The Long War 03 - The Red Prince (34 page)

Cerro puffed out his cheeks and took a sip of tea. It was refreshing and sweet, and the aroma filled his nostrils. Closing his eyes, he imagined a more peaceful time. A time of plenty and sunshine, when the winds were gentle and the tides low.

‘I’ll help you,’ he said, his eyes still closed.

‘I knew you would,’ replied Artus. ‘Daganay respects you... he wouldn’t have sent me otherwise.’

‘What is Prince Alexander’s plan?’ asked Cerro. ‘And does he need me to do more than care for thousands of dying men after the battle?’

Artus joined him by the window. The young man was muscular for a Blue cleric, with a wide neck and calloused hands. ‘General Tiris will be here in a week. He’ll have seven thousand warriors on... I don’t know how many ships. They’ll destroy the sea wall. If they were to sail through the channels, they’d be cut to pieces by catapults. Once inside the city… well, the guardsmen would do well to surrender.’

Seven thousand warriors? Cerro didn’t know that many soldiers were left in Tor Funweir... not outside the control of the Seven Sisters. As for destroying the sea wall, it was inconceivable.

‘And afterwards?’ he asked.

‘We need you to assemble those still loyal to the One, to Tor Funweir, and to the family of Tiris, for the battles ahead.’

Cerro shook his head, fighting the urge to fall asleep and only wake again when everything was at peace. ‘Once I’ve ministered to the dead and dying, I will be at Prince Alexander’s disposal.’

BOOK 2

THE GREY KNIGHT

THE TALE OF JAA

T
HE FIRE BURNED
and the Giant felt stronger. As each lick of flame caressed his scaly hide, Jaa looked upon the world and felt that fire no longer hurt, that cold no longer froze, that rock no longer wounded, that shadow no longer obscured.

The flames danced and formed shapes. He looked upon the fire and built himself a hall of flame and fear. All lesser beings would fear nothing but him. He had harnessed fire and bent it to his will. He had risen from the world to his hall beyond.

He had betrayed all of his allies, used and discarded them to increase his power. He had woven treachery and avarice into the world, and his followers would wield them as Rowanoco’s followers wielded their axes.

He breathed fire upon the world and formed the southern deserts. He flapped his huge wings and caused great sandstorms. He roared dominance and suppression, fear and pain. He decried the older Giants and made war upon their followers, for the Long War was his to win.

PROLOGUE

D
ALIAN WAS STILL
alive. He had received just enough healing aid to prevent his death, but not so much as to enable him to stand unaided. His wounded hand was twisted into a claw and wrapped tightly in bandages. Another bandage was secured around his midriff, preventing his lifeblood from leaking from the sword wound in his side. He slumped against steel, surrounded by bars. He could not focus sufficiently to see his cage or think clearly enough to remember his coming into it. All he could do was pray.

His journey was coming to an end. He had no doubt. Death would soon rise to envelop him, and his faith was all he had left.

‘I am not afraid, my lord.’ He rasped the words out of a dry mouth. ‘I have always done what I believed was right. What I believed you wanted.’

He wanted no reward. He just wanted Jaa to blink at his death. To acknowledge that the greatest of the wind claws would be missed.

‘I know I have failed.’

It was a hard admission. Dalian would have casually killed any subordinate who had miscalculated as badly as he had. To expect mercy from the Fire Giant was foolish, but death had a way of providing clarity.

‘I can fight anything but failure, my lord. That enemy I cannot defeat.’

He heard a response. Or maybe his mind conjured one.

‘Failure is of the moment, Dalian,’ the voice said. ‘Your life has been in service. One moment versus a thousand.’

He laughed. His face hurt, but he still laughed. He didn’t care if the voice was real.

The cold steel of the cell offered no warmth. The wind, lancing through the catacombs, pierced his skin and left him numb.

‘I don’t know what’s real any more,’ he said to the darkness. ‘Is even death real?’

‘The end of one journey,’ replied the voice. ‘But there is another to begin. Your service will not end in death.’

He thought of his past. The dark cloisters of Jaa in Kessia. The beautiful fear he embraced as a blanket. A life, or a series of moments, spent in certitude. No doubt, no hesitation, only Jaa.

‘I will fear nothing but Jaa.’ The words were warm in his mouth. ‘I will die. But not in fear.’

He thought of his son. What kind of man was he? Dalian had never cared. Was he strong and honourable, or weak and craven? The thoughts were undoubtedly the product of the cage and his wounds, but maybe Al-Hasim had deserved more of a father. Would he have been the Prince of the Wastes if Dalian had offered him moral guidance? Whoring and villainy had their place, but not to the extent enjoyed by his son. He should have been a wind claw. He should have stayed in Karesia and embraced the fear. As his father had done.

‘He lives still. He fights the Long War, though he does not know it,’ said the voice.

‘Is he strong?’

‘He has killed many men for a cause not his own. He loves a woman he can never truly have. He has friends, enemies, and he is in need of rest.’

Dalian laughed again. This time, he winced in pain. His chest felt heavy, as if he carried a great weight. His eyes could discern the bars now. Looking up, he could see a heavy chain connected to the ceiling. Looking down, only darkness. Somewhere down there the catacombs loomed, momentarily appearing out of the gloom when his mind cleared.

‘I am glad he lives.’

A tear appeared. Emotions were dangerous, a hindrance to his work. He had always suppressed them. Or maybe he had never felt them. It had been so long that he couldn’t be sure.

‘Allow the tears,’ said the voice. ‘Let them flow. You must not fear them.’

‘I fear nothing but Jaa.’ The words were spoken quickly. He didn’t want to forget them. His mind was so foggy, so uncertain, maybe his emotions were unreal.

He roared. A primal snarl, pulled from the depths of his stomach and thrown into the black air. It was a roar of anger, of frustration, but mostly of defeat. He had failed. He was slumped, near to death, in a cage. The greatest of the wind claws would not die in a great battle. His end would be a whimper, a murmur in deep time. Maybe not even that. He cried.

‘Why?’ he roared through the tears. ‘Why now, when I am old?’

He didn’t want answers, he just wanted to shout. If he shouted loud enough, he would be heard. If he ripped his lungs to pieces and bellowed his last into the air, his voice would travel beyond the world and echo through the fire halls.

‘If you had died in youth, you would not have become the greatest of the wind claws,’ replied the voice. ‘And your service would have ended in death.’

He began to recognize the voice. Each word grew clearer and its edges sharper, revealing a deep Karesian accent. ‘Tell me who you are?’ asked Dalian.

‘You know who I am.’

‘Tell me!’ he snapped.

‘I am the shade of Dalian Thief Taker, greatest of the wind claws. I am you... in death.’

‘I am not dead yet,’ he replied.

‘Your journey ends. You know this. I am what you will become. Even now, your mind sends pieces beyond and I slowly take shape from all that you were... from all that you have done. I am the memory of you.’

Dalian’s mind softened. For an instant, just an instant, he was at peace. His death, when it came, held no fear. But he was not ready to stop fighting. If the lands of men were to fall to a Dead God, if Jaa were to be supplanted, then Dalian, dead or alive, would stand at his side.

PART 1

CHAPTER 1

FALLON THE GREY IN THE REALM OF SCARLET

H
E HAD BEEN
functioning in a strange, twilight world for months. An in-between that didn’t allow for doubt or rest. He was kept alert by conviction, laid low by tiredness, strengthened by his friends, but weakened by his guilt. Maybe he was being tested. Maybe the One was trying to see into his heart. Was he a servant of a god or was he a brutal killer? Was the one exclusive of the other?

‘Wake up, Fallon,’ he said to himself. ‘Just wake up.’

The city of South Warden was the first thing he saw when he rose from his tent each morning. Right now he didn’t want to see it. The second thing was the sprawling camp of yeomanry. They were good men and loyal soldiers, but determination would only take them so far if they were forced to fight the knights of the Red.

The Red banners were a daily reminder that Fallon was a traitor. A traitor whose situation would get an awful lot worse before it would get any better. Although he had good counsel – Sir Theron, Vladimir, Brother Lanry and Major Dimitri – he still bore many burdens himself.

‘Captain,’ said Theron, by way of greeting, as Fallon stepped on to the grass for another tense day.

‘Anything new?’ he asked.

His adjutant shook his head. ‘Normal stuff. The knights keep sending detachments to ride in full-dress uniform across the plains... just waving their cocks at us.’

Fallon chuckled. ‘Informal language this morning?’

‘Sorry, sir, the situation of late has loosened my tongue a little.’

‘It’s okay, Theron. Hopefully, you’ll stop calling me “sir” in the next month.’

He strode away from his tent towards the eastern fortifications of the camp. They had built a wooden stockade and a wide moat, behind which sat their artillery – huge trebuchets armed and sighted at the distant city. Vladimir had overseen the work and the Lord of Mud was a surprisingly effective motivator when he was not drunk.

‘How are the troops?’ asked Fallon.

‘Tense. Nervous. Brother Lanry is doing his best, but ministering to seven thousand men is tricky.’

The Brown cleric was a good man and he would go without sleep if Fallon would let him, but the army needed more than a single churchman.