The Long War 01 - The Black Guard (35 page)

‘I made sure they will keep his body safe until we’re ready to leave. These people aren’t used to clerics and, between you and me, most of them aren’t overly encumbered with brains.’

Utha laughed, wincing as he did so. ‘I told you to keep your mind sharp, lad, it looks like you took that advice to heart.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Well, with the exception of trying to fight that Kirin.’

‘I didn’t know what else to do. I wasn’t thinking very clearly.’ Randall was spluttering a bit and trying to think of a justification for his foolish attempt to take on Rham Jas.

‘Randall,’ Utha interrupted, ‘you did well. I’m alive and Torian is being treated with respect in death…’ he paused a moment, ‘though the death of a Purple cleric is no small thing and, mark my words, I at least will have to account for what we did here.’

‘You did nothing wrong,’ Randall said without really thinking.

‘Did I not?’ Utha asked rhetorically with raised eyebrows. ‘I got him killed. Whichever way you look at it, my reckless insistence on making a show gave the assassin his shot… and he took it well.’

Randall had not considered this and felt a sudden pang of anger at the idea of Utha being blamed for the encounter. He had many reasons to dislike the Black cleric – his constant teasing, his aggressive manner – but he knew that Utha and Torian had been friends, almost brothers, and to blame one for the death of the other was unfair.

‘Don’t worry, young Randall, any recriminations are far off. I need to rest and we need to conspire a way to return to Tiris,’ he said, as his eyes closed again and weariness took hold.

‘Brother Utha,’ Randall began, with a questioning tone to his voice.

‘Yes, Randall…’ said Utha wearily, not opening his eyes.

‘What does that word mean? The one Rham Jas said to you, Dokkal… something.’

Utha turned to the squire, opened his eyes, and grew more alert. Randall thought the cleric was about to unleash a string of his customary insults, but instead he paused and considered his reply.

‘Dokkalfar… it’s a very old word in a very old language. Not a word you’ll hear on the streets of any of the cities of men.’

‘The word seems to bother you,’ Randall pointed out, ‘but it also seemed to be the reason Rham Jas didn’t kill you.’

Utha smiled thinly and shook his head, as if conceding defeat. ‘You’re too clever to be a squire, Randall of Darkwald, but you should be careful where you direct that mind of yours.’ Utha was still smiling but seriousness showed in his pale eyes. ‘Some knowledge is dangerous… and some knowledge can get you killed.’

‘He said that you were their friend.’ Randall was sure that Utha didn’t want to talk about this, but his natural curiosity got the better of him. ‘Who are they?’

The Black cleric flexed his neck and moved the white pillow beneath him into a more upright position, the better to direct his pale eyes at Randall. ‘Did Torian tell you why I was sent to accompany him? It must have looked strange for a cleric of death to be helping to track down one of the Black Guard. Not our usual kind of work.’

Randall had not really thought about it. Utha was the first Black cleric he’d met and, for most of the weeks they’d spent together, Randall had tried to avoid the caustic churchman. ‘I didn’t…’

‘No, I suppose a simple squire would have little knowledge of the clerical orders,’ Utha replied gently, and Randall thought that he was less on guard than usual, probably as a result of his weakened condition. ‘I was disgraced and relieved of my previous duties. Torian was an old friend and needed help so I requested I be allowed to accompany him while the Black cardinal of Tiris decided what to do with me.’ He had a look of shame in his eyes and Randall again thought that the cleric didn’t want to talk about it.

‘I don’t mean to pry. We can leave it for now, if you wish,’ the squire said.

Utha smiled, more genuinely this time. ‘I’m not your master, Randall, and given a few weeks to recuperate, I suspect I’ll be ministering death rights to pigs in Ro Leith, so don’t worry.’

Randall shared the cleric’s smile and poured a glass of water from the jug he’d placed on a nearby table. He rested it next to Utha’s lips and helped him drink. ‘The healer put some kind of soothing root mixture in the water. He said it’ll help you relax.’

‘I don’t recall doing anything to warrant such kind treatment, lad. In fact, I’m fairly sure that I’ve given you every reason to hate me.’

Randall didn’t reply to this, but sat back down in his wooden chair and waited for Utha to continue. The cleric blinked a few times to regain some focus and made an effort to sit more upright.

‘I was a crusader, a hunter of risen men. It was my calling, my… duty. From as early as I can remember I was trained to find them and… kill them.’ He said the last two words with a deep well of regret in his eyes, and for the first time Randall saw a simple man under the armour of caustic wit the churchman usually wore. ‘I have scars from fighting them and burn marks from killing them,’ he said, showing Randall an unpleasant mark on his leg.

‘Why would you have burn marks?’

‘Dokkalfar burst into flames when they die. It’s not something that we tell people about. It makes them seem strange, and the One dislikes deviance.’

Randall was listening intently and again thought that the world was a more complicated place than he could have imagined.

‘I was disgraced because I disobeyed orders and refused to continue killing them…’ He paused, as if remembering. ‘I betrayed the One, I betrayed my church… and…’ he closed his eyes, ‘I know I was right.’ The last words were spoken with stubborn indignation.

‘But why?’ asked Randall. ‘The risen are monsters that prey on the living, aren’t they?’

Utha kept his eyes closed and rubbed the stiffness from his wounded shoulder. ‘The list of people who have saved my life is a short one. You can make a claim to it – getting a healer, stopping my wound from festering, insisting I be cared for properly. But before today only one name was on that list, a risen man called Tyr Weera.’

Randall was shocked at this. Shocked that the creatures had names, and equally shocked that one would deign to help a cleric of the One. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘The Purple clerics have long believed, much as you do, that the risen are undead monsters deserving of nothing but death. It’s not a lie or a deception, because they genuinely believe it. The One decreed it, the clerics maintain it and no one questions it.

‘Dokkalfar is their name for themselves… and I only know that because I lived for a short time in a village of the creatures in the Fell,’ he said, as if divulging a dark secret. ‘I was dying. The wound down my back… you may have seen it.’ He pointed vaguely towards the vicious scar that Randall had seen when he first met the Black cleric. ‘A Karesian Hound attacked me from behind and nearly split me in two with his scimitar. I was left for dead on the edges of the Fell until Weera dragged me into the woods.’

Randall considered it. The risen were the stuff of myths and stories, rarely encountered, but always feared as if they were the remnants of some ancient evil. Even when he was a boy, Randall had only half believed the stories he’d heard about them living in the Darkwald. Now, not only was he faced with the reality of their existence, but also with their status as more than simple monsters.

‘I don’t know what to ask,’ he said bluntly to Utha. ‘It seems that a lot of people have the wrong idea. But why would this mean your disgrace? Surely the Purple should be told so that they stop ordering them to be killed.’

Utha opened his eyes and laughed. ‘That’s a little naive, don’t you think? Try convincing a Purple cleric of anything other than the word of the One and you’ll go mad before they yield. I tried to tell them… really I did. I even found an old Black cleric who thought as I did, but he was quickly ushered out of Arnon and given some spurious task to keep him quiet.’ He bowed his head. ‘And now they’ll do the same to me. Torian’s death just gives them one more justification for hiding me in a shit-stained village somewhere.’

‘And Rham Jas, what does he know of them?’

Utha shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I can guess, but I don’t know. He’s likely from the Kirin woods far to the south and I was told that many Kirin down there still live side by side with the risen and could even claim friendship with them. It’s another reason why the Purple clerics occasionally cross the Kirin Ridge and clear the villages.

‘Randall, I appreciate all you’ve done, but I need to rest. Soon enough I’ll return to the Black cathedral in Tiris and I’ll be given robes and told to leave my axe in the care of a more worthy man.’ He slid down the bed to lie on his back.

‘And what of me?’ Randall asked, instantly feeling selfish as he did so.

‘We’ll see, young squire… we’ll see,’ Utha said, before drifting off to sleep.

CHAPTER 10

Rham Jas Rami was tired. He’d pulled a concussed Brom across the saddle of a stolen horse and ridden out of Cozz several hours before. His own horse was a cantankerous old bastard, chosen primarily because it had belonged to a city official and it pleased the Kirin to steal from those in authority. The bound men who’d come looking for them after the fight had done a rather poor job of securing the town and Rham Jas had easily managed to lead Brom out of a horse merchant’s private yard. Cozz was not a secure walled city like Tiris or Weir and there were dozens of ways to leave quietly if a man was sufficiently motivated.

Brom rode behind him over uneven terrain to the north and west of the merchant enclave. The young lord had said little and Rham Jas decided to let him process the death of his father in peace. Rham Jas knew that in any case Brom’s pathetic attempts at navigating in the wilds would be of no assistance. Brom had many gifts – he was clever, tough and ruthless – but survival in the wilderness was not one of his skills.

‘I don’t mind handling the navigation, but if you’re going to ride behind me you could at least say something now and then,’ Rham Jas said in a slight huff.

They were approaching a low, forested gully that led between hills away from Cozz. Two days ahead of them were the Walls of Ro, the mountains that led north and signalled part of the Kirin run. Rham Jas knew the route well and estimated that they’d be approaching Ro Tiris within a week.

‘I don’t feel like talking.’ Brom had taken a nasty blow to the jaw and his words were muffled. He’d recover quickly, but the Black cleric was a strong brute and had knocked out one of his teeth.

‘Well, it’ll be a long and lonely journey if you keep saying that.’ The Kirin was grumpy and let it show as he spoke.

‘Just ride, Rham Jas… just ride.’ Brom sounded tired and his words were indistinct.

Rham Jas let it drop and looked ahead to the darkening sky above the Walls of Ro. He didn’t think they were being followed and the way ahead was clear, with only a few big Gorlan spiders and the odd bandit to worry about.

As he replayed the fight in his head, Rham Jas regretted not killing the Black cleric. He felt no compunction whatsoever about taking down the Purple man, but he had broken his own rules by leaving a witness. Killing a Purple cleric was no small thing in Tor Funweir and he silently lamented the fact that his face would be adorning wanted posters within a few days.

As he rode quietly down the gully towards the thinly spaced trees, he rolled up his right sleeve and surveyed the twenty or so cuts along his forearm – each a Purple cleric’s death mark – cut into his flesh so that he would never forget whom he had killed and why. Grasping his horse’s reins in his teeth, he unsheathed a small hunting knife and drew it slowly across an empty piece of skin near his wrist. He was running out of space and wondered how many more of the bastards there were for him to kill. He mused that placing the death marks on his legs might be a solution, or maybe even his chest, though that idea was less appealing.

Rubbing the new wound to relieve the slight pain it caused, he retrieved the reins and rolled down his sleeve. The cut would heal within a few minutes and the slight scar would be the only testament to the death of Brother Torian of Arnon – which Rham Jas thought was a stupid name. The men of Ro were obsessed with lengthening their names by adding titles, locations, job descriptions and all manner of unnecessary appendages. Even Brom had a tendency towards extravagance where his name was concerned. Lord Bromvy of Canarn, protector of the northern mark and scion of the duchy of Canarn went, in the Kirin’s estimation, far beyond the information necessary in a name. The only appendage to his own was the addition of the word
Rami
, meaning
archer
in old Karesian.

‘Why didn’t you kill the Black cleric?’ asked Brom, echoing Rham Jas’s own doubts.

‘Decided to talk, have we?’

‘He’s likely to cause us trouble, not to mention that we didn’t get the clay for passage to Canarn.’

The blacksmith had still been arguing over the details when Rham Jas had gone for some food, and then had come back to find Brom being questioned by the clerics. They were without the necessary documents and the Kirin knew that getting out of Tiris by sea would be difficult without them.