The Long War 01 - The Black Guard (12 page)

Magnus smiled again and, sensing an opportunity, turned sharply, his huge shoulder connecting heavily with Castus. The gaoler stumbled and fell face-first on to the wet, muddy courtyard. Both crossbowmen raised their weapons and Verellian took a step back, grasping his sword hilt.

Magnus stood looking down at the man who’d repeatedly seen fit to insult him. When it became clear that he didn’t intend to escape, the other knights relaxed.

‘I’m sure you deserved that, soldier.’ Verellian extended his hand and helped Castus to his feet. The man was covered in mud and growling with rage. A shake of the head from Verellian robbed him of any opportunity for retribution and he stomped back across the courtyard, swearing quietly to himself and motioning his men to follow.

‘That was probably ill-advised, priest. I suspect you may be under his care again this evening.’

‘Every insult will be repaid, sir knight.’ Magnus spoke with conviction.

‘I appreciate the man’s… more detestable qualities, but pushing him into the mud was a little unnecessary.’

Magnus turned to face the knight and said, ‘A man who defines himself as a gaoler has no honour. To cage a man of Ranen is the gravest insult to Rowanoco. Better your knights killed me than captured me… Though I pushed him over because you Ro have no sense of humour,’ he added, with a smile.

Verellian chuckled. ‘That at least may be true. Come, let us not keep the commander waiting.’ He began to lead Magnus away, before pausing. ‘You’re from Fjorlan, aren’t you; a man of the Low Kast?’

Magnus nodded. ‘My brother and I were born in Fredericksand. It’s the capital, on the coast of the Fjorlan Sea. The Low Kast is further inland.’

‘I apologize, my knowledge of the lands of Ranen is minimal.’ He was genuinely interested. ‘Do all your people speak so well?’

‘I speak better than most. Duke Hector’s son taught me.’ Magnus still had a heavy Fjorlan accent, but had learned to be understood in his time here; it was a matter of speaking slowly and with menace. Most Fjorlanders spoke enough of the language of Ro to converse, but they refused to call it
the common tongue
, the Ro name for it.

The knight resumed walking. ‘And what’s the correct form of address for a man of your station – Lord, Priest, Brother?’

‘I am Father Magnus Forkbeard Ragnarsson, of the Order of the Hammer and priest of Rowanoco.’ He knew his titles meant little to these men of the south. Verellian was impressed, however.

‘Well, Father Magnus, I am Sir William of Verellian, knight captain of the Red and king’s man.’ He bowed as he introduced himself.

‘You are the most polite man of Ro I have met since I came to your strange land. I was beginning to think only your women had manners.’

Verellian smiled again, showing himself more worldly that many of his comrades. ‘Men like Castus are bound to the church from birth. They have no need of honour when they are required only to clean up the mess made by true fighting men.’

They crossed the courtyard and entered the great hall by a wooden staircase which wrapped itself around the southernmost tower. The last time Magnus had entered the hall of Canarn it had been at the side of Brother Lanry and as an ally and adviser to Duke Hector. He was now a prisoner and found the change an unwelcome one. From what he knew of Lord Mortimer Rillion he doubted he’d be treated well and he prepared himself to weather more insults.

As they reached the second landing, Magnus took a glance over his shoulder into the town, where he could see the central square lit up by funeral pyres. He was too far away to see who was being burned, but it was certain that Hallam Pevain’s mercenaries were tending the pyres, and Magnus suspected the bodies of men and women of Canarn were providing the fuel.

On the edge of the square the small Brown chapel had not been touched, and Magnus hoped that Brother Lanry had been allowed to return to his flock.

The ornate double doors that separated the courtyard from the inner keep were flanked by two members of the king’s guard, the elite group of soldiers charged with protecting the crown. They stood imperiously, looking down their noses at both Magnus and Verellian.

A gauntleted salute from one of them caused Verellian to stop. ‘This is Father Magnus, he’s to be taken to the great hall.’

The guards stepped aside with military precision and, in unison, reached out to grasp the two huge door handles. The tall wooden doors creaked open, allowing the warmth from within to wash over Magnus. He could smell meat cooking and beer. The fact that he’d been eating rancid gruel while the Ro feasted on meat angered him greatly.

Verellian stepped forward, lightly tugging on the chain to lead Magnus behind him. ‘With me, Father; the knight commander awaits.’

‘Will they let me taste meat and drink beer?’ Magnus was hungry and thirsty and thought hospitality a knightly virtue.

Verellian raised an eyebrow at this and replied, ‘I think you have more to worry about than a full belly, Father.’

Magnus walked into the dark hall. Either side of him wooden pillars displaying the banners of Canarn rose from floor to ceiling. The heraldry was in muted colours of green and brown, in sharp contrast to the blood-red tabards on display. Knights of the Red lined the walkway, their swords raised in ordered fashion. Each looked directly to the front, refusing to give in to their curiosity and observe the Ranen giant walking between them. Several of the knights wielded crossbows and Magnus again wondered about the honour of such a weapon.

As they neared the end of the walkway, he looked ahead to the feast hall before him. The huge vaulted ceiling made Duke Hector’s great hall intimidating to lesser men. Magnus, however, had spent many hours here counselling the duke on the best way to keep his people alive while gaining their independence, and many more spent drinking and laughing. Now it seemed colder and less welcoming.

A small army of knights of the Red stood in ranks on either side of the raised platform at the far end of the hall. Cages, hung from the ceiling, held bruised and bloodied figures. Tables holding the remnants of a lavish feast stood behind the knights, and Magnus let his mind wander to thoughts of meat and beer.

‘Enter and be judged,’ a voice bellowed from the raised platform. ‘In the name of King Sebastian Tiris, and within sight of the One, I claim the power to judge you.’

The assembled knights came to attention in unison, a loud clank of steel armour echoing throughout the hall. William of Verellian pushed his shoulders back and led the chained Ranen down the central red-carpeted aisle towards the platform.

He recognized a few faces as those in charge came into view. Sitting in Duke Hector’s chair was a man of middle years, haughty and imperious-looking and wearing ornate red armour. This was Lord Mortimer Rillion, a famous knight of Tor Funweir. His various exploits were told in stories to young Ro, and Magnus was impressed by his bearing. Whatever he might think of the knight of the Red, he had to concede that he was a true fighting man. He wore his beard short and well groomed and the flecks of grey added a note of nobility. He had a weathered face and the hard eyes of a man who was sure of his authority.

To the commander’s left sat a Gold cleric, a follower of the One God’s aspect of wealth and greed. Magnus did not recognize him, but disliked the way he was adorned in gold and jewels clearly plundered from the vaults of Canarn. The cleric was a fat man, wearing only white and gold robes, and he wore no sword or armour. He had a face resembling a pig and Magnus thought him a lesser man amongst the warriors.

Next to the Gold cleric stood a knight of the Red, a man still powerfully built despite his advancing years. He carried an axe slung across his back and Magnus recognized him as Sir Rashabald, the commander’s executioner. This was the man responsible for beheading captive Ranen. He was grey-haired and nearing his fiftieth year, but was still ready for combat and his red armour was well used.

Skulking just off the raised platform was a huge man of Ro wearing black, full-plate armour. This was Sir Hallam Pevain and Magnus knew him well, though he had not expected to see him here. He was not a Red churchman but a mercenary knight with no lands or family, lending his huge two-handed sword to anyone who would pay. He was a bedraggled man with wild black hair, a straggly beard and a harsh face. Magnus had not seen him in three years, since he’d lent his sword to a vicious Ranen warlord many miles to the north. Pevain was a sadistic man, given to explosions of temper, and Magnus had fought him before. The sword he carried was responsible for a scar the Ranen wore on his right thigh and Magnus knew, too, that the knight carried several marks from Skeld.

Of most concern to Magnus, however, were the two women in view. One was Bronwyn, daughter to Duke Hector and someone for whom Magnus had great affection. She was not chained or bound, but was held in close guard by four Red knights. The leather armour she normally wore had been taken off and she was adorned in a simple woollen dress. She was tall and slender, with long brown hair tied in a braid. Her skin was pale and Magnus thought her beautiful.

The second woman was a Karesian from the lands of Jaa. She stood close to the commander and looked out of place. Her robes were black and the spider’s web tattoo on her face worried Magnus. He had heard stories of the Seven Sisters and hoped she was not one of them. He knew that the enchantresses of Karesia had the power to entrance men and he had encountered their kind before. Rowanoco gave him certain powers against sorcery, but he still considered the Seven Sisters to be dangerous foes.

Verellian brought Magnus to a halt in front of the platform, a rank of kneeling Red knights between him and the commander.

‘My Lord Verellian, you may depart.’ Rillion waved his hand dismissively.

‘I’d rather stay, my lord. Father Magnus has not been treated well thus far,’ Verellian said loudly.

A laugh erupted from the Gold cleric and was echoed around the hall as various churchmen showed their disdain for the Ranen priest. Rillion did not join in the laughter but clearly thought nothing of Verellian’s concern. ‘Sir knight, please rejoin your unit in the courtyard.’

Verellian took a step closer to Magnus and whispered, ‘My apologies, father, my word has no weight here.’ He saluted towards the raised platform, took a few steps backwards, turned and marched back down the aisle.

Magnus stood alone, chained and disarmed, surrounded by enemies. Even if he could break the chains, he was forced to admit that fighting his way out would be difficult. He took a closer look around the hall, hoping to see his war-hammer, Skeld, in some disregarded corner. He clenched his fists several times, longing for the comforting feel of its leather grip. It was nowhere within sight and these men of the One God would not know of its significance. He turned back to the platform and puffed out his chest, letting all those assembled know that, although he was a prisoner, Father Magnus Forkbeard was still a proud man of Ranen.

Knight Commander Rillion spoke first. ‘We have cleaned up the many dead, washed away the gallons of blood and sown the seeds of order… my heart is still troubled, however.’ He stood and took several steps towards Magnus, still remaining behind the line of Red knights. ‘You are a foreign man from a distant land and yet here you are, plotting with a traitorous duke to rob the crown of its lands.’ He drew his sword. ‘What would this north-man do if our positions were reversed?’ Turning, he directed the query to his fellow Ro. ‘He would not think to capture us alive and imprison us. No, we would be brutally slain, as is the Ranen way. We of the One God must strive to be better than these lesser men.’

Several of the kneeling Red knights banged their gauntleted fists on their armour, loudly proclaiming their support for their commander’s words.

Rashabald the executioner spoke. ‘My lord, this Ranen killed many knights of the Red. He is too dangerous to be released. My axe and the fist that wields it both hunger for the blood of this barbarian.’

This sentiment was echoed by the Gold cleric, who chuckled to himself before speaking in a high-pitched, effeminate voice. ‘You men of the Red value combat and strength, let us amuse ourselves with this heathen. Have him fight wild animals and let his screams be music to our ears.’

Magnus glared at the fat cleric, hoping there were enough men of honour here to ensure that his own death, if it were to come, would be a swift one.

Rillion turned to the Karesian woman and spoke directly to her. ‘And you, noble sister, your counsel has been wise thus far. Tell us what you would have done with this prisoner.’

She spoke with a thick Karesian accent, her words lyrical and seductive. ‘This man is brave and strong.’ She cast her eyes from Magnus’s feet up to the hard expression on his face. ‘He hates you, my lord, and he would gladly kill all present.’ She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed in, smiling as she did so. ‘He is not afraid, nor does he care for his own survival.’

As Magnus had feared, the woman had revealed herself to be one of the Seven Sisters, enchantresses of power and ruthless reputation. He did not know why a woman of her kind would be accompanying a Red church army, but he considered it a bad omen.

She sensed his thoughts and smiled again. ‘You have heard of my order, I see. I am Ameira the Lady of Spiders,’ she paused, with wicked intent on her face, ‘… and I know your brother.’

None of the churchmen recognized the significance of this comment, and Magnus was glad they knew nothing of his family. His brother was Algenon Teardrop Ragnarsson, the high thain of Ranen and commander of the dragon fleet.

‘If he cares nothing for himself, to whom has he pledged his support?’ Rillion asked of the enchantress.

‘He cares for the Duke Hector’s children, particularly his daughter, though the son is an old and trusted friend.’ She looked deeply into Magnus’s eyes and continued. ‘He is also concerned for Brother Lanry, the Brown cleric… but paramount in his mind is the fate of the duke himself. He worries that his friend may be dead and this thought displeases him.’

The Gold cleric laughed. ‘Ha, he looks every bit the warrior, but he’s as soft as my arse when a woman and his friends are threatened. I will never understand how this backward people have halted our knights for so long.’