The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood

by A. J. Smith

  Vladimir thought about resisting, but he was not a warrior and, faced with a guard of Purple churchmen, the lord of Darkwald had no choice but to submit. The yeomanry showed their displeasure as Vladimir’s sword was removed and his hands shackled, but a few stern words from Brother Jakan silenced them. The commanders exchanged looks with their lord, but Vladimir waved them down.

  ‘Stay your hand, exemplar... it is not yet your moment,’ said Torian’s shade.

  ‘They’ll kill him for that,’ replied Fallon.

  ‘Your allies assemble,’ was the cryptic response from the shade.

  Vladimir was relieved of his armour and dragged towards the dais. Cardinal Mobius and the king looked down arrogantly at the lesser noble. Cleoth Montague drew his longsword and stepped on to the grass. With a grunt, he kicked Corkoson in the leg so that he dropped to his knees.

  ‘You kneel before your betters,’ shouted the king’s bodyguard.

  ‘My betters?’ asked Vladimir incredulously. ‘My betters have just caused the death of hundreds of my men... what am I meant to do?’ He was evidently in pain, rubbing his leg.

  As the retreating column of yeomanry made it back to their lines, the king ordered Cleoth to deliver a beating to the Lord of Mud. The Purple cleric struck him around the head and chest with the hilt of his longsword and seemed to be enjoying it more with each blow. Any member of the yeomanry that moved to intercede was prevented by an armed cleric.

  ‘I will not hear defiance from one of my own lords,’ shrieked the king. ‘This is my land. I will take it from any man who thinks to defy me.’ His manner was that of a petulant child.

  Corkoson was bloodied now and lay face-down on the grass. Cleoth Montague had ceased beating him and returned to stand next to the king on the raised dais, while the Lord of Mud was pulled upright by other clerics.

  ‘Would anyone else defy me?’ shouted King Sebastian, a look of wild insanity in his eyes. ‘I will raze your homes and massacre your people if you raise one hand to stop my righteous campaign. I am the king!’ The words were directed at the Darkwald yeomanry. They were far from home and, with no lord to speak for them, were at the mercy of the deranged monarch. If they were to resist or to refuse Jakan’s orders, they would surely be executed without the benefit of a trial – or would return home to find the Darkwald a smoking ruin.

  Knight Commander Tristram, who had been at the far end of the lines, directing the bombardment, now approached the dais with several knight captains. The other Red knights followed his path towards the Lord of Mud with anticipation on their faces.

  ‘Step aside,’ Tristram said to the clerics surrounding Vladimir.

  ‘What is the meaning of this, my knight?’ demanded King Sebastian.

  ‘I am your humble servant as always, your grace, but Lord Corkoson should be imprisoned to await sentencing.’ Tristram approached the monarch and said, loud enough for all to hear, ‘His trial and execution should take place once the city is secure and all men can see the justice of the One... and your wisdom in executing him for blasphemy.’

  Tristram was being very clever.

  Sebastian Tiris considered his words, placing a hand on the knight’s shoulder. ‘Of course, my knight, your counsel is wise as always. Brother Cleoth Montague, take the Lord of Mud to a holding tent to await our justice.’

  ‘Please allow me, my king,’ said Tristram.

  The knight commander directed men to pick up Vladimir and carry him away from the dais. ‘Put him with Fallon, they’ll have ample time to lament each other’s lack of honour and wisdom.’ Through the massed warriors, Fallon thought he detected a shallow nod from his former commander.

  ‘Show’s over, lads,’ shouted Tristram to the assembled knights and yeomanry.

  The remainder of the four companies now melted back into the army and medical attention was given to the wounded, many of whom had lost limbs and hastily discarded their weaponry as they ran from the defenders. The rest of the common folk looked fearful, but Fallon could sense no imminent threat of rebellion among their ranks. The king’s words clearly still rang in their ears.

  A knight of the Red threw Vladimir down at the tent entrance, where he was picked up by one of the bound men and brought within.

  ‘At least give him some water and a cloth to clean himself up,’ said Fallon. ‘He’s a mess.’

  ‘Should have kept his mouth shut, then, shouldn’t he?’ was the guard’s caustic response.

  Torian’s shade had disappeared. The apparition had been strikingly real and the captive knight felt it strange that he had not for one moment questioned the shade’s words. He had trusted Torian and, as he moved across to help Vladimir into a seated position, Fallon found himself at peace with his honour.

  ‘You’ll be okay,’ he said reassuringly.

  ‘Really?’ the other wheezed. ‘Because it feels like the bastard broke a few things that I like to keep intact... my nose, my jaw... my ears. How has he managed to make my ears hurt?’

  ‘He smacked you in the side of the head with his sword hilt, your ears will ring for a while.’ Fallon had received most kinds of wounds himself and knew that the beating Vladimir had suffered would not leave any permanent damage other than a few ugly-looking scars.

  ‘That royal cunt is going to kill all my men, isn’t he?’ asked Vladimir, wincing in pain.

  Fallon considered the question. ‘I don’t know. It depends how long the Ranen can hold out and whether Tristram can employ proper strategic thinking. The problem is Jakan. The man’s an idiot. He couldn’t organize a frontal assault on your cock.’

  Vladimir spat out blood and tested a few of his loosened teeth. ‘I hurt,’ he said wearily. ‘Don’t suppose there’s anything to drink around here?’

  ‘Unless you can get drunk on righteous horse-shit, I think you’re out of luck,’ replied Fallon.

  The Lord of Mud chuckled. ‘Don’t make me laugh, Sir Fallon, it hurts.’ He pulled himself up some more and looked out of the tent flap. ‘They’re forming up for another assault, aren’t they?’

  ‘Looks like,’ replied the former knight of the Red, ‘and don’t call me sir.’

  ‘Ah, yes, that’s right, we are two traitors together... at least you can drink now... thank the One and all that.’

  Even as a battered and bruised prisoner of the king, Vladimir took a philosophical view of the world which Fallon found refreshing. Unfortunately, ironic humour would neither save the lives of his men nor keep his own neck from being stretched at the end of a rope once South Warden was taken.

  ‘What do we do?’ asked Vladimir.

  Fallon leant forwards and tried his best to smile. ‘We wait,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m afraid that’s the best I’ve got.’

  Vladimir scanned the lines of Darkwald yeomanry. Another four companies had formed up and again Brother Jakan was delivering a rhetorical speech about duty to the house of Tiris and the honour of dying for the One.

  ‘Do I have any options that won’t get me summarily executed?’ asked Vladimir. ‘It’s probably best that you tell me now before I get so drunk I try to piss on the king.’

  ‘You can wait... like me,’ replied Fallon.

  ‘Has anyone ever told you that you’re rather poor company when you’re charged with blasphemy,’ said the lesser noble.

  ‘It’s hard to fathom how to react when you’ve turned your back on the only thing you’ve ever known,’ replied the man of Leith. ‘I suppose I respond by being laconic and miserable.’

  ‘It suits you,’ replied the Lord of Mud. ‘But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll respond by getting drunk.’ He looked round the tent and turned up his nose. ‘There must be some alcohol in this camp, somewhere... You,’ he barked at one of the men standing guard, ‘get me some booze.’

  The bound man didn’t know how to react. He frowned and looked at the man standing beside him. ‘I don’t think we’re allowed –’

  ‘I’d get him some booze if I were you,’ interjected Fallon.
‘He’s still a noble, and he clearly needs a drink.’

  ‘And this is Sir Fallon of Leith,’ said Vladimir. ‘Apparently, he’s a tough bastard... could probably fillet you two with his fingernail.’

  The guards exchanged glances.

  ‘Booze,’ shouted the Lord of Mud. ‘Now!’

  The sudden note of command in Vladimir’s voice made them move to do as they were told. The first man scanned round the supply wagons and walked over to a crate of bottles, whilst his fellow had spied a barrel by the entrance to a pavilion.

  ‘Is that a magic power of some kind?’ asked Fallon. ‘Or just an innate ability to get a drink whenever you need it?’

  ‘They’re idiots. Easily swayed when they hear someone order them around.’ Vladimir frowned, touching the parts of his body that had borne the brunt of Cleoth Montague’s assault. The wiry noble was obviously not used to being in pain and his jaw and neck were badly swollen.

  ‘I’d like to make some kind of bold statement of allegiance, my friend, but all I can think to say is that I want to go home,’ said Vladimir, flexing his neck and emitting a deep-throated cough.

  ‘I feel further away from home than I ever have,’ replied Fallon wearily. He had made an effort of late to appear calm and collected, even while his world was falling apart. Now, as a prisoner accused of blasphemy, Fallon simply felt tired.

  ‘You’re from Leith, yes?’ asked Vladimir.

  ‘I’ve not been back there for a long time, but yes, originally...’ He disliked remembering his home and had long ago decided that it was easier to think of himself as belonging to the Red church. ‘I just remember trees... lots of trees.’

  ‘I went there once,’ said the Lord of Mud, ‘to visit some winery or other. They wanted to know why the soil in the Darkwald makes the best wine and offered a cartload of coin for the secret.’ He smiled. ‘I’m not sure they understood when I said it was all about luck.’

  Fallon narrowed his eyes. ‘Your wine made you a lord... that’s a claim to nobility few men can boast of.’

  ‘Your sword arm made you a knight. Is that any different? Either way it’s luck... or an accident of birth if you prefer.’

  Vladimir craned his neck and beckoned one of the bound men back to the tent. The man carried two bottles of mead and hesitantly passed them through the tent flap.

  The Lord of Mud pulled out the cork with his teeth and offered the bottle to Fallon. ‘Your first drink in... how long?’

  He took the bottle. ‘There was a night in Arnon, maybe four years ago, just after Verellian was made captain. We sneaked out of the barracks and got drunk in a yard behind a brothel.’ Fallon smiled, remembering the incident. ‘It was the most rebellious I ever saw him.’ He licked his lips and took a deep swig of mead. ‘Nice,’ he said, passing the bottle back.

  ‘It’ll do,’ replied Vladimir, taking his own drink.

  A horn sounded from outside and the captives looked out on to the darkened plains of Scarlet. The Darkwald yeomanry had moved beyond the rest of the army and formed up. They moved reluctantly, pushed forward by Brother Jakan and stumbling over their weapons.

  ‘So, what do we do?’ asked the Lord of Mud.

  Fallon rubbed his eyes and his head began to hurt. Torian’s shade was not present and the tired knight thought he must simply have a headache. After all that had happened since he first came to the Freelands of Ranen, all he wanted to do was sleep.

  ‘We’re an army of two... for now, we watch,’ he replied.

  PART 2

  CHAPTER 7

  BROTHER LANRY OF CANARN IN THE CITY OF SOUTH WARDEN

  A Brown cleric of poverty was not supposed to see this. Standing with Al-Hasim, beyond the third gate of South Warden, he could see an entire army of his countrymen laying siege to the city he’d done his best to protect.

  Now that Lady Bronwyn had departed, travelling north with Micah Stone Dog and Dragneel Dark Crest, he was the only Ro left. He tried hard to ignore the sideways glances and thinly disguised glares of the men and women of Scarlet Company. Their distaste at his presence was easy to understand. He wished he could simply wander out to the clerics and Red knights and make them understand there was a better way, a more peaceful way, a way that did not conflict with his own well-defined set of morals.

  The first wave of attackers, sent in disorganized fashion after the second gate had been destroyed by trebuchets, had been repulsed quickly by the tough warriors of Scarlet and Wraith. Brother Lanry recognized the banner of Darkwald and guessed that King Sebastian was prepared to throw away his auxiliary forces to secure a quick victory.

  ‘Why don’t the knights attack?’ asked the Karesian scoundrel standing next to him.

  Al-Hasim had been a friend of Lord Bromvy and Lanry had been advised to trust him. The Karesian had not joined the defenders at first, staying out of sight with the bulk of their forces while Johan Long Shadow committed only those necessary to repulse the assault.

  ‘Because they’re not expendable, I suppose,’ replied Lanry. ‘Think of the yeomanry as a way to soften us up before the elite warriors attack.’

  Al-Hasim shook his head in disapproval. ‘So, the common folk do the bulk of the dying? Your king has a strange way of making war. The Ro tell anyone who’ll listen about their amazing military skill but, when it comes to battle, they throw boulders at us and send in untrained militia.’

  Both men looked down at the killing ground exposed between the first and second walls of the city. The grass was stained red and hundreds of Darkwald yeomanry lay dead amongst the splintered wood of South Warden. It had taken a relatively small force of Free Company men to repulse them and, after filtering them into a small channel, the Ro auxiliaries had had little chance of survival.

  ‘Charging that breach is suicide,’ said Al-Hasim.

  Lanry tried his best to smile as he smoothed back his grey hair. ‘Those men are with the One now. They can get a drink and a warm bed in the stone halls beyond the world. Their earthly bodies are spent and they can rest.’

  The Karesian raised an eyebrow. Lanry felt out of place. He was a cleric of the One God and his pious summary of events did not sit well with his companions.

  ‘Well,’ said Al-Hasim wearily, ‘I’m sure they’ll re-form and come again. Trained or not, there are a lot of them.’

  Lanry poked his head over the wooden palisade and looked out over the plains of Scarlet. Little could be seen beyond the huge military camp spread out across the horizon. It was a sea of soldiers, torches and trebuchets which could be glimpsed through the darkness.

  ‘Why do they attack at night?’ he asked.

  ‘A soldier’s prerogative,’ answered Al-Hasim. ‘They attack at night because they think that’s the time the enemy would least like them to attack.’

  ‘They’re probably right,’ replied Lanry. ‘I could certainly do with being tucked up in bed.’

  Hasim laughed and patted the cleric on the shoulder in comradely fashion. ‘Spirits up, my dear Lanry. You should have seen Ro Hail, it was much worse than this... at least we have a decent wall to hide behind here.’ The Karesian pointed to the third gate, a reinforced structure, thicker and more solid than the outer two. ‘As long as that thing holds, they won’t commit to a full assault.’

  Lanry scanned behind him to the inner mount of South Warden with the Ranen assembly at its centre. The majority of Free Company men had fallen back to this most fortified area of the city, while the women and children were safely out of sight within Rowanoco’s Stone.

  ‘Here they come again,’ shouted a voice from below. ‘Hasim, get your arse down here.’ The speaker was Captain Horrock Green Blade of Wraith Company. He stood, axe in hand, to the side of the killing ground.

  Al-Hasim smiled thinly at Lanry and drew his scimitar. ‘Don’t go anywhere, brother,’ he said, with as much cheer as he could muster.

  ‘Don’t... get killed... or something equally foolish,’ spluttered out Lanry.

  Hasim jogged down th
e wooden steps to join a large group of warriors.

  They had not moved the dead bodies from the previous assault. The Ranen clearly planned to catch anyone that entered South Warden in a flanking meat-grinder as before. When the first assault came, none of the yeomanry made it to the second shattered gate before being chewed up by Ranen defenders. Lanry had to turn away from the efficiency of the Free Companies. They were men committed to die for their land and their people, and that lent them a ferocity which showed in every swing of an axe and every severed limb. In contrast, the Darkwald yeomanry were just common men, thrown away in pursuit of a doubtful military goal.

  The yeomanry had been reluctant to make their second frontal assault on the breach. Purple clerics were giving the orders. One in particular was verbally whipping his troops forwards and, though less committed than before, at least two thousand men had begun to cross the ground. They carried long spears and crossbows and wore low-quality chain mail and pot helmets. Several men at the front wielded two-handed swords, but they looked ungainly. Perhaps the large weapons had been thrust into their hands with little ceremony or training.

  Below him, flanking the sides of the breach and waiting in ambush, were the men of Ranen. On one side stood Captain Horrock, Al-Hasim, Haffen Red Face and the men of Wraith Company. On the other, Mathias Flame Tooth, the corpulent axe-master of South Warden, led the men of Scarlet, while Johan Long Shadow stood in plain sight with a small group of his toughest warriors. The plan was simple, to draw the attackers into the killing ground and trap them between three forces of defenders. As Hasim had said, so long as the third gate remained intact, the Ro would be unlikely to break the defence and would be forced to engage in a protracted siege. This would play into the hands of the Free Companies and give Bronwyn and Dragneel time to rouse the clans of the Moon Wood.

  Horns sounded from the army of Ro and the ranks of yeomanry picked up speed as they came into range of South Warden’s catapults. As before, several volleys thudded into the mass of troops.