The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood (47 page)

Rham Jas was shaking and his whole body tensed. Elihas of Du Ban cut a second inch from his fingers, levelling out the first cut and causing the tips to fall to the floor in a small pool of blood. The heat of the blade was not sufficient fully to seal the wounds and smouldering flesh clung to the knife.

‘This is certainly better than my first attempt,’ said Elihas, displaying no particular emotion.

‘You are doing so very well,’ said Isabel, in a sinister chuckle. ‘Now, the third inch is when most people crack.’

Elihas placed his hand firmly on the assassin’s wrist. Rham Jas closed his eyes. The blade was drawn across the back of his fingers and took the third inch, but this time he did not cry out. Instead, he shook violently as sweat poured down his torso.

‘That one didn’t even hurt,’ he said, opening his bloodshot eyes.

Elihas placed the knife back in the fire, with the blade protruding up through the burning coals, and turned to the enchantress.

‘Perhaps we should let the Kirin sit for a while... see if he can heal back his missing fingers.’ He did not say it with any relish.

‘An excellent idea,’ replied Isabel, with a flutter of her eyelashes. The two of them regarded the shaking prisoner. Both tried to make eye-contact but Rham Jas stubbornly refused to meet their gaze, and then they left the cell.

Glenwood sat at the bottom of the feeding trough, to the side of the barred window and, as he leant back heavily against the stone, he felt as if he were about to vomit. The mania of the enchantress, the indifference of the cleric, to say nothing of the smell of seared human flesh – his stomach twisted into knots and he had to exert all his willpower not to be violently sick.

Through the barred window, he could see Rham Jas, the man he had thought he hated more than anyone else in the world. But having heard of his children and seen him tortured in such a fashion, he began to doubt his hatred.

Rham Jas shook and sweat ran over his near-naked body. Without knowing that he was being watched, the assassin wept uncontrollably.

‘I’m sorry, Keisha... I’m so sorry,’ he sobbed to himself.

CHAPTER 6

The tent was kept on the eastern edge of the camp. Since the arrival of Tristram, Mobius and the king, Fallon had not been permitted to leave his makeshift prison and had only three bound men for company.

Brother Jakan had been most insistent that the captive be executed at the earliest opportunity. However, Commander Tristram had not listened to the whingeing idiot and had decided to deal with Fallon once South Warden was secured. The crime of blasphemy had been levelled at him. That was code for having pissed off a Purple cleric. There were plenty of witnesses and little chance he’d escape execution, even with his men supporting him and Tristram’s reluctance to see him executed. Theron and Ohms had been loyal to their captain and insisted that Jakan had goaded him, though Mobius had quickly dismissed this and sided with his fellow cleric.

Fallon had been moved with the army towards South Warden. He’d been placed on a horse and closely guarded by a squad of bound men as the lumbering force of armoured men made their way through the realm of Scarlet. Once the Moon Woods had come into sight, Tristram had ordered the Darkwald yeomanry to take up a picketed position across the grassy plain, while the engineers constructed trebuchets and the knights readied themselves for a siege.

Fallon knew all this from his knowledge of combat tactics, rather than from anyone talking to him. His men had been forbidden from contacting him and he had only soldiers’ gossip and his intuition to tell him what was occurring.

He’d been stripped of his armour and sat, with his hands shackled behind his back, looking through the billowing tent entrance at the sprawling military camp outside. Ten thousand yeomanry and five thousand knights. It was a force to rival any that the lands of men could muster and one of the largest armies of which Fallon had ever been a part. He’d even heard rumours that the Red cardinal, Knight General Malaki Frith, was on his way from Arnon. If this proved true, King Sebastian was gathering the bulk of his army, leaving only the local garrisons to police Tor Funweir. The ranks of watchmen and the army of Ro Haran would not be coming, but they were inadequate to face the hounds of Karesia, who were apparently swarming across the lands of Ro.

Strangely, Fallon had not wavered in his conviction since he had been arrested. If anything, he was even more concerned with his personal honour now. It was as if taking the first step – as Jakan had said,
crossing the line
– had made continued insubordination easier. He had stubbornly decided that he was not going to continue killing men who had not wronged him. The Ranen were simple people and did not deserve the death that was coming to them. For Fallon, to be given an order was no longer enough, and he didn’t care if his honour got him killed.

The tent flap was pushed inwards and Knight Commander Tristram marched in with angry eyes and gritted teeth. He waved away the bound men. ‘Go and have some food. I need to speak with this fool.’ They saluted and left, making sure Fallon’s restraints were securely fastened before they did so.

Tristram sat opposite the Red knight and leant forward, resting his chin on his fist. ‘How can one man cause so many problems without actually having killed anyone?’ he asked. ‘Most people I execute at least have the good sense to have done something violent. All you did was stop a turncoat from dying.’

‘I disagreed with a Purple cleric; is that so bad?’ asked Fallon, but not in any great hurry to talk his way out of execution. ‘I’ve killed thousands of men, but you arrest me when I save someone’s life... Doesn’t that seem a little stupid to you?’

‘What happened to you? Verellian was a good man, but he’s not worth dying for.’ Tristram had been told exactly what had happened before and after the duel and had dismissed any talk of honour as naive and foolish. ‘So he had a spiritual awakening in Ro Hail... any way you paint it, the man betrayed his oath. By letting him escape, you aided a vow-breaker.’

‘So execute me,’ said Fallon defiantly.

‘You know I can’t,’ barked the commander. ‘If I kill Sir Fallon of Leith, how do you think the other knights will take it? They’re angry at being so far from home anyway and most of them respect you... as they respected Verellian.’

‘A month ago you told me that Mobius could have me killed if he wanted. What’s changed?’ Fallon gathered that certain things had occurred since he had left Hail. He’d heard whispered talk of the king falling into madness.

Tristram looked at the grass under his feet and frowned. ‘I just want to get this campaign done and take these men home.’

‘And the Ranen?’ asked Fallon.

‘If bombarding them with big rocks means we can get out of the Freelands sooner, then that’s what I’ll do.’ He reached behind him and parted the tent flap, indicating that Fallon look off to the left. ‘Twenty trebuchets, ready and sighted,’ said the knight commander. ‘We start the bombardment when the sun goes down and, hopefully within a few weeks, we can fuck off back to Tor Funweir... maybe leaving some of the yeomanry as an occupying force.’

Fallon raised an eyebrow and shifted his shoulders to sit more comfortably with shackled hands. ‘You honestly believe that?’ he asked. ‘That this will end with South Warden?’

‘It’s not your place to ask these questions, captain,’ snapped Tristram. ‘You are a knight of the Red.’

Fallon bowed his head and breathed in deeply. He had said the same thing to William of Verellian. Just as his old commander had, the young knight knew the answer. ‘Not any more... I don’t think I can be,’ he said quietly.

Knight Commander Tristram stood and glared at his subordinate. He opened his mouth several times, as if he had something to say, but only after a few moments of thought did he speak. ‘You’re going to hang, Captain Fallon. When South Warden is secure, I will have no choice but to string you up.’ He didn’t wait for a response, just banged his fist against his breastplate in salute and left the tent.

Fallon watched him leave and, as the commander disappeared into the sea of red banners, the trebuchets once again came into view. He wasn’t sure which concerned him more, his impending execution or the upcoming assault on South Warden.

He felt for Lord Vladimir Corkoson and the Darkwald yeomanry, men who had been pressed into service and who likely cared even less for their orders than Fallon. He liked the Lord of Mud and hoped that he’d keep his mouth shut, carry out his orders, and return to the Darkwald with only a few men lost. At least the knights of the Red had the luxury of blind obedience to fall back on, a gift not enjoyed by the commoners of the yeomanry.

Fallon had never liked the idea of men being bound to fight when their lord commanded it. Those bound to the Red were normally violent idiots who liked to play at war and to bully others, whereas the yeomanry of Darkwald and Hunter’s Cross were common men, forced to serve for fear of having their homes annexed by the crown and their way of life destroyed. At least, as occasional soldiers, they could return home to their vineyards and farms and forget about Tor Funweir until they were called upon next time.

He wished he could change things. He wished that Tristram would see reason and that the brave men outside would not be forced to kill an enemy that had done them no wrong. It was his only wish and, as he tried to get comfortable in his canvas prison, he did not feel like praying to the One. Not any more.

* * *

Fallon didn’t often dream. Verellian used to say that, once a man had killed more than a hundred enemies, his brain would stop letting them escape into his dreams. It was a theory to which the man from Leith had never given much thought. He had become pragmatic over the years to the point where the vagueness of dreams and omens was just a long-forgotten indulgence. However, as he stole a few hours’ sleep before the bombardment of South Warden began, Fallon fell into a deep and contemplative slumber that forced him into the world of dreams.

He was back in Ro Arnon, treading the dusty training grounds of the Red cathedral and looking at the rusted black sceptre of nobility that dominated the skyline. He was not alone, though the other knights around him were faceless and did not acknowledge the dreamer. It was a warm day – early afternoon, by the sun – and Fallon was wearing his full dress uniform. His red cloak was clean, his helm had its entire plume intact, and his armour was spotless.

He strode up to the statue that dominated the grounds, a Red knight facing a Purple cleric. He remembered it well. He looked at the two stone figures, each gripping the other’s forearm in a warrior’s salute, and felt strangely hollow.

The plinth displayed the inscription,
where war and nobility meet, honour will be found
. This had been the original motto of the Purple clerics back in the days when being noble was more important than being
a
noble. Fallon had not seen a man of the Purple with the slightest hint of true nobility, much less honour, for many years.

‘Why did you not pray?’ said a voice, coming from far away. The accent was Ro, but the echoing tones conveyed a depth of intent that made Fallon toss and turn in his sleep. ‘Your end is near, surely you turn to God in these moments?’

The dream changed and the training ground fell away until the knight captain was standing on grass. He looked around and saw an army of Red knights before him and the forward battlements of South Warden at his back. He was no longer dressed as a knight and the sword in his hand was not his own.

He could feel that the speaker was still present.

‘Prayer just makes me bitter. Good men die, foolish men prosper... and the One has no place here.’

At these words the ground shook and the army of knights charged. Fallon did not feel in any danger, but he could sense that whoever had spoken was angry. He watched the multitude of red tabards plunge across the grass towards him, but did not flinch until, at the last moment, they froze in place. Before him, arrayed across the plains of Scarlet, were thousands of knights, each one as still as a statue, with rage in their faces.

‘Tell me, knight,’ said the voice, ‘do you know why the Purple clerics were formed?’

Each word made Fallon’s head throb.

‘The nobles of the One,’ he responded, wincing. ‘The highest order of cleric... those who would be lords over all others.’

‘No!’ roared the speaker, making Fallon drop to his knees and cry out in pain. ‘That is what men have made them.’

The dreamscape shifted again and he found himself in Ro Canarn. The city had just fallen and the inner keep was full of knights and bound men. William of Verellian was escorting Magnus Forkbeard up to the great hall to see the execution of Duke Hector. Fallon couldn’t see himself, but he knew that he’d be there somewhere, probably complaining at the mercenaries’ treatment of the captive population.

‘What do you want from me?’ he asked skywards, looking at the crossed longsword banner that hung above Canarn. ‘I’m just a man.’

‘You are a knight of the Red,’ replied the speaker.