by A. J. Smith
‘What do you want, Karesian?’ demanded Gwen. ‘We have little time for flags of parlay.’
‘Yes, that is your reputation,’ he replied. ‘Well, the reputation of the Red Prince. I do not know who you are.’
‘I am Gwendolyn Tiris, Queen of Tor Funweir. And don’t make me ask again.’
He smiled for the first time, though the expression lacked humour, not progressing much past a curl of the lip. ‘What do I want? I want to speak to your husband, to the new king. I bring terms from my lady of the Seven Sisters.’
‘Is this a fucking joke? We’ve hacked and slashed our way south from the ruin you left of Cozz. Do you think we’ll accept terms from your mistress?’
‘Just give the nod,’ whispered Symon, his eyes low and angry.
She thought about it. Maybe it was curiosity, or perhaps some lingering sense of honour, that stopped her executing the young Karesian.
‘You have a name, wind claw?’
‘Ramazon Kadri,’ he replied, ‘of Kessia.’
‘Follower of Jaa?’ she asked.
‘Of the Twisted Tree. The new and only world. A world you should embrace – or it will mean your death.’ He paused, surveying the men and forest-dwellers who would gladly cut his throat if Gwen gave the order. ‘But I am not here to deliver justice. That will come in time. I am here to deliver terms. I ask that you see me and my party safe to your king. We will peace-tie our weapons and trust in your honour that we will not be harmed.’
Again, curiosity took over. What did the witch have to say? What could she possibly have to say? Gwen knew that killing Ramazon was the safest course, but Xander would want to speak to him... and the husband was less charitable than the wife. The wind claw would certainly die; but there was no harm in hearing his words first.
‘My queen,’ prompted Symon.
‘They live,’ she replied. ‘Six Karesians are no threat and Xander will want to decide their fate himself.’
***
Though the Karesians were not harmed, they had to weather countless insults as they were escorted through the forward ranks of the army. Ramazon looked to the front, sparing no comments and also appearing to spare no concern for the multitudes that wanted him dead. Pavilions, campfires, kitchen wagons, stables – each section of the army had its own reasons for hating the Karesian and his people, and each warrior let the wind claw know. If he was surprised at the size of the army camped only a few days’ march from Weir, he didn’t show it.
Lord Markos had met them at the lines, adding a hundred Knights of the Dawn in escort and announcing their arrival.
‘Make way! We have an emissary from Weir. Clear the way for the queen!’
Everyone came to look. If the Karesians had not been surrounded by the knights, Gwen had no doubt that some overly eager Hawk would have sent a crossbow bolt or two into their ranks.
‘This is how it feels to be outnumbered and surrounded by enemies,’ she quipped, smirking at the wind claw.
‘I am not perturbed by the stares of lesser men,’ he replied, keeping his eyes forward. Luckily he’d not spoken loudly enough for the others to hear, so he remained alive after the insult.
It took time to move through the army, from the raven of Canarn to the white dove of the paladins and the red hawk of Haran. When the command pavilion appeared in front of them, they were deep within an army of Ro.
‘Ho there!’ shouted Markos.
From the large, octagonal tent, Xander, Daganay and Brennan appeared. They could not have been ignorant of the approaching riders. Word spread quickly among fighting men.
‘A warm afternoon,’ said Xander, smiling at the wind claw. ‘Perhaps get off that pony and have a cooling drink.’
He directed Markos to withdraw and the mounted knights formed a protective barrier round the pavilion. Beyond them, hundreds of soldiers looked for a chance to attack the Karesians, but stayed back as Gwen dismounted next to Ramazon Kadri.
Symon and Tyr Sigurd stayed in close escort and led the emissary into the command pavilion, while the other foreigners were herded together nearby. Xander kept looking at the wind claw until he disappeared behind the pavilion’s fabric. He then approached his wife.
‘You found a wandering envoy?’ he asked, kissing her fleetingly.
‘He had a white flag and everything,’ she replied, stroking his face. ‘The Mistress of Pain has a message.’
Major Brennan coughed. ‘Shall we just cut him up and send a few fingers back to Weir?’ he asked. ‘Maybe wrapped in his white flag.’
‘Please!’ objected Brother Daganay. ‘We are still bound by the laws of war.’
They all looked at him. Gwen thought him sincere and that, in a perfect world, his way was the better way. But they didn’t live in a perfect world and the war had moved far beyond rules and flags of truce.
‘I’ll at least say hello before I kill him,’ said Xander, leading them all back into his tent.
Symon had put the wind claw in a chair and he was surrounded by men-at-arms. Maps and troop movements had been removed from the central table and the tent was sparse and stifling, the southern heat caught within the thick canvas. Daganay sat at the table and drank from a goblet of wine, while Brennan remained standing behind Gwen and Xander.
‘King Alexander,’ intoned Ramazon, spreading his arms wide and bowing his head. ‘I greet you with respect and fear... and I bring terms from my mistress of the Seven Sisters.’
‘Respect and fear?’ queried Daganay. That’s an evocation of Jaa, not your dead god.’
‘Old habits,’ replied the wind claw, maintaining his poise. ‘Pleasure and pain are less useful when engaging in diplomacy.’
Xander stepped to a few feet in front of the emissary, and looked him up and down. ‘You’re unlikely to leave this tent alive. But be a good thrall and deliver your words first. If you speak without annoying me further, you’ll die quickly.’
Ramazon showed a flicker of fear, just creeping into the edges of his eyes, but his stoic expression did not change. ‘I’m here in peace, King Alexander, under a flag of truce. Please remain honourable!’
Xander let out a sinister chuckle. ‘I wonder how many people of Ro surrendered... how many begged for their lives – how many of them did you spare? And how many did you burn? You lost the right to parlay when you used sorcery to enthral Tor Funweir. You broke the rules. Don’t you dare impugn my honour for telling you to shove your flag up your arse.’
Brennan, almost as indignant as the general, drew his longsword and held it across Ramazon’s throat. ‘Do we need to hear his words, my lord?’
Xander appeared to consider it, but Gwen knew he’d already decided.
‘Speak,’ said the king. ‘Deliver your terms.’
The wind claw could no longer keep his composure. Sweat began to form on his forehead. He looked from Brennan’s sword to Xander’s glare. ‘You misunderstand my intentions... I am here to accept your surrender.’
Silence. Gwen couldn’t believe that the Mistress of Pain would be so arrogant. Or that Ramazon would show so little concern for his own survival. He sat opposite an angry cleric, looking at an angry general and his angry wife, while an angry soldier held a blade to his throat – and he spoke of surrender.
‘Please,’ said the wind claw, ‘allow me to continue.’
Xander gritted his teeth. ‘Continue,’ he snarled.
‘We may appear to your eyes as nothing but monsters, throwing our Hounds at an obstacle until it submits. But we are not without wit – and not without strategy.’ He was clearly scared, but his words were calm, arriving at their ears sounding like reasoned discourse.
‘We’ve been killing Hounds since we left Cozz,’ said Gwen. ‘Your strategy is not working.’
A curl appeared at the edge of Ramazon’s mouth. A nasty smile with too much confidence to be just bravado. ‘While you were assembling your meagre allies, we were not idle. Before Cozz was destroyed, we had two whip-masters in position at Leith. When ou
r campaign in the Fell ended, we had some spare troops. These Hounds – some sixty thousand – will be in position behind you within the week.’
Was it possible? In their haste to advance, could such a force have been waiting to the east? The hard glares that travelled round the pavilion – and the tightness that appeared on Xander’s lips – told her that the others believed it was indeed possible. If they’d come from Arnon, Markos and his paladins would have seen them; if they’d gone north from Weir, they’d have marched straight into the bulk of Xander’s army. But from the east, from the Fell and the Plains of Leith, an army could hold position, unmolested and unseen, until the Hawks had passed by and entered the hills of Narland.
‘Sixty thousand,’ muttered Brennan, his sword relaxing against Ramazon’s throat.
‘Do not fear, master Hawk,’ said the Karesian. ‘My mistress is generous. If your king surrenders, he will be allowed to return to Ro Tiris. His army may return to their homes.’ Despite his smile, sweat still ran down his face; clearly, with a sword to his throat, his confidence was only so much consolation. ‘If you allow me to return to Weir with your surrender you will all live. If not – you must know you can’t win.’
Xander’s eyes flicked from side to side as he thought of sixty thousand Hounds on his flank. Daganay glared at the Karesian, assessing his words and his manner. Brennan gradually let his sword ease away from the emissary’s neck. Symon and Gwen just looked at each other.
‘Is that all you have to say?’ Gwen asked Ramazon.
The wind claw sat upright in the chair and slowly wiped a bead of sweat from his cheek. ‘In Karesia, fear is a holy state. I find that I enjoy it. But, yes, that is the extent of my message.’
She killed him quickly, grabbing his hair and drawing her leaf-blade firmly across his throat. She wrenched his head forward until the blade cut his windpipe and he gurgled to death on his own blood.
‘Listen to me!’ she snapped at the others. ‘Even if he’s telling the truth, what’s changed? What the fuck has changed?’
‘Three are worth ten,’ muttered Symon, drawing all eyes to him. ‘In Cozz... when myself, Tyr Kalan and Queen Gwendolyn were fighting in dust and darkness. The three of us were worth ten of them – and we were wounded.’
Gwen let go of the Karesian’s hair and his body slumped to the canvas floor. ‘Three are worth ten,’ she repeated. ‘We beat them for armour, weapons, tactics, skill, morale, and we have nothing left to lose – they’re calling it the Lands of the Twisted fucking Tree.’
CHAPTER 13
FYNIUS BLACK CLAW AT SISTERS’ REACH
HIS DRAWING WAS rather good. He’d coloured in the grass and shaded the walls. On paper, from his imagination, Ro Hail looked different. In reality it was a miserable shit-hole, comprised primarily of ruined grey stone and rubbish weather. Rain, rain, wind, hale, rain, snow, and more rain. There was a lot of rain. They should have called it Ro Rain.
‘What are these?’ asked Vincent Hundred Howl, pointing at the drawing.
‘They’re walls, idiot. See? We don’t need half this shitty ruin, so we use the rest to start building walls. East to South Warden, west to the sea. We’ll need to establish quarries to the north.’
‘That’s a big wall,’ he replied.
‘Yup,’ agreed Fynius.
He imagined Sisters’ Reach as a fort, acting as a gateway through the wall he’d build.
‘We need a name for the wall,’ said Vincent. ‘How about Vincent’s Folly?’
‘How about the Wall of Vincent’s Gruesome Death... you fucking idiot.’
‘Fair enough,’ he replied. ‘Just making a point.’
‘A stupid point,’ said Fynius. ‘Go make it to someone else.’
‘Don’t need to tell me twice,’ muttered Vincent, sloping out of the ruined building and into the rain.
As Fynius’s cousin left, a hulking shape arrived. It loped across the rain-dappled cobbles, its huge head dipped and its stubby tail nestling between its hind legs. Warm Heart of the White Pack had decided that he would stay in Hail. The Volk war-hound had not yet shared his reasons, but Fynius had high hopes that his barks and growls would begin to make sense in a day or two.
‘Did Lady Bronwyn feed you?’ he asked, dropping his hand to let the hound sniff him.
The hound appeared happy enough. His mouth was open and he panted, seemingly unaware of his huge size and ability to intimidate. He didn’t roll on his belly, but Fynius could imagine him doing so. The hound had a way of making everything feel calmer. Suddenly, when there was a dog to pet, there was no great struggle or stress of a war yet to win; there was just a wagging tail and a smiling man.
‘You’re going to ruin my reputation, dog. These bastards are used to a gruff captain, not a man who melts at the sight of an over-sized hound.’
Fynius took a deep breath and slowed down. His brain worked better when his thoughts were gradual and methodical. He rolled up his drawings and backed away from the forward battlements of Hail, letting the hound follow. Behind him, pulling down ruined buildings and helping the remnants of Wraith Company back to their underground havens, were the five hundred men of Twilight Company. They wore light blue and served their captain with a smile, never asking from where his wisdom appeared. They knew. They just knew.
Fynius leapt off the bare stone and landed in the paved courtyard, splashing rain water across his boots. Warm Heart looked at him from above, then calmly padded down the nearby steps.
He had cartfuls of stone and mortar to direct; hundreds of men to lead and a town to rebuild. But he could also hear a raven’s caw and knew he was needed elsewhere. Leaving the burning torches behind him, he walked through the ruined gatehouse and on to the dark cobbles leading south into the Grass Sea. Outside the ruin was nothing but a cluster of trees. Nothing between Hail and Canarn but grass and emptiness. It was perfect. When Sisters’ Reach was built and the wall complete, there would be a fortress ready and waiting for the dark future Fynius had seen. He knew the future wasn’t set, but it pleased him to keep busy while waiting for the shades to assemble.
He walked further into the looming darkness, looking for Brom. The rain cut slices through the air, adding texture to nothingness. He stopped next to a thin tree that swayed steadily in the blustery wind. There were more trees like waving fingers in the distance, but everything else was black. Well, everything except the shimmering blue figure approaching him.
‘Hello,’ said Fynius, waving at the shade.
Brom nodded with a smile, showing how human he was becoming. ‘It is time,’ he said. ‘We have found a place to meet and all the surviving Shade Folk have agreed to parlay.’
Fynius rubbed his hands together. ‘Excited?’ he asked.
The shade frowned, apparently confused by the question. ‘I’m not sure I have felt excitement before. Yes, I believe I am excited.’
‘You should smile when you’re excited,’ said Fynius. ‘It reassures people.’
Brom absently petted Warm Heart, his ghostly hands passing through the dog’s enormous muzzle. They could see each other, but Warm Heart looked at the shade with sadness, as if he knew something was on his mind.
‘I had a sister and a father,’ said Brom. ‘I have been remembering them, and I find it difficult to smile when such thoughts appear.’
‘Bronwyn would be happy that you endure. Ask Warm Heart, he knows her best of all.’ The hound capered happily at Brom’s feet, showing his agreement.
‘Yes, but I worry that giving away our power to the other shades will cause me to forget them, to separate entirely from Bromvy Black Guard of Canarn. I would like at least to say goodbye.’
Fynius wanted to put a reassuring hand on the young man’s shoulder, or to make him solid enough that he could stroke Warm Heart properly for a few minutes, but he didn’t know how and they had somewhere to be. ‘If you don’t get to say goodbye to your sister, I promise I will say it for you. And I’ll tell her that you gave up your power to help the l
ands of men.’
‘Thank you, exemplar,’ replied the shade, now smiling weakly. ‘We should go. It would not do for us to be late to our own parlay table.’
***
It was a Ranen hall, plucked from his mind as easily as he’d recall a childhood memory. Warm, golden light from a deep fire-pit split the room and the heraldry of Twilight Company swayed in the rafters. A raven flying over a half-moon on a pale blue field. The walls were stone, with a vaulted roof of thatch and wide, shuttered windows, allowing fresh air and glistening light to fill the hall. He didn’t know if shades could eat and drink, but his mind had conjured barrels of ale and baskets of freshly baked bread. There was also a table. A table with six chairs. It was the only part of the hall that did not come from Fynius’s memory. Brytag had decided that they needed six chairs.
‘Well, I’m not standing up,’ he stated, plonking himself at the head of the rectangular table.
Brom appeared first, as if he’d been there all along. It was strange to see him whole, for his form had always been ghostly and indistinct. Now, though, the former lord of Canarn was as real as Fynius. His face was still calm, but there was now texture to his pale skin and black hair. He was clad in a simple robe of pale blue, identifying him as a shade through which Brytag would speak.
‘You look well,’ said Fynius. ‘It’s nice to see.’
‘Thank you,’ replied the shade, ‘it feels... nice. It is a strange thing to be one of the Shade Folk.’
‘I don’t think the gods thought you’d be needed again. You’re just a remnant of a more primitive kind of worship. They’ve been spoilt with their armies of clerics and priests.’
‘We are a purer form of devotee than any priest,’ said Brom. ‘Though we must now work together to be effective. A thing that has never happened in all the long ages of this land. The gods of men are prideful and arrogant; they remember slights, real and imagined, from thousands of years in the past.’
Fynius grinned, feeling excitement mounting. ‘This should be very interesting then.’