The Long War 03 - The Red Prince (52 page)

‘Don’t make me ask again,’ roared the Red cardinal.

Dolf Halan kicked his horse forward and banged on the wooden gate, the sound resonating along the walls.

‘Commander Tristram, get your men to open this gate,’ snapped the Red knight.

‘The clerics control the gate, captain,’ he replied. ‘We await the Purple cardinal’s pleasure.’

Fallon remained silent, allowing the situation to play out. The raven had freed the king, somehow removing the chains of enchantment, but Mobius remained an obstacle. If Brytag and the One had formed an alliance, they had done so only to free Sebastian Tiris.

Commands were shouted from within and men dressed in purple hurried to pull the gate inwards. Halan backed away and the riders reined in their horses, preparing to enter the city. Frith and Halan rode either side of the king, and the Red general’s eyes were narrow and wary.

‘What do we do, Fallon?’ asked Vladimir, following the two Red knights through the gate.

‘We let it play out,’ he replied. ‘Keep your eyes open and stay close to Theron.’

The twelve riders entered at a walk, taking in their surroundings as wooden buildings appeared behind ranks of Purple clerics. The inner courtyard, repaired by gangs of chained Ranen, was clear, and a horseshoe of armoured men encircled the riders. From the central mount, leading up towards the ruined assembly, approached the senior clerics, including Montague, just dismounting from his horse, and Cardinal Mobius. They were arriving along a winding road, lined with grass. The mount was steep and the road ended in steps, giving the Purple cardinal a high vantage point.

‘Mobius, old fellow,’ shouted the king, ‘Malaki is here. I told him we’d sort out all this nonsense in short order.’

The Purple cardinal, his face sweaty and red, stopped on the steps, remaining behind his clerics. A quick scan round and Fallon saw over a hundred men guarding him, with more approaching from the Ranen assembly. There were no Red knights to be seen. The Purple cardinal had taken Tristram’s command.

‘How dare you enter here, Fallon of Leith?’ Mobius croaked. ‘You are a dead man, unaware of his own death.’

‘What on earth are you going on about, old cock?’ asked the king. ‘Can’t we dismount and dispense with the formalities? We are an awfully long way from home after all.’

‘Silence, child!’ shouted Mobius. ‘The mistress gave me strict instructions on what to do should your conviction waver.’

Frith rode in front of Sebastian Tiris, waving for Dolf Halan to do the same.

‘We should leave, my king,’ he said quietly, not responding to Mobius’s insult. ‘It’s not safe here.’ He turned to Tristram. ‘Commander, get your men down here and protect the king.’

Fallon saw a man level a crossbow. The Purple cleric stood next to Mobius and took aim. The Grey Knight kicked his horse forward.

‘Crossbow!’ he shouted, trying to get in front of the king.

He was too late. No one else had seen the weapon and the bolt was well aimed, striking Sebastian Tiris in the chest. His armour was poorly maintained and split loudly, buckling inwards. The king wailed in pain and blood spluttered from his mouth.

‘Rally to me,’ ordered Frith, causing Tristram, Theron and the rest of the knights to move forward and draw their swords. Vladimir stayed back, looking imploringly at the open gate behind them.

‘Kill them all,’ commanded Mobius.

More crossbows appeared and bolts flew. The riders were now alert, but the sheet of fire was hard to avoid. Fallon pushed his horse into Frith’s and turned him back towards the gate as Theron took a bolt in the stomach.

‘Fall back!’ shouted Fallon. ‘Ride for the gate.’

He kicked the king’s horse, sending it towards the gate with Tiris slumped over the saddle.

Every man except Vladimir took a wound. Tristram received two bolts, one in the back and one in the ankle. Malaki Frith was shot in the shoulder and the neck, Dolf Halan was knocked from his horse with a wound in the side of his head. Fallon himself was shot in the side and in the thigh.

He kicked his horse, but couldn’t see who was riding with him. Dolf and Theron had both fallen, but the others were just a mess of shouts and the braying of wounded horses. The Lord of Mud was ahead, wailing and flapping his reins, willing his horse to go faster. Behind, Purple clerics reloaded and screamed at the bound men to close the gates.

‘Vladimir, move,’ he roared. ‘Don’t look back, just ride.’

The Lord of Mud passed through the gate, his horse’s hooves suddenly muffled on the grass of Scarlet. The raven cawed as Fallon reached the narrowing gateway and the men trying to close it. His horse barrelled into the wood and stopped abruptly, wedging the gate open. A swing of his sword struck a bound man in the skull and he kicked the gate backwards, creating a larger opening. More bolts hit his horse and Fallon was thrown to the grass beyond the gate, shattering the bolts sticking out of his side and thigh.

‘Fallon!’ shouted Frith, holding a bloodstained hand to the side of his neck. ‘Reach.’ He jumped over the dying horse and passed the gate.

The Grey Knight turned and flung his arms at the approaching Red general, pulling himself up on to the back of the horse. The gate stayed open just long enough for the riders to bolt. Dead and wounded men doubled over in their saddles and three riderless horses joined them.

Fallon sat behind the general, watching blood snake out from between his fingers as he clutched at his neck. They rode in chaotic lines, the horses wounded and overburdened.

‘Make for the camp,’ ordered Frith, choking on each word.

Fallon clamped his hands to the general’s neck, stopping the blood. Frith allowed him to do so and clung on to his reins. The crossbow bolt was stopping the worst of the blood flow but the wound was bad.

‘Just ride, my lord,’ said the Grey Knight.

Vladimir was a good distance ahead. Tristram was hugging the neck of his horse and barely moving. Theron’s horse was riderless and Dolf Halan was dead. The king’s horse had taken Sebastian Tiris away from the city, but its rider wasn’t moving.

Men from the general’s camp were aware that something was wrong. They moved from between their tents and formed up to await the riders’ return.

Frith swayed in his saddle and Fallon had to reach round him to grab the reins. ‘Easy, general, nearly there,’ he said, holding the man to stop him falling from his saddle.

They reached the edge of the camp and dozens of Red knights appeared to help the wounded down on to the grass.

‘Fallon, are you alive?’ shouted Vladimir, coming to join him.

‘Just,’ he replied, lowering Malaki Frith to a waiting White cleric.

The general was alive but losing blood. Tristram was helped out of his saddle and was barely conscious. The others were dead or missing. Fallon had two wounds and both of them hurt, but they were minor compared to the others’.

‘What the fuck was that? Really, what the fuck was that?’ demanded the Lord of Mud. ‘He killed the fucking king.’

‘Fallon!’ roared General Frith, allowing the healer to clasp his neck and remove the crossbow bolt.

‘Running every step,’ he replied, pressing at his side.

A bound man assisted the Grey Knight and more White clerics appeared. Tristram was near to death with a bolt clean through his stomach. The king’s horse had been grabbed and the motionless body was being bought into the camp. Theron and Dolf would see no more sunrises.

Fallon limped over to the general, feeling strange amid so many knights and clerics. At least a dozen men of the White and several of the Black mingled with the knights, angrily assessing the situation and shouting at their subordinates to stand ready.

Malaki Frith was pale and his hands shook. Two White clerics crouched over him and a third said prayers nearby. A chunk of his neck was missing and his words were gargled through his blood. His eyes were wide and flecked with red. His face was flushed and he gritted his teeth, vibrating with anger. ‘Fallon!’ he shouted again.

‘I’m here, my lord, but you should stop talking until they’ve healed you.’

A White cleric nodded at him and tried to hold the general still. They could help, but Frith was trying to stand, relying on anger and adrenaline to keep him alive.

‘Knight general, you need to lie still,’ said a cleric. ‘You are dying. Let us work.’

‘See to the king before me,’ choked Frith.

‘He is being seen to,’ replied the cleric. ‘As is Commander Tristram.’

It began to snow, a steady and swirling mist of white coating hundreds of tents. The flurry was sudden and large flakes fell on Fallon’s boots, mingling with the blood from his thigh.

‘Move the wounded into the pavilions,’ commanded a White cleric, waving to bound men to assist him.

Frith moved reluctantly, conceding only when loss of blood stopped him from standing upright. Tristram wasn’t moving and was on a stretcher. The king was carried, his arms and legs dragging limply along the grass.

‘I’m not wounded, but can I come too?’ asked Vladimir.

‘Just shut up and get over here,’ replied Fallon.

Knights looked at them, whispering about who they were. Many knew Fallon of Leith and were confused by his lack of a uniform. Some knew the Lord of Mud and started gossiping about what had happened before the Red army arrived from Ro Arnon and why the Darkwald yeomanry were so few.

‘Is the stand-off over?’ asked Vladimir, wincing as Fallon’s wounds were being cared for.

‘I should imagine so,’ he replied. ‘Regicide has a way of galvanizing people.’

‘Theron?’ asked the Lord of Mud.

Fallon shook his head. ‘Dead.’

‘At least he didn’t die on that bloody wooden stake.’

‘Still dead.’

‘And the king?’ he looked at the motionless body being carried into a tent.

‘Dead,’ Fallon repeated. ‘That’s what regicide means.’

From his left, a triumphant caw signalled the return of the raven’s shade. He turned to see Torian standing in the open, framed by curtains of falling snow. The ghostly bird sat on his shoulder and flapped its wings playfully. All around, knights and clerics of Tor Funweir moved past the apparition, ignorant of its presence, as they collected the riderless horses and assisted the wounded men.

‘Fate is a strange thing, exemplar,’ said Torian, the words echoing in Fallon’s mind. ‘For those who understand it, the future is irrelevant. For the gods, fate is all there is.’ The shade smiled again. ‘This is what you must do...’

CHAPTER 8

TYR NANON IN THE CITY OF RO WEIR

H
E WAS TIRED
. His head hurt. He had not slept or rested for days. Even the slow meditation of the Dokkalfar did nothing to ease his mind and Nanon could not put into words how he felt. He had avoided the multitudes of men sent after him by taking the shape of a black hawk and nesting atop the small Brown chapel.

Rham Jas Rami was dead, Dalian was captive and undergoing torture, and Kale Glenwood was enchanted. By any measure, they had failed in spectacular fashion to kill the Mistress of Pain. As the only member of their group still free, Nanon was alarmed by the fact that he did not know what to do. He knew that he could not abandon Dalian, and that Rham Jas’s daughter was still a dark-blood, but the old Tyr had been badly shaken by his friend’s death and he couldn’t think clearly. What to do?

Flying over the knight marshal’s office, he had seen much of the enemy’s movements during the past week. The endless procession of Hounds, the Ro nobles begging for the favour of the enchantress, none of it gave him any useful information. The idle chatter of the wind claws had told him of the Kirin’s death and helped him fill in the blanks of what had happened in the catacombs, but he didn’t know where they were holding Dalian or whether Keisha knew that the dead man was her father.

He flapped his wings and cawed in frustration. Time was running fast now. Somewhere to the east, in the depths of the Fell, Vithar Loth was preparing his people for mass suicide. With no way to kill the enchantress, he felt defeated. He didn’t like losing. It was a rare feeling, to have been out-thought and out-manoeuvred. If he were human, Nanon would have been swearing and pledging vengeance. As it was, he cawed. He could barely feel his brethren, they were so far away. All that remained of them was a dull thud in his mind, a suicidal impulse that was growing stronger.

It was twilight in Ro Weir. He had sat still, with barely a flap, for at least two hours. The fools that were searching for him had no idea that he could turn into a bird. A patrol of wind claws had now been circling the Brown chapel for a few minutes and Nanon decided to hop down from his perch and see what he could find out. They were nearing the end of their working day and they slumped around, throwing disinterested glances at anyone within view. Their talk was of bed and sleep, with occasional references to alcohol.

A gust of wind lifted him above the chapel and he angled his wings to catch a steady air current. The marshal’s office was a huge building with many and varied structures jutting out from the central stone edifice. Nanon had little knowledge of human architecture and the strange logic that drove them to build in blocks and straight lines.