The Long War 03 - The Red Prince (61 page)

Who was still alive? How many Hawks, how many Hounds? They knew they couldn’t win, so they had levelled the playing field. These Karesians were not true fighting men. They were barely men at all.

She took the dead man’s scimitar and used it to help her stand. Her leg wouldn’t bend at the knee and she tried not to look at the wound. It would take just enough weight to allow her to hobble forward into the dense smoke. She stumbled through small pockets of the dying until she reached the corner of a building. She couldn’t see the roof or any adjacent structures.

‘Help,’ mumbled a young voice, which came to her as a vague grunt.

Gwen crouched as best she could and edged her back along the wooden building. A little way down the street was a young Hawk, trapped under heavy wooden logs. His head was wounded and blood stained his hair and face.

He mouthed some words, but she couldn’t hear him.

‘Speak louder!’

‘My lady,’ he said, the words echoing through a filter of dull sound. ‘Please...’

‘Easy, soldier,’ she replied, gritting her teeth with the pain.

‘Your back, my lady,’ said the young man. She read his lips, rather than heard his words.

She reached behind and felt blood on her back. Small wooden splinters had stuck in her flesh and pinpricks of pain penetrated her.

‘Let’s get you out of there,’ she grunted, unable to hear herself speak.

She used the scimitar to lever the wooden planks off the man’s chest. He was strong, and between the two of them they freed him quickly.

‘I can’t hear,’ he said, wiping blood from his eyes. ‘And I lost my sword.’

Gwen leant against the wall and handed over the scimitar. The young man had a deep cut to the front of his head, but he was less badly wounded than she was. He could at least stand unaided.

‘Watch my mouth,’ she said, pronouncing each word slowly. ‘Your hearing will get better... I’m sorry, I don’t know your name, lad.’

He frowned, guessing at what she was saying. ‘Sergeant Symon of Triste, my lady,’ he replied. ‘Third cohort.’

‘Did you see the general or Lord Bromvy?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t understand... the general? I didn’t see him. I was standing near to Lord Bromvy. He flung himself at the general before the world went black.’

She leant in close to hear him over the whine in her ears, then nodded and tried to assess the situation as best she could. The Hounds had detonated the enclave, scorching the earth rather than surrendering it. The bastards had prepared their explosives well. They were poor soldiers, but they committed suicide with great skill.

‘Come on, Symon, we need to move. There will be others still alive.’ The young Hawk tore a strip of fabric from his tabard and she helped him wrap it around his head. The wound bled heavily but it was not bad. It would heal with an impressive scar.

He helped her stand and they moved along the wall towards a crater at the corner of the building. They were at the edge of the main square and the crater was filled with body parts. Unidentifiable chunks of dark and pale flesh among smouldering and broken armour. She was thankful that the darkness and smoke obscured much of the grisly scene.

Symon patted her shoulder so that she’d look at him. ‘What happened, my lady?’ he asked, mouthing the words deliberately. ‘Was it Ranen pitch?’

‘No. The Hounds have been killing Dokkalfar for a long time. It appears they’ve stockpiled a lot of black wart.’

She leant heavily against him. Stubbornness was keeping her upright, but her back would need attention soon.

‘Identify yourself!’ The voice was just loud enough to be heard over the ringing in her ears and came from a Karesian man.

Gwen and Symon looked at each other before he slowly lowered her into a seated position. Three Karesians appeared out of the mist and Symon raised the scimitar.

‘We are Hawks of Ro, stand down or die,’ he shouted.

The Hounds were not wounded and they rushed forward. Symon ducked a clumsy swipe and opened up the man’s neck. The second man kicked the Hawk in the chest, pushing him to the ground. He rolled backwards into a crouch next to Gwen.

‘Feint at his left and step right,’ she mouthed, shoving him upright.

He nodded and faced off against the two remaining Hounds. He lunged at the first man’s left-hand side, making him attempt a clumsy parry. Symon was skilled enough to pull back his blow and step to the right, striking the man in his exposed side. The last man tried to tackle him but received Symon’s blade in his stomach. The young Hawk was a good swordsmen, in spite of his wound, and he made sure all three were dead before he returned to Gwen.

‘You did well, sorry I couldn’t assist,’ she said, accepting his help to stand up.

‘I still can’t hear,’ he mouthed. ‘Just every other word... I don’t like this scimitar, it’s poorly forged.’

They stumbled away from the crater, further into the square. Points of firelight danced across her field of vision, but everything else was dark and misty. Symon found a longsword and discarded the inferior Karesian weapon. Gwen found her stride and the pain in her leg softened. She still needed his help, but her knee would now bend a little.

A Dokkalfar appeared, lying in a heap on the cobbles. He had lost an arm and was not moving. Another forest-dweller sat nearby, holding his head in his hands. Blood seeped out from between grey fingers and broken leaf-blades lay at his feet.

‘Brother!’ said Gwen. The Dokkalfar didn’t hear her. ‘Brother... how serious are your wounds?’

He removed his hands and revealed a scorched face and neck. His eyes were intact, but his smooth features were a mess of burns and deep cuts.

‘I am in pain,’ replied the Tyr. ‘My skin burns, but I live.’

Gwen and Symon drew closer and faced him, pronouncing their words carefully in order to be understood. The ringing in her ears had faded into the background but she could still only hear loud noises.

‘Your name, friend?’ asked Symon, collecting two more discarded longswords.

‘I am Tyr Kalan,’ he replied. ‘I can still fight, woman of Haran.’

Symon gave the Dokkalfar one sword and Gwen took the other.

‘He will need to be burned,’ mouthed Kalan, pointing to the dead forest-dweller. ‘But we have time.’

‘How much black wart did they use?’ she asked.

They were clustered closely together to hear each other’s words.

‘They chained the explosions,’ replied Kalan. ‘Each detonation caused the next to be larger, more explosive. The fog will remain for hours.’

The three of them walked tentatively away, towards where Izra and Xander had fought. She could just hear Karesian voices, pained and urgent, coming from all around them. The fog hadn’t lifted and it was now night-time.

‘Many Hounds ahead,’ said Kalan, facing Gwen so that he could whisper. ‘I can see them, standing over their dead comrades.’

‘Your eyes are sharp, friend,’ said Symon.

‘I see better with no light,’ replied the Dokkalfar. He wore the pain from his burns wordlessly, with barely a twitch of anguish on his grey face.

‘How many?’ asked Gwen, flexing her leg.

‘Ten or more, spread out. Some wounded, most not.’

She stopped and tried to focus through the mist. Kalan’s eyes were much better than hers and she could detect no movement in front of them. The voices grew loud as the Karesians struggled to hear each other. They came to her as wisps of sound, as if travelling through heavy air.

‘Keep quiet,’ she said. ‘Kalan, lead the way. We’ll attack from cover.’

‘Aye, my lady,’ said Symon.

‘Clear,’ said Kalan.

She tested her leg, feeling a dull throb. It hurt, but light movements were possible. She could still fight. Her back was now more numb than painful, making it easier to ignore it.

They stalked forward, weapons held low, until Gwen saw opaque figures swirling in the mist before them. The Karesians had gathered into a broken squad of men, with a few of the wounded being tended to. They spoke of retreat and spat out words of hatred about Izra and their masters. These were undisciplined men who had survived by chance.

She waved Kalan and Symon to flanking positions and the three of them attacked as one. The first sound was a gasp of surprise, the second a gurgle of pain as Gwen severed a man’s neck. Kalan floored two, kicking one in the groin and driving his sword through the other’s chest. Symon killed a man with a powerful strike through the helmet, splitting his head.

All three of them were wounded, but their skill was far superior. The Hounds swung and shouted, using strength and brute force, but their training was limited. Their parries were weak and they were permanently off balance. Each time Gwen engaged one it was easy to make him fall forwards or topple over. She was quick, and her leg hurt less and less as she fought. The Hounds died cleanly, cut down by the superior warriors, until they stood again in silence. They had barely heard the ring of steel on steel and the encounter seemed surreal and dream-like.

‘We have won,’ mouthed Kalan, finishing off a wounded Hound.

She nodded. ‘So, three of us are worth ten of them. Worth remembering.’

‘We could have taken more,’ said Symon, cleaning his blade.

‘Hawks!’ announced a gruff voice.

From the mist, men appeared. The sounds of combat may have alerted them, and five more Hawks joined them. They had red, sticky fluid coming from their ears and appeared disoriented.

‘My lady,’ shouted Sergeant Ashwyn. ‘Good to see you.’

‘Ash,’ she replied, moving close to the Hawk. ‘Have you seen the general?’

‘He was still standing when I flew backwards,’ he replied, still shouting. ‘Somewhere around here.’ He swept his arm across the bloody cobbles. ‘Near where the whip-mistress died.’

‘And Lord Bromvy?’

He shook his head. ‘I think he died just after you disappeared. Well, he threw himself across the general and bore the brunt of a big bang. He might have lived.’

She bowed her head. Hundreds of men had died, maybe thousands including the Hounds, but she hoped that the luck of Brytag would have followed the lord of Canarn. To hope that Brom was still alive was to hope that Xander was still alive, and she wouldn’t allow herself to hope for anything less.

‘We killed a dozen or so further east,’ said Ash, rubbing his ears and wincing at the blood. ‘Saw a load of Hounds running out the gate. Saw a man carrying his own leg too. They fucked us hard, my lady.’

Ashwyn’s men had suffered cuts, burns and large splinters, but they were still in the fight.

‘Sergeant, over here,’ said a Hawk called Benjamin.

He was pointing at a severed arm lying across a pile of masonry and armour. On the hand was a ducal ring with a black raven. Brom had at least lost his arm. Gwen knelt down and removed the ring. Pain lanced through her leg and Symon had to help her stand up again.

‘He may still be alive, my lady,’ said the young Hawk.

‘It’s his left arm. Do you know which hand he fights with?’ she asked.

‘Sorry, no,’ replied Symon, his words a little clearer now.

She flexed her leg again. The wound was swelling and would soon prevent her from standing entirely. For now, she had to tough it out.

‘Tyr Sigurd has healing salves,’ said Kalan. ‘Your wounded leg is not severe. Your back needs more immediate attention.’

The Dokkalfar’s voice was easier to hear, as if its pitch could cut through the ringing in her ears. ‘I can’t see it, so it’s easier to ignore,’ she replied, trying to smile. ‘We need to keep moving. Towards the northern gate. We’ll rally there.’

‘Aye, my lady,’ replied Symon and Ashwyn in unison.

There were now eight of them and they moved in loose formation across the cobbles. The discovery of Brom’s arm had filled her mind with thoughts of Xander. She would lament the loss of Brom, but hope remained so long as the Red Prince lived. If he lived. The lord of Canarn had tried to shield him from the black wart, sacrificing himself in the process, but the general could still be dead.

Strangely, it was not his face or his voice that she brought to mind. It was the feel of his skin. It was the moment, late at night, when he turned in his sleep and their bodies met. When the world went away.

It was easy to daydream in the otherworldly mist. Easy to picture herself far away, safe and happy. Glimpses of dead men poking their heads, arms and legs through the opaque twilight lined their route north, but didn’t touch her thoughts. They progressed from Xander’s skin, to his touch, his smile, the feel of his lips, the sound of his voice, the snuffling sound he made when he was cold. These things meant more to her than a hundred victories and a thousand dead Hounds.

‘Where are you, my love?’

It was easy to find the King’s Highway from the square. Between the mist and the darkness, they had to use the buildings to orient themselves. Ashwyn’s men had torches and they moved slowly northwards. Whenever they encountered Hounds, the Karesians ran from them, sensing that eight warriors would be too many to fight. Whatever loyalty they felt towards their commanders, it was fragile, and now they fled southwards.

‘These men aren’t soldiers, my lady,’ said Symon, when their ears had cleared a little more. ‘This isn’t war, it’s folly... sheer folly.’

‘Fools can still invade,’ she replied. ‘And they die and kill the same.’

‘What happens,’ began the young sergeant, ‘if he’s dead, the general? What happens?’

She didn’t want to answer that question. She didn’t want to think about it – the question or the answer. But he deserved an answer. She was just Xander’s wife. To the Hawks of Ro, he was much more.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I really don’t know.’

Sergeant Ashwyn, at the front of the group, slowed and fell in beside Gwen and Symon.

‘Don’t mean to eavesdrop, my lady, but I’ve got an answer,’ he said. ‘If the general’s dead, if Lord Bromvy’s dead... well, we won’t miss a fucking step. We fight, we kill every Hound in Tor Funweir. We are the Hawks of Ro, soldier, we remain so... with or without a general.’

‘Strong words, Ash,’ she observed. ‘And I thank you for them.’

‘You won’t go far betting against him, though. Your old man is a tough old man.’