The Long War 01 - The Black Guard (59 page)

‘Randall, help me get this cell open.’

The squire was frantic to escape and thought the idea of pausing to rescue the other prisoners foolish.

‘Did you hear me?’ Utha shouted. ‘Jam that sword in the hinges and help me wrench the door open.’

He did as he was told, automatically following his master’s orders, and thrust his newly acquired sword into the thick iron hinge at the base of the cell door. Utha stood and kicked at the blade with all his strength, jamming it between the iron rivets and bending the hinge. Then he grabbed the hilt of the sword and pulled it sharply away from the cell door, causing the hinge to break and the door to buckle.

‘Help me,’ he shouted to Randall, and the two of them pulled frantically until the door was bent sufficiently to allow the being inside to escape.

‘Quickly, we have to leave,’ Utha said to the creature.

Now at its full height, Randall couldn’t believe how tall the risen man was – seven foot at least, with a slender build. It moved towards them, its head tilting as it studied their faces.

‘Utha the Shadow… you are our friend.’ The Dokkalfar’s voice sang from its thin and sensual mouth, though its accent was strange, placing stresses in the wrong places, Randall thought.

The Dokkalfar languishing in the other cells had all stood and looked silently into the central room as Utha helped the newly freed creature out of the cell. The Black cleric turned to the others and looked flustered as he registered how long it would take to rescue them all. His breathing quickened as shouting sounded from the chamber behind them. The guardsmen had recovered enough to begin to pursue them.

‘Utha, we have to go,’ shouted Randall, grabbing his master’s arm and trying to pull him to the door of the oubliette.

‘We need to save them,’ Utha said quickly.

‘If we try, they’ll catch us… come on,’ Randall shouted again, pulling more forcefully at Utha’s arm.

The muscular cleric moved away only reluctantly, with the single freed Dokkalfar following close behind.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly to the creatures who remained.

A guardsman, groggily swaying on his feet, appeared in the doorway and shouted, ‘You killed the prince…’

Utha turned and, with anger in his eyes, hurled the sword of Great Claw at the man. The longsword thudded into him and skewered him through the chest. The cleric then grabbed the sword in Randall’s hand and pulled open the door that led out of the oubliette.

Randall fought his rising fear and ran back across the central room to retrieve his sword. He removed it easily, but had to turn away to avoid the blood spray that came with it. Down the corridor he saw two guardsmen rising to their feet and, at the end of the passage, just emerging from the doorway, was Katja the Hand of Despair. The Karesian enchantress glared at Randall with staring eyes and the squire quickly looked away in order to avoid falling under her spell.

‘Randall, hurry the fuck up,’ shouted Utha from the door.

‘They’re coming.’ Randall was breathless as he joined his master.

Out of the central room, Randall shut the door, jamming his dagger into the lock to keep it from being opened again. They ran out of the oubliette, the freed Dokkalfar behind them. Randall didn’t look at the risen man and tried to focus on getting out of the royal compound alive. When he reached the door that led up to the house of Tiris, Utha frantically flung it inwards.

‘Stop.’ Randall placed his hand on Utha’s shoulder. ‘There are guards and servants up there. How are we going to get out?’

Utha growled, ‘I’m going to kill anyone that tries to stop me and then we’re going to steal that wagon.’ With no more words, he slapped away Randall’s hand and ran up the stairs.

The squire wiped sweat from his forehead and went to follow him, but was stopped by a restraining hand from the risen man. The tall creature had been silent as he ran and Randall felt his presence intimidating. The creature’s skin was grey, and as more light played across his features the young squire could see no pigment or colour of any kind in the Dokkalfar’s face. He was simply a non-human, a living being not of the race of men, and Randall involuntarily shied away from the creature.

‘Do not think to stop the Shadow, young man of Ro,’ it said in a sonorous voice. ‘His
now
is more important than yours or mine.’

Randall didn’t try to understand as he wriggled out of the creature’s grasp and ran up the steps after Utha.

The Black cleric was moving, sword in hand, across the carpets. He was covered in blood and looked terrifying as he ran towards the courtyard. Randall followed and saw servants cowering, unwilling to challenge the enraged cleric and too afraid to run for help. They crossed the entranceway quickly, reaching the door unchallenged.

Utha paused at the door until Randall and the Dokkalfar had joined him. ‘There are at least a dozen guardsmen in this courtyard,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘There’s also a wagon. You go for the wagon, I’ll go for the guards. Clear?’

‘As it needs to be,’ replied Randall, too frantic to be scared.

Utha nodded and put his hand on Randall’s shoulder. ‘You’ve saved my life twice, boy, now get in the wagon and let’s stay alive a while longer.’

Randall looked down to see that his hand was no longer shaking and the longsword of Great Claw felt lighter in his fist.

Utha breathed in deeply and scowled, opening the large door with an aggressive growl and tightening his hand around his new longsword. The glare of sun that hit them as they entered the courtyard made Randall squint as he followed his master.

Beyond, the gate was closed, and more than a dozen gold-armoured king’s men stood in groups or walked in lone patrol around the yard, evidently unaware of what had transpired in the oubliette. The wagon was close, with three horses attached to the front and two guardsmen removing Dokkalfar knives from the carriage.

Utha didn’t pause before running at the first two guardsmen. They saw him too late, and Randall saw the other king’s men slowly realize that a roaring Black cleric was in their midst.

Utha swung with power at the first man, half severing his head, before spinning round and driving his blade through the breastplate of the second man. In a moment he’d cleared the wagon of guards.

‘Guardsmen, to arms,’ roared one of the king’s men, standing at the main gate.

‘Randall, the wagon,’ Utha shouted as he kicked the dead bodies out of the way and turned to face the other guards, who were beginning to gather their senses.

The squire didn’t take in the overwhelming odds arrayed against the cleric as he climbed into the wagon’s driving position and grabbed the reins. The Dokkalfar, his face still masked by his hood, wrenched two knives from the wood and jumped up to sit next to Randall.

Utha picked up a second longsword from a fallen man and swung his two blades with intimidating skill, roaring at the guardsmen while running at them. The Black cleric moved like an enraged monster and Randall saw fear come into the eyes of those who were preparing to fight him.

Utha did not wait for the men to overwhelm him as he plunged into the mass of them. He lashed out with both blades, aiming to maim rather than kill as he severed one man’s sword arm at the elbow and cut another viciously across the face.

‘The gate,’ he shouted to Randall, without looking back, and the squire flicked the reins roughly to spur the three large horses into movement.

As the wagon moved across the courtyard, two crossbow bolts thudded into the wood inches from where Randall sat. Looking up, he saw more armoured men emerge from the building behind him, reloading their crossbows. The squire recognized one of them from the oubliette and guessed that the enchantress would also be in pursuit.

To his surprise, the Dokkalfar stood up gracefully on the wagon’s forward seat and launched both his newly acquired knives at the men surrounding Utha. Two died instantly as they were struck in the neck, and Utha killed another who had turned to see where the knives had come from. The Black cleric was now surrounded and only the two longswords he wielded kept his adversaries from closing in.

‘Hold tight,’ Randall said to the Dokkalfar, as the horses barrelled into the ornate gates of the royal compound.

The wagon juddered violently as the metal bent and buckled under the weight of the horses and the heavy wagon.

‘Utha, move,’ roared the squire over his shoulder. The way ahead was tantalizingly clear.

He pulled up on the reins to slow the carriage and turned to see Utha surrounded. Without thinking, Randall leapt from his seat and drew his sword. A guardsman with his back to the squire became the first man Randall had wilfully killed when the sword of Great Claw struck him at the neck and sheared down into his body. A second turned to engage the new combatant, but a moment later caught a Dokkalfar knife in the neck.

Utha roared again as an opening appeared among the encircling guards and he plunged forward, deflecting thrusts from the other men. With a skill and ferocity Randall had never seen, Brother Utha the Ghost engaged five men at once and fought to reach the carriage.

A glancing blow to his leg made the cleric buckle and it looked as if he’d be driven back until Randall moved in to join his master. He tried not to think, letting his mind forget Utha’s lessons and just relying on instinct. He was not a match for these men in terms of skill or training, but the distraction provided by the ferocious cleric of Death gave Randall the chance he needed. His second kill came in the form of a thrust that pierced a young guardsman in the side, through the exposed middle section of his breastplate.

Through the press of guards, Randall saw Utha take another blow, this time a deep cut across his chest. The cleric forced himself upright and whirled his two swords in wide, skilful arcs, pushing the guardsmen back.

Then another knife was thrown and, for a second, there was no one between Utha and Randall. They locked eyes and Utha ran forwards. He caught several blows, but determination and anger spurred him on and he dived past the encircling knights into an ungainly forward roll on the flagstone courtyard.

Randall could see men emerging from the compound with drawn crossbows, and standing behind them was the cackling figure of Katja the Hand of Despair. With a wildness in her voice, she was directing men to stop Utha.

‘He killed the prince, stop him at all costs.’ Her voice cracked as she spoke.

Randall grabbed Utha and hefted him up as the Dokkalfar threw his last two knives, killing two more men and buying them a moment to haul themselves up into the wagon.

‘Move,’ shouted Utha weakly, and the carriage sprang into life again as the risen man grabbed the reins and drove the prison wagon forward.

Bolts thudded into the wood, but the shouting quickly died down as they made their escape. Utha was bloodied and pale even for an albino, as Randall pulled the wagon door shut and pushed open the front window to address the Dokkalfar.

‘Just get out of the city. Don’t stop for anything.’ He had to shout to be heard over the noise of hooves on stone.

‘We will not stop and they will not stop us,’ the creature replied, as Randall slumped back inside the wagon beside Utha.

‘That’s three times, young Randall.’ The cleric wore a thin smile. ‘Take my hand.’ Utha raised a blood-covered hand to the squire, which Randall grasped firmly. ‘I would call you
brother
, Randall of Darkwald,’ he said quietly, as his eyes began to close.

CHAPTER 7

Rham Jas was cold and disliked the weather of the north. The ship was cheap and the captain had asked no questions, but comfort was in short supply. It was late and the temperature had dropped sharply as darkness had fallen. Their journey through Tiris had been swift and, with a little coin thrown around, relatively easy. Kohli and Jenner had remained in the city, planning to find a way of returning to Karesia and leaving Rham Jas and Bromvy with the words
Don’t get killed and say hello to Al-Hasim
.

This advice had been playing on the Kirin’s mind and he had spent the past week, as they’d crawled slowly north across the straits of Canarn, thinking how best to keep Brom and himself alive.

They were close now, within a day of the coast and the beach where Rham Jas had instructed the captain to put them ashore. The forests of Canarn were small, but their dense, tall trees provided perfect cover for the Dokkalfar that lived there. Rham Jas remembered the direction of travel, but his head was full of ways in which his plan could go wrong. But he’d agreed to help his friend and, try though he might, Rham Jas could not bring himself to abandon Brom. It had ceased to be about repayment for the young lord having saved his life and had become a personal goal – to see this done, to take Brom to his home and to play whatever part fate had in store for him.

It was approaching midday and Rham Jas could feel no warmth. The sun was permanently behind the rolling grey clouds and the sky was dark. Brom was below deck, as he’d been most of the past few days. He’d eaten and slept, but had otherwise done very little save sit in his cabin and mope. Rham Jas was used to spending time on his own, but still he would have liked a more talkative travelling companion. The Kirin had hoped for a relaxing evening of whores and wine in Ro Tiris, but Brom had not been keen and insisted they leave straightaway. Rham Jas had been forced to watch Kohli and Jenner stroll into the red-light district with smiles on their smug Karesian faces.