by A. J. Smith
‘Kill him!’ shouted Archibald Tiris, with a crack in his voice.
Rham Jas grinned as fifty men drew their swords and advanced. He darted backwards and took a forward roll away from the dead enchantress, avoiding the clumsy nobles in their plate armour as he dived down the stairs.
Glenwood again lost sight of the Kirin as he sprinted in zigzag lines, avoiding the multitude of men trying to apprehend him. With shaking hand, the man of Leith closed the door to the side room.
He could hear shouting as he reached the window and, as he climbed out and hung from the window sill in the cool night of Tiris, a bell began to sound from the knight marshal’s barracks.
* * *
Saara grabbed the sides of her head and cried out in pain. A dozen faces entered her mind and each one burrowed in further, causing a pain the like of which the enchantress had never experienced before. Each was a man whom Katja had enchanted, and each now belonged to Saara. She could feel the shadow of Cardinal Mobius, Lord Archibald Tiris, Animustus Voy and many others intrude upon her own thralls. Each of the men was now a little weaker, a little closer to the edge and a little harder to control. It might be a day, or a week, but if Saara didn’t focus her thoughts, she knew that they would all begin to lose their own minds. With both Mobius and the king as her shadow thralls, the Mistress of Pain needed time to plan and to ensure that the invasion of Ranen took place as she desired.
‘My sweet,’ Kamran Kainen said gently from next to her, ‘what has happened?’ They were still in bed and the sun had yet to rise.
‘I am... not myself,’ replied Saara, ‘please leave me.’ The pounding in her head made conversation difficult and she wanted her lover to go while she accustomed herself to her new shadow thralls.
Kamran stroked her naked shoulder and kissed her neck tenderly. ‘I can serve, my lady. As you like...’
She pushed the wind claw away and clenched her fists, attempting to shut out the pain. ‘Leave!’ she shouted; she had not even the strength to enchant the man. He frowned but rose quickly and pulled on a black robe to cover his muscular body.
Saara closed her eyes and held her head. Try as she might, she could not shut out the men enchanted by Katja. She was overwhelmed with fear, rage, frustration, pride... a hundred emotions felt by her new thralls.
As Kamran neared the door to her bedchamber, Saara felt a predatory urge.
‘Kamran,’ she said quietly, ‘come here.’
The wind claw turned.
‘I need you.’ She looked up, letting the satin bedclothes fall from her naked shoulders.
Kamran waited a moment, letting a smile come to his face and his robe fall to the ground before he crossed the room to kiss her. She returned his kiss, then gripped the sides of his head and stared into his eyes.
The wind claw did not realize what was happening at first and continued smiling as Saara’s grip became firmer, until Kamran’s eyes betrayed a hint of anxiety. ‘Shh, my sweet,’ she whispered, ‘I need your strength.’
It happened slowly. Kamran tried to move away, but he was helpless in her grasp. His face became a mask of terror.
‘My lady...’ His words were strangled as Saara slowly drew his life force into her, rejuvenating and cleansing her fractured mind. He flailed in her grasp as she slowly destroyed his mind. Blood appeared from his eyes, nose and ears, staining the white sheets. Saara cried with pleasure.
He died slowly and she used every morsel of the pain he felt to bring herself to the edge of ecstasy. She writhed in his blood and strangled every ounce of life from the man.
When Kamran Kainen had stopped screaming and lay motionless, Saara fell back heavily on the bed. Her head was clear and she felt focused again for the first time in weeks, though looking down at the desiccated corpse of her lover made her wince slightly. She was not squeamish, but she would need clean bedclothes before she took a new lover into her chamber.
Standing up and looking down at her body, wet with sweat and blood, her only thought was for her sisters. Those who were still alive would know of Katja’s death, and they would also know that a new Hand of Despair would take years to train, like the new Lady of Spiders, a young girl currently being tortured into compliance at the abbey of Oron Kaa. At the rate the dark-blood was going, they could not afford to wait. The Mistress of Pain was patient, but the subjugation of the Ro had been meticulously planned and her scheme for the Freelands had been years in conception. If Rham Jas Rami could despatch the enchantresses so easily, a back-up plan would be necessary. Sasha the Illusionist was still in Kessia with the Kirin assassin’s daughter. It would be wise to send for them both. She should also send for more hounds – five hundred thousand seemed a good number. With no enchantresses to keep the Ro in line, a more martial solution would be necessary.
CHAPTER 4
FALLON OF LEITH IN THE RUINS OF RO HAIL
The realm of Wraith was one of the more miserable places in the lands of men. Fallon had served on the front line of numerous conflicts, he’d slept in ruins, farms, under canvas, wood, leaves and, on one particularly memorable occasion, half-buried in mud. He was a knight captain of the Red, newly promoted after the death of his commander and friend, William of Verellian. However, all he could think as he stood, soaked in rain on the northern battlements of Ro Hail, was that he hated the lands of Ranen. Cold, featureless and permanently raining, he wondered why the Ro had ever bothered to conquer the place and, several centuries later, why they were bothering to do it again.
Fallon was thirty-two years of age and one of the finest swordsmen among the knights of the Red. He’d never known his match in combat, whether in a duel to first blood, a training exercise or a brutal encounter on a battlefield. The knight captain thought of himself as a fine example of his breed – tall, lean and well armoured in red plate, his dark brown hair cut close and his movements fluid. However, fifteen years as a knight had lent him a cynical and pragmatic edge that frequently placed him at odds with the more sadistic knights around him. Fallon was a true fighting man who valued honour, skill and duty. Unfortunately, he was all too aware that his superiors were mostly idiotic old men or pampered nobles. Verellian was one of the few whom he had admired, a man with both a sword and a brain, a combination that was sadly rare.
Currently, the Red knight was under the direct authority of a Purple cleric called Mobius, a cardinal of the One with the ear of the king and the heart of a warmonger. The cleric of nobility had adopted the position of general since Commander Rillion had been killed in Ro Canarn and King Sebastian had gone into seclusion. The knights had kept their displeasure to themselves as Mobius ordered them around and made his will known.
Fallon, who had endured a number of lengthy briefings, knew that Mobius’s will included the subjugation of Ranen, or the peasants and lesser men as he insisted on calling them. The cardinal had even sent to Darkwald for reinforcements and the local yeomanry were apparently moving up to join the force of five thousand knights currently camped in Ro Hail. Fallon doubted he’d be there to greet them as he would be leaving on a scouting mission to the east within the next few hours.
‘Captain, the men are at the ready.’ The voice came from Sergeant Ohms, a man remarkable both for his skill with a sword and for his frustrating formality.
Fallon didn’t turn his gaze from the northern plains. ‘Where are you from, sergeant?’
‘Sir?’ responded the lesser knight in confusion.
‘Where do you call home? When you’re not part of an invasion force.’ Fallon stepped back from the battlements and faced the sergeant. ‘I lost my whole unit on that courtyard a month ago and I’d like to get to know my new men.’
A half-smile appeared on Ohms’s face and he nodded slightly before glancing down into the rain-soaked courtyard. It had been in their hands for a little over a month, but a lot of men had died to secure it from Wraith Company.
The sergeant turned back to Fallon. ‘Near Du Ban, a place called Old Ohms Bridge.’
‘Nice place, is it?’ the captain asked.
Ohms screwed up his face and shook his head. ‘Not unless you like olives. There are a lot of olives.’
‘I hate olives,’ said Fallon, smiling.
‘As do I... that’s why I left.’ The sergeant turned and walked slowly towards the stone steps that led down to the courtyard.
Beneath them was a great force of Red knights. Most were armed and armoured, but they had been largely idle for several weeks. The banners of the Red, two crossed longswords over a clenched fist, hung from a hundred tents. Although the purple sceptre of nobility was displayed prominently over the command pavilion, the army was decidedly Red.
The wait, as Wraith Company got further and further away, had been agonizing. Mobius had said little to the troops, leaving it to Knight Commander Tristram to give the occasional speech about duty to the One. Fallon had largely stopped listening, but he suspected that Tristram was merely a puppet of the cardinal, who in turn was probably doing the bidding of the king, whom Fallon had only seen once since he had been retrieved from the Fjorlanders two weeks before.
‘At least we’re rid of the enchantress,’ Fallon said to himself, following Sergeant Ohms down the steps.
He’d read several reports about what had occurred a month ago in Ro Canarn and each had been slightly more ambiguous than the last. The gist of it, once filtered through a myriad otherworldly speculations, seemed to be that Bromvy Black Guard had returned to his home and killed Knight Commander Rillion. Quite how the enchantress had been despatched was one of many details that were unclear, but Fallon had been assured that Ameira the Lady of Spiders was certainly dead. Both Verellian and Fallon had seen the disquieting influence the enchantress had exerted over Rillion and, more worryingly, the king. The young knight was glad she was dead. Other news from Ro Tiris suggested that a rogue Black cleric had killed Prince Christophe, and this made the king’s seclusion a matter of further concern.
‘Knight Captain Fallon.’ The voice was loud and came from one of Tristram’s adjutants, a sycophantic captain from Tiris called Taufel.
‘Men are ready,’ Fallon responded quietly without turning.
‘Later... now, the cardinal wants a word, captain.’ Taufel was younger than Fallon and had, by all accounts, never seen combat.
‘I’m a knight of the Red, like you,’ Fallon responded, with just a hint of exasperation in his voice. ‘Let the Purple talk to the Purple, I don’t answer to the cardinal... and you shouldn’t be running his errands.’ Fallon glared down at the inexperienced knight and was aware that Sergeant Ohms was doing the same. ‘If the knight commander wants to speak to me, all he has to do is order me to attend him... but Mobius is no knight.’
Captain Taufel looked offended, one of many indications that he was more than a little naive about the often stormy relationship between the Red and Purple aspects of the One God. The knights would follow orders only so long as Cardinal Mobius was filtering them through Tristram.
‘Okay, captain... I suppose Commander Tristram awaits your attendance.’ Taufel smiled thinly in an attempt to appear both professional and confident.
‘That’s better,’ grunted Ohms.
Fallon banged his fist against his breastplate in salute and started across the courtyard. The sergeant was one step behind him and Taufel followed a moment later. They walked among massed knights and bound men, slouching around low-burning campfires. Whatever reason Tristram, Mobius and the king had for delaying their pursuit of Wraith Company, it was becoming frustrating.
Several old stone buildings had been torn down and the central courtyard of Ro Hail was a sea of military tents, with red pavilions housing the commanders and senior knights of the king’s army. Fallon preferred to stay in the northern courtyard where the rank and file knights made their home and had only visited the king’s ground for briefings and the occasional reprimand. In the month since he had been named captain, Fallon had been shouted at by his commander on several occasions and it seemed as if Tristram was regretting the promotion. However, Fallon knew they were short of experienced knights and, with the loss of Verellian, everyone with battle experience needed to be in a position of command.
‘I’m not sure I should be accompanying you, sir,’ said Ohms as they moved between the red tents. ‘I don’t like the way the officers look at me.’
Fallon turned to his sergeant and smiled warmly. ‘Officers are allowed to look at you any way they want, sergeant. Just make sure you don’t look back.’
‘All the same, if you’ll not be needing me, I’ll return to the men.’ He was clearly uncomfortable on the king’s ground.
‘Very well, we should be leaving within the hour. Tell Theron to see to it,’ Fallon replied, with a formal salute.
Ohms returned his salute and marched swiftly back to the northern courtyard, leaving Fallon and Captain Taufel to make their way to the commander’s pavilion.
‘You served under Captain Verellian, is that right?’ asked Taufel, walking towards a line of guardsmen in ceremonial attire.
‘I was his adjutant, yes.’ Fallon preferred not to discuss his friend and disliked the fact that he was constantly being compared with the hawk-faced old knight captain.
‘Is it true that he bested a dozen men of Wraith before they took him?’ Taufel had the look of an excitable child as he imagined a heroic tale of battle.
‘Nothing so grand, I’m afraid,’ Fallon responded. ‘We were outnumbered and everyone but me was killed on a rain-soaked courtyard, far from home. Verellian was still alive when I fled.’
‘But it was a glorious last stand?’ the young captain pressed.
Fallon stopped walking and faced the young knight. ‘Have you ever drawn that sword with the intention of sticking it in a man’s flesh?’ he asked coldly.
Taufel spluttered and looked down at his pristine longsword. ‘Well, no, captain, this is my first posting. I hope to see combat at South Warden.’
Fallon nodded. ‘Okay, so ask me about heroics and glory once you’ve killed a few Free Company men. Things seem different when you have fresh blood on your face.’
He strode on without giving Taufel a chance to respond. Fallon was not a cruel man, but he had little time for the romance of chivalry and duelling that was still being taught on the training grounds of Arnon and Tiris. He had seen more than one young knight of the Red rendered catatonic by the reality of sword fighting.
‘You’re to go straight in,’ Taufel said, rushing to catch up with him.
The line of guardsmen saluted in unison and the middle two men stepped aside to allow the Red knights entrance to Commander Tristram’s pavilion. Once inside, the two men bowed respectfully to those within as the tent flap was closed behind them.
Knight Commander Tristram stood, alongside Cardinal Mobius and another Purple cleric named Jakan, around a central table, the contents of which were just being cleared away by bound men. Fallon saw the remains of a large meal, showing that those in command ate better than their subordinates. A stained map of Ranen was unrolled across the table and the commander raised his chin to direct a welcoming look at Captain Fallon. All three wore plate armour, but only Tristram’s showed any sign of use. Cardinal Mobius had insisted on a fresh breastplate after he had fought the company of Fjorlanders a month before, and Fallon guessed that Jakan had never received a dent in his pristine armour. Purple clerics had a tendency to play at being soldiers. He felt their presence among so many good men and dutiful knights as an insult to the Red aspect of the One God.
‘That will be all, Captain Taufel,’ Tristram said, waving at his adjutant.
The young knight saluted enthusiastically and left.
The commander then turned to Fallon. ‘Captain, you and I need a clarification before I send you out east.’
Fallon did not react. He stood at ease, waiting for whatever dressing-down he was about to receive. Cardinal Mobius was regarding him through narrow eyes and Fallon found himself wishing he could tell the Purpl
e churchman exactly what he thought of him. For the time being, he kept quiet and returned the cardinal’s glare.
‘I do believe the young knight dislikes me,’ Mobius said with a sneer.
‘Captain Fallon will do his duty, my lord,’ Tristram responded. ‘And I don’t believe he’s required to like you.’
The young cleric, Brother Jakan, looked offended at the implication behind Tristram’s words and seemed as if he were about to object. A hand casually raised by the cardinal silenced him.
‘Indeed, but he will, I hope, do as he’s told,’ Mobius replied.
Tristram smiled tolerantly. ‘That, you should never doubt, my lord.’
Fallon guessed that the commander’s hands were tied. If the king wanted Mobius and the Purple in charge, then there was little the senior knight could do about it. It did, however, make Fallon feel better to see Tristram act as a knight should.
‘Captain, you and your men – fifty knights, I believe – are to advance east until you meet resistance. At that point, you are to stop and fortify your position. Once you send a message back to Hail giving your location, we will advance on your position with the remainder of the army and the engineers will begin assembling the siege equipment.’ Tristram was speaking formally and his strategy was consistent with an invasion. South Warden was no ruin and its capture would doubtless cost more lives than Ro Hail.
‘Understood, sir,’ replied Fallon.
‘I believe the cardinal also wishes a word before you depart,’ Tristram said in a voice that suggested he was unhappy about something.
Mobius came to stand before Fallon. He was a large man, though shorter than the captain by several inches. His face was shaved and his hair well groomed. Fallon, in contrast, had shaved infrequently over the last month and had the countenance of a toughened soldier. He was also without his red cloak, having lost it in Ro Canarn several months before, and despite Verellian’s chiding he had not yet found a replacement.