The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood

by A. J. Smith

  One was the Black cleric. He was now armoured in black plate and wore his longsword in a simple scabbard. The churchman of death had a haunted look in his eyes, though he exhibited none of the telltale euphoria that marked those under the sway of enchantment. Next to him, though, and wearing a figure-hugging red dress, was Isabel the Seductress. Glenwood had never seen her before, but her appearance was similar enough to Katja that she had to be one of the Seven Sisters. Her facial tattoo depicted an elaborate and beautifully designed coiled snake, though its beauty was somewhat diminished by the look of anger on the woman’s face.

  The criminal turned away from the barred window, remembering the assassin’s advice to not look too long at one of the sisters.

  ‘You will answer her question, Kirin,’ said the Black cleric in a monotone rumble. ‘Or you will suffer more pain than you can endure.’

  There was a pained chuckle from Rham Jas. ‘Why don’t you get the bitch to enchant me? Oh, that’s right, she can’t.’

  A silvery laugh emanated from the enchantress. Glenwood shook his head, desperately trying to remember that she was as malevolent as she was beautiful.

  ‘My dear Rham Jas,’ said Isabel, ‘you do not know true suffering... not yet.’

  There was silence for a moment. The assassin glared at the enchantress. She was clearly not used to this, as other men would never attempt to stare her down for fear of her entering their minds.

  ‘I have nothing to say to you, bitch,’ said the assassin, spitting on the floor. ‘Just kill me, if you can.’

  Another lyrical peal of laughter and Isabel stepped in closer.

  ‘My lady,’ said the Black cleric, ‘be wary, he is a slippery foe.’

  ‘I do not fear him,’ she replied, running a single finger down the Kirin’s chest. ‘As he does not fear me.’

  Her manner was deeply sensual – in keeping, Glenwood thought, with her title of Seductress.

  ‘You will bend to my will, dark-blood, whether it takes an hour, a day or a year. You will become my devoted servant, with no mind of your own. You will think only of my pleasure... I will call you my pet.’ She bit her lower lip and Glenwood felt a heat rise in his body. ‘Now, I will ask again, where is the old-blood?’

  Rham Jas narrowed his eyes and snarled at the enchantress. ‘Fuck you!’

  The cleric stepped forward and struck the Kirin across the jaw with a gauntleted fist, causing blood to spray from the side of his mouth.

  ‘Hit me again, you fucking coward,’ growled Rham Jas. ‘Do it... hit me as hard as you can... the answer will be the same – fuck you.’

  The Kirin’s stubbornness was spectacular, but surely even the famous Rham Jas Rami would break under torture. Glenwood didn’t know who the old-blood was, or why the enchantress referred to Rham Jas as dark-blood, but he was increasingly of the opinion that the Kirin assassin was the toughest man he’d ever known.

  The Black cleric drew his sword and rested it against the prisoner’s neck. ‘I can kill you, you know,’ he said in a dispassionate voice. ‘It would be easy... just a slow cut across the neck and we could leave you here to bleed.’

  Rham Jas grinned at the bulky cleric. ‘Your name is Elihas, yes?’

  The churchman nodded. ‘I am Brother Elihas of Du Ban, Black cleric of the One God,’ he replied formally.

  ‘So tell me, Brother Elihas, have you officially converted to worship of the Dead God, or are you just on loan?’ His grin was defiant.

  ‘Silence,’ roared Isabel, displaying her first real sign of agitation.

  ‘Why?’ retorted the assassin. ‘What will you do to me if I refuse?’

  Elihas struck him again, harder this time, causing the Kirin to spit out a globule of blood. ‘Ouch,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Where is Utha the Ghost?’ shrieked the enchantress.

  ‘Fuck you!’ replied Rham Jas.

  Brother Elihas drew back his foot and kicked the assassin squarely in the groin. The blow winded the Kirin and caused him to writhe uncomfortably in his hanging position, gritting his teeth in pain.

  ‘Well, I won’t be servicing your mother later,’ he barked through a pained laugh.

  Another kick to the groin and Rham Jas howled in pain.

  ‘Harder, you fucking woman,’ he shouted, though his eyes were now watering and a trickle of blood was running down his leg.

  Just as Elihas drew his leg back a third time, Isabel stepped forward and placed a gently restraining hand on his armoured shoulder. ‘Enough, my dear Elihas,’ she said in a girlish voice.

  The trickle of blood had stopped quickly and she narrowed her eyes. ‘Do all the wounds you receive heal so swiftly?’ she asked.

  ‘Stab me in the face and we’ll find out,’ was the barbed response from the prisoner.

  She chuckled and glanced over her shoulder to the chair in the corner of the cell. ‘Do you know what inching is, my dear Rham Jas?’

  The assassin clearly did know what it was, even if Glenwood did not, but he showed no particular fear of the word.

  ‘I saw a man inched in Kessia,’ replied the Kirin. ‘Before I got kicked out for shooting one of your sisters in the face.’

  ‘You’ve killed four of my sisters, dark-blood.’ Isabel allowed a predatory curl to appear at the corner of her mouth, again revealing that she was not quite as calm as she wished to appear.

  ‘True,’ replied Rham Jas casually. ‘One of them was a long time ago... Actually, now I think about it, I’ve killed two separate people called Lillian the Lady of Death. The name seems so apt.’

  Isabel didn’t change her expression as she slapped the Kirin in the face. It was not a heavy blow, and caused little damage, but it made Glenwood smile. Rham Jas could extract a reaction from the most controlled of people.

  ‘Elihas, please transfer the prisoner to the chair,’ said Isabel, a look of imperious mania in her eyes.

  The Black cleric released the chain holding Rham Jas to the ceiling. His hands were still shackled and Elihas pulled on the chain to keep him subdued as he locked the leg-irons to the shackles. The assassin fell forward and let out a groan of pain as he struck the stone floor. In a moment, he was bent double with no room to move. He was then dragged across the floor and dumped in the large metal chair. His arms and legs were placed in leather and steel restraints, securely fastened to the chair. His head was wrenched back and held with a tight leather band, forcing him to sit upright.

  ‘This is the most comfy I’ve been for hours,’ said Rham Jas, trying to flex his neck and ease the soreness of being hung in chains.

  Isabel walked round him, drumming her elegant fingers demurely on her chest. ‘We found your daughter, you know?’ she said quietly, causing the assassin instantly to become alert.

  ‘Young Keisha was a pleasure slave in Rikara. She’d been servicing a pestilent merchant prince when my sister bought her.’ The enchantress breathed in deeply and closed her eyes. There was pleasure on her face and she moved side to side in a sensual dance.

  Rham Jas clenched his fists and tensed against his restraints. For the first time, Glenwood saw real doubt in the assassin’s face, as if the news of his daughter was one of the few things that he feared. As he skulked at the bottom of the feeding trough and listened intently, the forger found himself surprised to hear that Rham Jas had children.

  ‘She’s alive?’ asked the Kirin, without further bravado.

  ‘She is... and she will remain so, as long as you behave,’ replied Isabel, opening her eyes again and smiling with intense pleasure. ‘We can be... excellent allies.’ Walking round to stand in front of the assassin, she ran a seductive finger along his bare shoulders and down his chest. ‘Perhaps you will even enjoy being my... ally.’

  ‘I have enough friends,’ replied Rham Jas.

  ‘But only one daughter,’ retorted Isabel. ‘Do not let her die as you did your son. I saw Zeldantor at the end, you know.’

  The Kirin bowed his head as best he could withi
n his restraints and tears appeared in his eyes. His normal bravado was gone, replaced by the anguish of a father confronted with news of his child’s death. He clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to remain calm. Glenwood thought the assassin would crack soon. It was emotion, rather than pain, that achieved the best results.

  ‘Zeldantor and Keisha would understand,’ said the Kirin, closing his eyes.

  Isabel laughed once more, a beautiful sound that cut deeply into Glenwood’s mind, causing him to turn away for a moment to gather his thoughts.

  ‘Do you know, Rham Jas, in Kessia a skilled incher can command a great salary. The trick is to cut an inch, and only an inch.’

  The forger turned back and saw Elihas take the red-hot knife from the brazier next to the chair. It was designed to hold the knife up into the flames so as to heat it evenly. The Black cleric had to reach under the flame to remove the blade from its sconce.

  ‘I’ve only done this once,’ said the cleric coldly.

  ‘I’m going to kill you both,’ replied the assassin, keeping his eyes closed and his teeth clenched.

  The smoking knife was placed against his fingertips. Rham Jas howled in agony as an inch was removed from his left hand with a smooth, sawing cut. He’d lost the ends of three fingers, but Glenwood guessed that the procedure would not stop after the first inch.

  ‘Do you think they will grow back?’ asked Isabel, clapping her hands together excitedly as the Kirin struggled against his restraints. ‘I’m sure you’ve not had the leisure to test your healing abilities.’

  Rham Jas was shaking and his whole body tensed. Elihas of Du Ban cut a second inch from his fingers, levelling out the first cut and causing the tips to fall to the floor in a small pool of blood. The heat of the blade was not sufficient fully to seal the wounds and smouldering flesh clung to the knife.

  ‘This is certainly better than my first attempt,’ said Elihas, displaying no particular emotion.

  ‘You are doing so very well,’ said Isabel, in a sinister chuckle. ‘Now, the third inch is when most people crack.’

  Elihas placed his hand firmly on the assassin’s wrist. Rham Jas closed his eyes. The blade was drawn across the back of his fingers and took the third inch, but this time he did not cry out. Instead, he shook violently as sweat poured down his torso.

  ‘That one didn’t even hurt,’ he said, opening his bloodshot eyes.

  Elihas placed the knife back in the fire, with the blade protruding up through the burning coals, and turned to the enchantress.

  ‘Perhaps we should let the Kirin sit for a while... see if he can heal back his missing fingers.’ He did not say it with any relish.

  ‘An excellent idea,’ replied Isabel, with a flutter of her eyelashes. The two of them regarded the shaking prisoner. Both tried to make eye-contact but Rham Jas stubbornly refused to meet their gaze, and then they left the cell.

  Glenwood sat at the bottom of the feeding trough, to the side of the barred window and, as he leant back heavily against the stone, he felt as if he were about to vomit. The mania of the enchantress, the indifference of the cleric, to say nothing of the smell of seared human flesh – his stomach twisted into knots and he had to exert all his willpower not to be violently sick.

  Through the barred window, he could see Rham Jas, the man he had thought he hated more than anyone else in the world. But having heard of his children and seen him tortured in such a fashion, he began to doubt his hatred.

  Rham Jas shook and sweat ran over his near-naked body. Without knowing that he was being watched, the assassin wept uncontrollably.

  ‘I’m sorry, Keisha... I’m so sorry,’ he sobbed to himself.

  CHAPTER 6

  FALLON OF LEITH IN THE REALM OF SCARLET

  The tent was kept on the eastern edge of the camp. Since the arrival of Tristram, Mobius and the king, Fallon had not been permitted to leave his makeshift prison and had only three bound men for company.

  Brother Jakan had been most insistent that the captive be executed at the earliest opportunity. However, Commander Tristram had not listened to the whingeing idiot and had decided to deal with Fallon once South Warden was secured. The crime of blasphemy had been levelled at him. That was code for having pissed off a Purple cleric. There were plenty of witnesses and little chance he’d escape execution, even with his men supporting him and Tristram’s reluctance to see him executed. Theron and Ohms had been loyal to their captain and insisted that Jakan had goaded him, though Mobius had quickly dismissed this and sided with his fellow cleric.

  Fallon had been moved with the army towards South Warden. He’d been placed on a horse and closely guarded by a squad of bound men as the lumbering force of armoured men made their way through the realm of Scarlet. Once the Moon Woods had come into sight, Tristram had ordered the Darkwald yeomanry to take up a picketed position across the grassy plain, while the engineers constructed trebuchets and the knights readied themselves for a siege.

  Fallon knew all this from his knowledge of combat tactics, rather than from anyone talking to him. His men had been forbidden from contacting him and he had only soldiers’ gossip and his intuition to tell him what was occurring.

  He’d been stripped of his armour and sat, with his hands shackled behind his back, looking through the billowing tent entrance at the sprawling military camp outside. Ten thousand yeomanry and five thousand knights. It was a force to rival any that the lands of men could muster and one of the largest armies of which Fallon had ever been a part. He’d even heard rumours that the Red cardinal, Knight General Malaki Frith, was on his way from Arnon. If this proved true, King Sebastian was gathering the bulk of his army, leaving only the local garrisons to police Tor Funweir. The ranks of watchmen and the army of Ro Haran would not be coming, but they were inadequate to face the hounds of Karesia, who were apparently swarming across the lands of Ro.

  Strangely, Fallon had not wavered in his conviction since he had been arrested. If anything, he was even more concerned with his personal honour now. It was as if taking the first step – as Jakan had said, crossing the line – had made continued insubordination easier. He had stubbornly decided that he was not going to continue killing men who had not wronged him. The Ranen were simple people and did not deserve the death that was coming to them. For Fallon, to be given an order was no longer enough, and he didn’t care if his honour got him killed.

  The tent flap was pushed inwards and Knight Commander Tristram marched in with angry eyes and gritted teeth. He waved away the bound men. ‘Go and have some food. I need to speak with this fool.’ They saluted and left, making sure Fallon’s restraints were securely fastened before they did so.

  Tristram sat opposite the Red knight and leant forward, resting his chin on his fist. ‘How can one man cause so many problems without actually having killed anyone?’ he asked. ‘Most people I execute at least have the good sense to have done something violent. All you did was stop a turncoat from dying.’

  ‘I disagreed with a Purple cleric; is that so bad?’ asked Fallon, but not in any great hurry to talk his way out of execution. ‘I’ve killed thousands of men, but you arrest me when I save someone’s life... Doesn’t that seem a little stupid to you?’

  ‘What happened to you? Verellian was a good man, but he’s not worth dying for.’ Tristram had been told exactly what had happened before and after the duel and had dismissed any talk of honour as naive and foolish. ‘So he had a spiritual awakening in Ro Hail... any way you paint it, the man betrayed his oath. By letting him escape, you aided a vow-breaker.’

  ‘So execute me,’ said Fallon defiantly.

  ‘You know I can’t,’ barked the commander. ‘If I kill Sir Fallon of Leith, how do you think the other knights will take it? They’re angry at being so far from home anyway and most of them respect you... as they respected Verellian.’

  ‘A month ago you told me that Mobius could have me killed if he wanted. What’s changed?’ Fallon gathered that certain things had occurred since he
had left Hail. He’d heard whispered talk of the king falling into madness.

  Tristram looked at the grass under his feet and frowned. ‘I just want to get this campaign done and take these men home.’

  ‘And the Ranen?’ asked Fallon.

  ‘If bombarding them with big rocks means we can get out of the Freelands sooner, then that’s what I’ll do.’ He reached behind him and parted the tent flap, indicating that Fallon look off to the left. ‘Twenty trebuchets, ready and sighted,’ said the knight commander. ‘We start the bombardment when the sun goes down and, hopefully within a few weeks, we can fuck off back to Tor Funweir... maybe leaving some of the yeomanry as an occupying force.’

  Fallon raised an eyebrow and shifted his shoulders to sit more comfortably with shackled hands. ‘You honestly believe that?’ he asked. ‘That this will end with South Warden?’

  ‘It’s not your place to ask these questions, captain,’ snapped Tristram. ‘You are a knight of the Red.’

  Fallon bowed his head and breathed in deeply. He had said the same thing to William of Verellian. Just as his old commander had, the young knight knew the answer. ‘Not any more... I don’t think I can be,’ he said quietly.

  Knight Commander Tristram stood and glared at his subordinate. He opened his mouth several times, as if he had something to say, but only after a few moments of thought did he speak. ‘You’re going to hang, Captain Fallon. When South Warden is secure, I will have no choice but to string you up.’ He didn’t wait for a response, just banged his fist against his breastplate in salute and left the tent.

  Fallon watched him leave and, as the commander disappeared into the sea of red banners, the trebuchets once again came into view. He wasn’t sure which concerned him more, his impending execution or the upcoming assault on South Warden.

  He felt for Lord Vladimir Corkoson and the Darkwald yeomanry, men who had been pressed into service and who likely cared even less for their orders than Fallon. He liked the Lord of Mud and hoped that he’d keep his mouth shut, carry out his orders, and return to the Darkwald with only a few men lost. At least the knights of the Red had the luxury of blind obedience to fall back on, a gift not enjoyed by the commoners of the yeomanry.