The Long War 03 - The Red Prince

by A. J. Smith

  ‘My lady,’ shouted Sergeant Ashwyn. ‘Good to see you.’

  ‘Ash,’ she replied, moving close to the Hawk. ‘Have you seen the general?’

  ‘He was still standing when I flew backwards,’ he replied, still shouting. ‘Somewhere around here.’ He swept his arm across the bloody cobbles. ‘Near where the whip-mistress died.’

  ‘And Lord Bromvy?’

  He shook his head. ‘I think he died just after you disappeared. Well, he threw himself across the general and bore the brunt of a big bang. He might have lived.’

  She bowed her head. Hundreds of men had died, maybe thousands including the Hounds, but she hoped that the luck of Brytag would have followed the lord of Canarn. To hope that Brom was still alive was to hope that Xander was still alive, and she wouldn’t allow herself to hope for anything less.

  ‘We killed a dozen or so further east,’ said Ash, rubbing his ears and wincing at the blood. ‘Saw a load of Hounds running out the gate. Saw a man carrying his own leg too. They fucked us hard, my lady.’

  Ashwyn’s men had suffered cuts, burns and large splinters, but they were still in the fight.

  ‘Sergeant, over here,’ said a Hawk called Benjamin.

  He was pointing at a severed arm lying across a pile of masonry and armour. On the hand was a ducal ring with a black raven. Brom had at least lost his arm. Gwen knelt down and removed the ring. Pain lanced through her leg and Symon had to help her stand up again.

  ‘He may still be alive, my lady,’ said the young Hawk.

  ‘It’s his left arm. Do you know which hand he fights with?’ she asked.

  ‘Sorry, no,’ replied Symon, his words a little clearer now.

  She flexed her leg again. The wound was swelling and would soon prevent her from standing entirely. For now, she had to tough it out.

  ‘Tyr Sigurd has healing salves,’ said Kalan. ‘Your wounded leg is not severe. Your back needs more immediate attention.’

  The Dokkalfar’s voice was easier to hear, as if its pitch could cut through the ringing in her ears. ‘I can’t see it, so it’s easier to ignore,’ she replied, trying to smile. ‘We need to keep moving. Towards the northern gate. We’ll rally there.’

  ‘Aye, my lady,’ replied Symon and Ashwyn in unison.

  There were now eight of them and they moved in loose formation across the cobbles. The discovery of Brom’s arm had filled her mind with thoughts of Xander. She would lament the loss of Brom, but hope remained so long as the Red Prince lived. If he lived. The lord of Canarn had tried to shield him from the black wart, sacrificing himself in the process, but the general could still be dead.

  Strangely, it was not his face or his voice that she brought to mind. It was the feel of his skin. It was the moment, late at night, when he turned in his sleep and their bodies met. When the world went away.

  It was easy to daydream in the otherworldly mist. Easy to picture herself far away, safe and happy. Glimpses of dead men poking their heads, arms and legs through the opaque twilight lined their route north, but didn’t touch her thoughts. They progressed from Xander’s skin, to his touch, his smile, the feel of his lips, the sound of his voice, the snuffling sound he made when he was cold. These things meant more to her than a hundred victories and a thousand dead Hounds.

  ‘Where are you, my love?’

  It was easy to find the King’s Highway from the square. Between the mist and the darkness, they had to use the buildings to orient themselves. Ashwyn’s men had torches and they moved slowly northwards. Whenever they encountered Hounds, the Karesians ran from them, sensing that eight warriors would be too many to fight. Whatever loyalty they felt towards their commanders, it was fragile, and now they fled southwards.

  ‘These men aren’t soldiers, my lady,’ said Symon, when their ears had cleared a little more. ‘This isn’t war, it’s folly... sheer folly.’

  ‘Fools can still invade,’ she replied. ‘And they die and kill the same.’

  ‘What happens,’ began the young sergeant, ‘if he’s dead, the general? What happens?’

  She didn’t want to answer that question. She didn’t want to think about it – the question or the answer. But he deserved an answer. She was just Xander’s wife. To the Hawks of Ro, he was much more.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I really don’t know.’

  Sergeant Ashwyn, at the front of the group, slowed and fell in beside Gwen and Symon.

  ‘Don’t mean to eavesdrop, my lady, but I’ve got an answer,’ he said. ‘If the general’s dead, if Lord Bromvy’s dead... well, we won’t miss a fucking step. We fight, we kill every Hound in Tor Funweir. We are the Hawks of Ro, soldier, we remain so... with or without a general.’

  ‘Strong words, Ash,’ she observed. ‘And I thank you for them.’

  ‘You won’t go far betting against him, though. Your old man is a tough old man.’

  No more words. Symon didn’t ask again. He may have been satisfied by Ash’s answer, or he may have sensed Gwen’s anguish. He was a soldier and he would remain loyal either way. He just nodded and kept his eyes to the front.

  The northern gate was close now, just visible through the gloom. The gatehouse was gone and broken bodies hung from wooden splinters. Mostly Hawks, their chain mail torn and their faces burnt beyond recognition. A crater lay in their path and several others were nearby. The Karesians had made sure the gate had been detonated, killing off the back ranks of Xander’s force. The dark grass beyond the gate was littered with bodies, the remnants of their rearguard.

  ‘Find some cover,’ she ordered. ‘We hold here until the fog clears.’

  ‘Aye, my lady,’ answered Symon and Ash.

  The eight of them fanned out and moved towards the ruined gate. The outer wall was still intact, with a few dented planks, but all the structures nearby were reduced to rubble.

  Cozz was gone. There wasn’t enough of it left to bother rebuilding it. The merchants who had fled south would have little to gain from returning, and so many men had died here. It was now a graveyard, a monument to the brutality of warfare. The forces of Karesia had killed thousands when they took the enclave. They had killed thousands more when they detonated what remained. They were bastards of the highest order. At least their masters were.

  * * *

  The night lasted forever. The fog stuck to the air like mould on stone, leaving them nothing to look at and nothing to do but wait. The eight of them had split in two groups, under partial roofs, either side of the gate.

  Within a few hours they had picked up some more stragglers and seen some more fleeing Hounds. The Hawks were dazed and wounded, and the Karesians had no fight left in them. But Xander didn’t appear. If the Red Prince was dead, they would need to sort through the grisly remnants of slaughter to identify his body. If anything was left to identify.

  Tyr Kalan had disappeared into the enclave several times, fetching healing salves and finding his brethren. He moved better than the men, especially with the lack of visibility, and refused any suggestion that he should wait. He found two surviving forest-dwellers and sufficient healing supplies to help the wounded.

  ‘I’m not a healer, Lady of Haran,’ said the Dokkalfar as he tended to her back. ‘You are strong, but these salves need skill to minister and I have not found Tyr Sigurd.’

  ‘I’m alive, that’s enough for now,’ she replied, staring off into the darkness.

  ‘It will be morning in a few hours,’ he said. ‘The fog should clear shortly after.’

  ‘And then we’ll search. We’ll search for survivors and we’ll send the dead on their way.’

  CHAPTER 12

  UTHA THE GHOST IN THE CITY OF THRAKKA

  THE CITY FELT as if it had woken from a dormant state. Viziers, wind claws and templars emerged from slumber and brought life to the web of walkways and towers. A Gorlan mother had been seen, one of the Seven Sisters had been killed, and martial law had been enacted. Wealthy viziers and their paid guards patrolled the streets, h
unting for the spider. Utha heard tales of a grand hunt, with every young warrior of Thrakka declaring his intention to slay the beast and avenge the enchantress.

  He didn’t care about any of it. He had lost his squire. Randall had become enchanted, a slave to the Seven Sisters, and Utha had not been able to help him. The one person who didn’t deserve any of this had fallen. What was Utha’s journey worth? Was it worth Randall’s life? The staircase, the labyrinth, the guardian, did any of it matter now he’d lost the one person who cared for him, the one person who followed him out of loyalty?

  ‘Pull yourself together,’ said Voon from the window.

  They were in Shadaran Bakara’s tower, hidden far above the walkways. Voon had insisted they flee and hide there. Bakara himself was missing, presumed dead, but Voon thought the higher levels of the tower to be safe. Sasha had been there before them, probably torturing Bakara, and now it was the last place they would look for them.

  Utha sat on a divan chair in an opulent, carpeted study. His head had been in his hands for over an hour and he had said nothing. The tower responded to Voon and allowed him to alter walls and remove staircases, ensuring them a degree of isolation. The magic was commonplace to Voon, though wondrous to Utha. The three levels beneath them had been divested of staircases and he had seen each one slowly disappear before his eyes until the two of them were well hidden up above.

  The disagreeable Karesian had cut him off whenever he’d suggested they look for Randall or Ruth. He assured him that Randall was gone and Ruth was in danger. Not that they were particularly safe, but at least they weren’t being hunted with nets and spears.

  ‘Pull myself together? Is that the best you got,’ he replied. ‘How about patting me on the head and telling me it’ll all be all right.’

  ‘I’m not your friend or your mother, old-blood. We need each other.’

  ‘Fuck off!’ spat Utha. ‘Where I’m from we don’t leave friends behind.’

  ‘Where I’m from we do, and I’m from Karesia.’

  ‘So it’s a country full of bastards. What the fuck am I doing here?’

  ‘You are here because you must be here, because you are the last old-blood,’ replied Voon. ‘So pull yourself together, we have far to travel and I have much to teach you.’

  ‘Teach me? What are you going to teach me? You’ve barely spoken since we left Kessia. Without Randall, I’d rather just fuck off back to Tor Funweir and watch it burn from a tavern window.’

  The exemplar walked calmly across the red and black carpet. He went to a drinks cabinet and retrieved a crystal bottle of dark liquid.

  ‘This is Kessian desert nectar,’ he said, thrusting a glass towards Utha. ‘Bakara loved the stuff.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, maybe a drink will help,’ replied Voon.

  ‘I don’t want help, I just want Randall not to be enchanted.’

  Utha ignored the glass and snatched the bottle. It was a sweet and sickly liquid which coated the tongue, but it was blessedly alcoholic and he gulped down a large measure.

  ‘Ruth offered to guide me, you offer to teach me... the only thing Randall offered me was loyalty.’

  ‘This is making me weary,’ replied Voon. ‘You are making me weary. We still have far to travel and this is a poor way to begin. I thought you a man, not a child.’

  Utha stood. He faced the Karesian and smiled. Voon was a strapping man with solid limbs and a wide, muscular neck. His spear was resting against the far wall. Like Utha, he was currently unarmed. He was tall, taller than Utha, but the old-blood punched him in the face anyway.

  ‘Don’t call me names when I’m angry,’ he said, as Voon held his wounded jaw.

  The Karesian hadn’t fallen and had responded with a powerful sideways kick at Utha’s stomach, driving him against the wall and winding him.

  ‘Don’t make me hurt you,’ growled the exemplar.

  Utha snarled and ran at Voon, tackling him into a powerful grapple. He trusted his strength and lifted the taller man from the floor, dumping him in a heap. The Karesian tried to tie up Utha’s arms and kick out, but he struggled to break the powerful bear hug.

  Voon slammed his forehead into Utha’s nose and shrugged him off. Pain flooded through the albino and tears rushed from his eyes. The Karesian followed up with two quick punches to the stomach. He fought strangely and Utha backed away, assessing the laconic exemplar. He was quick and well trained, using odd combinations to cause injury, but Utha stubbornly refused to yield.

  He advanced again and threw powerful punches at Voon’s face. None of them connected, but he drove his opponent back. He received a sharp kick to the shin, but the pain was minimal. The bastard wasn’t fighting fair.

  Utha charged again, using his strength to tie up the faster man. He was stronger and turned Voon round so he that couldn’t headbutt him. He lifted him up and flexed his arms, driving the Karesian into the wall. His nose throbbed, but he kept smashing Voon’s shoulder into stone.

  ‘Enough!’ wheezed the exemplar of Jaa.

  Utha released him and deposited Voon on the floor, grabbing his shoulder and breathing heavily.

  ‘Don’t call me names when I’m angry,’ he repeated. ‘And that sneaky Karesian shit doesn’t mean anything when you can’t move.’

  Voon sat up, flexing his arm. They were both bruised, but none of their injuries were serious.

  ‘You fight like a wrestler,’ said the Karesian. ‘Difficult.’

  ‘And you fight like a fucking girl,’ he replied. ‘Who uses a spear anyway?’

  ‘It’s called Zarzenfang, a gift from Jennek of the Mist, the last Fire Giant, old-blood.’

  Utha was not impressed. The man was sincere and saturated with faith and conviction, but he was also a fucking contrary bastard. It felt good to have punched him in the face.

  ‘Is your head clearer now?’ asked Voon. ‘Did that help?’

  ‘Strangely, it did. Beating up an idiot is pretty cathartic.’

  Voon chuckled, the most humour he’d expressed so far.

  ‘I have been called many things, Utha the Ghost, but never an idiot. I will let it pass for the sake of our cooperation.’

  He still managed to be intimidating despite the fact that he had been soundly beaten and was now lying on the floor. Utha was not easy to scare, but Voon would be terrifying to common folk.

  ‘So, where next?’ he asked, letting the Karesian stand up and retrieve his glass of desert nectar.

  ‘The Jekkan causeway,’ replied Voon. ‘It’s the only way of getting ahead of those that pursue us. There will be more now the enchantress is dead. My face is known and I was seen.’

  ‘But you’re the high vizier!’

  ‘I am a follower of Jaa, a heresy in the new Karesia. The death of the enchantress has not helped us.’

  He didn’t say it, not wanting to make Voon weary again, but the death of the enchantress had not helped Randall or Ruth either.

  ‘So, we’re running away?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, we are. Does that bother you? You were going south anyway, this is just a quicker way and now you are not burdened with useless hangers-on.’

  Utha wanted to punch him again. To beat his face red until he never insulted Randall again. Useless hanger-on? He was an idiot and a bastard, but hurting him would not help. ‘You’re pushing it, Karesian.’

  ‘If I appear harsh to you, I apologize, but I know this country and I am harsh in order to keep you alive. You don’t need to like me, you just need to trust that I will protect you with my last breath.’

  He still wasn’t impressed. Voon was far more in tune with the gods than was Utha and his point of view appeared strange. Utha had always been a terrible cleric, even more so since he had turned his back on the One God. His journey south was a vague quest, an insistent pull, one from which he never intended to return, but the exemplar of Jaa was treating it as a pilgrimage, a spiritual journey to rouse the Giants.

  ‘What is the Jekkan causeway?’ he ask
ed.

  ‘A relic,’ replied Voon, picking up his spear and gathering his pack. ‘It runs from Thrakka to Oron Kaa. It was here before Jaa claimed these lands and old magic dwells there. The journey would take months overland... or over the sea, as Ruth wanted. The causeway will get us there in weeks.’

  ‘Is it dangerous?’

  ‘Extremely. Karesians do not travel the causeway for fear of the servitors. They remain, waiting for their masters to return.’

  ‘I won’t ask what a servitor is,’ said Utha, sheathing his sword and strapping his mace to his side in prepation to leave.

  ‘Hopefully, you won’t need to find out,’ replied Voon, motioning Utha to leave the room.

  He strolled from the high tower and turned to where the staircase had been. Now, there was only bare stone, and he waited for Voon to access the strange Jekkan magic that would allow the towers to take a new shape.

  ‘This weird craft of yours is unknown in Tor Funweir.’

  The wall flowed downwards to reveal a new opening. The stone appeared to melt and form new lines and structures at Voon’s touch.

  ‘That is the reason I had us stop in Thrakka,’ replied the Karesian. ‘Bakara’s tower sits atop an anchorhead that leads to the causeway.’

  ‘An anchorhead?’ queried Utha.

  ‘An old Karesian term. They bridge the gap between the lands of men and the remnants of the Jekkan caliphate. There are few known.’

  Utha didn’t respond, unsure whether Voon was being deliberately obtuse. Lots of new words, concepts and ideas had been flooding into the old-blood’s head of late. ‘Caliphate’, ‘anchorhead’, these were just new terms to bewilder him.

  ‘Follow me,’ said Voon.

  The stairs formed as they descended, each new step answering to the Karesian’s command and weaving round the inside of the tower. Utha hadn’t realized how high up they had been, over a sheer drop, with no banisters. Voon had removed three or four levels of Bakara’s tower and reconstituted the staircase, leaving no level ground.

  ‘Randall would hate this,’ he muttered to himself.