The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood

by A. J. Smith

  Utha had frozen and the forest-dwellers were prostrate on the floor before the beasts, though Tyr Nanon seemed less afraid than the others of his kind.

  ‘Don’t move, boy,’ Nanon shouted, running towards the Dark Young.

  Just as the beasts began to realize that a virtually paralysed man was standing in their midst, Tyr Nanon let out a deep, echoing cry and loped forward on to all-fours. The Dokkalfar had transformed into something else, larger this time. The cry didn’t stop, but melded into the roar of a large animal. The creature that had been Nanon was both beautiful and terrifying, with the body of a lion and the head, talons and wings of a giant eagle. Stories would call it a gryphon, but Randall had never believed such a thing could actually exist.

  Nanon continued to roar and again took to the sky, flying directly at the Dark Young, flapping his great wings and baring enormous talons on each paw. The beasts flailed in the air as the gryphon pounced, pecking violently at the nearest of them and wrenching it to the ground. Its talons tore into the darkwood tree and the frenzied assault left the Young deprived of tentacles and unable to rear up again. The gryphon sounded a deafening roar and flew out of reach of the other Dark Young.

  Randall closed his eyes and was jostled violently by the monsters as they scuttled after Nanon, reaching skywards with their black tentacles and needle-filled maws. After a moment of raw terror, the squire opened his eyes to find himself alone on the grass, with the forest of Dark Young in swift pursuit of the taunting gryphon.

  ‘Get up,’ shouted Utha, running to pull Randall to his feet and whisk him away to the south.

  Neither of them looked back. They had only the continued sound of Vithar Xaris chanting to tell them that the remaining forest-dwellers were also running to the Fell.

  * * *

  The forest was dark. The light provided by the minimal remaining daylight was barely enough for Randall to see those clustered around him. Utha had just stopped breathing heavily as he looked back through the trees and listened intently.

  The six remaining Dokkalfar, minus Nanon and Vasir, were crouched within the scrub a short distance away. They were silent enough to be hard to make out in the rising darkness. Vithar Xaris had guided them into the deep woods of the Fell, away from the burning forest, the torpid darkwood trees and the hounds.

  Tyr Vasir was likely dead, though no one could testify to having seen him fall and Randall maintained a faint hope that his companion would have found a way to escape in the confusion. If he had been wounded and remained on the ground as the mercenaries fled from the Dark Young, he could still be alive.

  They waited in silence, with fevered glances and twitchy, agitated eyes. Randall’s head was clear now. Though his jaw was aching and his spirit shaken, he was still alive and he had high hopes that he would remain so, at least for the short term.

  ‘Xaris,’ Utha whispered over his shoulder. ‘Seems we are not going anywhere. Why don’t you tell us about your friend... the short one that can turn into animals?’

  The Dokkalfar shaman tilted his head, seemingly finding the question a fair one. ‘He is of the Heart of our people, from the north of your lands of men.’

  ‘And the hawk, and the gryphon?’ Utha prompted, speaking of the second animal with incredulity in his voice. ‘I flatter myself that I know much of your people, but I did not know that.’

  Xaris and the other forest-dwellers exchanged wary glances. Randall sensed that they might not be able to answer, even if they wanted to.

  ‘Tyr Nanon the Shape Taker is old... maybe one of the oldest Dokkalfar that yet exists,’ said Xaris. ‘He has spent much of his forever travelling. He has seen the distant east, where the Jekkan still walk. He has taken counsel with the Volk of the northern ice, and he has flown with the gryphon riders of Imrya.’

  Randall didn’t understand any of these things. Vithar Xaris had a way of making humans feel like young children and the squire suspected that he did it deliberately. However, he spoke of Nanon with reverence and also confusion, as if the Tyr was just as much of a mystery to him.

  ‘The ability to take the form of beasts is old, old magic... rarely practised,’ continued Xaris, ‘and is often seen as an insult to the one we loved.’ He paused, looking at the faces of his fellow forest-dwellers. ‘But none of us would think to question Tyr Nanon.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Utha. ‘What’s so special about him?’

  ‘He is descended from the last exemplar of the Shadow Giants and a soldier of the Long War.’ There was intense conviction in the shaman’s words. ‘If Tyr Nanon speaks, you will listen... his words travel from further back in time than your species can imagine.’

  ‘Let’s not overstate things,’ said a voice out of the darkness, causing Utha to jump up and draw his sword.

  ‘Settle, my dear Utha,’ said Nanon, stepping out from behind a tree. He had clearly been there a while and it was a surprise that none of them had heard him approach.

  ‘I’d have returned to you sooner, but I had to go and burn the fallen. The last thing we need is more Dark Young.’

  Randall stood. ‘Did you see Vasir? Is he alive?’ he blurted out.

  Nanon smiled and pulled the unconscious form of Tyr Vasir from behind the tree. ‘He’s taken a nasty blow to the head, but he’s alive.’

  Randall darted over to where his unconscious companion lay sprawled. He had an ugly-looking wound to the left side of his head and black blood was seeping over his skin, but he was otherwise unhurt.

  ‘He’ll be okay, lad. We heal quickly, just let him rest,’ said Nanon cheerfully, imitating human behaviour more skilfully than the squire would have thought possible.

  Vithar Xaris and the other Dokkalfar did not rise, but they looked at the short Tyr with reverence. Randall was surprised that none of them was inclined to help him move Vasir, and was reminded that the forest-dwellers were wary of one another just as much as men.

  Utha sheathed his sword and regarded Nanon warily. ‘Are you going to explain yourself?’ he asked.

  ‘What would you like me to explain?’ replied the cheerful forest-dweller. ‘I have quite a few catchy explanations up my sleeve. Which would you like first?’

  Utha frowned, shaking his head. Randall sensed growing irritation in his master and decided to interject. ‘I think he wants to know where you came from, how you knew where we were, and why you helped,’ said the squire, hefting Vasir into a more dignified position, seated against a tree.

  ‘Do not question him,’ barked Xaris. ‘Just thank him.’

  Nanon raised his eyebrows in a distinctly human expression of tolerant annoyance. ‘Fell Walkers,’ he said, as if that explained everything. ‘Don’t worry, lad, it’s what happens to someone who never leaves the tree they were sired under.’ He directed his dark eyes towards the shaman. ‘Xaris, you’re not helping.’

  ‘As you say, most reverend Tyr,’ replied the Vithar.

  Utha rubbed his eyes and let out a moan of frustration. ‘I want a drink,’ he said wearily. ‘Anything will do.’

  Nanon smiled warmly. ‘How about some nettle tea?’

  ‘How about you fuck off?’ spat the Black cleric.

  The Dokkalfar moaned as one at Utha’s coarseness, but a raised hand from Nanon silenced them. The old Tyr smiled again and stepped towards Utha.

  ‘Well, you’ll get your wish, Utha the Shadow... I have to leave for the east fairly quickly.’

  ‘He’s just angry,’ said Randall, standing up from Vasir and interposing himself between Utha and Nanon. ‘He swears when he’s angry.’

  ‘You’re not my mother, Randall,’ barked the Black cleric. ‘But thank you.’ The last words were genuine and he looked at his squire, grateful that he still had another human for company.

  ‘I took no offence,’ said Nanon. ‘Coarse language is a curiously human characteristic... we have no real equivalent.’

  Utha turned away sharply.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Randall asked the forest-dweller.


  Nanon placed a reassuring hand on the squire’s shoulder. ‘The dark-blood needs me,’ he said cryptically.

  ‘The what?’ replied Randall.

  ‘Among men, he’s known as Rham Jas Rami.’

  Randall snarled in anger. The Kirin assassin had killed Brother Torian.

  ‘Without the dark-blood we are lost,’ said Nanon. ‘You have your duties and I have mine.’ He then turned his attention to the Dokkalfar. ‘Vithar Xaris, take the Shadow and his squire to the Fell Walk and guard them. I’ll meet you there when I’ve rescued Rham Jas Rami Dark Blood.’

  CHAPTER 5

  KALE GLENWOOD IN THE CITY OF RO LEITH

  The six hills of Leith were much as Glenwood remembered them and the air of his home was the freshest he’d felt for many years. Tiris smelt of sweat and money, Arnon of arrogance and greed, but Leith felt welcoming.

  There were no walls round the city and no guard towers or stockade to police the comings and goings of the duchy’s people. The farmers and landowners who worked on the land to the south, across the fertile plains of Leith, took a relaxed attitude to security and a sense of shared need and community spirit had been fostered over the years. The people of Leith were proud of their duchy and proud of their city. Not having a large church presence or a massive army, they relied on their love of nature and a sense of living within the seasons to maintain their identity. Even a man like Glenwood, who had long since left his home, felt a strange sense of completeness at seeing the six hills again.

  ‘Where is your family from?’ asked Rham Jas, evidently enjoying the warmer weather in the south of Tor Funweir. ‘Is there a Glenwood manor somewhere nearby?’

  The Kirin assassin had been in relatively good spirits as they had made their way south from Arnon through the foothills of the Claws. The lands through which they’d been travelling were sparse and unpopulated, with few people to avoid and plentiful game to hunt. Glenwood had made sure that they had hugged the mountains and stayed as far away from the Wastes of Jekka as possible, and the journey had been strangely relaxing.

  ‘The last ward of the glen was only a distant relative,’ replied Glenwood. ‘I doubt they’d have kept my father’s house... it was falling apart when I left.’

  Rham Jas had removed his cloak and now wore only a sleeveless black waistcoat, with his other belongings stowed in a pack over his shoulder. The sun had been a constant companion for the last couple of weeks and, though the weather was crisp with the onset of winter, it was still considerably warmer than Tiris or Arnon.

  ‘Shame,’ said the Kirin with a good-natured smile. ‘I would have liked to meet your family.’

  Glenwood raised his eyebrows. ‘Another time maybe.’

  They reached the first hill of Leith just after midday and he was glad that nothing had changed. Atop the hill, and in chaotic patterns all around its base, were small, cosy homesteads, well spaced and separated by gardens and flower beds.

  Glenwood took a deep breath of the clean air. Leith was far from being an idyllic city, but the criminals were a decidedly rare breed who seldom killed people. Wandering the cobbled streets that weaved their way through the hills, even Rham Jas was affected by the city’s tranquillity. It was unlike the other great cities of Tor Funweir, its isolation having kept it free of clerical interference.

  ‘Have a look over there,’ said Rham Jas.

  Security around the fifth hill was suspiciously high. At the base, where there were tree-lined paths and quaint wooden buildings, could also be seen patrols of city watchmen and strangely armoured Karesians. The four sets of steps that led from the road up the sides of the hill were all guarded and, though people were being allowed through, they were all being searched.

  ‘Who are the Karesians?’ asked Glenwood. ‘I’ve never seen that armour before, or those wavy knives.’

  ‘They’re wind claws,’ replied Rham Jas, deep in thought, ‘the faithful of Jaa.’

  Glenwood had never had occasion to visit the fifth hill when he had lived in Leith and it intimidated him. The Lady Annabel was known as a benevolent duchess, but she still felt the need to have an ornate residence out of step with the rest of her city. Known simply as her house, the building was in fact a palace, with spires and arched windows lending a fairytale appearance to the hill.

  The knight marshal’s office and Annabel’s house perched side by side on a level section of ground with their foundations built deep into the hill. Around the two large buildings were manor houses and chapels. Glenwood chuckled to himself at this reminder that, though he might play at being a noble, and might even have a claim to nobility, he was just as much of a scumbag as Rham Jas.

  ‘That spiky building,’ said Rham Jas, pointing to Annabel’s house, ‘that’s where the duchess lives?’

  ‘Yup... nice, isn’t it?’ replied Glenwood, with a smirk.

  The assassin scanned the steps that led to the top of the hill. ‘Tricky,’ he said, after a few moments.

  ‘Are you joking?’ replied Glenwood incredulously. ‘I saw you climb up a sheer gold column in Arnon. This should be a breeze.’

  ‘What I wouldn’t give for a sheer gold column to climb up here.’ Rham Jas wasn’t grinning and his eyes flicked from side to side, betraying the complicated thought processes going on in his head. ‘Those wind claws make things awkward,’ he said.

  ‘Scared?’ asked Glenwood with a smug chuckle.

  The Kirin assassin puffed out his cheeks wearily. ‘Every second of every day, but that’s not the point here. The point is why were there no wind claws in Tiris or Arnon? As far as I know the Mistress of Pain doesn’t have a particular favourite among her sisters, so why is this one protected? It’s not like Leith is the jewel of Tor Funweir or anything.’

  ‘I’m sure you have a theory,’ said Glenwood, with half an eye on a nearby tavern.

  ‘Still in the early planning stages, my dear Kale,’ replied Rham Jas. ‘However, the most likely reason is that they are here for us... or, more accurately, me.’

  ‘Can we go and have a drink and forget about killing people for an hour or two?’ asked the man of Leith. ‘The bitch will still be up there later.’

  Rham Jas considered it, without moving his eyes from the wind claws guarding the bottom of the fifth hill.

  ‘Okay, a drink seems appropriate.’ His grin returned. ‘Will they have Darkwald red?’

  Glenwood screwed up his face in a show of mock offence. ‘This is Leith, my dear Rham Jas. Drinking Darkwald red around here will get you arrested... have you not heard of the grape wars?’

  The assassin shook his head and, for once, looked confused.

  ‘The Corkoson family, the nobles that make the wine you’re so fond of, refuse to ship their product down here. Apparently, there was a falling out over some of the grapes used in the Sixth Hill Reserve. Wine-making is a very serious business in Ro Leith.’

  Rham Jas shrugged and began to stroll towards the tavern’s welcoming embrace.

  * * *

  The presence of a Kirin bothered the locals very little as the two companions settled down in a corner of the quiet tavern and ordered a bottle of the Reserve. The barman was a jovial fellow in late middle age, who commented on not having seen a Kirin for a while and what a nice treat it was to encounter another one. Rham Jas was taken aback at this reaction, usually having to keep his face hidden while travelling in Tor Funweir, but he relaxed quickly enough as the bottle of fruity, full-bodied wine went down.

  ‘You’re a better travelling companion when you’re not constantly worrying about things,’ said the Kirin, as a second bottle of red wine appeared on their table. ‘Doesn’t it feel better just to let life take you along on a wave of chance and uncertainty?’

  ‘I certainly prefer sitting in a tavern to skulking around dark back alleys,’ replied Glenwood, pouring out two large goblets.

  The assassin shrugged. ‘It’s a part of the job, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Your job,’ corrected Glenwood. ‘To me, it’s li
ke I’m doing time in a bizarre walking prison, with you as the warden.’

  Rham Jas laughed. ‘I, er, I suppose I appreciate your help,’ he said awkwardly.

  Glenwood burst out laughing and banged his hand on the table. ‘Fuck you, Rham Jas,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘I bet it hurt to say that.’

  The Kirin shrank into his chair. Out of habit, he scanned the tavern to see if Glenwood’s outburst had attracted any attention.

  ‘Making friends is not counted among my skills,’ he said.

  ‘No shit. You’re one of the most unlikeable men I’ve ever met... but at least you’re sincere about being a bastard.’ The forger glanced around the tavern. Aside from a few quizzical looks, he was gratified that most people were minding their own business. ‘And you shouldn’t worry too much about the common folk knowing who you are around here. As far as I remember, Lady Annabel is not known for following royal decrees and I doubt any Wanted posters would have made it this far south yet.’

  Rham Jas grinned again and reclined further into his wooden chair. ‘It’s the wind claws I’m worried about,’ he said. ‘Saara is not an idiot and she could have figured out that this would be our next destination. Tiris, Arnon... Leith is the logical next stop.’

  Glenwood knew little about the faithful of Jaa, aside from their legendary brutality, and was concerned at his companion’s reaction.

  ‘What’s so special about wind claws?’ he asked.

  ‘Depends on your point of view,’ replied the assassin. ‘Al-Hasim’s father was a wind claw – the greatest among them, apparently – and he was one of the nastiest men I ever met.’

  ‘Does that make them any worse than Purple clerics?’ Glenwood thought that the churchmen of nobility were as unpleasant as men could get.