The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood (63 page)

The woman that had been Ryuthula stood up, seemingly oblivious to her nakedness. She was dark-haired and her eyes were black. Her form conveyed nothing of her arachnid nature. Her body was slim, with few curves, though she was attractive enough. Utha shook his head, breathing in deeply. ‘Another shape-taker,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘Master, it’s a woman,’ said Randall from behind him. ‘It was a big spider... and now it’s a woman... I may need to sit down for a minute.’

‘I’m not a shape-taker, old-blood.’ She attempted a smile, but it had a strange, angular quality that sent a shiver down Utha’s spine.

‘And my name isn’t
old-blood
,’ replied the albino. ‘If we’re expected to tolerate you for more than a few hours, you’d better get used to our names. I’m Utha and this is Randall.’

‘Master,’ the squire asked quietly, ‘where are we going?’

It was a fair question and one that, without Utha’s strange dream, would have been more than a little difficult to answer. He turned away from Ruth and placed a hand on his squire’s shoulder.

‘We’re going to Far Karesia. There’s a stairway, a labyrinth and a guardian.’ He tried to smile. ‘And after that, the halls beyond the world.’

Randall frowned. The young man of Darkwald had followed his master without question, never asking anything for himself. At that moment, Utha wished more than anything that he could just allow Randall to have a normal, happy life.

‘Okay,’ said the squire. ‘I may need to take up heavy drinking before we leave, though.’

Rham Jas disliked horses. He’d ridden many in his life and he still hated the big, smelly beasts and the stupid sounds they constantly made.

It was just growing dark across the northern plains of Leith and he had been riding half-asleep in a daze for several hours. The Kirin assassin looked at his left hand and flexed his fingers. Glenwood, the sullen presence slumped over his own horse behind, had frequently quipped that the assassin was impossible to kill. Rham Jas frowned as he realized he had no idea what it would take to kill him. Now that he knew his daughter was still alive, he found himself more worried about his own survival than he had been for many years.

He had been shot with crossbow bolts, struck with swords, scimitars and no few axes and knives. He had never needed to seek healing and he bore no scars except from the wound in his shoulder. Rham Jas wondered if he could be killed. He wondered what it would take to end his wretched life and rob the world of the only man capable of killing the Seven Sisters.

He genuinely tried to care about the lands of men, but the jaded assassin found he only really cared about his daughter. If Keisha was alive, he would move mountains, shake the earth and kill a thousand men to see her safe. Rham Jas scowled at the sky as he vowed to see his daughter at least once more before his life was ended.

‘Are we going back to Leith?’ asked Kale, in a wearier voice than Rham Jas would have thought possible.

‘Not yet,’ he replied, feeling disinclined to talk.

‘So... Ro Haran?’ Glenwood drawled each word. He couldn’t speak clearly and the words merely fell out of his exhausted mouth.

‘The Red Prince,’ said the assassin cryptically. ‘He’s got an enchantress called Shilpa the Shadow of Lies who needs killing.’

‘Who’s the Red Prince?’ Kale sounded as if he were about to fall from his horse.

‘When Nanon mentioned him, it rang a bell. Bromvy calls Alexander Tiris the Red Prince. He used to be a Red knight and he is the king’s brother – hence he’s red and hence he’s a prince.’

‘I’ve heard of him,’ muttered Kale. ‘Duke of Haran, used to be a general or something.’

‘I neither know nor care,’ responded Rham Jas. ‘But I trust Nanon when he says that the Red Prince is important. If I kill Shilpa, it will free up Xander Tiris.’

Glenwood snorted to show his annoyance. Rham Jas had grown used to the miserable man of Leith and had even found himself liking his companion, but he would still have felt more comfortable with Bromvy or Al-Hasim for company.

‘Do you only think about killing?’ asked the criminal. ‘Hasn’t there been enough of that? That Nanon bloke is probably being eaten by a monster at this very moment.’

Rham Jas didn’t respond. He kept his eyes turned up to the darkening sky and tried to tune out the criminal’s voice. He didn’t doubt that Nanon was in danger, but he was difficult to kill. The old grey-skin had been fighting for longer than any man and he was still alive.

As for the Black cleric, the Kirin hoped that Utha had found some kind of peace. Rham Jas didn’t know the name of the Purple cleric who had been Utha’s friend, and he didn’t really care. All clerics of nobility were deserving of death on some level, but Utha had never been the Kirin’s enemy and he was slightly annoyed that the albino old-blood should hate him so.

The blue tinge on the horizon was just disappearing and Rham Jas began to think about finding a place to camp. He was tired, both mentally and physically, but didn’t feel like sleeping. His mind was still racing and he felt a few more hours of riding would probably be a good idea.

The Dokkalfar war-bow across his back was heavier than the longbows he was used to, but it was comforting to have a ranged weapon again. His katana had not been sharpened for several weeks. He knew that his wife would soon come back from the dead and chastize him for not looking after her gift.

‘Are you ignoring me?’ asked Glenwood, with irritation in his voice. ‘I’m not just your fucking servant... not any more.’

‘What are you now, Kale?’ countered Rham Jas, wishing to be left alone with his thoughts.

‘Well, apparently, I’m helping you save Tor Funweir.’

Glenwood had said very little since they had reached the Fell, though the forger was a clever man and had clearly been listening to everything the Dokkalfar had said.

‘I don’t give a fuck about Tor Fun-fucking-weir,’ snapped Rham Jas. ‘I’m not doing this for the Ro, or the Karesians, or the Ranen...’

‘So, your daughter then?’ replied Glenwood, and the Kirin pulled back on his reins to face his companion.

‘Mention my daughter again, Kale, and I’ll hurt you.’ Rham Jas felt irrational anger at the comment and was a moment away from punching him.

‘Is it Keisha?’ Glenwood retorted quickly.

The Kirin didn’t pause before he stood high in the horse’s stirrups and launched himself at him. He collided heavily with the startled forger and rammed his fist into his face. Both men tumbled to the ground and Rham Jas had the wind knocked out of him, unable to get a good hold on his companion.

‘Fuck you, Rham Jas,’ barked Glenwood, through a bloodied mouth.

The forger rolled over and kicked the assassin squarely in the chest, sending him backwards across the grass. Then he jumped on top of Rham Jas and tried to return the punch. He was clumsy and uncoordinated compared with the Kirin and his arm was easily deflected. The assassin then grabbed him by the throat and turned him over roughly, pinning him to the ground until all Glenwood could do was grab at the restraining arm in an attempt to free himself.

Rham Jas’s anger disippated quickly. He realized it wasn’t his companion he was angry with. He’d probably not admit it, but the Kirin was angry with himself – for getting Zeldantor killed, for getting Keisha sold into slavery, for leaving Bromvy in Ro Canarn, for just about everything he had ever done. He had given little to the world beyond death and sarcasm, and for once in his life he felt worthless.

He released Glenwood and stood up. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, Kale,’ he said quietly, ‘but please don’t talk about Keisha.’

The forger clutched at his neck and rubbed the red marks left by the assassin. He didn’t stand up but shuffled backwards, apparently in fear of his deceptively strong companion.

‘I don’t hate you any more, Rham Jas,’ said Glenwood, taking the assassin by surprise. ‘You dragged me out of Tiris, you forced me to help you kill a bunch of enchantresses, you made me a wanted criminal... but you did it for Keisha and I can understand that.’

Rham Jas looked at the ground and felt like more of an arsehole than usual. After a moment of self-pity, he offered his hand to his companion and hefted him back to his feet.

‘I’ll help you, Rham Jas,’ said Glenwood, ‘but not just because you’re unkillable and a dark-blood or whatever... but because I think you might actually need the help.’ He smiled. ‘If you ask me to help, I’ll help.’

‘If I ask you?’ said Rham Jas, taken aback at the forger’s words.

‘Admit you need the help... admit that you can’t do this alone.’ Glenwood was still smiling, but the assassin knew he was deadly serious.

‘You want me to...’ stuttered out Rham Jas.

‘Yes. Yes, I do,’ replied the man of Leith, with a nod. ‘You’re stronger than me, you’re faster than me.’ The smile disappeared and Glenwood narrowed his eyes. ‘And yes, you’re much tougher than me.’ He stepped closer and Rham Jas realized that the forger was no longer afraid of him. ‘But you’re not cleverer than me,’ he concluded.

Rham Jas thought about punching his companion again. He thought of a variety of clever things to say. He even considered ignoring him, but he confined himself to saying, ‘Fuck you, Kale.’

* * *

Saara the Mistress of Pain stood at the top of the lighthouse of Weir, looking out to sea. The dead wind claw lying in a pool of his own blood at her feet had done little to alleviate the pain in her head, and she was beginning to think she would have to consume the life force of many more men before the week was done. She had killed lovers, servants, guards and wind claws – each lending her their essence to strengthen the faithful of Shub-Nillurath.

Saara was becoming impatient. Instead of waiting in the duke’s residence for additional forces to arrive from Karesia, she had been standing at the top of the lighthouse for several hours. Her fingers were drumming on her leg and her feet shifted anxiously.

‘Where are you, sister?’ she said to the wind, addressing Sasha the Illusionist. Saara’s sister was accompanying a few hundred thousand additional hounds, with the captive daughter of Rham Jas Rami.

A snarl escaped her lips as she thought of the dark-blood’s escape from Ro Leith. She knew Isabel had not been to blame and that the Kirin assassin had had help. By all accounts, a risen man and Dalian Thief Taker had broken him out in a brash assault on the dungeon. The uncomfortable conclusion was that Saara’s enemies were not as helpless as she had hoped.

Dalian was still alive and had somehow made it to the lands of Ro. The forest-dwellers were acting with an urgency that was deeply out of character. The only consolation was that her scheme for conquering the Freelands of Ranen was progressing smoothly.

‘I will not fail you, master,’ she said to the Forest Giant of pleasure and blood, who she would serve with her last breath and with every ounce of her being.

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Acknowledgements

A. J. Smith

About this Series

An invitation from the publisher

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.