The Long War 03 - The Red Prince

by A. J. Smith

  The paved road opened out into a huge courtyard, framed by a high inner wall. Beyond, the tall spires of the city perched on a hill.

  Glenwood turned up his nose at the smell of rotting vegetation. He glanced around at overflowing sewage trenches and food left out to spoil. The common folk of the city – those who had not already fled – scratched around in the filth, piling it away from their homes in an attempt to stop the spread of disease.

  Rham Jas covered his nose and mouth, coughing into his hand. ‘Well, this is a bit fucked up,’ he murmured.

  ‘That’s one way of putting it. The Seven Sisters aren’t famed for their administrative skills, it would seem.’

  ‘I think this particular sister is a bit of a bitch.’ Rham Jas screwed up his face and waved away the noxious smell.

  ‘These people are going to start dying,’ said Glenwood.

  He had seen pestilence before, when he was a child in Ro Leith, and the streets before him had the same whiff of lingering death.

  ‘Do you think the general knows what she’s doing to his city?’

  Rham Jas led the horse away from the central courtyard, waving the forger after him. ‘Xander struck me as the kind of man who cares about his people. He’d have told us. And I don’t think he’ll be pleased when he gets back.’

  ‘Shall we kill the enchantress and cheer him up?’ joked Glenwood.

  ‘We? Are you an assassin all of a sudden?’ replied the Kirin with a friendly grin.

  ‘Fuck you, Rham Jas.’

  Ranolph’s Hold was well away from the wood gate, in an area of the city that was clean and well patrolled. It was positioned as a vantage point over the harbour and incorporated a colossal lighthouse as well as the town’s main barracks, a building now empty of Hawks. The remaining guards went about their work with the apathy and casual violence of men who cared little for their duties. The common folk, stricken by hunger and disease, were dealt with harshly by the watchmen, but most were wise enough to stay away from the high towers of Ro Haran.

  ‘Want me to do the talking?’ he asked the Kirin.

  ‘If you would be so kind,’ replied Rham Jas, without looking up.

  ‘I’ll try the bold approach.’

  ‘Just get us in, Kale.’ This close to Shilpa, Rham Jas was acting with cold efficiency.

  Glenwood rode straight for the line of carts acting as a barricade between the slums and the high towers. There were half a dozen men standing guard, each casually holding a crossbow. Shilpa and the remaining officials of Ro Haran had a simple approach to administration. Keep the commoners out. This, it seemed, was the way the Seven Sisters kept order. It was efficient, but cruel.

  ‘Are we saving these people?’ he asked Rham Jas, instantly realizing how stupid it sounded. ‘Are we on the right side here? Because, if we are, it feels novel. Good.’

  ‘I might be doing the right thing,’ replied the assassin, ‘but I’m not the good guy. Neither are you.’

  ‘Still... it’s nice to make a difference.’ Glenwood showed his companion a broad smile. The Kirin chuckled in spite of himself.

  ‘Okay, we’re big fucking heroes,’ joked Rham Jas.

  ‘Hush now, time to spin some horseshit.’

  Holding the reins indifferently with one hand and setting an imperious look on his face, Glenwood approached the watchmen. He’d seen plenty of officials in his time, but these were a little on the pathetic side. Most of them were unshaven and a few had the drooping red eyes of men the worse for drink.

  ‘Ho there,’ called Glenwood authoritatively. ‘Clear this cart out of the road. I’m not going to clamber round it in order to get home.’

  The watchmen roused slowly, directing confused expressions towards the man of Leith. His feigned confidence stymied refusal, but still they were suspicious of the rough-looking nobleman before them.

  ‘Don’t know your face, sir,’ muttered a watchman.

  ‘I don’t know yours,’ barked Glenwood, ‘but I’m not lazing around impeding your journey home.’

  Rham Jas coughed politely. ‘Master, shall we report these men for impudence?’ He spoke just loudly enough to be heard by the watchmen.

  ‘Let’s not be hasty, now.’ Glenwood puffed out his chest. ‘You have one chance to get out of my way before things get unpleasant.’

  They were just cowardly, or apathetic, enough for the threat of trouble to do the trick. They hadn’t seen the Kirin’s face, and they wheezed and grumbled but removed the cart from the road.

  ‘On you go,’ puffed the watchman, barely mustering the effort to speak.

  ‘Why, thank you, you’re very courteous,’ replied Glenwood, affecting his best expression of vacuous snobbery.

  As they rode past the barricade the city changed radically. The noble mansions of Ro Haran that flanked the high towers were all spotlessly clean, and watchmen patrolled the streets between opulent residences. The rich citizens were still rich. A gift from Shilpa, perhaps.

  With the Kirin’s face still obscured, they made their way towards the Hold. Glenwood’s clothing was poor and travel-worn, but his longsword averted any curiosity.

  ‘What’s going on over there?’ Rham Jas was pointing towards the base of Ranolph’s Hold where robed figures were advancing in single file towards the inner keep.

  ‘Don’t know,’ replied Glenwood. ‘Peculiar.’

  The line moved slowly and disappeared behind the high, castellated walls into the bottom level of the Hold. Above them the building rose sharply, from the wide lower levels to the narrow watchtower, a fortified stone block overlooking the coast.

  ‘Are you finding that grim procession as sinister as I am?’ he asked.

  Rham Jas was peering at the figures, his lips pursed in concentration. ‘They’re nobles,’ he muttered. ‘Expensive shoes.’

  Glenwood took note of the array of leather boots and heeled shoes peeking out from under the anonymous robes. These were no commoners, and the watchmen of Haran were avoiding the area completely. A few armoured Hounds patrolled the battlements above, but, save for the silent line of figures, an eerie emptiness pervaded the central square.

  Rham Jas was assessing the wide side streets, craning to see where the procession began. ‘Some of them are coming from houses over there.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘This way, quick.’

  He nudged his horse out of the road and dismounted. Glenwood followed. Rham Jas tied his horse to a wall bracket and darted into an alley, staying close to the wall, while Glenwood remained with their mounts, trying to appear casual. He heard two muffled grunts. A moment later, Rham Jas climbed back with two sets of black robes and a smug look on his face.

  ‘Slick,’ said Glenwood, looking along the street to make sure they’d remained undiscovered.

  ‘I thought so,’ agreed the assassin. ‘Put it on and try to look sinister.’

  ‘And then what? Have you got any idea what the place is like on the inside?’

  Rham Jas shook his head. ‘No clue. Let’s wing it, shall we?’ The accompanying grin was one of his worst.

  Once adorned in billowing black robes, the two men walked to the end of the wide boulevard and joined the procession. The nobles moved at a shuffle, making it easy to infiltrate their ranks.

  Glenwood kept his head down and focused on the figure in front of him. No one spoke. Soon they were approaching the wide gate that led into Ranolph’s Hold. The gate was open, revealing a line of guards on either side of the courtyard. They were guiding the nobles of Ro Haran into a stone passageway leading downwards. The two interlopers moved silently forward with the slow column.

  If they were going to be exposed, it would happen now. But it didn’t. It had all occurred too quickly for Glenwood to be afraid. He was nervous, but not afraid.

  Walking through the doorway, they entered a cold, high-ceilinged stone cloister. Thinly spaced torches illuminated a red-carpeted corridor along which the line of figures walked. Karesian women were positioned between pillars on either side. Each w
ore an elaborate, blood-red robe displaying twisted, sinuous symbols. When the women began to laugh the sound was shrill, but the nobles did not react.

  ‘Step to your left,’ whispered Rham Jas sharply, placing a hand on Glenwood’s shoulder and pulling him out of the line.

  The man of Leith was not quick enough to react to the assassin’s instruction, but the Kirin pulled both of them behind a pillar in a single movement, attracting no attention from the walking nobles or the laughing women. The former were hooded and looking at their feet, and the latter seemed manic and unfocused.

  Rham Jas shoved Glenwood into the shadow against a stone pillar, while he scanned the cavernous space. He crouched down and his eyes flickered rapidly, focusing in the darkness. Only the central carpeted walkway was lit; beyond the pillars the stone chamber melted into shadows.

  The procession of Ro nobility kept moving and the Karesian women continued laughing. Glenwood tried to slow his breathing and stay as quiet as possible. Rham Jas pulled him backwards and they were enveloped in darkness. Groping around with his hands, Glenwood found the far wall and slid down it to sit on the cold stone floor.

  ‘Now we wait,’ said the assassin.

  ‘Why couldn’t I wait outside?’ muttered the forger.

  The laughter suddenly abated and the robed women began a bizarre undulating dance. Their robes were slashed at the arms and legs, and dark skin was exposed with every sensual movement. More torches were lit along the walkway and a raised platform came into view in the flickering red light. The cloaked nobles stopped before the platform. More appeared and the line grew into a column, four deep. The darkness obscured some of them, but a hasty count revealed at least fifty.

  Glenwood jumped as the doors to the catacombs slammed shut. In the darkness beyond the platform a woman’s voice could be heard. ‘Friends, old and new, you are welcome.’

  ‘There she is,’ whispered Rham Jas. His focused gaze brought to mind a cat watching its prey.

  The hoods were thrown back. Each face showed its own variation of wide-eyed euphoria. Men and women of Ro intoxicated by... something... maybe a drug, maybe devotion, certainly enchantment. They dropped to their knees and prostrated themselves before the enchantress. The dance continued, increasing in speed and intensity as each worshipper reached out towards their leader. Shilpa closed her eyes and moved along the line, letting her fingertips caress each outstretched hand. They flailed and cried, coming together as a mob, fighting for pride of place and a touch from the enchantress.

  How quickly the weak-willed are swayed, thought Rham Jas. A few months before these people had been loyal to the One God. Now, with a new, decadent religion to explore and a new mistress to follow, they had betrayed the god of their land and the ruler of their city. What had she promised them? Money? Influence? Maybe nothing. Maybe just a glance from this woman was enough to buy their allegiance.

  ‘We come together in pleasure and blood,’ she intoned breathily.

  The Karesian women flung off their robes and the dance became frenzied and overtly sexual. Legs parted and flesh twisted into a mockery of sensuality – vicious, hateful, uncontrollable rapture.

  ‘Give yourself to me... and to the Forest Giant of pleasure and blood.’

  Pleasure and blood, pleasure and blood, cried the kneeling congregation as they removed their robes and clothing. Even Shilpa removed her dress and joined in the dance, in isolation on her raised platform.

  ‘Stay here,’ whispered Rham Jas.’ And remember... don’t look at her for too long.’

  The assassin edged along the wall until he was past the platform and hard to see. Glenwood was alone with nothing but the rapidly escalating orgy for entertainment. It was a curiously unenjoyable sight. Something about the violence of the encounter – perhaps the way the acolytes surrendered to their primal impulses, biting, scratching and shrieking, like wild animals. There was no affection or intimacy, just deranged devotion to a god that demanded wanton excess.

  Pleasure and blood, pleasure and blood. The ritual was equal parts both.

  As the minutes stretched, he ceased watching. The worshippers were now violating one another in ways he was sure weren’t legal in civilized lands. Why didn’t the bloody assassin just stick his blade between her perfectly formed breasts? She was cavorting in a nimbus of light – Glenwood thought even he could have got close enough to her. The darkness beyond her appeared distorted, as if a tree were swaying in the wind – a trick of the minimal firelight.

  Then she stopped writhing on the platform. Shilpa turned towards him. As if she had divined his thought, her eyes narrowed. Across layers of darkness, through legs, arms and bodies twisting in perverse rapture, he met her gaze. She saw him. Just for a moment, but it was enough.

  Her silvery laugh made him smile, despite his fear. She sat up and her eyes were predatory. To look at her was both calming and arousing. She was naked, she was beautiful, and she was in his mind.

  ‘I am called Shilpa the Shadow of Lies and you are most welcome here,’ she whispered in his thoughts.

  His head suddenly felt heavy. He rose and stepped towards her, vulnerable and naked under her attention, utterly absorbed by the desire to please her, barely registering the dark, grinning face that had appeared behind the enchantress.

  ‘I don’t enjoy doing this...’ said Rham Jas.

  The woman gasped and looked down at the katana blade protruding from her chest.

  ‘...but you bitches killed my son and took my daughter.’

  Shilpa’s eyes widened. As she tried to draw breath, the Kirin assassin wrapped an arm round her neck and twisted the blade. Glenwood saw the life disappear from her face.

  The bloodied, breathless worshippers stared in shock at the twitching body of the enchantress.

  ‘Kale, your sword might be useful,’ snapped the Kirin, kicking the dead woman away from him and scowling at the acolytes.

  Glenwood’s thoughts were confused. He drew his longsword, compelled by an urge to attack Rham Jas, and approached slowly from behind the crowd.

  ‘Don’t waste your lives,’ growled Rham Jas, stepping over Shilpa’s body and pointing his sword towards the assembled devotees. ‘Go worship the One God or some other fascist idiot. The Dead God has no use for you any more.’

  Glenwood was enraged. It was only the extreme fatigue clouding his mind that prevented him from attacking Rham Jas. Instead, the defenceless acolytes of Shilpa the Shadow of Lies fell upon him. They screeched, sobbed, tore at the air, but each one died swiftly at the edge of his katana.

  Those who turned towards Glenwood were frenzied and had no sympathy for the pain he felt at Shilpa’s death, nor his hatred for the assassin who had killed her. He lashed out, killing a man with bite marks on his chest. His thoughts focused on reaching the Kirin and ending his life in vengeance.

  ‘We’re leaving, Kale,’ shouted Rham Jas, darting off the platform.

  A Karesian woman drenched with sweat stepped in front of him, swinging an iron torch-holder. She struck Glenwood on the side of head and his vision went dark. He lost consciousness as a biting pain enveloped him.

  Calm, sweet Kale, let your mind be calm... our time will come. The beautiful voice echoed through his mind.

  CHAPTER 3

  TYR NANON IN THE FELL

  LONG AGO HE had lived in the Drow Deeps. Far to the south and the east, beyond the lands of silence. It was peaceful and timeless, an early life spent in play and mischief. Nanon couldn’t remember exactly how old he was, but he had pieced together twelve centuries of memory. The first two were in the Drow Deeps, among his own kind. The next five in the Heart, learning his craft. He was a Tyr, a warrior, and a Shape Taker. He had mated, sired children, fought in wars, battles and duels. He had learned to be cautious and considered. He had survived. Nanon was older than any other Dokkalfar he had met and he saw the world as a river of endless conflict. It was the Long War and he was its soldier.

  His last few centuries had been spent among men, walk
ing the paths they considered important and learning their ways. He liked them and their short-lived, obsession-filled lifestyles. They were foolish, passionate, capable of tremendous honour and rather amusing. They had taught him humour, a concept rare among the Dokkalfar.

  He smiled and returned to the present. They had been fighting for a week. Nanon had lost count of the days he had gone without rest and the friends he had seen die. His ally, Tyr Dyus the Daylight Sky, had made sure that the Dokkalfar of the Fell Walk had come to their aid, and Nanon’s host had stayed at around fifty warriors despite the losses.

  It was early morning and the Hounds of Karesia had not attacked for several hours. The old Tyr had not taken any rest, preferring to allow his fellows to meditate while he stayed on guard in the branches of a tall tree.

  Their advantage was twofold. First, as long as they stayed in the Fell, the Hounds couldn’t use their full force. Second, the humans needed sleep and the forest-dwellers didn’t. A few hours’ quiet meditation every few days was enough for the Dokkalfar, and this advantage made their defence of their forests more stubborn and effective than their numbers would suggest.

  Fresh arrows and black wart were delivered each day, and the humans had not crossed the line set by Nanon. The first Dark Young they had killed still stood, in the form of a withered tree, a short way from where he sat. Beyond it, a few hundred dead Hounds lay in the smouldering ash of the Fell, and many more had been retrieved or burned by the Karesian army. The fires had stopped and it appeared that even the whip-masters of the Hounds wouldn’t bombard their own troops with flaming boulders. Nanon mourned the loss of so many ancient trees from the Karesians’ initial bombardment, but he was stubbornly refusing to let any more burn.

  ‘Shape Taker!’ The voice came from a Tyr skulking in the darkness below.

  ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘Vithar Loth asks for your presence in the Fell Walk,’ said the voice.

  Nanon frowned and turned from the tree line, directing his dark eyes towards the younger forest-dweller.