The Long War 01 - The Black Guard

by A. J. Smith

  Randall smiled nervously back at the watchman. ‘I hadn’t heard of him before today. His name suits him, though,’ he said, the image of the albino still in his head.

  ‘More than you know, I’ll bet. The Ghost is a crusader… he hunts risen men.’

  Randall directed a questioning look at the man. He’d heard of the risen before, but considered them merely the stuff of tales. They were supposedly non-human beings who’d betrayed their loved ones and died a painful death, rising as monsters that detested and feared men. The deep forests of the Darkwald supposedly contained a village of the creatures, but the story was always told second-hand and Randall had never given the risen much thought.

  ‘They actually exist?’ he asked.

  ‘There’re a lot of dark places in the lands of men, boy; the Wastes of Jekka to the east contain more than just cannibal hill tribes,’ the man said.

  ‘Stop your lips from flapping, Elyot, you’ll scare the boy,’ said another man, older and wearing the insignia of a watch commander.

  ‘Just warning him is all, sir. If he’s going to be consorting with a cleric of death, he should know all he can,’ Elyot said defensively.

  ‘And you are clearly an expert, yes?’ the commander chided.

  Elyot turned a little red and smiled at Randall. ‘Don’t listen to me, squire… just stories is all… just stories.’

  Randall felt a little awkward and turned back to Lydia, the barmaid. ‘Wine…’ he said again.

  She looked as if she were going to raise an objection, but couldn’t quite decide which objection to raise. After a momentary pause she produced a corked bottle of red wine. ‘I’ll add it to your master’s bill,’ she said scornfully.

  ‘Thanks, you are very kind,’ Randall replied, with deep irony.

  He grabbed the bottle and stepped away from the bar. Turning, he began to walk towards the stairs. Elyot, the young watchman, put a hand on Randall’s shoulder and caused him to turn back to face him. ‘Listen to me, squire. I don’t know what business the Ghost has with your master, but you mark me well, it’s a bad omen.’ The words were solemn and Randall nodded politely.

  He backed away slowly, trying to smile at Elyot. A few steps back and he turned and walked quickly across the common room. He was not sure if the watchman’s words were mere superstition or if the Black cleric truly heralded bad luck. Either way, he was glad to be leaving the common room and returning to Brother Torian. He breathed out heavily as he realized that meant he would have to face the Ghost again.

  As he walked out of the common room, Randall thought of his home and the simple life that his people lived. He would most probably be a farmer or a blacksmith now if he’d not left the Darkwald and he would probably never have met a cleric either of the Purple or of the Black. Randall was not stupid or naive; he knew that he was a common boy and could not hope to raise himself much beyond the station of a squire. The cleric he served was a good master, a man of honour, despite his arrogance, and Randall was thankful for his position as his squire, despite the difficult days and constant need to be on guard. At least now he needed to worry about more than piss-pots and damaged furniture.

  CHAPTER 2

  BROTHER UTHA THE GHOST IN THE CITY OF RO TIRIS

  Utha the Ghost disliked his nickname. He’d heard it a lot since he left Ro Arnon and travelled west. It appeared that the men in the capital were more superstitious than those from the duchy of Arnon and he’d heard a hundred strange, or blatantly untrue, rumours about the Black church since he arrived. Utha was used to common folk being afraid of him – being a cleric of death – but to say that he was a master of death was overstating things a little.

  He often thought that, if he hadn’t been born an albino, he would have become a White churchman or maybe joined the Red knights. As it was, the cardinal of the Black had requested him on sight.

  Utha had never known his parents and had never considered any other career than becoming a cleric of the One. He’d been given to the church in Ro Arnon when he was a baby; his pale skin and pink eyes were seen by the senior Purple clerics as a blessing from the Giants, and he’d joined the Black on his sixteenth birthday.

  The Black church considered death a holy state, which they respected and feared in all its various manifestations. They were present at funeral pyres, and an army of Red knights was never permitted to go into battle without at least one Black chaplain. Their presence was held as a bad omen amongst the common people, with some justification, as they were also the One God’s assassins, men skilled in dealing death as well as honouring it.

  In contrast to clerics of the other orders, Utha was permitted to drink and fuck as the mood took him and he was thankful that he had joined the least clerical of the clerics.

  ‘I’m not trying to make you jealous, Torian, but I’ve got a terrible thirst,’ Utha said as the young squire left the room to fetch his wine, ‘and it means we can talk without a serving boy listening in.’

  ‘He’s my squire. I killed his master in a duel and took over his tutelage.’

  Utha raised his eyebrows and paused. After a few seconds he burst out laughing. ‘Okay, so you’ve got a boy to hold your cock while you go for piss… that’s not funny at all.’

  ‘He’s a good lad and, I admit, I felt bad about killing his master… He was an old fool, though. He backed me into a corner and I couldn’t let him go unpunished,’ Torian said seriously.

  Utha had great affection for the Purple cleric but found his piety tiring. The clerics of nobility were generally a stiff-necked bunch and Torian was worse than most. He was honourable and trustworthy, but not a great companion if a man sought fun.

  ‘What did he do?’ Utha asked.

  ‘I had a grievance with him and all he needed to do was show me a little respect. Instead, he insulted me, so I killed him in a fair fight.’

  ‘For it to have been a fair fight he’d have needed to be as dangerous with a blade as you… and I consider that unlikely. You said he was an old man, so instantly I’m thinking you should have let it go.’ Utha’s voice had taken on a disapproving tone.

  ‘He was an old man, yes, but an old man with a longsword, armour and a claim to nobility. If he was man enough to insult me, he should have been man enough to back it up with action.’

  Utha smiled and sensed that Torian would take any further comments rather personally. ‘Fair enough. Does the squire not have an issue with you having killed his former master?’

  Torian shook his head. ‘Randall thinks that he wanted to die and I was just a means to that end. As I said, he’s a good lad.’

  Utha let the matter drop and sat down on a small wooden stool, removing his axe from its sling and stretching his neck. ‘I will never get used to riding horses. The bastards seem intent on causing me pain every time I get on one.’

  Torian sat opposite him and looked down at the axe with appreciation. ‘How’s Death’s Embrace serving you?’

  Utha patted his axe fondly at the mention of its name. ‘I haven’t used her for a while… but I’m not regretting my choice, if that’s what you’re insinuating. A longsword just feels wrong somehow. Less satisfying when swung.’

  Black clerics were permitted to wield any weapon they desired and, although most still wore a longsword, occasionally a cleric of death would select a more exotic weapon.

  ‘Get your mind away from duels and weapons, Torian, we can tell each other stories later. For now, I have orders for you and I’d rather get them out of the way before your boy comes back.’

  Torian frowned. ‘Are we not going to talk about why you specifically were sent to accompany me?’

  Utha had hoped that Torian wouldn’t pry into the reasons why he was not still out hunting risen men. ‘I requested that I be given a last mission before…’

  Torian’s frown broadened as he prompted Utha to continue. ‘Before what?’

  ‘I have to report to the Black cathedral in Tiris when you and I part ways. It seems that I must have my h
onour brought into question for some of my recent actions.’ Utha was not going to tell Torian everything, partly because he didn’t want to keep thinking about it, but mostly because he knew his friend would think less of him. ‘I knew you’d been sent after the Black Guard, so I thought I could help. You are, after all, one of the few Purple clerics I can stand the sight of.’

  Torian laughed, and Utha thought that he’d deflected any further queries for now.

  ‘Okay,’ Torian said with a smile, ‘but before we part ways, you will have to tell me what you’ve done, and if it’s just a tale involving a bottle of wine and a whore, I will be very disappointed.’

  ‘How about… two bottles of wine and a room full of whores?’ Utha joked.

  ‘Just agree that you’ll tell me.’ Torian’s smile faded and he looked serious again.

  ‘I promise. Just not here and not now,’ Utha said with honesty.

  Torian relaxed a little and Utha’s mind turned to the primary reason he was in Ro Tiris, to give Brother Torian news of the campaign in Ro Canarn and to inform him of his orders from Arnon.

  ‘May I continue with official church business now?’ he asked.

  Torian nodded and leant in. ‘What word from Canarn?’

  ‘The city fell four days ago, just after you arrived in Tiris. Duke Hector has been captured and I’m sure the knights of the Red are being gracious in victory,’ he said with irony.

  Torian shook his head. ‘Who commanded the fleet?’

  ‘Sir Mortimer Rillion,’ Utha replied in a tone that showed his distaste for the knight.

  Torian evidently shared Utha’s opinion and angrily banged his fist on his armoured thigh. ‘So, the men of Canarn…?’

  ‘Rillion took a company of knights and a bunch of mercenaries. I think Sir Pevain was with him and they didn’t give the defenders much chance to surrender. I know that they took the keep within a few hours and, based on past form, I imagine they killed everyone that didn’t kiss their arses when they entered the city. There was a Ranen Free Company there, but they left before the fight and the men that remained were no match for the knights.’

  Torian could be sensitive when he perceived a lack of honour in his brother churchmen and he was flushed with anger as he spoke. ‘The duke was a heretic, but the common men surely deserved better than to be hacked to pieces by mercenaries. There is no honour in attacking men who are defending their families and their lands,’ he said through gritted teeth.

  ‘What did you think was going to happen when you heard the fleet had launched? Stop being so fucking naive,’ Utha said, with little tact.

  ‘Brother…’ Torian’s face was shocked.

  ‘Be serious. The Red knights were sent to kill everyone who got in their way. Rillion will be installed as knight protector and the duke will likely be beheaded.’ Utha had little time for softening the realities of life.

  It was the way of things. The knights of the Red were unleashed when the king commanded. They were the embodiment of the One God’s aspect of war and conquest, and were little more than a blunt instrument. A week and a half ago they had been unleashed against the city of Ro Canarn and the house of Duke Hector. The men of that land had, for many generations, been friendly with the neighbouring Ranen and it appeared that the duke had asked the Ranen lords for sanctuary within the Freelands.

  Utha had been told that King Sebastian had a spy in the court of Duke Hector, a Karesian enchantress called Ameira, which meant that they attacked with no warning and surprised the defenders of Canarn. The king’s intolerance towards Hector and his Ranen allies had driven him to swift and brutal action.

  However, it was not the place of humble clerics to question the will of the king, and Utha was nothing if not a dutiful cleric.

  ‘Torian, we still have orders and those orders are not going to change just because you have a moment of petulance,’ Utha said with friendly tolerance.

  ‘Brother, we have known each other a long time, but I still find your manner a little difficult. Our ways are different.’ He leant back a little and composed himself. ‘Very well, brother, what are the orders from Arnon?’

  ‘That’s my boy,’ Utha said with a smile. ‘The duke’s son is still at large somewhere and, as none of you have found him yet, I’m to accompany you and assist.’

  ‘Utha, when I left Arnon, I was hunting a man whose father had been named a traitor, now I’m hunting a man whose homeland has been destroyed and his people massacred… the situation has changed somewhat, I’m sure you’ll agree.’

  Word had been sent to the church city at the same time as the Red fleet had launched; Bromvy of Canarn was to be found and captured with all speed. He’d been named a Black Guard and stripped of his honour. Clerics of the quest had been despatched throughout Tor Funweir to search for the young lord, but so far he’d remained hidden, with only Torian reporting a possible lead.

  ‘Actually, no, I don’t agree. He still needs to be found and you still need to find him. What has changed?’ Utha said sternly.

  ‘He now has nothing to live for… that makes a man very dangerous,’ Torian replied.

  ‘Bromvy is still only twenty-four years old, worldly and clever for his age, but a young man nonetheless.’ Utha put his hand on Torian’s shoulder and smiled.

  A knock on the door and the young squire tentatively poked his head into the room. ‘May I enter, master?’

  Torian kept his eyes on Utha for a moment. ‘Yes, Randall, come in.’

  The squire stepped in and closed the door behind him. He placed a bottle of red wine on the low wooden table and backed away quickly.

  Utha grabbed the bottle and wrenched the cork out. ‘To your good health, young Torian.’

  He took a deep drink from the bottle. It was rich and fruity – not high in quality – but sufficient to slake his thirst. ‘Now all we need are a couple of paid women and we have a party.’ Utha grinned and decided to be more formal. ‘What leads, brother, to where the young lord has fled?’

  A thin smile intruded on Torian’s stern features. ‘This very day I was planning to go and meet with a man in the Kasbah who, I’m reliably informed, helped Bromvy escape Tiris – a man of Ro Leith called Glenwood, a forger by all accounts.’

  Utha nodded and was glad that Torian was efficient. Despite what he may have said, he agreed that the knights of the Red had acted rashly. However, Utha was pragmatic towards the other clerics and considered it pointless to be angered by their actions.

  ‘What led you to Glenwood?’ asked the Black cleric.

  ‘I paid a beggar in the poor quarter who saw the young lord riding south. This led me to a watchman who remembered his sword, an ornate blade and a noble pommel with a cast of Brytag, the World Raven. Everyone who leaves via the south gate is searched, but no one searched this man. There are only so many ways of leaving the city via the south without being questioned. Our young lord seems to have found one.’

  Brytag was an old Ranen god and the patron of the house of Canarn. He was said to sit on Rowanoco’s shoulder and to embody both luck and wisdom, which many Ranen saw as being the same thing.

  ‘The watchman remembers him having an official seal from the Red church. He can’t have got a genuine one, so I found the only forger in town who is stupid enough to deal with a Black Guard.’

  Torian had not been idle in the week since he left Ro Arnon, and Utha was impressed with the work he’d done.

  ‘So, I’ll finish my wine and we’ll go and see Mr Glenwood, yes?’ Utha asked.

  ‘That was my intention,’ replied Torian.

  Utha took another swig of wine, letting the liquid fall over his face and run down his chin. Then he stood up and turned to the young squire. Randall was a tall lad and Utha thought that he’d grow to a fair size in his next year or so of life.

  As was his way, Utha decided to test the young squire’s strength of mind. He crossed the room and motioned for Randall to stand, which he did quickly, with wide eyes.

  ‘To
rian has told me of your former master’s dishonour, boy. I hope you realize that this does not reflect well on you. I’ll be watching you, even if Torian is too blind to see the potential danger you pose.’

  Utha didn’t need to turn round to know that Torian would be shaking his head at this comment.

  ‘So, boy, do you think yourself a suitable squire for a Purple churchman?’ he asked.

  The boy was nervous, but Utha noticed a certain intelligence in his eyes as he answered. ‘I didn’t even know that clerics took squires, my lord. So, in terms of suitability, I’ve nothing to compare myself to. Have you ever had a squire, Brother Utha?’

  ‘You have a fast tongue, lad,’ Utha said with a slight smile.

  Randall looked a little embarrassed. ‘You’re not the first to remark on that, sir. I don’t mean to be rude.’

  ‘In answer to your question, no, I’ve never had a squire. Common men are ill suited to following around a man of my…’ he chose his words carefully, ‘… responsibilities. Tell me, boy, where are you from? Some pox-ridden back street of whores and serfs, no doubt.’

  Randall’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the cleric. ‘Er… I don’t remember there being any whores, sir, but then cattle and farmers would make poor customers. I’m from a small village in the Darkwald, a hundred leagues to the north of Arnon. I think there were some serfs, my lord, but the lord of Darkwald was a kindly man, from what I remember. My people lived off the land, with little need to be bound to the nobility as serfs.’

  Utha was often given to making quick decisions about people, especially those who took offence at his manner; however, he thought the squire had handled himself well. The Black cleric had made people cry on more than one occasion with a well-placed insult or a quick retort, but Randall had not withered under Utha’s gaze.