The Long War 01 - The Black Guard (31 page)

‘Lillian the Lady of Death, she is welcome in the Well of Spells,’ it said in its rumbling tones, before quickly crossing the room to stand before the last of the sisters to arrive.

‘Sasha the Illusionist, she is also welcome in the Well of Spells.’

The golem returned to its tree-tending duties, removing moss and lichen growing around the base of the sacred tree, as Sasha and Lillian moved to occupy two of the seven faces of the central room.

Saara sat in her raised chair and looked out with fondness at her four sisters. Zel stood behind her left shoulder and glanced around the room, witnessing possibly the largest meeting of the Seven Sisters in several years and certainly the first to include a male slave. On all of the previous occasions that Zel had been to the Well, it had been to accompany his mistress during a time of contemplation, but he’d never felt as dwarfed by power as he did now.

The last two sisters looked much as the others did, although Lillian was the tallest and Sasha had slightly darker skin. Much like Shilpa and Isabel, their facial tattoos appeared less subtle within the Well of Spells and Zel found himself staring. Lillian was to his right and was the closest to him. Her design, featuring a hand drawn as if grasping her face, was the most sinister-looking amongst them and in sharp contrast to the beautiful flowering rose on Sasha’s cheek.

‘Sisters,’ Saara began, ‘we are five. Let us look at the empty spaces and include in our deliberations the shadows of our absent sisters.’

The five enchantresses turned to the vacant spaces and Zel thought he detected warm remembrance on their faces, as if they were all recalling some pleasant memory of Katja and Ameira.

Saara let the silence linger for several minutes while all present closed their eyes, and Zel imagined a collective working of magic was being undertaken, though he could not perceive its effects. When they opened their eyes it was clear they had been communicating with each other on a level the slave could not detect, and the smiles they wore lightened the room. Zel found it disconcerting that several of them glanced at him with interest, and Saara nodded as if to confirm something to her fellow enchantresses.

‘It has been five years,’ said Saara, ‘five years since we found the true significance of this tree and all those like it; five years since we uncovered the grand deception of our former master.’ Her words made the smiles on her sisters’ faces turn to hard and resolute expressions of defiance. ‘And now,’ she continued, letting her voice rise in volume, ‘our plan is nearing its end.’

‘What news, sister?’ Shilpa asked eagerly. ‘What news from the north?’

Saara smiled as she replied. ‘Good news, yes, good news indeed. Ameira has successfully enchanted the Red knights of Ro and their hearts are hers. Katja has successfully enchanted the king and his fool son; these weak men are hers to command. And Bartholomew Tiris, the exemplar of the One, is trapped by one of the Dark Young. He can be of no further use to his god. His son, King Sebastian, signed the order to cage Bartholomew personally. The house of Tiris is ours.’

‘And the One’s last remaining old-blood?’ asked Shilpa, the eagerness on her face turning to near-euphoria.

‘The Stone Giant old-blood that Bartholomew kept chained under the house of Tiris has been executed by order of the king. Even if the exemplar were free, his channel to the One has been severed.’

A chorus of chuckles, laughs and sounds of gleeful excitement filled the room. Zel began to piece things together. He found it strange that the sisters had orchestrated the imprisonment of one exemplar and the forced exile of another. In the slave’s estimation, that only left the exemplar of Rowanoco the Ice Giant.

Voon of Rikara had been the exemplar of Jaa, supposedly the father of the Seven Sisters. However, through the death of his old-blood, the vizier had been forced to journey to the south and was, to all intents and purposes, inert. This meant that two of the three Giants had no way of communicating with their followers, whether the common people realized it or not.

Zel found this disturbing and the motivations of his mistress were obscure in the extreme. The Sisters had done this purposefully, but their designs were a mystery to the slave.

‘The king of Tor Funweir will soon be in Ro Canarn himself with an army of Red knights sufficient to assault the Freelands,’ Saara continued.

This caused concern on the faces of some of the enchantresses, and Zel thought he detected fear in Isabel’s eyes.

‘My dear sister,’ said Isabel, ‘what of Teardrop and his unwashed berserkers? Surely they will resist.’

She spoke of Algenon Teardrop, a name well known to Zel and one of the few men the Seven Sisters held in respect. He was the exemplar of Rowanoco and, by all accounts, a most dangerous man.

Saara smiled again and nodded towards Lillian the Lady of Death. ‘Sister, if you would alleviate dear Isabel’s fears.’

‘Of course, beloved sister,’ began Lillian. ‘Last year I had occasion to visit a particularly unpleasant mercenary knight named Hallam Pevain. Sir Pevain has, in the past, lent his sword to various Ranen warlords and we are assured that one of Algenon’s battle-brothers, a barbarian called Rulag Ursa, is, in fact, our man.’ The last two words were spoken with delicious relish and Zel detected pride in Lillian’s demeanour.

‘I am assured that, should it be launched, the dragon fleet will never make landfall. I believe that Ursa plans to wake the Krakens of the Fjorlan Sea,’ Lillian said, evidently relishing the prospect.

Zel had read about Ithqas and Aqas, the blind and mindless Krakens of the Fjorlan Sea, and he had in the past been assured by Saara that the monsters were very real and woke every few years to devour anything in their path. He shuddered as he recalled the strange pictures of tentacled monsters rising from the waters.

Lillian was smiling broadly as she continued speaking. ‘Once Algenon and his fleet are gone, by axe or by the Krakens, the Red knights need only deal with a few ragtag Free Companies. Ursa requires only that we assist him to become the new high thain of Ranen. His vanity and ambition have made him an easy ally.’

All five of the Sisters were looking pleased with themselves and Saara nodded with pleasure at Lillian’s words. She then looked towards Isabel the Seductress and motioned for her to talk.

‘My sisters, I have made all the necessary preparations for the occupation of Ro Weir. The Hounds are supplied and their kennel-masters understand what is expected of them. Duke Lyam of Ro Weir is…’ she smiled broadly, ‘most pleased to accept our occupation.’

Zel knew what this meant, that Isabel had enchanted the duke and he had agreed to allow the army of Hounds to sail across the Kirin straits. The bloodless occupation of a major city of Tor Funweir was to Zel an ingenious scheme, well worthy of the Seven Sisters.

Saara closed her eyes, lost in concentration. The other enchantresses joined her and together the Sisters threw back their heads and spoke in unison. ‘We are not of Jaa. We possess the power of a Giant killed by other Giants.’ They almost sang the words.

Now Zel was even more startled. The Seven Sisters were the priesthood of the Fire Giant, Jaa. At least, that was what Zel had always thought, and what the people of Karesia and the lands of men had always thought.

‘We pledge ourselves to the Dead God, the Forest Giant of pain and pleasure with a thousand young. We are your servants in the Long War and we will claim these lands in your honour.’

As Saara finished her prayer to the Dead God, Zel gasped as he saw the black tree move. The golem stepped away and stood silently, as all of the enchantresses looked on in silent euphoria.

The bark of the tree cracked and splintered, flowing more like flesh than wood, and the branches began to coil up. A deep rumbling sound accompanied the movement, like the throaty growl of a beast, indistinct, but organic.

‘As Jaa stole your power and gifted it to us,’ proclaimed Saara, ‘we now use it to awaken your Dark Young and worship at their feet… the priest and the altar… the priest and the altar.’

Zel froze in place as the Dark Young of the Dead God shrugged off its torpid state and reared up, its many thick, branch-like tentacles thrashing in the air, before firmly bracing on the marble floor and slowly lifting the trunk out of the earth.

The base of the tree shook off the earth and Zel saw a mass of smaller tentacles, like feelers, and in the centre of the trunk a gaping maw was revealed. The mouth and feelers had been buried in the ground, somehow providing the creature with nutrition and keeping it alive.

The trunk swivelled forward until it was horizontal and the tentacles could function as legs. The Dark Young now resembled a tree only vaguely, and Zel could no longer comprehend that it had ever been anything other than the tentacled monstrosity before him. Its mouth was toothless but each of its numerous feelers was tipped with a fine, needle-like appendage.

The realization that he was to be a sacrifice only slowly dawned on Zel, as Saara looked with genuine tenderness at her slave.

‘You are the son of a man called Rham Jas Rami, my dear Zeldantor,’ she said. ‘You have served me well, but we no longer have any need to keep you close. Your father will now be powerless to harm us and the Dark Young is hungry.’

‘The priest and the altar… the priest and the altar,’ chanted the Seven Sisters.

Zel tried to maintain his serenity as the Dark Young moved towards him, its mouth growing wider and its feelers writhing in the air. There was no pain, only a sweet taste in his mouth, when the needles entered his body and he became limp and began slowly to dissolve.

CHAPTER 9

Just outside Cozz there was a strange local curiosity, long ago purchased by an affluent Ro silk dealer. It was supposedly the only remaining darkwood tree in Tor Funweir and the silk dealer had fought for years to keep it safe from the Purple clerics who desired its destruction. Randall had never seen one before, though he’d known people who claimed to have seen them in the Darkwald. It looked like no tree he’d ever seen, with a short, squat trunk and strange branches that bore no leaves or fruit of any kind.

‘People actually pay to climb it, you know,’ said Elyot as he pulled his horse in next to Randall.

‘Why?’ Randall was unnerved by the tree and couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to be close to it.

‘Because it’s forbidden, I suppose. The clerics claim it is blasphemy just to acknowledge it.’ He gestured towards where Torian and Utha rode, just ahead of the others.

Neither of the clerics had slowed to look at the tree and they were focused on the town of Cozz, just over the next hill.

It had taken two weeks for them to reach Cozz and Randall was saddle-sore. The merchant enclave was at the halfway point between Ro Tiris and Ro Weir, and Utha had insisted they stop for the night. The watchmen had been good company on the journey, assisting Randall each night with erecting a tent for Brother Torian and lighting a campfire, but he missed the comfort of a proper bed.

Elyot, the youngest of the watchmen, had ridden next to Randall for most of the journey and they had developed a friendship of sorts. He was a good swordsman for his age and delighted in appearing the seasoned soldier next to Torian’s inexperienced squire.

Sergeant Clement had spent much of the time complaining about his poor treatment at the hands of the clerics. The names he called them in private were always whispered and Randall knew he was terrified that he would be overheard. Clement was particularly afraid of Brother Utha and always referred to him as
the Ghost
when the cleric was out of earshot.

Randall had heard a hundred stories in the last two weeks, mostly about risen men and Utha’s legendary exploits. Strangely, none of the watchmen could agree on precisely what those exploits were. Elyot claimed that Utha was a crusader for the One and hunted down the risen throughout Tor Funweir. Whereas another man, called Robin, was certain that Utha had spent two years living amongst the risen men, learning their ways in order the better to hunt them. The most consistent story was that Brother Utha had once made a friend of a risen man during the siege of Kabrin, when he’d been wounded by a Karesian horse archer.

Randall had heard the story told a few different ways, but the details were always roughly the same – that Utha had been shot from his position in a watchtower, near the town, and had fallen into dense forest below. As the Karesians passed him, he was dragged into the woods by a risen man and his wounds were treated and he was nursed back to health. Elyot believed that his white hair and pale skin were a legacy from this encounter. Strangely, this was the only thing that Utha himself denied when he overheard them talking one night. The Black cleric had apparently been born an albino and took offence when it was suggested otherwise.

Randall didn’t like the Black cleric. He took pleasure in mocking other men and used the fact that most were afraid of him to display his wit. He also thought Randall should attend to him as much as he did to Brother Torian. He was clearly aware of what a squire was supposed to do, and for whom, but he took the opportunity to make Randall feel uncomfortable.