The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood (24 page)

They had been stationary for several hours now and, for a change, none of the hounds was interested in sleep. They had sighted Cozz in the early morning and, once within catapult range of the enclave, Izra had ordered a halt. Dalian had managed to get close to the front, another anonymous hound wanting to look at their goal, and he’d seen the whip-mistress dancing like an insane child as the first boulder thudded into Cozz.

The atmosphere in the camp was strange, and Dalian imagined himself elsewhere, to avoid listening to the hounds as they boasted about the children they would eat and the facial tattoos they would get. In his mind, the Thief Taker was on a distant coastline, with water caressing his tired feet and a glass of fine Thrakkan wine in his hand. He knew that Jaa intended more for him, and that having to endure the tedium of being around brutal idiots was just the precursor to victory.

The bombardment went on for hours, as Izra and her captains playfully targeted particular parts of the wall to amuse themselves. Their intention, if rumour that ran among the hounds was to be believed, was to strip the town of anything valuable. Merchants were to be imprisoned, coins seized and buildings claimed. The whip-mistress would then order the death of the captive forest-dwellers. Exactly what would happen when they were killed was a matter of speculation among the pack. The Thief Taker himself knew what would happen and, if Saara the Mistress of Pain was right, the Dark Young that would sprout from the dead forest-dwellers would signal the end of Cozz. He had never seen one of the beasts, but he had listened to the enchantress’s account of their power and her manic insistence that they should be birthed. Dalian knew that they were not of Jaa. Whatever god the Seven Sisters now followed, he knew that it was his enemy.

‘Old dog,’ grunted a voice nearby, ‘up front with the rest of twenty-three.’

The pack was divided up by number. It was thought that to give a unit a name might encourage pride and individuality. Dalian had simply joined the closest group when he arrived. Twenty-three was a skirmisher unit, using light javelins.

‘At once,’ he responded in a monotone.

‘The mistress is angry about something and wants you lot flanking her when she gives orders.’ The words were devoid of emotion and conveyed the information in as simple a manner as possible, indicating that the man had been a hound for some time.

Dalian and the rest of twenty-three walked silently towards the front of the pack and he began to hear high-pitched shrieking. The voice was female and contorted itself into a bizarre spiral of half-formed notes which conveyed anger, frustration and other emotions that defied description.

‘Someone’s gonna die,’ joked a nearby hound, a young cutpurse recently sentenced in Kessia.

‘Hopefully you, you little pink cunt,’ barked a senior hound, slapping the young man to emphasize the point. ‘Mouths shut, dogs,’ he growled to the rest of twenty-three.

The fifty-strong unit emerged through the front rank of hounds and on to the open fields to the south of Cozz.

The enclave was partially hidden behind a cloud of dust. Dalian guessed that the citizens of Ro had retreated to cover to wait out the bombardment. The catapults had ceased firing and the engine crews were now standing idle, awaiting orders. Nearby, Izra Sabal, the whip-mistress, was ranting at her senior hounds. Dalian recognized Kasimir Roux, an ex-wind claw, convicted of mass murder in Rikara.

‘They weren’t as helpless as they appeared, mistress,’ Roux was saying to Izra. ‘Once their cages were opened, the risen killed half a dozen men in as many seconds.’

‘How did they escape?’ shrieked Izra. ‘Who opened their cages? Who would be so stupid?’

Kasimir, Izra and several other hounds had removed their helms – a luxury of command – and they stood out among the two thousand expressionless men and women. Dalian looked no different, and he smiled inwardly that he had been able to get so close to the hound captains. If it would have gained anything, the Thief Taker could easily have assassinated the commanders and melted back into the pack.

‘A pale man of Ro and a risen, mistress. They killed the guards and released the captives.’ There was a twisted sneer on Kasimir’s face as he spoke and his dark eyes flicked constantly from side to side, as if he were searching for someone else to take the blame. ‘I’ve sent men after them, mistress.’

Izra paused and for a second she stopped ranting and focused through her rage? After a glance either side of her to take in her captains, Izra Sabal drew her two-handed scimitar. It whistled from its sheath across her back and travelled quickly downwards. Kasimir didn’t move as the blade sliced down his face, cutting into the skin from his forehead, across his nose, and down to his chin. It was not a deep cut and the skill it had taken not to kill the man was staggering, even to a warrior as experienced as Dalian.

No one moved except Kasimir, who slowly shuddered backwards and fell to the grass underfoot. He was bleeding heavily, but he did not cry out or ask for aid. He was a hound captain and to show weakness, even after so vicious a cut, would be to invite insubordination. If the hounds didn’t fear their captains, drugs and enchantments would only go so far.

‘Get up,’ she sneered, ‘and find me the commander of the unit that was on guard duty.’

Kasimir pulled himself slowly to his feet, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists. His face was a mask of blood. He stood defiantly erect in front of the whip-mistress, who smiled at his strength. ‘What...’ he began breathlessly, ‘would you have me do to the dog?’

‘Ears and nose, Kasimir,’ replied Izra, ‘and let him bleed.’

The ex-wind claw nodded weakly and staggered away into the press of hounds. He had not sought help for his wound, nor would he be asking for attention until he had carried out Izra’s orders. Dalian was impressed at the man’s reaction, though the wound would fester if not taken care of quickly.

Izra breathed in deeply and turned her gaze back to Cozz. The dust was beginning to settle and the walls could be seen clearly. Two whole sections, flanking the southern gate, had been destroyed and now lay in broken piles across the dusty courtyard, just visible through the gaps. A few Ro were hastily using the pause in the bombardment to move the wounded and clear some of the rubble, though they all kept an eye on the road south.

‘Before we get back to these merchants,’ said Izra to her remaining captains, ‘fetch me the bastard.’

A hound replaced his helmet and walked away from the lines.
The bastard
was a mercenary knight of Tor Funweir, firmly under the sway of Saara the Mistress of Pain. What concerned Dalian was that this man was not enchanted, but rather he did as she asked because he enjoyed doing so. Such a man was dangerous indeed, and the Thief Taker wondered if Sir Hallam Pevain followed any gods at all and, if so, what they thought of his chosen profession.

The front line of hounds parted and a motley group of Ro emerged. They stood out among the dark-skinned Karesians, and the weapons they carried – an array of knives, crossbows and maces – seemed to have been chosen primarily for the fear they could induce rather than for their usefulness. Pevain himself carried a large war-hammer of uncertain design, and wore plate armour that was thicker and better made than that worn by the hounds and formed a sharp contrast to the piecemeal leather worn by his men. There were twenty of them and several carried recent wounds, though the vicious-looking twins who flanked Pevain were unhurt, as was the knight himself. Evidently, mercenary knights were not required to fight their own battles.

Izra strode with purpose towards Pevain, her captains and Dalian’s unit closely following. ‘You were supposed to have killed the Ghost by now, you useless Ro cunt,’ she shrieked.

Pevain smirked, showing that he was not the least bit afraid of the whip-mistress. ‘If you hadn’t started bombarding Cozz, we would have done.’ He stepped closer to Izra and glared down at her. ‘Don’t mistake me for one of your mutts, hound-bitch,’ he spat. ‘I don’t work for you, I work for Saara the Mistress of Pain, so get away from me unless you wanna fuck.’ He spoke quietly enough that only those close by could hear, and the hounds held their breath in anticipation of Izra’s reaction.

The whip-mistress pursed her lips. Clearly, she was unable or unwilling to strike the mercenary, but her face revealed a woman with torture and death in her mind.

‘Now,’ continued Pevain, ‘lend me some hounds and I’ll hunt the Black cleric down.’

Izra said nothing. She waved at a hound standing next to her and clenched her fist.

‘It shall be done, mistress,’ said the man, turning to Pevain. ‘We can spare fifty hounds, sir knight.’

‘Should be enough,’ replied Pevain, who was still smirking. ‘Come on, lads, we’ve got work to do. Our road goes south.’

As the bastards pushed their way through the hounds, Sir Pevain turned back to Izra. ‘Mistress Izra, I never did hear what crime you committed that saw you sentenced to life among the hounds.’

She looked at him with downcast eyes. ‘I raped twenty-three men of Kessia with a burning poker.’

The mercenary said nothing and the two made eye-contact for a moment before Pevain marched after his men.

* * *

Several hours later and Dalian was again called to the front of the army. Izra had not resumed the bombardment and numerous crossbowmen were now visible on the surviving walls of Cozz. The rubble had been cleared and large carts were positioned across the open spaces in the walls. They had been able to see men of importance walking on the battlements and watchtowers, men who had counted the hounds and assessed the strength of the army arrayed against them. From what Dalian had heard, Cozz could muster a few hundred men-at-arms, but no clerics. Though its walls were high and well made, there was no way the men of Ro could withstand a dedicated attack with siege equipment.

All five of the hound army’s skirmisher units were now at the front and Dalian was placed no more than fifteen feet from Izra and the captains. They had spied a white flag flown from the highest watchtower of Cozz and now, as the afternoon drew on, a guard of ten mounted men had exited the enclave and was riding towards their position. A horseman at the rear carried a pole flying the heraldry of Cozz – an open purse – and the man at the front was dressed as a knight.

Izra was calmer now that she had seen one of her men have his ears and nose cut off by Kasimir. Dalian did not expect a polite meeting with the officials of Cozz, but maybe they would leave in one piece. Maybe.

‘By what right do you assault my town?’ shouted the lead man of Ro, a hard-looking man with thinning brown hair and a light-blue tabard. His chain mail was well-worn and Dalian imagined he knew how to use the longsword sheathed at his side. ‘This is an act of war.’ His eyes showed extreme anger.

‘And who are you, man of Ro?’ asked Izra calmly.

‘I am Knight Marshal Wesson, governor of Cozz and lord of Tor Funweir,’ shouted the man, wheeling his horse sideways in front of the hounds. ‘I have sent riders to Voy and Tiris. Reinforcements are on their way. I advise you to leave before you’re up to your eyes in knights and clerics.’

The hounds were arrayed in columns and the two thousand warriors were silent as they awaited orders from their whip-mistress. Dalian respected the courage it must have taken for the knight marshal to speak with such fervour when faced with so many enemies. However, it seemed likely that his hope of reinforcements was misplaced. The Seven Sisters were nothing if not thorough and the Thief Taker suspected that neither Tiris nor Voy would go against
their beloved allies
.

Izra stepped close to Wesson’s horse, followed by her entire pack. The sound of metal armour as two thousand hounds moved in unison was deafening for a second, before silence returned. The whip-mistress produced a piece of parchment from within her armour and handed it to the knight marshal.

‘This is a decree signed by Duke Lyam of Weir, co-signed by King Sebastian Tiris. It states that any and all lords and knights of Tor Funweir must extend every possible courtesy to your Karesian friends.’ Izra smiled as she delivered the news.

Wesson read the parchment and his shoulders sank as he saw the betrayal of his people. The nobles of Ro were no more than pawns in a larger game.

‘This piece of paper doesn’t mean you have the right to kill men, women and children, common people who have committed no crime and wronged none of you.’ There was a look of desperation on the marshal’s face as he continued. ‘Most of my people couldn’t give a damn for the rest of Tor Funweir. We’re merchants and traders.’

Izra smiled, the expression of someone in complete control. She knew her opponent had no cards left to play. ‘If you open your gates,’ she said, looking past the marshal to the shattered walls, ‘and surrender to us with no terms or conditions...’ The smile became broad and toothy, accentuating her broken jaw, ‘then we will cause no unnecessary suffering.’ The term
unnecessary
was deliberately vague.

‘Fuck you,’ roared Wesson. ‘Who do you think you’re speaking to, hound-bitch?’

Izra’s concentration didn’t crack, though most of her captains growled at the insult. ‘I think I’m speaking to a man with no choice,’ she said quietly. ‘You agree, or many of your people die. Any man that takes to his knees in front of us will not be harmed.’

The knight marshal was in a state of incandescent rage as he wheeled his horse left and right, gritting his teeth and holding on tightly to the hilt of his longsword. ‘Is there not a man I can speak to, you Karesian whore,’ he demanded, with no thought that the remark might well signal his death.

Izra Sabal, whip-mistress of the hounds, was a sadistic woman and however capable she was of remaining cool, the one thing she could not abide was reference to her gender.

‘I was trying to be nice, Marshal Wesson.’ Her face turned red with rage and she practically vibrated as she spoke. ‘But I’m afraid you may have to be my first lesson to the people of Cozz.’ She turned to Kasimir Roux, who stood next to her, a thick bandage over his new facial wound. ‘Let us see how he likes it as a woman.’ She gestured to her crotch.