by A. J. Smith
As if to illustrate the point, the forest-dweller stepped into the room. Vasir was close to seven feet tall, and slender. His skin was a dusty grey and his hair and eyes were both jet-black. The White cleric stared at him. Vasir let himself be studied, reacting with nothing more than a slight twitch of his shoulders.
‘I don’t expect you to listen any more than the Purple, brother, but at least you’ll have something to ponder once we’re gone.’
Utha had repeatedly stated the futility of persuading other clerics that the Dokkalfar were merely a race of non-human beings, with culture, history and sophistication. Even Brother Torian, a Purple cleric that Utha and Randall had both admired greatly, was so influenced by the church’s propaganda as to be almost blind to the reality.
‘The Mandate of Severus has been church law for five hundred years,’ said Hobson, mildly.
‘It has never been a law of The One. It was a law of the Purple,’ replied Utha. ‘I don’t think The One gives a shit about non-humans. Cardinal Severus did, that’s all. And no-one questions it.’
‘Well, your friend certainly doesn’t seem... dangerous,’ Hobson said hesitantly.
Utha laughed – the first good-natured sound he’d made in weeks. ‘Let’s not get carried away, brother, he is most definitely dangerous. But he doesn’t eat children or abduct women, if that’s what you mean.’
Vasir tilted his head at Utha. The forest-dweller didn’t understand humour, but Randall thought he may have been aware that he was being teased.
‘I will have to report that I have encountered you, Brother Utha,’ said Hobson quietly.
Utha nodded his head. ‘Would you give us the courtesy of a day’s head start?’
‘I’m sorry, no.’ The old cleric bowed his head.
‘I understand, brother.’
For a second, Randall feared his master would seek to silence the healer, but Utha crossed to the door and motioned for Hobson to follow.
‘I would ask that you leave us now,’ the Black cleric said, ‘and I hope the One looks down on you with more kindness than he has shown me.’
Hobson bowed his head and the two churchmen shared a moment of prayer before parting.
‘Brother,’ Utha said as Hobson exited, ‘at least walk slowly back to your chapel.’
The White cleric smiled and nodded before turning his back on the three of them. Randall regretted intruding upon the old man’s life, but it was at least gratifying to meet another honourable cleric.
‘Well...’ said Utha. ‘We’re wanted by clerics, enchantresses and mercenaries. Apparently we killed Prince Christophe, and our odds of survival in Tor Funweir are slim.’ He screwed up his face. ‘I don’t fancy going to Ranen or Karesia, so I’d say our best option is to get lost in the Fell.’
Vasir immediately began to gather up their belongings.
‘You’re keen,’ said Randall.
‘Indeed,’ responded the forest-dweller, ‘I am eager to assist the Shadow and will gladly give my life to see him safely to the woods of my people.’
Utha stood angrily. ‘Stop fucking calling me the Shadow... I’m just a man.’ He was almost shouting.
Vasir tilted his head and regarded the Black cleric before speaking. ‘You are many things, Brother Utha of Arnon, but you are certainly not just a man. You possess the blood of the ancients, you are an old-blood of the Shadow Giants, and you are friend to the Dokkalfar – whether you wish it or not.’
Utha was silent for a moment and then slumped back into his chair. ‘Seriously, do we have any wine?’
‘Of course we don’t have any wine,’ replied Randall. ‘I thought survival was more important than getting drunk.’ He spoke with more venom than he had intended. ‘Sorry.’
‘I’ll let it pass.’ Utha said wearily. ‘Let’s just get out of Voy.’
* * *
Brother Hobson was not a man given to panic, but sitting tied roughly to his chair before Sir Hallam Pevain, he began to feel a sense of dread. Pevain was the leader of a large company of mercenaries recently returned from Canarn with a greatly diminished force. He carried a large warhammer of Ranen design and worked for a witch called Saara the Mistress of Pain.
It had been two days since Hobson had reported the presence of Brother Utha to the knight marshal’s office and several hours since the mercenaries had begun questioning him. His bewilderment that a mercenary knight was hunting down the rogue cleric was matched only by his confusion that everyone seemed to be working for the Karesian enchantresses – or our beloved allies as they were frequently called.
‘I’m getting sick of asking the same questions, brother,’ said the black-armoured knight in a guttural growl.
‘So stop asking, Sir Pevain,’ responded Hobson.
‘Utha the Ghost was seen two days ago in Voy and you insist that he was on his own.’ Pevain was simple-minded but dangerous.
‘I didn’t say he was on his own,’ responded Hobson. ‘He had a young squire and a risen man with him.’
‘Yes, yes, so you say – but no Kirin?’ The knight had insisted that Utha must have been accompanied by a Kirin assassin. ‘My mistress sent me to hunt down two men, Utha the Ghost and Rham Jas Rami. They are both evil men who consort with the risen and our beloved allies believe they will be working together.’
‘I haven’t seen a Kirin in Voy for many years.’
‘I’ll give you one last chance to tell the truth, brother.’ Pevain leered.
‘I saw Utha of Arnon, a young squire and a forest-dweller,’ repeated Hobson; he could not keep his attention from Pevain’s hammer.
‘Risen man,’ corrected Pevain, ‘an evil undead monster.’
The White cleric shook his head. ‘Whatever you want to call him, he was tall, with grey skin and black eyes.’
Pevain rested his hammer in Hobson’s lap. ‘And the Kirin? Fucked if I know why, but she places great worth on their capture... Utha and Rham Jas.’
Hobson forced a smile even as sweat began to sting his eyes. A noble knight would never harm a cleric of peace and healing, but Pevain was not noble and Hobson suspected the mercenary acted mostly on whim. ‘I can only repeat the truth so many times, sir knight,’ he said.
‘That’s a shame, brother.’ Pevain pulled back his hammer and swung for Hobson’s head.
The cleric didn’t feel any pain and, after eighty years of life it might be said that Brother Hobson of Voy had lived a good life.
CHAPTER 2
DALIAN THIEF TAKER IN THE CITY OF RO WEIR
The window sill was wide enough for Dalian to stand on, but not so wide as to be particularly safe. The Mistress of Pain had a scheduled meeting with her two hound commanders and Dalian was eager to hear their plans. He risked a glance inside. The enchantress was sitting at a desk reading an old leather-bound book.
The Thief Taker was a man unmatched in his skill and devotion to Jaa, but now he was a fugitive, falsely accused of treachery. He was nearing his fiftieth year of life, and as he balanced precariously seven storeys up from the ground, all he could think was that he was too old to be clambering about outside buildings. Surely Jaa wanted him to be reclining on a chair somewhere, within sight of the sea, with a glass of wine in his hand.
He was not even sure which part of the city he was in. Ro Weir was peculiar among the great cities of Ro in that its population consisted of many Karesians and Kirin, men who were more alarmed by the presence of the hounds than the native Ro. He suspected that the foreign presence in the city was mostly of the criminal variety – Karesians who, for whatever reason, could not return to Karesia.
He had been here for over a month and had successfully lost himself in the criminal culture of the city’s port side, a near-slum called the Kirin Tor. He had reluctantly thrown his black armour into the sewer that ran the length of the city and had made an effort to conceal both his face and his kris knives. The wave-bladed weapons were too distinctive in Tor Funweir, causing jagged wounds that an astute observer would quickly l
ink to one of Jaa’s faithful. He disliked having to conceal his presence and found subversion in general to be distasteful, but the Thief Taker was nothing if not pragmatic. He was in a foreign city that had willingly submitted to hound occupation under the guidance of a treacherous enchantress, and Dalian Thief Taker, greatest of the wind claws, believed himself to be the only servant of Jaa that could stop her.
‘I’m doing my best, lord,’ he said to the air, addressing the Fire Giant, ‘but this window ledge is rather narrow and I am not as thin as I was.’ He hoped that Jaa would hear him and cushion any fall to the cobbles below. I won’t doubt or fear, lord, but I still dislike heights.
The spell of the Seven Sisters was strong. They had fooled the faithful into believing that they spoke the will of the Fire Giant. The Thief Taker had been framed for the death of a fellow wind claw. But, he thought, he had never been the kind of man to hide, and he hoped he was harder to kill than the enchantress and her thralls realized. Dalian had stowed away on one of the hound barges and travelled with them from Kessia. The faceless armies of Karesia numbered many thousand – he judged at least thirty – though they were spread out and chaotically organized. I am one man against an army, lord. I hope they are ready.
At a sound from within he crouched down against the stone wall the better to see through the dirty window. Saara’s office was part of Duke Lyam’s private rooms. She had somehow convinced the Ro noble that allowing an occupation force of hounds was a wise idea and, even now, small packs moved throughout Tor Funweir carrying out the Seven Sisters’ bidding. The enchantress effectively ruled the city.
‘My Lady Saara,’ said a deep voice from within, ‘we await your orders.’
As the speaker moved into his eyeline, Dalian recognized Turve Ramhe, a whip-master and Saara’s second in command. The hound commander was standing in black plate armour and wore an expression of disgust on his scarred face. Next to him stood a dark-haired woman in her early thirties. She wore identical armour and carried a two-handed scimitar across her back: Izra Sabal, a sadistic whip-mistress whom Saara had put in charge of maintaining order in Ro Weir. Both the visitors to Saara’s chamber were unswervingly loyal to the Seven Sisters. They mistakenly believed that they were the highest authority of Jaa’s will.
‘Turve, Izra, please sit,’ Saara said in her lyrical voice. ‘Would either of you like refreshment?’
The hounds declined. Dalian watched them sit down awkwardly in wooden chairs barely big enough to contain them in their armour.
‘Ro Weir is secured, my mistress,’ Izra growled out of the corner of her mouth. Her jaw was slightly out of place. ‘We have not had to immolate anyone for several days.’
Dalian’s lip curled. His gaze was drawn over the roofs of buildings to the knight marshal’s office where several hundred charred wooden stakes could be seen. The hounds were not accustomed to civil disobedience and would simply burn the perpetrators alive rather than lock them up. Prisons were a Ro concept that the Karesians had never adopted. Dalian knew he was far from a good man; he had immolated hundreds of people, but always in the name of Jaa. Izra, on the other hand, took wanton delight in any opportunity to make someone scream. And these were not her people. She had burned Karesian next to Ro next to Kirin.
‘Excellent.’ Saara laughed sweetly. ‘A month to secure the second largest population in Tor Funweir. I would say that is rather impressive. Now I have other orders for you both.’
Dalian thought he could discern the hounds swell with eagerness to conduct further atrocities on Saara’s behalf. Saara was an enchantress without equal; she had certainly wormed her way into the heads of Izra and Turve. Dalian was disgusted.
‘We exist to serve you, mistress,’ Turve stated proudly.
‘I know... and I am forever grateful for your loyalty, Master Ramhe.’ Dalian could only see the back of Saara’s head, but he was certain she wore an expression of seductive serenity.
‘Izra,’ she began formally, ‘you will take a force of two thousand hounds north. Your destination is Cozz and, more importantly, the merchants’ wealth that the enclave contains.’
Izra’s eyes began to sparkle at the prospect of more death and destruction. ‘Am I to sack the town, mistress?’ asked the hound commander.
‘Only if necessary,’ replied the enchantress. ‘I imagine it will be sensible to conduct a few lessons in cruelty to keep the populace in line... much as you have done in Weir. But so long as Knight Marshal Wesson opens his gates for you, I see no need to destroy the enclave. After all, we need its wealth if we are to further our occupation beyond the south lands of Tor Funweir.’
‘It will be as you say, mistress.’ In Izra’s eyes Dalian saw the telltale euphoria that marked those under the influence of enchantment.
‘You will take twenty of the captive risen men with you, to be killed if you need additional forces,’ Saara said quietly.
‘They will not be needed, I assure you,’ responded the whip-mistress. ‘My hounds will be more than enough for a town of merchants.’
‘You misunderstand,’ Saara said, with a sinister note in her voice. ‘I want you to birth more Dark Young.’
For a moment, Dalian thought he saw a trace of hesitation cross Izra’s face, but then she bowed her head. ‘It shall be as you say, mistress.’
Saara leant back in her chair. ‘Turve, you will take a larger force – five thousand hounds should be sufficient – to the plains of Leith and the deep woods of the Fell. There you are to burn the risen men out of their home and capture all that flee.’
The whip-master’s face contorted in what looked like violent pleasure. Dalian cared little for the non-human occupants of Tor Funweir, but was suspicious of all Saara’s motives. There was a larger game being played out by the Seven Sisters, and their final goal eluded him.
‘And what of the old-blood and the dark-blood?’ asked Turve.
‘Pevain has taken his bastards north to find them. I believe they will ally against us, if they have not already done so, and we should all be wary. The assassin is a most dangerous foe, capable of causing great damage to our cause.’
‘And the Ghost?’ prompted Izra.
‘He killed the prince of Ro. I think his own people will turn him in, given the chance.’
Dalian drew himself out of sight. He had made enquiries among the city’s less-reputable populace regarding the identity and location of the Kirin assassin. Few were willing to talk about him and the Thief Taker was beginning to realize that Rham Jas Rami had a fearsome reputation. Most seemed afraid even to speak his name. The word was Rham Jas was friend to Al-Hasim, but even if Al-Hasim were in Ro, Dalian had no way to locate him. The Thief Taker had not seen his son for ten long years.
Dalian turned and began the climb back down to Kirin Tor.
* * *
The two hounds had been on duty for ten hours straight, as had Dalian, waiting in the shadow of Ro Weir’s northern gate. He hoped they would be relieved soon. I am patient, lord, truly I am. But I will need rest and food at some stage.
He had arranged to meet a particularly paranoid information broker, a man of Ro who claimed to know something about the location of a Karesian scoundrel known as the Prince of the Wastes, which he recognized as his son’s pretentious sobriquet.
The broker had insisted that they meet outside the gate. Dalian understood his paranoia and hoped the man actually knew something. He planned to leave Weir and travel north, another anonymous Karesian face among Izra’s hounds. The merchant enclave of Cozz saw many kinds of business, he thought it the most likely place to start looking for Rham Jas Rami and Al-Hasim. He hoped this broker would give him some valuable contacts in the city.
One of the two hounds on guard began to yawn and Dalian sensed an opportunity. It was early morning, not yet fully light, and the Thief Taker moved closer. He made little effort to remain hidden and trusted that his cloak and nondescript clothing would mask his identity. Timing was important – he had no desire to be inte
rrupted by the relief shift. With a window of no more than a few minutes, he walked slowly but deliberately towards the gate.
The hounds moved to intercept him.
‘Turn round,’ said the first hound. ‘This gate is off limits to common folk.’
Neither of the black-armoured men drew their weapon, and Dalian sauntered closer.
‘Did you not hear me, Ro?’ asked the hound.
‘I’m not a Ro,’ he said, smashing his fist into the throat of one of the guards and spinning to kick the other in the chest before he could react to the sudden attack.
The first guard fell to the ground and gasped for breath through his crushed windpipe. Dalian was quickly on top of the second man; he wrapped an arm round his neck and twisted until he heard it snap.
He stood up and stamped on the first man’s head, crushing the man’s skull.
No one had seen him and Dalian didn’t wait to find out if anyone had heard the men die. He stole one of the hound’s scimitars, tucked it into his belt and pushed open the inner door of the north gate. Before him the road was empty.
Thank you, lord, that went better than expected. The muster field was visible off to the east, sprawling across the fields of Weir, though the palisade and guard towers were far off, making it unlikely that anyone would see him leaving. To the west, a deserted sea of farmhouses and stables stretched to the coast, mostly intact, but all abandoned for the relative safety of the city.
Nontheless, he took pains to move between the deserted buildings with stealth. He started when he heard the low crackle of a fire from a nearby stable. He slowed his pace and crouched under a wooden beam, between mismatched planks.
Putting his eye to a shard of light from within, Dalian saw a young man sitting in a yellow glow of fire, a bottle of wine in his hand and a crossbow resting next to him on the floor. He looked younger than Dalian had expected – barely twenty years old – and the Thief Taker, a man who had just murdered two of his own countrymen in cold blood, could not help but feel a moment of sympathy for a scared young man.