The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood

by A. J. Smith

  ‘Randall,’ said the Black cleric, who wasn’t yet fully asleep, ‘tomorrow, you are allowed to kill anyone who draws a weapon on you. Understood?’

  The squire smiled with gallows humour. ‘But Vasir says that there is a hawk following us... we’ll be fine.’

  The two men laughed and for a moment things were good. Randall hoped he could stay alive and keep his master alive, too, to see what else fate had in store for them.

  As Utha drifted off to sleep, Randall turned to Vasir and smiled. ‘I appreciate your staying with us,’ he said to their strange companion.

  The Dokkalfar sat upright and met Randall’s smile. ‘I am not overly enamoured with the Fell Walkers, the Dokkalfar of the southern woods.’

  Randall frowned. ‘Where are you from?’ It was strange to realize that he had never asked Vasir anything about himself.

  The forest-dweller attempted a smile. ‘I was sired beyond the Lands of Silence, near the Drow Deeps.’

  ‘I’ve not heard of either of those places,’ said Randall. ‘I assume there aren’t many men there?’

  ‘None, as far as I know. I came from a clan of camel herders. It was a simple life, but my path lay elsewhere and I travelled north to Narland. I was captured by Purple clerics in Lob’s Wood... they were the first men I’d ever seen.’

  ‘Not the ideal introduction to our race, I suppose,’ replied Randall, settling down on his bedroll. ‘Though I once knew a Purple cleric whom I quite liked.’

  ‘Utha and yourself are far better company. You have balanced out my opinion of men somewhat.’ Vasir was beginning to express himself better now when talking to the young squire, but Randall still couldn’t tell whether he was joking or not. Either way, the comment made him laugh.

  ‘I should sleep... if I don’t wake before my master he’ll likely chide me for being lazy,’ said Randall, feeling surprisingly peaceful, considering the circumstances.

  ‘Sleep well, Randall of Darkwald,’ responded the Dokkalfar.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll sleep, my friend, but I doubt I’ll sleep well,’ said Randall.

  * * *

  The morning light obscured the vista ahead of him, but Randall was sure that he could see the Fell burning in the distance. The Dokkalfar did not react to the sight of their forest on fire, but simply stood on the grassy rise and turned their expressionless faces towards the south.

  It was hard to see exactly what was occurring on the southern plains, but the masses of faceless soldiers ranged within a mile of the Fell made him think that someone had declared war on the trees of the Dokkalfar woods. They were armoured in black plate which glinted in the morning sun.

  ‘Hounds,’ said Utha, as their small company skulked on the edge of a rise, within sight of the tree line, ‘a shit-stack of them.’

  They were still distant and he was confident they would not be seen by the armies of Karesia, though to see so many foreign troops in Tor Funweir was strange. The force that had marched on Cozz was a fraction of the army camped, in black spots, on the southern horizon, and the catapults had been used to launch flaming boulders into the Fell rather than to batter down walls. The outer trees were spreading a steady lick of flame amongst the giant oaks that marked the western border of the forest. Many small copses could be seen dotting the landscape, but they were not targeted by the hounds and instead provided their army with cover. Randall could not make out any defenders or Dokkalfar prepared to fight for their trees.

  ‘Why are they attacking the forest?’ he asked, taken aback by the sprawling multitudes of men, arrayed across the plains of Weir.

  ‘Maybe they don’t like trees,’ responded Utha, letting his pale eyes play over the spectacle ahead of them. ‘Or maybe they don’t like the forest-dwellers.’

  They had been told that the Dokkalfar turned into darkwood trees when they died, and they had seen the hounds transporting caged forest-dwellers with them. However, the squire had not imagined that they would attack a forest the size of the Fell in order to procure captives. He didn’t know how many Dokkalfar lived in the woods, but the thought of so many more darkwood trees sent a shiver down his spine.

  Their non-human companions were arrayed behind them, hidden behind a natural incline of the otherwise flat plain. If they felt anything at the sight of the burning trees, they didn’t show it, and their grey faces and black eyes remained as expressionless as ever.

  To make matters worse, Tyr Vasir had indicated that their pursuers were fast approaching. With nowhere to hide, they were caught between two different ways to die. Pevain and his men would catch up with them before they reached the trees. Luckily, they were far enough from the hounds that the sound of the impending combat would not be heard. It was a small mercy – in fact, it was barely a mercy at all – but fighting fifty men would be easier than fighting ten thousand.

  ‘The Fell isn’t helpless,’ said Utha, assessing their situation. ‘The deep wood is not a castle or a city... it’s not Cozz... but they won’t hold out forever, especially with this we will endure horse-shit.’

  The black hawk flew overhead and all the Dokkalfar looked skywards. Tyr Vasir joined them at the front. ‘We are not alone,’ he said.

  ‘Shut up about the hawk,’ said Randall. He turned to Utha. ‘So, do we stand here or try to fight Pevain in the woods?’

  ‘We can’t get to the woods, and those copses of trees are not decent cover,’ replied Utha, as a loud cry sounded from above them.

  ‘They are coming,’ said Vasir, as the sound of approaching men drifted across the plain.

  ‘How are your lot getting on with those scimitars?’ Utha asked Vasir.

  ‘They’re heavier than leaf-blades and not as well made, but they’ll do.’ He still had his two short blades, but the others wielded weapons taken from the hounds. They were twenty-three men and forest-dwellers, and Randall was far from convinced that they could stand for long against fifty warriors.

  ‘I bet I die before you, lad,’ said Utha, directing a wry smile at his squire, ‘and, if I tell you to run... you run.’

  Randall returned the smile and drew the sword of Great Claw. His hand did not shake and he was as focused as he’d been for months. He was tired, alert, and determined to stay alive for as long as possible. His arms were taut and he felt stronger than he had ever been. Randall had even begun to think of himself as an average swordsman, rather than a boy with a blade he barely knew how to swing.

  ‘You lot,’ Utha shouted at Vithar Xaris and the Dokkalfar. ‘Is it too much to ask for you to get on the other side of this rise and draw your weapons?’ He spoke with sarcasm but the assembled forest-dwellers merely stood, looking apathetically at the Black cleric.

  ‘Vasir, get them to move,’ Randall said quietly to the Tyr warrior.

  It was slow, but within five minutes the sound of approaching men had grown louder and the Dokkalfar had assembled behind the grassy rise. They were crouched and were not obviously visible. Utha, Randall and Vasir stood in the path of the approaching mercenaries and hounds, silhouetted against the morning sun, their weapons ready. Randall gripped his old longsword, Utha wielded a sword and a mace, and Vasir held his two leaf-blades low and ready.

  ‘Neither of you fight Pevain,’ said Utha in a low growl, ‘he’s mine.’

  ‘Can I kill one of those blonde twins?’ asked Randall, and his master directed a puzzled look at him.

  ‘I see a man before me, my squire,’ the Black cleric said, with just a hint of pride in his voice. ‘And you can kill any man that draws a weapon on you... just not Pevain.’

  The black hawk circled overhead and Vasir followed its trajectory north, towards the approaching men. There was no one on horseback, which was probably why they had struggled to catch up, but they could make out Pevain himself and half a dozen others. Karesian hounds were on each side of the advancing group, and they could hear battle cries from the centre.

  The mercenary knight had his hair tied back and his groomed beard spoke of a man trying to lo
ok more noble than his station allowed. He carried a metal shield, along with his Ranen war-hammer, which he swung over his head, signalling his men to attack.

  ‘The Ghost is mine!’ shouted the mercenary.

  The hounds drew their scimitars and charged.

  ‘We are not alone,’ repeated Vasir, looking at the black hawk. He threw his head back and, in a deep and echoing voice, shouted, ‘Tyr Nanon... we need your help.’

  Utha and Randall looked at him, momentarily turning from the charging hounds. Their eyes flitted quickly upwards. The black hawk began to dive and, still high in the air, transformed into a human-like figure. They gasped as it dropped several items among the approaching hounds, before turning back into a hawk and pulling out of the dive.

  Three explosions nearly threw Randall off his feet. Something detonated in the midst of the charging enemies and a dozen hounds were blown to pieces. The remaining men lay in crumpled heaps on the ground, many with missing limbs.

  ‘That’s black wart,’ said Utha, with an amazed smile. ‘We are not alone, it would seem.’

  A loud cry from above, almost humorous in tone, made them look to the sky again. The hawk was flying in a tight circle above their heads and the Dokkalfar were staring at it with knowing reverence.

  The hounds didn’t recover from the explosive black wart, though a handful were dragged forward by Pevain and his dozen mercenaries as they took up the charge. With the best part of thirty hounds either killed or incapacitated, the odds had evened out and Randall sensed a change in Utha. The Black cleric was no longer on the defensive, and an expression of violent anticipation had come over his face.

  Pevain was a large man and stood out in the middle of the approaching rabble, his eyes focused on Utha. A few of the bastards glanced upwards, terrified that the hawk would strike again.

  The hawk came in to land next to Vasir. Once again, the transformation was quick. One moment, a black hawk was standing on the grass, the next, a short-statured Dokkalfar stood by them with a Ro longsword in his hand. The forest-dweller was smaller than others Randall had seen, and he had a much more highly developed human smile than Vasir.

  ‘Hello,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You’re Utha the Shadow... pleased to meet you.’ The Dokkalfar called Nanon extended his hand enthusiastically to Utha.

  ‘Perhaps we should shake hands later, but thanks for the help,’ was the dry response from the albino cleric.

  ‘You’re the boss,’ replied the newcomer, crouching down, ready for combat.

  ‘Let’s kill some mercenaries,’ said Randall, with more bluster than he knew he was capable of.

  Moments passed in slow motion as the two forces neared each other. With no call for surprise now, Vithar Xaris and the Dokkalfar stood on the grassy rise in full view of their enemies.

  Randall saw faces he recognized among the mercenaries. The blonde twins, Parag and Broot, and the man Utha had floored in Cozz. Sir Hallam Pevain stood out as the most dangerous-looking. He was well over six feet tall and his muscled arms flexed as he ran.

  Utha took two large strides forward and the two groups clashed, the cleric’s mace the first weapon to be swung. Pevain parried the blow with his shield, but was taken aback at Utha’s strength. Randall was face to face with Parag and only a last-minute sidestep prevented the mercenary from barrelling into him.

  ‘Time to die, Ghost,’ spat Pevain, his war-hammer whistling over Utha’s head. He lashed out with his shield, trying to make some forward momentum.

  Randall used the reach of his longsword to keep Parag at bay, though he was not used to fighting a man wielding two short swords and was forced to give ground backwards. All around, Dokkalfar fought against men, swinging their scimitars with grace and speed. They lacked strength but used bewildering movements to confuse and disorient the mercenaries. Vasir was as dangerous as ever, staying low to the ground and using his speed to avoid multiple attacks while lashing out with his leaf-blades, causing deep cuts and severing arteries. The real surprise was Tyr Nanon, and Randall had to force his eyes away as the nimble newcomer cut through the mercenaries with his longsword.

  Randall received a deep cut on his forearm and lashed out at Parag, grunting with exertion. His blade connected with a short sword and the shock sent the blonde mercenary backwards. The squire followed up quickly and delivered a feint to the man’s side that allowed him to kick him in the groin.

  Just when he thought he had won, the mercenary’s twin brother, Broot, tackled him from the side and forced him to drop his sword as they rolled down the grassy incline. As he fell back, Randall saw Utha take a vicious blow to the chest from Pevain’s war-hammer. Utha answered with a powerful thrust, but the cleric was clearly struggling against the mercenary.

  ‘That’s my brother, little boy,’ grunted Broot, punching Randall in the face and trying to pin him to the ground. He struggled, sensing the rotten breath of the mercenary on his face as Broot punched him again and elbowed him in the ribs. He kicked out, but couldn’t get leverage and felt his strength beginning to wane as a third heavy blow struck his jaw.

  On either side, Randall saw dead men and forest-dwellers tumbling down the rise, and he could hear roaring from both Pevain and Utha. Then his vision became misty as Broot continued to strike him. It was a fleeting idea of last resort, or perhaps an inkling of his newly acute survival instinct, but Randall managed to draw the small dirk he kept at his belt and drove it into Broot’s neck.

  Now the pressure on him was relaxed, Randall shook his head and rolled the mercenary on to the ground. Broot stared at the squire with wide eyes as he clutched at his throat in a vain attempt to stop the flow of blood. Randall did not pause before retrieving his longsword. He was dazed, but focused enough to plunge the blade into Broot’s chest.

  Unsteadily, he made his way back to the top of the grassy rise and was met with a sight of gruesome slaughter. All pretence at duelling had gone and the remaining combatants were hacking at each other, desperately attempting to strike before being struck. The hounds and mercenaries had grown used to fighting the non-humans and the Dokkalfar’s lack of physical strength was now all too apparent. Speed would only get you so far against a skilled fighter. Randall breathed heavily and wiped the blood from his eyes. They were losing.

  Utha had lost his mace, but was not giving an inch against Sir Pevain as they hammered down on each other. Both were bleeding and the two large warriors had looks of determination on their faces. Utha’s arms flexed tightly as he drove his shoulder upwards into Pevain’s ribs, using his strength to unbalance the mercenary knight.

  Randall couldn’t see Vasir, though two dead Dokkalfar lay near to where he had been fighting. Nanon was alive, but in some distress as three hounds surrounded him, and the other forest-dwellers were being whittled down. He turned back to Utha and saw that Pevain had lost his grip on his hammer and received a knee in the face. The Black cleric didn’t stand on ceremony and drew his sword across the mercenary’s throat. Pevain convulsed and grabbed at the deep cut in his neck, but he was still alive. Utha’s urgency to move on to other opponents had allowed the knight to survive.

  ‘Randall, get to the trees,’ Utha roared in a dry growl. ‘You... Nanon,’ he directed at the short Dokkalfar, ‘fall back.’

  Randall was tired, dazed and bleeding, but he grabbed hold of the nearest forest-dweller and turned from the fight. He was joined by others and, in moments, their company was fleeing southwards. Vithar Xaris was running close by. The shaman had lost his right arm below the elbow. He was clenching his teeth and holding the stump across his chest, but he showed no other sign of pain as he ushered his fellows away.

  Nanon and Utha covered their escape, as the remaining mercenaries and hounds attempted to swarm over them. Parag was giving the orders now. Nanon had picked up a short sword and whirled his two blades in controlled circles, keeping their enemies from mounting a swift pursuit. Utha was roaring insults and challenges at the top of his voice and brutally throwing aside any man w
ho dared to approach him.

  ‘I am Utha the Ghost,’ he roared. ‘You’ll remember that or you’ll die... your choice.’

  His words became distant. Randall ran unsteadily, weaving a chaotic pattern across the grass, trying to focus on the nearest copse of outlying trees. He could sense the others running with him, but was too dazed to identify their faces. The sounds of combat still rang in his ears as he saw a hazy image of trees appearing before him across the plain.

  ‘Randall, stop,’ roared a shaken voice from behind. He reached a tree and swung himself round it.

  Looking back, he had expected to see Dokkalfar rushing to join him and the remainder of Pevain’s force in pursuit. Instead, he saw two dozen men and Dokkalfar standing, staring in wide-eyed terror beyond where Randall stood. They were no longer fighting and even the wounded stood dumbstruck. A few of the forest-dwellers had dropped to their knees and were muttering indistinct words.

  ‘The priest and the altar, the priest and the altar.’ The words echoed from Vithar Xaris and were picked up by the other Dokkalfar.

  The tree behind Randall began to move.

  Slowly, he looked up. All sound seemed to be drawn from the area, as a dozen or more Dark Young reared up from the ground. The copse of trees had looked to be nothing out of the ordinary, but now he stood amongst them the darkwood trees planted their thickest branches to the ground and their trunks slowly left the earth.

  ‘Run!’ roared Nanon.

  The mercenaries and hounds fled north, forgetting the urge to kill Utha.

  Randall tried to move his legs, but they didn’t respond. All he could do was watch as the nearest of the beasts shook earth from its needle-filled maw and tilted its trunk forward. The other trees did the same and, shrugging off their dormant state, the Dark Young scuttled together, using some of their branches as legs and others as reaching tentacles. The texture of their skin was less bark-like than the creature Randall had seen in the oubliette of Ro Tiris and he guessed that they had only recently been birthed from dead Dokkalfar.