The Long War 03 - The Red Prince

by A. J. Smith

  Hasim nodded. ‘Long Shadow wanted the help of the Moon clans, and Dominic Black Claw commands three or four companies at Ranen Gar. He’ll fight if given the chance.’

  Fallon had heard of the Black Claw family. They were the protectors of the Freelands and, by all accounts, deranged followers of the Ice Giant. They had no legitimate claim to nobility but were known in Tor Funweir nonetheless. They were no allies of the Ro.

  ‘And me?’ asked Fallon. ‘How will the captain of Greywood Company look upon me?’

  ‘Don’t know, never met the man,’ replied Hasim. ‘But he won’t like the knights being in South Warden.’

  ‘I think you should go and ask him, my friend,’ said Fallon.

  ‘Me? I’m no diplomat.’

  ‘You don’t need to be, you just need not to be a Ro. Catch up with Bronwyn and carry my greetings to Black Claw and any other Ranen you meet. Tell them I wish to get the Red knights out of Ranen... just as much as they do. It’s the same deal, they’re just making it with me rather than Long Shadow.’

  ‘Well, there are a lot of Moon clans between here and Ranen Gar,’ replied Hasim.

  ‘If they’re close enough, we’ll need them soon. If Malaki Frith wants to pick a fight.’

  They were all looking at him. He really hoped that he knew what he was doing, but he didn’t let any doubt show in his face.

  Time slowed and Torian’s shade appeared to Fallon. The Purple cleric was armed and armoured, though still indistinct.

  ‘You have made a strong decision, exemplar.’

  Fallon didn’t respond aloud, letting the words form in his mind. ‘People are going to die here, this is not a time for half-measures or weak words. This is a time for conviction, and for honour.’

  Torian thrust out his chest and held his head high. ‘You are no longer a knight of the Red.’

  ‘No, I am not,’ he replied. ‘I don’t know what I am.’

  The shade drew his incorporeal sword and placed it on Fallon’s shoulder. ‘You are a knight of the Grey, you follow the aspect of honour. Know that you and you alone speak for the One... not the king, not Mobius.’

  Thus knighted, Fallon the Grey stood and saw the world through different eyes. The others looked at him, as if some tangible difference had become evident in his demeanour.

  ‘Vladimir, muster your men – fully armed and armoured – and have them stand to at the eastern edge of camp. You and Major Dimitri will accompany me to speak to Brother Jakan.’ He spoke with a note of command, powerful and in control. ‘Hasim, you get going before the Purple fucker arrives.’

  The three of them paused, looking at each other, until Hasim smiled and gave a mock salute. ‘Major, could I trouble you for a horse?’

  * * *

  The light barely penetrated the black clouds as Fallon made his way to the front of the column. The Darkwald yeomanry fanned out behind him in organized ranks, crossbows to the fore, standing above two thousand crouching pikemen. Cavalry guarded the flanks and columns of swordsmen stretched across the Plains of Scarlet.

  Vladimir’s men numbered six thousand. Tristram and the king commanded five thousand, though they were far better trained. It was a gamble, but not a bluff. The yeomanry had trebuchets and could, if Vladimir ordered it, bloody the king’s nose – but any confrontation, however stubbornly they fought, would inevitably end with the knights victorious.

  ‘My head doesn’t hurt any more,’ muttered Vladimir, coming to join Fallon.

  ‘Stress has that effect, my lord.’

  ‘Also makes me want a drink. It’s sort of a cycle. A never-ending cycle,’ replied the Lord of Mud. He glanced around, seeming to realize for the first time that he was standing at the very front of his army. ‘Shouldn’t we have horses? Might make us look more serious.’

  Fallon smiled at him. ‘Do I not look serious to you?’

  Vladimir patted the swordsman on the shoulder in a comradely manner. ‘You look fucking terrifying. I, on the other hand, look like a puddle of sweat.’

  As if answering his query, Major Dimitri rode into view. He led two horses and was accompanied by Sir Theron. Fallon’s former adjutant was battered and bloodied, but had a look of hard determination in his eyes.

  ‘Much better,’ joked Vladimir, pulling himself awkwardly into a saddle.

  ‘Captain,’ said Theron, throwing Fallon a second set of reins.

  ‘No longer. It’s just Fallon now,’ he replied. ‘How’s your faith?’ It was a complicated question, but being tortured and tied to a stake was one of the very few things that could make a Red knight begin to question his place in the One’s design.

  ‘I have decided that, as I am still alive, I should do what I know to be right,’ replied Theron. ‘The One and I will need to have a long and difficult communion should I ever leave the Freelands.’

  Fallon mounted the horse and adjusted his newly acquired leather armour. ‘I’m not pious, my friend, but we are doing the right thing. Stand by me and let’s tell Jakan what we think of him.’

  This made Theron smile. He wheeled his horse next to Fallon’s, resting his hand on the longsword at his belt.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know who has my sword?’ asked the exemplar.

  ‘Commander Tristram took it,’ he replied. ‘I think he wanted to keep it from Jakan, my lord.’

  Fallon laughed at the title. ‘It’s going to take some practice to use my name, isn’t it... Theron?’

  A bugle sounded from the gates of South Warden and they all looked towards the city. Dimitri and Vladimir sat astride their horses just behind Fallon and Theron. Fallon waved his hand, bringing the nervous noblemen into a more equal position.

  ‘Okay, but you’re doing the talking,’ grumbled the Lord of Mud, shifting uncomfortably in his armour.

  Horses emerged from the repaired wooden gates and a guard of several dozen men rode quickly away from the city. Two flags were carried – the clenched fist of the Red and the sceptre of the Purple. The sound of their armour and their horses’ hooves carried across the Plains of Scarlet. Fallon did not need to look behind him to know that the Darkwald yeomanry would be nervous as Brother Jakan approached.

  ‘He’s got more company than usual, sir,’ announced Major Dimitri.

  ‘So have you,’ replied Fallon. ‘They’re not idiots, they’ve been watching your men assemble for an hour.’

  ‘Are you going to kill Jakan?’ asked Theron.

  He didn’t answer. Breathing deeply, he focused on the approaching riders. As the point of mutual recognition approached, he smiled.

  Jakan had seen him. The cleric was fully armoured and a look of sudden panic came across his face. Word spread quickly among the approaching riders and each man moved a hand to his sword hilt in readiness.

  ‘Fallon of Leith!’ roared Jakan, bringing his panic under control. ‘Throw down your sword and submit to arrest.’

  ‘No!’ he shouted in reply.

  ‘Very witty,’ whispered Vladimir. ‘Just try not to start a massive fight.’

  Jakan and the knights fanned out and came to a stop ten feet in front of them. The cleric registered surprise at Theron and Vladimir, but anger at being face to face with Fallon kept his face harsh.

  ‘Brother Jakan, what can we do for you?’ asked Fallon casually.

  ‘You are a vow-breaker,’ announced the cleric, wheeling his horse theatrically. ‘Lord Corkoson, you are a traitor.’ He drew his sword with a flourish. ‘Major Dimitri, arrest these men.’

  The minor nobleman held himself upright. His eyes flickered at Vladimir and Fallon, making him look unsure in spite of his best efforts.

  ‘I defer to Sir Fallon,’ replied Dimitri, holding his breath with nervous tension.

  ‘You will pay with blood for your treachery,’ snapped Jakan. ‘We will eradicate your feeble army. You, Lord Corkoson, have doomed your people to death under the boot of Tor Funweir.’

  ‘Enough!’ roared Fallon, silencing the cleric. ‘This is the situation �
� we will fortify this camp and stand ready. If I see any attempt to muster the knights, we will bombard you until you weep. You have no artillery, and don’t pretend Tristram would launch a frontal assault. He, unlike you, cares for the troops under his command.’

  A grunt of angry agreement came from Vladimir, as he recalled the manner in which Jakan had wasted so many men in the breach at South Warden.

  ‘You can’t win, vow-breaker,’ snarled the cleric. ‘We will kill any man who stands against us.’ He addressed the last words to the front ranks of yeomanry, trying to scare them into submission.

  Fallon nudged his horse forward until he was close to Jakan. Theron followed, and the exemplar was glad to have the man of Haran at his side.

  ‘I’m not trying to win, you fucking idiot, I’m trying to stop men from dying. Ranen and Ro, enough have died for no purpose. If the king wants to follow the whim of an enchantress, he’ll have to do it without the Darkwald yeomanry... and he’ll have to do it without me.’

  Jakan still held his sword and glared at Fallon, a look of arrogant entitlement in his narrow eyes.

  ‘You can’t stay here forever,’ he muttered. ‘Cardinal Mobius and the king will stamp out your little rebellion.’

  ‘Rebellion?’ shouted Fallon, cowing the cleric with his sudden ferocity. ‘I do not recognize your authority. I do not recognize the authority of the king.’ His voice rose in volume and carried across the Plains of Scarlet. ‘You do not speak for the One!’ He lowered his voice, breathing heavily. ‘As for what I’m waiting for... when General Malaki Frith gets here, I’ll speak to him about our collective forces leaving the Freelands and you answering for the people you have slaughtered. If he is an honourable man, he’ll listen. If not, more men will die.’ With a confident smile, he addressed Jakan directly. ‘I still plan to kill you, cleric. Don’t give me a reason to do it today. I trust you will deliver my terms to Tristram and Mobius. I don’t give a shit whether you tell the king, his mind is not his own.’

  ‘Heresy!’ barked Jakan.

  In a move that surprised even Fallon, the cleric was knocked from his horse by a lightning-fast punch from Theron. The former knight was twitching with rage.

  ‘YOU DO NOT SPEAK FOR THE ONE,’ he bellowed.

  ‘You!’ Fallon pointed to the second Purple cleric, a man of the sword called Rathbone of Chase. ‘Take him back to South Warden and ensure he delivers my terms.’

  Chase hesitated and Jakan looked up from the grass blearily. His eyes were unfocused and his jaw was beginning to swell and turn red. Slowly, Chase dismounted and helped his brother cleric back into the saddle. The Red knights that followed them were all staring at Fallon in awe, but none of them acted.

  ‘Brothers,’ said Fallon, talking to the knights. ‘Please realize that you have been led astray by a mad king under the sway of a witch.’

  He knew his words would fall on deaf ears, but he had enough residual respect for the knights of the Red that he felt he had to try – much as William of Verellian had done with him.

  ‘That is all I have to say. We will parlay when the knight general arrives.’

  He wheeled his horse round. With Theron of Haran close behind, he returned to the forces of Darkwald.

  CHAPTER 5

  BRONWYN OF CANARN IN THE MOON WOODS

  THE SNOWY TREE tops thrust up from the rugged landscape, pushing their way out of the canopy as sharp pinnacles of white. South Warden was a week to the south and they were deep within the Moon Woods. The terrain rose and fell like a choppy sea. The going was tough.

  Bronwyn had taken to wearing two cloaks once they left the city of Scarlet Company. She had worn the same clothes, day and night, for the last five days. She was further from home than she had ever been and she had not seen her brother for months. She knew the city was secure and that Brom was safe, but she longed once again to be the lady of Canarn.

  She had always thought of her home as a bitterly cold place, constantly lashed with freezing winds from the sea. However, the cold she felt now was a world away and ten times worse than anything Ro Canarn could offer. She hadn’t known it was possible to be this cold.

  Her travelling companions, two men of Ranen, were more accustomed to the weather and teased her whenever she shivered or complained. Micah Stone Dog, the young warrior of Wraith Company, was a dry-humoured, sarcastic man who had come with her on the orders of his captain, Horrock Green Blade. The implication had been that she, as a noble of Ro, would probably get herself killed without an axe-man to rely on.

  Dragneel Dark Crest, a priest of Brytag the World Raven, was an infuriating man to travel with. He had only one leg but was inhumanly dextrous with his crutches. Even when the terrain became rocky and unyielding, he was faster than Bronwyn and Micah. Annoyingly, he was vocal about her need to keep up with him and frequently chuckled when she stumbled or needed a break.

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ said Micah, as they neared the end of a day’s travelling. ‘He’s better than some of the bird men I’ve met.’

  The sun had disappeared behind the trees and they were at the end of a wooded valley, sheltered a little from the wind.

  ‘I grew up with the greatest respect for Brytag, but his priest is an idiot.’ She was feeling petulant. She was sick of eating boiled roots and dried meat, and she hadn’t taken off her boots for a week.

  Stone Dog nodded. ‘Without doubt.’ He stopped walking by a rocky outcropping with a slight overhang. ‘Time for food,’ he said, removing his large rucksack.

  Dragneel had already stopped and was perched on the top of the rocks, scanning the forest on either side of the valley. The priest had estimated that they’d run into the men of the Crescent in a day or two and he was eager that they shouldn’t be seen as enemies. The Moon clans were dangerous and unpredictable, men who worshipped Rowanoco as the Earth Shaker. To them, he was a spirit of nature rather than an Ice Giant.

  ‘Does he know where he’s going?’ asked Bronwyn, settling down on the cold, snowy ground and helping to build a fire.

  Micah didn’t answer straightaway. He was laconic, but pleasant company. ‘Northwards... I suppose.’

  She glared at him. ‘Yes, very clever. I mean does he know anyone in the Moon Woods or are we just hoping to run into someone?’

  ‘I met a man of the Crescent once,’ replied Micah. ‘He came to Ro Hail. Strange man, lots of tattoos.’

  ‘That’s not an answer.’ She piled wooden shards together while Stone Dog gathered some dry wood.

  ‘Wasn’t supposed to be,’ he said unhelpfully.

  Bronwyn stopped building the fire and shook her head at him, pursing her lips in anger.

  ‘Okay, I’m sorry,’ said Micah, slouching down in the snow. ‘We’re going to Ranen Gar, that’s all I know. If that mad bastard knows a few men of the Crescent who can help South Warden, all the better.’

  She was tired and had no further appetite to be annoyed. They were on their way to the realm of Greywood with the vague hope that help could be found for South Warden. How exactly a noble of Tor Funweir had ended up on a diplomatic mission for the Free Companies was somewhat of a mystery to Bronwyn, but she was too proud to admit that she was still out of her depth. She had been so ever since she had fled her home so many months ago, and she doubted she’d feel any different for many more months to come.

  Dragneel threw his rucksack down to land next to the small fire. ‘Food!’ he demanded, pointing to his bag.

  Micah directed his eyes up at the priest. ‘Make it yourself, bird man.’

  ‘I need to stay on watch, wraith man. I’ve got better eyesight than you,’ replied Dragneel. ‘I don’t want anyone to sneak up on us.’

  ‘And who will be sneaking up on us, Master Dragneel?’ asked Bronwyn.

  ‘Hopefully, someone friendly,’ was the unhelpful response.

  With no further words, the priest disappeared beyond the overhang, his crutches making little sound on the snowy ground.

  Bronwyn and Micah h
uddled under the rocks, leaning forward to warm themselves by the small fire. A few embers flickered into low flames and within minutes a satisfying crackle could be heard. Micah opened Dragneel’s bag and produced some dried goat’s meat and hard bread. It was filling, salty and lacking in flavour, but she had long since stopped complaining about their diet. Weeks of harsh living had taught her that flavour was a luxury and of secondary importance. It was not that the Ranen didn’t know how to make nice food – their hearty mutton stews, usually served with dumplings, were particularly pleasant – but when travelling they thought of food as a necessity rather than a luxury.

  As they ate, she was glad that Micah was not a particularly talkative travelling companion. Bronwyn liked the young warrior of Wraith but was happier sitting in silence, contemplating her situation. She knew little of the Moon clans and was apprehensive at the prospect of meeting them. Luckily, she was becoming hardened to new experiences and was no longer surprised at strange Ranen behaviour. She chuckled to herself at the thought, thinking it a little snobbish.

  ‘What’s funny?’ asked Stone Dog.

  She smirked at him. ‘I just realized how little I knew about your people. Since I rode into Ro Hail, I’ve seen things I didn’t know existed. Even in Ro Canarn we had a slight arrogance about the Ranen, as if they were... I don’t know, lesser men or something.’

  Micah didn’t show any sign of offence at the comment. ‘You must have known we had towns and people. You’re a Ro, not an idiot.’

  ‘I just didn’t realize how big it was,’ replied Bronwyn, remembering the huge distances she’d travelled since leaving her home. ‘And I’ve only seen a tiny bit of it.’

  ‘You don’t want to go to Fjorlan,’ muttered Stone Dog, ‘it’s fucking cold there.’

  ‘It’s cold here,’ responded Bronwyn, shivering under her cloak as the cold night took hold of her limbs. She gestured to the overhang. ‘Is he going to come back, do you think?’

  ‘Don’t care,’ was Micah’s simple response. ‘Hopefully, something big and scary will eat him during the night.’