The Long War 01 - The Black Guard (5 page)

The watchmen looked at each other before Lux replied, ‘We do, my lord, but if we’re to return the body to his estate, we need to know to what house he belongs.’

Torian raised his chin and glanced at Randall before he spoke. ‘He was of the house of Great Claw… somewhere to the east apparently.’ He clapped his gauntleted hands together and the noise pulled Randall away from his grief. ‘Squire… where are this man’s lands to be found?’

Randall stepped away from the horse and, on weak legs, moved to the middle of the stable. He tried not to look down at the body and came to a halt off to the side of the watchmen. ‘He has no lands.’ Randall’s voice quivered and his hands shook.

Torian narrowed his eyes and responded, ‘He must have family or friends who would receive his body?’

The watchmen had begun to turn over Sir Leon’s body, retrieving his head and attempting to keep the pool of blood from spreading across the stable floor. Randall spoke without thinking. ‘Leave him.’ He dropped to his knees next to the body and began to arrange his master in a dignified fashion.

Sergeant Lux paused for a second, surprised at Randall’s impertinence, before slapping the squire’s face. ‘You will not speak unless directed to do so, boy.’

Randall fell, the slap causing his face to sting. ‘My master had no family and no lands. His wife has been dead four years and he is without children…’ More tears formed in Randall’s eyes. ‘He would want his body to be burned.’

Brother Torian nodded in approval. This was the honourable way for a nobleman to meet the One God. However, Sergeant Lux laughed. ‘A pyre is expensive, lad… and who would arrange it?’ He glanced back at his men as if Randall’s words had showed extreme naivety. ‘If he has no lands or family to receive his body, we’ll have to throw him in the lime pits with the other scum that die in this part of Tiris.’

Randall’s grief turned slowly to rage and only Brother Torian’s restraining hand stopped him from clumsily attacking the sergeant. ‘Enough, boy, see to your master.’ Torian gently shoved Randall away from the watchmen. ‘Show some respect, man, he was a knight of Tor Funweir,’ he said to Lux. ‘A fat, disrespectful old drunkard he may have been, but still a knight.’ Torian reached into a pouch within his cloak and pulled out a small brown purse, throwing it at Lux’s feet. He said, ‘Burn him properly and have a Black cleric say the words.’

Sergeant Lux picked up the purse and seemed satisfied. ‘Very well, my lord, it shall be done as you say.’ The watchmen moved to Sir Leon’s body and stopped in a circle behind Randall.

‘Step away now, boy, his path is set,’ said the cleric.

Randall didn’t move. He straightened the body lying before him, pushing the legs together and resting the old man’s arms across his battered steel breastplate. He still hadn’t looked at the severed head and found himself wanting to keep hold of the old man’s smile rather than the staring eyes of a dead man.

‘Boy!’ shouted Brother Torian, as he dragged Randall across the stable and shoved him against a wooden wall. Randall tried to look past him to ensure that the watchmen were treating Sir Leon with respect, but the cleric’s armoured frame blocked the view.

‘Your name, young squire?’ Torian asked gently, as Randall stopped struggling and focused on the face before him.

‘Randall… I’m from the Darkwald.’ The words were hesitant.

‘Very well, Randall of Darkwald, I think the One God has another path for you.’ He stepped away from Randall, his bulk still obscuring Sir Leon’s body.

One of the watchmen coughed to attract Torian’s attention. ‘Milord… what of the knight’s blade?’ The man picked up the sword of Great Claw, hefting it and feeling its weight in his hand.

‘Watchman,’ snapped Torian, ‘that is the sword of a noble and not for the likes of you to wield.’ The cleric closed the distance quickly and held out his hand. ‘Give it here,’ he said with quiet authority.

The longsword was placed, hilt-first, into his hand. Brother Torian inspected the blade and nodded his approval at its condition before turning back to Randall. ‘I assume that, as a squire, the care of your master’s blade was your primary responsibility, yes?’

Randall breathed in deeply. ‘Sir Leon had other needs that took up a lot of time but, yes… I suppose I do look after the sword.’ He felt no anger towards Brother Torian, but his grief at Sir Leon’s death was enough to make him feel small and helpless. ‘I was going to oil the blade before the fight, but he didn’t let me… I thought…’

Torian interrupted him. ‘This blade is well cared for. I don’t think another coat of oil would have done much to help him.’

‘That’s what Sir Leon thought…’ Another tear appeared as Randall continued. ‘He knew he was going to die.’

Torian looked first at the sword and then at Randall, ignoring the squire’s attempts to see past him. After a moment of thought he spoke with conviction. ‘I’ve never had a squire. It’s often seen as unseemly for a cleric of the Purple to need one…’ He looked Randall up and down, shaking his head at the squire’s common appearance. ‘However, I am a cleric of the quest and outside of the usual traditions of my order.’

Randall didn’t register the words and his mind filled instead with images of Sir Leon, laughing and joking as he drunkenly told unlikely stories of heroism.

‘Are you listening, boy?’ Torian asked sharply.

‘No, I must confess that I’m not, Brother Torian… my mind is elsewhere, as I predict it will be for a while yet.’ Randall had just seen his master killed and was not in the mood to be polite.

‘You’ve a sharp tongue, boy… true to form, though, so I must at least commend you for consistency,’ he said with an imperious smile. ‘Now, this is my command…’ He grasped Randall’s face so that the squire could not help but look at him. ‘You will become my squire and I will school you in the correct way of things,’ he stated.

‘My lord…?’ Randall had a questioning look on his face.

‘Did you not hear me, boy?’

‘Er, I heard you, my lord, but I don’t think I understand.’ Randall was tired, confused and felt sick. The words of the cleric barely penetrated his mind.

‘Randall, a cleric I may be, but I am not blind to the fact that I just killed your master. Nor am I a cruel man, despite what you may think.’ His words were kinder now.

Randall shook his head and tried to focus. ‘I doubt you care, but I don’t hate you, my lord. My master wanted to die… he was old and tired and you could have been anybody.’ Tears came again to his eyes. ‘I think he just wanted to die fighting.’

Torian nodded with approval. ‘That is a proper way for a knight to die… he taught you a valuable lesson today, boy.’

The watchmen had begun to remove Sir Leon’s body. ‘Lux… I will hear of it if that man is treated poorly,’ said Torian.

The man bowed. ‘Absolutely, milord, I’ll see to the pyre myself.’

The watchmen left the stables, holding the body of Sir Leon respectfully. The man holding the head did so at arm’s length and was making an effort to not look at Sir Leon’s blank face.

Brother Torian turned back to Randall. ‘Well then, squire, this is what you need to know of your new master. I am a cleric of the quest from Ro Arnon and I am here looking for a Black Guard named Bromvy of Canarn.’

Randall tried to stand upright. ‘Yes, my lord… I understand. What has the man done?’

Torian looked quizzically at his new squire. ‘Do you not know the meaning of the words
Black Guard
, boy?’

‘I do not, sir.’ Randall shook his head.

‘Well, it seems that your education should begin immediately.’ He passed Randall the sword of Great Claw. ‘Here, take your new sword and let’s be off. We have much to do.’

Randall paused and simply looked at the offered blade. ‘My lord, I’m a commoner, not permitted to carry a longsword.’

Brother Torian raised his chin and puffed out his chest. ‘You are now the squire of a Purple cleric and, if I say you can wear a sword, then you can wear a sword. Come now, belt it on and don’t dawdle.’ The cleric began to walk towards the stable entrance. ‘Oh, and you’d probably better take Sir Leon’s horse in addition to his sword,’ he said before disappearing into the street.

* * *

Randall’s first few days as squire to Brother Torian were strange. The cleric was an undemanding master, compared to Sir Leon. He talked a great deal, often unconcerned whether Randall was listening or not, and the young squire’s head was a blur of clerical procedures and service to the One God.

Torian was from the Falls of Arnon and had never been to the capital before. He wore his armour throughout the day and largely ignored the fear he inspired in the general populace, most of whom he dismissed as simply common folk.

Randall learned quickly how to unbuckle the armour and greaves with Torian in a seated position. They were of high quality and needed little maintenance beyond a daily polish of the burnished steel. Torian appeared ill at ease with being waited on, but tried to smile as Randall ran around after him, automatically fetching his food and cleaning his clothes.

They stayed in a quiet tavern near the chapter house of the knights of the Red. It was an unremarkable area of the town, with little crime. The tavern was a low stone building with few comforts, though the rooms were clean and the staff respectful. Randall was permitted to sleep in a bed rather than on the rough bedroll he had been used to, and was even allowed time to himself each day. Torian disliked having Randall with him when he went into the poor quarter to make enquiries, saying that a squire would be a burden when the cleric needed to be focused.

Randall used this time to practise with his new sword and to read the books that Torian carried with him. The squire began to learn about the One God and even learned something of the other lands of men. He’d met Ranen and Karesians before, but had always thought them strange and difficult to understand. The books Brother Torian carried spoke of them as children of other gods, inferior to the One, but worthy of respect as enemies.

They rose early each day and Torian exercised for several hours, running on the spot and swinging his longsword with practised skill. Without his armour, the cleric was a muscular man, covered in scars and puncture wounds from crossbow bolts and longbow arrows. He deflected any talk of his wounds and Randall guessed that true fighting men didn’t generally discuss their past battles. Sir Leon’s tall tales began to make more sense and it occurred to Randall that the old knight had deliberately told different versions of the same story because the reality was neither glamorous nor exciting.

‘Randall… daydreaming again, boy?’ Torian was sitting on his bunk waiting to be attired in his clerical armour.

‘Sorry, master, I was thinking of Sir Leon.’ Randall quickly moved to the wooden chair that acted as an armour rack.

Torian flexed his arms, clearing the soreness from his morning exercise. ‘The old man was a good first master for you, lad. He was demanding and taught you some humility.’

Randall hefted the bulky armour and swayed across the simple tavern room. ‘I was just thinking that you and he may have got on well… If…’

‘If his squire hadn’t covered me in piss the first time we met?’ he interrupted.

‘Yes, master.’ Randall blushed.

Torian laughed in response and held out his arms for Randall to place the breastplate across his chest. The purple undercoat was designed to show at the corners of the armour. The back plate was fastened by heavy leather straps at the waist and connected to the segmented metal of the arm pieces.

‘How’s your reading coming along?’ Torian asked, as the armour went on.

‘It’s coming along well, master. I was learning about the other races of men.’

The cleric raised his eyebrows. ‘So, tell me, what have you learned?’

Randall considered as he buckled up Torian’s armour. ‘The men of Ranen worship an Ice Giant called Rowanoco and they live to the north.’

His master nodded. ‘That’s right, lad, they wear chain mail and normally carry axes. They’re brutal, but cunning men.’

‘Didn’t the Ro once rule those lands, master?’

Torian nodded again. ‘Indeed we did, though that was long ago. The Ranen were organized into work gangs by the Red knights.’ His expression showed his distaste for this practice.

‘You don’t approve?’ Randall queried.

‘No, I do not, lad. The Ranen are primitive, but they were still vanquished enemies and should have been treated with respect.’ He looked up at his squire. ‘And if the knights hadn’t organized them, the Ranen would never have formed the Free Companies and fought back.’

‘Master?’ Randall had not heard the term before.

‘The work gangs were naturally made up of the strongest Ranen and they rebelled, took their wood-cutting axes and turned them on their masters. They called themselves the Free Companies and were surprisingly effective fighting men.’ He stood up and flexed, feeling the weight of his armour. ‘Ro Ranen became the Freelands of Ranen and the knights retreated south to the lands of Canarn… that was some two hundred years ago, but the Free Companies are still as stubborn and dangerous as they were then.’

Randall buckled on his master’s longsword. The cleric raised a leg and rested his foot on a small wooden stool as Randall buckled on the steel greave.

‘And what of the Karesians, master?’

‘Well, we’ve never been truly at war with them, lad. They follow Jaa, the Fire Giant. They keep to themselves for the most part. Any you meet in Tor Funweir will likely be merchants or tavern keepers.’ Torian seemed to have little time for the desert men.

‘Sir Leon used to talk about the Hounds of Karesia.’

‘Yes, the Hounds… the dreaded Hounds.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘The Karesians have little true military craft and so they rely on numbers. The Hounds are criminals, sentenced to serve time in the kennels as soldiers.’ He placed his second leg on the stool. ‘Jaa apparently taught that nobles should not fight… the dying should be left to the lowest classes of criminals and dishonourable men.’ He turned to his squire. ‘There are several hundred thousand of them, though.’

Randall finished dressing his master and took a step back to admire his work. The cleric was an imposing and noble figure when fully clad in his armour. The squire knew that he was a skilled swordsman but thought that, for most people, the flashes of purple would be enough to deflect trouble.