The Long War 03 - The Red Prince (60 page)

Gwen smiled. The Hounds within Cozz had no organization. Their catapults were not loaded and they had no crews, the gate was not secured and the battlements were barely patrolled. They had two thousand warriors, but she did not consider them to be true fighting men.

‘Brothers!’ said Xander, his voice carrying across the plains. ‘We are outnumbered... shall we surrender?’

A laugh rippled through the company.

‘This is Tor Funweir and that is Cozz. It’s not Kessia, Thrakka, or any city of Karesia. It’s ours and we’re taking it back.’ He drew Peacekeeper. ‘Who here remembers my old squire, Wesson?’

Men nodded. Gwen remembered the prickly man of Haran. He was a good squire and a good man.

‘There is a Hound in Cozz who left him to bleed to death on the King’s Highway.’ He was shouting, his eyes bloodshot and emotional. ‘That Hound does not get the chance to surrender. But the others may.’ He turned back to the enclave.

He nodded to Brom, who ordered Sigurd and the Dokkalfar to dismount. They ran to the east, quickly disappearing into the glow of dusk. Their lord remained, mounted next to the general.

‘With me,’ Xander commanded, nudging his horse forward.

In a column, three ranks deep, they advanced. It was not a charge but a steady and considered approach, giving the Hounds a chance to see their numbers.

Gwen appreciated the benefit of making this kind of statement, but she also wished for some cover or a way to sneak up on the enclave. Luckily, the Karesians were not sufficiently organized to use the time they had been given to mount a proper defence. They didn’t run to their catapults or position men on the northern battlements. Those that did appear, pointed and exclaimed, flapping their arms in the air like untrained peasants. One or two commanders ran along the walls trying to get their men to load the artillery, but their movements were sluggish and they caused further alarm by fumbling with boulders and breaking the controls of the winches. It was almost laughable how poorly coordinated they were.

‘A mob, not an army,’ she whispered, glaring through narrow eyes.

They rode to within a hundred paces of the enclave and stopped. Xander and Brom trotted ahead.

‘Is there a man within who can treat with me?’ roared the general, resting Peacekeeper across his shoulders. ‘I speak for Tor Funweir.’

Faceless Hounds now rushed over the battlements, forming up into some kind of line. From the centre, above the gatehouse, three Hounds emerged without helmets. It was unusual to see them as people rather than as blank suits of armour.

Two men and a woman stood before them. All Karesian, one man wore a scar down his face, and the woman, standing in the centre, sneered above a mangled jaw. She looked barely sane, with drool falling from her mouth, and carried a two-handed scimitar across her back.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ asked the woman in broken language.

‘The defender speaks first,’ replied Xander. ‘Tell me your name, Hound.’

She grunted and snarled. ‘I am Izra Sabal, whip-mistress of Karesia. I command here.’

‘Well met, Izra Sabal,’ replied the general. ‘I am Alexander Tiris, the Red Prince of Haran. I claim this land. You may withdraw.’

He maintained eye contact, glaring up at the Hound. He didn’t waver or blink and the woman could barely contain her anger.

To the east, Gwen caught a glimpse of black shapes darting between shadows. The Dokkalfar were in position, flanking the enclave. They were inhumanly fast, covering the ground like a slick of darkness. The dusk light was now grey and shimmering, providing the forest-dwellers with additional cover.

Gwen nudged her horse forward.

‘Sigurd lies in wait, my general,’ she whispered to her husband.

He nodded, maintaining his glare.

‘I say again, you may withdraw,’ Xander shouted up at Izra Sabal. ‘We are prepared to kill you, but we would rather not.’

‘You are prepared to kill us?’ exclaimed the woman. ‘I will eat your heart and rape your corpse, man of Ro.’

Xander smiled. ‘Are you the one?’ he asked. ‘Did you kill Marshal Wesson?’

Her face twisted into a frown, her cheekbones taut and her mouth asymmetrical. ‘Easily,’ she replied.

He nodded. ‘Then you will remain... your men may withdraw south.’

Izra spluttered, drawing her huge scimitar. It was a cleaving weapon, with little elegance. She banged it against the wooden battlements and screamed in rage.

‘I said...’ roared Xander, ‘you will remain. Your men may withdraw south.’

‘Load catapults,’ she ordered, sending men scurrying across the walls.

‘Big mistake,’ countered the general.

From out of nowhere, leaf-blades arced through the air, cutting down anyone near a catapult. Sigurd and his Dokkalfar appeared from the east, vaulting over wooden buildings and causing panic among the nearby Hounds. They had found a way into the enclave and were fanning out, clearing the gateway of soldiers.

‘Sigurd, the gate,’ shouted Brom, drawing his longsword.

The wooden frame began to creak and a sliver of light appeared in the middle. Grey, bloodied hands appeared in the gap and two Dokkalfar pushed the large gate outwards, opening the gateway into Cozz.

‘Forward!’ commanded Xander, leading the way.

They rode slowly, moving into a single column to pass through the gateway and keeping their formation tight. Gwen was near the front of the column, watching dead Hounds fall from above. Sigurd and his Dokkalfar were holding the gatehouse in a semicircle, cutting off any chance of the Hounds reaching their artillery.

The first dozen Hawks entered the enclave and met with no resistance. Within, she saw a town of broken wood turned into a military camp. Small black tents were squeezed between buildings and bedrolls lay around smouldering fires. Most of the buildings were intact, used as dosshouses by the Hounds. There were no men or women of Ro within view. Perhaps they were all dead, or corralled at the edges of the enclave.

The Hounds had pulled back from the gateway, following screamed orders to form up in the town square. Abandoning the wall was foolish. They had let the Hawks in, had not even tried to clog the gate or break the Hawks’ formation. These Karesian idiots were not worthy to occupy a town of Ro.

‘Easy, lads!’ said Xander. ‘Keep it tight.’

They fanned out within the enclave while the Dokkalfar finished clearing the battlements. So far, things had been easy. She wasn’t optimistic enough to think that would continue.

The Hounds were in lines before them. They held black steel shields, but they were not formed up in a defensive position. They simply stood in a group, holding their swords and shields. Izra and her captains had not even put on their helmets. They stood behind the mass of Hounds, gesturing and shouting to their troops.

Xander and Brom formed the five hundred Hawks into a column and stopped. They had not been challenged and had taken their time, eyeing up their opposition.

‘Things are never as simple as they appear,’ she said to her husband.

‘I’ll take staying alive over simplicity,’ he replied, reaching across and stroking her hand.

‘When you’re ready,’ said Brom, pointing his longsword at the mass of Hounds. ‘I could ask them to wait while you two fuck.’

Gwen smiled at him. ‘We do that after battle, not before.’

The three of them laughed. Their laughter seemed more terrifying to the Hounds than any threat of violence. The Karesians had had everything their own way until just now, when a small company of Hawks had ridden into their world armed with swords, confidence and laughter.

‘Right, I’m going to call her out,’ said Xander. ‘Kill their leader. Get the rest to surrender.’

He didn’t wait for a response.

‘Forward!’ he shouted, riding away from the gatehouse.

The company moved as one behind their general. They rode past stables and densely packed wooden buildings. Sigurd and the Dokkalfar were ghosting them on either side, covering their advance and clearing the side streets of stray Hounds.

The advance halted at the edge of the square. Before them, the Karesians were a mass of shining black metal, covering half of the enclave and stretching back to the southern gatehouse. The sun was disappearing now and dotted campfires provided some light.

The Hawks dismounted and assembled behind their general. Their horses were led away and the two forces faced each other. This was not a battlefield or a large open space and the men on both sides stood amid broken buildings and detritus. Only the advance units were in the square, with the rest jammed into adjacent streets. Cozz was filled to the brim with armed warriors. Some stood in overgrown gardens, others had to perch on barrels or duck under planks.

‘Can we now talk politely?’ Xander asked of Izra, letting his voice rise.

‘You may say your words before you die,’ she replied, still hiding behind the ranks of her men.

‘My words are simple – your army will withdraw, you will remain.’

‘You’re outnumbered, prince of Ro.’ Her words were slurred and indistinct.

‘And yet you haven’t attacked or even defended your walls,’ replied Xander, pointing Peacekeeper at the Hounds. ‘I say you are a coward. It takes a brave warrior to kill merchants and common folk. Step forward and prove you’re more than a butcher.’

Gwen found the faceless soldiers unnerving. Maybe they were scared and ready to run, or maybe they were fanatics, waiting for the opportunity to attack.

The senior Hounds were arguing now. They spoke softly and their words couldn’t be heard, but she reckoned Izra’s command was precarious. The man with the scar was pointing around him, to a nearby stable, a cracked well, a cluster of barrels. She didn’t know what he was worried about, but Izra appeared not to care. She shoved her captains out of the way and pushed to the front of the mass of Hounds.

‘I have killed hundreds of men,’ she snarled, emerging into the square. ‘I have severed arms, legs, heads and cocks. I will kill you slowly, man of Tiris. I will kill you slowly and your men will watch.’

Xander looked at his wife.

‘Stay alive,’ she whispered.

He signalled for the Hawks to stand at ease and took two long strides into the square. Izra followed his movements and the two warriors met between their soldiers.

The whip-mistress was tall and her bulky armour suggested a well-muscled physique. The black metal plates covered her from neck to thigh, ending in interlocked segments that gave her complete freedom of movement. She moved like a cat, keeping her steps light and her two-handed sword loose in her hands.

Xander was on guard, with Peacekeeper across his chest. His leather and steel armour was lighter than his opponent’s, but his sword was smaller. He wasn’t used to parrying such weapons, but Gwen could tell he was the better fighter.

Izra attacked, stepping forward and swinging her scimitar at Xander’s head. It was a wide overhead swipe, using the heavy pommel to put maximum strength into the blow.

Xander didn’t parry. He nimbly sidestepped and swung Peacekeeper at her arms, severing her left hand.

‘His name was Wesson,’ said the Red Prince.

Izra howled and dropped her scimitar. She grasped at the stump where her hand had been and dropped to her knees.

‘My hand!’ she wailed. ‘My hand!’

The Hounds didn’t react. They didn’t move an inch as their mistress slumped in the main square of Cozz, spraying blood on to the cobbles.

‘He was my squire,’ growled Xander. ‘And you cut off his fucking cock!’

Gwen could tell that he was fighting the urge to make the whip-mistress suffer. He should kill her cleanly, but his lips curled and his eyes betrayed his anger. He held Peacekeeper level, contemplating severing her other hand.

‘My general,’ Gwen shouted. ‘The woman has admitted her crime. The punishment is death.’

‘Aye,’ agreed Brom. ‘Let’s get this over with. I need a rest.’

Xander nodded, pivoted on his right foot and decapitated the whip-mistress with a backhand strike.

In unison, the Hawks of Ro signalled their approval by striking their rectangular shields. Each man puffed out his chest and stood confidently. The Karesians had no faces to stare down, but the Ro glared nonetheless. It was a moment of victory.

‘Scorch the earth!’ roared the scarred man.

A series of bright flashes. A barrel exploded to her left, turning three Hawks into a bloody mist. Detonations rose all around them, tearing apart Karesian and Ro. Houses, stables, barrels and yards all filled with fire and dust in a dizzying instant. Gwen reached for Xander and began to speak, but a broken well next to her erupted in fire and her world turned to black.

* * *

Smoke, pain, burning lungs, hazy vision. She awoke, or at least she thought she did. Gasping for breath, she sat up and vomited. She could barely see her hands in front of her face. All she could hear was a high-pitched whine that cut into her brain and shut out all other sounds. She recognized the smell and the heavy fog. It was black wart.

She coughed, winced, spluttered and gritted her teeth. The fog was total, restricting her world to ten feet or less. Small fires smouldered in the distance, giving some light, but they were mere red spots and provided no orientation. Her ears were ringing. It was painful and repetitive, a whine that wouldn’t abate.

A severed and bloodied arm lay next to her, a broken Hound hung from a wooden fence post. She had been blown backwards a great distance. Her back was dotted with points of sharp pain and her right leg was deeply cut.

‘Think!’ She couldn’t hear her own voice.

Feverishly trying to clear her ears, Gwen crawled forward. She needed to know where she was. She needed to find Xander and Brom. She needed to stay alive. She felt as if she were under water, as if her ears were full and her limbs were being pulled down into a rough sea.

Black wart was a Dokkalfar explosive, and the Hounds had used a huge amount. The thick fog would remain for a time.

A figure appeared, a Hound with half his face burned away. He rushed at her, roaring soundlessly. His scimitar thrust down, but was poorly aimed. With a shriek of pain, Gwen tackled him, wrapping herself around his legs. The whine in her ears dulled everything, but she managed to crawl up his flailing body and ram her elbow into his throat. Four times she struck him, putting her body weight into each blow, until he was dead.