The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood

by A. J. Smith

  ‘We’ve been here too long,’ Randall said quietly. ‘You stand out, you know.’

  ‘What?’ asked Utha, oblivious of people’s reactions to him. It was an infuriating trait.

  ‘Your face, it is white. See mine, it is not. See all their faces, they are not. You stand out.’ There was no hint of humour and Randall simply wanted the cleric to be aware of how exposed they were.

  Utha glared at him. ‘And if I punch my squire in the head? Will that make me more or less conspicuous?’ The words were spoken without any ill intent and, for perhaps the first time, the young man of Darkwald did not feel afraid of his master.

  He smiled to himself but said nothing further, content that they’d be on their way soon. Hopefully they could find a way to rescue the Dokkalfar – if they couldn’t save Cozz from the hounds, they could at least lessen the odds by preventing the darkwood trees making an appearance.

  Then he saw something out of the corner of his eye. A drawn crossbow appeared through the press of waiting traders and pointed towards them. No one nearby had noticed, and it was only the steely glint catching the morning sun that alerted Randall.

  ‘Utha,’ he snapped, grabbing his master by the shoulder and turning him round, ‘crossbow.’ Just as he spoke, the bolt was loosed, making a whistling sound as it flew towards them. The watchmen began to turn, but the bolt was well aimed and pierced Sergeant Jerome through the chest.

  ‘To arms,’ shouted another of the watchmen.

  Screaming and shouting erupted from the crowd and people began to run from the scene. The open ground leading to the gate was a wide roadway. Wagons and horses started to scatter, with guards and traders wielding weapons or protecting their goods.

  Randall and Utha ducked down behind the wooden fence and drew their swords in unison. A quizzical look passed between them. ‘We’ve spent too much time together, young Randall. You’ve started to copy me.’ Then another bolt flew overhead.

  A second watchman was wounded in the leg and cried out in pain, but he didn’t drop his crossbow. Randall peered out through the wooden fencing and saw the distinctive features of Parag. The mercenary was crouched low to the ground and had sneaked up on them through the crowd. He had a wild smile on his face and was dribbling slightly. Behind him, his brother and a dozen more of Pevain’s bastards appeared from between the wooden buildings and approached. All of them had crossbows and were now starting to fire.

  ‘Get down,’ Utha shouted to the remaining watchmen.

  Two bolts caught fleeing citizens of Cozz. Randall could no longer see how many mercenaries were approaching. The watchmen behind him seemed to die in slow motion as bolts thudded into them.

  No more bolts had been fired once the watchmen were all down, and the mercenaries were giving the populace a chance to leave. Utha was hurriedly looking around. Behind them was a high wooden palisade that led to the enclave’s stables. They had three sides of a solidly built wooden fence for cover, but no obvious means of escape.

  ‘Ghost,’ shouted a distant voice.

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ muttered Utha. ‘I didn’t think Pevain was that confident.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Well, Wesson won’t let him back into Cozz any time soon.’

  Randall frowned. ‘You’re not very good at motivational speeches, master. What do we do?’ His sword hand had begun to shake.

  Utha didn’t respond straightaway. Instead, he got low to the ground and reached back to grab two of the fallen watchmen’s crossbows. ‘I think they want me alive... I hope so anyway.’

  The populace had mostly left the scene and the sound of screaming was now distant. A few wagons and traders’ carts were still being pulled clear of the gate or back into the enclave.

  ‘This is what’s going to happen, Ghost, you’re going to get bloody... I’m going to fuck you up in ways you never dreamed of.’ A chorus of off-colour jokes was directed at them from the mercenaries. ‘But it’s my mistress you should be worried about,’ Pevain shouted.

  ‘Another of the Seven Sisters,’ Utha said to his squire. ‘I’ll bet you a bottle of Darkwald red that the pointless prick is talking about a Karesian enchantress.’

  Randall smiled. ‘If they take us, we’ll find out.’

  ‘They won’t take us,’ growled the Black cleric, in a way that didn’t invite dissent.

  He loaded the two crossbows quickly while the mercenaries shouted at the remaining innocents to leave. Then the Black cleric rose from behind the fence and levelled the first weapon. Randall couldn’t see his target, but he heard a guttural shout as a mercenary was hit.

  An answering bolt thudded into the fence, inches from where Utha stood. He quickly ducked back to join Randall.

  ‘We need him alive, Parag. Knives and maces, boys,’ commanded Pevain, his voice still distant.

  Randall chanced a look through the fence and saw twelve men on the road. The one dead body, sprawled with a bolt protruding from his eye, had bothered the others very little and they eagerly hefted an assortment of large knives, heavy maces and cudgels.

  ‘Okay, just this once, Randall, you’re permitted to fight mercenaries.’ Utha rose again and fired his second crossbow, causing another man to fall backwards. As he ducked behind the fence, the cleric breathed in sharply and discarded the crossbows. ‘Your hand isn’t shaking any more,’ he said.

  Randall looked down and saw a steady hand gripping his longsword. He tensed his body and pushed away the rising fear, hoping that the bastards’ need to capture rather than to kill would enable both squire and master to escape. ‘Okay,’ he said to Utha, ‘we make for the gate.’

  The cleric smiled and nodded. They both moved quickly from behind the fence and Utha kicked open the gate. With the Black cleric in front of him, Randall stepped out on to the southern roadway.

  ‘Take him,’ shouted Pevain, making his presence known as soon as they moved into view.

  The mercenary knight stood atop a cart on the opposite side of the road. The tall man was wearing black plate armour and held his Ranen war-hammer across his shoulders. Towards the southern gate of Cozz was an open roadway, with a few huddled people taking cover behind the enclave walls. Randall looked straight ahead at the grinning face of Parag as the mercenary banged two large knives together in front of his chest. He looked at Broot, the other twin, who was licking the blade of his knife and staring wildly at them. Lastly, he looked at Utha. His master wore a mask of confident rage and advanced towards the nearest mercenary.

  The Black cleric roared a challenge as he swung his sword downwards. ‘You should have retreated when you had the chance, Pevain.’ His longsword was met with a risen mace that buckled limply. The mercenary looked shocked as the sword struck a second time and cut through his skull, releasing a spray of blood. It was a brutal statement of intent. The Black cleric had made no attempt to fight the man, he had simply killed him as quickly and efficiently as possible.

  Utha picked up the fallen mace and stepped sideways towards the gate. Randall stood alongside him, the sword of Great Claw held steadily forward.

  When the attack came, it was wild and uncoordinated. Two of the mercenaries lunged at them while Parag attacked from the side. Utha deflected the first lunge and kneed the man in the face as Randall ran the second man through, feeling a rush of blood to his head as he killed the mercenary. Parag had attacked Utha, but his knives met only air as the cleric dodged back and continued moving towards the gate.

  ‘You okay?’ Utha asked Randall over his shoulder, his words coming through quickened breath.

  ‘He’s not the first man I’ve killed,’ replied the squire, ‘and I really hate this lot.’ Randall found that his dislike of Pevain’s men was making it easier to fight them. His hand was still and he had found the strength with which he’d killed the man surprising, reminding him that the past few months had toughened him up.

  Then the other mercenaries were upon them. They were not skilled and, so long as Randall concentrated on defence, he found the reach provided by his lo
ngsword a great advantage. The mercenaries smelt terrible and he could feel their breath upon him. Utha was concentrating on keeping the bastards away from his squire, swinging the mace he had acquired around his head to keep them at a distance while Randall feverishly parried lazy attacks.

  ‘We haven’t got all day, Ghost,’ shouted Pevain, closer now, though Randall could not see the mercenary knight among the combatants.

  Utha split a man’s head and crushed another’s ribcage, roaring at the top of his voice and appearing larger than any of Pevain’s men. He was a trained warrior and, as he launched an all-out attack, he was too much for these men. Randall was in the cleric’s shadow now, concentrating on covering his master’s back rather than getting in the way.

  Then Parag threw a knife and caught Randall in the thigh. It was a sudden move and caught the squire off guard. The pain was immediate and sharp, lancing deep into his flesh and making him fall to one knee. His head swam and his vision blurred, though he clung on tightly to the sword of Great Claw. He vaguely saw Utha kill a man with an upward swing of his sword, then leap backwards to stand over his fallen squire.

  ‘We don’t need the boy, Ghost,’ said Pevain with an evil chuckle.

  Randall focused sufficiently to see the knight aim a crossbow at him. Half of the mercenaries lay dead and Utha was not wounded. Parag, Broot and Pevain were still standing off to the side, leaving the job of dying to their men.

  As the bolt flew from Pevain’s crossbow, a strange sound came from beyond the southern gates of Cozz. It was a whistling noise that started distantly and became progressively louder as the squire followed the trajectory of Pevain’s bolt. The sound was steadily growing to a roar as a dull pain erupted in his side. Looking down, he saw the bolt poking through his leather jerkin.

  ‘Randall!’ Utha was shouted his name, but the squire was beginning to lose consciousness as the whistling roar turned into a giant boulder crashing into the walls of Cozz. The palisade crumbled inwards, not far to their left, and now the tension of further catapults being armed could be heard away to the south.

  ‘Get down!’ Pevain roared, as more boulders were launched at the enclave and wooden splinters filled the air. ‘Izra’s started the festivities early, lads, we need to get the fuck out of here. The Ghost can wait.’

  Randall could just make out the bastards laughing as they hurriedly left the roadway, but the last sound he heard before he passed out was Utha saying, ‘You die when I die, not a second before.’

  * * *

  Randall woke abruptly, bright light making him squint and raise a hand to shield his eyes. He felt weak and his leg and stomach both throbbed with sharp pain. Reaching down, he felt grass underneath him and the rustle of trees made him think he was back at the camp south of Cozz.

  ‘He didn’t hit anything important,’ Utha remarked from nearby.

  ‘My leg and stomach are both important,’ responded Randall weakly.

  ‘You’ll mend... and he hit your side, not your stomach.’

  Randall tried to sit up, but he was only an inch from the ground before the pain made him wince and lie back down. A poultice made from grass and twigs was firmly tied to the wound in his side and there was another on his right thigh. Vasir sat next to him, carefully tying green roots together and rubbing them in a foul-smelling black substance.

  The Dokkalfar looked up and tilted his head to one side. ‘You are lucky, Randall of Darkwald, both for the mercenary’s poor aim and for your master’s broad shoulders. He ran here with you on his back.’

  Randall stared at Utha, who turned away with a look of embarrassment on his face. ‘You’ve saved my life twice, boy. Consider this half-payment.’

  ‘How...’ began Randall.

  ‘Did we get out of Cozz?’ supplied the Black cleric, and Randall gave a shallow nod. ‘The hounds started throwing rocks at the southern wall. They’ve not advanced or made any demands. They’re just out there, formed up for battle on the King’s Highway.’

  Vasir leant over Randall and poked at his wound, making the squire shrink away and gasp in pain. ‘Careful, there was a bit of wood stuck in there a minute ago... it hurts.’ He was light-headed and had to fight to stay conscious.

  ‘I need to apply another dressing to your wound,’ said the Dokkalfar, waving the sticky black roots in front of his face.

  ‘He knows what he’s doing,’ offered Utha, with the slightest hint of a smile. ‘I would have used maggots and torn fabric bandages.’

  ‘Okay, get on with it.’ Randall closed his eyes and tensed his body as best he could.

  Vasir removed the poultice and began to rub firmly at the wound. The pain was intermittent, but fierce when it came, and Randall had to grab a handful of grass and mud to keep from crying out as the forest-dweller cleaned the wound.

  ‘Just because he’s a cleric of death, you don’t need to kill me,’ he said through the pain.

  ‘I intend to stop the pain,’ replied the forest-dweller without looking up from the wound. ‘The salve should dull it sufficiently for you to travel. And the black roots will keep the wound clean.’

  Utha began sharpening his longsword and Randall noted that his master had also kept the heavy mace he’d acquired in Cozz. The sound provided a distraction from Vasir’s poking and prodding, and the wounded squire began to feel numb.

  ‘I think,’ he said weakly, ‘I might pass out again.’ Randall had rocked on to his side and was looking at his master.

  ‘Well, young man, Vasir and I have an errand to run. You can have an hour’s sleep. After that, you’re over my shoulder again.’ He frowned. ‘Actually, you’re a heavy fucker, you can go over Vasir’s shoulder.’

  ‘An errand?’ queried the squire.

  Vasir and Utha exchanged a determined glance. ‘The hounds don’t know how to protect their lines. They’re pretty disorganized. The cages have just been dumped next to the road with a single keeper each.’ He paused. ‘They’re at the back of the pack, while the others are shooting stuff at Cozz. We’re going to stage a rescue.’

  Randall wiped the sweat from his forehead and blinked a few times to stave off sleep. ‘Has Wesson done anything?’ he asked, finding himself as concerned for Cozz as Vasir was for the imprisoned Dokkalfar.

  ‘Not that I’ve seen,’ replied Utha. ‘I think he’s waiting for them to stop the bombardment so he can go out and talk to them. Assuming we get away with the Dokkalfar, the marshal should only have two thousand hounds to deal with.’

  ‘We can’t just rescue them and leave,’ said Randall through a light-headed yawn, as Vasir finished tying the poultice to his thigh.

  ‘We can and we will,’ replied Utha. He resumed sharpening his sword. ‘Sleep, Randall. We’ll be in a hurry when you wake, so enjoy the peace.’

  His eyes felt heavy and he soon gave in to sleep. He was a wanted man, travelling with other wanted men, and Randall of Darkwald was beginning to lose hope that he would ever experience peace again.

  CHAPTER 9

  DALIAN THIEF TAKER IN THE MERCHANT ENCLAVE OF COZZ

  The weather had grown cooler and the wind heavier, indicating to Dalian that the strange disposition of the Ro was most likely due to the poor weather. In Karesia, the heavy armour worn by the hounds was viewed as punishment as much as protection, while in Tor Funweir it was almost a luxury protecting them against the horrid weather. Dalian had heard stories of hounds boiling in their own sweat while refusing to remove their steel shells for fear of offending Jaa. He wondered if they would become soft in the lands of the Ro, or whether the upcoming battle would give them enough of a workout to remain useful.

  The Thief Taker had travelled with the pack through several weeks of marching northwards. They had slept every other night, and the daylight hours had been a miasma of threats, punishments and strong drugs to keep the pack sharp. The hounds were not regarded as men and women but as the blunt instruments of Jaa, to be wielded as a wind claw would wield his kris knife.

  Dalian prayed oft
en – a common sight as the hounds made camp each night, but a ritual that had special significance for the wind claw. He was not a hound, nor was he an ally of Izra and the enchantress she followed. He was a true devotee of Jaa, an interloper amongst traitors to the Fire Giant. They did not know they were being led astray by one of the Seven Sisters, but that was not a mitigating factor in Dalian’s eyes. If he could, the Thief Taker would gladly immolate every single one of them for their betrayal.

  They had been stationary for several hours now and, for a change, none of the hounds was interested in sleep. They had sighted Cozz in the early morning and, once within catapult range of the enclave, Izra had ordered a halt. Dalian had managed to get close to the front, another anonymous hound wanting to look at their goal, and he’d seen the whip-mistress dancing like an insane child as the first boulder thudded into Cozz.

  The atmosphere in the camp was strange, and Dalian imagined himself elsewhere, to avoid listening to the hounds as they boasted about the children they would eat and the facial tattoos they would get. In his mind, the Thief Taker was on a distant coastline, with water caressing his tired feet and a glass of fine Thrakkan wine in his hand. He knew that Jaa intended more for him, and that having to endure the tedium of being around brutal idiots was just the precursor to victory.

  The bombardment went on for hours, as Izra and her captains playfully targeted particular parts of the wall to amuse themselves. Their intention, if rumour that ran among the hounds was to be believed, was to strip the town of anything valuable. Merchants were to be imprisoned, coins seized and buildings claimed. The whip-mistress would then order the death of the captive forest-dwellers. Exactly what would happen when they were killed was a matter of speculation among the pack. The Thief Taker himself knew what would happen and, if Saara the Mistress of Pain was right, the Dark Young that would sprout from the dead forest-dwellers would signal the end of Cozz. He had never seen one of the beasts, but he had listened to the enchantress’s account of their power and her manic insistence that they should be birthed. Dalian knew that they were not of Jaa. Whatever god the Seven Sisters now followed, he knew that it was his enemy.