The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood (21 page)

‘Will they have time to prepare if we warn them?’ They backed off hurriedly into the trees.

‘Warn them?’ queried Utha. ‘We’re not getting involved. We need to move south before those bastards encircle the enclave and start killing people.’

Randall was a surprised at this. ‘We can’t let them sack Cozz,’ he said with concern.

‘I wasn’t aware you had such strong feelings for the merchant lords.’ Utha looked at the hand Randall had placed on his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. The young squire quickly removed it.

‘I have no opinion about them, but that doesn’t mean I want them killed or imprisoned.’ He was not used to arguing with Utha and shrank under the withering glare of his master’s pink eyes.

‘Randall, we are wanted by virtually every authority in Tor Funweir. It’s likely that that lot have been ordered to apprehend us as well, and you want us to backtrack to warn the marshal?’ The cleric was not convinced. ‘Marshal Wesson is a decent sort of man. He’s no love for the church or the crown and I’m... sorry for the loss he’s about to experience, but it’s not our problem.’

Randall frowned. His master was not a cruel or an evil man, but he was pragmatic and that meant not doing things that would endanger him or his companions.

‘I think it
is
our problem.’ The voice came from Tyr Vasir. The tall Dokkalfar had appeared out of the trees and made Randall jump again.

‘Am I the only person here that makes a noise when he moves?’ Randall asked. He was becoming fed up with everyone else except him being naturally stealthy.

Utha raised an eyebrow. Vasir tilted his head. Neither of his companions had realized how frequently they made the young squire jump. But right now they had more important concerns.

Randall smiled awkwardly. ‘Okay, not the matter in hand... sorry, carry on.’

Vasir came to the edge of the trees and looked south towards the approaching hounds. ‘Do you see those cages, my friends?’ he said.

Randall and Utha peered at the steel cages amidst the marching warriors. At first they’d looked empty, perhaps intended for captives. But as they stared, they saw that the cages were already occupied.

‘Who are the prisoners?’ asked Utha. ‘There isn’t a significant-sized town between Cozz and Weir... they’d have no reason to imprison anyone.’

Vasir bowed his head and began to hum quietly. It was a deep and echoing note that managed to convey extreme sadness and regret. The forest-dweller closed his eyes and composed himself before he spoke. ‘The forever of the Dokkalfar tells of our gift from the Fire Giant.’ He was speaking clearly and reciting a story or scripture of some kind. ‘Our forms will burn... must burn... upon death.’ Utha had once told Randall that the Dokkalfar burst into flames when they died. What it meant now, however, was a mystery.

Utha looked at Randall and then put a hand on Vasir’s shoulder, making the tall forest-dweller open his black eyes. ‘I know of this, but what does it have to do with them?’ Utha’s words were both caring and impatient as he pointed towards the cages.

‘The maleficent witches have removed our gift. We no longer burn,’ responded Vasir.

‘So what happens if you don’t burn?’ Utha’s eyes were narrow, and Vasir looked more and more uncomfortable.

The forest-dweller began swaying and muttering something under his breath. It was a chant of some kind but was not clear at first. As Vasir continued to sway, Randall and Utha heard the words he was repeating. ‘The priest and the altar, the priest and the altar, the priest and the altar,’ he said, over and over again.

They turned away from Vasir and focused back on the approaching cages. They were still distant, but the forms within were tall and, though some were evidently conscious and sitting up, others looked torpid or dead. Neither of them said anything, and Randall’s hands shook as he made out twenty or so Dokkalfar prisoners being transported along with the army of hounds.

‘If each one of them turns into that tentacled tree-thing from the oubliette,’ said Utha quietly, ‘Tor Funweir has a bigger problem than I thought.’ He was silent for a moment. He looked at his two companions, then towards Cozz, and then at the approaching army of hounds.

‘Master –’ began Randall.

‘I know, I know,’ interrupted the Black cleric. He suddenly slapped Vasir hard across the face. ‘Snap out of it.’

Vasir blinked rapidly, stopped chanting, and looked from his crouched position at the bulky albino standing over him. ‘My apologies, Utha the Shadow, but the...
transformation
is the greatest fear of my people.’

Randall’s head was full of images of the tree. He strained to conceive how a creature such as Vasir could change into such a madness-inducing monstrosity. ‘They won’t believe us,’ he said, without turning from the cages.

‘No, I don’t think they will,’ Utha replied, ‘but maybe Wesson is wise enough to accept the danger of an army of hounds.’ He puffed out his cheeks and Randall sensed that his master was going to embark on a course of action that he considered unwise. ‘Right,’ he said wearily. ‘Vasir, figure out some way to get to those cages. Randall, you and I are going to have a little chat with the knight marshal.’

* * *

Randall had been to Cozz before, and his memories of the merchant enclave were not especially positive. The last time he’d been there it had been on the trail of Bromvy Black Guard and the encounter had resulted in Brother Torian’s death from a Kirin assassin’s arrow. Utha had also been present, but he was less perturbed by past encounters as they strode through the well-kept streets.

It had taken them two hours, moving at a steady run, to reach Cozz, and they had been allowed to enter with no questions asked, in the wake of a series of hard glares from the Black cleric. Utha had made little effort to remain incognito and Randall had been anxious that it was an ideal place for mercenaries on their trail to lie in wait. The cleric had shrugged off his concerns and evidently thought the merchant lords of the enclave would care little for a fugitive in their midst, even a fugitive accused of killing the prince.

‘They don’t answer to the crown or the church,’ Utha said, as they entered the wide, circular market which dominated the enclave. ‘Have I not explained this to you?’

‘The last time we were here, Torian died. To be honest, master, I can remember little other than that.’ They were still walking quickly and Randall frequently had to jog for a few steps to keep up with Utha.

‘Yes, well, you shouldn’t dwell on past battles... won or lost. I’m not armoured this time, so hopefully no one will recognize me.’

Randall raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything.

The inner market housed the agents and stalls of the richest lords and were filled with exotic Karesian spices and expensive wine. The outer stalls were progressively less opulent, with a corresponding decrease in quality and price, though no less busy. The only kind of business that was not conducted in the central market was the enclave’s metalwork, which was located in a number of open blacksmiths’ yards, one of which had been the site of Torian’s death.

The knight marshal, the man called Wesson, was responsible for the enclave’s security and was the only true noble in Cozz. By all accounts, Marshal Wesson of Cozz was a pragmatic knight, from humble origins, whose only concern was the security of the enclave. He had, apparently, been squire to Duke Alexander Tiris, the king’s brother, and was held in high regard in consequence. The great cities of Tor Funweir needed the wealth and trade of the merchants of Cozz much more than they were pleased to admit.

The markets were all open for business as usual, and there was no obvious sign that they were aware of the approaching hounds. ‘Do you think they know?’ Randall asked.

‘They must have an idea at least. Two thousand men cannot travel quietly,’ replied the Black cleric, with a puzzled look. ‘Look over there.’ Utha pointed to the lower level of the knight marshal’s office, a squat building on three levels which acted as gaol, courthouse and central authority for the enclave. The cleric was pointing to a group of rough-looking men hanging around the steps. ‘What do they look like to you?’ he asked.

‘Mercenaries, master.’ Randall resisted the urge to say that he had warned Utha about this. ‘Ten of them.’ The men wore mismatched leather armour and carried knives, maces and crossbows, all of which looked to have been well used.

Utha pulled up the hood of his brown cloak and walked directly towards the wide steps that led up to the marshal’s office. ‘Let’s see how observant they are, shall we?’ Utha’s words were spoken with a smile and, for a moment, Randall saw again the caustic and belligerent Black cleric he’d first met.

The mercenaries were blocking the way and, aside from disapproving looks from nearby watchmen, they were being left well alone. Each man was unshaven and, as they approached, Randall detected a definite similarity between these men and those who had attacked them in Voy.

‘Get out of my way,’ Utha barked at the nearest man.

The mercenaries showed surprise at the large man who had marched straight up to them. They stopped cursing at passers-by and turned to regard the newcomer. Their hands rested on their weapons, and Randall clenched his fists to stop his hands from shaking. Glancing at the watchmen, he was glad to see a dozen within earshot. They were the bound men of Cozz, charged with policing the streets.

‘Nice cloak, sweetheart,’ quipped one of the men with a sneer. ‘How about you come over here and rub my shoulders for me... I’m a bit sore.’

The other men laughed. The way they looked at Randall made his skin crawl. ‘You’re a handsome little boy,’ one of them said to the young squire. ‘We should be friends.’ Another round of laughter erupted.

Utha didn’t stop moving forwards. ‘I said
get out of my way
,’ he repeated. ‘I’m going into the knight marshal’s office, and you’re not going to stop me.’ He hadn’t raised his head and his pale face remained hidden under his hood.

The mercenary narrowed his eyes, but didn’t step aside. ‘We work for Sir Hallam Pevain,’ he snapped. ‘Now, show your face!’

Utha stepped to the side of the man and, almost as an afterthought, kicked him violently in the groin. A sharp intake of breath, a strangled cry, and the mercenary crumpled to the floor, curled up into an undignified ball. Without breaking step, the bulky Black cleric stamped on the man’s head.

‘Kill the fucker,’ shouted another mercenary, drawing a steel mace from his belt.

‘Very foolish words,’ said Utha, pointing beyond the mercenaries to the watchmen, all of whom had drawn crossbows.

‘No one dies in Cozz without the marshal’s word,’ said an old watchman wearing the shoulder flashes of a sergeant. ‘Brawls are brawls, murder is murder.’ Eight more watchmen warily regarded the mercenaries. Randall enjoyed the spectacle of ten men who were powerless to act against Utha. They clearly wanted to start a fight, but realized they were likely to be killed before they got the chance.

‘I’m just on my way to see Marshal Wesson,’ said Utha to the sergeant. ‘I’ll be sure to tell him that I’m guilty of brawling in the street.’ The Black cleric didn’t wait for a response. He turned away and walked up the steps. Randall followed hurriedly, with less style and confidence than his master.

‘Was that luck?’ he asked as they entered the lower level of Marshal Wesson’s offices.

‘Half of everything is luck, my dear boy,’ responded Utha, evidently very pleased with himself. ‘Those watchmen were looking for a reason to exert a bit of authority over the bastards. I just gave them an opportunity.’ He smiled at his squire. ‘Yes, Randall, it was mostly luck.’

The stone building was warm and homely, with paintings displaying caricatures of greedy-looking merchants and stiff-necked nobles. The floor was carpeted in light blue and made the entrance hall feel open and airy.

‘Can I help you?’ asked a young man seated by the bottom landing.

‘I need to speak with Marshal Wesson,’ Utha answered with authority.

‘He’s busy currently, my lord. Would you like an appointment?’ The man was younger than Randall and looked with curiosity at the cloaked man before him.

‘No, I’ll see him now.’ Utha didn’t wait for the man’s response. He marched up the stairs, ignoring the young man’s spluttered objections.

Randall was a little way behind. ‘Sorry, he’s... very single-minded. Don’t worry, he won’t cause any trouble.’

The words were not very reassuring, but the man didn’t give chase. Randall ran to catch up, his boots clattering on the wooden stairs. ‘Politeness isn’t always an inconvenience, you know,’ he said, as they passed the first floor.

‘No, but waiting for an appointment is,’ replied the cleric. ‘It’s urgent, remember.’

They reached the third floor and turned from the stairs to walk along a carpeted corridor. More caricatures lined the walls and Randall guessed that Marshal Wesson had a sense of humour. A caricature of a Red knight was well executed in watercolours, showing a nobleman sitting astride a bored-looking horse, his crested helmet far too big for his head and his red breastplate falling from his spindly frame.

‘Couldn’t get away with stuff like that in any other city in Tor Funweir,’ said Utha with a smile.

At the end of the corridor they entered a large seating area filled with comfortable-looking couches and low tables. The decoration was unpretentious, with warm wood and light-blue fabrics.

The waiting room was empty, though raised voices came from beyond a simple oak door. The area had several exits, leading to balconies that looked out over the central market.

‘Where are all the guards?’ Randall asked.

Utha glanced round the empty waiting room. ‘Probably in with the marshal. I think those pricks outside are waiting for their master.’

The mercenary had said that they worked for Sir Hallam Pevain, a name unfamiliar to Randall. ‘Do knights normally have mercenary attendants?’ he asked. ‘Sir Leon never had one.’

‘Not normally, but this particular knight is different. Keep your arse clenched, boy, you’re about to meet a rapist, a murderer and a man unfit to be called
sir
. Hopefully, Wesson’s reputation as a fair and decent man is more than just rumour.’ He looked concerned.