The Long War 03 - The Red Prince (35 page)

‘Oh, there is one thing,’ said Theron. ‘They were setting up some wooden contraption in front of the gates. Not a catapult. No idea what it is.’

‘Let’s go and have a look,’ replied the former knight of the Red.

They walked to a nearby ladder and, a moment later, stood on raised wooden planks looking eastwards across the barricade. The plain was largely empty, although small patrols rode back and forth in front of them. Cardinal Mobius and the king didn’t trust Fallon’s word, it seemed. The Red knights were not at rest and small figures strode along the distant stockade, as if they were waiting for something. He couldn’t see crossbows or loaded catapults.

‘There,’ said Theron, pointing to the newly repaired gateway. ‘Looks like a wooden cross of some kind.’

Fallon peered at a squad of knights busily erecting the wooden frame. Behind them, arrayed in the open gateway of South Warden, were a dozen Purple clerics. He couldn’t see Mobius or Jakan, but they would be there, skulking out of sight, directing their minions.

‘I think they want to show us something,’ said Fallon. ‘Maybe they’re growing impatient.’

Before Theron could answer, a deep bugle sounded from the city. Three long blasts, indicating a parlay. Fallon and his adjutant shared a look of confusion. This was the first time the knights had attempted to communicate since they had escaped from the city. It gave him a sinking feeling.

‘Muster a company of men. Ohms and twenty others,’ ordered Fallon. ‘Let’s go and see what they want... and sight the trebuchets, just in case they forget we’ve got them.’

‘Aye, sir,’ responded Theron with a salute.

Fallon stayed on the raised platform as his adjutant left. He felt the telltale headache that indicated he was not alone. To his left, standing proud in ethereal purple armour, was Torian’s shade. The apparition was looking towards South Warden.

‘Steady yourself, exemplar,’ said the shade. ‘You are about to be tested by unworthy men.’

‘Can you be more specific?’ he asked. ‘There are many such men over there.’

‘Keep your sword arm loose,’ replied Torian.

‘I always do.’

* * *

They lined up, mounted and fully armoured, before a vastly superior force. Vladimir and Lanry had insisted on accompanying them, leaving Major Dimitri in charge of their camp. The small company of men, with the loaded and sighted trebuchets behind them, faced a guard of two hundred knights of the Red and a dozen Purple clerics. Fallon had taken his men to the mid-point between the two forces and waited. The wooden frame was braced in front of the opposing force, and Red knights, wearing the black aprons common to torturers, stood nearby.

‘Oh dear,’ offered Brother Lanry. ‘I never understood why torture is necessary. Good men don’t treat their fellows in such a fashion.’

‘Cunts do,’ replied Vladimir with venom.

‘My lord!’ exclaimed the cleric, blushing at the Lord of Mud’s language.

‘The word seems to apply,’ said Fallon. He scanned the knights. ‘I don’t see Tristram.’

‘Perhaps he feels the same about torture as you and I,’ said Vladimir.

‘Maybe. But why isn’t he here?’

A single blast from the bugle and a guard of Purple clerics parted to allow a small group to march forward. Brother Jakan and Cardinal Mobius, mounted and armoured, rode in front of three men dragging a chained figure. The two senior clerics wore burnished breastplates with the Purple sceptre of nobility prominently displayed.

‘I know that man,’ gasped Brother Lanry, flapping his hands at the chained figure. ‘That’s Horrock Green Blade, the captain of Wraith Company.’

‘Thought he died at the breach,’ said Fallon, resting his hand on his sword hilt.

‘He was definitely wounded,’ replied the cleric. ‘He fought Brother Jakan.’

The Ranen chieftain was barely clothed, his bloodied body clad only in rags, and his long, wild hair was matted and stained red. He was chained at the hands and feet and was being carried as a dead weight by three bound knights.

He was taken to the wooden frame and given to the torturers in full view. The Darkwald yeomanry were also watching – crammed on to the raised stockade or peering through the wooden gates.

‘Behold the justice of Tor Funweir,’ announced Mobius, riding to the front of the assembled knights. ‘All traitors will meet the same fate if they do not surrender to our will. It is our right, our duty to rule these lands. Peasants and lesser men will be treated as they deserve.’

Jakan directed the torturers to tie Horrock to the frame, which was now lying flat on the grass. His arms and legs were spread wide and tied to the four points of the cross, leaving his head to hang limply. He was still alive, though his movements, limited by his restraints, were jerky and hesitant. He was dazed and barely conscious.

‘This lesser man will be an example to you all,’ bellowed Mobius, wheeling his horse theatrically in front of his men.

Jakan stayed close to Horrock and was giving the orders. ‘Cripple him,’ he commanded.

Four torturers were positioned at the Ranen’s extremities, hefting small hatchets and sneering at the captive. With a wave of the cleric’s hand, they swung. With deft skill, they removed Horrock’s hands and feet. It was a grisly sight and a worse sound.

Brother Lanry vomited from his horse, and several other men baulked and turned away.

Horrock wailed in pain, but he was a broken man with little awareness of where he was or what had been done to him. The torturers flung the man’s severed parts into a bucket and used burning torches to seal the wounds. The smell travelled far.

Fallon saw red. This wanton cruelty was as far from an honourable death as he could imagine. Jakan’s indifference, Mobius’s arrogance, the knights’ compliance. The exemplar of the One was angry. He clenched his fists and panted heavily, curling his mouth into a snarl.

‘Look upon this man, Fallon,’ screamed Jakan. ‘Look upon his broken body.’

Horrock was no longer moving and the Grey Knight lost control. He kicked his horse forward. Those around him, still stunned by the Ranen’s mutilation, didn’t react, only registering surprise and then words of alarm once Fallon was plunging over the grass towards the Red knights. He wasn’t thinking. All he could see was Brother Jakan, standing with his sword raised and a smirk on his face. This man must die, he thought, over and over.

‘With me,’ roared Theron, kicking his own horse into motion and following. ‘Fallon...’

The exemplar could hear his cries but didn’t turn away or slow his charge. He heard a distant bugle from the camp of the yeomanry. The rest of the army knew something was wrong.

Ahead of him, two hundred knights of the Red were looking at their commanders, hesitantly drawing swords as the lone rider approached. The few Purple clerics were forming up round Mobius, protecting their cardinal, and Jakan stood awaiting Fallon, with the torturers at his back. Horrock was spreadeagled behind them, the smouldering stumps of his limbs filling the air with a foul stench.

‘You are a coward,’ bellowed the exemplar, clamping his legs to the saddle and keeping his sword close to his body. He didn’t care about the men before him, the two hundred knights, the armed clerics – or about his chances of survival. He only cared about killing Jakan.

‘Breath slowly, exemplar,’ whispered Torian, ‘The One protects you. Your sword will be as lightning, your strength as mountains, your mind as stone.’

Fallon saw things in slow motion. The ground beneath him, eaten up by his charge, flowed and contorted, and the men before him moved as flickering echoes. Each one, a trained soldier and skilled fighter, was hesitant, taken completely by surprise.

He rode closer to Jakan, passing the forward ranks of their army.

‘Hold your ground. He is but one man,’ ordered Mobius. ‘Jakan, deal with him.’

‘Crossbows,’ commanded Jakan, directing a squad of bound men to load their weapons and stand to.

The strings flexed and the bolts flew, all in slow motion, as Fallon neared the Purple cleric. They should have hit him but he jumped from his horse at the last moment. He didn’t know how, how he was fast enough, but he was. His senses were heightened and the crossbow bolts passed harmlessly over him. He felt both serenity and anger as he rolled forward on to the grass.

‘Fallon of Leith... time to die,’ challenged Jakan, running at the lone figure.

The crossbowmen stood in close guard but held their position, watching their commander advance as they began to reload. The other two hundred knights, uncertain what to do, began to encircle the two swordsmen, creating an open area with the mutilated Ranen chieftain in the centre. Fallon stood, surrounded by a wall of steel and red, facing Brother Jakan.

Behind him, he could hear Theron, Ohms and the others riding hard to join him, but knights blocked their path and to continue would have meant their death. In the distance he could hear horses returning to their stockade and guessed that Vladimir and Lanry were not accompanying the former knights.

‘You have betrayed the One,’ said Fallon, sidestepping a measured opening thrust from the Purple cleric. ‘And now you will die for it.’

He was aware that he stood alone, within an overwhelming force of knights, but all he felt was the strength of his god and all he saw was the loathsome Purple cleric before him.

Jakan attacked again, but his overhead swing was easily deflected. Fallon took a step back and allowed the cleric to advance.

‘Behold, the finest swordsmen in Tor Funweir,’ barked Jakan. ‘He will fall before a nobleman of the One God.’

The exemplar smiled. He saw the warrior opposite him for what he was – a small-minded bully with no might beyond his station.

‘I’m going to use you,’ whispered Fallon. ‘I’m going to kill you in increments so all can see.’

‘So kill me, you turncoat bastard.’

Fallon attacked and their swords clashed. He used minimal strength, swinging in tight circles and keeping the cleric from countering. He was faster than Jakan and their audience held its collective breath.

‘You delegate too much of your swordplay... you’re out of practice,’ mocked the exemplar, delivering a feint to the cleric’s side. Jakan tried to block it, but couldn’t move quickly enough to deflect the follow-up attack. Fallon’s blade swung low, delivering a deep cut to the man’s unprotected thigh.

‘One cut for your dishonour,’ shouted Fallon, kicking Jakan to the ground.

The cleric rolled backwards skilfully, wincing as blood seeped from his leg. He got back to his feet and looked around. He saw hundreds of his men, all standing off and allowing them to fight. Now he looked afraid. He was close to the wooden frame and Horrock’s broken body, and the obstacle would make retreat difficult.

Fallon stepped forward, nimbly crossing the grass and forcing Jakan on to the defensive. Their swords clashed repeatedly as combinations were delivered and parried. Fallon conserved his strength. He was the better swordsman – taller, stronger and faster, with battle-tested skill. He used the wooden frame to keep Jakan off guard and never felt as if the cleric was his match. His sword felt weightless and his movements were smooth, flowing from one into the next, almost before Jakan could react.

An opening appeared and the exemplar swung a light cut at Jakan’s neck.

‘Two cuts for the battle of South Warden,’ he roared, again kicking the Purple cleric to the grass.

His opponent grabbed at the wound and blood snaked out from between his fingers. It was enough to show that the cleric was outmatched. He shuffled backwards, keeping his sword up, but he didn’t stand up.

Cardinal Mobius, still mounted and remaining behind his troops, shouted over the sound of combat. ‘Jakan, kill him.’

He gestured to the surrounding knights and each man of the Red drew his blade and made the circle of combat shrink.

Fallon readied to defend himself when another bugle sounded from the yeomanry camp. He turned back to the west, as did many of the opposing knights, and Mobius flashed a grimace of anger.

‘Let them fight,’ commanded a familiar voice from behind the knights. Fallon couldn’t see him, but recognized Theron’s voice. As the knights slowly parted, he saw a line of yeomanry approaching with Vladimir at the head. Over their shoulders, loaded and ready, poking out from the stockade, were four huge trebuchets. Theron, Ohms and the rest of Fallon’s former unit were lined up just beyond the Red knights with swords raised.

‘If that fight becomes anything other than one on one we will bombard you until you cry,’ shouted Theron. ‘It’s a duel. Jakan started it, Fallon will finish it.’

‘How dare you!’ Mobius’s voice was shrill and tinged with indignation. ‘Traitors will never prevail.’

‘Fuck you and fuck your words!’ replied Theron, shouting across the assembled knights of the Red. ‘We are the true servants of the One... now, let them fight.’

Mobius was wrestling with his desire to kill them all, but the cardinal wouldn’t risk losing his force to sustained artillery fire. The trebuchets would cripple any advance before it could reach the yeomanry’s stockade. They equalized the odds against the greater skill of the Red knights.

‘Knights, stand to,’ ordered Mobius reluctantly.

Fallon turned back to Jakan. ‘Stand!’

All those assembled watched the two warriors and the circle grew again to give them room to fight. The wounded cleric stood and took his hand from his neck. The cut was not deep but looked ugly and continued to bleed. The leg wound was more of an impediment to movement and he approached gingerly.

‘Are you ready to die, cleric?’ asked Fallon.

‘Killing me will only prove your dishonour,’ he replied.

Torian’s shade, hovering next to the exemplar, let out a muted laugh – the first expression of this kind Fallon had heard from him. The apparition transferred a stoical resolve that strengthened the former knight. As he attacked Jakan, he felt more righteous than he had ever done.

The duel was now one-sided, with Fallon slowly dissecting Jakan’s flawed technique, made worse by his wounds.

‘Three cuts for the One God,’ said Fallon as he opened up the cleric’s shoulder, cutting to the bone.