The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood

by A. J. Smith

  Verellian breathed in deeply. ‘I have peace terms from South Warden. I gave my word that, if they released me, I’d deliver them to the king.’ The mood between the two men became melancholy. ‘I expect to be dead shortly after they tell me the king is too busy to talk to me.’

  ‘I would, you know,’ said Fallon. ‘Let you go, I mean. If you rode south, you’d make it to Hunter’s Cross within a month.’

  ‘I’m the same man, Fallon. I still have honour, and the Ranen deserve to have their words heard.’ Verellian was also still a stubborn man, but Fallon couldn’t reconcile what he was hearing with the man he thought he knew.

  ‘Well, as a knight captain of the Red, I feel you should deliver those terms to me. Then we can discuss your escape.’ He could not pretend that he would detain or harm his former captain. Fallon had already decided to give him the chance to ride south. Whether he would take that chance remained to be seen.

  William smiled suddenly and for a moment he was more the man that Fallon remembered. ‘Well, Captains Horrock Green Blade and Johan Long Shadow demand that the Ro invaders leave the Freelands of Ranen or be faced with the combined might of the Free Companies.’

  Fallon raised an eyebrow, thinking this was a misdirected show of strength that the king would simply ignore. ‘And they expect that to meet with something other than laughter?’

  ‘They’re serious,’ Verellian said grimly, ‘and so am I.’

  ‘Has your brain gone soft as well?’ grunted Fallon. ‘That shit will make the king more likely to kill them, not less.’

  William glared at his former adjutant. ‘What do you think is waiting for you? South Warden is a shed compared to Tiris... Ro Hail is a ruin... what does the king want?’

  Fallon didn’t trust himself to respond quickly.

  ‘Say something, Fallon,’ barked Verellian.

  ‘You’re a fool,’ he replied.

  ‘Anyone who dies for the whim of a king is a fool,’ shot back William. ‘And you are not a fool.’ Each word had been emphasized and now Verellian’s teeth were clenched in anger. The two men stood facing each other, only glaring eyes and clenched fists between them. Fallon hated William at that moment – but mostly because he was right.

  Knights of the Red lived by a kind of self-deception that enabled them to believe in the absolute rule of the One. It was the duty of a knight to follow his commander’s orders and to do the will of king and god. The philosophy was hard to crack and only seasoned knights could see it for what it was – a way of keeping them in line. Fallon and William had seen too much of the world and spilled too much blood to be true believers. They were pragmatic and loyal, but by no means as compliant as a young swordsman like Theron.

  Fallon had accepted the hypocrisy and tried not to think too much about it. Now, however, the intervention of the Karesian enchantresses made the cynical knight captain more receptive to Verellian’s words.

  ‘Sir Fallon, I’d like to query some of what I just heard,’ said Theron, stepping into the farmhouse. ‘Your voices carry.’

  ‘Lieutenant Theron, wait outside,’ snapped Fallon.

  ‘No need,’ said William calmly, stepping towards the idealistic young knight. ‘I have peace terms for the king and Captain Fallon would like you to place me under guard until the army arrives.’ He turned back to his old adjutant and said, ‘Just to make things easier for you.’

  ‘Sir?’ queried Theron.

  ‘Just do it,’ was the weary response from Fallon.

  * * *

  Time passed slowly and Fallon’s thoughts grew darker and darker. He sat in the abandoned farmhouse, pondering Verellian’s words. By mid-afternoon the sun was bright in a cloudless sky and the realm of Scarlet was unusually warm. The ever-present wind reminded him that they were still in Ranen, and it was by no means hot, but at least the rain had stopped. Fallon intended to remain at the farm until reinforcements, and ultimately the bulk of the army, arrived. Once the engineers had assembled their trebuchets and the army was ready for combat they would march on South Warden. William’s words would certainly find their way to someone and the old captain’s death would likely become just a footnote to the campaign in the Freelands.

  ‘Captain, riders from the west,’ shouted Ohms from outside the farmhouse.

  Fallon ignored him for a moment, taking as much time as he could before he had to face reality again. Then he exited the house. He had still not put on his armour and, as he joined his unit outside, Knight Captain Fallon of Leith stood out among the many red tabards.

  ‘What do we have, sergeant?’ he asked. The question was redundant, however, as dust rising from the west indicated a significant force approaching.

  ‘The banner of Darkwald, sir,’ replied the sergeant. ‘I’d say a thousand men and engineers. Advance guard.’

  The Darkwald yeomanry numbered ten thousand soldiers in all. They were not highly trained but they were notoriously tough. A single purple banner flew in the centre of the approaching column.

  Two riders were visible at its head. Brother Jakan rode imperiously under the purple sceptre of nobility. Next to him was Lord Vladimir Corkoson, commander of the yeomanry. He was known as the Lord of Mud, on account of his lesser status among the nobles of Tor Funweir, and had chosen a bunch of grapes against an oak tree as his heraldry. He wore a distinctive moulded-leather breastplate and his white hair was a hereditary touch rather than a sign of age.

  ‘That would be the Lord of Mud, then,’ said Ohms, sizing up the lesser noble. ‘Leather armour... brave man.’ The sergeant absently tapped on his steel breastplate.

  Jakan was setting a difficult pace for the men on foot to match and the infantry regiments were clearly exhausted.

  ‘Well met, knight captain,’ announced the Lord of Mud in a good-humoured way. The two riders trotted on from the rest of the men and approached Fallon. ‘Vladimir Corkoson at your service.’

  ‘My lord,’ replied Fallon.

  ‘Captain,’ said Jakan in a monotone.

  ‘An absolute pleasure as always, brother.’

  Jakan and Corkoson dismounted quickly. Of the two commanders, the Lord of Mud was the taller by several inches. He was also slender to the point of being thin and did not look like a true fighting man.

  ‘Do we have somewhere private where we can talk?’ asked Jakan.

  Vladimir put his hand on the Purple cleric’s shoulder. ‘And a barrel of something stronger than tea would be welcome.’ He turned to Fallon. ‘How about it, captain, a few mugs of the good stuff before the bloody work begins?’

  ‘Not for me, my lord,’ replied Fallon with a slight smile, ‘though, if you’re desperate, I’m sure the Ranen that abandoned this place left something behind.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Corkoson with a broad smile. ‘You two churchgoers can discuss tactics while I drink until I’m at home with the wife.’ He strode away, slapping Jakan on the shoulder as he went.

  ‘I like him,’ said Sergeant Ohms without cracking a smile.

  Jakan glared at the sergeant. ‘Silence in the presence of your betters, knight.’

  ‘Go and help the new arrivals get settled,’ said Fallon to Ohms. ‘Your betters will be in the farmhouse.’

  Ohms saluted and marched towards the thousand infantrymen of the Darkwald yeomanry. They were now mostly slumped against bales of hay.

  ‘After you,’ said Fallon, sweeping his arm in the direction of the farmhouse and smiling at Jakan.

  The Purple cleric didn’t return the smile and strode away from Fallon, his expensive armour making a considerable noise as he moved.

  Theron, who had remained silent during the encounter, stepped next to his captain. ‘Sir, would it be impudent of me to say that this Brother Jakan has a rather disagreeable face?’

  ‘And voice,’ said Fallon quickly. ‘Go and see to the engineers. They shouldn’t need any help, but be polite.’

  Theron saluted and began to leave. ‘And no, it’s not impudent at all, the man’s an idiot,�
� agreed Fallon.

  A slight smile appeared at the corner of the lieutenant’s mouth.

  * * *

  Fallon appreciated the presence of the Lord of Mud. It meant he didn’t have to endure Brother Jakan alone. Corkoson was a good-humoured man in his mid-thirties with a loud voice and a constant need to slap people on the back. His family had been raised by the king due to a perceived need for a lord to command the yeomanry. His father had been a rich wine merchant and that, it seemed, was enough now to make a man noble.

  Whatever his claim to lordship, Vladimir Corkoson was known as a moral man who cared for his people and believed that most problems could be solved with a drink. Fallon had often heard it said that, if their soil had been worse and their wine-making less skilled, the Darkwald would have been annexed by Ro Arnon and its people bound into service.

  ‘So, we have five thousand knights and ten thousand infantry. That sounds to me like a force to be reckoned with,’ said the Lord of Mud between gulps of mead, a barrel of which had been found in the cellar.

  ‘Trebuchets will be employed and we will reduce their hovels to splinters,’ said Jakan with relish.

  Fallon and Vladimir were seated. Jakan had remained standing and was pacing up and down. Noise was coming from outside as the siege engines were being assembled. They were five days from South Warden and the trebuchets would be pulled the remaining distance. The bulk of the army would be marching at this very moment, and no amount of inner turmoil felt by Fallon would change what was to happen. They were going to annihilate the Free Companies and continue onwards until the Freelands of Ranen were firmly in the grasp of King Sebastian.

  ‘Captain Fallon, are you listening?’ said Jakan, his voice sounding like a high-pitched shriek as it reached the knight’s ears.

  ‘No, not really... my mind is elsewhere,’ replied Fallon. He had not mentioned Verellian and was unsure even how to approach the subject to so blinkered a man as Jakan.

  ‘Well, you should focus quickly, captain. The king and Cardinal Mobius will be here within the week and you will be required to do your duty – which is not to think.’ The words were spoken snidely, as if he were trying to provoke Fallon.

  Vladimir interjected with a broad smile on his face. ‘Easy, brother, we’re all friends here and I have the utmost confidence in you both. Are you sure you won’t join me in a drink? This mead will certainly soften that prickly attitude, my dear Jakan.’ The tone was boisterous and too good-humoured to be taken as an insult even by a man like Brother Jakan. ‘Come on, just one slurp. I won’t tell anyone.’

  Fallon smiled and was again glad of the lord’s presence to defuse the tension between Red and Purple.

  ‘There’s a man being held in the barn who might like a drink, my lord,’ Fallon said to Vladimir. ‘He’s no longer a knight, so he can pour as much of that shit down his throat as he likes.’

  Corkoson, who did not grasp the significance of the comment, smiled broadly. ‘Fantastic, let’s get him in here. I hate drinking alone.’

  Jakan narrowed his eyes and waved down Vladimir’s enthusiasm. ‘One moment, my lord.’ He glared at Fallon. ‘Explain yourself, captain.’

  The knight stood up and faced Jakan. He used his extra height to look down on the cleric. ‘William of Verellian has been released from South Warden and has peace terms for the king.’

  ‘And you tell me this now? You had a duty to inform me of this as soon as I arrived, captain.’

  Fallon didn’t react to the cleric’s anger.

  ‘Have him brought here immediately,’ ordered Jakan.

  ‘I told you once before not to give me orders, cleric.’ Fallon’s response was quiet.

  ‘Please, gentlemen,’ interposed Vladimir, ‘nothing would be served by us fighting.’ He smiled. ‘You can’t drink, but how about we find some willing peasant girls?’

  Fallon tried not to smile, but it was difficult to maintain his anger with Jakan in Corkoson’s presence. He turned away from the cleric and said gently, ‘We can’t whore either, my lord... regrettable, I know. All we can do is fight. We can fight and we can moan about duty and honour.’

  Jakan snorted. ‘You’re close to the line, captain. Go and get Verellian. Now.’

  Fallon’s blood rose sharply and his fists clenched. ‘Get your sanctimonious arse out of my face,’ he roared. ‘If you were a man, I’d call you out and kill you. I’d cut up your piggish face and send it to Mobius as a present.’ He punched the cleric’s breastplate to punctuate the last word, making the smaller man shrink back.

  Jakan stared at the furious knight before him. The cleric was just playing the part of a noble of God, a part he’d been trained to play since he was a boy. When faced with a challenge, he would back down like any other bully.

  ‘I, er... don’t think we’d accomplish much if you were to kill each other,’ said the Lord of Mud, absently taking a swig of mead. ‘And I’m fairly sure that Cardinal Mobius would not be thrilled with Brother Jakan’s face as a present... maybe he’d prefer a vase or something.’

  Fallon smirked. He had proved his point and said, this time in a gentler tone of voice, ‘I will send Sergeant Ohms to fetch Verellian for you, Brother Jakan. There is, as my Lord Corkoson says, no reason for us to fight.’

  * * *

  ‘I was just getting comfortable against that bale of hay,’ Verellian joked as Ohms led him into the farmhouse. ‘And where did the Darkwald yeomanry come from?’ He had a smile on his face. William of Verellian, former knight of the Red, was in strangely good humour.

  Jakan had insisted that five men with loaded crossbows surround the doorway.

  ‘I’m afraid I may be responsible for that, Sir William,’ said Vladimir, with a grandiose bow. ‘I’ve heard of you.’

  ‘And I of you, my lord,’ replied Verellian, ‘though I’m surprised to see you so easily pressed into service.’

  ‘Silence, dog,’ barked Jakan, his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘You are a vow-breaker and will speak only when spoken to.’

  William raised an eyebrow and looked at Fallon. ‘I don’t think I’ve met this one,’ he said with a more serious expression.

  Fallon shrugged and felt strangely conflicted. ‘You should probably just keep quiet,’ he said to Verellian.

  The old knight frowned and nodded his head. He smiled weakly at Fallon. ‘I understand, my friend, let us just see what happens.’

  ‘I won’t tell you again,’ snapped Jakan. ‘You have lost any right to speak here.’

  Fallon stood and waited, hoping that his minimal faith in the One would be enough to keep either man from dying. If Jakan pushed the old knight, Fallon was sure a fight would ensue. If Verellian was too disrespectful, the Purple cleric would have no choice but to call him out.

  If they were to fight, the outcome would be uncertain. William was the better swordsman, but he’d been captive for several months and would have to use a lighter blade. It was possible to compensate for missing fingers, but only after months or years of training. The more pressing matter was whether or not Fallon could stay neutral if the two men were to fight to the death.

  ‘That’s a very disagreeable attitude, cleric,’ said Verellian. ‘You should consider me a peace envoy from the Ranen... or maybe just keep your mouth shut.’

  Jakan had a fit of righteous indignation. The man of the Purple stepped closer to William and said, in a veritable shriek, ‘I consider you a man who has turned from his duty, a man who has no honour and deserves no respect.’ The insufferable man then took the irreversible step of spitting in Verellian’s face.

  Vladimir Corkoson had moved to intercede, but Fallon held out an arm to stop him. The Lord of Mud was mumbling something about not needing to be rude. Fallon knew the situation had proceeded beyond such platitudes.

  William wiped the spit from his face, then grabbed Jakan by the throat. The grasp was strong, and the cleric flailed at William’s forearm.

  ‘We can talk this out... really, we can,’ shouted V
ladimir.

  Jakan directed a solid kick at William’s shin, sending him backwards and breaking his grasp. ‘A trial by combat it is, Sir Verellian,’ snapped Jakan, a look of violent determination on his face. ‘I will kill you in sight of the One.’

  William smirked.

  ‘Outside, now! One of you, give him a sword.’ Jakan marched outside.

  ‘Well, politeness has gone right out of the window in this farmhouse,’ said Vladimir, sounding a little drunk.

  ‘At least this way it’s simple,’ William said, with a resigned look on his face. ‘A sword is better than a noose.’

  ‘What were we saying earlier about not being fools?’ Fallon said, shaking his head.

  ‘Just give me a sword. If you have any respect left, just let the insufferable cunt kill me.’ William was no longer smiling as he turned to face his former adjutant. ‘Something light, a short sword or a hand-axe. Maybe a shield so he doesn’t kill me inside two seconds.’

  Vladimir Corkoson carried two short swords, one at each hip. ‘I would gladly lend you a weapon, Sir Verellian, but I must ask Captain Fallon whether or not to do so would be... in any way offensive or improper.’

  ‘You’re okay, Vladimir,’ replied Fallon, forgetting to address him by his title. ‘You might as well lend him a bottle of mead for all the good it’ll do him.’

  ‘Thank you for those words of encouragement,’ replied Verellian, with a raised eyebrow. ‘Swear to me you will remain a man of honour, my friend... and not just a man of the One.’

  Fallon was about to respond when William raised a hand and cut him off. ‘And don’t think of something clever to say, just take the words for what they are.’ He turned sharply and followed Brother Jakan out of the farmhouse, absently swinging the short sword as he did so.

  ‘I’m sure there’s a story here that I’m not privy to, old boy,’ said Vladimir, placing a hand on Fallon’s shoulder. ‘But I believe Sir Verellian will be killed. Am I right?’

  Feeling more cynical, more jaded and more conflicted than usual, Fallon nodded and went to join the others outside.