The Long War 01 - The Black Guard (40 page)

The Brown chapel of Ro Canarn was never a warm or comforting place. It was cheap to build, cheap to maintain, and possessed few accoutrements of wealth or prosperity. It was the only building of worship in the city and, as such, was large and functional. It had also been the home of Brother Lanry for many years, though it was currently much more crowded than it had ever been.

The population of the city – those who had not been imprisoned or murdered by the knights of the Red and their mercenary allies – had sought refuge in the only building that even the invaders refused to violate. Lanry was glad that some things were still sacred and the knights had left his chapel and its several hundred new inhabitants alone. They’d stationed guards outside and taken careful note of the families that sheltered within, but had not sought entrance or questioned the cleric of poverty’s motives in allowing the common folk sanctuary.

‘Brother Lanry,’ said a child’s voice next to the old cleric.

‘Yes, Rodgar,’ he replied with an affectionate smile.

‘When can we go home? The stone floor is hurting my mum’s feet.’ The lad was no more than six years old and had not fully grasped what was occurring in his home city.

Either side of the old cleric were around a dozen children, ranging from youngsters who could barely talk to young teenagers. Many of their parents were either dead or captive, and Lanry would tell the children stories to keep them amused. The other adults in the Brown chapel were doing their best as well, but Lanry had a peaceful and fatherly quality that helped relax the younger citizens of Ro Canarn.

‘You’ll be home in no time at all, my dear boy,’ he replied, ‘and your mother can put her feet up in front of a nice roaring fire.’

A slight sneer from one of the older girls made it clear that not all of the children were as trusting as young Rodgar. The girl, whose name was Lyssa, was the child of a blacksmith – a man missing, presumed dead – and she’d developed a hard and uncaring edge.

‘I’m sorry, young Lyssa,’ said Lanry tenderly. ‘We all need different kinds of encouragement.’

‘We’ll never be able to go home,’ she replied, folding her arms and glaring at the old cleric. ‘We’ll be slaves… or worse.’

‘Now, that’s enough,’ said Lanry, by way of a gentle reprimand.

Rodgar sat up a little and looked at Lyssa with innocent eyes. ‘But Lord Bromvy and Lady Bronwyn are still alive. They won’t let us suffer… isn’t that right, Brother Lanry?’

‘That’s right, my lad.’ The cleric ruffled Rodgar’s hair and smiled. ‘The house of Canarn will not abandon its people.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Have I told you children the story of Lord Bullvy and Lady Brunhilde?’

A few shook their heads. The younger children looked up at Lanry, eagerly wanting a story, while the teenagers rolled their eyes. The Brown cleric had remained stubbornly optimistic and so far had chosen serenely to ignore the cynicism that surrounded him. This had become harder as the days of occupation had turned into weeks, but he was determined to act as Duke Hector would have wanted.

‘Lord Bullvy was the first duke of Ro Canarn. A very long time ago, two hundred years at least, the king of Tor Funweir ruled the Freelands of Ranen. Does anyone know what the Freelands were called in those days?’

‘Tor Ranen?’ answered Rodgar.

‘That’s right, lad, Tor Ranen.’ Lanry kept smiling. ‘Things were never peaceful, though, and the men of Ranen didn’t like being ruled… freedom is very important to the children of Rowanoco.

‘The Ranen were organized into work gangs by the Purple and, once they rebelled, those gangs became the first Free Companies and fought back hard.’

A few of the teenagers had softer faces now and were listening to the old cleric’s story.

‘I bet the Purple didn’t like that,’ said Lyssa, thinking she was being clever.

‘No, no, they did not,’ replied Lanry. ‘They massacred hundreds of Ranen and called on the knights of the Red to kill the rest. Many lords of Ro went to fight, seeking honour or glory, and the Ranen could never win.’

Rodgar and the younger children were enjoying the tale, especially the bits that involved blood and death. Lanry occasionally lamented that so many stories were stained in blood and that he knew so few tales of love and peace.

‘Lord Bullvy and his twin sister were minor nobles from Hunter’s Cross and went to war when they were called upon.’

Lyssa yawned theatrically, causing several of the other girls to giggle. Lanry joined in the laugh and was glad of the jollity, even if he was the butt of the joke.

‘The story does get more exciting, I assure you,’ said the cleric with a chuckle. ‘Just when Ranen was a breath away from being reconquered, the clerics and knights began to feel a cold wind blow from the north and the battle-brothers of Fjorlan joined the fight. Their dragon ships landed all along the coast, their berserkers flooded out of the Deep Cross and their priests and warriors threw down the banners of the One.’

Lyssa snorted at the story. ‘How could they beat the knights?’ she asked, as if no force could stand against the One God’s aspect of war.

‘They were stronger, I suppose,’ replied Lanry. ‘It suits the arrogance of the Red to imagine they are unstoppable… the reality is open to question, it would seem.

‘Anyway, where was I?’ The old cleric found his memory faltering a little. ‘Ah, yes, the Red knights were forced to retreat from the rampaging Fjorlanders. They abandoned Ro Hail, leaving only a minor noble and his sister to hold the town against thousands of Ranen.’

‘And that was Lord Bullvy?’ asked Rodgar eagerly.

Lanry nodded. ‘He and his twin sister, a woman who could shoot the legs from a Gorlan at a hundred paces, refused to surrender. They held Ro Hail for thirty days with barely a hundred men. On the thirty-first day, a priest of Brytag the World Raven arrived at the siege and stopped the Ranen attacking. Brytag has a fondness for twins, you see, and the priest demanded they be given safe passage to Ro Canarn.’

‘They were spared?’ asked Rodgar, biting on his thumbnails.

‘They were. The Ranen escorted them all the way south and treated them with high honours. The clerics and knights had pulled back to Ro Tiris and left the twins and their men to hold Canarn. The Ranen wouldn’t attack the city while Bullvy and Brunhilde were there, so the king had no choice but to name him duke.’

It was an old tale and one that Lanry enjoyed remembering. Hector was descended from Bullvy, a man who had fought on long after he should have surrendered and who had earned the respect of the Ranen. The house of Canarn had been a bastion of peace between the Ro and the Ranen for two hundred years, with each successive duke strengthening the truce. Whether Brytag, the sly old Raven of Rowanoco, had known of Bullvy and Brunhilde’s importance, or if he just liked twins, Lanry didn’t know. Either way, the peace had been hard fought, and the old cleric hoped it had not yet ended.

Rodgar clapped his hands excitedly. ‘Brytag will look after Lord Bromvy, won’t he? And Lady Bronwyn… they’ll both be okay, won’t they?’

‘I always try to put my faith in the One, but, as I said, the World Raven is fond of twins. Brytag believes that luck and wisdom are the same thing in the end, and Hector’s children seem to have both.’

There was still much work to be done – many people to be healed and cared for, and many more stories he’d need to tell, but for now he felt better. If a few words from an old Brown cleric could help calm the children, maybe their situation wasn’t hopeless after all.

CHAPTER 1

It had started raining within a few hours of Bronwyn’s escape from Canarn and had not stopped for two weeks. Her horse, a large, sad-looking work animal taken from a discarded supply cart, had shown his displeasure at the rain and had decided not to move any further.

She had stopped on the edge of a cluster of trees, too small to be called a forest and too widely spaced to afford much shelter, but the horse was happier with a few branches to hide under. Bronwyn sat, leaning against a tree trunk with her cloak pulled tightly around her. She felt no guilt at having acquired the horse and supplies – after all, the beast would have died with no one to tend it – but she did feel sadness for the dead men from whom she had taken the clothing. She didn’t know their names, or why they had fought, but they had all been hacked apart with longswords and left by the road. The knights of the Red had killed indiscriminately and it was possible that the dead men had just been common folk.

She’d taken trousers, boots, a cloak and a crossbow. There had been no armour to speak of, but a heavy leather waistcoat was sturdy enough to be a good substitute. The dress she’d escaped in had been torn around the waist and now served as a light vest, with the rest of the fabric fashioned into a hood of sorts. The bloodstains that remained would serve Bronwyn as a reminder of what had happened to get her out of the city. She thought that Al-Hasim would probably have been killed or captured, and that Father Magnus would still be in a cell.

She would not admit, even to herself, that she had little hope. Bronwyn was stubborn and had learned from her father that surrender was a poor substitute for death. She hadn’t actually seen him die, though the Red knights blocking her view had done little to mask what had happened.

He was dead. Her father, Duke Hector of Canarn, had been beheaded by Red knights. This fact had kept her going into the endless Grass Sea long after she had wanted to give up.

She had taken plenty of supplies, but dried bread, fruit and porridge would only get her so far. She had reached the blasted tree after a week and had travelled west for another week, but had not yet seen the ruins of Ro Hail and only had Al-Hasim’s word that the directions were correct. She’d had ample opportunity to improve her skill with the crossbow she’d acquired, and she was now able to hit rabbits and other game. So far, however, she’d been loath to make a fire of sufficient size to cook them properly. Porridge needed only a small flame and a bit of rainwater, but cooking meat might well alert anyone who was pursuing her.

 She’d seen small nests of Gorlan spiders throughout the two weeks she’d been travelling but had not quite summoned the courage to snare one. Al-Hasim had told her several times that in Karesia fried Gorlan legs were a delicacy. However, the size and ferocity of the bloated arachnids was enough to put her off approaching a nest. Even in the small wood she was sheltering in there were cobwebs, and she guessed that the Gorlan claimed much of the southlands of Ranen as their hunting grounds.

Bronwyn felt a drop of rain hit the back of her neck and she shivered uncomfortably as it made its way inside her cloak. She’d slept rough before; many times in her life she’d camped out with Bromvy, and they’d both enjoyed the feeling of freedom that the open expanse of the Grass Sea gave them. This was different, though. She didn’t have a tent, or a change of clothes, or her brother to keep her spirits up, and the only thing she had to focus on was to stay at liberty and get to the ruins of Ro Hail. Even that was only the vaguest of goals and she had no idea what she would do if she did actually manage to make contact with Wraith Company.

The ability of men like Brom and Hasim to stay cheerful in the face of despair was a trick she’d never learned. Her mother had offered few words of wisdom on the subject. Marlena of Du Ban had not been a loving or attentive mother. She’d died when Bronwyn and her brother were barely ten years old, but she’d spoken of a woman’s duty as if she believed it was the one thing she had to offer her daughter.

The place of the noblewomen of Ro is to support the noblemen and to remain silent
, she’d said.
They must show their emotions and never forget that they are the gentle counterpoint to the warrior men of Tor Funweir
.

Bronwyn had disliked this advice and had never really accepted that her place was dictated by birth and gender. However, despite her sword and crossbow, she felt alone and vulnerable.

As the sky began to darken, Bronwyn let her eyelids droop and she suddenly felt exhausted. The adrenalin that had kept her going since she left her home had steadily dwindled away and now all she felt was tired. Her horse was whinnying quietly and directed a glare at Bronwyn, as if to remind her how much he disliked the wet weather. She’d fed him some of the bale of straw she’d recovered from the wagon and hoped he’d allow her a few hours’ sleep.