by A. J. Smith
The cleric nodded. ‘These theatrics really aren’t necessary, young man.’ He crossed over to his boots. ‘I follow the aspect of healing and peace. It’s my obligation to help those wounded by conflict.’
Randall did not respond. He knew he would never harm a cleric, but he needed the healer to think that he would.
The White cleric laced up his boots and retrieved a heavy fur-lined cloak and a satchel of healing supplies.
‘What is your name, cleric?’ Randall asked.
‘Brother Hobson, originally of Haran, now of Voy.’
Randall nodded and motioned for the cleric to follow him. ‘We need to hurry, Brother Hobson.’
He made less effort to be silent as he reached the outer door and paused, making sure that Hobson was close behind. The cleric still looked flustered, but at least he was cooperating. Scanning the dark streets, Randall could hear the slow and regular pace of armoured watchmen several streets away. He shepherded Hobson out of the door.
‘This way,’ he whispered, ‘and be quiet.’
Randall knew the route well and moved swiftly, stopping only between buildings to check the streets were clear. As they moved further away from the centre of Voy the buildings became less opulent and, a few side streets from the northern gate, they entered a line of abandoned houses and shops. Randall was glad that not all of Voy was reserved for the rich.
‘You didn’t tell me your name, young sir,’ puffed the cleric at his side.
‘I’ll tell you my name in a short while, brother,’ replied Randall, looking out for Vasir’s signal.
A glint of light appeared in the top floor of an old wooden shop. The building was in bad order, with no door or intact windows, but the structure was sound and it had given the Dokkalfar a good vantage point to keep watch on the surrounding area. Vasir signalled that the coast was clear and Randall ushered Brother Hobson forward. They entered the derelict shop and moved towards the wooden stairs within.
Hobson nervously surveyed their surroundings.
‘You’re in no danger for now, brother,’ said Randall.
‘It’s the for now that I find concerning, young sir,’ replied Hobson. ‘Well, no sense crying about it now.’ But the cleric followed Randall up the stairs without further comment.
The upper floor of the building was in even worse condition. Numerous holes in the wooden floor made it necessary to hug the wall for fear of falling through. Brother Hobson gasped as a tall figure appeared from a door at the end of the corridor.
‘Calm, brother,’ said Randall.
Vasir was approaching seven feet tall and his dark features were stark, even within the unlit building. His skin was grey, his ears leaf-shaped, and his hair jet black. He held a heavy knife in each hand and moved with inhuman grace.
‘We have little time, Randall,’ said the Dokkalfar.
‘You associate with the risen,’ said Hobson with wide-eyed fear.
Randall looked at the churchman coolly. ‘Brother Hobson, there is your patient.’
On a bed, under a broken window, lay the shivering form of Utha the Ghost, Black cleric of the One God. The albino’s skin was even paler than usual and clammy with sweat. They had fashioned a bundle of herbs into a poultice and strapped it across the worst of his wounds. Bandages covered his upper body. Randall hated seeing him like this.
Moving closer, the White cleric squinted at the injured man. Randall saw recognition come to Hobson’s face as he examined the muscular albino who lay unconscious before him.
‘I know of this man.’ He turned back to Randall and Vasir. ‘And I know of his crimes.’
Randall looked at Brother Hobson. He had not been able to find out what had happened in Tiris after they had fled; the brother was the first person of any note he had spoken to in the last month.
‘You are the assassins of Prince Christophe,’ stated Hobson. ‘There is a sizeable bounty on your heads.’
Randall looked at Vasir. ‘Do we have time for this?’ The Dokkalfar shook his head and pointed at Utha.
‘There you go, brother, we have no time for this.’ Randall drew his sword. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, but I don’t want to see this man die either.’
To hear that they had been painted as assassins was not a surprise. Prince Christophe Tiris had been killed by something. Exactly what was a question he had asked himself a hundred times over during the last month, and he was no closer to an answer. A Dark Young, a monster, the priest and the altar – none of these held the whole truth. Randall even doubted the truth would be believed, should he choose to tell it.
‘Heal him and we can talk,’ Randall said.
Brother Hobson was clearly terrified. Randall did not relish forcing this humble man to help someone he saw as a wanted murderer, but they had no choice.
‘I will heal this man,’ Hobson said reluctantly, ‘but I will have to report your presence.’ He smiled with grim resignation. ‘I appreciate that you may feel the need to silence me, but I have an oath to the church.’
Randall considered. ‘You’re a good man, brother. I bear you no ill will.’ He sheathed the sword of Great Claw. ‘Heal him and you will greatly increase your chance of survival.’
Brother Hobson nodded. He placed his satchel on the floor and began inspecting the albino’s wounds. The king’s guardsmen in Ro Tiris had fought hard; some of the deeper and more jagged wounds had festered over the last week and needed immediate attention.
‘What do we do when he’s well?’ asked Vasir in a whisper.
‘We’re still a long way from the Fell,’ replied Randall, ‘and I’d imagine that Purple clerics have been despatched to hunt us down... probably mercenaries as well.’ He shook his head. ‘We can gather some supplies and try to get lost in the wilds. Or we can trust in speed and take the direct route south.’
Vasir inclined his head. ‘If the Shadow is fully healed, we will at least be able to move swiftly,’ he said.
Trapped in the oubliette of Ro Tiris a month ago, Katja the Hand of Despair had called Utha the last of the Shadow Giant old-blood. The name seemed to hold great import for the Dokkalfar. From what Randall had seen, they respected the Black cleric more than any other man alive.
Brother Hobson turned from the shivering body. ‘I am a servant of peace and as such I feel the need to tell you something, young man.’
Randall balked slightly at young man, but chose to let it pass. ‘So, tell me.’
‘There are mercenaries in town, dangerous-looking men. I don’t know why they’re here, but your presence seems a little... coincidental.’ Hobson hesitated. ‘I’ve heard them called bastards. Whether that’s a title or a general description, I’m not sure, but they certainly seem to like the name.’
Randall considered the news. They had stayed off the roads, travelled mostly by night, and slept in abandoned or deserted areas. If the mercenaries were here for them, they could be just checking out Voy without any real idea that their quarry was present. His hand still shook whenever he had to draw the sword of Great Claw for combat and he was not eager to test his skills any further – especially not against anyone who voluntarily called himself bastard.
‘Is that a Ro term?’ asked Vasir. ‘Bastards.’ He sounded it out in his strange accent. ‘What does it mean?’
Randall thought about it. ‘Bad men, killers, mercenaries, arseholes... bastards. Technically, it means a man whose parents weren’t married, but it’s a term of abuse as well.’
Hobson looked incredulous, between Randall and Vasir. The propaganda of the clerics was doctrine in the lands of Ro. Even Utha had spent his life hunting and killing the risen. If not for an accidental encounter, during which one had saved his life, he would probably have continued.
Randall stared back at him evenly. ‘Just tend to the patient, brother, let us worry about the mercenaries.’
* * *
Randall had never witnessed the healing powers of a cleric before. The voice of the One was gifted only to the White and a s
elect few battle chaplains. Brother Hobson took his time, seeming to forget Utha’s companions as he carefully tended the festering chest wounds. He used mundane items – ointments, bandages, poultices – but the true skill of his art lay in the magic he used. It started as a slight glow in his hands, flowing gently across Utha’s body, rippling like water and moving straight to the areas of worst harm.
Vasir kept watch on the street outside and Randall slumped in a makeshift and broken chair. The young squire had filled out over the last few months and found his muscles aching. His right arm was sore from wielding the sword of Great Claw and both legs were stiff. The thought of a few hours’ true rest was enticing, but he could not quite bring himself to trust Brother Hobson.
‘Randall.’ He heard urgency in Vasir’s voice.
He crossed to the front room overlooking the town. ‘What is it?’
Half in shadow, the forest-dweller was all but invisible and his gaze was focused on the street below. ‘There are men below.’
‘What kind of men?’ Randall asked.
Vasir motioned Randall to join him by the window. ‘See for yourself,’ he said.
Only the barest hint of moonlight illuminated the street, but he could see several men – four or five at the most – moving slowly between the buildings. They wore mail armour and had a swaying gait that made him think they were the worse for drink, a thought confirmed when he saw a bottle of wine passing between them.
‘We ain’t gonna find shit in these fucking shacks.’ The voice was slurred.
‘They’re just checking the town,’ Randall whispered. ‘They don’t know we’re here.’
‘We’re in a deserted building in a part of town being checked by mercenaries, Randall. It could be suggested that we are exactly what they’re looking for,’ said Vasir.
The mercenaries had stopped and were reclining against the opposite building. One was complaining about his feet and the others were swigging from a bottle of dark-looking liquor.
‘We’ll finish this line of buildings then turn in, okay?’ One of them, slightly older than the rest, had decided they weren’t going to find anything.
‘We should kill them,’ growled Vasir. ‘If they check the building and find us, it is likely at least one will get away. If we strike first, we can silence all five.’
The Dokkalfar’s cold manner chilled Randall.
‘No killing,’ he insisted.
‘As you say, Randall of Darkwald.’ The forest-dweller bowed his head respectfully.
Randall turned in time to see Brother Hobson appear by the doorway. ‘My work is finished, young man.’
Randall pressed his finger to his lips, but the damage was done. Below, the oldest mercenary was looking towards the building and had slowly unslung a heavy crossbow. His fellows followed suit.
‘Shit,’ muttered Randall, moving away from the window. ‘Vasir, get to the top of the stairs – don’t kill anyone until you have to.’
The grey-skinned warrior stood silently and, brandishing his blades, moved out of the room and towards the rickety staircase. Randall shepherded Hobson back towards Utha’s room.
‘I’ve done something foolish, haven’t I?’ asked Hobson, looking panicked.
‘You didn’t know, brother, but we may have some company.’ Randall didn’t blame the cleric. He should have told the healer to be quiet as soon as Vasir raised the alarm.
‘The Ghost is healed... as promised. He should regain consciousness in an hour or two, depending on his strength.’
Randall moved into the back room, propelling the cleric before him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Vasir standing in shadows at the top of the stairs. Below, the voices of the mercenaries and the sounds of chain mail and weaponry were all too distinct.
‘It was definitely a voice,’ said one, ‘on the first floor.’
‘Probably just someone the worse for drink looking for a quiet place to puke,’ said another. ‘I talk to myself when I’m in my cups.’
‘So, we’ll check and find out... clear?’ barked the lead man. Randall heard him draw his crossbow, and looked down at the still-unconscious form of Utha the Ghost. The Black cleric was turned on to his side and facing away from them. His wounds had largely disappeared, replaced with more scars. Randall screwed up his face. Their attempt to heal him would all be for nothing if they were captured.
‘Just stay quiet,’ Randall whispered to Hobson.
The White cleric nodded. Randall swiftly drew the sword of Great Claw and stepped back into the first-floor corridor. The Dokkalfar was motionless on one side of the landing. Randall moved quickly to stand opposite him. He tried to lock eyes with his ally but the forest-dweller was focused on the stairs, blades held downward, and Randall could barely make out his grey skin in the darkness.
‘If it’s a drunk, I’m gonna kick him hard...’ The voice was so close Randall held his breath. A step or two more and he’d be between them.
Randall held his sword tight against his chest lest its shine give away his location.
‘You two... go and check that room at the back.’
Randall tensed. As two men wielding large blades stepped past the crossbowman, Vasir acted. The Tyr moved with phenomenal grace, slashing the neck of the first man before spinning to drive his leaf-blade into the throat of the second, sending twin sprays of blood across the wooden floor.
The calm night of Voy was broken. The three remaining mercenaries looked with open-eyed surprise at the huge forest-dweller.
‘It’s them,’ one shouted. He wildly loosed a bolt down the hall and Randall stepped out, thrusting his sword towards the man. The point caught more chain mail than flesh and Randall overbalanced. Slipping on the pool of blood, he barrelled into the man who was feverishly trying to reload his crossbow. They fell together on to the stairs and Randall grunted in pain as his head struck wood before the two of them flew swiftly downwards, ending in a heap on the floor below.
The other two mercenaries had quickly regained their bearings and rushed up the stairs, swinging heavy maces at Vasir’s shadowy form. The Dokkalfar danced backwards into the hall. Randall tried to stand, but his head was swimming and he could taste blood on his tongue. Randall’s sword was stuck in the side of the man’s chain mail and he swore as he tried to untangle it.
‘I’m gonna fuck you till you bleed, boy,’ spat the mercenary, elbowing the squire in the chest.
Randall reluctantly let go of the sword and wrapped his arms round the man’s neck. As they wrestled in the detritus of the derelict building, Randall realized he was the stronger and began to exert leverage to keep the mercenary from drawing another weapon. He clung on, but a series of kicks and punches began to loosen his hold. This close, the man smelt terrible. Randall tried to manoeuvre on top of him, but lost his grip as a fist connected solidly with the side of his jaw. Randall went limp and the man rolled clear.
Randall tried to stand, but his legs weren’t responding. The mercenary pulled the sword of Great Claw from his chain mail. The blade grated against the steel links and came away with a small amount of blood.
‘Where’s the Ghost, boy?’ spat the mercenary through brown teeth. ‘The cleric, where is he?’
The man levelled Randall’s sword at him and grinned, a grotesque expression that showed missing teeth and stained gums. ‘Answer me,’ he shouted.
‘That’s my squire,’ said a deep, gravelly voice.
The mercenary turned to see a broad-shouldered figure staggering uncertainly down the stairs, longsword in hand. Brother Utha of Arnon, a mask of rage on his face, stood bare-chested and covered with fresh scars, but pale-skinned, white-haired and terrifying.
The mercenary grabbed Randall by the hair. Pulled upright, the squire felt the cold metal edge of Great Claw across his neck.
‘Your boy dies if you take one more step towards me.’
Utha stepped forward.
Randall felt the blade bite into his skin.
‘Stop fucking moving,�
� barked the mercenary.
The cleric took another step forward and launched his longsword towards them. The blade flew end over end and lodged messily in the mercenary’s chest, inches from Randall’s own.
For a moment, Randall’s laboured breathing was the only sound in the room.
Brother Utha of Arnon, last of the Shadow Giant old-blood regarded the room with a cool glare. ‘Do we have any wine?’
* * *
The sun was beginning to intrude on the horizon and still Randall had not slept.
Utha sat by the window looking out into the twilight while Hobson examined Randall’s head wound.
‘I must say, you people truly don’t appear to be the ruthless assassins you’re made out to be. The news from Ro Tiris is that Brother Utha of Arnon is the most dangerous man abroad in the lands of men. A reckless traitor to be killed on sight.’
The White cleric raised his head and saw three sets of eyes glaring back at him. He smiled nervously. ‘Of course, that’s just hearsay...’
Utha snorted. ‘Don’t fret, brother, you’re in no danger from us. We’ll be out of your hair within the hour and you’ll never have to deal with us again.’
‘I must say, that is a relief,’ replied Hobson. ‘Though, as a fellow man of the One, I would ask you a question, Brother Utha.’
‘I didn’t kill the prince,’ Utha said candidly. ‘Though I can’t tell you what did.’
Hobson shook his head. ‘No, brother, I wished to know why you of all people, a man renowned for his skill as a crusader, would consort with the risen.’
The Black cleric stood and faced him. Though they were similar in height, Utha’s bulk, muscle and demeanour spoke of his calling as a warrior; a sharp contrast to the aura of serenity that surrounded Hobson. As the two clerics – Black and White – looked at each other, Randall thought he could see a ripple of divine power as their eyes met. The back of his neck tingled.
Utha’s face was stone. ‘His name is Tyr Vasir. He is a Dokkalfar and no more an undead monster than you or I.’
