The Long War 01 - The Black Guard (6 page)

Brother Torian inspected himself carefully, noting any slight imperfections in his armour and pointing them out to his squire for later attention.

‘And who are the Kirin, master?’ Randall asked.

He’d known men claim to be Kirin and heard men referred to as such, but he’d always been confused by what the term meant. They were often swarthy-skinned men, though clearly not either Karesian or Ro and, by implication at least, they were mostly criminals.

Torian raised his eyebrows at this. ‘You have no Kirin in the Darkwald?’

‘Not that I remember, no. A few Ranen, but mostly men of Ro.’

‘Well, the Kirin are the godless race that is produced when a Karesian and a Ro decide, for whatever reason, to mate.’ He clearly took offence at the notion. ‘They are mostly to be found in the forests along the southern shore of the Kirin Ridge, though some come to the Tor Funweir to ply their trade as slavers or rainbow merchants – that’s drug dealers to you and me.’ He picked up his purple tabard from the side of the bed and swung it over his head, letting the purple sceptre of nobility rest across his breastplate. ‘They’re not innately evil, but their mixed lineage makes it difficult for them to pursue an honest trade.’

Sir Leon had been quite hateful towards the Kirin, calling them all manner of names. Randall now thought this a little unfair, as it wasn’t really their fault that their parents had decided to have sex.

Randall walked over to the windowsill and took a drink of water from the jug that was placed there. He had known that the Darkwald was an isolated area of Tor Funweir, but the sudden realization that Sir Leon had taught him virtually nothing in the time they’d been together was annoying. He’d learned more about the lands of men in the last few days than in the previous three years combined.

‘Today, young Randall, I’m afraid your reading will have to wait. I need you to accompany me into the city.’ Torian pointed to the sword of Great Claw hanging from a hook on the back of the door. ‘You should wear your sword, boy…’

Randall let thoughts of Sir Leon and how poor a master he had been leave his mind. He screwed up his face, having barely been listening to his new master’s words. ‘Sorry, I was somewhere else for a moment. What did you say?’ he asked.

Torian smiled as he spoke. ‘Sometimes I envy the ability of youth to daydream. However, as a cleric I must chide you for your insolence,’ he said warmly. ‘I told you that you would be accompanying me into the city and that you should wear your longsword.’

Randall blushed, still uncomfortable owning such a weapon.

Torian sensed his misgiving and, with a condescending smile, moved to the door and picked up the scabbard. ‘Come here, lad. Let’s see how it looks.’

Randall stood in front of him and was taken aback as the cleric reached down and wrapped the belt around his squire’s waist.

‘Master…’ Randall stuttered as he spoke. ‘I should do that.’

Torian’s smile became friendly as he positioned the scabbard on Randall’s left hip. ‘I gave you permission to wear it, so it seems fitting that I adorn you with it.’ He stepped back and inspected the armed squire. ‘There. Now all you need is armour and you’ll look splendid.’

Randall breathed in and looked at the sword hilt. It was surprisingly light and didn’t restrict his movement in the way he’d imagined it would. Despite his reservations, he felt older and stronger simply carrying such a noble weapon. The sword of Great Claw had been Sir Leon’s pride and joy, and Randall wanted more than anything to do honour to the blade.

‘Did Sir Leon at least teach you the correct way to hold such a weapon, Randall?’

‘Well… not really, master. He showed me some basic positions, but he was drunk at the time and they didn’t make much sense.’

‘Hopefully, you won’t need to use it then,’ he said plainly, as he moved to his purple cloak hanging by the window. Randall was not permitted to touch the purple, aside from when he cleaned it, and Brother Torian treated it much as Sir Leon had treated his longsword.

‘Where are we going, master?’ Randall asked as Torian swung his cloak around his shoulders and fastened it at the neck.

‘You’ll be accompanying me to the Kasbah of Haq, outside the city walls. You’ve been reading about foreigners and so it seems only appropriate that you join me in going to a place where they gather. Be on your guard, though, these men are not friendly to Ro, especially clerics, and they will not want to volunteer the information that I seek.’

Before Randall could ask any more questions the sound of armoured feet began to be heard along the corridor outside. Torian was not concerned as he registered the sound and simply waved Randall away from the door.

The squire backed away and stood by the open window. The sound of metal feet rose in volume, but there seemed to be only one man approaching. Randall began to speak, but a raised hand from his master caused him to stay silent.

The armoured footsteps stopped just outside the door and a solid bang on the wood made Randall jump.

‘Worry not, boy, this man is expected. The door is open, brother,’ Torian called loudly.

The circular door handle turned and a gauntleted hand appeared. As the door was pushed open, Randall saw a burly, pale-skinned man of Ro. He was clad in steel armour of a similar fashion to Torian’s, but more tarnished. He bore a large two-headed axe strapped across his back, but of most interest to Randall was the black tabard he wore, identifying him as a cleric of death. The black fabric showed a skeletal hand holding a goblet.

He was a man of middle years, perhaps in his late thirties. His skin was pallid and his hair white, and he looked like a ghost as he stepped into the room. Randall had never seen an albino and found his pink eyes more unnerving than his tabard. He directed a thin smile at Brother Torian and offered his hand. Randall saw a deep scar across the back of his neck, partially covered by his axe and a braided knot of hair that fell halfway down his back. The scar was old, but it looked to Randall that it must have been from a near-fatal wound.

Torian grasped the other cleric’s hand, but didn’t smile; instead, he bowed his head in a show of deep respect.

‘Brother Utha… it has been too long,’ Torian said, averting his eyes from the albino.

‘Look up, Torian, we’re not in Ro Arnon now and it’s been many years since you needed to bow to anyone,’ the Black cleric said, with what seemed like genuine affection. ‘Besides, averting your eyes from a short-arse shit like me will strain your neck.’

Torian laughed and the tension released from his eyes. ‘Come in, brother. I’ve no wine, but at least we have seats and fresh air…’

Randall knew that most clerics were forbidden from drinking alcohol, but the clerics of the Black were unknown to him – aside from the aura of fear that accompanied their station as brothers of death. They followed the darkest aspect of the One God and were present at funerals and large battles, wherever death was certain.

Utha surveyed the room. ‘Last time we sat together, as I recall, my arse was perched on the only thing soft enough to cradle the arrow wound.’

Torian laughed again. ‘As
I
recall, you were sitting on a dead mercenary outside a village near Ro Leith.’

Utha turned to Randall, though he still directed his words to Torian. ‘Well, the rabid little shit had buried an arrow in a place that I like to keep free of wounds. It only seemed proper that I cleaved his head in. He was just a Kirin; I doubt the world has missed his stench since I threw him on the pyre.’

Randall withered a little under the cleric’s gaze and looked down at the floor.

‘This lad looks nervous, Torian. Perhaps he should go and fetch me some wine so that I don’t die of fucking thirst while he looks at the floor.’

Torian nodded at Randall. ‘Yes, of course. Go and fetch a couple of bottles, Randall,’ he said.

Utha did not avert his pale eyes from the young squire as Randall quickly crossed the room and exited into the hall. He closed the door behind him and breathed out, more comfortable now that Utha was not standing on top of him. Randall had heard common folk speak of the Black clerics as if their very presence was a bad omen. It was said they could detect death’s presence on the air, as a normal man would smell food or sense a beautiful woman.

Randall didn’t linger outside the door and moved quickly along the corridor. The tavern was well maintained and a far cry from the establishments he had become used to during his service with Sir Leon. The floor was clean and free of dust, the doors all had locks and even the windows were of clear glass rather than shuttered with wood.

Randall spared a moment’s thought on whatever it might be that brought a Black cleric to meet with Brother Torian, but he considered their business beyond him and focused on fetching the wine.

He walked to the end of the corridor and proceeded downwards, only vaguely registering that he was still wearing his sword. At the foot of the stairs, the tavern opened out. The common room had a high ceiling and was vaulted in wood, with church heraldry hanging from metal hooks. The crossed swords and clenched fist of the knights of the Red was most prominent, displayed next to the purple sceptre of nobility and the dove of the White. Randall found the tavern intimidating, as it was frequented mostly by Red knights and the city watch. Even in the morning several squads of armoured watchmen were sitting down to breakfast – small loaves of grainy bread with thick-cut slices of pork and steaming mugs of dark coffee. The kitchen beyond the polished wooden bar was active and Randall could hear orders being shouted amongst the tavern staff.

Randall walked along the bar and stopped in front of the young barmaid. ‘Er, wine, please… red, I think,’ he said.

She looked puzzled and leant on the bar, inspecting the young squire. ‘Are you the one who brought that man of death into my father’s tavern, boy?’

Randall thought her a little younger than himself and objected to being called
boy
, but he kept quiet. A number of the tavern staff, overhearing the girl, were now looking at him with interest. It was likely that Brother Utha had caused quite a stir when he walked through this room several minutes ago.

‘Not me, exactly… he came to speak to my master,’ Randall replied.

A watchman sitting at a table near the bar said, ‘That was Utha the Ghost, lad… men should not talk to such creatures. Black clerics are barely men at all.’

Assorted nods of agreement flowed over his companions and Randall felt very small. The watchman walked to the bar. Placing several coins on the wood, he turned to Randall. ‘They say the Ghost can see your time of death and smiles when it’s close at hand. He carries an axe because the One will not permit him to carry the weapon of a noble.’ The watchman looked down at the sword of Great Claw, sheathed at Randall’s side. ‘Nor does he permit a lowly squire who consorts with the men of death. I know you serve a man of the Purple, boy, but I object to you carrying that.’

The man was tall and looked down his nose at the squire. Another man joined him, younger than the first and only a few years older than Randall; he carried two short swords sheathed across his back. ‘Leave him be, Robin, the lad’s got enough problems. That’s two clerics he’s got to look after now.’

The first man laughed and returned to his table. The one who’d stood up remained leaning against the bar. ‘More coffee, Lydia,’ he said to the tavern keeper’s daughter, before turning back to Randall. ‘Don’t mind him, boy, Black clerics make everyone nervous… especially that particular Black cleric.’

Randall smiled nervously back at the watchman. ‘I hadn’t heard of him before today. His name suits him, though,’ he said, the image of the albino still in his head.

‘More than you know, I’ll bet. The Ghost is a crusader… he hunts risen men.’

Randall directed a questioning look at the man. He’d heard of the risen before, but considered them merely the stuff of tales. They were supposedly non-human beings who’d betrayed their loved ones and died a painful death, rising as monsters that detested and feared men. The deep forests of the Darkwald supposedly contained a village of the creatures, but the story was always told second-hand and Randall had never given the risen much thought.

‘They actually exist?’ he asked.

‘There’re a lot of dark places in the lands of men, boy; the Wastes of Jekka to the east contain more than just cannibal hill tribes,’ the man said.

‘Stop your lips from flapping, Elyot, you’ll scare the boy,’ said another man, older and wearing the insignia of a watch commander.

‘Just warning him is all, sir. If he’s going to be consorting with a cleric of death, he should know all he can,’ Elyot said defensively.

‘And you are clearly an expert, yes?’ the commander chided.

Elyot turned a little red and smiled at Randall. ‘Don’t listen to me, squire… just stories is all… just stories.’

Randall felt a little awkward and turned back to Lydia, the barmaid. ‘Wine…’ he said again.

She looked as if she were going to raise an objection, but couldn’t quite decide which objection to raise. After a momentary pause she produced a corked bottle of red wine. ‘I’ll add it to your master’s bill,’ she said scornfully.

‘Thanks, you are very kind,’ Randall replied, with deep irony.

He grabbed the bottle and stepped away from the bar. Turning, he began to walk towards the stairs. Elyot, the young watchman, put a hand on Randall’s shoulder and caused him to turn back to face him. ‘Listen to me, squire. I don’t know what business the Ghost has with your master, but you mark me well, it’s a bad omen.’ The words were solemn and Randall nodded politely.

He backed away slowly, trying to smile at Elyot. A few steps back and he turned and walked quickly across the common room. He was not sure if the watchman’s words were mere superstition or if the Black cleric truly heralded bad luck. Either way, he was glad to be leaving the common room and returning to Brother Torian. He breathed out heavily as he realized that meant he would have to face the Ghost again.

As he walked out of the common room, Randall thought of his home and the simple life that his people lived. He would most probably be a farmer or a blacksmith now if he’d not left the Darkwald and he would probably never have met a cleric either of the Purple or of the Black. Randall was not stupid or naive; he knew that he was a common boy and could not hope to raise himself much beyond the station of a squire. The cleric he served was a good master, a man of honour, despite his arrogance, and Randall was thankful for his position as his squire, despite the difficult days and constant need to be on guard. At least now he needed to worry about more than piss-pots and damaged furniture.