by A. J. Smith
Utha resumed his seat on the box and picked up the bottle of wine. Taking another drink, he said, ‘Yes, it’s much nicer after a little air. Now, Glenwood, if you will…’ He waved his hand at the broken man sitting in front of him.
Glenwood straightened and pulled his legs back into a cross-legged position. ‘I don’t deal in church seals, but I owed him a favour, so…’
‘Tell us about him,’ Torian said as he sheathed his longsword and relaxed.
Glenwood spat out a mouthful of blood. ‘He paid three hundred gold crowns for a clay seal that would get him out of the south gate without being stopped. I knew him years ago and felt like helping him.’
Utha shouted, ‘Who was he?’
Glenwood looked across at the faces of, first the two clerics, then the five watchmen. He breathed in sharply, assessing his options. With a resigned sigh, he said, ‘His name’s Bromvy, people call him Brom. I think he’s a noble of some sort… maybe Canarn or somewhere around there.’
Utha leant back in his seated position and looked up at Torian. ‘There you go, theatrics work… I’ve proven it.’ He turned back to Glenwood. ‘And where was Lord Bromvy of Canarn intending to go?’
‘I think he was looking for a friend. He asked me if I knew where he was. I think he wanted to know which gate he’d need to leave from,’ he said quietly, as if ashamed at himself for giving this information.
‘And… the friend… and his location?’ Torian asked.
‘The friend is a Kirin assassin – nasty bastard, kills anyone you pay him to – and, last I knew, he was in Ro Weir. He’s called Rham Jas Rami and he and Brom go way back. They travelled together with another couple of wayward killers.’
Utha frowned at this. He knew a little about Bromvy and knew that he’d mixed with some unsavoury characters in his time. There were even rumours that Duke Hector’s son had been a mercenary, but to hear that he associated with an assassin was a surprise, even to Utha.
‘Weir is a three-week journey south at least,’ Torian said to Utha.
Glenwood chuckled through the pain. ‘I doubt it’d take Brom any more than two, maybe less. He’s not like you pampered city folk, he’s from Canarn, those men are tough. If you don’t care for your horse or the need for sleep, you can get there shy of two weeks.’
Randall nervously raised his hand and spoke. ‘Sir Leon used to talk about it, master. I think it’s called the Kirin run. A way of criminals getting from one side of Tor Funweir to the other.’
Utha and Torian looked at each other and nodded. They had both heard of Kirin having ways of moving quickly through the land but had not expected them to be utilized by a lord of Tor Funweir.
Glenwood looked at Randall. ‘Your boy has it right; the Kirin run cuts the journey in half. If you avoid Cozz and stay off the King’s Highway…’ He went to retch again but got it under control. ‘And if you don’t mind the big bastard spiders in Narland and Lob’s Wood,’ he smiled pathetically, ‘and obviously if you know the way – which I don’t, before you ask.’
Utha turned away from Glenwood. He motioned for Torian to join him and spoke quietly so as not to be overheard by the forger. ‘We’ll never find the way through Narland. We’re better off taking the long route and hoping he’s still there when we arrive.’
‘I was told nothing of his criminal endeavours when I left Arnon,’ Torian said with a shake of his head. ‘As far as I know all the questing clerics who were sent for him are looking at the estates of his family, lesser nobles and the like.’
Utha took a moment to think, absently drumming his fingers on his black tabard. ‘I know a few mercenaries were sent to the south… doubtful as far as Ro Weir, though.’
Torian straightened suddenly and let a rare smile flow across his face. ‘Well, brother, it seems we have a direction in which to travel. Let us go to Ro Weir.’
Utha returned the smile and looked over Torian’s shoulder at the watchmen standing round Glenwood. ‘Sergeant Clement,’ he said loudly, ‘go and tell the lord marshal that you’re accompanying Brothers Utha and Torian on a journey to the merchant enclave of Cozz and then on to Ro Weir.’
Clement didn’t know how to react to this, but Utha enjoyed the helpless expression on his face.
CHAPTER 3
MAGNUS FORKBEARD RAGNARSSON IN THE CITY OF RO CANARN
The cell was cold and damp, with a simple straw bed on a rickety wooden frame. Magnus wondered if the knights of the Red who had thrown him in here knew how profound an insult it was for a priest of the Order of the Hammer to be summarily caged in this way. The knights were true fighting men, for the most part, and Magnus found that he had to respect them for that, but there were few other reasons to feel anything other than anger at the way they’d assaulted Ro Canarn.
He looked out of the narrow cell window and clenched his fist, imagining the feel of Skeld, his war-hammer. It was a childish comfort to want the feel of his weapon’s leather and brass grip in his fist, but one that he allowed himself. To accept imprisonment was almost as bad as being imprisoned in the first place.
The men of Ro who took the inner keep would have taken the hammer and discarded it as a strange trophy of war, or kept it to show that they’d bested a Ranen warrior. In reality, Magnus knew that he’d not yet been bested. The knights had relied on numbers rather than skill, and Magnus could take solace from the fifteen he had killed before a cowardly crossbow bolt had pierced his shoulder and allowed them to capture him. He flexed his shoulders and rubbed the bandaged wound. It was not bad and the Ranen priest’s healing abilities had ensured the wound would not fester.
Magnus was around seven feet in height, tall even for a Ranen, and although he had only recently passed his thirtieth year of life, his long blonde hair, dense beard and scarred body made him appear older. He’d been robbed of his chain mail and stood in simple woollen leggings and a black shirt. It was scant protection against the cold, but Magnus was a man of Fjorlan and the temperature was more reassuring than uncomfortable. His home, far to the north, was the oldest realm of the Freelands and the only province of Ranen that the south-men of Ro had never conquered.
Magnus had travelled throughout the northern lands. Like all priests of the Order of the Hammer, he was compelled to a perpetual wanderlust and had made friends in many distant parts. He found that a love of alcohol, women and song was an ideal way to taste a culture, and even the stiff-necked Ro could be likeable when drunk. Not that these knights of the Red seemed to drink, or even to laugh. They were dour men who lived only to follow orders and to maintain the laws of the One.
Somewhere above the cell, Magnus heard a scream of pain and he craned his neck to see out of the tiny window. The mercenaries who had come with the Red knights were not being kind to the defeated populace, and the last few hours had been punctured by a cacophony of screams and cries for help. The few Ranen who remained in the city with Magnus had already been executed by order of Sir Mortimer Rillion, under the questionable title of traitors to the crown of Tor Funweir. Several times he had heard a dying Ranen offer a defiant last prayer to Rowanoco before joining the Ice Giant in his halls beyond the world.
Magnus felt regret for the death of his countrymen, but he did not forget that they had had the choice to go or to stay, as was the way of the Free Companies. The few men of Wraith Company who’d stayed had at least got to dirty their axes with the blood of knights before they fell.
The small dungeon complex housed fewer than a hundred prisoners, mostly Duke Hector’s guardsmen, men who had held the inner keep with Magnus after the city had fallen, and he wondered if they regretted their decision to fight when the battle fleet appeared on the horizon.
It was different for the Ranen. They hadn’t fought for their home, their families or for a cause they believed in. Magnus suspected that the men of Wraith who’d stayed had merely wanted a good fight. The soldiers of Canarn had had much more to lose, and now they were prisoners of a victorious army.
The Ranen priest
of Rowanoco, the Ice Giant, shook his head as he thought of Duke Hector. The lord of Canarn was, in Magnus’s estimation, a good man, deserving of honour and respect, and to think of what the knights would do to him bothered Magnus greatly. The common people of Canarn and their duke had wanted nothing more than freedom from the church of Tor Funweir – a goal that Magnus thought achievable and, to a Ranen priest, wholly sensible – however, something had alerted the Red knights in Ro Tiris and they’d attacked without warning.
If Hector were still alive, he was probably to be made an example at a later date, paraded through the streets to be whipped and jeered at. Magnus had been fond of Duke Hector and he hoped that the killing of a noble was forbidden amongst the Ro. He knew little of their ways aside from what the duke’s son had taught him during the time they had travelled together. Though much of his time with Bromvy had been spent drinking rather than learning. Magnus imagined a duke would be too important to be summarily executed like the other captives.
Hector’s chaplain, a Brown cleric called Lanry, had been spared execution and Magnus hoped this rare vein of honour amongst the knights would stretch to the duke.
‘You… Ranen,’ shouted Castus, the bound Red knight currently supervising the many prisoners.
Magnus ignored him. He found the man’s voice grating.
‘I’m talking to you, priest,’ barked the knight, as he approached the small cell where Magnus stood. ‘Commander Rillion says I have to feed you. Personally, I think you should rot, like the barbarian scum you are.’ He placed a small bowl of steaming liquid on the cold stone floor and kicked it through the hatch at the bottom of the door. Half the liquid spilled across the flagstones. ‘Enjoy it, boy. You’ll most likely lose your head this afternoon.’
Magnus took a step towards the door and looked through the bars and down at the man. The size difference was huge, Magnus towering a foot or more above the man of Ro.
As Castus turned to leave, Magnus spoke. ‘Knight… I decided I was going to kill you just after we met. Now, I think I’ll find your father and kill him too.’ His accent was broad and his voice was deep, elongating and growling each word.
The bound man drew his sword and levelled the tip at the Ranen. ‘I’ll spit on your headless body and piss on your god,’ he said.
Magnus grinned as he spoke. ‘The only bit of him you could reach would be his foot, little man.’
Castus grunted and stomped loudly back to his guard post, leaving the Ranen with a thin smile on his face.
* * *
Several hours passed and Magnus still stood in his cell. He knew he would be summoned to appear before Rillion before the day was out, and refusing to sit was as much rebellion as his situation would allow. The minimal light that crept through the narrow window gave him a rough idea of the time, and Castus returned shortly before the sun had disappeared.
‘Time’s up. Sir Rillion requests the pleasure of your company.’ The Red knight smirked broadly and Magnus imagined cutting off his ears to stop him smiling.
‘No last meal, no last words. Hopefully, they’ll just take off that head and put you down.’
He stood close to the cell bars and continued. ‘Do you know what happened to the other Ranen? They were stripped naked, had their cocks cut off and we just let them bleed. They bled and they screamed and we just… we just laughed. Just when they started crying, Sir Rillion ordered their heads taken off and we threw them over the wall into the sea.’
Magnus considered it. The man of Ro was a vile worm, foolish and arrogant with none of the honour Magnus hoped he’d find in an enemy combatant. ‘I am of the Order of the Hammer. I don’t expect you to understand what that means because your god cares only for law and knows nothing of honour or courage.’ Magnus stood just inches from Castus and continued, ‘If I am to be killed, I will be killed with a roar on my lips. A small man like you can hope only for a whimper.’ He paused. ‘I want to kill you and I pray to Rowanoco that I live long enough to do so.’
Castus turned towards the corridor and bellowed, ‘This pig-fucker thinks his god is gonna help him.’
The laugh that echoed from the guard station offended Magnus and he breathed in deeply. These men did not know how lucky they were. If he were armed, he knew they would run rather than fight him, but with manacles and crossbows they were brave indeed. They were not true fighting men and Magnus surmised that their station as gaolers was due to their lack of fighting skill.
Two more Red churchmen appeared from the corridor. Each carried a smug grin of victory and a loaded crossbow. They wore steel breastplates and bore the same red tabards as Castus, two swords across a clenched fist. With their weapons levelled at Magnus, they stood either side of the cell door.
Castus drew his sword and said, ‘Take a step back, priest.’
Magnus contained his anger and stepped away from the churchmen. He was not accustomed to enemies who used bows; they were unheard of in Ranen as anything other than a hunting weapon. As a means of fighting, they were considered cowardly and dishonourable.
Castus produced a large metal key and began to unlock the cell door. His movements were slow and deliberate and his eyes remained on Magnus at all times. The door clicked open and Castus motioned for his men to cover him as he took a step into the cell.
His eyes betrayed a touch of fear as he realized he no longer had the safety of a large metal door between himself and the huge Ranen warrior.
Magnus stayed back, glaring down at the two crossbowmen standing either side of Castus. He thought it likely he’d survive the two crossbow bolts long enough to tear all three of them apart, but there was little to be gained by doing so. He would still be in a dungeon, ignorant of what had happened during his incarceration. He thought it best to let himself be taken before Sir Rillion.
‘Turn round slowly, Ranen. Keep an eye on him, you two.’
Magnus turned, exposing the heavy steel manacles that bound his hands. Castus unlocked the chain that secured him to the wall and attached another set of manacles to his feet. The two restraints were then fastened securely together with a second steel chain.
Castus pulled hard on the chain and led Magnus backwards out of the cell. One of the crossbowmen stood in front and the other behind. All three of the men of Ro were on edge, as if they expected Magnus to erupt into violence at any moment.
He was moved under close escort along the dungeon corridor. The other prisoners flashed dark glances at Castus and several nodded silently in respect towards Magnus. A heavy wooden door was opened and they began to ascend the stairs to the keep above.
Magnus thought hard thoughts. He knew that these men of Ro cared little for honour or truth and he doubted anything he had to say to Sir Rillion would change the situation. The reality was that Magnus knew he’d have to kill a lot of men to escape from the city. He would feel no qualms at killing them, but he knew it would not help Duke Hector or the men of Canarn. They would have to endure the pain and indignity of being a subjugated people. The Red church would not be gentle to those so recently defeated in battle.
Magnus disliked it that the situation called for patience and thought rather than action. He was not used to such things and he hoped that Rowanoco watched him closely; he trusted the wisdom of his god would guide his words when it was needed.
The stone steps ended at another large wooden door and beyond he saw the darkening sky. The keep of Ro Canarn was drenched in rain, and the smell of blood and salt water filled Magnus’s nostrils.
Young men of Canarn were cleaning the courtyard of debris and repairing various wooden structures that had been destroyed during the battle. Knights of the Red, still fully adorned in plate armour, patrolled the battlements and, high overhead, the banner of the One God had been raised above the keep.
Magnus was glad to see the open sky again and the rain was welcome on the priest’s face. He had not been allowed to wash while imprisoned and he instantly felt better as the water cleaned off a layer of dirt.
&n
bsp; In the days since his imprisonment, the knights of the Red had been busy. Though they had not repaired the broken sections of the city wall, they had cleared the bodies that littered the keep and, in the city beyond, funeral pyres could be seen.
A knight of the Red, older and more scarred than many of the others, stood up from his position round a fire and walked toward Castus. His head was shaved and his eyes were fierce, making him appear a little like a bird of prey. He regarded Magnus with interest before he spoke. ‘Castus, would this be the fabled Magnus Forkbeard?’
Castus saluted with respect. ‘Yes, my lord. He’s been summoned before Knight Commander Rillion.’
‘I have a report stating that this oversized Fjorlander killed close to thirty knights.’ He stepped past Castus to stand before Magnus. ‘You’re bigger than I expected, Ranen… tell me, is this sadistic little shit treating you well?’ He nodded towards Castus, who frowned at the unexpected insult.
Magnus smiled and threw a smirk at his tormentor before he spoke. ‘I plan to kill him, so any insult will be repaid. He is a worm, not worthy to live, let alone fight.’
The senior knight chuckled and nodded agreement. Magnus found it gratifying that his opinion of Castus was shared by another, particularly a man of Ro.
‘My lord…’ Castus stuttered as he spoke.
‘Quiet, soldier,’ the knight interrupted him, ‘this man is an enemy, but he is at least worthy of the respect due to his prowess in battle. I would kill him on a battlefield and be glad I had done so, but as a foe in chains he is a man to be treated well.’
Castus averted his eyes, not daring to contradict his superior. ‘Yes, my lord Verellian.’ He glanced at the two crossbowmen guarding Magnus and motioned them to lower their weapons.
‘That’s better.’ Verellian spoke quietly and with a hard note of authority. Magnus guessed he was a true fighting man, which the dents in his armour confirmed. He carried a single-handed longsword, like all the knights of the Red, but his was older and obviously better maintained.
