The Long War 03 - The Red Prince

by A. J. Smith

  ‘I understand that I’ve asked a lot of you,’ he replied.

  ‘You didn’t ask.’

  ‘You know what I mean, you cheeky bastard.’

  Randall coughed as the dust caught the back of his throat. ‘Is it always this dusty?’

  ‘Never been here before,’ replied Utha. He glanced up again. ‘Maybe we should try for higher ground. Some of those walkways look clear.’

  Voon and Ruth, sauntering a little way ahead of them, stopped and pointed to an open doorway at the top of a set of wide steps. The door was at the base of one of the smaller towers. From the mid-point upwards the tower was in ruins, with only a single walkway leading to the rest of the web.

  ‘Just thinking we should get out of the dust,’ said Utha, joining the others.

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Voon. ‘It is not wise to remain on the streets of Thrakka for too long. People watch. And they whisper.’

  Randall glanced around. ‘There’s no one here. Who’s watching us?’

  ‘The viziers will have noted our presence,’ said Voon. ‘They are lethargic and decadent, but they will eventually become concerned.’

  ‘Where’s your friend’s tower?’ asked Utha.

  ‘Not far. But let us be rested before we approach. I fear that he may be watched.’

  Ruth gathered the hem of her dress and walked up the steps. She peered through the open doorway, slowly scanning whatever was inside. Then she waved for the others to follow.

  Through the door, the bottom level of the ruined tower was wide and tall, with no internal walls and dusty detritus covering the floor. A staircase snaked its way round the circular walls, leading to the upper levels high above. The steps were broken in places and showed no signs of recent use.

  ‘We’ve stayed in worse,’ joked Randal. ‘Do we rest here or go further up?’

  Without replying, Voon walked to the staircase and mounted higher up the tower. Randall scoffed at his rudeness, shaking his head at Utha.

  ‘He only answers questions he believes need answers,’ said Ruth, following the exemplar up the stairs. ‘He desires rest before we move on.’

  ‘He’s a contrary bastard,’ said Utha, slapping Randall on the shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s get up out of the dust.’

  The stairs had no railing and completed two full circles of the tower before they reached the second floor. Randall was puffing by the end, leaning on his knees for the last few steps. He glanced down and wished that he hadn’t.

  ‘All right, lad?’ asked Utha.

  ‘Heights,’ replied Randall. ‘I’m not too good with them.’

  The old-blood chuckled. ‘This place is full of towers, my dear boy. Heights and towers go hand in hand.’

  The young squire felt nauseous. The ground below caused a distortion that made his head hurt.

  ‘Sorry I teased you for being seasick,’ he said, without looking at his master.

  Utha pulled Randall away from the top of the stairs. ‘Come on, lad.’

  The second floor of the ruined tower was bizarre. Sounds began as soon as they left the staircase, as if they had been masked up to that point: the babble of water, the rustling of foliage, the whistle of wind. The second floor was an overgrown garden, its roots delving into the stone of the tower. The walls were coated with creeping vines and from the ceiling dropped gnarly wooden tendrils. A small rock pool sat in the middle of the circular space, with an elegant waterfall dribbling murky water into it. The garden had not been tended for some time, but it had a soporific quality that made a tingle travel up his spine.

  Voon was already reclining on the vibrant green grass, leaving Utha and Randall to look at each other in amazement. The wide, open chamber was at least two storeys high, with several crumbling archways providing exits from the garden into thin air.

  ‘Who owned this tower?’ asked Utha.

  Voon shrugged. ‘Many viziers like gardens. It takes magic to make anything grow in this dust and heat.’ He flexed his back and placed his spear on the grass. ‘As for who owned it... I neither know nor care.’

  Randall reached out and ran his hand through the grass, half expecting it to be fake. ‘How does it grow halfway up a tower on cold stone?’

  ‘Magic,’ repeated Voon, shaking off his travelling cloak and closing his eyes.

  ‘I don’t like this tower,’ muttered Ruth, looking out of an archway to the dusty street below. ‘Something isn’t right.’

  Randall dumped his backpack on the grass and sat down with a grunt of tired exertion. Utha followed, unbuckling his sword belt and making himself comfortable against a thick vine.

  ‘Can we talk about it after we’ve slept for a few hours,’ said Utha, rubbing his eyes. ‘I think I might even take my boots off.’

  ‘I’m not tired,’ replied Ruth. ‘I may go for a walk.’

  ‘Be safe,’ slurred Randall, feeling his eyelids droop.

  * * *

  Sasha the Illusionist smiled. She slowly opened her eyes and surveyed her design. The tower was perfect. Ruined, discrete and strangely desirable. Exactly the refuge a man such as Voon would seek. The garden, modelled after a similar one in Oron Kaa, was a personal touch. She enjoyed gardens and thought it a kindness to give her victims a sense of peace before she sliced off their skin.

  It was a simple matter to pass Utha on the road. They had purchased a covered litter and paid for the strongest slaves. She estimated that they had arrived a day before their quarry.

  Voon’s friend, Shadaran Bakara, had been taken into custody and Sasha had prepared a meticulous trap for the Ghost and his retinue. They now waited on a higher balcony, looking down from Bakara’s tower.

  ‘Who’s the woman?’ asked Pevain, licking his lips.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘She has a highly trained mind.’

  Sasha narrowed her eyes and followed the movements of the dark woman. She had not fallen asleep and was strolling along a nearby walkway. Something about her was confusing, as if her mind was not open. The illusion affected the exemplar and the old-blood, but not the woman. She was neither Karesian nor Ro. She glided across the walkway, taking note of people and structures. Her eyes were never still, but her movements were slow and precise, suggesting a stalking animal. She moved away from the illusion, disappearing among Thrakkans.

  ‘No, I don’t know who she is,’ Sasha repeated. ‘But she is not our concern. Let her walk.’

  ‘We can deal with her later,’ replied the knight. ‘That vizier has got men round the tower, ready to move in. I’ll escort you over when it’s done.’

  ‘No,’ replied Sasha. ‘I will be there when they are subdued. I want to see their faces.’

  ‘Whatever you want,’ grunted Pevain, ‘so long as I get to fuck the boy and kill the Ghost.’

  Sasha tried to ignore the man’s mutterings. She had wondered about this moment, played it through in her mind. Since her beloved sister had tasked her with finding the Ghost, she had imagined his face. Would he beg or cry? Surely not. The famous Utha the Ghost was a true fighting man, strong and resolute. He would fight until the end. It would take much torture to break him. Perhaps he would never break. What a wondrous thought. She smiled, feeling warmth run through her body.

  ‘Whenever you’re ready,’ bleated Pevain.

  ‘I am ready,’ she replied.

  He flashed her a sneering grin and drew his Ranen war-hammer. Behind them, standing ready in the smashed remnants of Bakara’s tower, were a dozen men of Ro. Pevain’s bastards were swarthy and wore the masks of men who enjoyed the baser things in life. She’d largely ignored them during their journey, accepted their deference and tuned out their ignorance.

  ‘Tell the Karesians to wait for us,’ commanded Pevain, sending a flunky scurrying for the stairs.

  The rest of them followed, sharing a collective sense of anticipation. The men grunted and growled, like beasts preparing for the hunt. Their words were mumbled and unintelligible, conveying primal desires for death and defilement.
Sasha had nothing but contempt for their shallow, empty lives.

  She followed quietly, letting her mind focus on the Ghost. She could see his pale face, his pink eyes and his bone-white hair. She desired him in many ways. To see him, touch him, experience him. She longed for him as a spider longs for a fly.

  They left the tower via a long walkway above the dust of the street. Poised and ready for combat were twenty templars of Thrakka and their vizier master. Sanaa Law Keeper approached her and spread his arms wide in an unnecessarily florid greeting. He wore yellow and red robes, with garish jewellery on his hands and around his neck.

  ‘Most beautiful mistress,’ said the vizier. ‘We await your well-considered word.’

  ‘Let’s just kill ’em,’ offered Pevain.

  ‘Please be silent,’ replied Sasha. ‘Master vizier, have your men surround the ruined tower.’

  Sanaa looked up at the crumbling stone. Sasha had built her illusion atop an existing structure. Utha rested, not on grass surrounded by shrubbery, but on cold stone, with the open air for company.

  ‘Where does the real tower end, my lady?’ asked Sanaa.

  ‘The bottom level is real,’ she replied. ‘My craft starts at the top of the stairs.’

  ‘Very well, we will stop the criminals from escaping. Though I would enjoy the opportunity to immolate them, mistress. Or perhaps inch them...’

  Sasha had no stomach for the whims of lesser beings. She scowled at the vizier. ‘Just do as you’re told. Your desires have no place here.’

  ‘Your will, mistress,’ replied Sanaa, bowing again.

  She dismissed him and glided to the ruined tower. Pevain and his mercenaries followed, drawing their uncouth weapons and exchanging vile expressions of intent, none of which she would allow them to indulge.

  She could still feel the mind of the old-blood, calling to her like a flower to a bee. To taste his death would be to taste the purest of nectar, the sweetest of fruit. She would do what her sisters could not, what the armies of Tor Funweir could not. She would enslave Utha the Ghost.

  Within, the tower was a broken stone shell. A whistle of wind swirled downwards from the open level above, agitating the detritus. Sweat and travel dust marked the stairs. Voon had led them into her trap. The exemplar was foolish to return. If he had stayed in the deserts, they might have ignored him, for without an old-blood he was harmless. But he had reared his head and become an enemy worth killing. He was almost as rich a prize as the old-blood himself.

  ‘Let me go first and subdue the Ghost,’ offered Pevain, hefting his war-hammer.

  ‘Have I ordered you to do that?’ countered Sasha, reluctantly leaving her thoughts.

  ‘No,’ he replied, scratching his scarred neck. ‘I was just—’

  ‘Confine yourself to things I have ordered you to do,’ she interrupted. ‘You are to accompany me and fight when I tell you to fight. You are not to talk to me. Understood?’

  ‘Your sister was more agreeable,’ replied the knight of Ro.

  Sasha stopped walking. She took a moment to compose herself and faced Pevain. ‘Do I need to do something unpleasant? Something to impress my dominance upon you? Hurt you or enchant you?’

  He sneered, but didn’t say anything unwise. ‘I apologize, my lady. Lead the way.’

  She smiled. ‘That is a good attitude, please maintain it.’

  Keeping a tight rein on her irritation, Sasha advanced into the tower. She breathed slowly, tuning out the inane babble of the men. Her thoughts returned to the old-blood. She could feel his breathing, his heartbeat, the cool touch of his skin, the soft white of his hair. He was beautifully unique.

  She walked up the encircling stairs and entered her own illusion. The babble of water and rustling of trees aided her calm, bringing a serene smile to her face. Behind, Pevain’s men stayed on the stairs, allowing her to enter and survey her design.

  ‘There you are,’ she breathed, fixing her eyes on the sleeping old-blood.

  Voon, Utha, and the young squire slumped against trees and on the grass, sleeping deeply. All three looked so peaceful she almost didn’t want to wake them.

  The squire was closest. He was a strapping young man, tightly muscled and lean. She crouched next to him and ran her hands across his bare shoulders and down his arms. His skin was smooth, with few scars. He was handsome in a boyish way, with a thin beard and light brown hair.

  ‘The boy’s more dangerous than he looks,’ whispered Pevain.

  She fought the urge to hurt the ignorant mercenary.

  ‘What is his name?’ she asked.

  ‘Randall of... somewhere. Darkwald, I think.’

  She leant over the young man, placing her mouth next to his. She kissed him gently, savouring the taste. ‘We will start with you,’ she murmured, feeling her body sway with pleasure.

  ‘Pevain, stand your men on guard. Secure the other two, but do not wake them.’

  He grinned and positioned his men in the garden, standing over Voon and Utha. Even the uncivilized mercenaries were lulled into tranquillity by her illusion. She did not make them sleep but her design halted their banter.

  ‘Wake up, Randall,’ she said, gently weaving an enchantment into his young mind.

  His eyes opened slowly and a childlike smile appeared. His will was stronger than his years would suggest, but Sasha enjoyed grasping his mind. He was now hers. For this moment and forever.

  ‘Who are you?’ he whispered breathlessly.

  ‘I am your life... from now on, I am all you will love, all you will care for.’

  He nodded, his eyes wide and euphoric.

  ‘I am yours,’ said Randall of Darkwald, caressing her cheek with rough hands.

  ‘You may stand, sweet Randall,’ she said, beckoning him to his feet.

  Pevain nodded approvingly as the young squire stood up. Randall drew his sword and adopted a protective pose behind his mistress.

  ‘That is good, my love,’ she said, transferring waves of pleasure to the young man. ‘You will enjoy being in my service.’

  ‘He’s not so tough now,’ guffawed Pevain.

  ‘Silence when the mistress is talking,’ barked Randall, levelling his longsword at the mercenary knight.

  Sasha gasped with pleasure. ‘Not now, my dear, we have work to do,’ she said. ‘Let us rouse the old-blood.’

  She waved the mercenaries to the perimeter of the garden. Her illusion was masterfully constructed and now that they were all within it the space was indistinguishable from reality. The men with her leant against the illusory walls, feeling their solidity with no fear of falling to the street below.

  Sasha strolled across the garden, taking Randall with her. Then she stopped. Something was wrong. A nagging tickle developed at the back of her mind, a persistent irritation made her eyes twitch.

  She stopped walking in the centre of the garden and looked up. Her illusion formed a dome above, with knitted vines and grasses criss-crossing the ceiling.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Pevain, swinging his hammer over Utha’s head in a threatening manner. He looked up. ‘What are you looking at?’

  ‘I see web,’ she replied.

  Gaps were appearing in the ceiling, small patches where the illusion had broken. In the spaces Sasha could see dense web, and it was spreading, each patch of web growing like a fungus and eating into her design.

  ‘That is not possible,’ she said.

  Then pain. A biting surge of unknowable power as her illusion was shattered. Above and all around them was web, a dome of dense, white fibre encompassing the ruined second floor of the tower.

  ‘Fuck me!’ exclaimed Pevain. ‘Where did that come from?’

  Utha and Voon awoke. Both men opened their eyes and stood up suddenly, the soporific illusion disappearing in an instant.

  ‘You!’ roared Voon, locking eyes with Sasha. ‘Utha, we must leave... now.’

  The old-blood took in his surroundings quickly. Taking advantage of Pevain’s shock, he punched
the mercenary in the face and floored him. The two men grabbed their weapons while Sasha still stood in awe of the huge black shape moving across the web.

  Fighting began, but for the enchantress it all happened in slow motion. Pevain’s men rushed Utha and Voon, but Randall remained guarding his mistress.

  ‘My lady, we must leave,’ said the squire, gesturing to the huge shape beginning to delve downwards through its web.

  ‘Randall, what the fuck are you doing?’ roared Utha.

  ‘He’s gone,’ replied Voon. ‘He’s hers now.’

  The albino attacked with ferocity, hacking at the mercenaries, trying to reach his squire.

  ‘I’ll tear your fucking face off, bitch!’ he screamed at Sasha.

  Sanaa Law Keeper rang an alarm bell and Karesian warriors entered the bottom level. She heard them and she saw the fight out of the corner of her eye, but she kept looking upwards.

  She knew what it was, but she barely believed it. They were extinct, surely they were extinct. The Seven Sisters had searched the lands of men looking for them, hoping to harness their ancient power. They had found nothing.

  ‘Utha, he’s gone,’ repeated the exemplar of Jaa.

  She didn’t turn away from the shape, even as Voon tackled Utha and pulled him away.

  The Karesians flooded into the webbed dome. Too many to fight, and Voon knew it. Sasha remained transfixed as the exemplar ran for a gap in the web, an opening that led to the single walkway from the tower. The old-blood reluctantly followed, throwing a pained grimace towards his squire as he ran for safety.

  ‘Get after them,’ ordered Pevain, groggily getting to his feet.

  The Karesians flooded past her towards the gap. There was no grass now, only cold stone, and she began to shiver with fear. She had never felt it, it was alien and unwelcome.

  Her prey had gone, fled beyond her sight. She could no longer feel the old-blood. She should pursue, but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t move and she couldn’t turn away.

  The shape plunged downwards, its thick legs displacing the web. It darted across the dome, gracefully sliding into the path of the running Karesians. They stopped, and then began to flee, dropping their weapons in panic. Pevain and his remaining mercenaries screamed with primal terror and flung themselves away from the creature.