The Long War 01 - The Black Guard (55 page)

She smiled to herself, almost forgetting about the dangers of the book in her hand. A scratching sensation in her mind, however, made her quickly strengthen her resolve once more, close her eyes and breathe deeply.

The knowledge contained within
Ar Kral Desh Jek
was an ancient artefact of great power, which had changed hands throughout the world for centuries, moving from one scholar to another until someone capable of understanding it should appear. Saara knew it was not meant for her, but she also knew that the lore it contained was necessary for the Dead God’s work.

She forced herself to continue reading and turned the pages quickly, looking for the entry concerning the Forest Giants. Each page contained depictions, in vivid colour, of nameless monstrosities and strange shapes which the book called living beings.

Then she paused. At the bottom of a page was a reference to the Dark Young’s father, a fleeting mention that conveyed little save a name. She read it slowly, repeating the syllables and letting her mouth become used to the strange words. The book spoke of a Forest Giant that ascended to godhood and was slain by Jaa, the Fire Giant, as a single move in the Long War. The Giant’s name was Shub-Nillurath. Saara felt a euphoria as she repeatedly spoke the name.

‘Your name… I know your name,’ she shouted upwards, her vision clouding over as pleasure and pain in equal measure flowed over the enchantress. ‘Shub-Nillurath, the Black God of the Forest with a Thousand Young,’ she proclaimed to the sky.

* * *

Dalian Thief Taker disliked the smell in Ro Weir. He had stowed away aboard a Hound troop carrier, disguised as a whip-master, and was now searching for a way to slip out of the newly erected barracks on the muster field of Weir. He had narrowly evaded capture in Kessia when the Seven Sisters had seen fit to frame him for the murder of Larix the Traveller, and if it hadn’t been for his willingness to kill many of his pursuers, Dalian had no doubt he’d have been burned to death by now. He’d found masquerading as a Hound very easy – all he needed to do was scowl a lot and appear slightly psychotic. Both things were part of his general make-up anyway, so his presence was not questioned.

Izra Sabal, the sadistic whip-mistress, acting as Master Turve’s adjutant, was Dalian’s biggest problem. She was a brutal killer whose eyes never remained still and she had taken an interest in the new whip-master with the scarred face whom she didn’t recognize. If Dalian could find an opportunity, he’d kill the bitch in a heartbeat, but the whip-mistress was constantly surrounded by her Hounds and he thought it the wiser course to slip away.

Jaa was Dalian Thief Taker’s master and had always been so. He had no doubt that the Seven Sisters had betrayed the Fire Giant, but he was unable to persuade the other wind claws of this. His order was now deeply drawn within the designs of the enchantresses, and it was he who was the traitor, to be found, tortured and killed. He did not doubt his duty. If, as he suspected, he was Jaa’s only servant not to be so enthralled, it was up to him to preserve the divine fear of the Fire Giant and to eliminate these pretenders. Dalian Thief Taker, greatest of the wind claws, felt revitalized and strong of purpose, forcing his body and mind to behave as if he were younger than his fifty years as he prayed for a swift end for Jaa’s enemies.

‘I am yours to command,’ Dalian said quietly by way of a prayer, ‘but I would have answered this calling more… lustily, were I twenty years younger.’

As the Thief Taker looked out from the canvas tent where he was lying low, he remembered a conversation he’d had with his son, many years ago. Dalian had been given the task of executing his boy for treason against the Seven Sisters and it was the only time in the wind claw’s life when he had disobeyed an order. He had never been a loving father, largely leaving his son to do whatever he pleased, as was often the way in Karesia. However, he had found himself unable to deliver the killing blow and had instead allowed his child to escape to Tor Funweir. Dalian had never been called to account for his disloyalty; his superiors had believed him without question when he had lied about killing Hasim. His son’s Kirin companion had killed an enchantress – so far as Dalian knew, the only man ever to have done so – and equal blame had fallen on Al-Hasim of Kessia.

Dalian had not spoken to his son in nearly ten years and had no idea now how to go about finding him, but he was convinced that finding the nameless Kirin who’d managed to kill one of the Seven Sisters should be his primary goal.

The Seven Sisters had been dispersed throughout Tor Funweir by Saara the Mistress of Pain and they were now speeding to the cities of the Ro. They would be able to sway dukes and clerics to their will with minimal effort now that the king of Ro had been enchanted. Lillian the Lady of Death had been sent to Ro Arnon, Shilpa the Shadow of Lies was on her way to Ro Haran, and Isabel the Seductress was travelling east to Ro Leith. Katja the Hand of Despair was already in Ro Tiris, and Ameira the Lady of Spiders resided over the sea in Ro Canarn. He knew it was only a matter of time before all the civilized lands of men would be under their sway, with only the barbarian north free from their influence.

Dalian steeled himself for a brash escape and marched out of the tent. The muster field of Ro Weir was a sea of tents accommodating ten thousand Hounds of Karesia, fully armoured and ready for action. This was not an invasion and the Hounds were unsure how to act as an occupying force. They were all convicted criminals or low-born peasants, kept in line by enchantments, drugs and the savage whip-masters. Most were brutal and semi-suicidal, glad to give their lives for Karesia the moment they were required. Each wore black armour and a full-face helmet, and carried a heavy bladed scimitar, so that they appeared almost identical.

Dalian walked confidently through the camp, keeping half an eye on Izra and Turve’s command tent at the end of the row. He could see a great deal of activity in front of the large tent and it looked as if the whip-masters were sending squads of Hounds into the city to suppress the small outbreaks of disobedience that had arisen since the Karesians had arrived in Ro Weir.

He moved between tents, stacked scimitars and small cooking fires, trying to identify the best way to leave the muster field. He knew that the horses were corralled to the north and near to the King’s Highway, but they were guarded and the Hounds on duty were unlikely to let him take one. The Karesian Hounds rarely used horses, but Saara had insisted they were necessary. She had also sent messages, via fast riders, to Katja and Ameira. The Mistress of Pain was very concerned to locate a man they called the Ghost. Apparently, he was a Cleric of the One and Saara had instructed her sisters, already installed in Tor Funweir, to apprehend him at all costs.
Travelling towards Ro Tiris
was all Dalian had managed to learn concerning the Ghost from a returning messenger whom he’d tortured for information.

He smiled as he approached the horses, thinking the underworld of Tiris would be the perfect place to start looking for his son. Dalian even began to think what he’d say when he came face to face with Al-Hasim.

‘I am your servant as always, my lord.’ Dalian once again spoke skywards, addressing the Fire Giant. ‘But a glass of wine and someone to massage my feet would be welcome before I set off.’

CHAPTER 6

Returning to Ro Tiris was not a happy homecoming for Randall. A hardness had come over him since leaving Cozz, but he didn’t like his new view of the world. Each time he’d raised a mirror to his face during the journey, he’d seen a man he didn’t recognize looking back at him – bearded and solemn, with a sadness previously unknown to him.

Brother Torian’s body was wrapped in a white shroud and laid across a wooden cart which Randall was driving. The Purple cleric had been treated with various preserving ointments and an image of his serene face could be made out through the weave of the shroud.

Utha had refused to talk about his friend’s death since leaving Cozz. The Black cleric had changed in manner and appearance over the last few weeks. With no replacement armour, he wore a simple grey robe and now looked less like a warrior and more like a monk or Brown cleric. He’d begun to teach Randall how to hold a sword, concerned at the way he’d thrown himself into the fray against Rham Jas, and the young squire finally felt comfortable holding the sword of Great Claw.

Utha had become less caustic and showed more respect towards Randall, as a result of the way the squire had handled himself during the fight in Cozz. He even grudgingly accepted that the squire had probably saved his life.

‘Now, attack high,’ Utha said, as they engaged in their daily practice.

Randall swung at Utha’s shoulder, meeting his axe in mid-swing and holding the position.

‘Good, now answer my riposte.’ The cleric swung low towards Randall’s body and their weapons clashed again. ‘Move your feet more, don’t stay too still.’

They were a little way off the King’s Highway, a few hours from the southern gate of the capital, and had spent the night under canvas rather than enter the city after dark. It was a bright and clear morning and Randall could see plumes of smoke rising from Tiris.

Randall stepped to the side and delivered a thrust towards Utha’s side, his axe swinging down to answer the attack.

‘Excellent, we’ll make a swordsman out of you yet,’ Utha said with a smile. ‘Just don’t attack any Kirin assassins and you should be fine.’

‘The sword is still heavy in one hand,’ Randall said.

He had tried using the blade with both one and two hands and found the single-handed technique made his shoulder ache.

‘Of course it is, it’s a big chunk of metal. If it was too light, it’d break.’

Utha hadn’t entirely got over his dismissive attitude towards the young squire, but Randall thought that now there was a note of good humour to his jibes.

Elyot and Robin had remained in Cozz to recover from their wounds, so Randall had had only the Black cleric for company during the two weeks it had taken them to return to Ro Tiris. It had been a difficult journey for the first few days, with Utha saying little and Randall deep in thought. After they passed the town of Voy, the Black cleric had loosened up a little and begun to chat with Randall. The change had taken some getting used to, but the squire had found Utha pleasant enough company when he wasn’t delivering barbed insults.

He had talked briefly about what would happen when they reached the capital, and Randall thought Utha’s insistence on staying outside the city for one more night was largely to do with him not wanting to hasten his own punishment. The death of a Purple cleric, added to the trouble he was already in for disobeying orders, did not bode well for the Black churchman. Utha feared he’d be blamed for Torian’s death and, despite Randall’s insistence that it hadn’t been his fault, his mood remained grim when he spoke of it. Secretly, Randall was terrified at the thought of accompanying Utha to the Black cathedral in Tiris, but, as the only witness able to speak about what had happened, he knew he had no choice. If his testimony could save Utha’s honour, then it would be worth a few hours of discomfort.

They continued their morning practice for another hour, until the sun was just visible through the thin cloud. Utha’s tutelage was good and Randall felt comfortable with his sword in hand. His strength had grown over the last month, and Utha’s patient style of fencing had suited Randall’s initial hesitancy. The cleric’s axe was called Death’s Embrace, and Randall had come to realize that if Utha were further disgraced as a result of his actions in pursuit of Brom, his weapon would be taken from him. This evidently worried the cleric and Randall often caught him gazing lovingly at the axe, in a manner similar to the way Sir Leon had stared at his longsword before Randall inherited it.

‘You’re still over-extending your arm,’ Utha said, after Randall had lost his footing attempting a high strike. ‘Don’t let the blade get too far away from your body. It’s a
long
sword, remember; it has enough reach without you sticking your arm out.’