The Long War 01 - The Black Guard (34 page)

The Kirin was swarthy-skinned with thin, black hair falling loosely to his shoulders. He was sweating and wincing with pain as he walked. Randall turned his back on Brom and Utha and, in spite of the sound of shouting and steel, tried to clear his mind and focus on defeating the Kirin. He could see the bodies of two watchmen lying in the darkness between buildings, testament to the speed with which the assassin had killed them.

Rham Jas moved towards the young squire and shot him a confused look before directing his eyes to the frenzied duel between Brom and Utha. Randall looked at him wide-eyed and forced himself to take a step towards the Kirin, holding his longsword at the ready.

‘Randall… step back, boy,’ shouted Utha, as a grunt of pain from Brom indicated that the Black cleric was gaining the upper hand.

‘You should listen to him, lad,’ said the Kirin. ‘I won’t kill a boy whose hand shakes holding a longsword.’

Randall glanced down at his hand and saw that it did indeed shake violently, making his grip on the sword tentative at best. Glancing behind him, he saw Utha had backed Brom into a corner and the Black Guard was trying to defend himself from repeated axe blows. The lord wore only light leather armour, insufficient to withstand a single blow from Utha’s battleaxe. As Randall stepped aside and let the sword of Great Claw fall from his hand, Utha began a combination of overhead blows that made Brom shrink as he raised his sword in both hands to block the strikes.

Rham Jas ran past Randall, wincing with pain and grabbing the protruding crossbow bolt as he did so. Before he reached the lean-to, Utha delivered a feint with his axe and rammed the hilt up into Brom’s chin, causing teeth to fly from his mouth, and a follow-up kick to his chest sent the Black Guard to the ground as Rham Jas advanced. Brom was unconscious and Utha turned, his face still a mask of rage.

‘You killed my friend,’ he said to Rham Jas through gritted teeth.

‘I’m sure he’d done something to deserve it,’ the Kirin replied with a maddening grin. ‘Putting on that purple tabard… it was only a matter of time till someone put him down.’

Randall looked again at his master’s body and felt shame at not being able to fight the Kirin. He still shook as he watched Utha and Rham Jas circle each other. The katana held by the Kirin was a vicious-looking weapon with a long handle and a narrow curved blade. His movements were graceful as he stepped one foot over the other and his eyes were fixed on the Black cleric before him.

‘No one needed to die here, you Kirin pig,’ said Utha. ‘Death should not be so casually handed out.’

Randall could see real pain in Utha’s eyes, not from any wound, but from the experience of being around swift death. For a moment, the young squire didn’t see the caustic man who had bullied him, just an enraged cleric of death.

‘Tell it to your One God, because I’m not fucking listening,’ replied Rham Jas, as he pulled the crossbow bolt from his side.

Utha did not attack with the ferocity he’d levelled at Brom but was increasingly measured, as if he considered the Kirin the more dangerous opponent. The katana, too, was a weapon that required a different approach, and Utha adopted a defensive stance.

As they circled each other, the Kirin’s face came into view and Randall thought for a moment he looked confused.

‘You’re Utha the Ghost!’ the Kirin said. ‘I’ve heard of you, you’re friend to the Dokkalfar.’

The word meant nothing to Randall, but Utha’s reaction was instant. He levelled the head of his axe at the Kirin and demanded, ‘Where did you hear that name?’

Rham Jas merely smiled and nimbly darted forward with the elegance of a dancer. Utha pulled back his axe just in time to deflect the katana as it whirled within inches of his face, and Rham Jas disengaged to begin circling him again.

‘They wouldn’t like it if I killed you, cleric… but I doubt you’d just let me leave with Brom, so I’m afraid I must put you down,’ he said, his grin returning.

Randall could barely believe how fast Rham Jas moved – he almost blinked from one spot to another as he launched single attacks at Utha. No combinations, just a series of swift, darting runs from one side to the other. Each attack left Utha off balance and his axe was now cumbersome and ill suited to duelling with the Kirin.

‘Stay fucking still, you coward,’ the cleric shouted with frustration, as a glancing blow from Rham Jas opened up a shallow cut on Utha’s left cheek.

‘Yes, that sounds like a good idea. I’ll definitely do that,’ mocked the Kirin.

He pressed a hand to his side and checked his wound. No blood was visible and Randall thought the arrow hole had begun to close.

Rham Jas didn’t stop smiling as he ran at Utha again, this time spinning at the last moment and delivering a solid blow to the cleric’s back. His armour bore the brunt of it, but Utha was still pushed sharply forwards and lost his footing, stumbling awkwardly to the ground.

The Kirin was quickly on him and kicked out at his axe, sending the weapon skidding from Utha’s hand. He then drove his katana downward, piercing the cleric’s shoulder and pinning him to the ground.

Utha shook violently, but remained still, and slowly turned his head to look at the blade protruding from his shoulder. ‘Do it clean, you Kirin horse-fucker.’

‘As I said, the forest-dwellers wouldn’t like it if I killed you. They seem to think you are worthy. Personally, I think you are a troll cunt, but what do I know? I’m just a man.’ Rham Jas grasped the hilt of his katana and pulled it quickly from Utha’s shoulder, making the cleric cry out in pain and move his hand to the bloodstain between the steel plates.

‘Boy…’ Rham Jas called out to Randall, ‘you’d better help him get his armour off and clean that wound.’

Randall was stuck in place with fear, barely able to feel his legs, as the Kirin assassin calmly sheathed his katana and crossed the yard to retrieve his longbow and quiver.

‘Get to it, lad, we wouldn’t want the fabled Utha the Ghost to die such a pointless death, would we?’

Randall slowly walked towards the shaking form of Utha. He tried not to look at Torian’s lifeless body as he wiped the sweat from his eyes and knelt to pick up the sword of Great Claw. He couldn’t focus clearly but he saw Rham Jas stow his weaponry and move to help Lord Bromvy of Canarn, who was just regaining consciousness and spitting out blood.

‘You killed a Purple cleric, Rham Jas,’ said Utha weakly. ‘The One doesn’t forget.’

Rham Jas helped Brom to his feet. ‘The One can go fuck himself. Pray to him and tell him that, Ro.’

Randall reached the bleeding body of Utha and knelt down, allowing the Black cleric to grasp his hand firmly. The squire focused on Utha, but he could hear Rham Jas and Brom leaving and Utha’s hate-filled eyes didn’t move from the departing pair. The wound looked bad and blood was flowing on to the dusty floor of the yard. Slowly, and with his eyes still focused over Randall’s shoulder, Brother Utha the Ghost lost consciousness.

* * *

Bound men began to appear as soon as Rham Jas and Brom had left. Men holding crossbows in shaking hands and wearing ill-fitting chain coats and pot helmets appeared from both sides of the blacksmith’s yard. Two of them were instantly sick at the sight of the mutilated bodies and copious blood. Another one left quickly when he saw a dead Purple cleric, and several more looked around nervously, trying to fathom what circumstances could have led to a cleric of nobility being shot in the neck with an arrow. Ten or more bound men spread around the yard, but this was clearly an uncommon sight in Cozz and it was a few minutes before they noticed that three men were still alive.

Randall was unhurt and sat cradling the unconscious Utha. Nearby, Robin was lying on his back with an arrow protruding from his stomach, calling weakly for help. Within the blacksmith’s lean-to, Elyot lay against a wooden wall. He’d regained consciousness, but he was deathly pale from loss of blood and fighting to stay awake as he held the stump of his arm firmly under his armpit to stop the bleeding.

Randall was certain that Clement, Torian and the other two watchmen of Tiris were dead. Rham Jas had cut one of them in two and he lay in an undignified slump in the small space between two wooden buildings. The other man had died from a katana thrust to the head and his face was mostly unrecognizable.

‘The One preserve us,’ said one of the bound men as he moved to help Elyot. ‘What happened here, lad?’ he asked Randall across the yard.

The squire didn’t answer straightaway. He took a minute to look around him before he said, ‘What do you think happened? People are dead. Maybe you should help those that aren’t.’ He spoke with deliberate anger and the note of authority in his voice surprised the bound man.

If his head had been clearer, his words would have surprised himself as well, but with so much blood and death Randall had no time for propriety.

‘Yes… of course, sir,’ said the bound man, unaware that Randall was just a commoner.

‘Get some more men here… and a healer,’ Randall grunted. ‘Now!’ he shouted.

Several of the men saluted and moved quickly out of the yard, while others helped Elyot and Robin into more comfortable positions, lying flat on the floor. Torian was not moved at first as the bound men clearly didn’t want to touch a Purple cleric, dead or not, so Randall walked slowly over to the body of his master.

Brother Torian of Arnon was lying in a pool of blood spreading from the wound in his neck. The longbow arrow had hit his jugular and travelled downwards, exiting close to the angle between shoulder and neck. Randall guessed he’d died quickly as the arrowhead was wide and designed to cause large entry and exit wounds. His sword was still in its scabbard and his armour was unmarked. By any definition, the cleric had not died well; he had not even seen the face of his killer. Randall thought a man like Torian deserved better.

Two bound men helped him move the body and place it in a dignified position next to the other dead men. Randall then turned his attention back to Utha. The Black cleric was hurt, but with proper care his wounds would not be fatal. He was still unconscious from the pain and the wound in his shoulder was wide and jagged.

‘You there,’ shouted a man from the yard entrance, ‘explain this mess immediately.’

He was a fat man of Ro wearing a heavy felt overcoat and carrying a slender rapier. The tabard he wore across his chest showed that he was a town official of some kind. Cozz had no traditional heraldry like the major cities of Tor Funweir, although the merchants in charge had adopted the image of a purse as their symbol.

Without paying much attention to the man, Randall replied, ‘What kind of explanation would you like? A short explanation, a long explanation, or maybe you could tell me why your bound men were so close at hand and yet did nothing to help.’ Randall’s voice rose in volume as he finished speaking.

The fat man spluttered as he replied. ‘I… er, we… didn’t think it our place to interfere,’ he said, with less confidence than he’d initially displayed. ‘We only arrived at the end of the encounter anyway. We could have been no real help.’

Randall looked up and glared at the man. ‘And you didn’t think to apprehend the men that did this? The men that killed a cleric of the fucking Purple.’ The last words were shouted and Randall chided himself for letting his anger show.

His wrath had the desired effect and the official quickly barked out orders to the bound men to close the town gates and make an effort to stop Rham Jas and Brom from leaving Cozz. Randall thought it a little too late.

* * *

It was well past dawn before Utha regained consciousness. Randall had drifted off into a restless sleep several times since arriving in the guildhall of Cozz. Although he had not been given a bed, he had managed to position two wooden chairs to give him a degree of comfort. The town official, who had identified himself as Marshal Lynch, was awkward, disrespectful and, in Randall’s estimation, an idiot.

The town had no White chapel and no dedicated healer. The townsfolk accepted the inevitability of having to ride to the duchy of Voy, some days’ travel northwards, if they needed serious healing. All other wounds were patched up by the bound men, unless the injured party was lucky enough to employ a healer of his own. Randall had directed a string of coarse insults at Lynch, which rather took the man aback, in an attempt to get a healer, any healer, to come and tend to Utha. The man who had been sent was in the employ of a horse trader from Leith, more used to wounds from riding accidents or horseshoes to the face than fighting injuries, but his skill was sufficient to stop the bleeding and stabilize the Black cleric.

They had been given a chamber in which to recuperate in the guildhall, ordinarily used for private business dealings, and Randall had insisted that a bed be positioned in the small room. On reflection, the squire wished that he’d insisted on two beds as his neck was stiff from sleeping on the wooden chairs. Elyot and Robin were back at the inn and the healer assured Randall that both would recover fully in time, though Elyot would be without his left arm.

The bodies of Torian and the watchmen had been stored, with as much dignity as possible, in the only church building in town – a small chapel to the Gold aspect of the One God – and Randall had insisted that Torian’s corpse be guarded until they were ready to claim him and leave Cozz.

‘I assume I’m still alive… or that the One has not blessed me with a place in his hall beyond the world,’ said Utha weakly, jolting Randall awake.

‘You’re awake,’ the squire said excitedly.

‘Where’s my armour?’

Randall pointed to a crumpled pile of black plate steel in the corner of the room. ‘I don’t know how much use you can salvage from it, we had to cut a lot of it off you. The Kirin was stronger than he looked.’

Utha looked paler than usual, if such a thing were possible, and he lay on the bed in nothing but a simple blue cotton gown. Randall had been close at hand when the healer had seen to him and the squire repeatedly had to tell him to shut up when Utha’s reputation and his albinism were mentioned.

‘Where’s Torian?’ Utha’s eyes betrayed the fondness he had developed for his brother cleric.