by A. J. Smith
He had betrayed all of his allies, used and discarded them to increase his power. He had woven treachery and avarice into the world, and his followers would wield them as Rowanoco’s followers wielded their axes.
He breathed fire upon the world and formed the southern deserts. He flapped his huge wings and caused great sandstorms. He roared dominance and suppression, fear and pain. He decried the older Giants and made war upon their followers, for the Long War was his to win.
PROLOGUE
DALIAN WAS STILL alive. He had received just enough healing aid to prevent his death, but not so much as to enable him to stand unaided. His wounded hand was twisted into a claw and wrapped tightly in bandages. Another bandage was secured around his midriff, preventing his lifeblood from leaking from the sword wound in his side. He slumped against steel, surrounded by bars. He could not focus sufficiently to see his cage or think clearly enough to remember his coming into it. All he could do was pray.
His journey was coming to an end. He had no doubt. Death would soon rise to envelop him, and his faith was all he had left.
‘I am not afraid, my lord.’ He rasped the words out of a dry mouth. ‘I have always done what I believed was right. What I believed you wanted.’
He wanted no reward. He just wanted Jaa to blink at his death. To acknowledge that the greatest of the wind claws would be missed.
‘I know I have failed.’
It was a hard admission. Dalian would have casually killed any subordinate who had miscalculated as badly as he had. To expect mercy from the Fire Giant was foolish, but death had a way of providing clarity.
‘I can fight anything but failure, my lord. That enemy I cannot defeat.’
He heard a response. Or maybe his mind conjured one.
‘Failure is of the moment, Dalian,’ the voice said. ‘Your life has been in service. One moment versus a thousand.’
He laughed. His face hurt, but he still laughed. He didn’t care if the voice was real.
The cold steel of the cell offered no warmth. The wind, lancing through the catacombs, pierced his skin and left him numb.
‘I don’t know what’s real any more,’ he said to the darkness. ‘Is even death real?’
‘The end of one journey,’ replied the voice. ‘But there is another to begin. Your service will not end in death.’
He thought of his past. The dark cloisters of Jaa in Kessia. The beautiful fear he embraced as a blanket. A life, or a series of moments, spent in certitude. No doubt, no hesitation, only Jaa.
‘I will fear nothing but Jaa.’ The words were warm in his mouth. ‘I will die. But not in fear.’
He thought of his son. What kind of man was he? Dalian had never cared. Was he strong and honourable, or weak and craven? The thoughts were undoubtedly the product of the cage and his wounds, but maybe Al-Hasim had deserved more of a father. Would he have been the Prince of the Wastes if Dalian had offered him moral guidance? Whoring and villainy had their place, but not to the extent enjoyed by his son. He should have been a wind claw. He should have stayed in Karesia and embraced the fear. As his father had done.
‘He lives still. He fights the Long War, though he does not know it,’ said the voice.
‘Is he strong?’
‘He has killed many men for a cause not his own. He loves a woman he can never truly have. He has friends, enemies, and he is in need of rest.’
Dalian laughed again. This time, he winced in pain. His chest felt heavy, as if he carried a great weight. His eyes could discern the bars now. Looking up, he could see a heavy chain connected to the ceiling. Looking down, only darkness. Somewhere down there the catacombs loomed, momentarily appearing out of the gloom when his mind cleared.
‘I am glad he lives.’
A tear appeared. Emotions were dangerous, a hindrance to his work. He had always suppressed them. Or maybe he had never felt them. It had been so long that he couldn’t be sure.
‘Allow the tears,’ said the voice. ‘Let them flow. You must not fear them.’
‘I fear nothing but Jaa.’ The words were spoken quickly. He didn’t want to forget them. His mind was so foggy, so uncertain, maybe his emotions were unreal.
He roared. A primal snarl, pulled from the depths of his stomach and thrown into the black air. It was a roar of anger, of frustration, but mostly of defeat. He had failed. He was slumped, near to death, in a cage. The greatest of the wind claws would not die in a great battle. His end would be a whimper, a murmur in deep time. Maybe not even that. He cried.
‘Why?’ he roared through the tears. ‘Why now, when I am old?’
He didn’t want answers, he just wanted to shout. If he shouted loud enough, he would be heard. If he ripped his lungs to pieces and bellowed his last into the air, his voice would travel beyond the world and echo through the fire halls.
‘If you had died in youth, you would not have become the greatest of the wind claws,’ replied the voice. ‘And your service would have ended in death.’
He began to recognize the voice. Each word grew clearer and its edges sharper, revealing a deep Karesian accent. ‘Tell me who you are?’ asked Dalian.
‘You know who I am.’
‘Tell me!’ he snapped.
‘I am the shade of Dalian Thief Taker, greatest of the wind claws. I am you... in death.’
‘I am not dead yet,’ he replied.
‘Your journey ends. You know this. I am what you will become. Even now, your mind sends pieces beyond and I slowly take shape from all that you were... from all that you have done. I am the memory of you.’
Dalian’s mind softened. For an instant, just an instant, he was at peace. His death, when it came, held no fear. But he was not ready to stop fighting. If the lands of men were to fall to a Dead God, if Jaa were to be supplanted, then Dalian, dead or alive, would stand at his side.
PART 1
CHAPTER 1
FALLON THE GREY IN THE REALM OF SCARLET
HE HAD BEEN functioning in a strange, twilight world for months. An in-between that didn’t allow for doubt or rest. He was kept alert by conviction, laid low by tiredness, strengthened by his friends, but weakened by his guilt. Maybe he was being tested. Maybe the One was trying to see into his heart. Was he a servant of a god or was he a brutal killer? Was the one exclusive of the other?
‘Wake up, Fallon,’ he said to himself. ‘Just wake up.’
The city of South Warden was the first thing he saw when he rose from his tent each morning. Right now he didn’t want to see it. The second thing was the sprawling camp of yeomanry. They were good men and loyal soldiers, but determination would only take them so far if they were forced to fight the knights of the Red.
The Red banners were a daily reminder that Fallon was a traitor. A traitor whose situation would get an awful lot worse before it would get any better. Although he had good counsel – Sir Theron, Vladimir, Brother Lanry and Major Dimitri – he still bore many burdens himself.
‘Captain,’ said Theron, by way of greeting, as Fallon stepped on to the grass for another tense day.
‘Anything new?’ he asked.
His adjutant shook his head. ‘Normal stuff. The knights keep sending detachments to ride in full-dress uniform across the plains... just waving their cocks at us.’
Fallon chuckled. ‘Informal language this morning?’
‘Sorry, sir, the situation of late has loosened my tongue a little.’
‘It’s okay, Theron. Hopefully, you’ll stop calling me “sir” in the next month.’
He strode away from his tent towards the eastern fortifications of the camp. They had built a wooden stockade and a wide moat, behind which sat their artillery – huge trebuchets armed and sighted at the distant city. Vladimir had overseen the work and the Lord of Mud was a surprisingly effective motivator when he was not drunk.
‘How are the troops?’ asked Fallon.
‘Tense. Nervous. Brother Lanry is doing his best, but ministering to seven thousand men is tricky.’
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The Brown cleric was a good man and he would go without sleep if Fallon would let him, but the army needed more than a single churchman.
‘Oh, there is one thing,’ said Theron. ‘They were setting up some wooden contraption in front of the gates. Not a catapult. No idea what it is.’
‘Let’s go and have a look,’ replied the former knight of the Red.
They walked to a nearby ladder and, a moment later, stood on raised wooden planks looking eastwards across the barricade. The plain was largely empty, although small patrols rode back and forth in front of them. Cardinal Mobius and the king didn’t trust Fallon’s word, it seemed. The Red knights were not at rest and small figures strode along the distant stockade, as if they were waiting for something. He couldn’t see crossbows or loaded catapults.
‘There,’ said Theron, pointing to the newly repaired gateway. ‘Looks like a wooden cross of some kind.’
Fallon peered at a squad of knights busily erecting the wooden frame. Behind them, arrayed in the open gateway of South Warden, were a dozen Purple clerics. He couldn’t see Mobius or Jakan, but they would be there, skulking out of sight, directing their minions.
‘I think they want to show us something,’ said Fallon. ‘Maybe they’re growing impatient.’
Before Theron could answer, a deep bugle sounded from the city. Three long blasts, indicating a parlay. Fallon and his adjutant shared a look of confusion. This was the first time the knights had attempted to communicate since they had escaped from the city. It gave him a sinking feeling.
‘Muster a company of men. Ohms and twenty others,’ ordered Fallon. ‘Let’s go and see what they want... and sight the trebuchets, just in case they forget we’ve got them.’
‘Aye, sir,’ responded Theron with a salute.
Fallon stayed on the raised platform as his adjutant left. He felt the telltale headache that indicated he was not alone. To his left, standing proud in ethereal purple armour, was Torian’s shade. The apparition was looking towards South Warden.
‘Steady yourself, exemplar,’ said the shade. ‘You are about to be tested by unworthy men.’
‘Can you be more specific?’ he asked. ‘There are many such men over there.’
‘Keep your sword arm loose,’ replied Torian.
‘I always do.’
* * *
They lined up, mounted and fully armoured, before a vastly superior force. Vladimir and Lanry had insisted on accompanying them, leaving Major Dimitri in charge of their camp. The small company of men, with the loaded and sighted trebuchets behind them, faced a guard of two hundred knights of the Red and a dozen Purple clerics. Fallon had taken his men to the mid-point between the two forces and waited. The wooden frame was braced in front of the opposing force, and Red knights, wearing the black aprons common to torturers, stood nearby.
‘Oh dear,’ offered Brother Lanry. ‘I never understood why torture is necessary. Good men don’t treat their fellows in such a fashion.’
‘Cunts do,’ replied Vladimir with venom.
‘My lord!’ exclaimed the cleric, blushing at the Lord of Mud’s language.
‘The word seems to apply,’ said Fallon. He scanned the knights. ‘I don’t see Tristram.’
‘Perhaps he feels the same about torture as you and I,’ said Vladimir.
‘Maybe. But why isn’t he here?’
A single blast from the bugle and a guard of Purple clerics parted to allow a small group to march forward. Brother Jakan and Cardinal Mobius, mounted and armoured, rode in front of three men dragging a chained figure. The two senior clerics wore burnished breastplates with the Purple sceptre of nobility prominently displayed.
‘I know that man,’ gasped Brother Lanry, flapping his hands at the chained figure. ‘That’s Horrock Green Blade, the captain of Wraith Company.’
‘Thought he died at the breach,’ said Fallon, resting his hand on his sword hilt.
‘He was definitely wounded,’ replied the cleric. ‘He fought Brother Jakan.’
The Ranen chieftain was barely clothed, his bloodied body clad only in rags, and his long, wild hair was matted and stained red. He was chained at the hands and feet and was being carried as a dead weight by three bound knights.
He was taken to the wooden frame and given to the torturers in full view. The Darkwald yeomanry were also watching – crammed on to the raised stockade or peering through the wooden gates.
‘Behold the justice of Tor Funweir,’ announced Mobius, riding to the front of the assembled knights. ‘All traitors will meet the same fate if they do not surrender to our will. It is our right, our duty to rule these lands. Peasants and lesser men will be treated as they deserve.’
Jakan directed the torturers to tie Horrock to the frame, which was now lying flat on the grass. His arms and legs were spread wide and tied to the four points of the cross, leaving his head to hang limply. He was still alive, though his movements, limited by his restraints, were jerky and hesitant. He was dazed and barely conscious.
‘This lesser man will be an example to you all,’ bellowed Mobius, wheeling his horse theatrically in front of his men.
Jakan stayed close to Horrock and was giving the orders. ‘Cripple him,’ he commanded.
Four torturers were positioned at the Ranen’s extremities, hefting small hatchets and sneering at the captive. With a wave of the cleric’s hand, they swung. With deft skill, they removed Horrock’s hands and feet. It was a grisly sight and a worse sound.
Brother Lanry vomited from his horse, and several other men baulked and turned away.
Horrock wailed in pain, but he was a broken man with little awareness of where he was or what had been done to him. The torturers flung the man’s severed parts into a bucket and used burning torches to seal the wounds. The smell travelled far.
Fallon saw red. This wanton cruelty was as far from an honourable death as he could imagine. Jakan’s indifference, Mobius’s arrogance, the knights’ compliance. The exemplar of the One was angry. He clenched his fists and panted heavily, curling his mouth into a snarl.
‘Look upon this man, Fallon,’ screamed Jakan. ‘Look upon his broken body.’
Horrock was no longer moving and the Grey Knight lost control. He kicked his horse forward. Those around him, still stunned by the Ranen’s mutilation, didn’t react, only registering surprise and then words of alarm once Fallon was plunging over the grass towards the Red knights. He wasn’t thinking. All he could see was Brother Jakan, standing with his sword raised and a smirk on his face. This man must die, he thought, over and over.
‘With me,’ roared Theron, kicking his own horse into motion and following. ‘Fallon...’
The exemplar could hear his cries but didn’t turn away or slow his charge. He heard a distant bugle from the camp of the yeomanry. The rest of the army knew something was wrong.
Ahead of him, two hundred knights of the Red were looking at their commanders, hesitantly drawing swords as the lone rider approached. The few Purple clerics were forming up round Mobius, protecting their cardinal, and Jakan stood awaiting Fallon, with the torturers at his back. Horrock was spreadeagled behind them, the smouldering stumps of his limbs filling the air with a foul stench.
‘You are a coward,’ bellowed the exemplar, clamping his legs to the saddle and keeping his sword close to his body. He didn’t care about the men before him, the two hundred knights, the armed clerics – or about his chances of survival. He only cared about killing Jakan.
‘Breath slowly, exemplar,’ whispered Torian, ‘The One protects you. Your sword will be as lightning, your strength as mountains, your mind as stone.’
Fallon saw things in slow motion. The ground beneath him, eaten up by his charge, flowed and contorted, and the men before him moved as flickering echoes. Each one, a trained soldier and skilled fighter, was hesitant, taken completely by surprise.
He rode closer to Jakan, passing the forward ranks of their army.
‘Hold your ground. He is but one man,’
ordered Mobius. ‘Jakan, deal with him.’
‘Crossbows,’ commanded Jakan, directing a squad of bound men to load their weapons and stand to.
The strings flexed and the bolts flew, all in slow motion, as Fallon neared the Purple cleric. They should have hit him but he jumped from his horse at the last moment. He didn’t know how, how he was fast enough, but he was. His senses were heightened and the crossbow bolts passed harmlessly over him. He felt both serenity and anger as he rolled forward on to the grass.
‘Fallon of Leith... time to die,’ challenged Jakan, running at the lone figure.
The crossbowmen stood in close guard but held their position, watching their commander advance as they began to reload. The other two hundred knights, uncertain what to do, began to encircle the two swordsmen, creating an open area with the mutilated Ranen chieftain in the centre. Fallon stood, surrounded by a wall of steel and red, facing Brother Jakan.
Behind him, he could hear Theron, Ohms and the others riding hard to join him, but knights blocked their path and to continue would have meant their death. In the distance he could hear horses returning to their stockade and guessed that Vladimir and Lanry were not accompanying the former knights.
‘You have betrayed the One,’ said Fallon, sidestepping a measured opening thrust from the Purple cleric. ‘And now you will die for it.’
He was aware that he stood alone, within an overwhelming force of knights, but all he felt was the strength of his god and all he saw was the loathsome Purple cleric before him.
Jakan attacked again, but his overhead swing was easily deflected. Fallon took a step back and allowed the cleric to advance.
‘Behold, the finest swordsmen in Tor Funweir,’ barked Jakan. ‘He will fall before a nobleman of the One God.’
The exemplar smiled. He saw the warrior opposite him for what he was – a small-minded bully with no might beyond his station.
‘I’m going to use you,’ whispered Fallon. ‘I’m going to kill you in increments so all can see.’
