The Long War 01 - The Black Guard (58 page)

Utha looked confused for a second, before standing to face the enchantress. ‘So, you’ve enchanted the prince,’ he stated. ‘And Severen too… and, I’ll warrant, many more weak-minded men of Ro.’

She continued to smile at him but didn’t nod to confirm his suspicion. ‘The risen are born evil. It’s not their fault, any more than it’s your fault that they used their magic on you.’ She spoke lyrically, with affection.

‘We have questioned and tortured many of the risen over the past few weeks, Utha,’ said Severen, ‘and your name kept coming up. It seems the monsters consider you an ally. A friend to the forest-dwellers, they say.’

Utha closed his eyes and breathed in, composing himself. ‘Don’t we just kill them any more? Questioning the risen is unheard of.’

‘The Lady Katja has advised us of a better way to proceed,’ Severen responded. ‘We now cage them and use pain to extract information. They are not human, so our clerical code doesn’t prohibit such things.’

Utha took a step back and stood next to Randall, judging the height of his scabbard and the ease with which he could acquire the sword of Great Claw.

‘You are not the first formerly honourable man to be found guilty on these charges, Utha,’ Severen stated, returning to a more formal mode of speech. ‘Others have been imprisoned for assisting the risen men in their campaign of terror against the noble men of Ro.’

‘They have no campaign of terror,’ Utha growled in frustration.

‘You are damned by your own words, Ghost,’ shouted the prince, in a high-pitched whine. ‘You know nothing of the ways of the undead – cunning and evil, they will sway the will of weak men such as you, and my grandfather.’

At the mention of the prince’s grandfather, Utha turned a questioning look on Severen. Randall had heard of Bartholomew Tiris – he was King Sebastian’s father and was considered a wise man.

‘Bartholomew doesn’t have a traitorous bone in his body,’ said Utha. ‘This is a joke… or it would be if it were funny.’

Katja remained close to Utha and her words were whispered. ‘You cannot win… you would be well advised to accept your punishment.’ She paused, before continuing in a whisper only Utha and Randall could hear. ‘Your land is too valuable to be left in the hands of Ro… old-blood.’

Utha tried to strike the enchantress, but his hands wouldn’t move and Randall sensed his exertion as he tried to lash out. He had heard tales of the Seven Sisters and their reputation as beings it was impossible to kill, a reputation he was beginning to believe as he watched his master struggle to gain control.

‘My dear Katja, we should show him what happens to traitors,’ said the prince excitedly, pointing to a locked gate that led away from the oubliette.

‘I would be happier if he were shackled first, my prince,’ said Severen. ‘Utha is a dangerous man, not to be treated lightly… Lieutenant,’ he addressed the grey-haired guardsman, ‘be sure he is under close guard.’

The lieutenant crossed to the door. He opened it and summoned two of the men from outside. Again, no one had paid any particular attention to Randall, and he realized he’d dug his fingernails into his palms with the tension.

‘Maybe you will be more humble when you see how the house of Tiris deals with traitors to the crown,’ said Prince Christophe, like a petulant child. ‘Lead the way, Brother Severen.’

The Purple cleric locked eyes with Utha for a moment before he crossed the oubliette and unlocked the iron gate. It was the same as the cell doors where the risen men were imprisoned but led into an unlit stone corridor.

Randall chanced a look into one of the cells and, for the first time, had a clear look at a risen man, one of the beings Utha had called Dokkalfar. He – for it appeared to be a male – was hunched over, but nonetheless looked to be tall and gangly, with clear grey skin and round black eyes which had neither pupils nor irises. The creature directed a questioning look at the squire and tilted his head as he watched them pass his cell. Randall thought he looked little different from a man, although his elongated, leaf-shaped ears and long fingers gave the Dokkalfar an otherworldly appearance.

As Utha approached the door, he paused and turned to lock eyes with the risen man. Severen moved to stop him but Utha quickly crouched in front of the small cell and reached through the bars.

‘I am sorry… I tried to tell them. I swear to you I tried.’

Randall sensed a deep sadness both in Utha’s words and in the creature’s black eyes, as Severen roughly grabbed the Black cleric and marched him away.

‘You see,’ proclaimed the prince, ‘he cares for the beasts… touches them and treats them better than his own people.’ Randall decided that he disliked Prince Christophe intensely.

‘They are not beasts… highness.’ Utha virtually spat out the last word.

Severen drove his fist into the Black cleric’s stomach and Utha doubled over as he lost his breath.

‘I don’t want to keep hitting you, brother,’ he said as he pulled Utha upright and held him firmly.

Utha coughed and nodded. ‘So, stop hitting me… brother.’ He pushed Severen away and leant on Randall instead. The squire looked angrily at the Purple cleric and tried to help Utha upright. He was winded, but recovered his composure quickly.

The guardsmen led them down the corridor, past rotting brickwork, moss and damp. At the end Randall could see a barred door, wooden and more solid-looking than the iron grates, which appeared to be securely locked. The grey-haired lieutenant began to open the door, before turning to the prince and asking, ‘Are we required within, my prince?’ There was a trace of fear in his eyes and Randall wondered what lay within.

‘Yes, you are, guardsman,’ Prince Christophe replied, as if the question had been a stupid one. ‘You must keep the traitor under guard.’

The three king’s men looked wary, but they were not going to disobey the prince’s orders. They formed up round Utha and the door was opened, releasing a noxious odour that assaulted the squire’s nostrils and made him feel sick. It was dark within and Randall could see nothing except a swaying distortion in the air and the glow from a single torch.

‘Move,’ ordered Severen from the rear, shoving Utha into the darkness.

They entered one at a time until all were within the room. Katja moved round the walls with the torch, lighting half a dozen iron braziers around the circular space.

As the light spread, the room became illuminated and Randall’s eyes widened as he saw a huge darkwood tree sprouting up from a patch of earth at the centre, and a decrepit old man tangled up in its branches. The man was Ro and wore a simple purple robe, though it was split in places, and the tree appeared to be connected to the man’s flesh by needle-like growths along its black surface.

The man wasn’t moving, but his eyes were open and his chest rose and fell, showing Randall that he was still alive. He bore a slight resemblance to Prince Christophe and the squire guessed that it must be Bartholomew Tiris. His eyes were bloodshot and showed no sign that he was aware of their presence.

Katja stepped forward and raised her hands in an extravagant gesture of worship towards the strange tree. Severen drew his sword and placed it against Utha’s back, forcing him forward with a grunt of exertion.

‘What have you done, prince?’ demanded Utha, as he looked with horror at the king’s father, tangled in the black, tentacle-like branches.

‘Silence,’ the prince ordered, with a cackle, mimicking Katja’s gesture of worship. ‘Wake the Young, Katja, wake the Young.’

They looked with astonishment at the prince as an insane fire appeared in his eyes and his cackling grew louder.

Randall spared a glance at the three guardsmen and saw that all were averting their eyes and making an effort to look at the floor. Brother Severen had a look of insane glee on his face, and Randall guessed that both prince and cleric of nobility were under Katja’s spell. He turned to Utha and tried to convey his fear, but his master was focused on the tree as the gnarled branches began to move.

‘We have found the Ghost,’ Katja screamed. ‘We have found the old-blood of the Shadow Giants… he is yours to consume.’

Her words caused the tree to shift violently and rear up, its branches starting to writhe in the air and its trunk slowly undulating. The body of Bartholomew Tiris was dropped to the floor and the pulsating tentacles moved down to connect with the ground, acting like legs as they wrenched the wide trunk from the earth.

Severen shoved Utha forward with his sword and the Black cleric appeared transfixed by the horror before him. The trunk was now in the air, shaking off mud like a beast as it tilted forwards to reveal a needle-filled maw reaching for the cleric. Randall was rooted to the ground with terror and could only watch as Katja danced around the floor and the prince clapped his hands together like a deranged child. The two of them had moved away from the door and were now on either side of the tree.

Severen had a malevolent grin on his face as he pushed Utha forwards, towards the thing that used to be a darkwood tree.

‘The priest and the altar,’ screamed Katja, ‘the priest and the altar.’

Randall was transfixed until a strange moment of remembrance conjured up an image of Brother Torian. The Purple cleric, who had been Randall’s master for less than a month, had held a sense of right and wrong for which Utha had frequently teased him – but at that moment, in the oubliette of Tiris, the memory of his face shook Randall from his terror and enabled him to think clearly.

The needles protruding from the beast’s circular maw were reaching for Utha, extending and producing a sickly green fluid.

Randall didn’t pause to think for more than another moment before he roared, ‘Utha…’ at the top of his voice, and deftly drew the sword of Great Claw.

The guards were still looking at the floor and Severen reacted only slowly, turning his head as he apparently noticed Randall for the first time. His own sword was at Utha’s back and he couldn’t raise it to parry as the squire struck. Randall was young and strong and his sword flew downwards, striking the Purple cleric at the shoulder and making a grating sound as it cut through the plate of his armour and bit into his flesh.

Severen’s blood sprayed across Utha’s face and the Black cleric shook his head, quickly regaining his senses and backing away from the monster.

‘Randall, sword,’ he barked, holding out his hand.

The squire threw his longsword the short distance into his master’s hands. The guards looked up and Randall guessed that they were not immune to the transfixing power of the monstrous tree. The grey-haired lieutenant was in control of his senses but the others were rooted to the spot with fear.

Utha turned away from the tree and, with cold, angry eyes, attacked the lieutenant. Brother Severen was alive but thrashing in pain on the stone floor and Randall knelt quickly and seized the Purple cleric’s longsword.

‘No… the Young must feed,’ screamed Katja. ‘The Dead God demands blood.’

The prince had also drawn his sword but was reluctant to advance on the Black cleric, and his path was blocked by the writhing monstrosity in the centre of the room. The tree was still reaching for Utha, but he’d moved out of its reach and was no longer looking at it.

Randall moved quickly with his newly acquired sword and shoved one of the transfixed guardsmen out of the way to clear the doorway. The man didn’t resist but just fell limply to the floor as Randall grabbed the iron handle.

‘Get it open, boy,’ shouted Utha, as he drove the lieutenant against the wall with brutally efficient skill.

The door creaked and Randall had to throw all of his strength into one huge heave. It began to open and he saw three more guardsmen standing beyond. Behind him, Utha had despatched the lieutenant with a cut across his neck and was turning to receive the prince, who’d worked his way past the monster and, with a wild look in his eyes, leapt at the Black cleric.

Randall held his breath as Utha parried Prince Christophe’s clumsy attack and kicked him solidly in the chest. The prince looked deeply indignant for a moment before the pain hit him and he fell back into the path of the tree.

Katja screamed, ‘No… this cannot be,’ as the writhing beast grabbed the crown prince of Tor Funweir.

The needle-like feelers in its mouth attached to the prince’s body and in a second he had slumped into unconsciousness as the creature began to consume him whole, pulling the body head-first into its grotesque maw.

Utha watched for a moment as the beast slowed to digest its meal, before he turned sharply and kicked the last guardsman out of the way.

‘Move or die, it’s that simple,’ Utha roared at the king’s men who stood in their way.

All three paused, but they were professional soldiers and the threat fell on deaf ears. They couldn’t see into the room and the tree was no longer advancing as they drew their swords.

Utha thrust forward, piercing the lead man in the stomach before he withdrew the blade and answered a high attack from another of them. Randall didn’t stop to think as he joined his master in the corridor and engaged the last guardsman, swinging from high and keep his arms as close to his body as possible.

They fought, side by side, and Randall felt exhilaration as his sword clashed with the guardsman’s. His lack of skill was offset by the cramped conditions and, as Utha clubbed his own opponent to the ground, Randall lashed out with the hilt of his sword and connected with the man’s jaw.

One guardsman was dying, but the other two were merely dazed as Utha and Randall jumped over them and ran down the narrow stone corridor, with the Karesian enchantress screaming behind them.

‘You hurt?’ Utha asked as they approached the main room of the oubliette.

‘No, no, I don’t think so,’ replied Randall.

He quickly checked himself and found no blood or wounds, although his mind was swimming with fear and exhilaration.

They reached the gate that led to the imprisoned Dokkalfar and Utha kicked open the door, sending dust and debris flying from the filthy dungeon floor. The Black cleric ran to the nearest cell and crouched, extending his hand as he had done before.