by A. J. Smith
***
The new gaoler of Canarn was a cheerful man with a chubby face and huge arms. He looked after twelve cells and one prisoner, and he did so while sipping from a cup of wine and telling bawdy jokes. Fallon liked him, but was getting sick of waiting.
‘Sorry, milord, but the duke needs to okay every visitor.’
‘Duchess,’ corrected the Grey Knight. ‘And I understand. I just wish she’d hurry up.’
‘She’s got a lot to ponder, that one,’ replied the gaoler. ‘Letting you visit the crippled red man ain’t that important.’
‘Crippled? He’s lost fingers, not legs.’
He shrugged. ‘I know a few game girls that would argue on that point – if ya know what I mean?’ He grinned and his chin wrinkled up.
‘I was a knight up until recently,’ replied Fallon. ‘My knowledge of game girls is minimal.’
‘Truly? Strapping young lad like you?’ His grin remained as he inspected the tall swordsman. Fallon frowned, feeling suddenly aware of his piecemeal armour and unwashed face. ‘Actually, maybe not,’ said the gaoler eventually. ‘Ladies like a man with a sense of humour. You’re just a grim slice of muscle.’
Fallon laughed. A grim slice of muscle indeed.
From the moss-covered stone steps leading to the keep, Auker appeared. The sullen guardsman was alone and noisily munching on a handful of grapes. ‘Evening,’ he grumbled, spitting out a pip. ‘Lady Bronwyn has decided that she doesn’t give a shit if you want to compare tales of woe with William of Verellian. She’s busy resupplying the Red Army and mustering any ship she can beg, borrow or steal.’
The dungeons of the city were as modest as its crime rate. A small, coastal city with ample food and space for all. There was little need to steal. He imagined the cells spent much of their time empty, with only occasional Ranen priests or turncoat Red Knights in residence. As a result, the space was not comfortable or warm.
‘You know I’ve been listening to you whinge at the gaoler for half an hour?’ said a deep, gravelly voice. ‘I’ve not lost my ears.’
‘Should have said something,’ Fallon replied, coming to a stop in front of a smiling mess of dirt and stained red clothing.
‘You should have bought me some fucking food,’ said William of Verellian, sitting up in his cell.
The old knight looked the same. He was dirty and thin, but his sharp face hadn’t changed. He still looked like a bird of prey, even with a few months’ growth of hair.
‘Never seen you with hair,’ said Fallon.
‘Do you know, the good people of Canarn don’t seem to care about my appearance.’
They both chuckled and Verellian rose, offering his crippled right hand through the cell bars. Fallon grasped it warmly and the two old friends shared a moment of laughter. It had been a long time and much had changed, but they would always be brothers.
‘Still alive,’ they said in unison. It was a simple declaration, but one they’d shared a hundred times since they packed their saddlebags and left the barracks at Ro Arnon. For a Red Knight it was the most to be hoped for.
‘Lots to say,’ said Fallon. ‘Wish we had some wine.’
The old knight captain raised his eyebrows. ‘Last we spoke you still wore Red. You hadn’t yet uncorked – or turned your cloak.’
‘Does information not reach the dungeons?’ quipped the Grey Knight.
‘I heard rumours... something about South Warden, but nothing clear. Fallon of Leith turned his back on the knights... may my eyes see the halls beyond before they see such a thing again.’ He looked his old lieutenant up and down. ‘Light armour, no helmet – where’s your sword? That hunk of iron’s a piece of shit, soldier.’
‘Some Red Knight has it, I think,’ replied Fallon. ‘That pig-fucker Jakan took it. He’s dead by the way.’
‘You?’ asked Verellian with a smile.
Fallon nodded. ‘He was good... but arrogant.’
Verellian breathed in deeply, a look of quiet contentment on his sharp face. ‘It’s good to see you, Fallon.’
Catching up took time. The gaoler wouldn’t open the cell, but he at least provided a chair. A bottle of cheap red wine lubricated their conversation and an hour came and went in jovial discourse. At least it was jovial until Fallon said he was the exemplar of the One and intended to ride for the south. Even Verellian, his oldest friend, thought him insane.
‘You’re mad,’ said the old knight.
‘I don’t think so,’ he replied. ‘I think I’m important. I never wanted to be important, but someone in the halls beyond disagrees.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ asked Verellian. ‘Even with three fingers I’m worth something in a fight.’
‘But I’m mad.’
William smirked, looking like a young man for a second. ‘You’re my friend, and a madman needs friends. I was never as good as you,’ he said, holding up his maimed hand. ‘Now I’m not as good as an average knight. But I’m still better than any fucking Hound.’
‘There’s something more,’ said Fallon. ‘I’m to found a new order – the Knights of the Grey. I’d like you to join. We’re to stand for honour and you’re the most honourable man I know.’
‘High praise, coming from you,’ replied William. ‘And will Knights of the Grey be able to drink? Or are we going to be humourless bastards like the Purple?’
Fallon wanted to make some kind of quip back, but he felt protective over his new order of knights and didn’t want to begin in humour. ‘I’ll know more soon,’ he replied, not divulging the existence of Torian’s shade. ‘But we will have to rebuild. The One God has put his faith in us. I don’t think nobility, war, poverty, death or any of his aspects are what he wants any more. He’s chosen to make honour his highest aspect, and he’s chosen me to represent it. So, I don’t care if you drink.’
‘Fuck a pig, Fallon,’ snapped Verellian. ‘Why is this happening now? Why not twenty years from now when I’m warm and fat in my own keep? The world could end then and I’d raise a glass to its passing.’
‘Don’t you want to be Sir William of Verellian again? And follow honour rather than war?’ He looked at the battered old soldier. ‘Have you held a sword since Jakan beat the shit out of you?’
‘Nope. And before that I hadn’t held one since Captain Horrock beat the shit out of me in Hail.’
‘You obviously need the practice,’ said Fallon. ‘There’ll be plenty of Hounds to kill where we’re going. Make a difference from killing Ranen.’
Verellian frowned. ‘The blood always comes out the same colour.’
They looked at each other. The old knight tried to stare him down, his gaze conveying doubt and pride in equal measure. He was a clever man, and Fallon had no doubt that his head would be whirling with questions and speculation, though his hawk-like face was intense and still.
***
On the high battlements of Canarn, with a harsh sea breeze whipping across the cobbles, Fallon looked at the men who would be the first Knights of the Grey. They would be the first to set sail from the city and the first to strike at the enemy. They would be mounted on fresh horses, armed with sharpened blades and supplied with food and water. Two fast sloops would take them to Tiris and from there they would ride hard to catch up to King Alexander. Though an army would follow, they knew that much rested on their shoulders.
He had selected two hundred men, mostly Red Knights, with a scattering of yeomanry, but each chosen for his honourable reputation and skill with the blade. Frith had recommended many of them, insisting that Fallon take only his best knights.
William of Verellian and Ohms of the Bridge had been Fallon’s own choice, but one he knew he wouldn’t regret.
‘We are the last of the old order and the first of the new,’ he said reverentially. ‘We are Knights of the Grey.’
Fallon drew his sword and dropped the blade on to William’s armoured shoulders, knighting him for the second time. ‘I name you Sir William of Verellian, Knight of
the Grey and protector of Tor Funweir. You follow the aspect of honour.’
Verellian closed his eyes as the blade touched each of his shoulders. A sliver of glowing light left the blade and caressed his sharp features, flowing into his extremities and disappearing. He was the second Grey Knight and stood as if he knew what it meant, his hawk face locked into an expression of certainty. ‘To the end,’ he said, offering Fallon his hand.
They grasped forearms. The old knight was revitalized, much as he would have been when he first took the Red. The One God, through his exemplar, had blessed him with a new office, though his true power was dependent on Torian’s shade returning.
Fallon repeated the ritual for Ohms and then Lucius of the Falls, a young knight captain, and then the rest of his company, letting the One God bless each of them with a new strength of purpose as a Knight of the Grey. There were only two hundred of them, making them the second smallest order of churchmen in Tor Funweir after the Black clerics, but they would one day be the largest. It was as if the kaleidoscope of colours before their god’s eyes had parted and allowed honour to return.
CHAPTER 7
UTHA THE GHOST IN ORON KAA
HE OPENED HIS eyes and saw blue sky and a burning orb of yellow. Was it real? Or some new part of his journey through the Jekkan causeway? It played tricks on him. Some strange battle of wits, designed to disorient and confuse. The ancient magic could not harm him directly, so it sought to lead him astray or cause him to become lost. None of it had worked. He’d followed the story across a hundred pillars and forced the chaotic magic to show him the way out.
He rubbed his eyes and looked again. The sky was still there, as was the blazing sun. Utha hadn’t seen daylight for... he didn’t know how long. Weeks certainly, perhaps longer. Was this still Karesia? Had he found Oron Kaa at the edge of the world? He didn’t remember leaving the causeway or falling asleep.
Looking down, he reassured himself that he was still whole. Two arms, two legs, everything where it was supposed to be. His sword and mace were still in his belt, his boots were still tied and a cough confirmed he still had his voice. His fingertips crackled with sensitivity as he clenched his fists in the sand.
Still he felt the pull south. Something was drawing him there. The staircase, the labyrinth and the Guardian. Were they in Oron Kaa, or was it just another step on the road? Voon had told him that it was the last place from where a mortal ascended to the halls beyond. Even to Utha this was an impossible thing to comprehend. It was a riddle, a mystery, a tangle of eternity he could never unravel. He constantly tried. In quiet moments and hours of sleep, it was all his mind gave him. More questions and no answers. Who was he? Why did the Shadow Giant still call to him? The god was dead, but he was still dreaming. Am I just a part of his dream?
First things first, get up and get moving.
There was no road, no signs of civilization, just the endless sky and the featureless desert. At the edge of his vision, shimmering on the southern horizon, mountains formed a jagged line. He imagined he was the only traveller within a thousand leagues.
He stood up. His breathing was steady and he wasn’t tired. His head was clear and his limbs felt strong. The power he’d stolen from the Jekkans was still with him. It would take time to understand exactly how he had changed, but, for now, Utha took a deep breath and started to walk towards the mountains.
***
Hours sped past and he started to see things, emerging out of the distorted horizon. Figures moved across his vision, formed from rippling sand and swaying mountains. They danced left and right as wispy, rolling forms, disappearing before he could focus on them.
He stopped walking as a figure stopped moving. It formed like the others, flowing from sand and rock, but it didn’t disappear. Stranger still, it slowly became red in colour. Not vibrant, but bright enough to stand out.
He rubbed his eyes again and focused. He was sure of what he was seeing. This was not the Jekkan causeway. This was the land of men and he was seeing a figure moving towards him. The figure was robed in dull red, flowing from head to toe. The wispy fabric was tattered and torn and the figure glided above the desert floor, a sprite of colour and texture amidst grey nothingness. A strange buzzing sound accompanied the creature and a spidery tingle travelled up his spine.
The figure stopped a distance away. There were no discernible features and its limbs were formed of opaque cloud.
‘I am the Queen in Red.’ The voice was in his head. It was a woman’s voice, old and cracked. ‘It is time to take off your mask.’
‘I am Utha the Ghost, last Old Blood of the Shadow Giants. And I wear no mask.’
‘Then I welcome you to Oron Kaa,’ said the red figure. ‘You will be treated with reverence. You will sample delights, both human and godly. You will forget your life through pleasure and pain. Join your friend, the exemplar.’
Voon! At least the Karesian had found his way out of the causeway.
He felt enchantment. It was subtle and strong, coming from an ancient wellspring of power that he didn’t understand. But it didn’t affect him.
‘I don’t think so,’ he replied. ‘Lead me to Oron Kaa; release Voon.’
The figure moved closer. Red rags cocooned it, wrapped tightly around the torso and face, and yet something maddening, more maddening than the buzzing, shone from behind the dull fabric. Utha was difficult to scare, especially so now, but he took an involuntary step backwards all the same.
‘What are you?’ he asked, looking for something tangible or human in the floating apparition.
‘I am the beginning and the end. I am the Tyrant of Oron Kaa. I am the mother of insects and the daughter of Shub-Nillurath.’
‘You’re the matron mother,’ he said. ‘You’re just an old woman.’
The red figure tried again to enchant him. It was like a war-hammer to the head, a huge thump of violent pressure pushing into his mind. He winced and pulled himself upright.
‘Give yourself to me.’
‘Didn’t you hear me?’ he growled. ‘I’m Utha the Ghost, last Old Blood of the Shadow Giants.’
He pushed forward, a surge of energy emanating from his outstretched arms. It began in his mind – just a thought to make the creature disappear – but it left his body as a pulse of raw force, smashing into the Queen in Red and overwhelming her. The enchantment stopped and the apparition recoiled, its red robes shrinking into a tight mass.
He kept his focus, pushing more and more force at the creature. It was as if he’d discovered a new sense, a new way of interacting with the world.
And then it was gone.
***
The minaret was visible over the line of saw-toothed mountain peaks. It bulged from a narrow tower and was topped with a needle-like spire, pointing upwards into the shimmering sky. Was it a town or just an old monument? Glinting sections of reflective glass blinded him every few steps, frustratingly close.
Utha was walking through foothills, imagining there would be a mountain pass somewhere. There was no sign of the sea or a road. No civilization at all beyond the strange minaret. It felt like the edge of the world. The mountains were now lower, but no less impassable. There were caves – some tiny, others twice as tall as him – but all appeared empty. Even the vegetation was minimal.
He trudged onwards. The mountains got lower and lower until the minaret was fully visible and maddeningly close. It was red and gold, and of a construction he’d never before seen. Different from the architecture of Kessia and a world away from the grey stone of Tor Funweir. Its surface was covered in shining squares of coloured glass, alternating red and gold. Twisted forms weaved round the windowless structure, seemingly narrow tubes connecting the levels.
Then a break in the mountains appeared and he stopped walking. Through a narrow fissure in the rock face, Utha spied low buildings and a craggy coastline. The pathway appeared to be a natural break in the landscape.
‘There you are,’ he muttered.
He slowl
y made his way through the dusty fissure. Walls of sheer stone rose either side of him, creating a dusky, twilight glow.
The buildings ahead were squat and domed, like smaller versions of the minaret, including more twisted tubes. As he moved along the fissure, the settlement took shape. It was larger than it had first appeared. The motionless sea claimed a small portion of the vista and an empty harbour was built on to the low rocks. He wouldn’t call it a town; maybe a village or a large monastery. The smaller domes were arrayed round the minaret in a tight, organized circle. It looked like no town of men he’d seen. The streets were too narrow; most buildings had no entrances; only the thin tubes connected the structures. The place made his spine tingle.
He reached the end of the fissure and stood in awe. The mountainside had been carved into grotesque images. On either side of him, rising fifty feet or more, were Dark Young, hewn out of the rock face. They flanked the entrance to Oron Kaa and blocked out the rising moonlight. The branches were thick tendrils of chiselled stone, snaking into the air. The detail was maddeningly accurate. Each line and curve of the bark was skilfully etched out of rock. If they’d been painted black, they’d be near indistinguishable from the real thing.
Voon was in here somewhere, as was the matron mother. He’d worry about the staircase, the labyrinth and the Guardian after he’d rescued the exemplar.
With the looming statues behind him, Utha stepped on to a paved street. It was one of many, all narrow and leading directly to the minaret. Now that he was closer, the detail made him pause – strange symbols and eldritch patterns, weaving colour into each building and tube. Amber, glass, crystal, all intricately embedded into the surface of Oron Kaa.
There was something else. As he squeezed past domes and inched towards the minaret, Utha felt a sensation like pressure building. It began as a hum, getting louder as he moved forward. There was power here. Real power. Not the parlour tricks of the White clerics or the enchantment of the Seven Sisters. It was more, deeper, older.