The Long War 03 - The Red Prince (49 page)

‘I’m sufficiently foolhardy,’ he announced, beginning to climb.

The frame was rickety, but the upright supports were solid enough and Fynius was freakishly dextrous. He reached the central hatch. It was a dirty glass window set in the floor of whatever was up there. There was no way to open it without breaking the glass.

‘Hmm, let’s trust to luck, shall we?’

He knocked on the glass and waited, wedged between an upright wooden beam and the wall. After a minute, dark silhouettes moved across the glass.

‘Hello!’ he said, speaking as loudly as he dared. ‘I’m not a Red knight, or a Purple cleric.’

Whispered voices from above. A man and a woman. The man was suspicious and the woman wanted to open the glass hatch.

‘Brytag sent me,’ he said more quietly.

The silhouettes stopped talking. The larger of the two shapes knelt down and prized away the rusty metal latch. The glass was pulled upwards and Fynius smiled at the two Ranen above.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ asked the man, a corpulent warrior in middle age with a short black beard.

Fynius ignored him and stretched to reach the lip of the hatch. He got a good hold and pulled himself through. The man stepped back and hefted an old-looking axe. The woman stayed put and smiled at him. Elsewhere in the stone chamber were dozens of men, women and children. Some wore the crimson of South Warden, others the blue of Hail. Many were wounded and many more were starving.

He felt the man deserved an answer. ‘I’m Fynius Black Claw. I come from Old Gar, following a raven.’

The man slowly lowered his axe and a tired smile flowed across his face. His wrinkles showed and there were shadows under his eyes.

‘Mathias Flame Tooth, axe-master of South Warden. This is Freya Cold Eyes of Hail. Welcome, man of Gar.’

* * *

Fynius was pleased with himself. He’d found two more groups of survivors huddled in basements and cheese cellars, trying to stay alive by eating what they could steal and drinking rainwater. Flame Tooth was in charge, and in remarkably good health considering he’d sustained a dozen separate wounds fighting in the breach. He had managed to remain jovial and keep their spirits up as they waited for rescue or death.

The prisoners had stayed in their sanctuaries, joined by groups of Twilight Company who cared for their wounds and prepared them for what was to come. This proved tricky, as Fynius hadn’t felt the need to explain what was going to happen, even to Mathias Flame Tooth or the wise woman, Freya.

He’d found caches of weapons, taken by the Ro following the battle, and the bundles of axes, hammers, knives and bows were again in the hands of the Ranen.

‘We can’t fight, Fynius,’ said Flame Tooth. ‘It’s nice for the lads to have their weapons back, but we can’t fight them.’

‘We won’t have to,’ he replied. ‘Not all of them, anyway.’

They were in a forgotten basement of the chapel, sealed from Rowanoco’s Stone above and accessed through a hidden passageway behind the assembly steps. Freya and Mathias had escaped the knights and had slowly rescued others until several hundred men, women and children were out of the knights’ clutches. It didn’t surprise him that the Ro hadn’t noticed. They had apparently only taken notice of the captive Ranen when they had needed to assemble a work-gang or had wanted to beat someone up.

‘I trust you, man of Gar,’ said Freya. ‘The World Raven will see us safe.’

He grinned in appreciation. It was the first time a southerner had shown any faith in him.

‘The World Raven doesn’t have an army,’ countered Mathias.

‘But he has me... that’s almost as good,’ replied Fynius, still smiling. ‘Don’t worry, axe-master, South Warden will be ours again, that’s all you need to worry about. When the time comes, worry for South Warden. Worry not for the king, the knights or the yeomanry. Leave them to me, and to the World Raven.’

Mathias was a big man, barrel-chested, with a face covered in dense black hair. He was looking at Fynius as if the man of Gar was mad. Or maybe it was just the way he showed his appreciation. Probably the former.

‘So what do we do? Wait?’ asked Flame Tooth, cocking an eyebrow.

‘You can wait, if you like,’ he replied. ‘Now, if you’d excuse me, axe-master, I have to go and talk to a woman of Ro.’

* * *

Gathered at the tree line, cowering behind wide tree trunks and dense bramble thickets, were the men and women of the Crescent. Federick Two Hearts had somehow managed to cajole or threaten the other chieftains into following him south.

Fynius had left South Warden, with the Karesian idiot trailing along behind, and had found Bronwyn in a small clearing behind Theen Burnt Face and his warriors. They all looked at him, glaring, turning away, or asking their companions who he was. Stories were circulated as the thuggish Moon clans shared their mutual hatred of anyone of culture or sophistication. He was amazed they hadn’t been killed before now. Any idiot with an axe and an army could conquer these fools.

‘Have they been treating you well?’ he asked the sullen noblewoman.

She began to reply, standing up from the rock upon which she was sitting.

‘Actually, don’t tell me,’ he interrupted. ‘I don’t care.’

The young axe-man, Bronwyn’s loyal lapdog, snarled at Fynius. He had a big pointy axe and a generally bad attitude, but he had conviction and that was worth something.

‘Don’t bark at me, young man,’ he said, trying to remember the Wraith man’s name. ‘I’ve had enough of bloody southerners and I have no particular desire to talk to you.’

The man of Wraith was wounded, but hefted his axe angrily all the same. ‘We’re on the same side, fuck-head,’ said the young man. ‘Try to remember that.’

‘Fuck-head?’ replied Fynius, filing the insult away for future use. ‘Is that a Ro Hail thing? Some new curse?’

‘Micah, he’s not as much an arsehole as he appears,’ said Al-Hasim. ‘He’s just... touched, in some way.’

Bronwyn shook her head, thinking herself better than the men around her. She was sweet in a naive Ro kind of way, but she was far more important than she knew and should probably grow up.

‘You need to grow up, young lady,’ he said.

‘Er, what?’ she replied, raising her eyebrow. ‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘I didn’t say you did.’

She opened her mouth, but didn’t speak. She shook her head, grunted in bewilderment, and looked at Al-Hasim.

‘Fynius, can you act like a human for a second?’ asked the Karesian. ‘You’re not making any friends here.’

Why did people keep questioning him? If they would shut up and listen, things would go so much smoother. Hasim was ignorant, Bronwyn was childish and Micah was just some man of no importance. Together, they had somehow managed to stay alive and serve Brytag without knowing it.

‘This will be so much easier when the World Raven deigns to give me a shade,’ he said, not caring if they understood. ‘Anyway, you, Lady Bronwyn of Canarn, have something to do.’

‘What exactly do I have to do?’ she asked sneeringly.

‘Well, if you’re going to be like that, I might not tell you.’

‘Fynius!’ snapped Hasim. ‘Time is important here.’

‘Yes, yes, whatever. Right, Lady Bronwyn of Canarn, you’re going to be my intermediary with Fallon of Leith. Lots of stuff is going to happen in an hour or two. When it happens, people are going to be surprised. Your job is to tell the good guys that the bad guys are dealt with.’

‘And who are the good guys?’ she asked.

‘Apparently this Fallon chap is on our side. For now, at least. Don’t worry, Lady Bronwyn of Canarn, you’re only responsible for making sure there isn’t a massive battle. A battle we won’t win.’ He smiled. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find somewhere comfortable to watch the coming antics. And I should probably send a message to the One God. Brytag is nothing if not polite.’

‘So, are you going to tell us what’s going to happen?’ asked Hasim.

Apparently these people weren’t going to trust him. Telling them what the raven had told him would be an easy way to shut them up. They probably wouldn’t believe him, but it would shut them up.

‘Okay, I can pander to you lot for a little while longer. Have a seat and let me tell you a story.’ He pointed at Micah. ‘You too, fuck-head.’

PART 2

CHAPTER 7

FALLON THE GREY IN THE REALM OF SCARLET

A
LARGE
,
BLACK
raven flew across the Plains of Scarlet towards the yeomanry’s camp. He followed its trajectory, drifting in decreasing circles, until it came to rest inside the camp.

The southern horizon was a rippling sea of red. Hundreds of banners hung from countless tents. Horses, carts and men covered the Plains of Scarlet. From the stockade of South Warden, across the yeomanry’s defences, to the huge camp of Malaki Frith, the Freelands of Ranen were brimming with soldiers of Tor Funweir.

The Red cardinal had spent the morning establishing his camp, south of the city, and Fallon had remained impassive throughout their deployment. He had no idea how the confrontation would play out. He didn’t let the slightest doubt appear in his words or on his face, but in his mind Fallon wanted to bite his lip and pray for a peaceful solution. Maybe Cardinal Frith was an honourable man. Maybe he loathed Mobius and had come to calm the situation, not to make it worse. Fallon was a realist, not a misty-eyed young knight, but he hated having to kill men and order men to their deaths.

‘They’re setting up a tent,’ said Vladimir, supping from a brass goblet. ‘In the middle of the field. What does that mean?’

‘It means that he’s not just going to attack us,’ replied Fallon.

‘Ah, a parlay,’ guffawed the noble, slurring his words. ‘I think I’d be good at parlaying. Never tried, but I’m eager to give it a go, dear chap.’

‘How much have you drunk this morning?’

‘Nowhere near enough,’ replied Vladimir, draining his goblet. ‘Want some?’

Fallon tried not to laugh but failed. ‘I’ve not met Malaki Frith. Maybe I should make a good first impression.’

‘Go on!’ coaxed the nobleman, waving a half-empty bottle of wine.

‘Vladimir, look over there. What do you see?’

He swayed forward against the wooden stockade. ‘Is that a trick question?’ he asked, belching into the cold morning air. ‘Excuse me. Terrible manners, old boy.’

‘What do you see?’ Fallon repeated.

The drunken noble rubbed his eyes. ‘I see a lot of knights. Five thousand with Tristram and the king. Another... maybe ten, with General Frith.’

He began to reply, but Vladimir belched again and interrupted him. ‘Okay, Fallon, I know what you’re saying. We have six thousand.’

‘It’s a blunt lesson, but one worth stating,’ replied the exemplar. ‘We can’t win a fight. I need to find another solution, and I’m better at doing that when I’m sober.’

Vladimir pouted and looked down at his bottle of wine. ‘Sorry, I must seem awfully naive to you. Here I am, losing men by the cartful, and all I can offer by way of help is drunken blathering.’

‘You make me laugh, my lord. That counts for something.’

The Lord of Mud frowned, as if uncomfortable at being complimented.

‘I just wish I could swing a sword or do something useful,’ replied Vladimir, patting his ornamental longsword.

‘You’ve had training,’ said Fallon.

‘A lord’s training, it’s not really the same thing. I’ve never fought to kill.’

‘You’re a lord of Ro,’ countered Fallon. ‘That matters more than a hundred knights. They can ignore me, they can’t ignore you.’

Vladimir took a messy swig of wine. ‘I’ve been ignored all my life,’ he said, wiping his mouth. ‘I’m not the lord of diamonds or gold, my dear chap.’

‘You’re the lord of wine,’ Fallon replied.

‘True enough.’ Another, deeper, swig.

Fallon peered across the fields of Scarlet. The Red cardinal had half emptied the barracks of Arnon to reinforce the king. His forces displayed dozens of banners. Noble knights of Du Ban and the Falls of Arnon showed their personal standards alongside the clenched fist of the Red.

Maybe Frith knew about the enchantresses, maybe he didn’t. Either way, he wanted to talk to Fallon before he attacked. Curiously, the tent they had erected had only the banner of the Red knights above it. No Purple sceptre or white eagle of the king. Strange. Frith should have clerics of nobility with him, not to mention the presence of Mobius in South Warden. It appeared that neither would be invited to the parlay.