The Long War 03 - The Red Prince

by A. J. Smith

  ‘And you’re a... bastard,’ barked the young man petulantly.

  ‘That I am, my dear boy,’ he replied. ‘But, right at this moment, I feel a certain fatherly affection for you.’

  Randall sneered at him. ‘You’d be a terrible father.’ He shoved his master’s arm away. ‘Get off me, we need to go and meet a criminal of some kind.’

  ‘Mobster,’ corrected Utha. ‘They don’t see themselves as criminals.’

  Randall ignored him and walked quickly away from the ship to meet Captain Makad as the Karesian sailor returned along the wooden dock. He had several others with him, mostly grey-robed men with curved scimitars and raised hoods. The captain looked nervous and the men with him had stern expressions on their dark faces.

  ‘Randall, I’m coming with you,’ said Utha, no longer laughing. The old-blood had seen the approaching men and his mood changed quickly. Ruth also stood and glided over to join her two companions.

  They walked in silence along the sturdy wooden planks and towards the distant stone walls of Kessia. Makad and his companions were coming from the other direction and the two groups met between slowly rolling ships at dock.

  ‘Captain,’ said Utha, coming to a stop in front of the ten armed men.

  ‘You are well, my friend?’ asked Makad.

  ‘I’m glad everyone’s concerned for my well-being,’ he replied, showing no fear of the grey-robed Karesian men. ‘Shall we get on with this?’

  One of the men threw back his hood and shoved Makad out of the way. He smiled – a forced grimace with no humour or warmth to it – and stood facing Utha.

  ‘My name is Walan, I am servant to my master, Claryon Soong.’ His eyes moved to Ruth and a sneer appeared. ‘Your woman will be ample price for a writ of passage.’ His voice was deep and his hands, rubbing together in front of his chest, had tattooed fingers and brown nails.

  Ruth didn’t react, perhaps knowing that Utha would never accept such a thing. She did, however, step behind Randall’s shoulder, which made him feel protective.

  Strangely, it was Captain Makad who spoke in defence of the Gorlan mother. ‘Don’t be hasty.’ His hands were raised in a placating gesture. ‘The woman is... not to be trifled with.’

  Walan wasn’t concerned by this and continued to sneer. ‘I know my master’s tastes and the woman would do nicely, my lord Ro. If you turn us down, we will give you to the worst kind of Kirin slaver.’

  Utha chuckled. ‘We aren’t asking, we are demanding. Take us to Claryon Soong or I will turn you inside out.’

  Randall rolled his eyes.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ spoke another Karesian voice from behind Captain Makad.

  ‘This man does not deserve your intervention,’ snapped Walan, turning his head to glance at the unseen speaker. ‘They are of no worth to Claryon.’

  Utha chuckled and stepped forward. ‘And you’re of no worth to me. I’m sure someone else can take us to your mobster.’

  Walan flushed with anger and moved to draw his scimitar. The former cleric didn’t hesitate and punched the Karesian in the throat, making the man cough violently and grab at his neck, before stumbling backwards on to the dock.

  ‘Anyone else?’ snarled Utha, kicking Walan in the side and making him curl into a foetal position.

  With Walan still coughing and the other warriors drawing weapons, a single figure emerged from behind them. He was dressed like the others, but had no sword at his side. Instead, slung across his back was a long spear, tipped with a serrated edge.

  ‘There are ten armed men before you,’ said the stranger, keeping his face hidden under his hood. ‘This does not concern you?’ He raised a hand that stopped the others from attacking.

  ‘Men with swords don’t scare me,’ replied Utha, not even deigning to draw his own weapons.

  Walan grunted, wheezing loudly and rubbing his throat. ‘You will regret your arrogance, my pale friend.’ His voice was gravelly.

  ‘Enough, Walan,’ said the spearman. ‘This man of Ro is expected.’ He raised his head, showing the face of a weathered Karesian in his mid-fifties. He wore a black tattoo of a scimitar across his neck and his smile appeared genuine.

  ‘And you are?’ asked Utha.

  ‘I will take you to Claryon Soong,’ he replied, ignoring the question.

  * * *

  Whatever authority the spearman had, it was sufficient to prevent Walan and his men from attacking them.

  As they left the dock and made their way through one of several narrow gates and into Kessia, Randall was taken aback to find the people of Karesia overt in their dislike of foreigners, though that did not seem to apply to the huge population of Kirin that he could see. He had never seen so many and he felt exposed and vulnerable under the numerous hostile pairs of eyes.

  ‘We may be the only Ro in Kessia, my dear boy,’ said Utha, with a reassuring smile. ‘Doesn’t that make you feel special?’

  ‘Special? No,’ replied Randall. ‘The Seven Sisters are in charge here, master.’

  Once inside the city, they were treated to an impressive vista of stone buildings and high minarets. Kessia was huge and stretched away from them in clearly marked circles, displaying the status of those who lived there, from low-rent wooden signs to opulent marble storefronts. The city was dirty and crowded, but had a bustle that Randall had never seen before, a colourful vibrancy that made the young man think legality must be a rather fluid concept in Karesia.

  ‘They call it the greatest city of men,’ said the spearman, gesturing across the endless horizon of stone.

  ‘They say the same thing about Ro Tiris,’ countered Utha.

  ‘And I’m sure the Ranen say the same about their own cities,’ he replied. ‘But Kessia is certainly the biggest. Though it has experienced something of a religious conversion of late.’

  The spearman led them past the outer circle and beyond the worst of the filth into a cleaner street connecting directly to the docks. The street had numerous small warehouses and servants were unloading crates from newly arrived ships. Randall was startled to see the slaves who formed a large part of the workforce. Men and women in chains, wearing tatty rags and with dirty faces, were going about their monotonous work with passive compliance.

  ‘Slaves,’ said Utha, with a disapproving scowl.

  ‘A way of life, I am afraid,’ offered Ruth. ‘The Karesians have different values from the Ro.’

  ‘An ex-cleric I may be, but I still hate slavery.’ He had spent his life following the One God, a master who detested the Karesian practice of human bondage.

  The spearman stopped in front of a busy warehouse where men and slaves hauled heavy crates. Several armed warriors stood nearby and Randall casually rested his hand on his own sword, feeling better at the feel of the wooden grip. As they were led inside, he was surprised to see that no one questioned the spearman, as if he held some important office that he had not yet revealed.

  Walan exchanged whispered words with several guards, but didn’t question the man who led them. Within moments they were walking up a wide staircase towards pillared corridors and ornately decorated doors. The facade of the warehouse gave way to white marble and there were no slaves on the upper level, but scantily clad young men and women instead.

  ‘Avert your eyes, my dear boy,’ joked Utha as they were led into a sweet-smelling bath-chamber.

  Randall was used to the rough stone of Ro bathhouses and found the polished floor and crystal-clear water strange. Several older men lounged around naked on smooth benches while slaves poured water and scrubbed their skin with bricks of yellow soap.

  The spearman dismissed Walan with a shake of his head, motioning for the other warriors to leave, too. Walan glared at Utha and bit his fist in a threatening display before he marched off. The spearman then drew his long spear and struck the marble floor of the bath-chamber, causing a dull thud to echo away from them.

  ‘We may enter,’ he said to Utha, gesturing forwards.

  ‘
Are we about to see a naked mobster?’ asked the old-blood.

  ‘Only if he likes you,’ replied the spearman.

  They stepped on to the damp floor and the three of them were led past rich-looking and gaudily dressed men and women, some naked and being cleaned, others talking rapidly about business matters or their status in Kessian society. Most spared a glance at the three strangers, but none was concerned enough to stand up or remark on the Ro visitors. Utha had his face hidden, Randall was a young man and Ruth was a woman – hopefully they would not be remembered.

  In an adjoining room, larger and filled with steam, was a bulky Karesian man. He was seated, but clearly tall, and his naked shoulders and chest were heavily tattooed with dark green designs. There were no guards in the room and the man sat alone, with his head bowed and a black towel wrapped round his waist. The steam was coming from a small stone slate in the corner upon which he poured scented water. Randall felt light-headed as the odour entered his nostrils.

  The spearman struck the floor again. ‘Claryon, a guest,’ he said, showing his familiarity with the mobster.

  ‘I count three,’ replied Claryon Soong, looking up at them. His face was also tattooed and his neck was thick and muscular. Randall felt intimidated by the man.

  ‘We need a writ of passage for the Long Mark,’ said Utha, showing no fear of the man.

  ‘Ro don’t travel the Long Mark,’ replied Claryon.

  ‘That’s why we need a writ of passage.’

  He chuckled, his tattooed face wrinkling up. ‘You’re the Ghost. Heard of you... been offered money to kill you.’

  ‘By whom?’ asked Utha casually, displaying a confidence his squire did not share.

  ‘Wind claws,’ he replied. ‘The new god of the Seven Sisters wants your head.’ He leant back, showing a huge chest tattooed with faded green spires. ‘But they’re all in your lands currently, so I think I’ll remain faithful to Jaa for the time being.’

  ‘Good to hear. Now, that writ of passage?’ asked the old-blood.

  The spearman stepped past them and took a glass of red wine from a low table.

  ‘He’s insistent, isn’t he?’ Claryon asked the unnamed warrior.

  ‘I think eager is the word,’ replied the spearman. ‘I suppose you don’t stay alive in his situation without being a bit of a hard case.’

  Something else was afoot here. These men knew who Utha was. Although he doubted they meant the old-blood any harm, Randall wasn’t sure of their motives.

  ‘Well, if the enchantresses don’t know you’re in Karesia, I’d say you’re fairly well hidden,’ said Claryon. ‘Only a fool would come here.’

  ‘Which one of you is going to speak plainly?’ asked the former cleric coolly. ‘I can make a lot of mess in here before your guards arrive.’ The threat was delivered casually, with a menacing smile.

  The spearman glared and the mobster stood up. Randall was more intimidated by Claryon Soong now that he was standing. The man was close to seven foot tall and hugely built, with tattoos over most of his visible flesh.

  ‘You wish me to speak plainly, Utha of Arnon, last old-blood of the Giants?’ asked the spearman. ‘I have a simple one for you.’

  Utha’s face turned to a mask of irritation at the Karesian’s manner. ‘Speak!’

  ‘I am Voon of Rikara, high vizier of Karesia and exemplar of Jaa,’ said the spearman. ‘And I need your help as much as you need ours.’

  Out of the three of them only Ruth reacted to this news. The Gorlan mother knew what an exemplar was, even if Randall and his master did not. Her face showed surprise and confusion as Voon revealed his identity.

  * * *

  An hour later and they were in less obscure surroundings, seated round a small fountain with drinks being poured by slaves and Claryon Soong fully dressed. The fountain sat in the middle of a wide courtyard at the base of the mobster’s domicile and Voon had successfully conveyed to them that no harm was intended to any of them.

  ‘Are tattoos a big thing for your people?’ asked Randall, unable to take his eyes from the huge mobster’s green-inked neck.

  ‘Don’t be rude, my boy,’ said Utha, sipping from a goblet of red wine.

  ‘It’s fine,’ replied Claryon. ‘I don’t mind indulging youth. My marks are from my time among the Hounds. With no identifying marks on our armour, those of us who served long terms chose to cut our bodies instead. Each tattoo signifies a battle or a mission.’

  ‘I didn’t know anyone left the Hounds,’ said Utha, more relaxed now he had alcohol in his stomach.

  ‘It’s rare.’ Claryon grinned, as if there was a story behind his survival among the imprisoned army of Karesia. ‘My life sentence was... shortened.’

  Voon was not seated. He stood next to the mobster, throwing small stones into the fountain. He had not removed his spear and was not drinking the wine on offer. ‘Claryon is a faithful servant of Jaa,’ he said. ‘Such men are needed at this moment.’

  ‘I heard that the Dead God was undergoing something of a renaissance in these parts,’ offered Utha.

  ‘The Fire Giant is still master of Karesia,’ snapped Voon, displaying annoyance for the first time. ‘The Seven Sisters’ treachery will not go unpunished. They have torn down the cloisters of Jaa, made his worship illegal, turned the wind claws into their servants and planted the dark altars of a tentacled god in the fire lands.’ He bowed his head and took a deep breath. ‘Apologies, but I have not been able to hear the voice of my god for almost a year – since the Sisters killed the last Fire Giant old-blood.’

  ‘The last...’ Utha began.

  ‘You are now the last. There was one in Ranen, recently slain, and another lost in the Wastes of Jekka.’ Voon was speaking of strange things which made Randall’s head hurt, though both Ruth and Utha were listening intently. ‘You are the last. The only method by which I can talk to Jaa.’

  ‘And how am I supposed to do that?’ asked Utha. ‘I’m bound for the south. There’s a staircase, a labyrinth and a guardian. That is all I know and it’s a mystery how I know that.’

  ‘Then I will accompany you,’ said Voon, ‘and assist you if I can. We want the same things, brother Utha.’

  The former cleric and last old-blood stood up from his chair. He breathed in deeply several times and took a large gulp of wine. Thus calmed, he spoke. ‘What do I want?’ mused Utha. ‘I want... to live. I want to know who I am. I want Tor Funweir to remain. I understand what I am, but I fear that I need guidance.’ He looked at Ruth, sharing a thin smile with the Gorlan mother. ‘But I have never spoken to a god other than my own.’

  ‘That was before you knew what you are,’ said Voon. ‘I am the Fire Giant’s general in the Long War and I ask for an alliance.’

  ‘And I’ll give you a writ of passage,’ interjected Claryon, with a smirk, taking a deep swig of wine. ‘Sorry, just trying to keep the conversation light.’

  ‘You sound like my squire,’ said Utha, trying not to smile at the interruption. ‘He often says stupid and unnecessary things, too.’

  Randall frowned with indignation. ‘I’m the rational one,’ he said to the two Karesians. ‘That often gets confused with stupid and unnecessary.’

  ‘Interruptions aside,’ began Voon, ‘we have a long way to travel and many enemies who will seek to impede us.’

  ‘Other than the Seven Sisters?’ asked Utha.

  ‘Their allies control Karesia. The wind claws and the viziers are slowly being turned to the worship of the Dead God,’ offered Voon. ‘The faithful of Jaa are becoming fewer by the day.’

  ‘Voon is hidden, but I am watched,’ said Claryon. ‘Paranoia is a way of life in Kessia and my faith is not going to stay hidden for long.’

  ‘We should listen to the exemplar,’ said Ruth, nodding with respect towards Voon.

  ‘Hmm,’ interjected Randall, raising his hand. ‘I don’t really know what an exemplar is.’ They all looked at him. ‘Might be important... at some point.’

  ‘I a
m the Fire Giant’s general in the Long War,’ replied Voon. ‘Each Giant has one. Though we are ineffective without your kind, Utha the Ghost.’

  The old-blood snorted with amusement, gulping down his wine and pouring some more. ‘I really wish I could, but I have no idea how I can help you. If it’s a power, a spell or a trick, it’s not one that I’ve learned.’

  Voon was expressionless. ‘Then I will teach you. You are a channel to the halls beyond... my last opportunity to talk to Jaa.’

  The sound of running feet intruded and Randall looked across the fountain, over flagstones, towards the entrance. The inner courtyard where they sat was at the back of Claryon’s warehouse, obscured by interior walls and separate from the main building. He could see a slave, easily identified by his simple white loincloth and neck shackle, running into the courtyard from one of several arched doorways. The man was agitated and heading straight for the mobster.

  ‘Master Soong,’ he said, bowing his head and spreading his arms wide. ‘There are men in the warehouse.’

  ‘What men?’ asked Claryon coolly.

  ‘I believe they are wind claws, master. They wish an audience.’

  Voon shared a look with the mobster. Both men were now concerned and Randall saw Claryon tense up slightly and crack his tattooed neck.

  ‘How many?’ he muttered.

  ‘Walan says five, master. With guardsmen, maybe fifteen in all.’

  ‘I assume there is a back way to this place?’ asked Utha.

  More noise, this time raised angry voices. Claryon, standing up from his seat, glared at the entrance.

  ‘There is,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps you should use it. Voon, show them the way.’

  A gurgle of pain sounded from another archway and a figure was thrown into the courtyard. A bloodied body, his throat cut, slid across the flagstones. They all stood up and Randall reached for his sword. Sounds were now coming from all around and he guessed that there were more men than simply a few in the warehouse.

  ‘Does that make us surrounded?’ asked Utha, lowering his eyes at the twitching corpse.

  Claryon strode round the fountain and retrieved a two-handed scimitar from the wall. Voon unslung his long spear and the two Karesians exchanged another look. It seemed to Randall that they had a certain rapport and could convey significant meanings with simple looks and gestures. On this occasion, he saw them frown at each other and glance with concern at Utha.