The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood (20 page)

Nanon stood up and turned to look over the balcony’s edge and out to sea. The inky black water was rolling quietly and the Dokkalfar felt a keen sense of confusion and fear from his people. Those in Canarn were the strongest he felt, but further afield, far across the sea to the south, Tyr Nanon could feel the steady heartbeat of a young forest-dweller looking at the sleeping form of Utha the Shadow.

The Vithar shamans that dwelt in the Fell would do their best to protect the Black cleric once he was in the forest, but until then he was vulnerable, with only his young squire and an anxious Tyr to protect him.

‘You can’t come with me, Brom,’ he said, without turning. ‘Your sword arm will be needed elsewhere.’ He could sense something of the young lord’s future, though the images were far off and indistinct. The more time he spent in his company, the stronger the impressions had grown and now, a month or more since meeting him, Nanon knew that Bromvy needed to remain safely in Canarn until the Red Prince came. He didn’t know who the Red Prince was, and he had not mentioned this to Brom, but he knew that his arrival would be to the benefit of both their peoples. ‘You need to remain in Canarn. There is work to be done,’ Nanon said cryptically.

‘While you wander the lands of Tor Funweir looking for a cleric in a wood somewhere?’ Brom responded drily. ‘I’m sure I heard a riddle about that in my youth.’

‘Stop joking. I’m being serious.’ Nanon was not in the mood to pretend he didn’t understand. ‘I wish I could help you know more than your own
now
, but I don’t think a month is enough. The
now
of men is on the edge of a cliff with more than water to meet them at the bottom. I need to leave.’

Bromvy pulled his robe tight around his shoulders and scratched thoughtfully at his close-cut beard. ‘Brother Lanry went to South Warden, Rham Jas went to Ro Tiris, and Magnus is dead... why shouldn’t you go as well.’

‘You’re getting lonely,’ stated Nanon, without thinking.

The young lord of Canarn narrowed his eyes. ‘Perhaps... or perhaps I just don’t like waiting here while my friends go to war.’

Nanon smiled at the last word and thought for a moment that Brom had understood something. ‘Everyone you mentioned has something in common... with you and with me,’ he said gently. ‘We are soldiers in the Long War... you just have to wait a bit longer before you take the field. There’ll be plenty of enemies left to fight when Lord Bromvy of Canarn marches to war.’

Nanon did not wait for his friend to respond. He turned back to the balcony, took two large steps forward, and leapt over the low stone wall. Brom shouted in alarm and rushed forward as Nanon flew downwards. He had not judged the jump particularly well and felt a little foolish at having succumbed to the need to show off rather than simply exiting the keep by the door. He concentrated as he fell, allowing his mind to slow and his body to change. Nanon had not taken the shape of a bird for over a century, but the feeling of feathers ruffled by the sea wind was as welcome as ever.

With a loud caw, the black hawk that had been Nanon pulled up well before the rocks and soared out to sea, leaving a stunned Bromvy, lord of Canarn, standing on his balcony. Nanon chuckled inwardly as he picked up a wind current and relaxed his wings. Only the oldest Tyr were gifted with the ability to take animal form, and most no longer used it. Nanon had to confess that he had done it mostly to surprise his friend Brom. As he began to enjoy the sensation of flying again, the Dokkalfar thought his type of humour was much superior to that of the humans.

As he flew south, Nanon grew worried. Things were moving quickly now and he felt the need of guidance.

* * *

Bromvy didn’t get much sleep after Nanon had left. Not because the infuriating grey-skin had turned into a bird, but because the young lord of Canarn was deeply troubled. He had seen enough strange things since he had begun associating with the Dokkalfar that the discovery of Nanon’s shape-shifting ability did not surprise him that much.

He smiled and rolled over in bed as he realized how worldly he had become in a few short months. Bromvy had been a well-travelled noble and, on occasion, a virtual vagabond, but only recently had his search for an interesting life really taken off. Since Canarn had been attacked by knights of the Red and his father executed, everything had changed. He saw a world open before him that he could never have imagined. A world of enchantresses, Giants and monsters. Nanon would simply say that Brom had seen
beyond the now of man to the forever beyond
.

He yawned and made one last attempt to sleep, trying to shut out the thoughts that kept him awake. Hannah rolled over in her sleep and lazily put an arm over his chest. He had accepted the need to marry her and judged her an attractive match, both as a wife and as a lover, but he didn’t relish the prospect of staying in Canarn and producing children while the Long War – or whatever Nanon called it – was fought without him.

Hannah’s father was a farm-owner to the east – or maybe the west, he wasn’t sure – but he knew his allegiance would be important if Brom were to establish Canarn as an independent duchy, tentatively allied with the Ranen. He kissed her on the forehead and delicately removed himself from her arms. Standing up from the bed, he puffed out his cheeks and accepted that sleep was not going to come. Crossing to the dresser, he inspected the jagged scar than ran down his left shoulder. Brother Lanry was a skilled healer, but the blade of Knight Commander Rillion had nearly killed him and Brom quite liked having the ugly scar by which to remember the man. Rillion had also killed Magnus, and the lord of Canarn was just as keen to remember that. News of the death of the priest of the Order of the Hammer would have reached South Warden by now, and Al-Hasim would probably be getting very drunk as a result. The world seemed smaller without Father Magnus Forkbeard in it.

Autumn was turning into winter and a bitter wind blew from the straits of Canarn across the city, making it necessary to wear thick fur clothing outside. Bromvy kept his hall warm, but the common men and women of Canarn, who had already endured the occupation, now looked set for a hard winter.

The population had decreased greatly, but those that were left had shown strength of spirit as they helped rebuild the city and welcomed in the Dokkalfar refugees. Bromvy had worried that their visitors would not be welcome, but in fact their sacrifices for the liberation of Canarn had been much appreciated by the Ro. Nanon had helped greatly and he was now viewed affectionately as a comical diplomat.

Pulling on his fur-lined boots and heavy woollen tunic, Bromvy quietly left his chamber and shivered as he stood with Sergeant Auker on duty outside. ‘How long till dawn?’ he asked.

‘An hour or two, my lord,’ responded the guardsman. ‘Can’t sleep?’

‘Not tonight, no,’ Bromvy answered, with a tired smile. ‘You know something, Auker, I saw Nanon turn into a hawk tonight... but it’s the prospect of an arranged marriage that I can’t stop thinking about.’

Auker nodded and screwed up his face slightly. ‘A hawk, you say?’ He thought about it. ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’

Brom chuckled as Auker echoed his own thoughts. ‘Have we had word from South Warden yet?’ he asked.

‘You asked me that before you went to bed, my lord. I’ve got the same answer now as I had then. No, we’ve received no word from South Warden. Lanry must have got there by now, but it’ll be a week at least until we hear back.’

Brom was barely listening and had asked the question merely out of habit.

‘Lord Bromvy,’ said Auker sharply, making his master suddenly become more alert. ‘You okay?’

Brom nodded. ‘Yes... sorry, I’ve a lot to think about.’ He smiled at the guardsman. ‘I’ll be on the balcony if you need me.’

‘Sunrise in an hour or so, my lord,’ Auker said, as Brom loped off down the stone passageway.

CHAPTER 8

He had grown used to the need to post a watch during the night, but still hated having to rise from slumber before the sun was up. He had managed to get the last watch most nights, in the mistaken belief that it was the easier shift, but he still spent most of the time fighting to stay awake.

The last watch of the night meant that he got to see the sun rise and the night turn into day. The sight was beautiful, but it had an edge of melancholy as well, as if the world wasn’t quite sure that it deserved another day of sun.

He moved further behind the large tree, trying to keep as low to the ground as possible. Their camp was well off the King’s Highway and there was a large area of open ground between the copse of trees and the road, allowing him to see southwards clearly.

The morning was crisp, with swirling winds travelling north across the open plains of Tor Funweir. Utha and Vasir were sitting round the remnants of their nightly cook-fire – now down to the smouldering embers with a pot of porridge slowly warming – while Randall had gone to investigate a distant sound. Utha was rubbing sleep from his eyes and was in a foul mood, whereas the Dokkalfar was as calm as ever, showing no signs of having been woken prematurely.

The trees and the distance gave Randall ample cover from whatever might be approaching, but he was still worried about the strange noise. It had started as a rhythmic clank of metal, too uniform to be just a squad of soldiers or clerics and too loud to be a single rider. As he looked, he had seen a cloud of dust appear. At first it was merely a gentle distortion in the air, maybe a trick of the morning light. However, the cloud became larger and the sound grew louder until a shimmering black line appeared to the south. It was irregular and indicated a large force of armoured men moving slowly in practised step.

The first rank of a large force was marching along the King’s Highway, stretching a hundred feet or so either side of the road. The men wore black plate armour and strange, anonymous-looking helms, with no facial features visible. If it had not been for differences in size and height, the soldiers would have been completely indistinguishable from one another. A hollow drumbeat kept the men in time, a deep and regular accompaniment to the familiar sound of armour.

‘Hounds,’ said Utha quietly from behind, making the squire jump. Randall had got used to Vasir being stealthy, but frequently forgot that his master was not called the Ghost simply because of his pale skin.

‘You shouldn’t sneak up on me, master. I’m on edge enough as it is.’ He turned back to the south. ‘Do they all look like that?’

‘They have no lives or individuality and supposedly they live only to serve Jaa. The armour is intended to make them act as one.’ Utha was also peering at the approaching men and looked more concerned than usual.

‘There are a lot of them.’ As soon as he said it he realized he had stated the obvious.

‘Numbers, my dear boy. When you don’t have skill, you rely on numbers. The One values skill and Jaa values numbers.’ Utha was holding his longsword and the weapon looked somehow wrong in his hand. When they first met, the Black cleric had used an axe, and since having it taken from him in Ro Tiris he frequently complained about having to use a sword. ‘This is not a good sign,’ said the cleric.

More hounds came into view as they watched. Five ranks of black-armoured men were now visible with supply carts and what looked like cages. It was difficult to estimate how many hounds were approaching, but Randall guessed at several hundred at least – possibly an advance guard or a large scouting party.

‘What do you think?’ he asked.

Utha didn’t respond. Then, as the dust cloud rolled closer, Randall saw a thin line of horsemen and several more ranks of infantry marching to the beat of the drum, alongside large wooden contraptions pulled by carthorses. There were now more men than he could count, arrayed across the southern plains and moving slowly towards Cozz.

‘I hate being right,’ spat Utha. ‘That’s two thousand men at least. And they have engineers and siege equipment.’ Utha turned to look northwards where the morning sky was dominated by chimney smoke rising from the merchant enclave.

‘Aside from the Gold church in Voy, Cozz has the greatest wealth in Tor Funweir.’ Utha was talking mostly to himself. ‘If I was invading, it’d be one of my first targets. Shit.’

Randall had heard only rumours from Ro Weir, but it was impossible to ignore the fact that Karesians had essentially annexed the city. With numbers on their side and the mysterious Seven Sisters orchestrating things, it was believed that the south lands of Tor Funweir were slowly falling under the authority of foreign forces. ‘Why would the nobles submit to this?’ he asked.

Utha shrugged. ‘Who knows. Remember the effect Katja had on the prince and Cardinal Severen?’ He was referring to the enchantress they had met in the oubliette of Tiris, a woman who had dominated the minds of the senior nobles of the city. ‘Well, the duke of Weir is a fucking idiot, so I imagine he’s a lot easier to enchant than a tough old bastard like Severen.’ Utha was processing their present situation, his eyes flicking from the army of hounds to the smoke from the merchant enclave. ‘We should move,’ he said quietly.