The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood (12 page)

And then the king spoke. ‘I will have order,’ he began, in a quiet voice. ‘I will have order and I will have obedience.’ His words were slurred and Fallon frowned. Something was not right here. ‘This land is mine by right,’ he continued in the manner of a petulant youth rather than a middle-aged monarch. ‘Our beloved allies have shown us the way... yes, yes, they have...’ His eyes were wider now and a look of mania had appeared on his face. ‘We will sack South Warden, we will bombard their city, burn their houses, kill their warriors and return these peasants and lesser men to their rightful place... as servants to the men of the One.’ Again, the Purple clerics saluted and a murmured cheer was dragged from the knights of the Red.

‘Brother Jakan of Tiris, step forward,’ said the king, in a voice intended to be commanding.

‘My king,’ said the pompous Purple cleric, as he joined Cleoth on bended knee.

‘Ten thousand men of the Darkwald yeomanry will arrive within days and I name you lord commander of their force.’ Jakan’s eyes widened in glee at his first command, and Mobius nodded with approval. ‘You will form the vanguard of our advance, brother cleric.’

Fallon bit his lip at the pile of horse-shit he was witnessing. All around him he saw true fighting men with expressions ranging from confusion to anger. Whatever these men were, they were not simple, and to see an idiot like Jakan given command of so many men was distasteful to warriors of the One.

‘Sir Fallon of Leith,’ said the king in his cracked voice.

Fallon composed himself quickly and motioned his unit to follow. In formation, they rode across the cobbles towards the command platform and the eastern gate. ‘My king,’ said the knight captain.

‘I unleash you as my first stroke in our war... ride now, my knight, ride for your king, for your God and for Tor Funweir.’

The Purple clerics banged their fists against their steel breastplates in a rhythmic accompaniment to the king’s words. Fallon’s salute was less than enthusiastic, but he saluted nonetheless.

‘Sir Theron, we ride east,’ he barked to his adjutant, before turning to see the eastern gates opened by bound men. He kicked the flanks of his horse and Knight Captain Fallon of Leith and his fifty knights of the Red rode in formation out of Ro Hail towards the realm of Scarlet.

* * *

Once out of sight of the ruined town, Fallon ordered his unit to slow down and within a few hours they were trotting leisurely across the featureless plains.

He had heard a certain amount of muttering among his men, mostly questioning the way the king had spoken or poking fun at Mobius and the other Purple clerics, but none of it was particularly insulting and Fallon decided to let it pass. Besides, he found himself agreeing with virtually every whispered word of dissent and a few of the comments even made him smile as he rode at the head of the column.

The main object of humour was the time the king had spent with the Fjorlanders, and what precisely they had done to him. Ohms joked that he’d been raped by a sweaty axe-man, while others suggested he’d been forced to bend the knee to Rowanoco. Fallon, however, was of the opinion that King Sebastian Tiris had been losing his mind well before his encounter with the men and women of the north. Also, he couldn’t fully reconcile the honour the Fjorlanders had shown in releasing the king when they said they would, with the barbaric image he had been trained to associate with them. He didn’t believe the same courtesy would have been shown if the army of Red knights had managed to capture a thain of theirs.

As the land began to look the same as far as the eye could see and the rain started to fall from the grey sky of Wraith, Theron of Haran rode to the front of the column and fell in beside his captain.

‘Would you mind if we spoke for a time, sir?’ he asked.

‘What would you like to speak about?’ Fallon himself found it infuriating when someone answered a question with a question, but he wasn’t really in the mood to talk.

‘When I was a boy in Ro Haran I heard a story about you from General Alexander Tiris... I just wanted to know if it was true.’ The young knight had a way of occasionally slipping into conversation the fact that he had served under Xander.

‘What was the story?’ asked the captain, prepared to humour his adjutant for the time being.

‘You were called the Grey Knight for a time in Ro Arnon... is that true?’ asked Theron.

Fallon smiled to himself. He’d not heard that story for a long time and had almost forgotten his old nickname. ‘Yes, it’s true. I’ve not been called that for a long time, though... I expect you want to know why?’

‘The rumour was that you killed a Purple cleric and got away with it,’ said the knight of Haran, unsure if he would cause offence.

‘That’s the general thrust of the encounter, yes, though, as with everything, there are nuances. It was a fair fight. I didn’t jump him in an alley or anything.’ Fallon dimly recalled the encounter. He could have been no more than eighteen at the time. ‘Neither of us were where we were supposed to be, and neither of us was wearing armour or any mark of office. He didn’t know who I was, and I didn’t know who he was.’

Theron was leaning forward over the pommel of his saddle and listening intently. ‘The general said you were one of the best swordsmen they had, even then.’

‘That’s maybe an exaggeration. I was good, but I knew it, and that made me cocky and arrogant. To be honest, I was lucky the Purple fucker didn’t fillet me.’ He raised an eyebrow at Theron, realizing that the young knight had asked him an interesting question for perhaps the first time since they had met.

‘Did he challenge you?’ asked the adjutant.

‘No, nothing like that. He’d been in a brothel, I’d been in a tavern, and we bumped into each other – quite literally – in the street between the two buildings. He saw that I had a longsword, this one right here...’ He patted the weapon at his side. ‘And he was quite rude in his questioning of why I was wearing such a weapon.’

‘Did he not wear a longsword?’ pressed Theron, eager to hear more.

‘He did, but I was a little drunk and didn’t care,’ replied Fallon. ‘Well, not until he punched me. I don’t think I answered his questions properly and he felt justified in striking me – quite hard – and so, when I stood up, I killed him.’

Theron gasped at the offhand way in which Fallon said this. His eyes widened as if he were about to hear the details of a long and heroic duel. ‘Did he not fight back?’ asked the young knight.

‘Not really, I didn’t give him a chance to. I suppose I expected him to draw his sword when I did. When he didn’t, I thought I’d just stab him... as I said, I was a little drunk.’

‘How did you get away with it?’ pressed Theron.

‘Well, that’s where the Grey Knight thing came from. I was pulled up in front of Knight General Frith and a few Purple clerics, and they demanded that I be stripped of my Red armour. The general disagreed and said that I was wearing a grey cloak at the time and maybe I should be stripped of that.’ Fallon smiled as he remembered the incident again. ‘The general pulled my cloak off my back and threw it at the clerics and said:
There, he’s a grey knight now and you have no authority over him
. I suppose the nickname stuck.’

‘And what if you’d been wearing a pink cloak, sir,’ asked Theron, displaying more of a sense of humour than Fallon had credited him with.

‘I suppose I’d have been called the Pink Knight,’ replied the captain, sharing the joke with his adjutant.

CHAPTER 5

Each time she rose from sleep and looked back along the rugged gullies, it seemed as if winter was chasing them. Halla and her company of Fjorlanders had slept for barely three hours and it was time to move on again. Rexel Falling Cloud, one of her captains, who hailed from the woods of Hammerfall, had insisted the weather would calm within days, but Halla remained sceptical.

They had no tents and for nearly a month now the two hundred battle-brothers and one axe-maiden had wrapped themselves in thick fur cloaks and huddled together in the snow. Several had muttered off-colour jokes about Halla being the only woman, but a few broken jaws had put a stop to that. Warmth was a rare commodity and Halla had slept close to Master Wulfrick for the last week. The huge axe-master of Fredericksand was the strongest, bravest and most honourable man she knew and having him as an ally made her believe they still had hope.

As the axe-maiden sat up and untangled herself, she felt the bitter wind strike her face. Her men were a line of black shapes, starkly outlined against the craggy white background. Her single eye burned for a second from the glare.

‘Any regrets?’ muttered Wulfrick, without opening his eyes.

She held up a frozen hand and replaced her eyepatch, scratching the deep scar as she did so. ‘What am I suppose to regret? Are you still alive?’ Halla said, without looking at the axe-master.

‘I meant the king,’ he growled under his breath, coughing slightly. ‘We could have kept hold of him... or dropped him off a cliff.’

‘I gave my word,’ she replied with conviction, pulling her cloak tight around her shoulders. Seeing a clear blue expanse, with no sign of an imminent blizzard, she smiled.

‘Halla,’ barked Wulfrick, ‘are you listening to me?’

‘I said
I gave my word
. Did you want another answer?’ Halla continued to smile and looked across at her men, most of whom were just beginning to rise from sleep. ‘I won’t miss the company of King Sebastian Tiris,’ she yawned.

‘I suppose it won’t affect us too badly. I feel sorry for Wraith Company, though. Good men... good beer... no chance against those knights, though,’ said Wulfrick as he sat up next to Halla.

They had seen Captain Horrock and the men of Wraith safely out of Ro Hail as they took the captive monarch north. As she promised, the king had been released in the low passes of the Deep Cross and they had seen an honour guard of Purple clerics pick him up. Since then, their path had been a difficult one as winter gripped the mountains. Luckily, they had now entered the lowlands and the ground was becoming more level by the day. Falling Cloud had insisted that they would sight a few settlements within a day or two, and Halla was looking forward to a bed and some hot water.

‘Let’s worry about Fjorlan right now,’ said Wulfrick, mostly to himself. ‘We have to find Alahan... if Rulag hasn’t cut his head off yet.’

‘He’s a clever little bastard, from what I hear,’ said Halla, remembering the few times she had met Algenon’s son.

‘Too clever for his own good. A bit more violent than his father, though,’ elaborated the axe-master.

Halla saw her captains rise first and was gratified that they were happy to do the shouting for her. The axe-maiden disliked raising her voice unless it was absolutely necessary and she had established a quiet authority with her men over the last month, an authority build on intelligence and respect. She knew that her name, too, was a major factor. Her being a Summer Wolf, to whom Wulfrick deferred, had silenced most of the queries regarding her command, and the capture of the king at Ro Hail had answered any questions that remained.

Rexel Falling Cloud and Oleff Hard Head were invaluable to Halla as she tried to keep her men’s spirits up. Oleff was the older of the two and had a curiously out of place ability with song. He was a grizzled man in his fifties who would break into song in a deep baritone at the slightest provocation, and his lengthy sagas of trolls slain and women bedded had been a constant background to the Fjorlanders’ journey north. Falling Cloud was quieter, until angered, at which point he would erupt into a shout that demanded silence. Even Wulfrick and Halla were surprised whenever Rexel delivered a roaring reprimand to the men. Her third captain, a common man of Tiergarten called Heinrich Blood, had not stood out initially. However, as they travelled, he had revealed himself to be a novitiate of the Order of the Hammer and an aide to Father Brindon Crowe, a cunning old man of Tiergarten whom Halla knew well. Heinrich’s gift was not shouting or singing, and Wulfrick had commented that he seemed slightly ill at ease in combat as well. Instead, what he offered the company was morale and an assurance that they were on a path laid down by the Ice Giant. His ability with the voice of Rowanoco was in its infancy, but he had managed to heal several wounds and stop several more from festering.

Between them, Rexel, Oleff and Heinrich had formed Halla’s company into a well-drilled unit capable of moving swiftly and responding to a threat with brutal efficiency.

‘
The dragons of Ranen were mighty and brave
,’ sang Oleff, as a way of rousing the remaining men. ‘
Through ice storms and battles, fair maidens they’d save
.’ His voice rose in volume until most men were either up or yawning themselves awake. ‘
With teeth and with claw the trolls they did smite
,’ he continued. ‘
But when they met Oleff with fear they did shite
.’ He elongated the last note and held it for a moment as the assembled men laughed.

‘True story,’ he whispered to Halla with a wink. ‘Right,’ he roared at the men, ‘that’s as much laughter as you lot are allowed today. Get up and get moving.’