The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood (11 page)

‘I will address him any way I please, unless Knight Commander Tristram orders me otherwise.’ Fallon’s voice rose sharply, almost shouting the last few words. ‘And you give me an order again, cleric, and I’ll call you out and kill you. Understood?’

Both Mobius and Jakan stood aghast for a moment.

‘Do you understand?’ Fallon repeated.

‘Yes,’ stuttered Jakan.

Mobius, who had quickly regained his composure, took a step closer and spoke over his shoulder to Commander Tristram. ‘Knight commander, please ask the captain to address me as
my lord
.’

The senior knight had thus far not reacted to the heated exchange. ‘Captain Fallon, show the cardinal more... respect.’

Fallon smiled at Mobius and puffed out his chest, making his armour creak. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘My Lord Mobius, I am both a good soldier and a loyal one.’ He stopped smiling. ‘And I know why we’re in Ranen... if the king feels he needs a larger kingdom, who am I to argue?’

The cardinal smirked at Fallon’s subtle disrespect and considered the Red knight’s words. ‘As long as your dislike is limited to the Purple, captain, and your loyalty to your king remains strong... I believe the king
and
the Purple can forgive your rudeness.’

Fallon shot a glance at Tristram, who raised his eyebrows before shrugging.

‘Can the king not forgive me in person, my lord, or is he still recovering from being around the sweaty Fjorlanders?’ Fallon was calmer now that Mobius had, in the captain’s estimation, caved in under pressure.

‘King Sebastian Tiris, scion of house Tiris and lord king of Tor Funweir, does not rouse himself to speak to knight captains,’ replied Mobius.

‘We’re done here,’ interrupted Tristram. ‘Fallon, come with me.’ The commander stepped past Mobius and motioned the captain to follow him.

Tristram coughed to alert those outside and the tent flap was pulled aside by a guardsman. ‘I’ll take my leave, my lord cardinal. Inform the king that our advance towards South Warden is under way.’ Tristram banged his fist against his mottled breastplate and exited the pavilion.

Fallon waited a moment, still face to face with Mobius, before turning and directing a condescending wink at Jakan. He then showed the Purple clerics his back and followed his commander outside.

‘You should watch your mouth, captain,’ Tristram chided as the two of them walked away from the pavilion.

‘Sir, may I speak freely?’ asked Fallon.

Commander Tristram raised an eyebrow and motioned behind for two men to follow them in close guard. ‘It’s maybe a bit too late to be requesting such things. You did just threaten one Purple cleric and insult another... a cardinal no less.’

They were walking between smaller tents housing the officer corps and general staff of Tristram’s brigade and both men received salutes as they walked.

‘That’s different, sir. I am a knight and I listen to other knights... the nobles of God have no place ordering around the warriors of God.’ Fallon had seen at first hand what happened when pampered idiots commanded armies. Without exception, the results were disastrous. ‘If you had been in command, sir, would you have left the king in the pavilion with so few guards while we assaulted Hail? Would you have allowed the Fjorlanders to capture him?’

Tristram wrestled with the question before slowly shaking his head. ‘No, I would not.’ He smiled. ‘The point is a fair one – and, yes, if Mobius had not been in command, the king would not have been captured by the Fjorlanders – but you and I have other duties. Leave the Purple to questions of nobility and we’ll handle the questions of war.’

Fallon was gratified that Tristram was not merely a puppet. Moreover, the captain suspected, he was the only man in the command pavilion who had not been manipulated by the Karesian enchantress.

‘What are we doing here, sir?’ he asked, now feeling more sure of himself with his new commander. ‘In the Freelands, I mean. From what I’ve heard, Canarn is now in the hands of risen men and Tor Funweir is slowly being annexed by the hounds and
our beloved fucking allies
... And what are we doing? Engaging in a war of conquest, apparently?’

Tristram grabbed an apple from a nearby barrel and bit deeply. ‘You’re following orders, captain, that’s what you’re doing here. Everything else is for our betters to worry about,’ he responded through a mouthful of fruit.

‘Sir, I’ve never been very good at blindly following orders.’ Fallon knew this was a massive understatement, but he also knew that without a friendly commander his cynicism would never be tolerated and he sought to bring Tristram on side.

‘We are servants of the One God,’ said the commander, with a shrug. ‘I’d like to have some profound piece of insight for you, but alas, all I can say is that we are knights of the Red... we do as our king bids us.’

‘And at what point does the will of the king conflict with the will of the One?’ asked Fallon.

Tristram stopped walking and turned to direct a hard stare at the captain. He took a last bite of his apple and threw the core away. ‘That’s a dangerous question, young knight. He’s your king and he speaks with the authority of the One.’ He paused and placed a hand on Fallon’s armoured shoulder. ‘These questions make you a good soldier, Fallon, but they may also get you into serious trouble. Whether you like Mobius or not, he could arrest you, convict you and hang you, should he choose to.’

‘He’d better send an army to arrest me, because I wouldn’t willingly submit to his... justice. The first man that questions my honour gets bloody, the second loses his head.’

Knight Commander Tristram laughed, a good-natured sound that carried a distance in the still air of Ro Hail. ‘Rillion was a fool, Mobius is a warmonger, Jakan is an idiot and only the One knows what the king is. You and I, however, we are knights, soldiers of Tor Funweir, and we will do our duty until it kills us...’

‘It’s not that simple, sir, and you know it.’ Fallon shifted his sword belt and scratched his patchy beard. ‘Why are we warring with the Ranen? If you can give me a reason... It doesn’t even have to be good reason, just give me a fucking reason and I’ll be polite to anyone you want. Until then, I’ll give shit to any Purple cunt I please. Unless you order me not to, sir.’

Tristram laughed again. ‘That’s enough, captain. There is a line. Be careful.’

‘Yeah, Verellian often told me that same thing,’ Fallon replied. ‘Recognizing
the line
is apparently not counted among my skills, sir.’

‘Muster your men, Fallon, and assemble in the central courtyard before you leave.’ Tristram adopted a more authoritative tone. ‘The king wants to address the army – you included.’

Knight Captain Fallon of Leith raised his eyebrow and saluted slowly by banging on his red steel breastplate.

* * *

Fallon’s unit consisted of fifty knights. All were good fighting men, seasoned warriors of the Red who did their duty without question. The knight captain had slowly become reconciled to the loss of his previous unit and was beginning to bond with his new company. His knight lieutenant, Sir Theron, was a young man of Haran who had served under the king’s brother, Duke Xander Tiris. He rather idolized his new captain, frequently citing the famous duels that Fallon had fought and won. It was flattering at first to have his skill with the sword recognized by his adjutant, but after a while Fallon had come to find the man irritating. Sergeant Ohms was easier to deal with, so the captain left most of the practicalities of command to the haggard man from Old Ohms Bridge, who hated olives.

Between Ohms and Theron, the company assembled quickly in the central courtyard. With their swords, shields, armour and helms, Fallon’s men looked as tough as any knights of the Red as they sat astride their horses and waited for the king’s address. The captain himself had done little in the hour it had taken them to prepare, preferring to sit by and ponder their situation. He didn’t like his orders and he liked the king’s intention to take South Warden even less.

‘Men at the ready, sir,’ stated Theron formally. ‘We ride at your order.’

The young knight of Haran was clean-shaven and had paid an unnecessary amount of attention to his long blonde hair. Fallon stood up from his perch on a barrel beside the horses and reached for his helmet. ‘Make yourself comfortable, lieutenant. King Sebastian tends to go on... and on.’

Theron laughed politely. ‘Very droll, sir.’

‘Shut up,’ responded Fallon without looking at his adjutant. ‘I can have my cock sucked by a whore if I want, I don’t need you to do it.’

Theron stuttered without forming any actual words and looked uncomfortable at his captain’s brand of humour, before deciding to do as he was told and shut up.

Fallon pulled himself into the saddle and adjusted his armour. He had been putting off repairing his breastplate for the last month or so and an annoying dent had developed in his stomach area. The saddle held his round shield and a two-handed sword that he occasionally used. His longsword, the weapon he had used for ten years or more, was sheathed at his side. It had a worn leather band wrapped around the hilt and a simple steel pommel. It was the only thing he was sure to look after. His face could stay unshaven, his cloak lost and his armour dented, but his sword would always be sharp.

‘Knight Captain Fallon.’ The voice was loud and came from Sir Taufel. Tristram’s adjutant was wearing his dress uniform, a pristine tabard and longsword, with a burnished red breastplate. His helm was of polished steel and finished with a high white plume made from the feathers of a dozen doves. ‘Your men are to remain by the eastern gate and to ride when the king gives command.’

Fallon leant casually forward on the pommel of his saddle and raised an eyebrow at Taufel. ‘Are we to be a part of his game, captain? Will his speech rise in a crescendo until he unleashes us eastwards?’

Taufel looked abashed at Fallon’s cynical appraisal. ‘I believe his highness wishes to emphasize his desire to defeat these peasants and lesser men.’ The adjutant used Mobius’s expression for the men of Ranen, and Fallon found himself disliking the term even more. ‘He has decided that you and your unit will have the honour of being his first blow in the campaign.’ His pious formality showed that he bought into the well-practised game of war.

Taufel saluted and marched away, heading towards the command tent on the far side of the courtyard.

‘Is he as naive as he sounds?’ asked Theron, showing more awareness than Fallon had credited him with.

‘You’d know more about naivety than me, lieutenant.’ The response was barbed, and once again Theron did not know how to react. ‘Assemble the men by the eastern gate... let’s do what the little prick says, shall we?’

Theron nodded, forgetting his customary salute, and turned to order Sergeant Ohms and the knights to follow. Slowly, Fallon’s unit of fifty knights of the Red rode across the irregular cobblestones of Ro Hail towards the eastern gate. They were the only mounted men in the courtyard and many eyes followed them. Each was dressed for combat, their travelling packs filled only with the essentials and their personal belongings left behind. They received several half-hearted salutes from men as cynical about their situation as Fallon. By the time they had assembled in front of the gates, most of the knights had been ordered to stand in tight ranks, waiting for the king’s address.

A bugle sounded and the senior knights barked at their men to come to attention. The noise of steel-shod feet echoed through Ro Hail and Fallon had to calm his horse at the sharp sound.

‘Good to know someone else hates all this shit,’ he said quietly to his mount.

From Tristram’s pavilion, Fallon saw a small group of knights and clerics emerge on to a well-built dais, raised ten or so feet from the cobbles.

Cardinal Mobius appeared first, standing tall and proud in his spotless purple armour. Next to him were three lesser clerics, including Brother Jakan and an older noble called Rathbone of Chase. Knight Commander Tristram stood to the side, adopting a subservient position behind the Purple clerics.

All the men in the courtyard were silent now, as King Sebastian Tiris emerged from the command pavilion. The monarch looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale and his hair greasy. He wore gold armour that didn’t sit right on his shoulders, and a fur-trimmed cloak designed to make him look more bulky and muscular than he really was. At his side were two other clerics – his bodyguard, Cleoth Montague, and an elderly Black cleric called Aleister of the Falls of Arnon. The cleric of death was the army’s chaplain. He seemed far too old for the position and Fallon thought he must have greatly angered his cardinal to be appointed at such an advanced age.

Mobius raised his hand. ‘Brothers, you will salute your king.’

The five thousand knights and bound men banged on their breastplates in unison, again causing Fallon’s horse to buck and paw at the ground.

Brother Cleoth Montague, a tough-looking Purple cleric and son to one of the richest men in Tor Funweir, stepped to the front. As a bodyguard he was largely useless, having been knocked unconscious by the Fjorlan axe-woman Halla Summer Wolf, but as a symbol of the king’s wealth and nobility he was priceless. ‘You will remember this day,’ Montague announced in a clear and formal tone. ‘For on this day, your king retakes Ranen.’ He was a skilled orator, and as his voice rose in volume he encouraged the assembled knights to cheer. When they did not, several Purple clerics in the crowd banged on their breastplates until a slow cheer rose from the army.

Fallon shook his head. He had not cheered, neither had his unit. A glance across at Tristram showed that the knight commander was also silent.

Cleoth bent a knee in front of the king and bowed his head. ‘My king,’ he said, inviting Sebastian Tiris to speak.

Fallon narrowed his eyes as the lord king of Tor Funweir stepped on unsteady feet to the front of the raised platform. His eyes were wide and unfocused, leading Fallon to think that he had been drinking as well as not sleeping. A few knights made sniggering sounds or exchanged low murmurs of disapproval at the king’s demeanour, but they were instantly singled out and ordered to remain silent by Mobius’s clerics.