The Long War 03 - The Red Prince (56 page)

‘And the dog?’

‘Hey, I ain’t done with you, red man,’ interrupted Two Hearts.

‘I said, I speak for the Moon clans,’ she repeated, emptying her lungs to be heard. ‘And this is why. Be silent, Federick. You, sir knight, I am a noble of Ro and I demand to be taken to the Red general.’

The men on horseback conversed quietly. They directed men to form up and allow a narrow channel to appear, leading from the Moon Woods, plunging deep into the Red army.

‘Lady Bronwyn, you say? Of Canarn? Long way from home... with a dishonourable name.’

She clenched her fists but diplomacy forced her to remain silent.

‘You and one other,’ said the knight. ‘These Moon clans can remain in their woods for now.’

‘Very well. Lead on,’ she replied. ‘But the hound comes too. He’s no threat to you.’ Warm Heart looked at her and she hoped she was right.

‘As you say, Lady Bronwyn. Dogs get shot as easily as men.’

They left the safety of the trees and walked across the deepening snow. They were isolated and alone, moving across open ground from one group of warriors to another. Micah leant on his axe, gripping the shaft for comfort. Bronwyn was unarmed and aware of her appearance. Greasy hair, dirty hands, grubby fingernails. Her feet were calloused and sore, her face scratched and pale. But she was a diplomat of sorts, in a land where appearances meant nothing. Only Warm Heart gave her comfort, loping along next to her, his huge muzzle held upright.

They were led into the mass of soldiers, down an aisle between interlocked shields and hard faces. The riders trotted along on either side of them, providing escort. Within moments the aisle had closed behind them and she felt herself lost in a maze of steel and leather figures, stretching away from her in every direction. South Warden was a sliver of wood in the distance, the camp of the yeomanry was completely obscured, and the northern tree line was just a texture, barely visible through the snow.

They walked across uneven ground towards the front of the army. The city grew larger and larger, looming over the snow-capped knights, as they neared the gates of South Warden. The Red warriors broke their silence only to whisper about the huge dog.

‘Lady Bronwyn! I did not expect to see you here,’ said Fallon of Leith, dismounting. ‘Who are your friends?’

‘This is Micah Stone Dog of Wraith. This is Warm Heart, he’s a Volk war-hound. Who’s your friend?’

Fallon paused, looking at the hound, but he was not a man to be scared by a big dog. ‘May I present Knight General Malaki Frith. My general, this is the young lady who escaped Canarn, Hail and, it seems, South Warden.’

‘A pleasure, my lady,’ said Frith with a bow. ‘Lord Bromvy’s sister, what are you doing here?’

‘I am functioning as a go-between currently, speaking on behalf of the Moon clans and the remaining Free Company men. In fact, probably best to think of me as a diplomat.’

Fallon was tall and his back was straight. He wore no uniform or indication of rank. Again, Fynius was right, the swordsman was no longer a knight of the Red. Malaki Frith was shorter and wore a burnished breastplate across an ample chest.

‘Well,’ began the general, ‘as long as your friends in the trees...’ he turned to another officer. ‘How many are there?’

‘A few hundred. At most,’ replied the knight.

The general nodded. ‘Well, as long as your friends in the trees behave themselves, I see no reason not to parlay. Our mandate in the Freelands is open to change at this moment.’

‘I’m sure Vladimir would relish another parlay,’ said Fallon. ‘He thinks he’s getting good at them.’ The tall swordsman noted the look of confusion on Bronwyn’s face. ‘That’s Vladimir Corkoson, commander of the Darkwald yeomanry. Don’t worry, he just wants to go home.’

‘At least he’s still got a home,’ replied Micah, glaring at Fallon. ‘I remember you from Ro Hail. You killed a priest of the Order of the Hammer. Our healer.’

‘Now is not the time,’ interjected Bronwyn, aware that Stone Dog’s temper often overrode his reason.

‘It’s okay,’ said Fallon. ‘What was his name, your priest?’

‘Dorron Moon Eye,’ replied Micah. ‘Miserable old bastard. You split his head open.’

‘I’m sorry.’

It was a simple apology, said with a genuine smile, and it surprised them both. Red knights didn’t apologize. They didn’t show guilt or contrition, they merely implemented the will of the One with swift, often brutal, efficiency. They were barely human. ‘You really have left the Red, haven’t you?’ she asked. ‘I didn’t believe it.’

‘Let’s not be hasty,’ said Malaki Frith. ‘The situation here is still uncertain. Sir Fallon has, as far as is clear, acted with honour. And one does not leave the Red, dear lady.’

The tall swordsman’s face was open and light-hearted. He shook his head in amusement but didn’t correct either Bronwyn or the Red general. Whatever had happened to him had had a profound effect on his demeanour.

‘What do the Ranen want?’ asked Frith.

Micah snorted. The answer would be obvious to anyone other than a Red knight.

‘What do you think they want?’ she responded. ‘What would you want? If the situation was reversed. If that was Ro Tiris instead of South Warden?’ She wiped snow from her hair. ‘Can we continue this under cover?

‘Of course, Lady Bronwyn, where are my manners?’ said Frith with a forced smile. ‘But your... dog is not welcome in my command tent.’

Warm Heart whined, wagging his tale at the Red general.

* * *

She had never known so many men bow to her. Every knight and bound man showed his respect. Breastplates were struck, helmets removed. No one questioned them as they were escorted through the vast military camp.

At the centre, covered with a thick layer of pristine white snow, sat Malaki Frith’s command pavilion. The Red banner swayed from side to side, snapping against the flagpole, but it was the only heraldry on display. There was no Purple sceptre. That was a good sign.

‘What the fuck am I doing here?’ asked Stone Dog, not addressing anyone in particular.

‘You insisted on coming with me,’ she replied.

‘I did? Didn’t you try to talk me out of it?’ He smiled politely at a grizzled Red knight moving a stack of swords from one tent to another.

‘Are you scared, young Micah?’

‘Piss off... my lady. I’m just having a lot of new experiences recently.’ He grinned. ‘Still alive. though.’

Warm Heart bounded along in front, excitedly sticking his nose into anything the Red knights were doing. They frowned and flapped at him, their fear quickly turning to confusion as the huge hound acted like a playful puppy.

‘Stay!’ commanded Bronwyn, as Frith and Fallon disappeared inside the command tent.

Warm Heart hunkered down and his tongue lolled out over a mass of slobbery teeth. He remained still, lying on the snowy grass outside the tent.

‘Can he understand you?’ asked Micah.

‘Well... if he doesn’t, I expect he’ll get shot.’

The hound whined and pulled in his muscular forelegs, lying as flat as he could to the ground.

They turned their backs on Warm Heart and were led inside the large tent. The temperature rose instantly. The pavilion was divided into several sections, each warmed from a central brazier. Everything was red – the fabrics, the hangings, the furniture. It was a little piece of Tor Funweir and the closest she’d been to home in many months.

‘Take a seat,’ said the general. ‘It’s not a palace, but it’s warm.’

Five senior knights entered with them, standing on guard round the central chamber. Each man was at least a captain. They eyed up Micah’s axe but did not move to disarm him.

She sat in a comfortable chair and her feet rested on thick carpet. ‘It’s strange how nice it feels to sit in a chair,’ she said, smiling.

‘Not strange,’ replied Fallon. ‘I haven’t seen a proper bed in almost a year.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a proper bed,’ said Micah. ‘Bet you have four posts and paid servants.’

‘You forget the silk sheets,’ quipped Malaki Frith. ‘Look, I’ve heard the put-upon barbarian routine. Yes, we have killed a lot of Ranen. Clearly you hate us. Get over it.’

‘Fuck you, Red man,’ spat Micah. ‘Knowledge of your sins does not absolve you of them.’

‘Please, young man. Did your mother not teach you to respect your elders... and men with an army. A fucking big army.’

The young axe-man wrestled with his temper. ‘My mother’s dead. My father too.’

‘So we have something in common. But you don’t see me being disrespectful,’ replied the general.

Fallon of Leith was smiling at her. His expression appeared genuine, as if he shared her frustration at the bickering.

‘No one else needs to die. In a tent or on a battlefield,’ said Fallon. ‘You can hate us... sorry, what was your name?’

‘Stone Dog,’ he replied, ‘of Ro Hail.’

‘I apologize, Stone Dog. But hate us or not, we don’t want to fight any more.’

‘So, it’s time to talk,’ said Bronwyn.

Fallon spoke quietly to the general, gesturing calmly and cooling the situation. His face was open and friendly. He wasn’t flustered or even surprised at what was happening. She’d never seen a knight – or an ex-knight – behave like this. What had happened to him?

‘Let’s keep things diplomatic, shall we?’ said the general, forcing a polite smile.

Bronwyn puffed out her cheeks, preparing to deliver Fynius’s terms. The moment would never be right, so she chose just to blurt it out.

‘The Free Companies and Moon clans of Ranen demand that you prepare to withdraw from the Freelands.’ She paused. ‘Fynius Black Claw, captain of Twilight Company wishes to meet with you, once South Warden is liberated.’

‘Liberated?’ exclaimed Frith. ‘I understand Scarlet Company are no more. Who’s going to live there? We’ll arrest the Purple clerics in due time and then we’ll talk to this captain fellow. But withdrawal takes time... and no one makes demands of me and my men.’

Bronwyn exchanged a nervous look with Micah before she replied. ‘You won’t need to worry about arresting them?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘I am here primarily to keep things calm when... the clerics are dealt with.’

The Red general was a considered and intelligent man. He peered at her, leaning in and digesting the words. ‘And how will they be dealt with?’ he asked.

* * *

Fynius hadn’t stopped smiling since the Red knights filed out of South Warden. It was a simple kind of glee. The happiness of being proven right. Things were moving forward nicely, at a pace confusing to normal people. He’d kept everyone going at breakneck speed, twisting them left and right, making strange demands and generally being a pain in the arse. It had worked brilliantly. They had all done exactly what he wanted.

Outside the gates of South Warden a massive army waited. They thought they were in control, picketing their men, digging ditches, building fences, settling in. They would deal with the Purple men eventually. Bunch of idiots.

The clerics themselves still lined the outer walls, with the boss clerics assembled in front of the mount, nicely clustered in a few big groups, like mould on cheese. They fawned over the chief idiot – Mobius, he was called – and pointedly thrust out their chins at the mere suggestion that they were fucked. They knew the Red men wouldn’t kill them, so at worst they’d have a stern talking to about killing their king, before tea, cakes and a welcome return to Tor Funweir. None of the men of Ro gave a shit about the mess they had left behind or the people they had killed and displaced. They would march back to the lands of Ro and forget about the men of Ranen.

‘Time to learn a lesson, you bastards,’ he muttered.

Fynius was skulking in the cheese tunnels with a good view of the central square. The men of Twilight Company were spread out on either side of the Purple men, hiding in basements and forgotten tunnels. Mathias Flame Tooth and the survivors of Scarlet Company were under Rowanoco’s Stone, poised to join the men of Old Gar when the time came. Two hundred Purple clerics were going to pay for the invasion of the Freelands. If Fynius had been a follower of Rowanoco, the price would have been much higher. They were lucky it was he and not his brother who was about to kill them.

He pulled himself up out of the tunnel and skulked down next to a building. Two dozen men in dark blue tabards followed him, silently moving into position. He signalled to Vincent Hundred Howl on the opposite side of the square, and the rest of Twilight Company ghosted their way through the streets of South Warden. Five hundred fully armoured men could move as quietly as mice when they wanted to.

He passed the word to Scarlet Company. The men and women of South Warden were not gifted with unnatural stealth and had been told to wait until the clerics started screaming. Fynius needed the element of surprise and didn’t want sweaty, bearded, shouty men ruining it. They were tough, dangerous even, but not subtle. Not in the slightest. Luckily, they were doing what they were told.

He drew Leg Biter. The blade was heavy, wide and perfectly balanced. The men of Old Gar were unique among the Ranen. They used swords instead of axes, preferring precision to brutality. Twilight Company were all similarly armed and moved forward with their captain, gliding over grass, cobbles and dead ground.

The central square was lined with overgrown pathways, lancing out into the deserted city. The steep walkways leading to the mount and Rowanoco’s Stone were doused with purple – banners, tabards, people – and the new colour scheme clashed badly with the scarlet of South Warden.

‘Let’s redecorate this place.’

At the corner of a building he stopped. His men encircled the square, tantalizingly close to the Purple clerics. They had guards, lesser clerics tasked with protecting their commanders, as small ice-spiders cluster round their Gorlan mothers. They were unaware that they were about to die.

‘Now!’ he whispered, letting the command be carried round the encircling men of Twilight Company.

They moved as one, breaking cover with a hundred sword thrusts all at once. The men of Ro grunted, wailed, opened their eyes as wide as they would go, and slumped down dead to the ground of Ranen.