The Long War 03 - The Red Prince

by A. J. Smith

  ‘Any of the Ranen captains still alive?’ asked Fallon.

  ‘Horrock got his stomach opened by a Purple bastard, but he’s still alive. I didn’t see what happened to his axe-master, Flame Tooth. Everyone else is locked up or being put to work.’

  ‘My Lord Corkoson,’ Fallon said to the Lord of Mud, ‘can I trust you to look after Brother Lanry?’

  ‘Only if he looks after me in return,’ he replied, without humour.

  ‘I can look after myself,’ mumbled the Brown cleric, rubbing sleep from his eyes and blinking rapidly to try and wake up. ‘Just point me in the direction of safety and I’ll follow you youngsters and be as quiet as a mouse.’

  ‘Let’s move then, shall we?’ said Fallon, beginning to climb out of the waist-high window.

  His boots made little sound as he landed on the muddy ground outside. Hasim followed and the two men hugged the wooden wall, helping their less mobile companions to clamber out of the building. Both Lanry and Vladimir needed help. The Brown cleric in particular had to be told to be quiet several times before he made it into the alleyway.

  ‘Extricating myself from imprisonment via a window is not a part of my usual clerical duties,’ said Lanry as Hasim helped him to stand upright next to the outer wall.

  ‘Just stay behind Vladimir,’ replied Fallon in a dismissive whisper.

  Al-Hasim tiptoed across to the sewer trench, keeping his eyes on the front of the house. As long as they were quiet, the two bound men on guard would have little reason to investigate, and Lanry’s lack of stealth told Fallon that the guards were not the most observant of men.

  Hasim waved Fallon across. With light footsteps, the exemplar of the One approached his escape route.

  Hasim pointed down to a ledge that ran along the side of the trench. ‘That’ll keep your feet out of the shit at the bottom... just don’t fall off the ledge.’

  The ledge was narrow but far enough underground for Fallon to remain unobserved. He doubted how quickly they’d be able to move with Lanry in tow, but it was a clear route to the western stockade of South Warden.

  They climbed down slowly, helping Lanry and Vladimir to get a good footing on the stone ledge. They were no more than three feet from the sewage that ran along the bottom of the trench and the Lord of Mud began to retch again as he took in the rancid smell.

  ‘I’m hung-over and expected to escape through a river of shit... lovely.’

  ‘It’s probably Ro shit,’ joked Al-Hasim, ‘if that makes you feel any better.’

  ‘Strangely, it doesn’t.’ The Lord of Mud had a hand across his mouth and had now turned a pasty-white colour.

  ‘I must say,’ said Lanry, ‘the smell is not making it easy to balance.’

  Hasim had extended an arm across Lanry’s chest to keep him braced against the stone wall of the trench and the Brown cleric looked to be in no immediate danger of falling in.

  Within ten minutes, they’d passed underneath two walls and several buildings. The sewage trenches of South Warden were well designed and of more solid construction than many of the buildings. Also, something in the nature of the Red knights meant that they were not inclined to check such places, as if it would be beneath them. It was an ideal, if disgusting, escape route.

  The sun was not yet visible when Fallon first heard the sound of talking from above. ‘Men up ahead,’ he whispered behind him. ‘Probably guarding the outside wall.’

  ‘Point me towards danger, sir knight,’ panted the Brown cleric. ‘I’ll assist in any way I can.’

  ‘Just stay quiet,’ responded Fallon. ‘Hasim, give me your blade.’

  The Karesian didn’t hesitate. He swiftly removed his scimitar and offered the handle. It was lighter than Fallon was used to and the blade was top-heavy, but it would be enough to defeat bound men.

  Chancing a look above the lip of the trench, Fallon saw four men standing round a small cook fire. Just beyond them was a hole in the outer stockade, probably caused by the initial bombardment. No other men were nearby and the four guards were well away from the centre of town. They were chatting boisterously about wine and women, with little care for the campaign of which they were a part.

  ‘Four men,’ he whispered to Al-Hasim.

  ‘Can you handle them?’ asked the Karesian.

  The exemplar narrowed his eyes. ‘Another four guards might make it a fair fight,’ he said, barely thinking how arrogant it sounded.

  He vaulted out of the sewer trench and landed in a crouch on the gravelly surface above.

  The men made no movement and were too engrossed in their banter to notice the armed man who had appeared no more than a few feet from them. Each wore a red tabard over chain mail and carried a longsword.

  He kept low to the ground, holding the Karesian blade in front of his chest as he stepped towards the fire. He whistled sharply to alert the guards and then thrust forward into the nearest man’s ribs.

  ‘Who the fuck...?’ spluttered a bound man, fumbling to release his sword.

  Fallon stood upright and looked down at three terrified faces. He kicked the dead man off his scimitar and stepped forward, answering a clumsy thrust with a fluid parry, running the man through.

  Two of the guards were dead and the other two barely had a chance to stand before they were expertly killed, too. One had his chest opened as he tried to lunge, the other was kicked in the groin and decapitated before he could utter a word of alarm.

  Fallon paused and surveyed the dead bodies. There was no sound or movement and all four had died cleanly.

  ‘Smooth,’ said Al-Hasim, poking his head up.

  ‘Get them out of the trench,’ he said, kneeling down and picking up a fallen longsword.

  The Karesian smirked and disappeared below. There was grumbling from Lanry and moaning from Vladimir. It took a few minutes and by the time they were all standing by the stockade the horizon had a slight blue tinge to it. Fallon wanted to be out of the city and with the Darkwald yeomanry before the day watch began.

  ‘Who’s in command out there?’ he asked Vladimir, as the four of them skulked by the stockade of South Warden.

  ‘Dimitri, I’d imagine,’ replied the Lord of Mud. ‘He didn’t want to come here in the first place. Good man, though... loyal, honest.’

  ‘What is he, a wine-maker?’ asked Al-Hasim with a smile.

  Vladimir made a show of mock offence. ‘Not just any wine-maker. I’ll have you know that Major Dimitri Savostin makes a sparkling white that would have you weeping, my good fellow.’

  ‘Major? In charge of six thousand men? Don’t you have a general?’ asked Fallon.

  ‘My father established the chain of command. I think he may have been drunk.’ He frowned. ‘Thank the One I never touch the stuff, hey?’

  ‘Yeah, you’re a model of purity, my friend,’ replied Fallon. ‘Shall we move?’

  Al-Hasim poked his head out of the breach in the outer wall and looked upwards. ‘Will they have sentries up there?’ he asked.

  ‘Possibly, but they’ll be looking down into the town and not out on to the plains,’ responded Fallon. ‘And it’s still dark. Even if they do see us, they’ll likely assume we’re yeomen who sneaked out of camp for the night.’

  He sheathed his new longsword and took the lead, crouching down to squeeze through a low gap in the stockade. Al-Hasim was a step behind, holding his scimitar low to the ground as if expecting trouble. Vladimir was next, hating every moment of his escape, and bringing up the rear was Brother Lanry of Canarn.

  The ground beyond the wall was muddy and Fallon’s boots made an unpleasant squelching sound as he crept away from the wall. The others followed and within a few minutes they were trotting across open ground and into the darkness. In the distance, a good way from the city and lit up by a hundred fires, was the encampment currently occupied by the Darkwald yeomanry. Formerly, it had been the king’s camp, until the clerics and knights moved into the Ranen settlement, with Fallon as their prisoner.

  The
y heard no words of alarm from behind them and the small group remained invisible in the dark morning that enveloped the Plains of Scarlet.

  Fallon began to smile as the camp fires ahead of them grew closer. Then he stopped suddenly. The others did the same and they stood wordlessly looking at two dozen large wooden stakes standing in an orderly line in front of them. The stakes had been obscured by the darkness and the group had virtually run into them.

  The wooden pillars were dug well into the ground and each stake had a bloodied figure tied to it. There were a few signs of movement and Fallon narrowed his eyes to bring them into focus. They were knights.

  ‘Hasim,’ he whispered, ‘what do you know about these men?’

  The Karesian stepped next to Fallon and squinted. ‘I think they were strung up when one of them challenged a Purple cleric to a duel.’ He glanced at Vladimir. ‘It was the man commanding the yeomanry... the Purple fucker that opened up Horrock’s belly. Didn’t seem like he wanted to fight, so Mobius declared them traitors and... there you go.’ He gestured at the twenty or so figures staked out in front of them.

  ‘Brother Jakan,’ said Fallon. ‘That Purple fucker is called Brother Jakan.’

  He was silent for a moment as the faces in front of him grew clearer. Tied to a stake several feet off the muddy ground and wearing the barest of bloody rags was Sir Theron of Haran, Fallon’s former adjutant. He turned sharply, and Al-Hasim saw his alarm as the other figures revealed themselves to be the rest of Fallon’s unit.

  ‘He strung them up for supporting me and showing... honour.’ Fallon whispered, and turned to see Vladimir looking up at the bloodied figures.

  ‘I say, isn’t that Lieutenant Theron?’ spluttered the Lord of Mud.

  He ignored him. ‘Lanry, what is their condition?’

  The Brown cleric was hesitant, but after a little encouragement he stood next to Fallon and studied Theron’s injuries. The knight lieutenant was shivering and his face and chest bore deep whip marks, but he was alive. Lanry turned to the other men and made a swift but practised assessment of their condition.

  ‘Well, I’d estimate that a few won’t survive... a few are dead already. Sorry, Sir Fallon.’ He pointed at Theron. ‘This one is still breathing.’

  ‘We have to cut them down,’ stated Fallon.

  ‘Um, I grant you I’m not a military man,’ replied Lanry, ‘but is that wise... given the daylight?’

  ‘Just cut them down,’ repeated the exemplar. ‘Hasim, Vladimir, cut their bonds.’

  Neither man argued and both swiftly went about the unpleasant business of releasing the battered knights. They had been displayed like common criminals, but Fallon tried not to let his anger show. Lanry merely looked at him with pursed lips. The old cleric probably understood as well as Fallon that the justice of the Purple could be brutal.

  ‘They were your men?’ asked the cleric.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Perhaps we should hasten to the camp over yonder and get some assistance. They will need to be treated properly or we may make their wounds worse.’ Whatever else he might be, Lanry was a skilled healer and Fallon was thankful for his counsel.

  ‘Very well,’ replied the exemplar.

  His blood boiled, his mind raced, but he stayed outwardly calm.

  Within a few minutes Al-Hasim had cut down most of the men. Vladimir was slower and had obeyed Fallon out of politeness more than actual desire to help. After a token effort, the Lord of Mud had returned and sat down on the grass.

  From a little way to the west, the yeomanry had noticed activity on the plain and a detachment of soldiers was moving towards their position.

  ‘Vladimir, you might want to make yourself known,’ Fallon said, gesturing to the approaching yeomanry. ‘Ask them to assist with these men.’

  He had almost called them my men, and he felt a heavy sense of responsibility for what had been done to Theron and the others.

  The soldiers approached tentatively, with their weapons drawn. There were five of them, with crossbows. Fallon raised his arms to show that he wasn’t hostile and motioned for Vladimir, who was still slouching on the grass, to rise and address his men.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ grumbled the Lord of Mud. ‘I may get some rest at some stage... just not yet.’ He hauled himself to his feet and stepped past Fallon to greet the approaching men.

  ‘Easy, lads,’ said Vladimir, with a note of relief in his voice, ‘don’t you recognize your commander?’

  The soldiers paused ten feet from the wooden stakes.

  ‘Identify yourself.’

  Dawn was breaking but it was still too gloomy for faces to be easily made out. Hasim skulked back to stand next to Fallon, wearily holding the hilt of his scimitar.

  ‘You know, it’s possible that these men will have a cleric or two in their camp,’ whispered the Karesian. ‘We should be cautious.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ stated Vladimir. His voice rose in volume and was directed towards the soldiers. ‘I am Lord Vladimir Corkoson, commander of the Darkwald yeomanry... and in desperate need of a drink.’

  * * *

  Luckily, Al-Hasim’s suspicions proved baseless. Within half an hour they were sitting in Vladimir’s pavilion in the middle of the camp. Fallon’s order that his men be cut down and cared for had been obeyed quickly. He formed the impression that fear of Brother Jakan had been the only thing stopping the Darkwald folk from doing so already.

  At the pavilion entrance were clustered a dozen of Vladimir’s senior staff. Behind them, the majority of the six thousand-strong army were awake, having heard the news that their commander had escaped. Exactly what this meant for the Darkwald yeomanry was the main topic of conversation and only the steady hand of Major Dimitri had stopped the men from rushing the pavilion to give thanks.

  Theron, Ohms and the survivors from Fallon’s former unit were being cared for in a nearby tent, Brother Lanry using his healing arts to pull them back from the brink of death. Al-Hasim, Fallon and Vladimir were taking a hard-earned rest in the Lord of Mud’s pavilion. With the sun now casting a dull glow over the misty Plains of Scarlet it would be only a matter of time before their escape was noticed and Fallon needed to come up with further strategy for staying alive. Strategy. He hated it.

  ‘My lord,’ began Major Dimitri, a man in late middle age with dusty blond hair to his shoulders and an ill-fitting chain shirt, ‘I am thankful to the One that you are alive and unhurt, but we need to come up with a plan. The Purple cleric will return this morning and want answers.’

  The Lord of Mud glanced at Fallon. ‘Strategy is not my forte, major. Perhaps we should ask our resident knight of the Red.’ He gestured to the seated exemplar.

  Fallon coughed politely and leant forward. He was perched on the edge of a comfortable couch which had clearly been used as someone’s bed in the recent past. To his left was the Karesian scoundrel, Al-Hasim, taking the whole situation in his stride and taking the opportunity to fill his belly with a hastily prepared breakfast of hard bread and even harder cheese.

  ‘I am not a knight,’ said Fallon. ‘Neither are the dozen men we pulled down from those stakes.’

  ‘You’re Sir Fallon of Leith,’ stated Dimitri, with a hint of reverence. ‘You are famous, even in the Darkwald. I assume you have a plan?’

  Al-Hasim grinned, spilling crumbs of bread from his mouth. ‘Er, major, I think the plan was to escape South Warden... I don’t think Fallon had a plan beyond that.’

  Dimitri frowned, unsure why a Karesian was present. It also occurred to Fallon that Al-Hasim had been fighting in the breach at South Warden and would have killed men of the yeomanry.

  ‘When does Jakan arrive?’ asked Fallon.

  Dimitri puffed out his cheeks and looked at the lightening sky through the tent flaps. ‘A few hours after dawn usually. He brings a guard of other clerics with him. They have a strange obsession with inspecting the men. They’re the same today as they were yesterday, but still we must line up and be inspected.’
/>   ‘We need to be gone before they arrive, surely?’ asked Vladimir, drinking deeply from a brass goblet.

  Fallon considered. The yeomanry were not a match for the knights, no matter how loyal they were to Vladimir. But he did not feel like running. His honour was now all he had, and the One had more in store for him than a pointless death on the fields of Scarlet.

  ‘We stay,’ he said.

  Vladimir frowned, Al-Hasim laughed and Major Dimitri looked confused.

  ‘I think I’ll get drunk again,’ said the Lord of Mud, with a laboured sigh.

  ‘I might join you,’ agreed Hasim.

  Dimitri glanced at both men, clearing his throat. ‘I have nothing but respect for you, Sir Fallon, but do you think your strategy a wise one?’

  ‘Don’t worry, major, that is not the limit of my strategy,’ replied Fallon, thinking quickly as he spoke. ‘Tristram would not risk a battle against the yeomanry. His knights will rant and roar, cursing your names and your home, but they won’t force a confrontation.’

  ‘Er, they’d likely win, though,’ interrupted Hasim.

  Dimitri looked offended at this, but confined himself to a frown.

  ‘That’s not the point,’ said Fallon. ‘Win or lose, they’ll end up a long way from home with a small army. With no yeomanry to rely on, they’re vulnerable against the northern Ranen. Tristram knows that, even if the king and Mobius don’t.’

  Vladimir cleared his throat and placed his goblet on a table. ‘Fallon, my men are common folk. Maybe a few are true fighting men, but you can’t lead them against the knights.’

  ‘I don’t plan to,’ Fallon replied, locking eyes with the Lord of Mud. ‘You need to trust me, Vladimir.’

  Dimitri coughed hesitantly. ‘The knight general has been summoned from Ro Arnon. He’ll be here soon. I don’t know how many men Sir Malaki Frith commands, but I doubt the king will need the yeomanry.’

  ‘How far is Ranen Gar?’ asked Fallon.

  Hasim considered. ‘Three weeks travel, maybe. There are a lot of Ranen between here and there. Moon clans, Free Companies...’

  ‘And that’s where Lady Bronwyn is bound?’ Fallon was beginning to form a plan.