The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood (4 page)

‘If it’s a drunk, I’m gonna kick him
hard
...’ The voice was so close Randall held his breath. A step or two more and he’d be between them.

Randall held his sword tight against his chest lest its shine give away his location.

‘You two... go and check that room at the back.’

Randall tensed. As two men wielding large blades stepped past the crossbowman, Vasir acted. The Tyr moved with phenomenal grace, slashing the neck of the first man before spinning to drive his leaf-blade into the throat of the second, sending twin sprays of blood across the wooden floor.

The calm night of Voy was broken. The three remaining mercenaries looked with open-eyed surprise at the huge forest-dweller.

‘It’s them,’ one shouted. He wildly loosed a bolt down the hall and Randall stepped out, thrusting his sword towards the man. The point caught more chain mail than flesh and Randall overbalanced. Slipping on the pool of blood, he barrelled into the man who was feverishly trying to reload his crossbow. They fell together on to the stairs and Randall grunted in pain as his head struck wood before the two of them flew swiftly downwards, ending in a heap on the floor below.

The other two mercenaries had quickly regained their bearings and rushed up the stairs, swinging heavy maces at Vasir’s shadowy form. The Dokkalfar danced backwards into the hall. Randall tried to stand, but his head was swimming and he could taste blood on his tongue. Randall’s sword was stuck in the side of the man’s chain mail and he swore as he tried to untangle it.

‘I’m gonna fuck you till you bleed, boy,’ spat the mercenary, elbowing the squire in the chest.

Randall reluctantly let go of the sword and wrapped his arms round the man’s neck. As they wrestled in the detritus of the derelict building, Randall realized he was the stronger and began to exert leverage to keep the mercenary from drawing another weapon. He clung on, but a series of kicks and punches began to loosen his hold. This close, the man smelt terrible. Randall tried to manoeuvre on top of him, but lost his grip as a fist connected solidly with the side of his jaw. Randall went limp and the man rolled clear.

Randall tried to stand, but his legs weren’t responding. The mercenary pulled the sword of Great Claw from his chain mail. The blade grated against the steel links and came away with a small amount of blood.

‘Where’s the Ghost, boy?’ spat the mercenary through brown teeth. ‘The cleric, where is he?’

The man levelled Randall’s sword at him and grinned, a grotesque expression that showed missing teeth and stained gums. ‘Answer me,’ he shouted.

‘That’s my squire,’ said a deep, gravelly voice.

The mercenary turned to see a broad-shouldered figure staggering uncertainly down the stairs, longsword in hand. Brother Utha of Arnon, a mask of rage on his face, stood bare-chested and covered with fresh scars, but pale-skinned, white-haired and terrifying.

The mercenary grabbed Randall by the hair. Pulled upright, the squire felt the cold metal edge of Great Claw across his neck.

‘Your boy dies if you take one more step towards me.’

Utha stepped forward.

Randall felt the blade bite into his skin.

‘Stop fucking moving,’ barked the mercenary.

The cleric took another step forward and launched his longsword towards them. The blade flew end over end and lodged messily in the mercenary’s chest, inches from Randall’s own.

For a moment, Randall’s laboured breathing was the only sound in the room.

Brother Utha of Arnon, last of the Shadow Giant old-blood regarded the room with a cool glare. ‘Do we have any wine?’

* * *

The sun was beginning to intrude on the horizon and still Randall had not slept.

Utha sat by the window looking out into the twilight while Hobson examined Randall’s head wound.

‘I must say, you people truly don’t appear to be the ruthless assassins you’re made out to be. The news from Ro Tiris is that Brother Utha of Arnon is the most dangerous man abroad in the lands of men. A reckless traitor to be killed on sight.’

The White cleric raised his head and saw three sets of eyes glaring back at him. He smiled nervously. ‘Of course, that’s just hearsay...’

Utha snorted. ‘Don’t fret, brother, you’re in no danger from us. We’ll be out of your hair within the hour and you’ll never have to deal with us again.’

‘I must say, that is a relief,’ replied Hobson. ‘Though, as a fellow man of the One, I would ask you a question, Brother Utha.’

‘I didn’t kill the prince,’ Utha said candidly. ‘Though I can’t tell you what did.’

Hobson shook his head. ‘No, brother, I wished to know why you of all people, a man renowned for his skill as a crusader, would consort with the risen.’

The Black cleric stood and faced him. Though they were similar in height, Utha’s bulk, muscle and demeanour spoke of his calling as a warrior; a sharp contrast to the aura of serenity that surrounded Hobson. As the two clerics – Black and White – looked at each other, Randall thought he could see a ripple of divine power as their eyes met. The back of his neck tingled.

Utha’s face was stone. ‘His name is Tyr Vasir. He is a Dokkalfar and no more an undead monster than you or I.’

As if to illustrate the point, the forest-dweller stepped into the room. Vasir was close to seven feet tall, and slender. His skin was a dusty grey and his hair and eyes were both jet-black. The White cleric stared at him. Vasir let himself be studied, reacting with nothing more than a slight twitch of his shoulders.

‘I don’t expect you to listen any more than the Purple, brother, but at least you’ll have something to ponder once we’re gone.’

Utha had repeatedly stated the futility of persuading other clerics that the Dokkalfar were merely a race of non-human beings, with culture, history and sophistication. Even Brother Torian, a Purple cleric that Utha and Randall had both admired greatly, was so influenced by the church’s propaganda as to be almost blind to the reality.

‘The Mandate of Severus has been church law for five hundred years,’ said Hobson, mildly.

‘It has never been a law of The One. It was a law of the Purple,’ replied Utha. ‘I don’t think The One gives a shit about non-humans. Cardinal Severus did, that’s all. And no-one questions it.’

‘Well, your friend certainly doesn’t seem... dangerous,’ Hobson said hesitantly.

Utha laughed – the first good-natured sound he’d made in weeks. ‘Let’s not get carried away, brother, he is most definitely dangerous. But he doesn’t eat children or abduct women, if that’s what you mean.’

Vasir tilted his head at Utha. The forest-dweller didn’t understand humour, but Randall thought he may have been aware that he was being teased.

‘I will have to report that I have encountered you, Brother Utha,’ said Hobson quietly.

Utha nodded his head. ‘Would you give us the courtesy of a day’s head start?’

‘I’m sorry, no.’ The old cleric bowed his head.

‘I understand, brother.’

For a second, Randall feared his master would seek to silence the healer, but Utha crossed to the door and motioned for Hobson to follow.

‘I would ask that you leave us now,’ the Black cleric said, ‘and I hope the One looks down on you with more kindness than he has shown me.’

Hobson bowed his head and the two churchmen shared a moment of prayer before parting.

‘Brother,’ Utha said as Hobson exited, ‘at least walk slowly back to your chapel.’

The White cleric smiled and nodded before turning his back on the three of them. Randall regretted intruding upon the old man’s life, but it was at least gratifying to meet another honourable cleric.

‘Well...’ said Utha. ‘We’re wanted by clerics, enchantresses and mercenaries. Apparently we killed Prince Christophe, and our odds of survival in Tor Funweir are slim.’ He screwed up his face. ‘I don’t fancy going to Ranen or Karesia, so I’d say our best option is to get lost in the Fell.’

Vasir immediately began to gather up their belongings.

‘You’re keen,’ said Randall.

‘Indeed,’ responded the forest-dweller, ‘I am eager to assist the Shadow and will gladly give my life to see him safely to the woods of my people.’

Utha stood angrily. ‘Stop fucking calling me the Shadow... I’m just a man.’ He was almost shouting.

Vasir tilted his head and regarded the Black cleric before speaking. ‘You are many things, Brother Utha of Arnon, but you are certainly not
just a man
. You possess the blood of the ancients, you are an old-blood of the Shadow Giants, and you are friend to the Dokkalfar – whether you wish it or not.’

Utha was silent for a moment and then slumped back into his chair. ‘Seriously, do we have any wine?’

‘Of course we don’t have any wine,’ replied Randall. ‘I thought survival was more important than getting drunk.’ He spoke with more venom than he had intended. ‘Sorry.’

‘I’ll let it pass.’ Utha said wearily. ‘Let’s just get out of Voy.’

* * *

Brother Hobson was not a man given to panic, but sitting tied roughly to his chair before Sir Hallam Pevain, he began to feel a sense of dread. Pevain was the leader of a large company of mercenaries recently returned from Canarn with a greatly diminished force. He carried a large warhammer of Ranen design and worked for a witch called Saara the Mistress of Pain.

It had been two days since Hobson had reported the presence of Brother Utha to the knight marshal’s office and several hours since the mercenaries had begun questioning him. His bewilderment that a mercenary knight was hunting down the rogue cleric was matched only by his confusion that everyone seemed to be working for the Karesian enchantresses – or
our beloved allies
as they were frequently called.

‘I’m getting sick of asking the same questions, brother,’ said the black-armoured knight in a guttural growl.

‘So stop asking, Sir Pevain,’ responded Hobson.

‘Utha the Ghost was seen two days ago in Voy and you insist that he was on his own.’ Pevain was simple-minded but dangerous.

‘I didn’t say he was on his own,’ responded Hobson. ‘He had a young squire and a risen man with him.’

‘Yes, yes, so you say – but no Kirin?’ The knight had insisted that Utha must have been accompanied by a Kirin assassin. ‘My mistress sent me to hunt down two men, Utha the Ghost and Rham Jas Rami. They are both evil men who consort with the risen and our beloved allies believe they will be working together.’

‘I haven’t seen a Kirin in Voy for many years.’

‘I’ll give you one last chance to tell the truth, brother.’ Pevain leered.

‘I saw Utha of Arnon, a young squire and a forest-dweller,’ repeated Hobson; he could not keep his attention from Pevain’s hammer.

‘Risen man,’ corrected Pevain, ‘an evil undead monster.’

The White cleric shook his head. ‘Whatever you want to call him, he was tall, with grey skin and black eyes.’

Pevain rested his hammer in Hobson’s lap. ‘And the Kirin? Fucked if I know why, but she places great worth on their capture... Utha
and
Rham Jas.’

Hobson forced a smile even as sweat began to sting his eyes. A noble knight would never harm a cleric of peace and healing, but Pevain was not noble and Hobson suspected the mercenary acted mostly on whim. ‘I can only repeat the truth so many times, sir knight,’ he said.

‘That’s a shame, brother.’ Pevain pulled back his hammer and swung for Hobson’s head.

The cleric didn’t feel any pain and, after eighty years of life it might be said that Brother Hobson of Voy had lived a good life.

CHAPTER 2

The window sill was wide enough for Dalian to stand on, but not so wide as to be particularly safe. The Mistress of Pain had a scheduled meeting with her two hound commanders and Dalian was eager to hear their plans. He risked a glance inside. The enchantress was sitting at a desk reading an old leather-bound book.

The Thief Taker was a man unmatched in his skill and devotion to Jaa, but now he was a fugitive, falsely accused of treachery. He was nearing his fiftieth year of life, and as he balanced precariously seven storeys up from the ground, all he could think was that he was too old to be clambering about outside buildings. Surely Jaa wanted him to be reclining on a chair somewhere, within sight of the sea, with a glass of wine in his hand.

He was not even sure which part of the city he was in. Ro Weir was peculiar among the great cities of Ro in that its population consisted of many Karesians and Kirin, men who were more alarmed by the presence of the hounds than the native Ro. He suspected that the foreign presence in the city was mostly of the criminal variety – Karesians who, for whatever reason, could not return to Karesia.

He had been here for over a month and had successfully lost himself in the criminal culture of the city’s port side, a near-slum called the Kirin Tor. He had reluctantly thrown his black armour into the sewer that ran the length of the city and had made an effort to conceal both his face and his kris knives. The wave-bladed weapons were too distinctive in Tor Funweir, causing jagged wounds that an astute observer would quickly link to one of Jaa’s faithful. He disliked having to conceal his presence and found subversion in general to be distasteful, but the Thief Taker was nothing if not pragmatic. He was in a foreign city that had willingly submitted to hound occupation under the guidance of a treacherous enchantress, and Dalian Thief Taker, greatest of the wind claws, believed himself to be the only servant of Jaa that could stop her.