The Black Hawks

by David Wragg

  Palo halted them just out of sight, in the faint shadow of a decaying wall. ‘As expected,’ Torht said, ‘the confessors are unmoved by the plight of others. Highness, this is your moment.’

  Mendel blinked. His energy had waned since they had entered the city proper, almost as if he was losing focus again. Perhaps he had been spooked by the fire in the Shanties, too. The prince stared at Torht a moment, as if deciding something, then the zeal returned to his eyes.

  ‘What must I do?’

  Torht smiled, empty sockets creasing in the shade of his cowl. ‘It is time to reveal your royal magnificence.’

  Mendel nodded with increasing vigour. ‘It shall be so.’

  Torht turned to the rest of them. ‘Strip away the trappings of the Sisterhood!’

  Robes were removed, some turned inside out. The mules’ packs were emptied of weapons, the animals set loose. Mendel threw off his robe. His burnished hunting armour gleamed beneath, the circlet at his brow completing the ensemble.

  Palo led, Mendel bounding in her footsteps. Dalim took over steering the Watcher. Chel realized with a start that Spider had rejoined them. He smelled strongly of smoke. He caught Chel’s glance.

  ‘Off we trot, rat-bear. The Spider’s never killed a ruler before, and his blades are thirsty.’

  Chel shifted instinctively toward Tarfel, but he held Spider’s gaze. We’re square, he told himself. The Nanaki squared us.

  The rest of the group followed Palo and Mendel, marching as retainers.

  ‘Who approaches the sacred sanctum?’

  Palo told them, her voice devoid of inflection or swagger. Her hands lingered at her belt, fingers close to her sword’s hilt, then Mendel sprang from her shadow, his golden face lit with a broad grin.

  The confessors bowed and shuffled apart.

  As they climbed the wide, worn steps, Torht said between breaths, ‘We are almost there, my friends. They won’t know what hit them.’

  ‘There are a lot of confessors here,’ Foss muttered as they climbed above the lower, outer walls and looked down into the courtyards behind. Red-robed figures lounged and drilled in each, in plentiful dozens.

  ‘Wars create orphans,’ Rennic growled back. ‘Looks like a swathe found their way here.’

  ‘But why would there be this many, boss? How much spiritual guidance do the provinces need?’

  ‘Guessing the wee bastards doing blade drills down there aren’t overly concerned with matters spiritual, Fossy.’

  ‘Do you think we have enough troops outside to subdue all these, boss?’

  ‘Do our bit right, it won’t matter.’

  ‘Tell you one thing Vassad’s got right,’ said a voice from beside Chel. Loveless was climbing next to him, her sudden presence as unnerving as it was welcome. ‘If you’re going to build a private army, make it from young men.’

  Chel blinked.

  ‘Know why all the confessors are young men nowadays?’ she went on. ‘Youth and stupidity are easily harnessed. No simpler bunch to incite to a duplicitous cause than young men of low status, especially those with what you might call limited romantic prospects. Promise them meaning, promise them power and promise them sex. They’ll do what they’re told.’ She gave a grim smile. ‘The late Brother Hurkel being a notable exponent.’

  Chel frowned after her. ‘Should I be offended at that?’

  A flash of warmth lit her smile. ‘Depends how limited you consider your prospects, cub.’

  A wide, circular courtyard lay behind the ugly gatehouse. It buzzed with activity, the air thick with shouts and calls and the barking of unseen hounds. Carts and wagons stood along one wall, reminding Chel of their departure from the Sepulchre.

  ‘The court of confession,’ Palo said, her voice low, ‘has seen its last spectacle.’

  Chel wrapped himself in her words like a cloak.

  A breathless seneschal intercepted them as they reached the keep’s outer door. A grand, fussy woman, she looked like she’d been caught midway through breakfast.

  ‘Your highness! Blessings upon you, your presence honours us. We’ve been in such confusion here – the most dreadful reports we received, of Talis, the hunting party set upon by savage tribals? So shocking, that they might range this far north. So few survivors made it back to the castle, we heard you and your guard lost, but we are delighted to see you healthy, most gracious highness. Are, by chance, the rest of your household with you?’

  Mendel laughed, hearty and confident. Chel wondered if the tension was getting to him. He reassured the seneschal that he was very much alive and well, and that he was returning as summoned post-haste for his audience with Primarch Vassad. The seneschal confided that the Primarch seemed most upset by the news of his potential loss; he’d barely touched his food in the days since, nor issued new decrees to the staff within the citadel. Mendel assured her that he would put the old boy’s mind at rest in short order. Chel was impressed at how readily his amiability could be applied to misdirection.

  ‘I’ll detain you no longer, highness,’ the seneschal said with another benediction, her grand robes sweeping around her like layered curtains. ‘Your retainers, in the kitchens or by the stables, wait while you attend within. Blessings upon you.’ She fussed away, beaming.

  Left alone on the keep steps, Torht and Palo exchanged murmurs, then Palo spoke to the rest of the group in a low voice. ‘You know your duties, comrades.’

  Only a handful of them could enter the keep without arousing suspicion. The rest were to secure the courtyard, and the gatehouse with it, standing ready to hold the gates open when the moment came and the outer force descended on the citadel. Chel took a long breath. He would be Tarfel’s vizier, Torht Mendel’s. Dalim and Palo would impersonate the crown prince’s sworn, Rennic and Spider for the young prince. The others were staying outside. He stared into the yawning darkness of the keep interior and felt a deep disquiet, a tingling finger pushing into his guts, making him shiver.

  ‘You all right, little man?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Ready to save a kingdom?’

  ‘Always was, old man. Your knees up to this?’

  Rennic almost managed a smile, then he wheeled on the other members of the Black Hawk Company. He kept his voice as low as Palo’s. ‘Right, fuckers, this has got “dark turn” written all over it. Get to the corners, stay alert, and watch for what happens next. Stay close to that gate. If this goes to shit, don’t try and hold the gatehouse – I want you out of here. Regroup at the campsite; failing that, fall all the way back to the Sepulchre.’

  Loveless stepped forward, eyes at full glare. ‘Horseshit,’ she hissed. ‘If it goes tits-up in there, we’re not leaving you.’ Chel felt another hot surge of jealousy. Her words were not directed at him.

  Rennic looked away, his eyes rolling. ‘Whisp! Explain this to her. The little man and I have work to do.’

  Whisper nodded, stretching a lean arm around Loveless’s shoulders and drawing her away. Her other hand moved in front, throwing out a firm series of gestures. Chel nudged Foss before he could move away.

  ‘What’s she saying?’

  The big man offered a rueful smile. ‘Only that by the time we are aware of any troubles that have befallen you within, it will be long past our time to intervene.’

  ‘She said all that?’

  ‘I paraphrase. Be careful in there, my friend. There are a lot of confessors here. Shepherd’s grace go with you.’

  ‘Uh, yeah, you too.’

  Lemon reached out a hand. To his surprise he found one of her hammers in it. ‘You still unarmed, wee bear?’

  He patted his belt where Rennic’s skinning knife nestled, his prize for landing a hit at last when they were sparring. ‘Thanks, but Rennic saw to it. I’ve got a good knife at last.’

  She smiled. It was a nice smile. ‘Good lad. See you on the other side.’

  Rennic cut in with a hiss. ‘Can we terminate this tearful fuckery? Our friends in red are starting to wonder why
we’re exchanging vows of eternal devotion when we’ll all be seeing each other very soon. Yes?’

  ‘Aye, right. See you soon.’

  Chel and Rennic hurried into the darkness after the others.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The lower floor of the keep matched its austere exterior, the flagstones wide and sunken, the walls solid blocks of dark, battered rock. Pennants and tapestries hung between dim sconces, displaying what Chel took to be Rose-approved imagery. The sign of the rose and its forms bloomed prominently. Fires crackled from wide, deep hearths, but their heat seemed swallowed by the oppressive, implacable cold of the mass of dark stone. At every corner steel-and-crimson-draped guards watched the royal party with hostile eyes.

  Torht, steered by Mendel at his elbow, halted them at the base of a giant, carved staircase, great grey slabs piled up one on top of the other, climbing in a wide, slow spiral out of sight.

  ‘And here we split once more. Prince Tarfel, it is time to attend to your father. Once he is secured, Vassad will have no hold over you, even should he somehow elude us today. Surprise will be your biggest asset. You understand?’

  Palo nodded. ‘We will see to King Lubel.’

  ‘Prince Mendel and I will begin the climb. Vassad sits snug in his lair, by now expecting an audience with the crown prince.’

  Mendel nodded and patted the sword at his belt. ‘I shall cleave my enemy’s head from his shoulders.’

  Torht smiled indulgently, then continued. ‘Once Vassad is subdued or slain, we will give our signal. You will know what to do.’

  ‘I will. Shepherd guide your hand.’

  ‘And yours, Ayla.’ Torht was already scaling the lower steps, Mendel at his elbow, his progress laboured.

  Palo looked at the rest of them. ‘Prince Tarfel, you had best lead the way.’

  ***

  Thick furs, bear and wolf, covered the flagstones of the royal wing. Statues and engravings stood in contrast to the staid weavings of the main keep, none of whom Chel recognized. One particular statue showed a giant of a man, one foot on a bear’s head, a huge stone axe hefted over one shoulder.

  Tarfel noticed his glance. ‘Akko Merimonsun, the first of our line,’ he said. ‘My grandfather.’

  They looked up at the huge stone man, who would have towered over them even without his chunky plinth.

  ‘Is he to scale?’

  Palo hissed through her teeth at them, and they hurried on.

  Four confessors stood at the fine-wrought door to the audience chamber, clearly wearing mail beneath their rust-coloured robes. All had swords, full-length and well-made, strapped at their waists, and long spears resting against their shoulders.

  ‘What happened to the Church’s Articles on bearing arms?’ Chel muttered to Rennic.

  ‘Perhaps they were amended.’

  Palo urged Tarfel forward. One of the confessors looked up in surly surprise, then blocked his path with a meaty arm.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  Tarfel summoned all of his regal bluster. ‘Unhand me! I am Tarfel Merimonsun, Prince of Vistirlar, and I am here to see my father.’

  The confessors exchanged a look.

  ‘You what?’ one said. ‘Prince Tarfel’s dead.’

  ‘I am anything but, I assure you. I am, uh, hale and hearty. Bend your knee.’ With that Tarfel flung his ringed hand at the guards.

  ‘But … the king’s not receiving visitors.’

  ‘Do you hear me, wh— whelp? I am a prince!’

  The confessors exchanged another look. ‘We need to check. No one’s allowed in without a prelate. Wait here, your, uh, highness.’

  Palo leaned in close to Tarfel’s ear. ‘Please take a step back, highness.’

  Tarfel did so.

  The movement was a blur. Palo, Spider and Dalim stepped forward as a trio, knives in their hands from nowhere. The three confessors at the door had no time to grapple their spears around or draw their swords, their arms flailing as quick blades dug into their throats and bore them to the ground in jingling, gurgling heaps.

  The last confessor was three paces further on. Rennic’s knife had slipped from his grasp and clattered on the flagstones. The confessor’s eyes were wide, and he turned to run.

  Rennic was flailing in the gloom for his knife. ‘Little man! Get him!’

  Chel ran.

  He pounded after the confessor, blood thumping in his ears, as the bigger man sprinted away. The royal wing had been deserted, but the main keep was thick with traffic. He would be there in moments. Chel forced his legs faster, teeth clenched, breath coming in hard gasps, every pace bringing him inches closer to his armoured quarry.

  As they hared around the last corner, he was almost close enough to reach out and touch the man’s fleeing back or catch a pumping elbow, their feet slapping down half a second apart. It dawned on him that he had no idea what he was going to do if he caught him. He hesitated, breath catching, and the confessor turned his head.

  A door opened in front of them, directly in the confessor’s path. The man crashed into it at full tilt, slamming it back and out again, whereupon it struck him a second time as he reeled. He staggered back, hood flattened. A deep line in his forehead was placid for a moment, then a steady trickle of blood began to flow. He sat down, breath harsh and halting, then his eyes rolled closed and he leaned slowly against the wall.

  A robed head appeared around the battered door. ‘What in God’s name was that?’

  Chel stood over the stricken confessor, gasping fresh air back into his burning lungs, one hand up as a plea for indulgence. His brain worked as hard as he could force it. ‘We were … racing … Wager.’ He swallowed, then corrected himself. ‘No … coin … of course.’

  ‘You bloody fools! I should have you stripped. Look at my door!’ He heard a sniff of disgust. ‘Your friend looks unwell. I suggest, perhaps, a visit to the chapel of healing?’

  Chel nodded, still bent double. ‘Yes, absolutely.’

  ‘Yes, absolutely, what?’

  He raised his gaze. There was something familiar about the voice. The robes covering the feet before him were not rust-coloured but plain white, edged with delicate vermilion stitching. He’d seem that shade before.

  ‘Wait,’ said the woman’s voice. ‘Who are you? Why are you dressed like that?’

  ‘Better get to the chapel,’ he said, trying to hide the burning of his cheeks and neck as exertion. He reached under the confessor’s armpits and began to drag him away, ignoring the groan from his weak shoulder.

  ‘Where are you going?’ the woman called after him. ‘The chapel is that way.’

  Chel ignored her, picking up the pace of his drag. The confessor’s leaking head lolled as Chel scuttled backward at top speed. As he reached the corner, he risked a quick look up.

  Sister Vashenda was looking straight at him. Her eyes widened in recognition. ‘I know you,’ she said. ‘The sand-crab! Hey! Hey, come back!’

  She began to trot after him. She was not yet running.

  Rennic was waiting around the corner. Without acknowledgement, he grabbed one of the confessor’s limp arms and dragged beside Chel, and they tore down the hallway, Vashenda’s footsteps and cries echoing after them.

  ‘Who the fuck’s that?’ Rennic said as they cleared the next corner. They were leaving a splattered trail in their wake.

  ‘The fucking executive prelate of Denirnas.’

  ‘What’s she doing here?’

  ‘No idea. Maybe she’s being punished for something.’

  ‘And why does she know you?’

  Over his shoulder Chel saw the royal chamber’s gilded door approaching.

  ‘Oh, I’m quite the popular fellow.’

  ***

  ‘Bar the door. Our sand-crab has attracted some unwanted attention.’

  ‘Hey, I’m not the one who dropped my fucking knife!’

  ‘And where was your knife back there? I didn’t give it to you for—’

  �
��Quiet!’ Palo’s eyes blazed in the gloom as the door swung closed behind them. Three former confessors lay piled beside the ornate arch, swiftly joined by their fellow. Spider delivered a perfunctory coup de grâce, but Chel suspected that Vashenda’s door had done the heavy lifting. Dalim had liberated one of the spears and draped it across his shoulders in familiar fashion. Swords were distributed. There were not enough for Chel to get one.

  Tarfel stood alone before the heavy curtain that stretched across the chamber, dividing the rows of banked wooden benches on their side from what lay beyond. The room was cold and dark: a few low candles flickered in alcoves along the walls, but the hearths were empty, and the slit windows, high on the wall, offered only narrow slices of grizzly light, far overhead.

  ‘My father’s rooms should be beyond the curtain, through the audience chamber. There … there may be more guards.’

  Palo put a hand on Chel’s shoulder and nodded at the prince. ‘Keep him out of the way.’

  She approached the curtain and pulled it slowly aside, revealing a wood and woven-rush screen behind. Chel stuck close to Tarfel as the prince edged closer. Through the screen a few candles glimmered, their light feeble in the tall chamber’s pressing gloom. No fire burned on either side of the screen, and their breath misted before them. Chel felt the sharp cold against his skin, despite the acerbic heat in his muscles and the thumping of his blood in his ears.

  A shape loomed beyond the screen, more obscured than visible through the woven slats. A mound or pyramid, something altogether more massive above it. Before it, the vague outline of an intercessor’s lectern. Nothing moved but Palo, taking one careful step after another as she crept along the wooden barrier, pulling the curtain as she went. The room was very quiet, and an odd smell tickled at Chel’s nostrils. The alchemical taint that Torht had mentioned, no doubt.

  Palo found a door to one side of the screen. It opened with the merest creak, and she slipped through and into the darkness beyond. Tarfel made to go after her, but Chel stepped in front. ‘Highness, wait here a moment.’

  ‘My father’s chambers are through there, Vedren. Let me through!’ His voice echoed around the cold stone.