The Long War 03 - The Red Prince

by A. J. Smith

  ‘So kill me, you turncoat bastard.’

  Fallon attacked and their swords clashed. He used minimal strength, swinging in tight circles and keeping the cleric from countering. He was faster than Jakan and their audience held its collective breath.

  ‘You delegate too much of your swordplay... you’re out of practice,’ mocked the exemplar, delivering a feint to the cleric’s side. Jakan tried to block it, but couldn’t move quickly enough to deflect the follow-up attack. Fallon’s blade swung low, delivering a deep cut to the man’s unprotected thigh.

  ‘One cut for your dishonour,’ shouted Fallon, kicking Jakan to the ground.

  The cleric rolled backwards skilfully, wincing as blood seeped from his leg. He got back to his feet and looked around. He saw hundreds of his men, all standing off and allowing them to fight. Now he looked afraid. He was close to the wooden frame and Horrock’s broken body, and the obstacle would make retreat difficult.

  Fallon stepped forward, nimbly crossing the grass and forcing Jakan on to the defensive. Their swords clashed repeatedly as combinations were delivered and parried. Fallon conserved his strength. He was the better swordsman – taller, stronger and faster, with battle-tested skill. He used the wooden frame to keep Jakan off guard and never felt as if the cleric was his match. His sword felt weightless and his movements were smooth, flowing from one into the next, almost before Jakan could react.

  An opening appeared and the exemplar swung a light cut at Jakan’s neck.

  ‘Two cuts for the battle of South Warden,’ he roared, again kicking the Purple cleric to the grass.

  His opponent grabbed at the wound and blood snaked out from between his fingers. It was enough to show that the cleric was outmatched. He shuffled backwards, keeping his sword up, but he didn’t stand up.

  Cardinal Mobius, still mounted and remaining behind his troops, shouted over the sound of combat. ‘Jakan, kill him.’

  He gestured to the surrounding knights and each man of the Red drew his blade and made the circle of combat shrink.

  Fallon readied to defend himself when another bugle sounded from the yeomanry camp. He turned back to the west, as did many of the opposing knights, and Mobius flashed a grimace of anger.

  ‘Let them fight,’ commanded a familiar voice from behind the knights. Fallon couldn’t see him, but recognized Theron’s voice. As the knights slowly parted, he saw a line of yeomanry approaching with Vladimir at the head. Over their shoulders, loaded and ready, poking out from the stockade, were four huge trebuchets. Theron, Ohms and the rest of Fallon’s former unit were lined up just beyond the Red knights with swords raised.

  ‘If that fight becomes anything other than one on one we will bombard you until you cry,’ shouted Theron. ‘It’s a duel. Jakan started it, Fallon will finish it.’

  ‘How dare you!’ Mobius’s voice was shrill and tinged with indignation. ‘Traitors will never prevail.’

  ‘Fuck you and fuck your words!’ replied Theron, shouting across the assembled knights of the Red. ‘We are the true servants of the One... now, let them fight.’

  Mobius was wrestling with his desire to kill them all, but the cardinal wouldn’t risk losing his force to sustained artillery fire. The trebuchets would cripple any advance before it could reach the yeomanry’s stockade. They equalized the odds against the greater skill of the Red knights.

  ‘Knights, stand to,’ ordered Mobius reluctantly.

  Fallon turned back to Jakan. ‘Stand!’

  All those assembled watched the two warriors and the circle grew again to give them room to fight. The wounded cleric stood and took his hand from his neck. The cut was not deep but looked ugly and continued to bleed. The leg wound was more of an impediment to movement and he approached gingerly.

  ‘Are you ready to die, cleric?’ asked Fallon.

  ‘Killing me will only prove your dishonour,’ he replied.

  Torian’s shade, hovering next to the exemplar, let out a muted laugh – the first expression of this kind Fallon had heard from him. The apparition transferred a stoical resolve that strengthened the former knight. As he attacked Jakan, he felt more righteous than he had ever done.

  The duel was now one-sided, with Fallon slowly dissecting Jakan’s flawed technique, made worse by his wounds.

  ‘Three cuts for the One God,’ said Fallon as he opened up the cleric’s shoulder, cutting to the bone.

  A swift pivot, a braced forearm, and the exemplar severed Jakan’s head. ‘Four cuts for me,’ he said in a throaty growl.

  Fallon looked down at the pool of blood spreading from the neck and again he felt serene. Torian was next to him, showing a more expressive face than usual. A look passed between the exemplar and the shade conveyed that the One God was pleased with the Grey Knight’s resolve.

  He turned his attention to the encircling soldiers. ‘Any man who doubts my faith, let him step forward,’ he challenged. ‘I am Fallon the Grey and I speak for the One God.’

  Silence. More than two hundred eyes regarded him, some in shock, but most in fear. Brother Jakan was renowned as a cleric of the sword and an accomplished warrior, and he had just been killed with ease. The knights were helpless, unable to move for fear of the trebuchets. Vladimir had assembled five hundred men and the yeomanry were fast approaching, causing Cardinal Mobius to wheel his horse back towards South Warden and order a garbled withdrawal.

  Fallon didn’t move as the knights of the Red enacted an orderly retreat back through the gates of the Ranen city. Most averted their eyes from the exemplar, keeping them focused on the men in front of them and trying to find solace in their knightly training. He allowed himself a smile as he strolled casually back to his own troops.

  ‘What are you doing, Fallon?’ screamed Vladimir. ‘You made me shit myself... and puke... and I really need a fucking drink.’

  * * *

  Moving Horrock Green Blade back to the camp of the yeomanry was a grisly process. The poor man was alive but had been beaten so severely that, even before his mutilation, he would have been unlikely to recover fully. Brother Lanry was the only man among them who knew him, but all of Fallon’s unit felt responsible for his fate. The Brown cleric, ushering away anyone who enquired as to the Ranen’s condition, stood over him the entire way back, whispering kind words into the unconscious man’s ear.

  Horrock was moved to a quiet tent where Lanry and several of the camp physicians saw to his wounds, while Fallon joined Vladimir, Theron and Major Dimitri in the command tent.

  ‘Do you mind telling me why you did that?’ demanded the Lord of Mud, swigging from a bottle of Darkwald red. ‘It’s only a chance in a million that you’re still alive.’

  ‘He had his reasons,’ replied Theron, looking at his commander with pride.

  ‘My arse,’ spat Vladimir. ‘Something happened there. What? Fallon, what?’

  The exemplar was seated with his sword still belted around his waist. He’d not seen or heard from Torian since Jakan died, but he could still feel the shade’s presence. Fallon was clear of mind and hoped those with him could understand, or at least trust him.

  ‘I got angry,’ he replied.

  ‘My arse... again,’ said Vladimir. ‘Come on, talk to us. We’re all traitors, remember.’

  ‘I knew I wouldn’t die,’ said Fallon, knowing how cryptic it sounded. ‘We’re doing the right thing. It’s not the safe thing or the easy thing, but it is what the One God wants. If we act with honour...’ he smiled, ‘we will always be doing the right thing.’

  Major Dimitri, a wine-maker who was not used to combat, let alone facing off against an army of Red knights, looked especially confused by this answer. ‘I’m not sure it’s my place to say, but I think I trust Sir Fallon,’ he said.

  ‘As do I,’ agreed Theron quickly.

  ‘You’re too earnest for your own good,’ snapped Vladimir, ‘and I’m too sober to worry about this... we’re alive, Jakan is dead, the stand-off remains.’ He paused. ‘Just warn me when you’re goin
g to do shit like that, Fallon.’

  ‘But Jakan is dead,’ replied the exemplar with a smile. ‘And the man was a pig.’

  The Lord of Mud shook his head, wrestling with his growing helplessness. ‘You’re not just a swordsman, are you?’ He paused. ‘I like you, Fallon, but I’m taking a lot on trust here.’

  ‘Are you? The king threw your men away at the breach of South Warden. As far as I can tell, I’m your only way of getting home.’ Fallon spoke calmly, before standing up and offering his hand to the lord of Darkwald. ‘I can’t promise you a happy ending, my friend, but I can promise you that I speak for the One. Please trust me.’

  Vladimir was not a coward but he had already lost half his force in Ranen and was primarily concerned with keeping the rest of them alive. For a change, his mind was not addled with drink and his intelligence shone through.

  ‘Put your hand down, man, we’re beyond handshakes.’ He tried to smile, though the expression was weak and tired. ‘Share a drink with me... and promise me you will try your utmost to keep my men alive.’

  ‘Agreed,’ replied Fallon, lowering his hand and returning to his seat.

  Vladimir rubbed his eyes and plonked himself down on a second chair. He puffed out his cheeks and reached for the bottle of wine, waving for Dimitri to join him. ‘Theron, will you share a drink with us?’

  The former knight had not yet broken his vows. Unlike Fallon, he was reluctant to do so. ‘I’ve not tasted alcohol for... maybe seven years,’ said Theron.

  ‘Perfect, consider me your spiritual father, then,’ joked Vladimir, grabbing some extra goblets and pouring out four large measures.

  Dimitri and Theron sat down and the four men leant in, each holding a brass goblet of red wine.

  ‘I would like to propose a toast,’ said the Lord of Mud. ‘To Fallon the Grey and the continued survival of our little rebellion.’

  A muffled laugh came from Fallon and was quickly shared by the others. They all drank deeply and shared a moment of quiet reflection, glancing at one another and hoping they were not being foolish in maintaining the stand-off. Win or lose, they were on the right side. Fallon was sure that he acted with the blessing of the One God, but he did not know if that would mean their survival.

  They sat in silence for another minute as Vladimir refilled their goblets and each man drank. Then, pushing the tent flap inwards, Brother Lanry entered the command pavilion. The Brown cleric was flushed and a residue of blood was on his hands.

  ‘Sir Fallon,’ he said, ‘I think Captain Horrock wants to speak to you. He is awake and talking, but his mind and body are broken.’

  The exemplar bowed his head, placing his goblet on the floor. Lanry realized that he’d interrupted something and frowned. ‘Alcohol, Sir Fallon? So, our vows mean nothing now?’

  ‘My vows, not yours... each to their own, brother.’

  ‘Hmm,’ replied Lanry. ‘I’ll try not to judge... but I think we should honour Captain Horrock.’

  ‘The only time I saw the Ranen before today was when he fought Verellian in Ro Hail,’ Fallon replied. ‘And I was his enemy that day.’

  ‘Please come with me, Sir Fallon,’ implored the old cleric.

  He bore no ill will towards the chieftain of Wraith Company, but he had no words of comfort for the man. His people were probably all dead and his land was being ridden over by knights of the Red. That was the reality and Fallon was not able to soften it, not even for a mutilated man.

  ‘What does he want from me?’ he asked, already standing and preparing to accompany Lanry.

  ‘He wants to know what happened to the Free Companies. I don’t think he’s up to date with current events. The poor man barely remembers fighting at the breach of South Warden.’

  ‘Okay, I can spare the time. He’s lost more than any of us.’

  Fallon left the others sitting quietly and continuing to drink as he accompanied Lanry out of the command pavilion. Outside, their men had rapidly returned to their positions at ease around cook fires and between their tents. The trebuchet crews were still on duty, as was a single company patrolling the palisade above. A quick glance to the east showed that South Warden was once again locked up tight. The Plains of Scarlet were clear of knights. For a change, the situation looked stable.

  ‘May I be impertinent?’ asked Lanry, once they were alone.

  ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘I like impertinence.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, Sir Fallon, but one likes to be sure.’

  ‘What is it, brother?’ he prompted, facing the old cleric.

  ‘Well, you see, I’m not a soldier,’ he said, stating the obvious. ‘Nor am I a commander, a diplomat or a cardinal. What I am is a cleric of the One. I have not turned from my god, my country or my vows.’

  ‘Granted,’ said Fallon. ‘Please, get to your point.’

  Lanry frowned, his grey eyebrows wrinkling up in consternation. ‘I’ll get to my point in my own time. A cleric of the Brown I may be, but I’m a good deal older and wiser than you, young man.’

  Fallon chuckled. ‘I’m sorry. Please continue, brother.’

  ‘Apology accepted,’ he replied. ‘Now, if you’ll allow me to continue. I know what you are, Sir Fallon, even if the others do not.’

  The former knight smiled, looking at Lanry with friendly suspicion. ‘You know what I am?’

  ‘I do, I do. I’ve known all along and, unless I’m mistaken, an exemplar needs a confessor as much as a duke.’

  This made Fallon laugh. His head went back with involuntary amusement at the old man’s words.

  ‘For months I’ve been wrestling with this. It’s turned my head inside out... and you knew all along?’

  ‘Well, I had to make sure that you were suitable. I served under Cardinal Cerro. It’s unlikely a knight of the Red would know, but we of the Brown church are given certain... knowledge, that the other orders of churchmen are not privy to. We seek neither power nor glory and the One sees our worth.’

  Fallon had never been particularly pious, even when he was supposed to be. His time in the Red cathedral had been spent yawning and pulling strange faces at William of Verellian. It was no surprise to him that the other orders had secrets that they did not share with the aspect of war.

  ‘How am I doing so far?’ he asked. ‘As exemplar?’

  ‘Admirably,’ replied Lanry, with a warm smile. ‘Overwhelming odds are a good way to ascertain a man’s worth. I must say, you have been most honourable and strong. As your confessor, I am to assist with wisdom and... other less violent elements.’

  Fallon put his hand on the cleric’s shoulder. ‘I would welcome a confessor, brother. My time as exemplar has been rather... lonely.’

  ‘Oh, my dear boy, for that I apologize.’ The Brown cleric gave the tall swordsman a fatherly smile. ‘Shall we go and talk to Captain Horrock?’

  ‘Let’s,’ agreed Fallon.

  They walked along the line of tents, receiving salutes and nods of greeting from a dozen or more men of Darkwald. At the end of the row was Lanry’s pavilion, an informal chapel that the Brown cleric had claimed. He didn’t preach or deliver sermons, but the old man was available for any who wished for counsel or meditation. He was also very skilled at making tea and had, on more than one occasion, calmed Fallon’s nerves with a pot of steaming liquid. He sweetened it with honey and seemed to have an inexhaustible supply.

  At the end of the line of tents they entered the makeshift chapel. Within, the stench of death was all-pervasive. The smell was familiar to Fallon. It had hung over every battlefield he’d ever seen. On this occasion it emanated from the mutilated body of the Ranen chieftain. He was still, except for a slight movement in his chest, and bloodied bandages held the stumps of his arms and legs. He lay on a waist-high table in the centre of the tent, with bowls of bloody water and bandages all around him.

  ‘It’s not a pleasant sight,’ said Lanry, moving to inspect the Ranen’s wounds.

  ‘Haffen!’ screamed Horrock sud
denly. ‘We need to defend the courtyard.’

  ‘Easy, master Green Blade,’ said Lanry softly. ‘Breathe slowly.’

  ‘Has he ranted much?’ asked Fallon.

  The cleric nodded. ‘Since he woke up, he’s jumped in and out of lucidity. I think a bit of him is still defending Ro Hail.’

  ‘You’re not in Tor Fuck-Weir any more,’ growled Horrock, beginning to thrash around. ‘We are men of Wraith!’

  ‘He was tortured... badly. Even before they crippled him,’ said Lanry. ‘He’ll think clearly again, I’m sure.’

  The cleric placed a hand on Horrock’s forehead. ‘Be at peace, warrior of Rowanoco,’ he said. ‘Your fighting is done. You can rest.’

  The Ranen began to sob. His body shivered and curled up into a ball.

  ‘Captain Horrock,’ said Fallon, stepping forward. ‘I wish you would hear me.’

  ‘I hear you,’ he replied, choking the words out through tears. He turned over, directing his bright green eyes at Fallon. ‘Am I alive?’

  ‘You are,’ he replied. ‘Though your body is broken.’

  Lanry frowned at the exemplar. ‘That’s not much of a bedside manner.’

  ‘Is that what you think he needs, brother?’ asked Fallon. ‘A kind word? A pat on the shoulder? He’s a true fighting man, I won’t patronize him.’

  Horrock tried to sit up. Lanry quickly moved to assist him, providing support for his neck.

  ‘Up we go,’ said the cleric.

  The Ranen’s eyes were more aware now. He bit his lip and twitched, but his mind worked. For the moment at least.

  ‘You’re Fallon of Leith,’ said Horrock, peering at the tall swordsman.

  ‘I am. We met once as enemies.’

  ‘I knew William of Verellian. He was an honourable man,’ replied the Ranen, grimacing in pain as Lanry started to change his bandages.

  ‘He was. And is,’ said Fallon.

  ‘Master Green Blade, you really should lie down,’ said Lanry, lowering Horrock back to the table.

  ‘I can’t feel anything,’ said the wounded man.

  ‘You have endured more than any man should,’ said Fallon. ‘I can offer you a peaceful death, but little else.’