The Long War 03 - The Red Prince (65 page)

‘Lanry,’ said the tall one, ‘anything you can offer would be helpful.’

‘Yes, I’m sure... just give me a moment, I am somewhat flustered by all this activity.’

He looked around the table for a spare seat. When he saw none, he looked imploringly at a nearby Red servant, lackey, bound man, Ro idiot – what was the correct term? wondered Fynius.

‘If you wouldn’t mind, dear chap,’ said brown robes, ‘the old legs let me down sometimes.’

A chair was placed next to the tall one and brown robes sat down with a weary grunt.

‘Please, brother, if you would,’ said eyebrows, rapidly losing patience.

‘Well, it appears that the Seven Sisters of Karesia are steadily annexing Tor Funweir. Bromvy had a... friend, called Nanon. He had ways of getting information. I think Hounds already occupy Ro Weir. That was... maybe six months ago.’

Bad news. For Fynius it was bad news. For the tall one and the eyebrows, it was terrible news.

‘Is Brom...’ began Lady Bronwyn. ‘Is he alive?’

Brown robes nodded. ‘Alive and well, last I saw. Nanon said he was waiting for someone called the Red Prince.’

‘That’s Alexander Tiris,’ offered the tall one. ‘Maybe some good news.’

‘Maybe,’ replied Frith suspiciously.

His eyebrows rose and fell in tune with his inner monologue. He was a general, a cardinal, an important man it seemed, and his country was fucked. At least Ranen was free of Hound influence.

Fynius frowned. He didn’t like feeling sympathy. Especially for a man, or cardinal, of Ro.

‘Bastards!’ spat eyebrows. ‘We’ve been dragged to this hole in the One God’s arse while they strut around Tor Funweir unopposed.’

He started muttering to himself. ‘Ten thousand men here. Maybe five still in Arnon, another three or four spread around the north. Some knights in Du Ban and Voy. A few holds, some yeomanry.’ He turned to the tall one. ‘How many Hawks does Xander have at Ro Haran?’

‘No idea. He hates the Red, remember,’ replied Fallon. ‘But if the Hounds have occupied Weir, there would have to be a lot of them... an awful lot of them.’

‘As I said,’ interjected Lady Bronwyn, ‘Tor Funweir could really use its Red general.’

The eyebrows puffed out his cheeks. ‘Months here, months back. We don’t even know how many men they’ve got or how far they’ve marched. Weir is on the other side of the fucking world from South Warden.’

‘You could go via Canarn,’ said the drunken one, his eyes unfocused. ‘There must be hundreds of ships along that coast.’

‘Best get going then,’ blurted out Fynius. ‘No time to waste.’

* * *

Some time after midnight Fynius was slouched against a tree in Brytag’s grove. He deserved a rest. Everyone was doing more or less what they were supposed to do. The tall one and the eyebrows were mustering the Red men, Lady Bronwyn and her Karesian pet were waiting impatiently to return to Canarn, and the Ranen had moved into the city. Rowanoco’s Stone was in ruins, but the rest was intact. The men and women of Scarlet had lost thousands, but they were tough, tougher than Fynius had expected. They would survive. They might even get tougher.

As for the Red men, they’d be themselves. They’d be Ro, but at least they remembered their god and they were getting the fuck out of Ranen. Ro Canarn wasn’t far, but it was far enough. If they reached Tor Funweir they might even make a difference. Probably not, though.

The World Raven hadn’t told him what would become of the Ro, whether they’d triumph or be crushed under the weight of the Dead God’s rising. He imagined that eyebrows and his men would put up a fair fight, given the chance. But those that think with their swords seldom prosper in the long run.

Fynius didn’t think with his sword. He didn’t really think with his head either. Things occurred to him and he acted on them. Others saw how often he was right and began to listen to him, to follow him, even to kill for him. Apparently, he was divinely inspired. In fact, he just listened to the voices rather than try to silence them. They spoke clearly if you gave them the chance.

Still, a shade would be useful. His thoughts were flighty and hard to marshal sometimes. With someone to converse with, his moves would be sharper and easier to explain to others.

As a biting breeze cut through the darkness, Fynius saw a figure emerge through the grove. He strode purposefully over the snow, though his feet left no prints. It was a young man with short, black, curly hair and a close-cut beard. He wore a longsword, topped with the well-made cast of a raven. His eyes were haunted and his clothing poor.

‘I am the shade of Bromvy Black Guard and you are the exemplar of Brytag.’

‘Finally,’ replied Fynius. ‘Though I suspect Lady Bronwyn will be a little upset.’

~

We hope you enjoyed this book.

The World Raven
, the next gripping book in the Chronicles of the Long War will be released in summer 2016

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About A.J. Smith

About the Chronicles of the Long War

An invitation from the publisher

BESTIARY
COMPANION WRITINGS ON BEASTS BOTH FABULOUS & FEARSOME

THE TROLLS OF FJORLAN, THE ICE MEN OF ROWANOCO

History does not record a time when the Ice Men did not prowl the wastes of Fjorlan. A constant hazard to common folk and warrior alike, the trolls are relentless eating machines; never replete, they consume rocks, trees, flesh and bone. A saying amongst the Order of the Hammer suggests that the only things they don’t eat are snow and ice, and that this is out of reverence for their father, the Ice Giant himself.

Stories from my youth speak of great ballistae, mounted on carts, used to fire thick wooden arrows in defence of settlements. The trolls were confused by bells attached to the arrows and would often wander off rather than attack. Worryingly, there are few records of men killing the Ice Men, and those that do exist speak of wily battle-brothers stampeding them off high cliffs.

In quiet moments, with only a man of the Hammer for company, I wonder if the Ice Men have more of a claim on this land than us.

From ‘
Memories from a Hall
’ by Alguin Teardrop Larsson,
first thain of Fredericksand

THE GORLAN SPIDERS

Of the beasts that crawl, swim and fly, none are as varied and unpredictable as the great spiders of Nar Gorlan. The northern men of Tor Funweir speak of hunting spiders, the size of large dogs, which carry virulent poisons and view men as just another kind of prey. Even the icy wastes of Fjorlan have trapdoor Gorlan, called ice spiders, which assail travellers and drain the body fluids from them.

However, none of these northerners know of the true eight-legged terror that exists in the world. These are great spiders, known in Karesia as Gorlan Mothers, which can – and indeed do – speak. Not actually evil, they nonetheless possess a keen intelligence and a loathing for all things with two legs.

Beyond the Gloom Gates is a land of web and poison, a land of fang and silence and a land where man should not venture.

From
‘Far Karesia: A Land of Terror’
by Marazon Vekerian, lesser vizier of Rikara

ITHQAS AND AQAS, THE BLIND AND MINDLESS KRAKENS OF THE FJORLAN SEA

It troubles me to write of the Kraken straits, for we have not had an attack for some years now and to do so would be like tempting fate. But I am the lore-master of Kalall’s Deep and it must fall to me.

There are remnants of the Giant age abroad in our world and, to the eyes of this old man, they should be left alone. Not only for the sake of safety, but to remind us all that old stories are more terrifying when drawn into reality.

But I digress. The Giants of the ocean were formless, if legend is to be believed, and travelled with the endless and chaotic waters wherever tide and wind took them.

As a cough in Deep Time, they rose up against the Ice Giants and were vanquished. The greatest of the number – near-gods themselves – had the honour of being felled by the great ice hammer of the Earth Shaker and were sent down to gnaw on rocks and fish at the bottom of the endless seas. The Blind Idiot Gods they were called when men still thought to name such things. But as ages passed and men forgot, they simply became the Krakens, very real and more than enough when seen to drive the bravest man to his knees in terror.

From ‘
The Chronicles of the Seas
’, vol. IV,
by Father Wessel Ice Fang, lore-master of Kalall’s Deep

THE DARK YOUNG

And it shall be as a priest when awake and it shall be as an altar when torpid, and it shall consume and terrify, and it shall follow none save its father, the Black God of the Forest with a Thousand Young. The priest and the altar. The priest and the altar.

From
‘Ar Kral Desh Jek’
(author unknown)

THE DOKKALFAR

The forest-dwellers of the lands of men are many things. To the Ro, arrogant in their superiority, they are
risen men
– painted as undead monsters and hunted by crusaders of the Black church. To the Ranen, fascinated by youthful tales of monsters, they are otherworldly and terrifying, a remnant of the Giant age. To the Karesians, proud and inflexible, they are an enemy to be vanquished – warriors with stealth and blade.

But to the Kirin, to those of us who live alongside them, they are beautiful and ancient, deserving of respect and loyalty.

The song of the Dokkalfar travels a great distance in the wild forests of Oslan and more than one Kirin youth has spent hours sitting against a tree merely listening to the mournful songs of their neighbours.

They were here before us and will remain long after we have destroyed ourselves.

From ‘
Sights and Sounds of Oslan
’
by Vham Dusani, Kirin schola

THE GREAT RACE OF ANCIENT JEKKA