by A. J. Smith
Rham Jas was off killing enchantresses, Nanon was defending the Fell, Al-Hasim was fighting Red knights. Brom was holding meetings with landowners and watchmen. He doubted his skills were being used appropriately.
A sound behind him drew the young lord’s attention away from the rocks. He stepped away from the battlements and saw two of his personal guardsmen approaching from the keep. Auker and Sigurd – one a man, one a forest-dweller – were charged with guarding the lord of Canarn and they took their work seriously. Brom had many enemies, both in Tor Funweir and beyond, and the landowners and merchants of the duchy had insisted he be protected from assassins and hidden enemies.
Vithar Joror, the eldest and wisest of the Dokkalfar, had started spending more time in the city and had, in the absence of Nanon, taken over diplomatic duties. He had suggested that a Tyr join Brom’s guard and Sigurd had volunteered enthusiastically.
‘My lord,’ greeted Auker with a casual salute. ‘Have the waves changed?’
‘Still wet, still loud,’ replied Brom. ‘Less snow.’
Tyr Sigurd moved gracefully to the battlements and looked down. ‘Why do you stand here each day?’ he asked, his sonorous voice carrying far in the open air. ‘It is cold and the wind is strong.’ The Dokkalfar’s words were plain and without irony or humour.
‘It helps me think.’
Auker shivered and stepped back towards the sturdy wooden door. ‘My lord, you have dozens of men just waiting to be appointed to your court, or whatever you call it. Hannah’s father keeps dropping hints that he’d be a good knight marshal. Maybe he’d help you think.’
‘I don’t need a knight marshal,’ replied Brom. ‘Lord Justin can get rich without me giving him a position.’ He’d so far managed to keep his court relatively clear of hangers-on and sycophants, and he was not eager to delegate authority.
‘Well, at least deal with the prisoner.’ Auker was talking about the single occupant of the dungeon – a turncoat Red knight with a mangled hand. He’d been shot as he fled south from his house, a fugitive from the king’s army. ‘He’s still asking for you.’
‘I have too many other idiots to deal with before I can get to William of Verellian,’ stated the lord of Canarn.
‘He is not giving us any trouble. I think he just likes being indoors,’ said Sigurd. ‘Though he has repeatedly asked for you.’
Brom glared at him. ‘I know. Auker just said that.’
‘I was just making sure you had heard. You have been unfocused of late,’ replied the forest-dweller. Sigurd was close to seven foot in height and, though he was more considered and calm than most of the Tyr, he was still an intimidating presence. ‘Perhaps you should listen to counsel.’
‘I don’t need counsel,’ he replied.
‘Yes, you do.’ The Tyr had tilted his head, though Brom was still bad at reading the head movements of the forest-dwellers.
‘I suppose you think I’m being very arrogant, Sigurd?’
‘Not at all, Bromvy,’ replied the Dokkalfar, and Auker baulked at his familiarity. ‘I merely state that you cannot do everything yourself.’
The young lord of Canarn smiled, realizing how useful was the blunt appraisal of the forest-dwellers to his duchy. They were not subject to the whims and peculiarities of personality that made the humans such a chaotic bunch.
‘Maybe I should go and speak to Verellian,’ he said, glancing back out to sea and letting the breeze blow over his bearded face. ‘He was part of the invasion of our fair city, was he not?’
‘That he was, my lord,’ replied Auker. ‘His unit was sent north after your sister. Most of them apparently died in Ro Hail, but we still don’t know why he fled south.’
‘Bring him up to the hall,’ said Brom.
‘With chains or without?’
The young lord considered it. Verellian was, by reputation, an honourable man, but he had still been a part of the assault on Canarn. The man was, at least formerly, a knight of the Red and those men were dangerous even when alone. ‘With. And you two stay with him.’
‘Aye, my lord,’ replied Auker.
The two guards saluted – the human respectfully and the Dokkalfar awkwardly – before they turned and left the high tower of Canarn.
If dealing with the knight would assuage the monotony for a few moments, Brom was prepared to see him. He doubted that Verellian had anything to say beyond a woeful tale of being drunk on duty and deserting his post, but at least it would be a change from dealing with farmers and hangers-on.
He lingered outside for another minute, breathing in the air, before closing the door to the high tower and returning to his duties.
The halls were cluttered, with servants running around and guardsmen patrolling. Everyone saluted or bowed as Brom walked back to the staircase that led to the great hall. He enjoyed the bustle as it reminded him that his city was free again, but the constant attention bothered him. Two more of his personal guard fell in step behind him as he entered the cavernous great hall.
This room had special significance for Brom. It was here that his father had died. It was here that Magnus had fallen, and it was here that Canarn had been freed. The blood had long been cleaned up, the feast tables repaired and the hall returned to its former warmth, but the room still rang with the sounds of battle each time Brom entered. He had killed Sir Rillion just in front of his ducal chair and he often found himself absently looking at the spot when he had to endure a tedious meeting.
He did not want to forget what had happened here. The young lord smiled to himself as he realized that he was also worried that he could never forget.
‘My lord,’ said a guardsman named Hawkin. ‘There are several men waiting to talk to you.’ He pointed to the central doors of the great hall, where stood a handful of well-dressed citizens. Brom recognized a few faces as landowners and merchants, including Lord Justin, men who curried his favour while trying to secure more influence for themselves.
‘I’m dealing with the prisoner. Have the noblemen return tomorrow,’ muttered Brom.
Hawkin smiled, unsurprised by his lord’s reluctance to deal with administrative tasks.
‘At once.’ He casually saluted and strode across the hall, between long feast tables and empty fire-pits, to the lords of the duchy. Words were exchanged and Brom enjoyed the look of exasperation on Justin’s face as they were asked to leave. Hawkin returned and Brom took his seat on the raised dais at the far end of the hall.
The hall had five exits, the main door and four smaller entrances that led into the keep, and the area was used as a thoroughfare by Brom’s household guards and servants. They cleaned, tidied and went about Canarn’s business with vigour, but their tasks made their lord weary and he could wish for other surroundings.
He sat there, quietly musing on his life for a few minutes, until Auker and Sigurd arrived with the prisoner.
William of Verellian did not look his best. He was unkempt and his clothing was of common design, homespun and filthy. He looked rather like a bird of prey, with his sharp nose and angular face. He had a thin growth of hair and had not been allowed a razor to shave his head. Most notable, thought Brom, was the man’s hand. He was missing two fingers – a career-ending injury for a knight of the Red – but his bearing was still noble and he stood upright and defiant as he was led in.
‘My Lord Bromvy,’ said the knight. ‘I have been asking to see you for weeks.’
‘And I have been ignoring you for weeks,’ replied Brom. ‘I’m only seeing you now to avoid dealing with idiot courtiers.’
Auker chuckled and led Verellian to a stop in front of the raised dais. ‘Still in chains, my lord,’ he offered casually.
The knight didn’t look impressed. ‘Though they are not strictly necessary. Ro Canarn was my destination. Why would I want to run?’
Brom sat forward on his chair. ‘The last Red knight to come here had an army with him.’
Verellian laughed in frustration. ‘I’m no longer a knight, my lor
d. I fell at Ro Hail and spent two months living as a prisoner in South Warden.’ He smiled, largely to himself, shaking his head and tugging on the restraining chains. ‘These are not the first chains I’ve worn recently... but I’m tired and I don’t want to be a prisoner any more.’
‘So far you’ve not said anything that makes me want to remove your chains,’ replied Brom, curious as to why the knight was still alive. Neither the Free Companies nor the knights of the Red were renowned for their mercy.
Verellian was silent. He locked eyes with the young lord of Canarn, giving a world-weary smile and showing no fear for his current predicament.
‘I’m just a man, now,’ he said quietly. ‘Not a knight, a lord or anyone of significance. Just a man. Deal with me as you see fit.’
Brom was about to reply when a horn sounded from the outer walls. The sound was a single deep note, rumbling and prolonged, indicating a ship approaching from the south. The harbour of Canarn was closed to ships and no sails had appeared since the city had been retaken. Silence fell at the sound. As it stretched and deepened, everyone present in the great hall of Canarn raised their heads and froze in place.
‘Auker, check that,’ he ordered, his eyes narrowed.
‘My lord,’ replied the guardsman, turning quickly and rushing from the hall.
Verellian, still unmoved by his surroundings, smirked at Brom. ‘Want me to come back later?’
‘Stay where you are,’ he replied, looking over the knight’s shoulder to watch Auker leave by the main door.
More horns sounded and Brom grew concerned. The others in the hall – guardsmen and servants – were now chattering among themselves, reliving the last time the warning horns had been blown. Brom had not been in Canarn when the Red fleet arrived, but a shiver travelled up his spine as he imagined how his father would have felt.
‘Do you know anything about this?’ he asked Verellian.
A shake of the head from the former knight. ‘They won’t be men of the Red. They’re all either in Ranen or on their way to Ranen. Maybe a few are dotted around in barracks, but no battle force.’
‘Bring him,’ Brom said to Tyr Sigurd as he rose from his chair and hurried towards a side entrance.
Hawkin ushered the common folk out of the way and followed, overtaking his lord and opening the door before Brom reached it. ‘To the forward battlements, my lord?’ he asked.
Brom nodded and rushed through the door. The wooden-vaulted corridor was empty and they hurried over dark green carpets and past closed doors and narrow windows. The inner keep of Canarn was a maze to those who did not know its twists and turns, and the warning horn echoed through the endless corridors as they walked quickly on. These walls had recently been repaired and were freshly painted a muted shade of brown.
At the end of the corridor a spiral staircase made of stone led up to the battlements. Brom kept his eyes to the front and tried not to imagine what he might see on the southern horizon. Multiple ships were approaching, judging by the repeated horns, and there were few such fleets left in Tor Funweir. It was unlikely that merchants would approach the city, let alone in force, and Brom could think of no explanation for the warning horn.
At the top of the stone steps, several storeys above the great hall, was a wooden door which he flung outwards. Beyond, the gentle wind blew north across the stone walkway that ran atop the battlements, and the sound of the horns was louder. Brom rushed to the fortifications and leant out over the stone wall of his keep, peering across the sea. Those with him took their own places between stone castellations – all except Verellian, who stood back, unconcerned by the approaching ships.
Across the horizon, lined up in close formation, were twenty sails, each one a troop transport with forward catapults and laden with armoured men. All present held their breath for a moment as they made out the ships’ red insignia.
‘My lord,’ said Hawkin, panting in relief. ‘Those are the banners of Ro Haran.’ He pointed to the red hawk emblazoned on the sails.
The lord of Canarn relaxed as the ships slowed and a white signal arrow was fired, indicating they wished for peaceful contact. Sails were lowered and the transports held a line off the coast of Canarn.
‘Why do the bastards have to use the colour red?’ replied Brom. ‘It’s very confusing.’
Tyr Sigurd, the Dokkalfar warrior, looked at the approaching ships and asked, ‘Are we not to prepare for battle, Lord Bromvy?’
‘I don’t think so, but keep alert,’ replied Brom, unsure why the army of Haran should come to Canarn in force. ‘Hawkin, signal to them. Let’s keep it simple, one ship can approach.’
The guardsman marched off down the battlements towards the inner courtyard. Tyr Sigurd took up Verellian’s chains and stood in close guard, glaring down at the prisoner.
‘If Alexander Tiris wants to chat, who am I to argue,’ mused Brom, largely to himself.
* * *
Lord Bromvy Black Guard of Canarn waited. He sat in his father’s chair, flanked by his guardsmen and behind fifty armed men of his city. William of Verellian was still chained and held by Hawkin to the side of the raised dais, and the hall was well lit by the fire-pits that ran the length of the huge space. A contingent of guardsmen, numbering several Dokkalfar, were escorting the visitors to the great hall. Brom was nervous. He didn’t know why the Hawks had come, but he couldn’t think of a reason that was in any way good.
The doors were opened and they entered. The guardsmen of Canarn stood, in organized columns, either side of the red-clad soldiers. These were the Hawks of Ro, wearing the insignia of their city and striding with a strength of purpose that was impressive to behold. At their front was a muscular, armoured man with a shaved head and an oversized bastard sword at his side. Brom recognized Alexander Tiris and, at his side, Gwendolyn of Hunter’s Cross, his intense wife.
‘Lord Bromvy,’ bellowed Xander, ‘your hall returns to something of its previous warmth.’
‘Fewer people,’ replied Brom.
The Hawks strode forward until they stood in tight lines before the raised dais. Xander had a Blue cleric with him, an older man armed with a heavy mace and a small steel buckler, reminding the lord of Canarn that he no longer had a cleric as a confessor.
‘Sorry to bring another army here,’ said Xander with a smile. ‘It was not my intention to scare your people.’
‘Red is clearly a popular colour in Tor Funweir,’ replied Brom, feeling small in the company of the Red Prince. ‘But you are welcome here.’
‘Make no mistake, we do not come here under the banner of the One God.’
The lord of Ro Haran was renowned as a rebellious man, unlike the others of his family. He was the king’s younger brother and the only man to have left the knights of the Red – though William of Verellian claimed otherwise.
‘Then why do you come here?’ he asked. ‘Tor Funweir could use you elsewhere.’
‘I came here seeking an ally. Though I’d prefer to talk over a drink... with fewer soldiers.’
Brom glanced at his guardsmen. If Xander was here to kill him, he’d have done so already. As long as his fleet of ships remained at anchor in the bay, there was no immediate danger. The men and forest-dwellers of Canarn were a tough bunch, dedicated to protecting the city and keeping its people free.
‘Of course,’ replied Brom. ‘Auker, have the Hawks picketed in the courtyard.’
The guardsman nodded and left, taking several more men with him.
‘My lord Tiris, come with me.’ The lord of Canarn stood and motioned for Tyr Sigurd to accompany him to the adjoining antechamber.
The newcomers showed no signs of surprise at the Dokkalfar present in the great hall and Brom was glad that he didn’t have to explain their presence.
He stepped down on to the carpeted floor and walked to the back of his hall. The room, formerly used as his father’s study, and more recently by Mortimer Rillion, was a cosy office, adorned with the heraldry of Canarn. The black raven in flight, risi
ng over a longsword, a leaf-blade and an axe, carried a special significance for the citizens of the duchy. It symbolized those who had lost their lives defending Canarn and retaking the city from the Red knights.
‘You’ve changed your banner,’ observed Xander as he entered the antechamber, followed by his wife and the Blue cleric. ‘That’s Brytag, isn’t it?’
Brom nodded. ‘That bit hasn’t changed.’
‘And I hear you’ve removed the word Ro from your city,’ said the cleric, though his tone was not disapproving.
‘It’s just Canarn now,’ said Brom. ‘I don’t think we count as part of Tor Funweir any more.’
The duke of Haran took a seat opposite Brom and frowned. ‘The banner and name are both your business, my friend, but I have to correct you on something.’
‘Please do,’ he said, gesturing for Sigurd to bring a decanter of wine from a side table.
‘You are still a lord of Ro,’ said Xander.
Brom chuckled, pouring two glasses of wine.
‘Do I not get one?’ asked the cleric. ‘Oh, don’t worry about it, I’ll pour my own.’ He sat next to the Red Prince and took a large glass of wine. Turning back to Gwendolyn, he asked, ‘Want one?’
She shook her head and remained standing. ‘Maybe one of us should not drink.’
‘Suit yourself,’ replied the cleric, gulping down a mouthful of wine.
‘If we all have suitable refreshment,’ began Brom, ‘you can explain why I should give a shit about Tor Funweir or your idiot brother.’
Xander did not change his expression. ‘Do you want me to say it again?’ he asked.
‘Say what?’
‘You are a lord of Ro. Like it or not, your blood is noble, your name is noble, you are the duke of Canarn and I need your help to save Tor Funweir.’
Brom began to reply, but Gwendolyn interrupted him. ‘Before you speak, Lord Bromvy, please consider the situation. I have a feeling that you often act through passion and instinct. I implore you to try considered reason on this occasion.’
