The Long War 01 - The Black Guard

by A. J. Smith

  Then, with no more posturing, Rillion attacked. The knight commander was older than Magnus by more than ten years, but those years had given him experience and a skill that the priest of the Order of the Hammer had rarely encountered. He also wielded two blades to Magnus’s one and he deftly pushed him back with a dizzying array of swordsmanship. They clashed with swift, glancing strikes and it was clear that Rillion was not going to trade powerful blows with Magnus or be drawn into a contest of strength that he couldn’t win.

  Magnus focused on the knight before him and managed to hold his ground, using his strength to keep Rillion in a defensive stance, as they fought back and forth across the bloodstained floor. The priest knew that the longer their duel lasted, the weaker Rillion would become. He couldn’t find an opening in the knight’s defence, but he knew that a long encounter would be more to his advantage than Rillion’s. He didn’t channel the rage of Rowanoco, knowing that to keep his wits about him would be the key to defeating such a skilled opponent.

  Then, more risen men began to appear from the side doors and Magnus saw the odds change. Those that had entered the keep through the secret tunnels had done their work in despatching the other knights and now they moved to join the main force in the great hall. None of them paid any particular attention to Rafn or the other dead forest-dwellers but simply stood with their kin opposite the line of knights – a line that now looked small and inadequate. The knights numbered fewer than half the forest-dwellers and Magnus surmised that if Rillion were to fall, his men would surrender.

  The knight commander’s face showed anger and something akin to surprise as, maybe for the first time, he contemplated defeat. Magnus knew that their battle was still in question, however, and when Rillion attacked again the knight’s skill was tinged with more ferocity than before. He abandoned his defensive stance and launched an all-out attack, raining swift cuts at Magnus from high and low. The Ranen priest pulled back and parried as best he could, but without armour Magnus knew that he was in trouble. He didn’t allow himself to look at the risen men standing nearby, or at the bloodied form of Brom, as to do so would have meant his death.

  Then a heavy blow from the knight connected. Magnus had parried a downward swing but had not been able to move aside to avoid the follow-up thrust, which caught him in the stomach. He’d managed to move far enough to ensure that the leaf-blade connected nearer his side than his middle, but in turning away from the blade he’d caused the wound to rip open.

  Magnus didn’t fall or drop his blade, though the pain was excruciating. He slapped the leaf-blade away and disengaged as quickly as he could.

  Sweating and gritting his teeth, he said, ‘You’ve lost, Rillion. Canarn is no longer yours and one way or another, you’re dead.’ He felt light-headed as he spoke and was struggling to stay standing.

  Then Brom moved – slowly at first, as if he’d been conscious for a few moments and was now ready to act. His sword had not fallen far from his hand and he silently grasped it before lunging from the floor towards Knight Commander Rillion. The knight heard him grunt with the exertion and turned to see the ornate cast of Brytag the World Raven just before the blade connected with his breastplate and pierced far enough through to bite into flesh. Brom collided heavily with the commander and didn’t stop moving forwards, pushing his sword deeper into Rillion’s chest. The knight didn’t cry out as the sword emerged at an upward angle through his back.

  ‘Killed by a Black Guard… how dishonourable,’ he whimpered.

  Rillion was dead by the time he and Brom hit the floor and all those present stood silent for a moment, the smell of blood, death and burned wood hanging in the air. Brom didn’t stand up but just looked at the commander’s face, while the remaining Red knights were too stunned to act.

  Magnus smiled and had a distant thought of his brother and how proud Algenon would be of what had happened here. He lamented not having told Rham Jas about his son. Then his wound caused the darkness to cloud over his vision and he fell to the floor.

  * * *

  Rham Jas Rami was as silent as he knew how to be as he entered the antechamber. Beyond, he caught a quick glimpse of the enchantress as she made her way towards the great hall. They’d been playing cat and mouse games for the past few minutes and the witch hadn’t stopped cackling to herself as Rham Jas had dealt one by one with the many knights who were still in the keep. She’d protected herself well with men of Ro, who were clearly prepared to die for her. Rham Jas noticed the noise from the hall had decreased and guessed that Magnus must have dealt with Rillion, leaving only Ameira and Rham Jas to finish their game. The enchantress had appeared somehow too confident, as if she had a card yet to play.

  ‘Rham Jas!’ a voice sounded from the hall.

  Brom was clearly still alive and his cry indicated that Ameira was entering the great hall. Rham Jas moved after her. He couldn’t see Ameira, but he knew she was close.

  Rham Jas stayed silent as he stepped on to the carpet and made his way towards the main hall. He could see the Dokkalfar and Brom standing in the light next to a kneeling group of surrendered knights. Magnus was lying on the floor with two forest-dwellers tending to him. Rham Jas couldn’t tell whether he was alive or not.

  Suddenly the pressure in the air increased violently, causing everyone in the great hall frantically to raise their hands to their ears and to cry out. Ameira had appeared through the forest of pillars, her hands held wide and with a look of deviant pleasure on her face. Rham Jas smiled as he realized that whatever sorcery she was employing was not working on him. Slowly he drew an explosive arrow and moved round a pillar. He could see the knights and the Dokkalfar bent over in pain. Rham Jas could feel the pressure, but it was like a simple hum in his ears and not uncomfortable in any way.

  ‘The Dead God will accept your lives as a sacrifice… may you die in exquisite pain,’ said Ameira, contorting with pleasure as she spoke. ‘Rham Jas Rami, come here…’ She gestured with her hand and Rham Jas felt a gentle pull in her direction. It was easy enough to resist and he surmised that this was something else to which he was immune.

  Notching the black-wart arrow to his bow and striking the wick into a gentle flame, the Kirin assassin stepped into view.

  ‘You are powerless to harm me… we have consumed your offspring and with his blood we were granted new power over you. Your son was eaten… he was eaten.’ She laughed manically as she spoke.

  Rham Jas paused a moment, stunned by the words. Nearby, Brom was doubled over on the floor, pale with blood loss and holding his ears. His eyes were clouded as he looked up at his friend, imploring him to shoot.

  With effort, he forced his mouth to frame the words and spat out, ‘Light the bitch up.’

  Rham Jas looked through the small flame at the end of his arrow and saw Ameira the Lady of Spiders laughing. Her body was undulating in a grotesque, inhuman dance and she directed baleful eyes at him. With a deep breath, Rham Jas Rami loosed his arrow. It flew straight and true and struck the enchantress in the breast, exploding violently. She didn’t have time to register surprise before her body blew apart and spread across the stone floor of the great hall.

  * * *

  Saara the Mistress of Pain threw her head back and cried out in anguish as she felt her sister die. Somewhere to the north the unthinkable had happened, and Saara sat up in bed, her fingers grasping the bedclothes, sweat running down her body. The warm night air of Ro Weir blew briskly through the window as she quickly stood up, shaking off the intense nausea that Ameira’s death had brought on.

  Breathing deeply, Saara moved to the window and closed her eyes as she faced the breeze. Yesterday she had been told that the last remaining old-blood, Utha the Ghost, had escaped and today she had lost a sister. As far as their plan had come, and as close as Shub-Nillurath was to being reborn, things could still go wrong.

  Saara had been told in her prayer to the Dead God that the blood-sacrifice of Zeldantor would protect them against his father. It was a bl
ow to find out that he was still able to harm them. Saara began to think of a replacement sister. Seventeen women had borne the title of Lady of Spiders. She would have to send a message to the abbey at Oron Kaa to begin preparing an eighteenth.

  As for her prayer to the Dead God, she determined to meditate on it and to find a new way of interpreting her master’s will. She cared little or nothing for the chunk of flesh that had been Ameira, and she was strangely excited at the prospect of a challenge to her own might.

  She smiled and thought of her next move. The subjugation of Ranen was all but a certainty, with Rulag Ursa in the north already having taken control of Fredericksand and the foolish Ro bringing their law to the south lands.

  In Tor Funweir, Saara was confident that her Hounds would be adequate to the task of hunting down the Dokkalfar and herding them together for the purpose of birthing new Dark Young. Many had already been taken, and now that she had Ar Kral Desh Jek Saara knew that in the end she would triumph. It was inevitable.

  EPILOGUE

  Bromvy of Canarn had no title. He was not a lord, a duke or a thain, and the name of Black Guard was not one that he could display.

  As he stood on the high battlements of his father’s keep, with the straits of Canarn below, he thought of the Seven Sisters and of his promise to the Dokkalfar. The forest-dwellers who had fallen during the fight had already been arranged into a pyre and Brother Lanry was about to set them alight.

  Magnus lay face up on his own pyre, a white shroud covering his body in the Ranen way. The priest of the Order of the Hammer was one of the bravest men Brom had ever known and to see him dead was a hard thing to bear. If it was to be his and Rham Jas’s task to stand against the Seven Sisters and their Dead God, Brom lamented that Magnus would not be at their side.

  Pevain had fled with a few men aboard one of the Red knights’ vessels, although several dozen mercenaries were still hiding in the city. Otherwise, Canarn was free.

  Tyr Nanon appeared behind the Black Guard and coughed politely – a human gesture that the forest-dweller didn’t quite get right.

  ‘How’s your wound?’ he asked.

  Brom looked at the bandage he wore across his shoulder and chest. ‘Lanry says it’ll heal and I’ll be left with a bastard of a scar… his actual words.’

  ‘I never fully understood the human need to curse for emphasis,’ the Dokkalfar said, screwing up his face. ‘Rafn just used to hit people. It had the same effect.’

  Brom smiled and realized the cold wasn’t bothering him. The winds that blew off the straits had a tendency to make the people of Canarn stay indoors and to build large fireplaces.

  ‘We swear when we’re angry… I do anyway. Lanry swears because no one expects him to.’ The Brown cleric played the part of a kindly old man, but he was as jaded as any of the One God’s followers.

  He stepped away from the battlements and faced Nanon. ‘Did you want something?’

  The old Tyr nodded. ‘I wanted to warn you.’

  ‘About what?’ Brom was confused.

  ‘You’ve entered the fray, Ro man… this war is more dangerous than you can know,’ Nanon replied cryptically.

  ‘I may have missed something, my friend, but I thought we’d won.’

  The Dokkalfar smiled. ‘That’s not what I mean… you’re a soldier in the Long War now, whether you like it or not.’ He put his hand on Brom’s shoulder. ‘Enjoy the moments of peace… the Giants’ war doesn’t allow them very often.’

  Brom wished that he understood – he wished that he was with his father and sister and that he’d never heard of the Seven Sisters or their Dead God. To be a soldier in the Long War was beyond his understanding. The more time he spent with Nanon, the more helpless and insignificant he felt.

  * * *

  Several hours and several funeral pyres later and Brom was sitting in his father’s study, the room Sir Rillion had used for the past month. He’d removed anything that was red in colour and had thrown two Red knight banners on the funeral pyres. He had not yet returned to his old room and he was not keen to see who had been sleeping there, or what state they’d left it in. Currently he was content merely to remove his armour, unbuckle his sword and have a drink. Lanry and Rham Jas had joined him and the mood was far from jovial.

  ‘What if Pevain reaches Tiris and they send another fleet of knights?’ asked Brother Lanry, taking a pull on his pipe.

  ‘Unlikely,’ replied Brom. ‘From what the prisoners say, the barracks in Tiris are mostly empty now and any reinforcements will be sent to join the king. I don’t think they ever really gave a peasant’s piss for Ro Canarn.’

  Lanry shook his head. ‘So much death for so little gain.’

  ‘And we’re not exactly helpless anyway,’ supplied Rham Jas with a grin. ‘Nanon and a few of the others want to stay. You never know, Canarn may become the first place where men and Dokkalfar live side by side.’ He considered his own words. ‘You’ll need to plant more trees, though.’

  Brom took a long swig of ale and wiped the foam from his chin. ‘There’s much that needs doing and planting trees isn’t near the top of my list. People are sick, homeless and many have lost family and friends. Canarn is not going to be the same for a long time yet.’

  ‘Well, with no rationing of food and healing supplies, the worst of the despair will pass quickly,’ said Lanry. ‘Pevain had ample food and water for everyone, but refused to give it out. I’ve sent Fulton and a few others to open the warehouses and give the people back what was pillaged. Full bellies will make everything seem better in short order.’

  Brom had left the Brown cleric to minister to the populace and, other than an address planned for the following morning, he thought his time would be best spent thinking about the army of knights of the Red far to the north and about his sister’s safety. If Canarn could be made strong again, it would provide a pivotal southern fortress for the Freelands and, Brom hoped, it might even prevent reinforcements being sent across the straits. There was no other usable landing on the coast of Canarn and the docks of his city were the first thing that needed to be reinforced and defended. If the king wanted more men to come north, they would have to go overland through the Darkwald and Hunter’s Cross.

  ‘How long do you want me to stay for?’ Rham Jas asked. The Kirin had been a little quieter since the death of Ameira and the news of his son was clearly playing on his mind. ‘I’ve got a few… appointments.’

  ‘I hope you’re not planning to go on an enchantress killing spree without me,’ Brom said with a friendly smile.

  ‘That was the plan,’ Rham Jas replied without humour. ‘I’m the only one who is immune to their…’ he wiggled his fingers in the air, ‘sorcery, or whatever you call it.’

  BESTIARY

  COMPANION WRITINGS ON BEASTS BOTH FABULOUS & FEARSOME

  THE TROLLS OF FJORLAN, THE ICE MEN OF ROWANOCO

  History does not record a time when the Ice Men did not prowl the wastes of Fjorlan. A constant hazard to common folk and warrior alike, the trolls are relentless eating machines; never replete, they consume rocks, trees, flesh and bone. A saying amongst the Order of the Hammer suggests that the only things they don’t eat are snow and ice, and that this is out of reverence for their father, the Ice Giant himself.

  Stories from my youth speak of great ballistae, mounted on carts, used to fire thick wooden arrows in defence of settlements. The trolls were confused by bells attached to the arrows and would often wander off rather than attack. Worryingly, there are few records of men killing the Ice Men, and those that do exist speak of wily battle-brothers stampeding them off high cliffs.

  In quiet moments, with only a man of the Hammer for company, I wonder if the Ice Men have more of a claim on this land than us.

  From ‘Memories from a Hall’ by Alguin Teardrop Larsson,

  first thain of Fredericksand

  THE GORLAN SPIDERS

  Of the beasts that crawl, swim and fly, none are as varied and unpredictable as the g
reat spiders of Nar Gorlan. The northern men of Tor Funweir speak of hunting spiders, the size of large dogs, which carry virulent poisons and view men as just another kind of prey. Even the icy wastes of Fjorlan have trapdoor Gorlan, called ice spiders, which assail travellers and drain the body fluids from them.

  However, none of these northerners know of the true eight-legged terror that exists in the world. These are great spiders, known in Karesia as Gorlan Mothers, which can – and indeed do – speak. Not actually evil, they nonetheless possess a keen intelligence and a loathing for all things with two legs.

  Beyond the Gloom Gates is a land of web and poison, a land of fang and silence and a land where man should not venture.

  From ‘Far Karesia: A Land of Terror’ by Marazon Vekerian,

  lesser vizier of Rikara

  ITHQAS AND AQAS, THE BLIND AND MINDLESS KRAKENS OF THE FJORLAN SEA

  It troubles me to write of the Kraken straits, for we have not had an attack for some years now and to do so would be like tempting fate. But I am the lore-master of Kalall’s Deep and it must fall to me.

  There are remnants of the Giant age abroad in our world and, to the eyes of this old man, they should be left alone. Not only for the sake of safety, but to remind us all that old stories are more terrifying when drawn into reality.

  But I digress. The Giants of the ocean were formless, if legend is to be believed, and travelled with the endless and chaotic waters wherever tide and wind took them.

  As a cough in Deep Time, they rose up against the Ice Giants and were vanquished. The greatest of the number – near-gods themselves – had the honour of being felled by the great ice hammer of the Earth Shaker and were sent down to gnaw on rocks and fish at the bottom of the endless seas. The Blind Idiot Gods they were called when men still thought to name such things. But as ages passed and men forgot, they simply became the Krakens, very real and more than enough when seen to drive the bravest man to his knees in terror.