by A. J. Smith
‘I need to know what you saw!’ said Alahan, standing up as Halla finished cleaning her hands.
‘And if I can’t tell you?’ she replied. ‘If I don’t know... if I don’t want to think about it?’
‘It was a beast,’ offered Falling Cloud. ‘Not a troll, not a spider, not the krakens themselves.’ He bowed his head as if recalling the creature. ‘It appeared to be a tree, black and dead. When it moved, it was fast. Branches became legs, tentacles. Its mouth was... just a hole. But the teeth – like needles.’
‘It wasn’t just the look of the thing,’ said Heinrich. ‘It felt worse than it looked.’
‘That’s the truth,’ agreed Halla, finally able to speak clearly.
The three of them finished scrubbing themselves clean and slowly took seats opposite Alahan, Tricken and Brindon.
‘Was it a darkwood tree?’ asked Old Father Crowe. ‘Black, with cracked bark?’
‘Aye, it could have been,’ replied Rexel. ‘Never seen one. Do they usually move?’
Brindon leant forward and appeared to be taking his time. The atmosphere was still manic; the old priest slowed things down by moving his eyes from Rexel to Halla before answering. ‘No, they don’t usually move. Nor do they grow in Fjorlan. There are old, old tales of... dark things, dead gods and eldritch magic.’
‘It’s the Twisted Tree,’ said Alahan, drawing all eyes to him. ‘It’s been reborn.’
CHAPTER 12
QUEEN GWENDOLYN TIRIS IN NARLAND
THE LANDS OF the Twisted Tree, they were calling it. Each new group of refugees – clinging to saddles, pulling their worldly belongings in carts, or just walking in lonely stupor – told a tale. First there had been dozens, then hundreds; now there were thousands. They came from farms, townships. Some came from Ro Weir itself, those who had decided the new order was not for them. Some had family elsewhere or enough money to start afresh; others had left in the night, too scared to pack and too stunned to think of a direction to travel. The Hawks filtered them through the army, distributing as much aid as could be spared and picking up information from those who wanted to talk.
The Mistress of Pain was still alive and living openly as high priestess of her new world. They spoke of her as though her very glance could convey domination or death. She’d declared all the lands of Ro to be under the sway of her new religion, and south of Cozz she was largely correct. Rich men and women, nobles of Weir and Leith, and affluent merchant princes – they all cowered before her, changing their old world to fit her new one. And the Hounds – they were everywhere. Refugees spoke of death squads, purges, martial law and public burnings – which they called immolation.
Rham Jas Rami had failed. He was probably dead, and the Sister remained to direct her huge army. As she had feared, sorcery would still play a part in their battle. Swords may not be enough.
The Lands of the Twisted Tree. She thought the name bothered Xander more than the occupation itself. The bitch had seen fit to rename Tor Funweir. In doing so she’d pissed on centuries of history and tradition, kicking the house of Tiris in the face. The name went back to High King Dashell Tiris, the first man to unite all the cities of Ro. Before him, feudal lords had fought for territory and riches, taking and breaking alliances as their mood dictated. The house of Tiris and the Purple clerics who followed them had created a nation that had stood until now. It was Tor Funweir, not the Lands of the Twisted fucking Tree.
‘You’re from Hunter’s Cross, my queen,’ said Markos of Rayne.
‘So?’
‘So, why do you care?’ replied the paladin. ‘Your people are mongrels at best, godless yokels at worst. No-one has invaded the Cross.’
She was becoming tired of his pious horse-shit. The White Knights cared only for utter submission to the One. Anyone not constantly on their knees, praying for salvation, was a heathen. She could only assume that the Red Prince was the sole option available to them. Xander was many things: devout was not one of them. But after having their coronation blessed, she was sure that, whatever the One God wanted, it certainly wasn’t prayer and austerity.
‘Thank you for the insightful commentary,’ she replied. ‘Don’t you have an evening prayer meeting to organize?’
He held himself upright, hands on hips and chest thrust out. ‘A barbed tongue is the sign of an unchecked mind, my queen.’
‘Again, insightful. Seriously, though, fuck off.’
The man didn’t know how to react. She’d sworn at him before, but his mind could barely comprehend that anyone, even his queen, would dare to insult him.
‘Anything else?’ she asked.
‘No. I will... fuck off, my queen.’
He left, returning to his Knights of the Dawn. They did not assist with the refugees, nor did they mingle with the rest of the army. When night came, they camped by themselves and refused all but the most essential coordination. Markos was the sole member to spend time away from the other knights. He wandered through their camp, sneering at the men and pointing out random acts of slovenliness or insubordination. He was largely ignored.
The Lands of the Twisted Tree. The more she sounded out the words, the more they angered her. The bitch couldn’t enchant them all, whether they could kill her or not. Once her Hounds were routed, she could sway the odd warrior, perhaps put together some kind of rearguard, but— shut up, Gwen, she thought. There was enough bravado flying around the army without her contributing. Lords and mercenaries from Arnon and Du Ban had answered their king’s call and given the army bulk, but many were treating the campaign as sport, not realizing how tenuous their lives had suddenly become.
A warm breeze drifted over the hills of Narland, sending her braided hair into a collar that wrapped itself loosely around her neck. The army was west of the King’s Highway, camped in the endless, spider-infested hills north of Weir. Dokkalfar scouts were ranging in every direction between them and the city. All of a sudden it felt like a war – starving refugees, unlikely allies, slow troop movements. When those with power fought, those without suffered. Groups, mobs, collectives – citizens unused to combat, with crossbows held in untrained hands, fleeing from anything with a scimitar, turning Tor Funweir into a roiling mass of fear and confusion.
Standing on a hill, watching an endless stream of startled refugees, was not conducive to constructive thinking. The new queen of Tor Funweir left her isolation, striding back to the command tent, positioned on another hill in the distance.
***
The tent was octagonal and the table was circular. Round it sat the commanders of the armies of Tor Funweir. She knew some of them – Xander, Brother Daganay, Major Brennan, Tyr Sigurd, Lord Markos – but others were new to her. There was a watch commander from Tiris. Two landed knights, one with a large crossbow and another with an aged face, grey hair and heavy plate armour.
Lord Ronan Montague from Du Ban stood to the side, clad in a steel breastplate. He commanded yeomanry from his lands and had pledged his men to King Alexander Tiris. Other lords and ladies had sent oaths of fealty and what men they could spare. Animustus, the Gold cardinal of Ro Arnon, had pledged support to the new king but no men, claiming that the church city must remain protected. Other lords and rich men had provided supply lines to keep the army fed and equipped. Carts of grain, potatoes and salted meat arrived hourly from Tiris and Voy.
The new forces had doubled their number and close to forty thousand men now camped in the hills of Narland. Xander had welcomed each man with a smile, knowing that every warrior could make a difference. He’d assigned them to duties, made them assist the refugees and formed his men into a wedge, pointing south. The objective had been made clear – liberate Ro Weir from occupation, and pull down the banners of the Twisted Tree. For the first time, she thought they could do it.
‘Is this risen man a joke, my king?’ asked Lord Montague.
‘He’s our chief scout,’ replied Daganay, patting Sigurd on the shoulder.
The lord of Du Ban looked along his nos
e at the Dokkalfar. ‘I’m surprised to hear such words from a lesser churchman. This creature is a godless abomination. The Mandate of Severus remains as true today as it did when it was writ.’
‘Well, technically,’ began Daganay, ‘they had a god long before we did – a Shadow Giant, if memory serves. Some histories even suggest—’
‘There’s not going to be a fight in this tent,’ interrupted Brennan. ‘And I don’t trust either of you to keep this in words – there’ll be a punch sooner or later. If the king wants Sigurd to stay, then Sigurd stays. Simple. He’s in charge, you are not. This is rule number one.’
‘Thank you, Major,’ replied Xander.
Brother Daganay leant across the table and addressed Lord Montague directly. ‘If you need any education in the histories of the Dokkalfar, see me later. The Kirin scholar, Vham Dusani, was particularly erudite on the subject.’
‘Dag, give it a rest,’ said Gwen.
‘If we can begin,’ grunted Xander, shaking his head.
‘Of course, General,’ agreed Brennan.
Around the tent, dozens of men now fell quiet to listen to their new king.
‘Scouts and refugees are equally good at delivering bad news,’ said Xander. ‘It’s been confirmed that Ro Weir fell several months ago, while the Red Army was in Ranen. At this point, over a hundred thousand Hounds encircle it. They are controlled by one of the Seven Sisters and they fly the banner of a Twisted Tree, thinking to remake Tor Funweir as a part of their new Tyranny.’
‘Intolerable,’ spat Ronan Montague. ‘How has this been allowed?’
Half the room, judging by their expressions, seemed to want to laugh at the lord’s naivety, but they checked their humour. Gwen imagined that Du Ban had remained free of the Sisters’ influence and that Lord Montague, like many Lords of Ro, would have merely remained in his keep, hoping someone else would deal with the Hounds.
‘My lord,’ said the king, with a note of tolerance, ‘this has been allowed by the complacency of the Lords of Ro and by the designs of the Seven Sisters. My brother and cousin were enchanted. Both Purple cardinals were enchanted. If I hadn’t left Ro Haran, I’d have been fucking enchanted. We have a dead Kirin to thank for our current freedom, for one witch can cause much less mischief than seven.’
‘Rham Jas Rami has given us a chance to win,’ offered Gwen. ‘Maybe just a fool’s chance, but a chance nonetheless.’
‘Numbers do not matter,’ said Markos. ‘The One is all the armour we need. Their swords will miss. Their arrows will glance from our faith as if it were the finest steel.’
Daganay rolled his eyes. ‘Just to be safe, I think I’ll still wear armour.’
‘If they get through us,’ offered Gwen, knowing that something needed to be said, ‘then Tor Funweir falls. Arnon, Leith, Tiris... even Haran. There won’t be enough true fighting men left to stop this Twisted Tree. Thousands of men, women and children need our help.’
‘To that end,’ said Xander, ‘we deploy the army here and send out raiding companies to clear the surrounding area of Hounds. They’re not organized and hopefully we can trim their numbers before we march on Weir itself. We don’t know how many more Hounds can sail from Karesia – two million, three million? If we don’t stop them at Weir, we won’t stop them at all.’
***
The guard post was poorly made and the Hounds that occupied it were poorly trained. There were a hundred of them, flailing at the fifth cohort with wild abandon.
She parried a scimitar thrust and cut a man’s throat. Her leaf-blade got stuck in his armour, but he died quickly and there was no-one close to take advantage. Either side of her, the wooden structure was alive with combat.
They’d closed in through the forest and attacked suddenly from the flanks. Whatever else the Hounds may be, they were clearly shit carpenters, and the guard post barely had walls. It was a series of wooden platforms and low fences, overlooking the King’s Highway. It would have been a good spot if it wasn’t so obvious.
‘They’re running!’ shouted Symon. ‘Pursue. No-one gets away.’
A wave of leaf-blades was launched from the trees, cutting down those running. Tyr Sigurd and his Dokkalfar were masterful at mopping up stragglers.
A company of yeoman from Du Ban, stationed with the forest-dwellers, rode from the woods and cut off the retreating Hounds, killing every last one that didn’t already have a leaf-blade in his back. Everyone was dead in less than three minutes from when the Hawks had first broken cover.
She stood, cleaning her leaf-blade on her cloak and surveying the southern horizon. It was empty. Maybe ten miles south was Ro Weir; on either side of their advance, arrayed across the duchy, were the Hounds. The main force hadn’t left Weir, but huge mobs roamed the countryside and every single one needed to be killed before they could push towards the city. It would be slow and violent, with many short battles and attritional losses to their vanguard, but it was preferable to being outflanked.
‘Send word back, we’re clear to this point.’
‘Aye, my lady,’ replied Symon. The young Hawk hesitated.
‘Problem?’ she asked.
‘Why aren’t they riding out to meet us? We’ve smashed all their patrols and pushed almost to their doorway – what are they waiting for?’ He was not wounded and, though his sword was bloodied, he stood at ease.
‘They don’t make war like us. I’m not sure they make war at all. Think of them like an ant colony, stripping the forest floor of leaves and twigs, never thinking about things in their way. If an ant dies another takes its place. Each one is expendable.’
Tyr Sigurd rushed over to them. He was hugely tall and covered the uneven ground in long, graceful strides. His forest-dwellers were skulking on the horizon, as the Hawks pulled dead bodies into a pile next to the wooden structures.
‘Take a rest, friend,’ said Symon.
‘Later,’ replied Sigurd. ‘Queen Gwendolyn, a small group of riders has been sighted to the south. Not these faceless suits of armour.’
‘Not Hounds? Are they coming or going?’ she asked.
‘Heading this way,’ he said.
Gwen narrowed her eyes. ‘Symon, leave the bodies, get everyone to form up on the barricade.’
‘As you say, my queen.’
‘Sigurd, stay out of sight until they get to the ridge. See what they do.’
‘Sensible,’ replied the forest-dweller.
They parted. Symon snapped a few orders and the fifth cohort left a canvas of sprawled dead bodies on the grass and formed up at her back. The Dokkalfar remained in place, managing to be remarkably stealthy with nothing but a slight ridge to obscure them. Gwen herself, with Symon behind her left shoulder, strode towards the ridge.
She smiled as the distant riders came into view. Sigurd’s eyesight was keen in the extreme. Gwen could barely make out horses, let alone armour. To her it was just a moving splodge of brown and black. Then a texture of white appeared above the splodge. As they neared the ridge, the lead rider came into view. He held a wooden lance, topped with a white flag. He was not a Hound and wore ornate black armour, with two wavy-bladed knives sheathed across his chest.
‘That’s a wind claw,’ she muttered. Since Cozz, they’d met only Hounds. The former faithful of Jaa had stayed close to the Mistress of Pain, rightly thinking that she needed protecting.
‘White flag,’ said Symon. ‘Does that mean we can’t kill them?’
‘It means they’ve got balls,’ she said with a smile. ‘If, at any point in the up-coming conversation, I give you a nod, cut them down. They can fuck their white flag if they think I’ll put up with any shit.’
‘With pleasure, my queen,’ he replied.
She strolled across the grass, side-stepping a mutilated Hound and rising to stand on the ridge, with hidden Dokkalfar either side and Symon, sword in hand, at her back.
There were ten riders, on muscular warhorses, armed with scimitars and vicious knives. The wind claw was in the lead, but
behind was a mixed group of Karesians and Ro. The natives of Tor Funweir shared the blank aggression of the Karesians and appeared to give no thought to the angry Hawks glaring at them.
‘Rein in that horse,’ said Gwen loudly. ‘And tell your Ro pets to fuck off or they’ll die within a minute.’
The forest-dwellers rose from concealment and the horses reared up in surprise. The wind claw stopped instantly, but the others had to wrestle their mounts into compliance.
‘Give the order or they die,’ she repeated, a growl barely contained behind the words. ‘Seeing your face is bad enough – these are men of Ro, twisted by your craft. Bringing them here is an insult.’
The wind claw was a young man, but his eyes were still and penetrating. He didn’t blink. ‘I don’t think you’d violate a flag of truce,’ he said in a sharp, lyrical accent.
She nodded at Symon. He smiled and gestured to Sigurd’s leaf-blade. The forest-dwellers, impassive and graceful, drew their knives and, with no apparent aim, launched them at the five men of Ro. Each traitor caught a blade in the chest and fell from their horse. Their chain shirts were poor protection against the razor-sharp Dokkalfar weapons, and three were dead before they hit the grass. The other two screamed in pain and thrashed around, spraying blood from his wounds as they feebly tried to pull the blades out of their bodies. The Karesians, still trying to control their horses, drew scimitars, but did not attack.
The young wind claw, staying impressively unemotional, raised a hand to his remaining men. ‘Sheathe the weapons. I don’t believe we are in similar danger of summary execution.’
‘And them?’ asked one of his men, pointing to the two dying men of Ro.
The wind claw locked eyes with Gwen and held her gaze even as they both listened to the gurgling death-rattle of his two men. His eyes were intense and she deduced that he was not a man squeamish of pain or death. The sounds slowly became murmurs, and finally silence as both men succumbed to their wounds.
‘Time kills all men,’ said the wind claw. ‘Those with a blade in their chest more quickly than others.’
