The Black Hawks

by David Wragg

  Rennic wheeled on him. ‘You’d best be following his advice and all, boy. Head down, mouth shut.’ He turned back toward the great column of rock and stone that drew ever closer. Flocks of pale birds wheeled and swooped around the building, burnished in the feeble light. It did not look welcoming.

  ***

  To Chel’s surprise, their boat swept wide of the island, carving a path around the savage rock teeth that enclosed it and revealing a chain of irregular, interlocking pillars in its far shadow. The island was in fact the tip of a thickening peninsular, the barren land stretching off into the receding mist toward some distant coastline. Some of the arches below the rocky formations stood overhung and lightless, no easy passage through to the sea beyond. It was toward one of these sea caves that the boat aimed.

  The cave swallowed them, and as they tossed their way into darkness, Chel thought for a moment that the rock meant to consume them, to dash them against its mouth of stone teeth and devour them into a watery pit. Then torches spluttered in the darkness, and the hull bumped against netted barrels on the side of a stone jetty.

  Shadowy figures on the dockside called out in a dialect Chel didn’t understand, to be answered by one of Palo’s men in what he assumed was the same tongue. The gangway was thrown, and a moment later their crew was disembarking into the gloom.

  Rennic clubbed him on the shoulder. ‘Move your Andriz arse, boy. They’re hauling off our golden calf.’

  Palo was leading Tarfel unprotesting down the gang, his head hung low. Dalim followed too close behind, full of superfluous swaggering menace, his glaive a balancing bar. Chel and Rennic scrambled after them, and moments later the boat was deserted, bobbing softly in the darkness beneath the Silent Sepulchre.

  ***

  They descended into chilly darkness, the slap of the waves on the dock giving way to the plop of unseen drips from the rock that surrounded them. Chel followed in Rennic’s hulking shadow, the distant light of their escort’s torches glistening from the walls ahead.

  ‘Is this a smuggler’s dock?’ His voice echoed strange and uncomfortable from the cold black stone. ‘Where are the steps up? Are the Sisters smugglers?’

  Rennic turned his head then bumped into the low ceiling before him. His enraged hiss carried down the passage, and the bobbing torches paused for a moment. ‘Fucksake, boy, not now!’

  They stumbled on, eyes straining, always chasing the receding light. Other passages split and disappeared into the rock, some lit by torches or candles, none apparently occupied. No stairs presented themselves. For every upward step, another downward followed.

  Over the echo of their jangling footsteps came a growing hiss, like the sizzle of hot fat on an iron. It was quiet at first, but louder with every step, until the torches guttered out ahead of them and the passage widened into a wide stone chamber, its entire far wall open to the grey sea beyond.

  The group fanned out in the gloom. Rennic took a step to one side and bumped his head on the low stone ceiling.

  ‘God’s bollocks! What kind of prick lives in a rocky piss-hole like this?’

  A throat cleared in the darkness, a rumbling, wet gargle, slick rocks rattling in a pool.

  ‘That would be me, Gar Rennic of the Black Hawk Company.’

  Chel squinted against the haze. A large block at the cave’s centre, something he’d originally taken for a rock formation, had moved.

  Rennic, to Chel’s surprise, did not back down. ‘And who are you, Man-Sitting-In-Slimy-Darkness? You seem to have the better of me, and that’s bad manners for a host.’

  The shape chuckled.

  ‘Perhaps you should all come and sit down.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  It wasn’t until the cloaked escorts had drawn thick coverings over most of the opening to the sea and lit candles around the cave that Chel could register the surroundings, and it wasn’t until two iron braziers were aflame in the cave’s edges that he felt the numbing cold and concomitant anxiety ease.

  The light revealed a stack of dovecotes along the far wall, beside the great window out to the sea, the occasional coo or flutter from within. Still their host lay wreathed in shadow, the candle at his desk dim and futile. He wore a thick, dark cloak, his face hooded, and on the desk before him lay no papers, only small slabs of wood, some coated with wax on one side, as well as a collection of small bells of varying dimensions.

  ‘Please forgive the draught. I do enjoy the feeling of the sea air sometimes.’

  The escorts laid out low chairs, then withdrew to the cave’s fringes, leaving the party standing before the desk. Tarfel almost hung from Palo’s resting grip, his face expressionless, eyes vacant and downcast. Dalim stood close behind with his men, the glaive resting against one foot, his damaged face trying to betray no curiosity. Rennic and Chel stood the other side of Spider, uneasy but unbowed.

  ‘Please, take a seat. Ayla, why don’t you tell me who you’ve brought. Let me hear how you sound.’

  Chel frowned as he seated himself behind the others. He found the hooded man’s manner disconcerting. Palo sat, then leaned forward, almost dragging Tarfel with her. ‘You received my message?’

  The hooded man’s fingers traced over one of the wax-covered boards before him.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Then you know who sits before you.’

  The hooded figure sat back in his chair. It was high-backed, almost regal, carved from dark wood and shining with moisture. Chel guessed it was lacquered, some measure of protection from airborne seawater.

  ‘Let me hear it from him.’

  Dalim reached forward and jabbed Tarfel with a finger.

  ‘Tell him who you are, worm.’

  Tarfel looked up, then around, as if waking from a dream. Dalim jabbed him again, repeating the instruction.

  Tarfel told him.

  The man grinned, his smile gleaming from the darkness beneath the hood.

  ‘Truly, it is you. The lost prince of Vistirlar is among us.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘This is wonderful, wonderful!’

  Rennic leaned forward, jaw set. ‘Now that we’ve established we’re not brimming with horseshit, how about you return us the favour?’

  The man nodded. ‘By all means, Master Rennic, by all means.’ He stood, one hand on the desk, revealing a stocky, portly figure, probably an inch or two below Chel’s height. He reached up and drew back the hood, revealing a wide, jowly face, thinning hair and pitted skin. His eye sockets were completely empty.

  ‘My name is Raeden Torht, although you will know me by other names. You can guess which.’

  Spider began to chuckle, becoming a reckless, uncontrolled laugh that echoed around the cave. ‘He’s blind. The Watcher in the Wind, the Grey Owl of Freemen, He Who Sees … you’re blind!’

  Torht nodded, his empty eyes pools of utter black. He seemed unruffled by the outburst.

  ‘The Rau Rel welcome you, your highness.’

  ***

  The shadowy servants brought out food while Palo gave a full report to Torht, the man in the high-backed chair. The platters laid before them were surprisingly rich, fine pastries and grilled meats, and once again Chel’s thoughts went to the great holy building that stood somewhere above them, and its relationship with those in the dark caverns below.

  Torht ate and listened in silence, his fingers reaching for dishes without hesitation, as if everything was simply where he expected it to be. He gave no indication that anything Palo told him was either news or familiar, letting her speak uninterrupted, his rubbery mouth working in constant chewing procession.

  ‘… we allowed an evening of recovery at Wavecrest, then sailed with the morning tide today. The prince’s sworn insisted in coming with us, as did Master Rennic, who believes his company’s efforts have been insufficiently rewarded.’

  Palo sat back, her report completed. She hadn’t yet touched any of the food. Chel flicked a glance to Rennic beside him. The big man’s eyes were narrow, but he made no move to speak.
>
  Torht finished chewing, wiped grease from his lips and steepled his fingers. He swept his sightless gaze across the group, and Chel felt himself flinch away as it passed over him.

  ‘Who, apart from those here present,’ the so-called Watcher said, ‘knows that Prince Tarfel is alive?’

  Palo looked to Rennic.

  ‘The remainder of my company. The lady there, and her people.’

  ‘And those you encountered in your journey here?’

  Chel thought back to everyone they’d seen since the Nort attack on Denirnas, and the massacre at the winter palace. The men who’d boarded the riverboat, the last of whom Foss had thrown overboard; the boat’s crew, slaughtered and scuttled. The Fly had been murdered by Hurkel and the Mawn, whom in turn they’d ambushed in the mountains. The Nanaki hunters, dead and burned to ash, and the runner left for the buzzards. Things had not gone well for those whose path Prince Tarfel had crossed.

  ‘In theory, the grand duke’s son, Esen, the slippery shit, and whoever sent that meat-stack Hurkel after us.’

  ‘And what became of Brother Hurkel?’

  ‘The boy here broke his knees, and another of our number took his hand. Wolves got the rest of him.’

  ‘I see. Anyone else?’

  Figures loomed in Chel’s mind. The Mawn. What had been the woman’s name? Grassi. Grassi of the Mawn.

  Rennic’s eyes glittered dark in the candlelight.

  ‘No one.’

  Torht stood, and Chel caught himself flinching backward. The blind man turned to address Tarfel directly. The prince was staring at his boots, his eyes rheumy, his posture a compound slump.

  ‘Prince Tarfel, you are a dead man.’

  Tarfel stirred, blinking but long-inured to new terrors.

  Torht spread his hands wide. ‘And this, your highness, is the best thing to happen to you in a long while.’

  Tarfel’s chin lifted, a frown creasing his pallid brow.

  ‘It is an open secret that something rots at the heart of our kingdom, your highness, and I’m sure you know it better than most. The provinces have been riven by plague and warfare, nigh without interruption, for more than two decades. The loss, the destruction, the wasted lives, all incalculable.’ Torht began a slow walk around the wide table, one hand tracing its edge. ‘And to what end? Who has profited from all this suffering? Certainly not the common man, who has seen armies rampage criss-cross over his lands, scouring food and populace. Not the local liege, who is crushed for tithe and forces while her sworn wither and die among the plague-borne.’

  Torht came to rest before the prince, who watched him with undisguised curiosity.

  ‘Not even the Names, the great lords and ladies, whose promised plunder from new conquest has given way to ever more demands for service and manpower, who are driven from their grand homes on unending campaigns against former brothers, sisters, cousins, from the blood-crazed redoubts of the savages of the far south to the ruthless stone-holds of the northern reaches. Whose sons murder their own fathers in a power-play, in the hope of winning the favour of those one rung up this greasy ladder of horrors. Who profits? Who sits at the apex of misery?’

  Tarfel only blinked. Chel wasn’t sure himself if the question was rhetorical, but he was pretty sure he knew who the Watcher meant: Primarch Lo Vassad and his Order of the Rose.

  Torht’s smile returned, pulling at the glistening corners of his mouth as he spoke. ‘I suspect you know very well the answer, highness, when you set your mind to truth. For now, let me assure you that you have not been taken for ransom. You have been spirited to safety by the only group who truly care about you, and who truly care for the fate of the kingdom. For restoring peace and prosperity to all.’

  Chel glanced at Rennic. The big man’s bushy eyebrows were raised, a sceptical lip curled.

  ‘Let us acknowledge,’ Torht said, ‘that were it not for the efforts of those around you, you would truly be as dead as the Church’s proclamations claim. It is our collective good fortune that you are not. Which brings us to this young man.’

  Torht leaned back against the table and turned his sightless gaze on Chel. Chel started, then swallowed. The others were looking at him.

  ‘Hello?’ he said.

  ‘Chel, isn’t it? Vedren.’

  Chel nodded, then remembered to add words. ‘Yes. Do you know me?’

  ‘Eldest of Justina and the late Antonin Chel of Barva, Andriz inheritors. Usurped as heir by remarriage to Amiran Dalimil.’

  Chel felt his cheeks flushing. ‘Do you mind? That’s intimate.’

  Torht smiled his unpleasant smile again. ‘Nothing is intimate to me, Vedren Chel. The Watcher sees all.’ He waved a hand. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘Well, you don’t have to say everything out in public then,’ Chel said, his jaw set. The sudden attention was making him petulant; he found something irksome about the man’s manner. ‘Is there anything you need to tell me?’

  Torht’s mouth narrowed. ‘Only that your efforts are appreciated, and we hope the prince is grateful for the sacrifices you have made for him.’

  Chel nodded. ‘Oh. Thanks.’

  ‘So what now?’ Rennic was sitting forward again, his dark eyes shining in the torchlight. ‘What are you planning? And what’s your budget for company work?’

  Torht’s grin returned, as wide as his face.

  ‘Now, Gar Rennic, we save the kingdom.’

  ‘How?’

  Torht pointed one chubby finger in Tarfel’s direction.

  ‘With him.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  ‘Preparations are underway,’ Torht said, satisfied hands resting on his stout belly. He felt around for a desk bell and gave it a sharp ring, and a moment later a silent companion appeared at his elbow, one hand on the Watcher’s arm, the other carrying a torch. ‘Please, follow me.’

  Torht pulled the hood back over his head and strode off into the darkness, steered by the figure at his arm. Palo stood and followed without question, the hand she kept on the prince’s shoulder bringing him smartly alongside. Chel and Rennic exchanged a glance, then hurried after them into the dim tunnel beyond.

  Torht held forth as he walked, his voice echoing down the clammy passageway. Two more of the hooded figures had joined them from somewhere, walking in silent lockstep. ‘To lift the shadow that haunts our land, we must strike at corruption’s heart. We must excise the tumour, as a surgeon might say. And that tumour sits behind walls of stone and steel, for he knows full well his sins. How could he not? Lo Vassad has corrupted the sacred office beyond redemption, and none knows sin better than a primarch.’

  Torchlight ahead revealed a widening of the passageway, then a carved spiral of wide stone steps twisting upward through the granite. At last, Chel thought, stairs. Already the air seemed to smell a little fresher.

  ‘You’ve heard the stories, no doubt. The Primarch never leaves the tower of Black Rock. The Primarch travels incognito, sending doubles in his stead. The Primarch sees only the king and has him carried into his chambers on his sickbed. The Primarch rules the kingdom, and not your father, highness.’ Tarfel stiffened at this, but Torht continued as they began to climb the stairs.

  ‘He is protected by a legion of red confessors, who taste his food, purify his water, let none catch even a glimpse of their charge.’ He chuckled, then waved his free hand. He was already slightly out of breath. ‘Each of these stories carries, at its heart, a kernel of truth. Our adversary lives a life of jealous fear, terrified that at any moment the people will see him for what he truly is, and rise up!’

  The air warmed as they climbed, until the stairs finished at a sturdy door of dark wood. Torht’s companion paused and fished for a key from a ring at his belt, then unlocked the door with an echoing clank. Two more bolts followed before the door opened. He ushered Torht through into the darkness beyond, and the others followed. The two other hooded figures moved ahead of them, rummaging in the gloom until a shaft of cold grey daylight broke t
hrough, then widened and flooded their surroundings.

  They stood in the annexe of a store-room, piled with boxes and crates, a narrow gap opened from a wall of loose stones. Sounds of activity echoed from an open archway beyond. As they were hurried into the room itself, Chel marvelled at the efforts put into disguising the door and its vestibule. The two hooded figures remained in the darkness, replacing the loose stones, and when the last slotted into place there was no longer anything to suggest that there had ever been anything there but blank, coarse wall.

  Torht cleared his throat. He was wheezing a bit. His attendant had stowed his torch in a sconce.

  ‘Please, this way.’

  They passed openings as they walked, store-rooms and kitchens, where hooded figures toiled. All were absolutely silent, bar the clatter and clank of their activities. Chel saw elements of fine craftsmanship in the stonework and throughout the hallways.

  As they approached a large open space, Palo called Spider, Dalim and his two henchmen to her; a moment later the four marched to the hallway’s end and disappeared from view. Torht had stopped at a door. After a quick rummage with a key, he entered, the attendant steering his steps.

  Inside were a simple desk and chair, rolls of pressed paper and a heavy smell of ink. Torht shuffled over beside the desk, and indicated that the prince should sit. ‘There is, however, one other person permitted access to the Primarch’s chambers.’

  ‘Who?’ Tarfel asked, obeying without thought. Chel and Rennic squeezed into the office, and Palo pulled the door closed behind them.

  The Watcher rested one hand on the desk. To Chel’s eye, he was struggling to keep down a smirk. ‘The only remaining embodiment of royal power in the kingdom, highness. Your brother.’

  Tarfel’s expression danced through a series of emotions, arriving finally at suspicion. ‘Meaning what? That he’s the Primarch’s man?’

  ‘No, no, quite the opposite. Highness, you have come to us at a crucial juncture.’

  ‘I didn’t come to you, I—’

  ‘Your highness, we must tread carefully. Your brother is surrounded by overwhelming force at all times, ostensibly his to command, but in truth the engine of Vassad’s shadow state. But his actions and proclamations are dictated by Vassad’s vicious proxies. Our Primarch’s vile plot has a weakness, however, a critical flaw: the power of the state must still be seen to rest with the crown, lest suspicions be aroused and light be cast upon the corruption he has wrought.’