The Long War 01 - The Black Guard

by A. J. Smith

  ‘Rowanoco, father of all, blessed of the Low Kast, of the plateaus of Ursa, of the frozen wastes, visit us now and heal this man… please.’

  The last word stretched on the Ranen priest’s lips and he felt his hand become warm. In the deep recesses of his mind he heard a distant rumble as if an earthquake were echoing through his head. The voice of Rowanoco the Earth Shaker, god of the Ranen, began to fill him.

  More tears came into his eyes as his god leant down and spoke to him. He felt peace, calm and tranquillity at the sound of the Giant’s words and, although he could not hope to understand what was being said to him, he sensed a strength of purpose that he had rarely felt. His hand began to glow as he became a conduit for the god’s power.

  Rowanoco, the Ice Giant, reached across uncounted layers of the world and lent his power to the priest. Magnus’s hand smoothly ran across Hasim’s back and the wound began to close. Slowly at first, he felt the blood stop flowing and the flesh knit itself back together. He heard Hasim’s heartbeat quicken a pace as the deep cut became no more than a scar and the blood around it disappeared.

  Without thinking, Magnus moved his glowing hand to rest on Hasim’s leg and, with merely a touch, the second wound was healed, leaving only a mark that looked as if it had been there for years.

  Hasim coughed as Magnus fell back on to the floor of his cell. The Ranen glanced around and was glad to see that he’d been quiet and had not alerted Castus, the gaoler.

  He breathed heavily, shaking his head to clear a slight residual dizziness. Above, he saw Hasim slowly open his eyes and blink rapidly, his face pressed against the barred window. The Karesian groaned and moved only tentatively, slowly letting his senses reorder themselves. He looked down at the belt still tied tightly round his leg.

  With a smile he turned to look through the bars at Magnus. The priest smiled back and the two old friends looked at each other for a few moments before Hasim spoke. ‘I think Bronwyn is safe, I got her as far as I could,’ he said weakly. ‘I just hope Brom is still alive somewhere.’

  CHAPTER 5

  RHAM JAS RAMI IN THE CITY OF RO WEIR

  Weir was the only city in the lands of Ro where a Kirin man could live without being constantly hounded by clerics. The Kirin were the mongrel offspring of Karesian and Ro, and they were generally dismissed as criminals and slavers by both their parent races. Rham Jas was no slaver and thought that, on some level, he was a good man; however, he had to concede that he was currently working as an assassin.

  Weir rested on the Kirin Ridge, a narrow sea channel between Tor Funweir and the arid expanse of Karesia to the south. It was a hot, dirty and dangerous city, and Kirin criminals and Karesian mobsters controlled at least a third of it. Rham Jas despised the majority of them, but he was clever enough to trade on the misplaced sense of brotherhood they showed towards him. He knew he was safe as long as the Kirin hated the Ro more than they hated each other.

  Like all Kirin, Rham Jas was dark-skinned, lighter than the men of Karesia but swarthy in comparison to the Ro. He was tall, but slender, and had eyes that were never still and a near-permanent grin. His hair was wavy and thin, hanging in lank curls to his shoulders. He was approaching his thirty-sixth year of life, but felt much older and enjoyed moments of immaturity to remind him that age was not a good thing.

  Currently, he was sitting in the shadows on the roof of a particularly nasty inn called The Dirty Beggar. He’d been up here for about an hour and was beginning to think that he’d been given bad information. Rham Jas had been paid a decent amount of gold to kill a drunkard named Lyle. Apparently, Lyle had got into debt to the wrong people and was having his account closed. In Weir, that tended to mean death or something approximating permanent incapacity. Rham Jas had certainly been hired to cut off legs in the past.

  He had been making a living from the mobsters of Ro Weir and other undesirables for nearly ten years. In that time, he’d discovered that he had a knack for assassination. Previously he’d been a hunter and a family man, living in a small village in a particularly isolated spot along the Kirin Ridge. Now he was discovering that a longbow was also an excellent way to kill people.

  Rham Jas also carried a katana at his side. It was a gift from his wife and, though he rarely used it, he thought it wise to carry a sword when on a job – and it held certain sentimental value.

  He pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders and peered over the edge of the building to the street below. The Dirty Beggar was full and sounds of drunken revelry filled the night air. Outside stood a group of leather-armoured thugs, a local gang paid to keep order in the street. Several patrons of the tavern were being told to leave, and several more were vomiting on the flagstones. It was getting late and Rham Jas hoped he’d be able to finish the job tonight. Having to return to kill the man tomorrow would be annoying.

  A gentle breeze passed overheard, carrying with it the scent of a nearby man. Rham Jas had an excellent sense of smell and guessed that someone was trying to sneak up on him from across the roof. He spun round quickly, levelling his bow with lightning speed at the dark figure several metres away.

  ‘You speak or you die… it’s that simple.’

  The figure held his hands wide in a gesture of submission and stepped closer, pushing back the hood of his cloak and revealing a young face, no more than twenty-four years old. He had curly black hair and carried an ornate longsword. Rham Jas recognized him and slowly lowered his bow.

  ‘And what do you want me to say, you Kirin horse-fucker?’ The young man smiled, revealing youthful good looks despite his full beard.

  ‘Perhaps tell me what you’re doing here, you Ro bastard.’ Rham Jas sat on the ground, leaning against the side of the roof, and loosened his hold on the longbow. He regarded the man closely. He had not seen him for at least a year and was impressed with how he carried himself. He had always been dangerous, despite his years, and now he had an air of menace that Rham Jas thought suited him.

  ‘I’m glad you’re still alive, Brom. I heard what happened at Canarn,’ the Kirin said.

  The young man looked down, showing signs of anguish. ‘May I sit?’

  Rham Jas reached for the bottle of wine he kept for jobs that involved lots of waiting and motioned to the ground next to him. ‘Please. But keep your head down, I’m on a job.’

  Lord Bromvy of Canarn, son to Duke Hector, ducked into the shadows and sat on the dirty tavern roof next to his old friend, leaning against a stone ledge which concealed them from the street below.

  They sat silently for a minute, the bottle of wine passed between them, until Rham Jas judged it was time to speak. ‘What of your father?’ he asked gently.

  Brom shook his head. ‘I don’t know. The last I heard, the knights of the Red had taken the keep and arrested him. I was in Ro Tiris when I got the news. Little I could do but run here.’ He took a deep swig of wine. ‘There’s a price for my capture, the fucking Purple have enlisted every disease-ridden mercenary this side of Karesia to hunt me down.’

  ‘You’re worth something at last. I’d be flattered, Brom,’ Rham Jas said with a grin.

  ‘That’s because you’re a worthless Kirin mongrel,’ his friend replied with little humour.

  Rham Jas’s smiled broadened. ‘True enough, but I’m not yet a Black Guard.’ The term was used for those whose family had betrayed the crown. It was a brand placed on the cheek to identify a man as belonging to a dishonourable house. Brom had been named to the Black Guard, but not yet captured and branded. Rham Jas assumed that the young lord was unlikely to turn himself in.

  Movement from the street below caught the Kirin’s eye and he placed a finger across his mouth. With slow, deliberate movements, Rham Jas stood and positioned himself above the ledge. Drawing back on his longbow, he scanned the street. He saw a fat man, dressed in a bright green robe, accompanied by two paid women. Lyle did not look worried and Rham Jas guessed he was not aware of the grievous insult he’d given to the local mobster – nor of the f
act that he was about to die.

  ‘What’s this man done exactly?’ Brom whispered.

  Without taking his eyes from his target, Rham Jas said, ‘Not sure,’ before releasing an arrow from his hunter’s bow. It hit the mark, just above Lyle’s right ear; a good shot, thought the Kirin, as blood erupted from the wound. Lyle was clearly dead and the two women screamed and looked in horror at the pieces of skull and flesh that now covered their clothes.

  ‘Right, off we go then,’ Rham Jas said cheerfully.

  He winked at Brom and darted back across the roof, grabbing his backpack and ducking to remain in the shadows. At the far side of the roof was a wooden staircase which snaked its way round the corner of the building. Rham Jas didn’t look back to see if his friend had followed as he darted off the roof and deftly descended the stairs. He could hear distant sounds of commotion from the street and knew he needed to remove himself as quickly as possible.

  He heard Brom running behind him, making more noise than Rham Jas thought was wise, as they leapt off the staircase to land on a lower building opposite.

  Rham Jas loved the feeling of having got away with a crime. He also loved the feeling of shooting an arrow through the head of a Ro. He rarely took jobs that required him to kill Karesians or Ranen, and his inherent hatred of the Ro had earned him a certain reputation amongst the mobsters of Ro Weir. Prejudice was greatly prized where assassins were concerned.

  The two men moved quickly across the second roof and came to a stop at a window leading to an adjoining tower. Rham Jas had propped the window open earlier, and now he swiftly jumped to grab the robe he’d fastened to a beam within.

  Brom looked impressed as the Kirin climbed nimbly through the open window. He disappeared inside for a moment before reappearing at the window ledge. ‘Do you want a fucking invitation, your lordship?’ he said to Brom.

  The man below smiled and began climbing the rope. Once Brom had joined him inside, Rham Jas pulled up the rope and closed the window.

  The room they had entered was a storage room of sorts, with several racks of clothing and several more of dried food rations. Brom looked around with curiosity while Rham Jas removed his armour and dressed in a set of commoner’s clothes he had prepared beforehand.

  ‘Rham Jas, where exactly have you brought us?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s the lower level of a drunk tank, where people with nowhere else to go end up when Brown clerics find them being sick in back alleys. This is where they keep the crap they give homeless folk. The food costs money, but occasionally a drunk has a few coins on him.’

  ‘And why are we here exactly?’ Brom asked.

  Rham Jas sat on the floor and removed his sword belt, placing his katana on a rack behind a stack of clothes. ‘Well, I thought being drunk in the tank was a good alibi when the watchmen come and ask me if I shot a man in the head. I stashed my armour and bow here earlier and then vomited in an alley outside. The Brown clerics ushered me in.’ His constant smile beamed brighter than usual as he looked at his friend. ‘I stayed up there a good hour or so and then came down here, got my stuff and killed that man.’ He reached under one of the racks and produced a bottle of strong Ranen whisky.

  ‘Drink?’ he asked with good humour.

  Brom shook his head. ‘I don’t think I’ll be joining you in the tank and I don’t want to see any watchmen, whether they’re looking for you or me.’

  A quizzical look crossed Rham Jas’s face as he spoke. ‘Yes, you’re the wanted one. What exactly happened in Canarn?’

  Brom looked as though he didn’t want to revisit what had happened to his homeland, but he gathered himself and faced Rham Jas. ‘Magnus came south again and my father asked for sanctuary. The old fool actually tried to join the Freelands of Ranen.’ He tried to smile, but the expression never reached his eyes, and Rham Jas thought he was close to tears.

  He looked out of the window, into the loud night of Ro Weir, and continued, ‘Someone betrayed them and a battle fleet of Red knights attacked. Rillion and that bastard Pevain massacred anyone who tried to defend the town and the knights took the keep.’

  Rham Jas knew how much the fall of Ro Canarn would affect the young lord and he felt a momentary pang of concern for Magnus. The dopey Ranen was far too proud to leave the city and actually stay alive. ‘I bet Magnus did some fucking damage before they took him down. I’ve seen that man take a dozen swords and stick them up their owners’ arses.’

  Brom looked up. ‘I don’t know what happened to him. I still don’t really know what happened after the battle ended. I just know that they took my father alive.’

  ‘Your sister?’ asked Rham Jas.

  ‘She’d have drawn a sword and fought if Father let her…’ He shook his head. ‘But I don’t know whether they’d kill her or not.’

  ‘Knights of the Red aren’t squeamish about killing women,’ offered Rham Jas, with little tact, causing Brom to direct a hard look at him. ‘What? If you expect me to hold you and make everything better, you’re talking to the wrong Kirin.’ Rham Jas felt for his friend’s loss, but he had concerns of his own. ‘Look, Brom, I wish I could help, but I’ve really got to go upstairs and pretend to be drunk.’ He finished getting dressed and stood up. ‘Now, how do I look?’

  ‘Like a filthy Kirin scumbag.’ Brom spoke with no humour and Rham Jas felt guilty for being so dismissive of his friend’s pain.

  He took a moment to consider his words and spoke again. ‘Brom, I owe you a lot… you know I do, but we’re a long way from Ro Canarn and I don’t see how I can help. If Magnus and your father are both captured or killed, then you and I should be grateful we weren’t there at the time.’ He put a comforting hand on Brom’s shoulder. ‘You’re a dangerous little bastard, I reckon you could make a decent living with that overly shiny sword of yours.’

  ‘Go and pretend to be a drunk, Rham Jas. Maybe it was a mistake to look for you.’ Brom stood up and grasped his old friend’s hand. ‘Now, can I get out through that door or should I climb back out of the window?’

  Rham Jas was not used to feeling guilt, but he was pragmatic enough to know that whatever the young lord was planning would be very unwise indeed. Rham Jas was a clever man and was not given to foolish displays of courage. He had stayed alive for most of his thirty or so years through his wits, skill and good humour, and he didn’t want to make a foolish move now.

  ‘Go through the door and take the stairs to the street. The door’s in a back street behind a brothel. No one will see you.’

  Brom maintained eye contact for a moment, but turned to leave the storeroom with no more words. ‘Brom,’ Rham Jas spoke as his friend opened the door. ‘What did you want from me?’

  The young lord of Canarn looked down, then back at his friend, but he said nothing and left the room, closing the wooden door softly behind him.

  Rham Jas let his smile disappear and kicked a pile of clothes out of frustration. He paced back and forth in front of the window for several minutes, trying to convince himself that he had done the right thing and that nothing Brom could have had to say would be for his benefit. But Rham Jas owed him his life.

  The young lord had saved him from being hanged three years ago. Rham Jas and a Karesian bastard called Al-Hasim had foolishly broken into a Purple church in the city of Ro Tiris. They were drunk and were following a tip-off that the church had little security and easily accessible caches of gold.

  Hasim was no thief and Rham Jas was not stupid, but they’d plied each other with just enough drink to make them think it was an amazing idea. The two of them, more out of boredom than need for gold, had climbed up a neighbouring building and jumped through a glass window to enter the church.

  Rham Jas hadn’t thought about the incident for a while and found his memories difficult to put in order. He remembered Hasim laughing while sitting on the altar and pretending to defecate, and he remembered the shouts of anger from the Purple clerics who emerged from below the knave.

  There was defini
tely a fight and, as Rham Jas looked down at a faint scar on his chest, he thought how lucky he’d been not to die right there, in the sight of a god he didn’t follow. The Purple clerics had probably been so taken aback by the sight of two laughing foreigners pissing on an effigy of the One God that they didn’t fight at their best.

  Rham Jas took a swig from his bottle of Ranen whisky and sat on the floor, temporarily forgetting that he’d just killed a man and would be being hunted by the city watch. His thoughts were elsewhere, as he remembered being dragged from the church, blood covering his clothes and vomit barely contained behind his lips.

  The clerics had beaten the two of them insensible and the memory of exactly how Rham Jas had ended up with a noose round his neck was rather fuzzy. He was sure that Hasim was unconscious and vaguely recalled a list of charges being read out. He’d been told since that the clerics hadn’t waited for any kind of official justice and were simply going to hang the two foreigners from a wooden beam in the church stables.

  What happened next had been told to him by Brom and Magnus on a number of occasions and he still didn’t know which version to believe. What was certain was that the young lord had taken his Ranen friend on a visit to the capital in order to help him understand the Ro. They’d been drinking too, though not to the extremes of Rham Jas and Hasim, and they had found themselves in the streets of Ro Tiris, alerted to the sounds of swearing and commotion from the Purple church.

  Brom had always claimed that he tried to reason with the clerics, considering it his duty as a noble to stop what he saw as a miscarriage of justice. Whereas Magnus remembered the fight starting almost instantly. Either way, Magnus and Brom fought and bested four Purple clerics and rescued the drunken thieves from a pathetic death.