The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood

by A. J. Smith

  ‘What the...’ he spluttered, scrambling to his feet and looking at the bloodied mess that had plummeted from above.

  A Gold cleric, his head and chest grotesquely crushed, lay twisted in the dust. He had probably been alive when he fell from the balcony high above, and he was neither armed nor armoured. Whoever he was, the drawbridge guards had obviously seen him and Glenwood had to duck back into the underpass to avoid being spotted by bound men and Gold clerics.

  ‘Rham Jas, you little bastard,’ he muttered, preparing to run.

  Glancing towards the sewer grate, he heard footsteps running from behind as the guards came to see who had fallen. Glenwood now had little choice but to attempt to enter the sewer and try the assassin’s escape route.

  With panic beginning to rise, he looked up to see a thickly knotted rope fall down from above and heard several crossbow bolts fired at the balcony. He shielded his eyes from the firelight, but couldn’t see clearly what was happening, though a cacophony of shouts came from the guards. He couldn’t make out exactly what they said, but the scene had quickly erupted into chaos.

  Through the glare, speeding quickly downwards, a figure emerged from the balcony. It seemed that Rham Jas had thrown the man, followed by the rope, followed by himself, in less than ten seconds. The Kirin assassin was wearing gloves of some kind and he slid down the rope at tremendous speed, avoiding crossbow bolts on the way.

  Glenwood stood dumbstruck.

  ‘Wake up, Kale, time to go,’ called the assassin. ‘The sewer... get it open.’

  Glenwood shook himself and rushed across to the metal grating. The clerics and bound men above were too focused on the assassin to worry about the skulking forger, and he managed to force his longsword in between the rusted hinges and wrench it free. Rham Jas came to an abrupt stop, standing poised on top of the sewer pipe.

  ‘Evening,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Shall we go?’

  Glenwood stuttered as he tried to reply. He ended up simply gesturing wildly at the approaching shadows behind them. The Kirin jumped off the pipe and sheathed his bloodsoaked katana, before grabbing the forger by the shoulder and shoving him into the pipe.

  ‘Close your mouth, Kale, and try not to breathe in,’ he said with a grin.

  The man of Leith found himself flying forward into a dark and wet pipe that angled sharply downwards.

  * * *

  Saara the Mistress of Pain fell heavily to the floor. She grasped the sides of her head and wailed liked a wild animal as she felt Lillian die. The pain was excruciating as more men of the One God entered her mind and became her phantom thralls.

  ‘My lady,’ cried Kal Varaz from the other side of the room.

  Saara had been briefing several of her most trusted wind claws about the deployment of additional hounds. Five hundred thousand more soldiers would arrive in a month or so and she was eager to see them used to maximum effect. The men in front of her had been listening intently to her instructions, but now they stood with anguish on their faces as they saw the enchantress writhing on the floor of the duke’s office.

  ‘Get out,’ she shrieked in a high-pitched voice.

  They didn’t hesitate. These were dutiful and loyal men, and deeply in her thrall. Within seconds the door had been closed and the Mistress of Pain was crying and alone on the floor.

  She felt the edge of the dark-blood’s katana as it severed Lillian’s head. She sensed her own mortality for possibly the first time. If he could kill Ameira, Katja and Lillian in the space of three months, he could be at Saara’s door sooner than she had thought possible.

  The door was opened suddenly and a serving-boy entered. He was perhaps eighteen years of age and likely a bound man of Duke Lyam’s. The young man was carrying a mop and bucket and had started cleaning the floor before he noticed the quivering enchantress lying by the desk. With staring eyes, the young Ro servant smiled awkwardly and, leaving his bucket, stepped back to the door.

  ‘No, boy, don’t leave,’ spluttered Saara. ‘Come here.’ She couldn’t focus well and was not strong enough to enchant the bound man. For the moment, she was just a distressed woman, sprawled across the wooden floor, with tear-filled eyes and sweat on her skin.

  ‘I think I should go,’ said the boy, looking terrified and wishing he’d tried to clean another room first. ‘I can clean any time.’

  She tried to pull herself upright, but ended up merely crawling forward in a predatory pose. ‘I won’t hurt you,’ she growled, baring her teeth and salivating.

  ‘Come here.’ The words made the young man stumble back until he was leaning against the door. ‘I need your strength.’

  Saara pounced at him, letting her basest impulses take control as she latched on to his face and delivered a violent kiss to his mouth. He cried out. Her hands pressed against his temples and she began to draw out his life energy in her aggressive embrace. She growled hungrily as she bit deeply into his lower lip and moaned in pleasure as the young man’s blood began to seep from his eyes, nose and ears. The servant’s energy slowly rejuvenated her and the Mistress of Pain felt her mind become clear and focused, her new phantom thralls settling into place.

  She stood upright, holding the dead body away from her and dropping it to the floor in a pool of spreading blood. A moment later, and Saara walked demurely back to the desk. Her tightly cut black dress was saturated with blood and her hands and face were both red and sticky.

  With a deep breath, and not caring to clean herself, the Mistress of Pain sat back in her large leather armchair. Rham Jas had killed Katja and now Lillian and, Saara thought, Isabel the Seductress would be next. The assassin was being methodical in his attempt to thwart the Seven Sisters’ plan.

  With a snarl, Saara decided to send as many wind claws as she could spare to Ro Leith in an effort to capture the troublesome Kirin.

  CHAPTER 11

  FALLON OF LEITH IN THE REALM OF SCARLET

  They had reached a cluster of farmsteads late at night and, finding them all deserted, Fallon and his fifty knights had made themselves at home. They were five days’ ride from South Warden and deep in the realm of Scarlet. They had not yet met any resistance and the knight captain figured that the common folk of the area had retreated back to the Ranen fortress. Fallon had sent a rider to Ro Hail several days before, and Tristram would send more men after them within a day or two, possibly the reinforcements from Darkwald.

  It was still raining and he still hated the Freelands of Ranen. He hated his orders, the Purple clerics who had delivered the orders and, most of all, he hated the prospect of laying siege to South Warden. Their engineers had been ordered to construct trebuchets – tall engines of war able to hurl giant boulders much further than catapults or ballistae. They were used when the knights didn’t fancy a protracted siege, and Cardinal Mobius and the king had decided that bombarding the peoples of Wraith and Scarlet was more efficient than keeping the fight clean.

  ‘Rider approaching, sir,’ said Sergeant Ohms from the farm’s front door.

  Fallon puffed out his cheeks and pulled himself up from the armchair where he’d been reclining. It was early morning, and he’d enjoyed the night spent under a wooden roof and the novelty of waking up dry.

  ‘From where?’

  ‘East, sir. Whoever he is, he’s riding hard.’ Ohms had been on duty for the last few hours and had seen night turn to day across the farms and hamlets of the realm of Scarlet.

  Fallon didn’t bother to put on his armour.

  ‘Get the men up, but keep them out of sight,’ he said.

  ‘Aye, sir,’ was the formal response from Ohms.

  Fallon sauntered away from the farmhouse. He and his men were nestled between several farmsteads, each small and surrounded by good, black earth. This land was more fertile and cultivated than the Grass Sea or the realm of Wraith, and Fallon found it marginally less objectionable.

  Several knights were up and about their duties, scouting out the four points of the compass or preparing breakfast.
Ohms quickly roused the others. Most of his unit emerged from haylofts and barns into the cold, wet morning. They took up positions quickly, behind bales of hay and crouched against low walls.

  ‘Theron, Ohms, you’re both with me. Quick now,’ the captain barked behind him.

  His adjutant was fully armoured and flustered as he emerged from the barn where he had been sleeping. Fallon saw that he had hurriedly buckled on his breastplate.

  ‘I’m sure a single rider does not warrant the armour, Theron, but fair enough.’

  ‘I think it best to be prepared, sir.’ Theron saluted and straightened his red tabard.

  The rider was making directly for their position, though Fallon could not yet make out any distinguishing features. The horse didn’t slow down and Fallon drew his sword, holding it casually across his shoulders as a sign of intent. Then he saw a shaved head and sharp, hawk-like features.

  ‘Sir Theron, you can stand down. I know this man,’ Fallon murmured to his adjutant, ‘though I’d not expected to see him here.’

  ‘Sir?’ queried the knight lieutenant.

  Fallon sheathed his sword and took a few steps closer to William of Verellian as he rode towards them. ‘He used to be my commander, as I am yours, Theron.’

  Verellian pulled on his reins and stopped just in front of Fallon. The knight of the Red looked different, though only two months had passed since they’d become separated in the courtyard of Ro Hail. His right hand was heavily strapped and Fallon vaguely recalled an axe taking off most of his fingers. His clothes were of common design, thickly spun wool and leather, and he carried no weapon.

  ‘I had a feeling you’d be the one they’d send out on patrol,’ Verellian said with good humour. ‘The worst jobs always go to those with the biggest mouths.’

  ‘You’re alive, you lucky bastard.’ Fallon smiled. ‘How did you manage that?’

  Verellian answered with a shrug, as if that was a tale for another time, and began to dismount. ‘I saw twenty men hiding, so I assume there are a few more that I missed. I’d guess at fifty in total, yes?’

  Fallon nodded. ‘Stop showing off. You’re talking to a knight captain, don’t you know?’ A mock expression of superiority accompanied the comment and drew a laugh from Verellian. He jumped to the ground.

  ‘Break cover, boys,’ Fallon called over his shoulder.

  ‘Good to see you, Fallon of Leith,’ said Verellian quietly.

  ‘And you.’

  Theron saluted extravagantly. ‘Sir William of Verellian, it is a great honour to meet you. I am Knight Lieutenant Theron of Ro Haran and I have the honour of being Sir Fallon’s adjutant.’ His words showed deep sincerity. Whatever else he might be, Theron was a true knight of the Red.

  ‘Thank you, sir knight,’ replied William, ‘though I don’t think I deserve such a grand greeting. I was a prisoner of war until five days ago.’

  ‘But you have escaped, Sir William, to join us once again in our war with the barbarians. The One clearly guided your steps.’

  Verellian narrowed his eyes. ‘Clearly.’ He stepped closer to Fallon. ‘Perhaps we should save the formalities. You and I need to talk.’

  ‘Theron, go and have something to eat,’ Fallon said. ‘I’ll send for you later.’ He gestured for Verellian to follow him.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ spluttered Theron, ‘but shouldn’t I be present when you discuss the enemy? I am second in command, am I not?’

  Fallon turned sharply and was about to say something clever when William interjected. ‘Lieutenant, you have my word that when we discuss the enemy, you will be present. For now, we need to discuss other things.’ He frowned slightly. ‘And questioning an order is rather foolish, don’t you think?’

  ‘Indeed, Sir William,’ Theron said, after a moment of indignant silence.

  Verellian smiled as the young lieutenant walked away, and Fallon wondered at how the hawk-faced knight of the Red always managed to get men to do what he wanted.

  ‘Is he always like that?’ asked William.

  ‘No, he’s twice as bad at the moment, he’s got two men’s cocks to suck instead of just one.’ Fallon did not dislike his lieutenant – but he was frustratingly naive. ‘Right, you old bastard, what have you been doing for the past two months?’ he barked at William. ‘I’m the same rank as you now, so I don’t need to be polite.’

  ‘You didn’t need to be polite before,’ replied Verellian. ‘You chose to be, out of respect.’

  They walked towards the farmhouse. Word had spread quickly among the knights that Sir William of Verellian was alive and a ripple of adoration flowed through the men. Both the senior knights were distinguished, the campaigns in Ro Canarn and the Grass Sea having enhanced their reputations. Fallon would always be known as a killer and would inspire as much fear as respect, but Verellian was known as a shrewd commander and one who put his knights first.

  ‘Are you going to answer me?’ Fallon prompted.

  ‘I am,’ replied William, ‘though I’d prefer it if we were seated.’

  Fallon fell back into old habits quickly and shut up, accepting Verellian’s decision and stepping into the farmhouse after him.

  Once inside, William found the nearest comfortable surface, which happened to be a quilted armchair, and slumped heavily into it. His bones cracked as he stretched out his legs and flexed his back. He was clearly saddle-sore and a layer of dust covered his clothing.

  ‘I can’t believe they let you go,’ said Fallon, also taking a seat. ‘In fact, I’m quite surprised they didn’t kill you in the courtyard of Ro Hail.’

  ‘So was I at the time,’ replied Verellian. ‘They actually tended to my wounds in the end... though my sword hand is a bit impaired.’ He frowned. ‘I can still hold a blade, but anything heavier than a rapier or a short sword and I have no leverage.’ Another frown, deeper this time. ‘No more longswords for me.’

  ‘Well, if it’s any consolation, we’re going to be killing a lot of Ranen.’ Fallon didn’t convey much enthusiasm for the coming massacre.

  Verellian sat up. ‘The king means to assault South Warden?’

  ‘And Ranen Gar, and any other place where the Free Companies think they can hide. It seems to have become a war of conquest while I wasn’t looking,’ replied Fallon. ‘Mobius has sent for reinforcements to the Darkwald and Arnon.’

  William nodded grudgingly and puffed out his cheeks, for a moment seeming like a tired old man. ‘They’re good people, Fallon. The Ranen, I mean. Not sophisticated, not particularly organized, but good and honourable.’ There was a profound sense of regret in his words. ‘They don’t deserve to be slaughtered.’

  ‘Since when did that matter?’ replied Fallon. ‘Commander Tristram is convinced that it’s all a question of duty to the One.’

  ‘And you believe him? If you can look me in the eye and tell me that this is more than the whim of a king or the design of an enchantress, then I’ll accept it.’

  William was more bitter than Fallon had ever known him before. ‘What happened, sir,’ he asked, forgetting that the title was no longer necessary, ‘in Ro Hail? This doesn’t sound like you.’

  The older knight looked around the deserted farmhouse. ‘Any food here?’ he asked, ignoring Fallon’s question.

  ‘Ohms will provide porridge outside. You can have some when we’re done.’

  ‘Okay, that’s fair. But you won’t like the answer.’ Verellian was all business now, sitting forward in his chair and adopting a formal tone of voice. ‘I’ve seen some things that knights of the Red are not supposed to see. I’ve seen women crying over dead brothers, sons and husbands. I’ve seen men die in pain because we’d killed their only priest. I’ve seen desperate young warriors, no older than eighteen, trying to fashion serviceable armour from discarded chain and broken plate.’ He paused and locked eyes with Fallon. ‘This isn’t war. It isn’t conquest... and it certainly isn’t honourable. I don’t know what it is.’ William sounded exhausted.

  ‘Where are yo
u going with this, William? I’ve been given twenty-four hours’ guard duty in the rain for saying less than that. It’s dangerous ground.’ It was fine to whinge quietly about orders, and Fallon’s brand of dry insubordination was generally tolerated, but openly to question the king was dangerous.

  ‘Things are different now,’ replied Verellian. ‘Red knights generally don’t see what I’ve seen and survive. It changes you.’

  Fallon snorted. ‘So you saw a few crying Ranen. You’ve killed hundreds of men and I’ve never heard you worry about that. You say honour, but what about duty – to me, to the knights, to the One?’

  ‘What is duty, Fallon?’ William demanded. ‘What is duty when your orders are given by a Karesian enchantress?’

  Fallon was about to reply aggressively, but his anger evaporated before he spoke. He sat with his mouth open, trying to find some words in response. He considered defending Tristram, or blaming Mobius, but neither sounded right. He began to say that the enchantress who had influenced the king was dead – but there were six more sisters. He closed his mouth and bowed his head. ‘What does it matter if you’re right?’ he said in a virtual whisper. ‘We’re knights of the Red; this is what we do.’

  ‘You’re a knight of the Red, my friend. I don’t think I can be, not any more.’ Verellian spoke as if he had made his decision before today.

  ‘You’re the best man I know, but what are you if you are not a knight of the Red?’ Fallon did not know how to react.

  ‘I am William of Verellian. I was that before I took my vows and I’ll be that when they execute me for turning coat.’ Breaking vows was a serious matter. You were a knight of the Red until death. Only the king’s younger brother, Alexander Tiris, had ever been allowed to leave the knights.

  ‘Why did you ride west when they released you? You should have found somewhere to hide.’ To shout at William for being stupid would be futile. ‘Did you think I’d go along with this and just let you go?’