The Black Hawks

by David Wragg

  Palo looked back at the map, then over to where the stricken reaver lay. ‘I will vouch for those present. That woman knows more. We should try asking her.’ Her eyes were steady, her voice level, but Chel shivered at her words. Palo took a step toward the reaver.

  Rennic coughed again. ‘Already tried. We need an interpreter. We need Lemon.’

  Palo’s frown swung in his direction. ‘She’s Horvaun?’

  ‘No, but she grew up next door. Speaks it like a native.’ He turned to the Watcher. ‘Where are my team? They’re meant to join us.’

  Torht nodded. ‘And they will. Until they do, we bring the reaver with us.’ He gestured to his attendant. ‘Founin, ready the black doves. We must depart tonight. But first, there is the matter of our new arrival.’

  ***

  ‘Your royal highnesses.’

  Mendel appeared to register Torht for the first time, a new, eyeless face among his captors. His golden visage shifted to surprise, then indignation, and he jumped to his feet. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘What do you want from us?’

  Torht smiled. ‘My name is Raeden Torht, your highness, but you may know me as the Watcher in the Wind. You find yourself a guest of the Rau Rel.’

  Mendel’s brows lowered. ‘So you really are partisans. You people are a real … a real …’ He tailed off, his gaze drifting.

  ‘Voice for the downtrodden? Shield of the oppressed?’ Torht offered, one hairless eyebrow raised.

  Mendel nodded, scratching at his scar. ‘Mmm, yes, perhaps that was it. What do you want from me? Why are you holding me and my brother?’

  ‘All will be explained shortly, your highness. All this has been a long time coming. We shall depart very soon.’

  Mendel blinked, his mane of golden hair glowing in the firelight. ‘Well, we can’t go anywhere without Balise. Where is Balise?’

  Chel and Rennic looked at Palo.

  ‘She is dead.’

  For the first time, Mendel’s composure cracked. His mouth opened and closed, his eyes unfocused. ‘But … Her wounds … They weren’t mortal, I thought …’

  Tarfel jumped up beside his brother, concern etched on his young face. Chel glanced back at Palo, wondering whether she’d let the prince believe his first sworn had died of her injuries.

  ‘I executed her.’

  ‘WHAT? Who do you think you are? You can’t go executing my sworn! I’m … I’m the fucking crown prince!’ His pale skin was boiling red in the light. Tarfel took a step back in shock.

  Palo was unmoved. ‘She was convicted of treason against the people of these lands by the people’s court. She was in the pocket of the Church and steeped in its rank corruption. She was guilty of the murders of countless innocents. For this, and more, I executed her.’

  ‘How fucking dare you! Are you going to execute me next?’

  ‘It is true that you have also been tried by the court.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your sentence remains suspended. Your cooperation in the coming endeavour will go a long way toward its commutation.’

  Mendel stood, open-mouthed, clenching and releasing his fists. Tarfel edged forward and placed one cautious hand on his shoulder. ‘Perhaps it’s for the best, brother.’

  Abruptly, the ire left the crown prince. ‘No, no, indeed. You may be right, little brother. Forgive my outburst. Long day.’ He scratched at the scar again. ‘Sometimes I just … I just …’

  Palo walked to the mule and returned with a heavy sack, which she held out to Mendel. It dripped.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘The head of your first sworn, for proper disposal or interment.’

  Mendel’s face curdled, but to his credit he swallowed back his reaction. ‘I’d be much obliged if you’d put it with my horse.’

  Palo walked away. Mendel put his arm around his brother and sagged. Chel was surprised to see Tarfel bending to support his brother. The younger prince was taller than he’d realized.

  ‘Perhaps,’ the Watcher said, ‘you might feel better after a drink of this, your highness.’ He produced a drinking gourd from within his robes. ‘It’s quite safe, I assure you – at worst it may trigger a little gas.’ Torht unstoppered the gourd and took a drink himself, belched and proffered it to Mendel.

  ‘What is it?’ The crown prince looked shaken, as if the reality of his capture had hit him all at once. He did not take the gourd.

  ‘A mere precaution, I assure you. There is a rare herb extract, perhaps a compound, I regret that I lack the alchemy to name it, that in sufficient and regular dose elicits in its subject a compliance, a pliancy. In combination with patterns of suggestion, especially delivered by those in a position of trust, the subject can be persuaded, nay, compelled to act in a manner of another’s choosing.’

  Mendel’s golden brows lowered. ‘You mean to … to … dose me?’

  ‘Quite the reverse, your highness. While my agents have occasionally had cause to employ this substance on individuals of strategic importance – in service to the cause of the salvation of every subject of this great kingdom – each keeps one principle paramount: the dosage must be short-term, and carefully managed. Failure to adhere to this risks the permanent health of the subject, leading to degradation of both body and mind, and no doubt in cases of reckless disregard, death.’

  Mendel had one hand halfway to his scar.

  ‘Exactly what are you talking about? Are you saying my brother has been drugged?’ asked Tarfel, his shocked face a mirror of his brother’s.

  ‘Not just your brother, your highness. A report of one particular case reached me some time ago: a nobleman in a position of great power, once celebrated for his vigour and good health now left stricken in the prime of life, unable to rise from his bedchamber. His sworn must come before him for judgement and guidance, and his voice is so weak that his will can be expressed only through the twitches of his hands. Those in his presence complain of a curious, alchemical smell—’

  ‘You can’t mean … How dare you?’ Mendel was crimson. Tarfel was staring at the ground, shaking his head. ‘Our father is ill, not poisoned! Not … Not …’

  ‘Coerced,’ Tarfel muttered.

  ‘Coerced!’ Mendel finished.

  Torht’s hairless brows lifted.

  ‘Are you so certain, your highness? Have his recent rulings not favoured the Church, most exclusively?’

  ‘This … This is absurd. The Orders love our father.’

  ‘They love his compliance, highness! The judgements, the orders you receive in your father’s name are the will of the Primarch. Vassad has been dosing and controlling your father, and the kingdom with him, for almost as long as these wars have been raging. Do you know who Vassad was when your father first ascended the throne, before the Hallowed Union’s wars of “Liberation”?’

  Mendel shook his head. ‘Who?’

  ‘An itinerant preacher. A wandering prophet, a soothsayer. A nothing, the kind of man who goes from village to village hoping to tell fortunes for fish-heads.’

  ‘Can’t imagine fish-heads have much fortune,’ Tarfel said.

  Chel heard Rennic snort, but Torht clapped his hands together in anger. In the silence that followed, his voice was low and dangerous.

  ‘By cosmic accident, highness, you and your brother were born into positions of great favour, and greater peril. Have you not felt your thoughts slipping, your mind writhing with ideas that were not your own? And your brother has been dodging Vassad’s assassins since Denirnas.’

  ‘God’s breath,’ Mendel murmured, flopping back down to the grass. ‘Can it be true? Our father poisoned, the throne … the throne …’ He frowned in concentration, scratching at the scar.

  ‘Usurped?’ Tarfel suggested.

  ‘Usurped, exactly,’ Mendel said. He sat forward, head in his hands.

  ‘It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?’ Tarfel said, putting one hand on his brother’s shoulder.

  ‘Am I poisoned, Tarf?’ Mendel croaked. ‘Am I
in their thrall? I have such trouble … remembering …’

  Prince Mendel started to cry.

  ‘Be not afraid, your highness. The draught contains sufficient remedy to begin to flush any poison from your mind and body. By the time we reach Roniaman, you will be as hale and hearty as ever.’

  Mendel looked up with tearful eyes, took the gourd, and drank deeply.

  A moment later, a great flapping mass issued from the wagon, and a phalanx of black-feathered doves fluttered up into the evening sky. They circled and stretched, then separated, dissipating in all directions and out of sight over the forest.

  Torht felt his way to the wagon’s door.

  ‘Let us go. The wind rises and our revolution has begun!’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it properly.’ Rennic stripped off his coat and draped it over a dangling branch, slapping his bare arms against the chill. His breath came in plumes as the last red light of the sun lit the new camp beside the soft river, its numbers already swelled with both regulars and Rau Rel partisans. Smoke from the cooking fires drifted across them.

  Chel tried to stretch hours of mule-ride from his aching legs. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I’m going to hurt you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You want to learn fast, right? Fast lessons are hard lessons, and none will come harder than this.’

  Chel opened his mouth to say something about harder lessons, but something thumped into his chest and drove him backward into the mud. He sat up spluttering. ‘The fuck? I wasn’t ready!’

  Rennic swept around him. ‘Think the red confessors will ask you if you’re ready? Get on your feet!’ He slammed his heel down and Chel scrambled backward, stumbling into a crouch. Already his shoulder throbbed.

  ‘Good. That’s lesson four. Keep your feet. Unless you’ve no alternative.’

  ‘Four? What about the others?’

  Rennic tutted. ‘Hells, boy, you’re as bad as the Foss.’ He walked round in a slow circle, and Chel shuffled with him, no longer trusting the big man’s motives.

  ‘Here’s lesson one of fighting, then, although no doubt it’ll be wasted on you. Ready? Good boy. Lesson one: don’t fight.’

  ‘Come on—’

  ‘… unless you’ve no alternative.’

  Chel wondered how much that phrase would punctuate Rennic’s teachings. He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Never start a fight you can’t win. And if you know a fight is coming, and you can’t get away from it, you make thrice-damned sure it’s over before it starts, and you’re the one walking away.’

  ‘B—’

  ‘You hear me, boy? This isn’t a fucking game we’re talking about here. This is desperate people, scrapping for their lives. Unpredictable people, vicious people. You want to prance around with an antique knife on a stick, talk to that toss-pot Dalim. You want a shimmering dance of bladesmanship, I’m sure Loveless will be delighted to take you through the forms, if she can spare fifteen years to teach you. You stick with me, assuming you can, you learn to stay alive. If you’re lucky. Are you lucky, boy?’

  Rennic was beside him, and suddenly his foot was in front of Chel’s legs, a beefy arm shunting him in the back and down into the mud once more. ‘There’s lesson three: keep your fucking eyes open, and know where everyone is, and where others might be. Stay alert!’

  Chel pushed himself up, ready to protest, but instinct sent him rolling to one side as Rennic’s boot came smashing down again. ‘Better!’ came the cry as he bounced back to his feet a safe distance away.

  He brushed the mud from his hands. ‘What’s lesson two?’

  ‘There’s no dignity in dying, no matter how nobly you do it. The most honourable warrior giving his life in sacrifice still shits his breeches the same as any peasant on a pitchfork.’

  ‘So …?’

  ‘So don’t die.’

  ‘Huh, Lemon said the same thing once.’

  That drew a smirk from Rennic. ‘Who do you think she learned from?’ He crouched down and picked up a twig, then began to draw lines in the mud.

  ‘What I mean, little man, is that the ambush is your friend. Always ambush, always surprise, put them on the ground – remember lesson four? – and finish them. Never fight fair, never spare a killing blow, never consider for a moment that what’s on the other end of your blade is another living, thinking, dreaming, human being. Your enemy is your enemy, understand? You start playing the wondering game, someone will kill you.’

  ‘That’s … grim.’

  ‘That’s life, fuck-o. Deal with it or let it go.’

  ‘Huh. What’s lesson five, then?’

  Rennic launched himself up from the ground and was on Chel before he could move out of the way. The big man’s massive bodyweight bore him to the ground, driving the air from his lungs, one bulging inked arm crushing his own limbs against him. The other held the muddy end of the twig to his throat.

  ‘Know your distances,’ Rennic said with a grin. He smelled of sweat, of mule and dust. He drew the twig over Chel’s throat, making the sound effect himself, then sat up on his knees, keeping Chel pinned beneath him.

  ‘And that, little man, was five lessons in one. Here ends the teaching. You’ve got a lot to think about.’

  Chel sucked air into his bruised lungs. ‘That’s … horseshit. What about … techniques? What about, I don’t know, how to swing a sword, hold a shield, use a knife?’ He tried to sit up but Rennic’s thick thighs kept him prone.

  ‘Haven’t you been listening, boy? Learn the fucking lessons and you won’t need “techniques”. Just your fucking brain and the will to do what’s necessary.’ He chuckled. ‘Although a good knife saves time.’

  ‘God’s bollocks, boys, you’ve not been on the road that long, have you?’ Loveless’s tinkly laughter followed her voice along the river bank.

  Rennic bounded to his feet, looking both self-conscious and pleased. Chel struggled up after him. ‘We’re not all any-port-in-a-storm-ers at this camp,’ the big man said, a grin splitting his black thicket of beard. ‘Unlike some.’

  ‘Oh, get fucked. Or was that the idea?’

  They embraced, and Chel felt a forgotten but familiar surge of hot jealousy. He tried to look away, but his mind wouldn’t let him. Even so, he still couldn’t tell if their hug was amorous or amicable. When at last he tore his gaze away, he found himself staring at Lemon, who was dragging more sacks than usual behind her. Foss and Whisper followed, leading a pair of well-laden mules. Chel was delighted to see them all, and the realization both surprised and pleased him.

  Lemon waggled her eyebrows. ‘What’s up, fuckers? Miss me?’

  ‘Like a treasured tapeworm,’ came the reply.

  ***

  ‘Ah, what did you tell them that for?’ Lemon scratched at her mound of hair. ‘Do all we fucken pale-skins look the same to you, is that it? Speak Horvaun like a native, aye, right!’

  Rennic put down his mug with deliberate care. ‘I needed to make sure you lot joined us at your earliest convenience. This seemed an excellent opportunity to align our employers’ goals with ours.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ask Prince Fuck-stick or Prince Block-head? They’re basically related to the fucken tribals down there.’

  Loveless arched an eyebrow. ‘Now who’s sailing on the good ship generalization?’

  ‘Aye, no, I’m serious. Their mam was a tribal, came north in the quiet years, before the war, part of some noble-marriage alliance bollocks. Sad thing is, fella she married was first off the wall come the old “Wars of Unity”. But lucky lass she was, good King Lubel swept her off her feet in the aftermath and the rest is history. He’s a fucken tribal himself and all, second-generation, mind.’

  ‘That was the cousin Lady Palo mentioned?’ Chel sat forward, enjoying the fire’s warmth, his mug cradled in both hands. ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Mercy, do you have no scholarship in the provinces? Sometim
es I think I’m the only fucker in this kingdom who ever read a word.’

  A peal of merry laughter carried over the rumbling camp, the unbridled delight of the elder prince. He seemed greatly restored by the effect of Torht’s gourd. The firelight cast his golden features with a mellow glow, and once again, he shone.

  ‘So that’s the White Lion of Merimonsun,’ Loveless said, as if chewing something delectable. ‘Comely.’

  The prince laughed again, too hard, too long. Beside him, Tarfel looked almost embarrassed.

  ‘You can see why he did it, eh, Vassad? Offed the other one.’ Lemon was staring at the crown prince, her lip curled.

  Loveless nodded. ‘Corvel was the heir, the schemer; some called him Shrewd. I wonder if dear Primarch Vassad felt the sands slipping away as the young prince stepped from his father’s shadow. Couldn’t have kept him at arm’s length for long.’ She sighed. ‘Makes you wonder how things might be, had he survived.’

  Lemon sniffed. ‘He’d have made a better fist of crown princing than dingus over there.’

  Rennic cleared his throat with measured menace. ‘If our idiot princes can speak tribal Horvaun, they kept it to themselves. Lemon, are you saying you can’t talk to our busted reaver after all?’

  ‘Well, I’ve still my education of course, I’m not devoid of linguistic acumen.’

  ‘Is that a yes?’

  ‘Aye, but do we have to do it now? Fossy’s cooking up a shank!’

  Chel looked over. ‘Where did he find mutton out here?’

  ‘Who said it was mutton?’ she replied with a wink.

  ‘Please don’t joke about meat, Lemon. Too soon.’

  ***

  Lemon and Chel stood in the evening’s fresh chill as Rennic stepped away to retrieve the reaver. Chel drew the woollen blanket tight around him, grateful that it wasn’t raining again.

  Lemon gave him a sidelong look. ‘Oh, but look at your neck, wee bear! Are you sure you want to be here for this?’

  He nodded, dragging the blanket up over his throat. ‘I want to hear why she was there.’

  Rennic reappeared, dragging a bulky mass after him. It was wrapped with rope and a length of chain, and occasionally it jerked or growled.