charity as he was of kindness or honour, and Lanry again had to force himself not to be rude to the mercenary.
Not trusting himself to engage in further dialogue with the bastard – a term Lanry was beginning to think increasingly appropriate – the Brown cleric pulled himself up the steep wooden staircase and back up to the street. Fulton followed and they returned to the evening air of Canarn. They were just off the docks and underneath the tower of the World Raven. Lanry looked upwards and said a quiet prayer to Brytag, the Ranen god of luck and wisdom, before he was shoved out of the way by Pevain as the knight came out of the tunnel behind them.
At the side of the street, flanked by three mercenaries, were a number of barrels and a few sacks. Lanry estimated the contents would be barely enough for five hundred, let alone the two thousand hungry people who were waiting for food.
‘Pevain, is this all?’ Lanry asked without turning round.
‘It is,’ he replied. ‘And you can address me as sir knight, cleric.’
‘Very well. This isn’t enough to stop starvation and I humbly request more… sir knight.’ Lanry knew his duty to the people of Canarn must come before his personal feelings.
‘Come back tomorrow, same time, and I’ll see about a loaf or two extra,’ Pevain replied, and the three mercenaries nearby chuckled to themselves.
‘Fulton, go fetch the cart. I’ll wait here,’ Lanry said to the taverner.
His friend left quickly, and Lanry thought he’d be happier out of the presence of the mercenary knight.
Pevain let Fulton walk away towards the front of the marshal’s office to retrieve the cart before he moved to stand in front of Brother Lanry.
‘Right, you little shit-stain, now we can talk without the common citizenry listening, I want to make you an offer,’ he said conspiratorially.
‘I don’t think I’d be interested in your offer, sir knight,’ Lanry responded, with a slight bow of the head.
‘Wait till you hear it.’ Pevain was grinning broadly and his breath made Lanry feel nauseous. ‘It might be a way for you to make things easier for yourself. After all, there’s no reason why you and I shouldn’t be friends.’
‘I can think of several, sir knight, but none that I care to repeat to your face.’
Lanry was skirting round the edges of being rude, but he didn’t want to push his luck too far. Pevain was unstable and, given sufficient motivation, Lanry was sure he’d ignore Rillion’s order and kill the Brown cleric as soon as he’d kill anyone else.
‘You’re not an idiot, cleric,’ said the knight, ignoring Lanry’s half-insult. ‘And you must appreciate that I’m in charge here and am gonna be for a while yet. So why make things difficult between us? If you play this right, I can see Brother Lanry becoming a rich man if he makes the right friends.’
Lanry smiled again, this time with his eyes locked on Pevain’s. The knight was a large man, easily a foot taller than the Brown cleric, but Lanry didn’t fear death and the sword and armour mattered little to him.
‘You are a… singular man, with singular skills, sir knight. A humble cleric such as myself does not think of riches or station. We prefer to gain our reward in the grateful faces of our flock.’ Inwardly, Lanry liked to play the piety card, and he saw a look of confusion come over Pevain’s face, as if the mercenary simply didn’t understand a man to whom money meant nothing.
‘There must be something you want, cleric. Can the Brown take women?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows in a suggestively vulgar expression.
‘We can marry, yes,’ Lanry replied. ‘But not until our work for the One is completed, and I have much work left to do.’
Fulton appeared again at the corner of the marshal’s office, pulling the cart behind him. Before he came within earshot, Pevain stepped closer to Lanry and whispered, ‘All right, cleric, I understand. Just know that Hector is dead, Bromvy is dead and I’m all you’ve got left. You’d better get used to it.’
‘Bromvy…?’ queried Lanry, who had not heard that Hector’s son had been captured, let alone killed. ‘You know this?’
‘It’s only a matter of time. Purple clerics have been despatched after the lordling. Even with the nasty friends he’s got, he’s done for.’ Pevain showed no respect towards the house of Canarn. ‘So, unless Lady Bronwyn wants to ride into the city, I’d say the house of Canarn is dead and gone,’ he added with a snarl.
‘We’ll see, sir knight,’ was all Lanry said before turning to load the meagre supplies on to their cart.
* * *
The walk back to the Brown church was a sombre one. The streets were deserted and, once they were out of sight of the marshal’s office, eerily silent as well. Fulton said nothing and merely concentrated on pulling the heavy cart over the uneven cobbles. It was a lighter load than Lanry had secured on previous evenings and he genuinely doubted the people of Canarn would survive much longer. Pevain had given them no new healing supplies and Lanry’s skill would only go so far in helping those who were malnourished or injured. It would be a difficult night and, the cleric thought, it would get much worse before it got any better.
The Brown church of Canarn was a small building on the edge of the town square, previously a joyous place of market stalls and colour. Now, it resembled a cross between a builder’s yard and a battleground, with wooden debris and the remnants of funeral pyres spread haphazardly across the cobbles. The pens that had been used to confine dissenting citizens were now empty, and the majority of the populace had returned to their houses, steadfastly refusing to give the mercenaries any excuse for further brutality. Those who had lost
their homes during the battle or in the weeks that followed were staying in the vaults of the Brown church, which had formerly been used for storage and were now heaving with displaced common folk.
‘It’s not enough,’ said Fulton, breaking the silence as they approached the church doors. ‘There’re two pregnant women, dozens of children and old people, and I’ve lost count of how many injured or starving. We can’t live on porridge, dried fruit and water forever.’
‘I know,’ was Lanry’s simple reply.
The Brown cleric paused before the door to his church and turned to face Fulton. He put an arm round the taverner’s shoulder.
‘Do you remember when Lord Bromvy had that tournament for his eighteenth birthday?’
Fulton’s eyes widened slightly, as if he were trying to recall, and nodded slowly in response.
‘Great fun, from what I remember,’ supplied Lanry. ‘Duke Hector allowed anyone to take part.’ The cleric smiled. ‘I even had a go at duelling with Brom. I lost, but he was nice enough not to crow about it.’
Fulton smiled weakly as he brought to mind the event that had taken place five years before. ‘I think I unhorsed Haake in the joust,’ he said. ‘Though I’m pretty sure the guardsman let me win.’
‘Do you remember what Duke Hector said as he gave out the prizes?’ Lanry asked.
Fulton shook his head and Lanry placed a comforting arm round his friend’s shoulder. Looking out across the deserted city of Canarn, the Brown cleric said, ‘My memory may be failing me, but I think he said, “Brothers and sisters, friends and family, we stand together as people of Canarn, people with an unbreakable spirit and inexhaustible warmth.”’ Lanry was paraphrasing, but the words had stuck with him and he had recalled them often, particularly over the past month.
‘Spirit and warmth need to be fuelled by food and water,’ Fulton replied with a friendly smile.
‘That may be true, but let’s keep the old duke’s words in mind as we try to make this stuff stretch, shall we?’ He kept his arm round Fulton’s shoulders and led him towards the door.
Within, the Brown church was quiet, and both men breathed a sigh of relief as if they felt safe once they were within its walls. The faces of men and women of Canarn looked up as they entered and Lanry saw weak smiles across the floor of the church. The seats had been set aside or made into makeshift beds, and the weakest and most needy had called this place home for several weeks. In the vaults below were those who simply needed a place to stay – men, women and children whose houses and businesses had been pillaged and destroyed.
A blacksmith named Carahan and his heavily pregnant wife, Jasmine, were closest and Lanry saw concern on the man’s face as he looked at the meagre supplies.
‘Is there another cart outside, brother?’ Carahan asked.
‘I’m afraid not. It seems Sir Pevain is not feeling especially charitable this evening,’ Lanry replied, directing a thin smile at Jasmine, who shifted uncomfortably on her rickety bed.
‘Any more healing supplies?’ asked the blacksmith. ‘We’re almost out of etter root and the cramps are getting worse.’
Lanry shook his head and saw real concern on Jasmine’s face. Etter root was a painkiller which was neither expensive nor difficult to find, but now the only apothecary in town had been destroyed and Pevain controlled the supply, it had become as rare as gold.
‘I may be able to find some upstairs, but it’ll be the last until the mercenaries let us have more. Unfortunately, I still have wounded who need it as well.’
Lanry hated having to ration medicine. It was the way of the Brown clerics to want to care for all people, and to have to decide who was the more deserving of pain relief was one of Lanry’s most unpleasant responsibilities.
‘Fulton,’ he said to the taverner, ‘Carahan will help you distribute what we have. Give to the neediest first, then those who had nothing yesterday. If there’s anything left, ration it as usual. The same with the water.’
Fulton nodded and motioned for the blacksmith to assist him. Brother Lanry walked past the men and approached the stairs leading up to his personal chamber. He greeted people who stood eagerly awaiting a ration of grain and something to drink. At the end of the nave, the tubs for collecting water had been bought down from the roof and he saw the supply of rainwater was pitifully low.
‘I can pray for salvation or I can pray for rain,’ he said to himself, as he began to walk up the wooden stairs. ‘I wonder which is more likely to yield results.’
At the top of the stairs he opened the simple oak door that led to his chamber. It had few comforts – all of his linen and clothing had already been distributed amongst the needy – but the small room was still a much-needed refuge from the despair all around him.
Brother Lanry, Brown cleric of the One God, sat down heavily in his old rocking chair and loosened the neck-fastenings of his robe. On a small table by his right arm were an oil lantern and his clay pipe. Allowing himself a moment of calm, Lanry loaded the pipe with sweet-smelling tobacco and touched a match to the bowl. He rocked back on his chair and turned to look out of the shuttered window. Seeing the dark, ghostly town beyond, he inhaled deeply and tried to think how to keep the people’s spirits up. The weeks since the battle had passed slowly. Lanry thought the people of Canarn had endured more than their fair share of hardships at the hands of, first, the knights of the Red, and now the hateful mercenaries of Sir Hallam Pevain.
As he mused on the situation and puffed on his pipe, Lanry sensed someone behind him and began to turn round. He was stopped by a hand on his shoulder and an arm round his neck. The grip was not tight or constricting and was mostly designed to stop the cleric from turning round.
‘Whoever you are, you sneaked in here without making any sound. That is to be commended,’ Lanry said. ‘I have little of value to steal, I’m afraid, so if burglary is your intention, may I recommend the lord marshal’s office. Anything of worth left in the town is probably there somewhere.’ He ignored the restraining arm and moved his pipe back up to his mouth.
‘You should lock your window, Lanry,’ said a familiar voice, at which the cleric swiftly removed the arm and spun round in his chair.
‘My Lord Bromvy!’ Lanry exclaimed with emotion in his old face. ‘It is… beyond words.’ The cleric abandoned any sense of propriety and flung his arms extravagantly round the young lord.
‘Easy, brother,’ said Brom. ‘You look thin and I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.’
Lanry looked down at his shrinking waistline. ‘Yes, I have been on an enforced diet for a month,’ he said with a smile.
Lord Bromvy of Canarn looked different – taller and more grizzled than the last time Lanry had seen him, with a hard look in his eyes and a few new scars on his face. His armour was of leather, with hardened wooden struts of a strange design. Lanry grinned broadly as he saw the cast of Brytag the World Raven on the hilt of Brom’s sword – an insignia of the house of Canarn that had been presented to him by Duke Hector on his sixteenth birthday. It was strange to see the young lord again, and stranger still that Brom had managed to keep hold of his longsword – a weapon noble in appearance and dangerous for a Black Guard to carry.
‘Did you return with an army?’ Lanry asked, only half joking.
‘No, but I’m here,’ said another voice from a shadow in the corner of the room.
‘Who…?’ began the cleric, before a swarthy Kirin man stepped into the light.
He was shorter and thinner than Brom, with lank black hair hanging to his shoulders. He carried a longbow across his back and a thin-bladed katana at his side. The strangest thing about the Kirin was the broad grin splashed across his face.
‘Rham Jas Rami. Pleased to meet you, Brother Lanry,’ said the Kirin, extending his hand. ‘I’d introduce you to our other friends, but they are a little shy, so they’re waiting in the city.’
Lanry was perplexed at the notorious Kirin assassin accompanying Lord Bromvy, but he shook his hand nonetheless.
Any allies are good allies, thought the cleric.
‘Do your friends number in the hundreds?’ he asked.
‘Forty… not including us two,’ said Brom, ‘but we have a plan.’
CHAPTER 10
HALLA SUMMER WOLF IN THE REALM OF WRAITH
The snow had disappeared swiftly as they moved inland and headed south-east from the frozen coastline, progressing slowly and with increasing caution as the days went on. Halla had insisted that her group of beleaguered Fjorlanders hold a defensive position close to the sea for no less than a week in order to allow wounds, both mental and physical, to heal as best they could, and now, a further week into their unplanned expedition, they were approaching the Grass Sea of Wraith Company.
Two hundred and five men of Fjorlan were all that had been accounted for. A further twenty had not left the beach and six had needed assistance to come this far. Most of the Ranen had taken off their armour and stowed it in carts they had manufactured out of the wreckage of the ships. They had no oil or metalworking equipment to care for their chain mail and breastplates, and Halla had ordered it to be preserved in case of need. They carried their weapons, though over the last week most had been used as walking sticks or for hunting, and the few whetstones that remained had been passed around to keep their blades sharp.
Hunting game on the low grassy plains was a challenge, and with no hunting bows or nets the party had been relying on stationary targets like Gorlan nests and edible mushrooms. Wulfrick had managed to sneak up on a deer and fell it with a well-aimed throw of his axe, but the meat had been tough and had not lasted long when divided among so large a group. Halla’s men, as she had begun to think of them, had not complained about their empty bellies, and each had done his bit during their forced march inland.
Rexel Falling Cloud was still limping but he acted as an invaluable lieutenant to Halla and she was grateful to have someone else do the shouting. Oleff Hard Head, the chain-master of Fredericksand, had displayed an unlikely talent for singing during their journey and had done his bit to keep their spirits up. His songs were usually vulgar, but amusing, and he had made the men laugh at the most inappropriate times. Even Wulfrick had been caught in the midst of a raucous belly laugh at one of Oleff’s songs – one of the few moments when he’d not been brooding over the loss of his thain.