The Long War 01 - The Black Guard (3 page)

Randall did not know what to say to his master as he entered the room, but he hoped he hadn’t done anything that would cause too much trouble. Sir Leon was lying spreadeagled across the bed, nothing but a filthy white smock covering his overweight frame. Randall coughed.

‘Shut up, boy, I’m trying to sleep,’ barked the old knight.

‘I think there’s a cleric downstairs who wants to speak to you, master,’ Randall said quietly.

Sir Leon rolled over to face his squire, his eyes narrow and questioning. ‘A cleric?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Yes, my lord, I spoke to him just now, out of the window.’ Randall felt nervous.

‘And what colour robe was the cleric wearing?’

Randall paused, his eyes firmly on his boots, before he spoke. ‘I think it was purple, master,’ he muttered, making the word
purple
deliberately indistinct.

Sir Leon cleared his throat with a guttural growl. ‘Now, young Randall, should I be concerned as to why this Purple bastard wants to speak to me?’ The old knight looked long and hard at his squire, who shrank under his gaze.

‘I think I offended him, without meaning to.’ Randall doubted the details of the encounter would defuse the situation.

Sir Leon inhaled deeply, causing him to cough again, and this time he placed his hand over his mouth to catch the globule of blood and phlegm. He sat up on his bed, rubbing his considerable stomach as he did so.

‘Well, I believe I should be properly attired so as not to offend her ladyship. Did he give a name?’

‘No, we didn’t really get to introduce ourselves.’

He shot Randall a hard glance. ‘Enough of that cheek, boy. Fetch a basin so I can wash those women off my skin. The Purple arse-face would probably faint if he knew some people actually fucked.’

Randall had grown up in the Darkwald and knew little of the various coloured clerics and how they lived their lives in service to the One God. ‘Are they not allowed to take a woman, master?’

Sir Leon stood and stretched as he answered, ‘Some clerics do: the Black ones, and maybe the Brown. The knights of the Red and those Purple bastards are forbidden from the time they gain their cloak. It’s one of the main reasons they get such pleasure from riding those armoured horses.’ He laughed wickedly at his own commentary and narrowly averted another coughing fit. ‘The Gold Church is another matter; those fat bastards can barely stand without a few paid women to carry their jewel-encrusted cocks.’

A bowl of relatively clean water was placed on a bench in front of the knight and he proceeded loudly to wash his corpulent frame. Randall had lost much of the revulsion he once felt at the sight of the overweight old man, but was still given to turn away when Sir Leon washed himself.

‘Armour!’ he said without looking up.

The knight’s armour was burnished steel, fastened at the midriff and over each shoulder. Randall had adjusted it several times over the years and it now covered less than half of Sir Leon’s upper body. If he had to fight while wearing it, he’d need to stand directly facing his opponent or else risk a fatal wound to his exposed sides. Not that he had fought in recent memory. In fact, Randall distinctly recalled the last time his master had been driven to violence. It was not a pleasant evening and had involved five dead town guardsmen and a very angry tavern owner. Sir Leon remained a dangerous man despite his years and poor health, and the guardsmen’s jibes at his storytelling had angered the old knight. But that was two years ago and much alcohol had been consumed over the intervening time.

‘Randall, get your fucking head together and dress me. Purple clerics are not known for their patience,’ he said, flicking his dirty wash water on to the floor.

The armour went on quickly, giving the fat old drunkard a semblance of nobility. He was a tall man, though he rarely stood fully upright, and his beard and matted hair, even when swept back, gave him a wild appearance which he evidently found quite pleasing.

‘Master, I think your armour may need adjusting again; the undercoat is showing through at the bottom… and I don’t like the way your sides are exposed.’

‘I like a bit of wear on it; shows it’s not just an ornament. A real man’s armour is stained, battered and ill-fitting.’ Sir Leon posed, flexing his arms, before sitting back on the bed and pulling on his boots and greaves. ‘Sword!’ he said loudly.

Randall held out the ornate longsword, hilt-first, with the scabbard belt unfastened. Sir Leon grasped it firmly and, as he always did, gazed with genuine affection at the crest of Great Claw on the cross-piece, before buckling it around his waist.

‘Right, lad, let’s go and kiss his lordship’s clerical arse,’ said a defiant Sir Leon. He marched out of the room, the noise of his armour announcing his presence to everyone on that floor of the inn. Those who were sufficiently awake to open their doors were met with the sight of an imperious knight, hand rested on his sword hilt, ready for action. Randall followed close behind as the knight strode down the stairs to the common room below. He seemed clear-headed, the fog of alcohol masked to some degree, his hatred of the Purple church employed as a shield. A few men turned and showed their silent approval at the sight of the fully armoured knight. The tavern keeper looked daggers, remembering the destruction of the previous evening. The inn was a low-class establishment in the old town of Ro Tiris, with little finery and catering to those citizens who simply wanted somewhere to sleep, drink or find willing women. All three services were cheap and of the lowest possible quality. The broken wood caused by Sir Leon’s extravagant storytelling had been piled by the fireplace, a testament to how much damage a drunken man in armour can cause. Sir Leon stood fully upright, glaring across the bar until his eyes fell upon the Purple cleric standing by the door.

The churchman was tall and broad-shouldered, with brown hair and a fierce look in his eyes. His features suggested a man in his middle thirties and his purple cloak, though stained, was still an evident symbol of his order. Those around him averted their gaze, knowing that a cleric of nobility held absolute power in Tor Funweir. The Purple clerics were feared throughout the kingdom and their arrogance and prowess in battle were legendary. Most men simply avoided them for the sake of an easy life. They were answerable only to the king and few men equalled them in power and influence.

The cleric straightened as Sir Leon entered the common room, an imperious look flowing across his face. He sneered at Randall, pulling his cloak around him as if to emphasize the stain. It was a considerable testament to Sir Leon’s nightly visits to the piss-pot. Randall wondered if the old knight knew how many times he relieved himself each night, and how his alcohol intake had indirectly contributed to his squire covering a Purple cleric with his piss.

‘You, knight.’ The cleric spoke loudly, jutting his bearded jaw at Sir Leon. He then nodded towards Randall, who was standing behind the knight’s left shoulder. ‘That lad your squire?’

Sir Leon raised an eyebrow and slowly closed the distance to stand nose to nose with the cleric. He looked him up and down critically. The knight was several inches taller and, though in bad physical condition, still appeared the more imposing man. ‘My name isn’t knight; it’s Sir Leon Great Claw,’ he said clearly, making some effort to appear a well-spoken nobleman.

‘I asked you a question, old man. Don’t make me ask it again.’ The cleric was clearly not intimidated by Sir Leon and did not flinch as they looked at each other. Randall stayed by the stairs at the far end of the common room. He hoped Sir Leon would handle this delicately and enable them to leave without angering the Purple church. However, this was unlikely as Sir Leon had, on several occasions, spoken of his desire to fight a Purple cleric.

‘Did my squire do something to offend you, my lord?’ The words were spoken with scorn, his hand resting suggestively on his sword hilt. ‘He’s young and has much to learn, your Purpleness. I seem to have neglected to teach him the proper etiquette for covering a cleric in piss.’

The churchman did not look impressed. ‘If your intention is to exert some kind of dominance over me, old man, I should warn you that one more insult and I may have to skewer that fat belly of yours.’

The others in the tavern gasped and Randall held his breath. A few patrons quietly left, not wanting to be around if the cleric was driven to violence. Others sat open-mouthed, eagerly enjoying the spectacle of two men on the verge of a fight.

After a pause Sir Leon threw his head back in a throaty laugh. There was little humour in the sound and neither man backed away. He then asked quietly, ‘What is your name, young cleric?’

‘I am Brother Torian of Arnon, cleric of the quest and nobleman of the One God,’ he said proudly and with deeply held conviction.

‘That’s a long name for a little man.’ This comment left Sir Leon feeling rather pleased with himself and he flashed a wicked grin at Brother Torian, challenging him to react.

There was no anger as the cleric spoke. ‘Your squire insulted me, Sir Leon. I stand before you wanting recompense and all I am given is further insult.’ He narrowed his eyes and continued, ‘You realize that you give me little choice but to kill you, old man?’

Sir Leon replied quickly and with venom. ‘The two women I fucked last night might be a fairer fight for you… they stink of piss too.’

A man sitting nearby let out a sudden, involuntary laugh, causing all eyes to turn towards him. He began sweating and hurriedly turned his body away from the confrontation, focusing on his drink and curling up into the smallest ball his table and chair would allow. The laugh did little to defuse the situation and when the others’ eyes returned to them, Sir Leon and Brother Torian were nose to nose.

Torian spoke first. ‘You’re a fat, old, stinking drunk,’ he looked the knight up and down, ‘with ill-fitting armour, an antique sword and no respect for your betters.’ He moved quickly, his right hand striking Sir Leon sharply across the jaw. His fist was gauntleted and the blow caused blood and a sharp intake of breath from the old man.

Before Sir Leon straightened, the cleric had dropped his armoured shoulder and shoved the knight backwards. He fell heavily on to the wooden floorboards, his breastplate making a resounding clang as dust rose from the tavern floor. Sir Torian took a step forwards and quickly drew his longsword. ‘You have one hour, Sir Leon.’ He levelled his sword at the knight’s neck. ‘I will await you behind the tavern. If you are late, I will enter the tavern and kill you like a dog.’

Randall moved quickly to his master and helped him into a seated position. There was blood around his mouth and in his beard. He was winded and panting heavily. The Purple cleric held his sword an inch from Randall’s face. ‘And you, young man, maybe watching your master die will teach you humility.’

He deftly sheathed his sword and turned, looking taller and stronger now, as he strode from the tavern. The remaining patrons breathed a sigh of relief as it became clear they would not have to watch a man die while they were drinking. Duelling was forbidden to common men, but a frequent practice amongst nobles and churchmen.

Sir Leon let out a pained laugh. ‘I wonder what I could have done to offend the little piss-stain.’ Leaning on Randall, he breathed heavily and pulled himself to his feet. ‘Right, I think I need a drink.’ Still leaning on his squire, he shuffled towards the bar. ‘I can manage from here, lad. Just needed to catch my breath.’ He sat heavily on a bar stool, causing it to creak under his weight, and banged a metal fist on the wood. Pointing at the tavern keeper, he bellowed, ‘Drink… here… now!’

Despite what he had just seen, the tavern keeper was not confident enough to deny the request and placed a large goblet of wine in front of Sir Leon. He then asked hesitantly, ‘Er, should I expect your squire to pay for this, sir knight?’

Sir Leon shot the tavern keeper a glare and grabbed him by the throat. ‘I expect to be dead in a little over an hour, you little shit. Sorry if I think this drink should be on the fucking house.’ He paused, breathed in several times, and released his grip on the man, shoving him away.

Randall waited several moments, allowing the old knight to drink deeply from his goblet. He knew his master well and didn’t want to interrupt what he imagined was a moment of deep thought. When he judged the time right, Randall approached slowly. ‘Master…’

Sir Leon half smiled at the young man. ‘Randall, you’re, what, seventeen years?’

‘Yes, master, I’ve been with you for three years.’

The smile became broader. ‘You’ve been a good squire, lad. Never complained, always done what you were told.’

‘Master… if you knew he was going to react like that, why did you provoke him?’ Randall knew it was an impertinent question, but in the circumstances he cared little for propriety.

The laugh that preceded Sir Leon’s answer was good-natured. ‘I’m an old man, Randall. I know I can sometimes hide it, but I always feel it.’ He took another long drink. ‘I have wanted to be that rude to a Purple cleric since I first met one. It takes the pragmatism of advancing years to make a man truly free. It’s just a shame I didn’t have the balls to do it when I was younger and could have killed him.’

‘But he’s going to kill
you
, my lord!’ Randall stated.

Sir Leon did not stop smiling. ‘That is very likely. Yes, that is very likely indeed. I’d certainly recommend betting on him if the opportunity presents itself.’ He laughed at his own joke and drained his goblet of wine.

He shouted to the tavern keeper. ‘Just bring the whole bottle, that way I won’t need to talk to you every time I want a drink.’

The man complied and a bottle of red wine was placed in front of the knight. He pulled out the cork with his teeth and poured himself a large measure. Randall knew that warning his master about drinking before a fight would be pointless and, in any case, it would not change the outcome. Sir Leon looked like a tired old man. He shifted his weight uncomfortably, the ill-fitting steel armour chafing his bulky frame.

‘Don’t panic, young Randall, even a burnt-out old drunk has a trick or two.’