The Long War 01 - The Black Guard (56 page)

‘That’s what happened to Elyot, isn’t it?’ Randall remembered the way the young watchman had been opened up by Brom and had lost his arm.

Utha nodded. ‘Yes, he relied on having two blades to Brom’s one, but forgot about the reach he was conceding to the longer blade. Never assume you have the better of your opponent, just fight and let your skill decide the result.’ He smiled. ‘And don’t be afraid to kick or punch. You’re using a one-handed blade, so it’s not like your other hand is doing anything. Remember how Bromvy knocked me down?’

Randall found revisiting the encounter strange, though he knew that many valuable lessons could be drawn from the combat.

‘He took you out of the fight,’ he replied plainly.

‘Indeed. He recognized me as the greatest threat and put me down so he could deal with Elyot and Clement, neither of whom was his equal.’

Swordplay, Randall realized now, was about much more than just hacking at men with a blade.

‘How’s the porridge?’ Utha asked, as he sat down on his bedroll and placed his axe carefully on the saddle of his horse.

‘It’s done.’ Randall spooned a large portion into a small wooden bowl.

They had eaten porridge every morning since leaving Cozz. Tomorrow they would be in Ro Tiris and could eat heartily at an inn – an enticing thought after the thick, slimy substance they had been living on.

They ate slowly and with little talk, both of them in their own world of contemplation. Randall thought of his life and the unexpected turns he’d endured over the past month, and he guessed that Utha was worrying about the Black cathedral. The Black clerics had their headquarters in Ro Tiris, unlike the other clerical orders, which were based in Ro Arnon. Utha had frequently spoken about the tradition of keeping the clerics of death close to the king and away from the Purple cardinals. He had been evasive as to the reason for this tradition, but the implication was that they were the one order that was always under the eye of the king.

‘Time to go, young Randall,’ Utha said, finishing his porridge. ‘Get the camp together and I’ll deal with the fire.’

Utha was wearing his cleric’s boots – tough leather, with tight steel buckles – the only remnant of his armour that remained. He was still a huge, broad-shouldered lump of a man, but without his black armour he looked less intimidating. His pale skin and pink eyes were less striking and the scar down his neck was hidden by the hood of his grey robe.

They pulled down the small camp quickly and largely in silence. Randall tried to speak, but his light attempts at conversation met with a glare from Utha. The cleric spoke no words as he packed up his few belongings and sheathed his axe, taking a moment to look at the double-headed weapon before he stowed it for what might be the last time.

‘Right, just so we’re clear, Randall, as we ride through Tiris, keep your mouth shut. I don’t want to talk to you. Understood?’ He didn’t look at the squire.

‘I understand, but remind me again why I should obey your orders?’

The Black cleric shot him a threatening look. ‘Because I will knock your teeth through your head if you don’t.’

‘I need to be able to speak to defend you, remember?’ Randall had lost much of the fear he used to feel towards Utha and had no compunction about speaking his mind. ‘It’s not like I’m a squire any more.’

The cleric stood up and flexed his back, making a show of considering Randall’s words. Then he turned and crossed quickly to stand in front of the squire. He saw the punch coming but couldn’t get out of the way in time to avoid being knocked to the floor. He tasted blood on his lips, but the blow had not been meant to injure him.

‘We’re going to ride to the Black cathedral and you’re going to keep your fucking mouth shut until I tell you to speak.’ Utha reached inside his robe and threw a gold piece on the floor in front of Randall. ‘There, now you’re my paid squire, so do as you’re fucking told.’

* * *

Randall kept his mouth shut as the two of them rode into Ro Tiris. He kept feeling the swelling on his lip and testing his teeth to make sure the punch hadn’t loosened any of them. Utha was not a man to argue with, but Randall was fairly sure the Black cleric had lashed out from fear of returning to the cathedral.

They entered via the southern gate, the watchmen on duty recognizing Utha the Ghost and not daring to approach him as they rode into the city. Randall heard the customary whispered comments about the Black cleric – otherworldly suspicions and stories of risen men – but the young squire had become immune to the aura of fear that surrounded his new master and he barely listened as they rode along the King’s Highway into the capital of Tor Funweir.

The Black cathedral was a smaller building than Randall had expected. It was nestled west of the guild square, in the shadow of the huge barracks of the knights of the Red. The streets were largely empty and Randall surmised that only the knights used the road between the two churches, rendering it off limits to the common men of Tiris. The cathedral was a plain building of black stone, with no adornments other than a single irregular spire which rose at an angle from the castellated roof.

He thought, as they rode through the streets, that the training grounds on each side of them were strangely empty. The knights of the Red were based in Ro Arnon, but the barracks of Ro Tiris were huge and held the king’s army.

Utha noticed the empty streets too, and took a good look at the training grounds. ‘A lot seems to have happened while we’ve been hunting the Black Guard,’ he said. ‘The last time I was here, the barracks held eight or nine thousand knights.’

‘Where would they have gone?’ Randall asked the cleric, momentarily forgetting that Utha had ordered him not to talk.

‘I’m not sure, but the cynic in me suspects northwards. Look at that.’

He pointed to the White Spire of Tiris, the mark of the king. The banners displaying the white eagle of Ro Tiris were flying at half mast, indicating that King Sebastian Tiris was not currently in the city.

‘I think someone has made a huge mistake,’ Utha said, shaking his head. ‘I might have cared about that a month ago.’ He nudged his horse onwards.

Ahead of them, a small group of guardsmen stood, formally attired in gold, outside the vault-like door to the Black cathedral. There were six of them, each carrying a longsword at his side and a tall lance in his hand.

The leader of the group, a grey-haired warrior without a helmet, noticed the approaching cleric and stepped into the road, motioning his men to follow.

‘Utha the Ghost,’ he stated with a formal nod.

‘It’s actually Brother Utha of Arnon,’ said Randall without thinking.

The guardsmen all looked at the squire and the grey-haired leader shot him a hard glance. ‘Silence, boy.’

‘That’s my squire, guardsmen. If anyone tells him to shut up, it’ll be me,’ Utha said, turning to look at Randall. ‘Thank you, lad. I’m glad someone remembers my actual name.’ He smiled thinly at the squire before turning back to the leading guardsman. ‘What do you want, lieutenant?’

‘By order of Prince Christophe Tiris, you are to be taken into custody.’ The six guardsmen had moved to form up round Utha and Randall, their lances held in practised fashion, pointing inwards at the two riders.

Utha didn’t move and kept his hands in view as the lieutenant moved next to him. ‘I’ll have to take your axe, brother.’

‘Careful, guardsman, I don’t answer to you. My authority is in that building and I could with all legality take you and your men apart for hindering me.’ He spoke quietly and Randall detected fear in the guardsmen’s faces.

‘Now, why am I being arrested?’ Utha asked calmly.

‘His highness does not reveal his mind to me, brother, but you will be coming with me.’

The huge black door that led to the cathedral of death began to open and everyone present turned to look. A black-robed figure had appeared in the doorway. His features were masked and his hands remained inside the sleeves of his robe, but he spoke clearly.

‘Brother Utha is not yet expelled from the church, which places his fate in my hands… not yours, guardsman. He is God’s man, not king’s man.’ The speaker did not raise his head or identify himself.

‘Brother abbot, we have instructions to arrest this cleric and if you interfere, we are prepared to use force to do so. The house of Tiris rules here, not the Black church.’ The guardsman spoke confidently and, from what Randall knew, the king’s men were unswervingly loyal to the crown and unlikely to be cowed by the clerics.

Utha reached behind his back and placed his hand on the hilt of Death’s Embrace. ‘You are close to actions that will get you killed, lieutenant,’ he said with anger in his pale eyes. ‘The prince is brave indeed if he thinks he can overrule the One.’

The grey-haired lieutenant banged his longsword loudly on his gold breastplate and within moments another two squads of guardsmen had appeared from either side. They’d been hidden and waiting in the side streets should their commander call for aid, and now they lowered their lances and joined the first squad encircling Randall and Utha.

‘Please, Brother Utha. This can be cordial or it can be bloody.’ The guardsman spoke with sincerity. ‘No one needs to die.’

The Black abbot, standing in the doorway, raised his head and Randall saw dark eyes regarding the large group of king’s men. Utha slowly moved his hand from Death’s Embrace and held his arms wide.

‘You had better be sure of your actions, lieutenant,’ he said.

‘I am as sure as I can be, brother… as sure as my orders came from the house of Tiris and must be followed to the letter.’ He continued, ‘And, now, Brother Utha, I must take your axe.’

With lightning speed, Utha drew Death’s Embrace and held it at arm’s length, making the guardsmen jump. When it became clear that the Black cleric did not intend to fight, the lieutenant moved in and grasped the hilt of Utha’s axe.

‘Take care of that weapon,’ the albino cleric said. ‘It is dear to me.’

* * *

Randall and Utha had dismounted, been disarmed and were led under close guard through the streets of Ro Tiris. Utha was silent during the journey, taking note of landmarks and the route they had taken, as if he was attempting to ascertain where they were being led.

As they turned from a wide boulevard north of the guild square, Randall was taken aback for a moment as the royal compound came into view. The house of Tiris was a large white building set back from the rest of the city and overlooking the harbour. The smell of the sea carried down the street and hit Randall’s nostrils, masking the city’s usual odour and making him smile. He turned to Utha but saw no sign of a smile or anything other than concern on the cleric’s face. He didn’t appear to be surprised by their destination, and Randall wished he hadn’t agreed to accompany him into the city.

‘Utha,’ Randall whispered, ‘why are we being taken to the palace?’

‘I don’t know, Randall, but Prince Christophe must have either lost his mind or else be privy to more information than us to treat the Black church with so little respect.’ He spoke quietly so the guardsmen couldn’t hear, and his eyes were narrow and suspicious. ‘Keep your mouth shut when we get inside and let me do the talking. Understand?’

Randall nodded and their march continued towards the White Spire of Tiris, towering over the royal compound.

The gates were open and within the ornate fence, a large area of courtyard separated the street from the huge golden doors. Ranks of armoured king’s men patrolled the area, walking in step and turning to salute the White Spire whenever they passed the front of the palace. The barracks lay off to the side, behind a second fence and, just as he had at the Red cathedral, Randall thought the place strangely empty.

Most strange of all, however, were the covered prison wagons standing within the courtyard. They were empty, but Randall noted that all of the windows had been boarded shut and on the outsides were odd-shaped knives that had been thrown at each of the wagons. As they were led through the gates and into the courtyard, he could see guardsmen on stepladders trying to pull the weapons from the wood. They were struggling, for the leaf-shaped knives had evidently been thrown with some considerable force.

Utha noticed the knives too, and turned to address the lieutenant. ‘Since when do guardsmen hunt risen men?’ he asked, having recognized the strangely shaped weapons.

‘Since we were ordered to,’ the man replied. ‘The house of Tiris has a new adviser who has provided intelligence on the monsters, enough to make hunting and capturing them easier.’

‘Does this adviser have a name?’ asked Utha.

‘She’s a Karesian enchantress called Katja… the Hand of Despair, or something. I think she’s of the Seven Sisters.’ The lieutenant had spoken the name with little judgement and Randall couldn’t be sure how he viewed this woman.

Utha had recognized something in the man’s words, however. It may have been the woman’s name or the name of her order, but he visibly clenched his jaw at the news.

Randall moved to walk next to the cleric and asked, under his breath, ‘Who are the Seven Sisters?’

‘Enchantresses that shouldn’t be here… shouldn’t be counselling the prince and shouldn’t be helping them hunt Dokkalfar,’ he answered. ‘She’ll enter your mind if you let her, so if we should have to address the witch, keep your will strong.’

‘And how do I do that?’ Randall asked, unsure how he would
keep his will strong
.

‘Just stand near me and look at the floor,’ Utha responded dismissively.

The huge golden door was opened with an audible creak as they approached. As the interior came into view, the squire gasped once more at the golden opulence on display. This was the house of King Sebastian Tiris, his wife, the Lady Alexandra, and their son, Prince Christophe. It was formal and decorative in equal parts and Randall could see little in the way of comfort.

There were servants moving through the wide, carpeted rooms, cleaning and polishing the wooden and gold surfaces, and there were no small number of ceremonially attired guardsmen on duty. The squire thought it odd that they’d been led here rather than to a prison cell and wondered again what business the prince could have with them.