The Long War 03 - The Red Prince (27 page)

Dalian shook his head at Nanon’s manner and rocked back on to his feet. Testing each leg, he thought he could probably manage a few more minutes of running, though he had to concede that a good night’s sleep in a warm bed would do his body no end of good. ‘Okay, the Black chapel is off the main street, if we cut across we can get there in a few minutes. Stay hidden when we get near.’

The forest-dweller nodded and sheathed his longsword. ‘Lead the way.’

They left the alley and, with cloaks obscuring their weapons, made their way back towards the port side of Ro Weir and the Black chapel. They were just two more anonymous travellers in the crowded city.

Once they had crossed the border back into the old town, Dalian grew more wary. The steep road that ran the length of Weir would be filled with watchmen and wind claws looking for the Thief Taker and he was not eager to engage in any more fighting. Gaining his bearings from the knight marshal’s office in the distance, he led Nanon towards the tidal channels that littered the city. A dozen small bridges and outlet pipes dotted the area and made it easy for them to keep off the main roads. Many of the channels were used by Kirin smugglers and they were notoriously difficult to police.

‘Why does a cleric of the One God follow the Seven Sisters? From what Rham Jas said, the man’s not even enchanted,’ asked Nanon, as they neared the Black chapel, nestled in a small courtyard in a quiet area of the old town.

‘From what I hear, the man’s insane. The common folk of Weir say he’s obsessed with death... I know all Black clerics are, but Elihas of Du Ban apparently takes it to extremes.’

‘Doesn’t explain it,’ replied the grey-skin.

‘Maybe you should ask him once the Kirin has killed Saara.’

‘Maybe I will.’ Nanon had a vacuous but maddening smile on his face.

They crossed a street and emerged in a small blacksmith’s yard. On the other side of the yard, Dalian could see the black spire of the chapel thrusting above the adjoining buildings and displaying the sign of a skeletal hand holding a goblet. There was a line of stone buildings blocking their way and the easiest, stealthiest route would take them over several rooftops.

Unfortunately, lounging around on barrels and passing a bottle of wine between them, was a squad of watchmen. The five men were presumably on duty, but they looked relaxed and only rose slowly when Dalian and Nanon entered the yard.

‘Are these people a problem?’ asked Nanon.

‘I would think so, yes,’ replied the Thief Taker, frowning at the forest-dweller’s strange manner.

The five men of Ro stopped talking and gathered into a small group, facing the two intruders. They were watchful and confused, but they could not see Dalian’s face and so they had no immediate reason to attack.

‘Walk on, lads,’ said one of the Ro.

Nanon leaned in to his companion and whispered, ‘Shall we kill these ones?’

Dalian smiled slightly. ‘So sorry, sirs,’ he muttered to the watchmen, ‘we’ll move on.’

The men of Ro were suspicious, but they allowed the two strangers to move hurriedly out of the yard and into a side street. Dalian made sure they were not being followed before he stopped and skulked against a wall.

‘We don’t need to kill everyone,’ he said to Nanon. ‘I could really do with a fight-free morning from this point.’

‘Thought I should ask before they attacked us,’ replied the forest-dweller, looking up at the buildings that flanked them. ‘I think we can still get to the chapel over the rooftops. Do you need a hand?’

‘I’m fine,’ grunted the Thief Taker, rubbing his sore back and flexing his arms. ‘We should move, Elihas is nothing but punctual.’

* * *

Elihas of Du Ban slept on a stone bed under a narrow window scarcely big enough to see out of. He had no items of fabric or wood in his quarters and his personal belongings, what few he had, were kept on stone shelves by the door. The only possession he cared for was his armour and this was stowed on a metal mannequin, along with his Black tabard and longsword.

He rose at dawn each day and ran for an hour. He was at his most relaxed during this time and it reminded him that peace could still be achieved, despite the other demands on his time. After his run, he donned his clerical armour and attended the duke’s residence and the Mistress of Pain. Each day he had to remind himself that his alliance with the Seven Sisters was a necessary evil in his austere life and that service to the One God was not as simple as his Purple and Gold brothers believed.

He was not her thrall, nor her servant, her lover or her friend. Elihas of Du Ban was her ally, nothing more, and this would last only as long as their goals coincided. With the betrayal of Utha the Ghost and the death of Roderick of the Falls of Arnon, Elihas believed himself to be the senior Black cleric in Tor Funweir, and his duties had of late required making some hard decisions. He’d tortured the Kirin apostate, Rham Jas Rami, assisted the enchantresses in annexing the south of his country, and helped in any way he could to exterminate the risen men and to birth more Dark Young.

He knew that his assistance confused Saara. He had done everything asked of him without the need for enchantment, and he had continually expressed his devotion to the One even while betraying his people and his church.

Elihas knew his mind was difficult to penetrate and secretly he believed that Saara enjoyed having an ally who did not need sorcery to make him compliant. He had not attempted to explain his actions, considering her understanding too limited for her to comprehend why he was willing to assist her. It was only in his quiet moments of prayer that he doubted this conviction.

As a cleric of the Black, Elihas was infused at all times with death. Long ago he had apprehended the divine nature of death and had realized it was a state to be aspired to, rather than feared. His life had been devoted to assisting the common folk of Tor Funweir to ascend to a divine death through the worship of the One. He had been called deranged, unstable and, on numerous occasions, insane, but Elihas heard the voice and will of the One and he was sure that his actions were right. If assisting Saara the Mistress of Pain to raise her Dead God would hasten the death of the Ro, he would remain her ally until his god told him to desist.

He took in the morning air and checked that his armour was spotless and his sword properly sheathed. Elihas liked to appear correctly attired at all times and he disliked slovenliness in others. Unfortunately, as he was currently resident in Ro Weir, he was surrounded by unwashed and degenerate scum – people who deserved more pain than a divine death offered.

Leaving his quarters, he quickly ascended the stone steps that led outside and left the small Black chapel. The building was deserted, the other clerics having been purged already, and as quiet as the tomb it resembled. Duke Lyam was not a pious man and permitted only unremarkable chapels in his city. Even the Purple church was small and easy to overlook.

He turned sharp left and looked down the steep road that bisected the centre of the city. From the gates to the harbour, the citizens of Ro Weir had to look down towards the Kirin Ridge. It was a large city, but filled with narrow streets and slum areas. The inlets that lanced through the old town held small, self-contained worlds populated by criminals of every kind. Many Kirin rainbow merchants plied their trade around the harbour, and hundreds of Karesian smugglers used the secret waterways and private docks that littered the old town. Even with the presence of so many Hounds, the city was still lawless. If anything, the foreign criminals had become emboldened. With few watchmen and even fewer clerics, the Kirin and Karesians controlled half the city. Many of the Ro had left already and the remainder huddled in the merchants’ quarter, surrounded by paid guards, hoping that the Hounds would leave them alone so long as they caused no problem.

Elihas made no effort to disguise his clerical office, for he knew that he was feared by the common folk, who would not bother him. The only exception was the large presence of wind claws. The faithful of Jaa were Saara’s closest followers. Many of them had willingly given themselves to her cause and now followed the Dead God, defying the Fire Giant and turning their back on the religion of Karesia. These men sickened Elihas and he refused to have anything to do with them. This went doubly for the ranks of merchant princes and mobsters who had come to Weir from Kessia and had begun to follow a perverted religion of which Saara was the high priestess. Much of the Mistress of Pain’s time was spent leading bizarre ceremonies in worship of the Dead God – ceremonies that Elihas had glimpsed out of the corner of his eye and which seemed to involve a lot of nudity and self-mutilation. When she was occupied, Elihas found himself the leader of their cause. He met with their spies, directed the Hounds around Tor Funweir, and managed the day-to-day duties of intimidation and death that the annexation of Ro Weir required.

Next to the duke’s residence were many large manor houses, newly occupied by rich Karesian followers of the Mistress of Pain. They had killed the Ro nobles who owned the dwellings and appropriated their wealth for the cause, adding it to the funds that had been gained from the razing of Cozz. Elihas sneered at the buildings as he made his way round the cloistered yard between the duke’s residence and the huge harbour. The lowest levels of Weir were better maintained and the freshness coming from the sea even made the area seem pleasant.

‘My lord Elihas,’ said a Karesian accent from the yard.

The cleric turned to see a group of wind claws at attention behind several wide pillars. They wore billowing black robes and wielded scimitars and wavy-bladed kris knives.

‘What?’ he replied.

‘You are asked to accompany us.’

Elihas slowly walked over to them, keeping his eyes on the Karesian. He said nothing in response and the wind claw began to look nervous after a few seconds of silence.

‘My lord?’ prompted the man.

‘Where are we going?’ asked the cleric after another moment.

‘The mistress is still in prayer and asks that you attend her in the chapel.’

The chapel was the quaint and inappropriate name for the cavernous vaults under the knight marshal’s office. It had formerly been used as Weir’s grain silo, but had been cleared and was now the centre of Saara’s new flock, the place where her debased followers met to worship the Dead God. It was also the place where the darkwood trees had been placed – those that had not already been shipped to other parts of the world.

There were three Karesians, each man off guard and not expecting trouble. Elihas thought for a moment and tried to hide the anger he felt at being spoken to by lesser men. He decided to remind them that they were not to speak to him.

He stepped closer to the wind claw and drew the punch-dagger he kept on his right forearm. The steel was a foot long and deadly sharp. It slid smoothly into the Karesian’s neck and his expression moved through the stages of death while Elihas watched him. The cleric enjoyed seeing the light disappear from the eyes of men and he savoured the feeling, not wrenching out the blade so as to kill him quickly. The other wind claws instinctively moved their hands to their scimitars, but as Elihas withdrew his bloodstained dagger and stepped over the slumped body in front of him they held up their hands in submission.

‘You are not to talk to me,’ snarled the cleric.

The Karesians exchanged a worried glance. After a moment, one of them pointed towards the catacombs and the two men parted to allow Elihas to lead the way. Neither spoke again as the cleric cleaned his punch-dagger and placed it back along his forearm.

The cloistered yard was one of the oldest parts of Ro Weir and contained dozens of low entries leading into the vast tunnels beneath the city. When Saara was not seeing to her administrative duties in the duke’s office, she would be in the catacombs practising her perverse religion in hedonistic isolation. Of late, since her latest sister had been killed, she had spent more and more time in the chapel, leaving the city in the hands of wind claws and her Ro thralls. Elihas did not fully understand why Saara became increasingly unhinged each time she lost a sister, but he had counted several dozen unfortunate men who had encountered her during such moments of madness and had been viciously killed. He had challenged her about it and had been told simply that she needed their energy to quieten her mind. He snorted with contempt at this answer, but did not care enough to press the issue.

The stone passageway became dark within a few strides, with no windows to allow in the morning light. It led downwards, though the stone ceiling stayed at the same height and contained a number of small balconies from which prisoners used to be thrown from the dungeons above. The catacombs had seen no use for centuries, until Saara had developed her liking for dark, underground places in which to worship her god.

‘Good morning, Elihas,’ a young woman’s voice spoke from an adjoining chamber.

‘Good morning, Keisha,’ he replied, nodding his head at Saara’s Kirin body-slave.

She was around eighteen years of age and a compliant young lady. ‘The mistress asked me to escort you to the chapel,’ she said, with a flirtatious curtsy. It was a habit she had presumably developed during her years as a pleasure-slave, and she had not yet broken the habit despite the cleric’s failure to respond. ‘She’s been in a better mood this morning. Apparently we have an ally against the dark-blood.’

Elihas looked at her. ‘Your mistress doesn’t keep many secrets from you.’

‘A body-slave should know all of her mistress’s business. The better to assist her every need.’

Keisha led him to the huge central chamber, deep under the knight marshal’s office. It was barely lit and the high ceiling was domed and filled with dancing shadows. Balconies were dimly visible around the dome. The central platform, raised, with steps at the corners, was adorned with a macabre altar of twisted tentacles. The statue’s construction had driven three stonemasons insane. Its angles were strange and caused the light to play off it in bizarre patterns.