The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood

by A. J. Smith

Nanon smiled at the last word and thought for a moment that Brom had understood something. ‘Everyone you mentioned has something in common... with you and with me,’ he said gently. ‘We are soldiers in the Long War... you just have to wait a bit longer before you take the field. There’ll be plenty of enemies left to fight when Lord Bromvy of Canarn marches to war.’

  Nanon did not wait for his friend to respond. He turned back to the balcony, took two large steps forward, and leapt over the low stone wall. Brom shouted in alarm and rushed forward as Nanon flew downwards. He had not judged the jump particularly well and felt a little foolish at having succumbed to the need to show off rather than simply exiting the keep by the door. He concentrated as he fell, allowing his mind to slow and his body to change. Nanon had not taken the shape of a bird for over a century, but the feeling of feathers ruffled by the sea wind was as welcome as ever.

  With a loud caw, the black hawk that had been Nanon pulled up well before the rocks and soared out to sea, leaving a stunned Bromvy, lord of Canarn, standing on his balcony. Nanon chuckled inwardly as he picked up a wind current and relaxed his wings. Only the oldest Tyr were gifted with the ability to take animal form, and most no longer used it. Nanon had to confess that he had done it mostly to surprise his friend Brom. As he began to enjoy the sensation of flying again, the Dokkalfar thought his type of humour was much superior to that of the humans.

  As he flew south, Nanon grew worried. Things were moving quickly now and he felt the need of guidance.

  * * *

  Bromvy didn’t get much sleep after Nanon had left. Not because the infuriating grey-skin had turned into a bird, but because the young lord of Canarn was deeply troubled. He had seen enough strange things since he had begun associating with the Dokkalfar that the discovery of Nanon’s shape-shifting ability did not surprise him that much.

  He smiled and rolled over in bed as he realized how worldly he had become in a few short months. Bromvy had been a well-travelled noble and, on occasion, a virtual vagabond, but only recently had his search for an interesting life really taken off. Since Canarn had been attacked by knights of the Red and his father executed, everything had changed. He saw a world open before him that he could never have imagined. A world of enchantresses, Giants and monsters. Nanon would simply say that Brom had seen beyond the now of man to the forever beyond.

  He yawned and made one last attempt to sleep, trying to shut out the thoughts that kept him awake. Hannah rolled over in her sleep and lazily put an arm over his chest. He had accepted the need to marry her and judged her an attractive match, both as a wife and as a lover, but he didn’t relish the prospect of staying in Canarn and producing children while the Long War – or whatever Nanon called it – was fought without him.

  Hannah’s father was a farm-owner to the east – or maybe the west, he wasn’t sure – but he knew his allegiance would be important if Brom were to establish Canarn as an independent duchy, tentatively allied with the Ranen. He kissed her on the forehead and delicately removed himself from her arms. Standing up from the bed, he puffed out his cheeks and accepted that sleep was not going to come. Crossing to the dresser, he inspected the jagged scar than ran down his left shoulder. Brother Lanry was a skilled healer, but the blade of Knight Commander Rillion had nearly killed him and Brom quite liked having the ugly scar by which to remember the man. Rillion had also killed Magnus, and the lord of Canarn was just as keen to remember that. News of the death of the priest of the Order of the Hammer would have reached South Warden by now, and Al-Hasim would probably be getting very drunk as a result. The world seemed smaller without Father Magnus Forkbeard in it.

  Autumn was turning into winter and a bitter wind blew from the straits of Canarn across the city, making it necessary to wear thick fur clothing outside. Bromvy kept his hall warm, but the common men and women of Canarn, who had already endured the occupation, now looked set for a hard winter.

  The population had decreased greatly, but those that were left had shown strength of spirit as they helped rebuild the city and welcomed in the Dokkalfar refugees. Bromvy had worried that their visitors would not be welcome, but in fact their sacrifices for the liberation of Canarn had been much appreciated by the Ro. Nanon had helped greatly and he was now viewed affectionately as a comical diplomat.

  Pulling on his fur-lined boots and heavy woollen tunic, Bromvy quietly left his chamber and shivered as he stood with Sergeant Auker on duty outside. ‘How long till dawn?’ he asked.

  ‘An hour or two, my lord,’ responded the guardsman. ‘Can’t sleep?’

  ‘Not tonight, no,’ Bromvy answered, with a tired smile. ‘You know something, Auker, I saw Nanon turn into a hawk tonight... but it’s the prospect of an arranged marriage that I can’t stop thinking about.’

  Auker nodded and screwed up his face slightly. ‘A hawk, you say?’ He thought about it. ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’

  Brom chuckled as Auker echoed his own thoughts. ‘Have we had word from South Warden yet?’ he asked.

  ‘You asked me that before you went to bed, my lord. I’ve got the same answer now as I had then. No, we’ve received no word from South Warden. Lanry must have got there by now, but it’ll be a week at least until we hear back.’

  Brom was barely listening and had asked the question merely out of habit.

  ‘Lord Bromvy,’ said Auker sharply, making his master suddenly become more alert. ‘You okay?’

  Brom nodded. ‘Yes... sorry, I’ve a lot to think about.’ He smiled at the guardsman. ‘I’ll be on the balcony if you need me.’

  ‘Sunrise in an hour or so, my lord,’ Auker said, as Brom loped off down the stone passageway.

  CHAPTER 8

  RANDALL OF DARKWALD IN THE MERCHANT ENCLAVE OF COZZ

  He had grown used to the need to post a watch during the night, but still hated having to rise from slumber before the sun was up. He had managed to get the last watch most nights, in the mistaken belief that it was the easier shift, but he still spent most of the time fighting to stay awake.

  The last watch of the night meant that he got to see the sun rise and the night turn into day. The sight was beautiful, but it had an edge of melancholy as well, as if the world wasn’t quite sure that it deserved another day of sun.

  He moved further behind the large tree, trying to keep as low to the ground as possible. Their camp was well off the King’s Highway and there was a large area of open ground between the copse of trees and the road, allowing him to see southwards clearly.

  The morning was crisp, with swirling winds travelling north across the open plains of Tor Funweir. Utha and Vasir were sitting round the remnants of their nightly cook-fire – now down to the smouldering embers with a pot of porridge slowly warming – while Randall had gone to investigate a distant sound. Utha was rubbing sleep from his eyes and was in a foul mood, whereas the Dokkalfar was as calm as ever, showing no signs of having been woken prematurely.

  The trees and the distance gave Randall ample cover from whatever might be approaching, but he was still worried about the strange noise. It had started as a rhythmic clank of metal, too uniform to be just a squad of soldiers or clerics and too loud to be a single rider. As he looked, he had seen a cloud of dust appear. At first it was merely a gentle distortion in the air, maybe a trick of the morning light. However, the cloud became larger and the sound grew louder until a shimmering black line appeared to the south. It was irregular and indicated a large force of armoured men moving slowly in practised step.

  The first rank of a large force was marching along the King’s Highway, stretching a hundred feet or so either side of the road. The men wore black plate armour and strange, anonymous-looking helms, with no facial features visible. If it had not been for differences in size and height, the soldiers would have been completely indistinguishable from one another. A hollow drumbeat kept the men in time, a deep and regular accompaniment to the familiar sound of armour.

  ‘Hounds,’ said Utha quietly from behind, making t
he squire jump. Randall had got used to Vasir being stealthy, but frequently forgot that his master was not called the Ghost simply because of his pale skin.

  ‘You shouldn’t sneak up on me, master. I’m on edge enough as it is.’ He turned back to the south. ‘Do they all look like that?’

  ‘They have no lives or individuality and supposedly they live only to serve Jaa. The armour is intended to make them act as one.’ Utha was also peering at the approaching men and looked more concerned than usual.

  ‘There are a lot of them.’ As soon as he said it he realized he had stated the obvious.

  ‘Numbers, my dear boy. When you don’t have skill, you rely on numbers. The One values skill and Jaa values numbers.’ Utha was holding his longsword and the weapon looked somehow wrong in his hand. When they first met, the Black cleric had used an axe, and since having it taken from him in Ro Tiris he frequently complained about having to use a sword. ‘This is not a good sign,’ said the cleric.

  More hounds came into view as they watched. Five ranks of black-armoured men were now visible with supply carts and what looked like cages. It was difficult to estimate how many hounds were approaching, but Randall guessed at several hundred at least – possibly an advance guard or a large scouting party.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  Utha didn’t respond. Then, as the dust cloud rolled closer, Randall saw a thin line of horsemen and several more ranks of infantry marching to the beat of the drum, alongside large wooden contraptions pulled by carthorses. There were now more men than he could count, arrayed across the southern plains and moving slowly towards Cozz.

  ‘I hate being right,’ spat Utha. ‘That’s two thousand men at least. And they have engineers and siege equipment.’ Utha turned to look northwards where the morning sky was dominated by chimney smoke rising from the merchant enclave.

  ‘Aside from the Gold church in Voy, Cozz has the greatest wealth in Tor Funweir.’ Utha was talking mostly to himself. ‘If I was invading, it’d be one of my first targets. Shit.’

  Randall had heard only rumours from Ro Weir, but it was impossible to ignore the fact that Karesians had essentially annexed the city. With numbers on their side and the mysterious Seven Sisters orchestrating things, it was believed that the south lands of Tor Funweir were slowly falling under the authority of foreign forces. ‘Why would the nobles submit to this?’ he asked.

  Utha shrugged. ‘Who knows. Remember the effect Katja had on the prince and Cardinal Severen?’ He was referring to the enchantress they had met in the oubliette of Tiris, a woman who had dominated the minds of the senior nobles of the city. ‘Well, the duke of Weir is a fucking idiot, so I imagine he’s a lot easier to enchant than a tough old bastard like Severen.’ Utha was processing their present situation, his eyes flicking from the army of hounds to the smoke from the merchant enclave. ‘We should move,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Will they have time to prepare if we warn them?’ They backed off hurriedly into the trees.

  ‘Warn them?’ queried Utha. ‘We’re not getting involved. We need to move south before those bastards encircle the enclave and start killing people.’

  Randall was a surprised at this. ‘We can’t let them sack Cozz,’ he said with concern.

  ‘I wasn’t aware you had such strong feelings for the merchant lords.’ Utha looked at the hand Randall had placed on his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. The young squire quickly removed it.

  ‘I have no opinion about them, but that doesn’t mean I want them killed or imprisoned.’ He was not used to arguing with Utha and shrank under the withering glare of his master’s pink eyes.

  ‘Randall, we are wanted by virtually every authority in Tor Funweir. It’s likely that that lot have been ordered to apprehend us as well, and you want us to backtrack to warn the marshal?’ The cleric was not convinced. ‘Marshal Wesson is a decent sort of man. He’s no love for the church or the crown and I’m... sorry for the loss he’s about to experience, but it’s not our problem.’

  Randall frowned. His master was not a cruel or an evil man, but he was pragmatic and that meant not doing things that would endanger him or his companions.

  ‘I think it is our problem.’ The voice came from Tyr Vasir. The tall Dokkalfar had appeared out of the trees and made Randall jump again.

  ‘Am I the only person here that makes a noise when he moves?’ Randall asked. He was becoming fed up with everyone else except him being naturally stealthy.

  Utha raised an eyebrow. Vasir tilted his head. Neither of his companions had realized how frequently they made the young squire jump. But right now they had more important concerns.

  Randall smiled awkwardly. ‘Okay, not the matter in hand... sorry, carry on.’

  Vasir came to the edge of the trees and looked south towards the approaching hounds. ‘Do you see those cages, my friends?’ he said.

  Randall and Utha peered at the steel cages amidst the marching warriors. At first they’d looked empty, perhaps intended for captives. But as they stared, they saw that the cages were already occupied.

  ‘Who are the prisoners?’ asked Utha. ‘There isn’t a significant-sized town between Cozz and Weir... they’d have no reason to imprison anyone.’

  Vasir bowed his head and began to hum quietly. It was a deep and echoing note that managed to convey extreme sadness and regret. The forest-dweller closed his eyes and composed himself before he spoke. ‘The forever of the Dokkalfar tells of our gift from the Fire Giant.’ He was speaking clearly and reciting a story or scripture of some kind. ‘Our forms will burn... must burn... upon death.’ Utha had once told Randall that the Dokkalfar burst into flames when they died. What it meant now, however, was a mystery.

  Utha looked at Randall and then put a hand on Vasir’s shoulder, making the tall forest-dweller open his black eyes. ‘I know of this, but what does it have to do with them?’ Utha’s words were both caring and impatient as he pointed towards the cages.

  ‘The maleficent witches have removed our gift. We no longer burn,’ responded Vasir.

  ‘So what happens if you don’t burn?’ Utha’s eyes were narrow, and Vasir looked more and more uncomfortable.

  The forest-dweller began swaying and muttering something under his breath. It was a chant of some kind but was not clear at first. As Vasir continued to sway, Randall and Utha heard the words he was repeating. ‘The priest and the altar, the priest and the altar, the priest and the altar,’ he said, over and over again.

  They turned away from Vasir and focused back on the approaching cages. They were still distant, but the forms within were tall and, though some were evidently conscious and sitting up, others looked torpid or dead. Neither of them said anything, and Randall’s hands shook as he made out twenty or so Dokkalfar prisoners being transported along with the army of hounds.

  ‘If each one of them turns into that tentacled tree-thing from the oubliette,’ said Utha quietly, ‘Tor Funweir has a bigger problem than I thought.’ He was silent for a moment. He looked at his two companions, then towards Cozz, and then at the approaching army of hounds.

  ‘Master –’ began Randall.

  ‘I know, I know,’ interrupted the Black cleric. He suddenly slapped Vasir hard across the face. ‘Snap out of it.’

  Vasir blinked rapidly, stopped chanting, and looked from his crouched position at the bulky albino standing over him. ‘My apologies, Utha the Shadow, but the... transformation is the greatest fear of my people.’

  Randall’s head was full of images of the tree. He strained to conceive how a creature such as Vasir could change into such a madness-inducing monstrosity. ‘They won’t believe us,’ he said, without turning from the cages.

  ‘No, I don’t think they will,’ Utha replied, ‘but maybe Wesson is wise enough to accept the danger of an army of hounds.’ He puffed out his cheeks and Randall sensed that his master was going to embark on a course of action that he considered unwise. ‘Right,’ he said wearily. ‘Vasir, figure out some way to get to th
ose cages. Randall, you and I are going to have a little chat with the knight marshal.’

  * * *

  Randall had been to Cozz before, and his memories of the merchant enclave were not especially positive. The last time he’d been there it had been on the trail of Bromvy Black Guard and the encounter had resulted in Brother Torian’s death from a Kirin assassin’s arrow. Utha had also been present, but he was less perturbed by past encounters as they strode through the well-kept streets.

  It had taken them two hours, moving at a steady run, to reach Cozz, and they had been allowed to enter with no questions asked, in the wake of a series of hard glares from the Black cleric. Utha had made little effort to remain incognito and Randall had been anxious that it was an ideal place for mercenaries on their trail to lie in wait. The cleric had shrugged off his concerns and evidently thought the merchant lords of the enclave would care little for a fugitive in their midst, even a fugitive accused of killing the prince.

  ‘They don’t answer to the crown or the church,’ Utha said, as they entered the wide, circular market which dominated the enclave. ‘Have I not explained this to you?’

  ‘The last time we were here, Torian died. To be honest, master, I can remember little other than that.’ They were still walking quickly and Randall frequently had to jog for a few steps to keep up with Utha.

  ‘Yes, well, you shouldn’t dwell on past battles... won or lost. I’m not armoured this time, so hopefully no one will recognize me.’

  Randall raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything.

  The inner market housed the agents and stalls of the richest lords and were filled with exotic Karesian spices and expensive wine. The outer stalls were progressively less opulent, with a corresponding decrease in quality and price, though no less busy. The only kind of business that was not conducted in the central market was the enclave’s metalwork, which was located in a number of open blacksmiths’ yards, one of which had been the site of Torian’s death.