The Long War 03 - The Red Prince

by A. J. Smith

  ‘Yes, I think we are surrounded,’ replied Claryon. ‘They must have been closer than I thought.’

  ‘Is there a fight here or should we run?’ asked the albino.

  ‘You should stay back,’ offered Ruth. ‘You are too valuable to die in a petty fight in Kessia.’

  ‘I concur,’ agreed Voon.

  Utha chuckled. ‘I get the impression you’ll need my help.’

  As if in answer to his query, men began to appear at all four of the archways leading into the courtyard. Several of them wielded wavy-bladed knives, reminiscent of the weapons Dalian Thief Taker carried, and Randall knew they must be wind claws. Most were simple Karesian guardsmen, however – but simple or not, there were twenty or so of them.

  Claryon’s slaves scattered, leaving their master and the others to come together in a defensive circle next to the fountain. Ruth was not armed, but the others held their weapons low and ready.

  ‘Too late to run?’ asked Utha, with a smile.

  Voon looked unimpressed at his attempt at humour, but Claryon laughed, swinging his broad-bladed scimitar from side to side. The mobster was a huge man and showed no sign of fear.

  ‘You will all come with us,’ announced a wind claw. ‘We will kill any that resist.’

  ‘Wrong man to threaten,’ boomed Claryon, advancing towards one of the doorways and the five men who had entered through it.

  When it became clear that none of them was going to surrender, the guardsmen attacked. Randall was startled at how quickly things escalated and he found himself involuntarily on the back foot while Utha, quicker to react, rushed past him.

  He paused as Voon, Claryon and Utha attacked the intruders with ferocity. The mobster drew first blood, slicing a man across the chest with a mighty swing of his sword and throwing the body backwards. Voon was more guarded and whirled his spear with great speed and skill, darting from side to side with nimble steps.

  Utha, true to form, seemed to come alive now that he had an enemy to fight, and Randall’s master had run a man through and kicked another in the groin before the squire had even thought about moving.

  Ruth simply stood and watched Utha attacking five men. The Gorlan mother showed an interest in the albino’s manner, pouting as he roared insults and laughed. Then she glanced at Randall, standing next to her, sword in hand. ‘I think you should help him,’ she said calmly.

  The young squire nodded and took a deep breath before joining his master in combat. The wind claws were the more dangerous opponents and, once several of the guardsmen had been slain, the kris-wielding Karesians became more defensive. Randall advanced on one of them, meeting an incoming thrust with his sword and stepping back to parry the off-hand strike. To his left, Utha fought two guardsmen, keeping them at bay with kicks and punches while his longsword parried their scimitars.

  The wind claw was faster than Randall and he wasn’t used to fighting a man with two long knives. He tried to keep his forward momentum, but the Karesian was quicker than him and a backhand attack caught the squire’s neck, opening up a glancing wound and causing him to retreat several steps.

  He saw a headless body fly into the fountain behind him as Claryon chopped his way through the guardsmen, and to his right Voon had skewered a man through the mouth. The young man grabbed at his neck and felt blood seep over his hand, though the wound was not deep. He held his blade up as the wind claw nimbly covered the ground between them, crouching down and lunging at Randall’s chest. He couldn’t bring the sword of Great Claw down quickly enough to parry and the attack would have killed him had Ruth not intervened. She reached out and grabbed the man’s wrist. With effortless strength she pulled him away from the squire and flung him across the courtyard.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said breathlessly.

  ‘Welcome,’ she replied, returning her gaze to Utha as if nothing had happened.

  Randall glanced behind him and saw Claryon duelling a wind claw. The mobster was driving him back as he negotiated the small pile of bodies spread across the flagstones. Voon was less violent, but no less impressive, as he somersaulted across the fountain and barrelled into two of the remaining guardsmen. The exemplar of Jaa was too quick to be pinned down and Randall thought none of the three warriors really needed his help. With a slight sigh, he grabbed a goblet of wine from the table behind him and took a large gulp.

  ‘Very impressive,’ remarked Ruth. ‘Utha the Shadow is strong.’

  The young man took another gulp and nodded, watching his master decapitate a man and throw another head first into the wall, before turning round for someone else to fight. Randall looked round and saw Claryon kill the last of the men in front of him. Voon was catching his breath off to one side and finishing off some wounded men with swift downward strikes of his spear. Within a few minutes all the intruders had been killed and Randall stared wide-eyed in astonishment at the spectacle he’d witnessed.

  The three warriors eventually realized there was no one left to fight and strolled back to the central fountain. All were out of breath, though Claryon and Utha both seemed revitalized by the encounter.

  ‘I don’t like being threatened,’ grunted Claryon.

  ‘Evidently,’ replied Utha, wiping his sword with the cloak of a wind claw. He looked at his squire, noting the shallow wound in his neck. ‘You’re still over-extending your sword arm, my dear boy.’

  ‘One still lives,’ said Ruth, pointing to a motionless wind claw.

  Claryon placed his scimitar on the table and hefted the unconscious man back to the middle of the courtyard. The wind claw was bleeding from a head wound and his leg was deeply cut, but he was still alive.

  ‘We don’t have long,’ said Voon. ‘More will be here. We need to leave the city.’

  ‘After I talk to the traitor here,’ replied Claryon, dumping the man head first into the fountain. ‘Right, boy, wake the fuck up.’ He grabbed him roughly around the neck and held his head under the bubbling water. After a moment the wind claw began to flap his arms, grabbing at the mobster’s hand and trying to free himself. Claryon pulled him up and shook him. ‘Good morning,’ he said.

  The man was pale and his eyes bloodshot, but he focused on the huge man holding him. ‘The Sisters will eat your heart.’

  ‘They’re all in Tor Funweir. All you’ve got are swords and we’ve got them as well,’ replied Claryon. ‘Tell me how many are watching and you won’t have to taste your own eyeballs.’

  Randall baulked at the comment. ‘A little unnecessary,’ he blurted out, and everyone except Ruth looked at him. ‘I’m sure hitting him or something would have the same effect.’

  Without taking his eyes from Randall, the mobster punched his captive in the side, making him breathe in sharply and struggle even more. Claryon then held his head back under the water.

  ‘Any experience with torture?’ he asked the squire.

  ‘Er, nope. This would be the first time.’

  ‘Keep your mouth shut, then,’ said Claryon.

  ‘Watch it, mobster,’ interjected Utha. ‘That’s my squire you’re talking to.’ He pointed to the wind claw. ‘And that man is about to drown.’

  The mobster allowed his victim to breathe, but he continued to glare at the two men of Ro. Randall didn’t consider himself particularly squeamish, but the thought of Claryon making the man eat his own eyes was too much for the young squire to bear and he felt slightly nauseous. He found it strange that the sight of blood and mangled bodies didn’t bother him any more, and yet the prospect of torture was abhorrent.

  ‘Who’s watching?’ repeated the mobster.

  The wind claw smiled, spitting out bloody water on to the flagstones. ‘Sasha the Illusionist watches. She will find the Ro scum.’ He spat again, this time in the direction of Utha.

  Voon reacted quickly to the news that one of the Seven Sisters was returning, swearing under his breath and looking at the various exits from the room. ‘We should leave. Now! We need to get some distance on the enchantress.’


  ‘Thrakka?’ asked Claryon.

  Voon nodded. ‘Shadaran Bakara owes me a favour.’

  ‘Is that another mobster?’ said Utha.

  ‘No, he’s a lesser vizier. The old fool is too stupid to do what he’s told by the wind claws. If anyone is still a follower of Jaa, it’s him.’ He darted forward, drawing his spear and thrusting its point through the soaking wind claw’s neck, killing him instantly. ‘I believe I said we leave now!’

  * * *

  Claryon Soong was a stubborn man. Years as a Hound had given him a violent resolve, a dark determination never again to be beholden to another man. He had risen through the webs and deceits of Kessia, killing men by the hundreds, as he cemented his place as one who would never kneel, never beg, never have a master.

  He looked up from the table against which he was restrained. ‘I can survive torture,’ he snarled, spitting blood at the black-armoured man of Ro who stood over him.

  ‘I don’t care,’ replied the knight. ‘I like seeing powerful men all bloodied and broken.’

  A light and airy chuckle filled the room as Sasha the Illusionist returned. She had left Claryon in the company of Sir Pevain while she arranged to travel south. The enchantress was more determined to find Utha the Ghost than Claryon had realized. The mobster had thought he’d have at least a day to resolve his affairs before they caught him. As it turned out, he’d had barely six hours.

  ‘My sweet, Master Soong,’ said the enchantress. ‘We have severed your head from your body. You are already dead and I know everything I need to know. The torture is over, you have no cause to resist further.’

  Claryon looked around him and remembered. First they’d cut off his hands, throwing them into a wooden basket. Then his arms, feet and legs. His mind had been lulled into a blissful euphoria by Sasha’s enchantment. Even when Pevain sawed through his neck with a serrated blade, he’d barely woken. But neither had he died.

  ‘I hope you understand,’ said the enchantress. ‘Claryon Soong is a mighty name. You are an ideal example for the other mobsters not yet... compliant.’

  Pevain scratched his straggly beard and slapped Claryon’s face. ‘You listening, boy? We’re gonna display your meat around Kessia as a warning.’

  ‘Except for your head,’ offered Sasha. ‘That will stay in the Well of Spells. In time, your madness may yield great wisdom. Until then, your screams will be as music to us.’

  Claryon laughed. It was his only remaining weapon.

  CHAPTER 9

  DALIAN THIEF TAKER IN THE CITY OF RO WEIR

  THE MAN WAS tough. Dalian realized he’d underestimated his opponent. Saara the Mistress of Pain had sent out dozens of wind claws and Ro servants to find Dalian, ever since he had carelessly let his face be seen outside the duke’s residence. The man who faced him was standing over two dead guardsmen who had foolishly attacked the Thief Taker, but the survivor was a skilled swordsman and Dalian needed to concentrate.

  ‘I’ll be well paid for your head, old man,’ grunted the man of Ro as he circled the old Karesian.

  They were in an alley, several streets from the northern gate, a place where Dalian had been staying while he waited for the Kirin assassin to arrive. He’d spent the last week scouting out the situation in Ro Weir, a situation that was growing worse by the day. Not only had the enchantress successfully brought order to the city, but she had established a religion among her followers. Dalian was disgusted to learn that the worship of Jaa was slowly becoming illegal.

  He spoke to the Fire Giant often, needing the fear of Jaa to drive him on, to keep his mind sharp and his hand swift. Unfortunately, as he looked over his kris blades to the armoured Ro guardsman in front of him, Dalian Thief Taker, greatest of the wind claws, wished only to be able to take off his boots and warm his sore feet by a roaring fire.

  The Ro lunged forward. It was a restrained attack and he kept his longsword close to his body and his elbows tucked in, not allowing Dalian an opening to counter-attack. He was forced to back away to avoid the blade and found himself against a rickety wooden wall.

  ‘Getting tired, grandpa?’ The man’s smile was filled with brown teeth and manic, staring eyes. ‘Heard you were dangerous. I ain’t impressed so far.’

  Dalian leant against the wall and feigned fatigue, panting heavily and forcing himself to wheeze. He let his two kris knives drop slightly, opening up his guard, but keeping his arms taut for a quick strike. When the guardsman – young, arrogant and expecting a swift victory – moved to strike, Dalian darted to his left and opened the man’s neck. Then he turned and drove his second blade into his ribs. Panting, the Thief Taker allowed the body to fall away from him and clatter against the wall.

  ‘I think I should be allowed a glass of wine and a few hours sleep after I kill a man,’ grumbled the tired wind claw as he bent over and surveyed the three dead bodies.

  ‘If only we all had the gifts of Rham Jas Rami.’ Dalian hoped that Jaa would hear him and assist him with some phenomenal new abilities, though he knew this was unlikely.

  Exhaling deeply, he pulled himself upright and strolled out of the alley, making sure to stay away from the main streets. The sun was high above Ro Weir and the day was becoming hot and sticky. The main street, leading down towards the Kirin Ridge, was rippling in the heat – a visual distortion that made Dalian shield his eyes from the glare. He had little time. After weeks of spying on the comings and goings of Saara’s minions, he had identified a Black cleric, Elihas of Du Ban, as her chief lieutenant. Dalian had followed the turncoat churchman for the last few days, staying in the shadows and witnessing Saara’s new power base.

  The Mistress of Pain had hundreds of followers, some from among the Karesian merchant princes and mobsters, and some from the noblest families of Weir. All served her willingly, under the illusion that their continued wealth and prosperity depended on submission to the Dead God. She offered base pleasures and Dalian hated how easily her seductive preaching had spread. He had expected it from the idiot Ro, but to see the faithful of Jaa so easily swayed was distressing for the old wind claw.

  ‘For what it is worth,’ said Dalian, addressing the Fire Giant, ‘I am, as ever, your devoted servant. I will fear nothing but you.’

  He caught his breath and started to walk off the bumps and bruises he’d collected from repeated combat. He had not had leisure to seek healing or to take any rest, and the Thief Taker was functioning on anger and devotion rather than energy. He needed to lean against a wall and take a few sharp intakes of breath before hastening down the street towards the small Black chapel. He knew that Saara had retreated to the catacombs a week ago – probably in consequence of Rham Jas having killed another of her sisters – but now the Thief Taker was faced with the challenge of locating the witch.

  Dalian stayed off the main street, weaving between alleyways and sun-dappled yards. Ro Weir was always a hot city, but to a Karesian, used to the burning humidity of the south, it was rather pleasant. It was early morning and easy enough to stay hidden as the lethargic men of Ro did not rise early from their beds. Again the Thief Taker wondered how such a pathetic bunch of men had risen to such prominence.

  ‘You look tired, Karesian man.’

  Dalian looked up and saw the smiling face of Tyr Nanon. The strange forest-dweller was perched on a wall in the shadow of a large tree with a small sack tied across his back.

  ‘Good morning, grey-skin,’ he replied. ‘Have you just arrived or did you watch me nearly get killed a minute ago?’

  ‘You were better than him, I knew you’d win,’ said Nanon, confirming that he’d witnessed the encounter.

  ‘Better maybe, but I’m also older... and much more tired.’

  Nanon smiled again and hopped down to stand next to Dalian in the quiet side street. They were about the same height, but the forest-dweller was thin and had an otherworldly glint in his dark eyes. He still carried a longsword and wore Ro clothing of common design. With his hood up, the Dokkalfar looked no different
from a hundred other wanderers and brigands in the city of Weir.

  He peered at the Thief Taker, inspecting his face, before his mouth curved into a frown. ‘You do look tired. And... older than when I last saw you.’

  ‘I’ve not been sleeping much,’ replied Dalian, taking the opportunity to pause, leaning against a garden wall three streets from the main road. ‘I was careless and let my face be seen by a wind claw. The enchantress has everyone she can spare out looking for me. Weir is a big city, but I can’t stay hidden forever.’

  ‘Indeed,’ replied the Dokkalfar. ‘I’ve seen a few gangs of mercenaries wandering around this morning. Watchmen, too. They have a Wanted poster. I don’t think they captured your stare.’

  Dalian coughed and slumped down the wall to sit in the dusty side street. His feet hurt, his back was sore and his arms were stiff. If he had to fight a bunch of swordsmen every time he turned a corner, the Thief Taker doubted he’d make it to the Black chapel. He glanced up at the sky and guessed that Elihas of Du Ban would be leaving his austere quarters within the hour.

  ‘Well, I can spare a few minutes’ rest,’ he wheezed.

  Nanon joined him, sitting on the ground and looking up at the sky. ‘Killing yourself won’t please Jaa,’ he said. ‘The Fire Giant likes living people.’

  Dalian snorted with amusement. ‘If I was less tired, I’d hurt you for being disrespectful.’

  The forest-dweller tilted his head ever so slightly and his eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve been a respectful admirer of your god for many years, Karesian man. The Dokkalfar and Jaa are old friends.’

  ‘So you say,’ he replied. ‘How fares your forest?’

  ‘Poorly. We are holding them, but... the iron of my people begins to fade.’