The Long War 01 - The Black Guard (19 page)

Ro Weir was built on a hill with all the city streets sloping down towards the large harbour and the Kirin Ridge beyond.

His homeland was over the sea and deep in the primeval forests that lined the Ridge. There was a waterfall and a narrow wooded valley through which ran a sparkling river. His farm was one of several at the southern end of the valley. It was a land called Oslan by those that lived there, Lislan by the Karesians, and simply the Kirin woods by the Ro.

He’d not been back there for many years and he doubted there would be much left of his home. His wife was dead, as were all his friends and neighbours, killed by the Purple clerics who had assaulted his village looking for risen men. His children had survived, but were taken after the battle by Karesian slavers as they tried to find their father in the woods. Purple clerics were often followed by such men, who thought a cleric attack a good opportunity to secure new slaves.

Rham Jas had been deep in the forests of Oslan hunting Gorlan when he’d seen the plumes of smoke. He’d known what it meant as he’d personally helped repulse several such attacks in the past, but he arrived only in time to see the tracks of a slaver wagon and the ruins of his home.

The clerics of nobility disliked people following dead gods, and the strange darkwood tree that lay in the middle of the valley had long been a focus of worship for the Kirin who lived there. The name of the god it symbolized was not known, but the simple people of Oslan did not need the One, Rowanoco or Jaa to help them sow crops and pray for a mild winter. The risen men who shared the valley, called the Dokkalfar in their own language, had long been allies of the Kirin and let them worship at the foot of their sacred tree.

The first time the Purple had attacked, years before Rham Jas was a father, the Kirin had ended up pinned to the tree itself by a crossbow bolt. He’d hung there for several hours, as the other farmers held the village, getting weaker with each minute. However, the experience had changed Rham Jas. His blood had mixed with the sap of the strange tree and something in that union had given him sharper reflexes, a keener mind and a certain knowledge that other gods had once existed. Even now, thirteen years later, he still felt the strength that the tree had given him. He healed quickly and had, more than once, survived wounds that would kill a normal man.

As he thought of his past, Rham Jas shook his head as if to clear his mind. He disliked the thoughts, which were inevitably of the heat of burning wood and the bloodied body of his wife. Her name was Alice, and he missed her more than he could adequately express. His life since her death had been full, but he had never lost the feeling that, without her, no one truly understood him.

Rham Jas smiled as the breeze hit his face and he pictured Alice’s beautiful features. The grief he felt for his children was different, somehow more hollow, because he had never avenged them. He’d tracked the slavers to the city of Kessia, the capital of Karesia, but he had let his anger at the clerics take over and had left. His children had been lost to the slave markets and, when Rham Jas returned to pursue them, he and Al-Hasim had run into trouble that made returning to Karesia almost impossible.

Al-Hasim used to try and get Rham Jas to talk about his grief, as if it would help him overcome it. What his friend didn’t understand was that Rham Jas had already overcome his grief. He’d spent six years hunting down every single Purple cleric who had come to his village and had killed them all. Rham Jas had lost count of how many churchmen had died at the tip of an arrow or the point of his katana, but it was at least twenty. He’d hunted one through the wilds of the Fell on foot for three days, killing the man with his bare hands when he backed him into a wolf snare and strangled him. Another was asleep in a tavern in Ro Arnon when Rham Jas covered his mouth and slit his throat. He’d paid a group of mercenaries to assault a squad of watchmen in order to get to the cleric they were escorting and eventually he’d found the commander cowering in an old church beyond the plains of Leith. The leader of the squad that had burned Rham Jas’s village knew that death was looking for him; he wore his purple robes only to weekly prayers and had let his armour rust. He had even pleaded with the Kirin, saying that he had renounced violence and asked the One for forgiveness daily. Rham Jas remembered with exact detail what he’d said to the cleric before he’d cut off his arms and legs and watched him bleed to death.

The cleric had looked him in the eye and said that the One God was watching and would forgive him his heathen worship of a dead god. Rham Jas had replied simply, ‘Your god already has a taste for blood, so he should enjoy this.’

Once the last cleric was dead, Rham Jas was no longer the man who had lost a wife and two children. He became the Kirin assassin Rham Jas Rami and had no further use for soft talk of grief or kind words of comfort. He’d given up on goodness and had come to believe that no amount of good deeds could make a difference to the world.

The happiest he remembered being in the years since his wife had died was the time he’d spent travelling with Al-Hasim and later Brom and Magnus. He met the Karesian first, some months after he’d killed the commander, and they bonded quickly. Both men had a hatred of the church of Ro and both had reasons for not being able to return to their own lands.

They’d spent many months moving throughout Tor Funweir, sharing stories, alcohol and women. They’d been thieves, brigands, mercenaries and con men, never staying in the same place for long and constantly seeing the spectre of the clerics round each corner.

Rham Jas had never been charged with the numerous murders he’d committed and, after seven years, he thought his facility for stealth and assassination precluded any chance of the Purple clerics arresting him. He guessed that the varied ways in which he’d killed his wife’s murderers, and the time he’d waited in between, had been sufficient to confuse any clerics who had sought to investigate the killings.

No men knew of what he’d done; even Al-Hasim knew only that he’d wandered through the lands of men after his village had been burned, but not the true purpose of his wandering. When they returned to Karesia together to look for his children, Rham Jas had lied about what he’d been doing to delay the search.

‘Brom, are you going to hide in that alleyway and spy on me all morning?’ Rham Jas had already seen the young lord of Canarn several times as he’d walked away from the drunk tank.

Brom was a dangerous man, but stealth was not one of his gifts. Now he stepped out from his place of concealment and came to sit on the bench next to Rham Jas, sharing the impressive view of Ro Weir.

‘Your boots have steel buckles on them, much better quality than most around here can afford. They make a cleaner sound and don’t grate as much as cheaper ones,’ Rham Jas said as he turned to look at his friend. ‘You look tired. Maybe you should get a few hours’ rest before you try to persuade me again. I don’t want your mind to be addled by fatigue.’

Brom didn’t smile or turn to face his friend. He shielded his eyes from the sun and continued to gaze down over the roofs of stone houses to the tall ships at anchor in the harbour. The Kirin thought he saw a tear in his friend’s eye, but it may have been a trick of the light. Brom was a guarded man, not given to displays of emotion, and Rham Jas guessed that he was composing himself. With patience and a rare acknowledgement that he had nothing immediately pressing to attend to, Rham Jas waited, giving Brom as much time as he needed.

‘This is as far south as the knights of the Red have ever been. Did you know that, Rham Jas?’ Brom asked.

The Kirin knew little of the history of Tor Funweir, but he’d certainly never heard of the knights crossing the Ridge. ‘Men in steel armour don’t fight well in the desert, I suppose,’ he replied.

‘Too cold or too hot and they go home. It’s strange that their supposed honour takes a back seat to temperature. They never got as far north as Fjorlan either… too cold,’ Brom said.

Rham Jas had endured many nights of Magnus going on and on about his land being unconquered. The men of Ranen thought it a great thing that the north of the Freelands had never been invaded by the Ro.

‘I don’t like the cold either,’ Rham Jas said, ‘but then I’m not a conquering army of warriors… I suppose I’m probably a poor example.’

Brom didn’t smile. ‘Even the Kirin woods and scablands are too hot for them. I’m amazed they’ve held on to Ro Weir for this long… though, I suppose, the sea breeze does cool the place down,’ he said.

Rham Jas had first-hand experience of the Purple clerics’ various low-key expeditions into Oslan on the far side of the Ridge, but they had never gone there in force. Brom was probably right – bringing the word of the One was apparently conditional on the temperature being just right.

‘Is this as far south as you were planning to run?’ Rham Jas asked.

Brom leant back and let the bright morning sunshine play across his face. ‘I wasn’t running. I was looking for you,’ he replied.

Rham Jas was uncomfortable with responsibility and thought his friend was far too distraught to be thinking clearly. He decided to try and lighten the mood. ‘How about we go and get properly drunk and let a few women tell us how amazing we are?’ he suggested cheerfully. ‘There’s a whore around here somewhere called Jacinta… seriously, the way she purred my name made me melt. I reckon she could roll Lord Bromvy of Canarn around her mouth a few times, yes?’

Again, Brom gave no reaction to his friend’s attempt at humour. He breathed in deeply and shifted his weight, pulling his longsword across his lap. ‘How much gold did you make for killing that man last night?’ he asked.

‘Enough for us to get a woman each, just like old times… well, without Magnus entertaining half a dozen of them in the next room.’

Brom finally decided to smile and turned to face his friend. ‘Rham Jas, I appreciate your attempts at making light of absolutely everything, but I don’t want a woman and I don’t want to be cheered up. You’re welcome to go and visit Jacinta if you wish, but I’ll be waiting for you outside when you’re finished.’

Rham Jas stood up sharply. ‘Then what the fuck do you want, Brom? You didn’t come all the way here to drink, fuck and be merry, and you certainly didn’t come for my company,’ he rattled off angrily, missing a few syllables and letting his Kirin accent become broad.

For a second, Brom looked confused as he tried to make sense of his friend. ‘Rham Jas, sit down, anger doesn’t suit you,’ he said calmly, ‘and you never could curse convincingly.’

Rham Jas felt a moment of childish petulance at being told off, but he slowly sat down nonetheless. He crossed his arms and adopted a rather comical display of annoyance. He had never been good at showing concern or being serious and he wished that Brom had sought out someone else. His friend’s pain was difficult for Rham Jas to understand; he had long since reconciled his own grief, and did not like seeing it in others.

‘Brom… I don’t know what to say to you,’ he said with as much sincerity as he could muster. ‘Your father, your sister, your people… I wouldn’t know what to say to them either… that’s why I’m here and not taking part in glorious battles and hopeless defences. I’m just a lone man with a bow and a bad attitude. I kill for money… I’d kill you if I was paid enough.’

Brom raised an eyebrow. ‘You’d try,’ he said, patting the hilt of his sword. ‘Rham Jas, I’m not leaving until you agree to help me. Now, I’m prepared to follow you around Weir for a few days if that’s what it takes, but I’d rather you just gave in now.’

Rham Jas considered it. His friend had not told him what he wanted and the Kirin really didn’t want to know. Brom was brave, clever and impulsive, a mixture of traits that Rham Jas knew well and heartily disliked. He let the moment stretch and thought about the faces of his few living friends. Magnus might be dead, Al-Hasim was probably on his back in Fredericksand, and Brom was sitting next to him. One couldn’t be helped, the other didn’t need help, and the third was asking for help. Much as Rham Jas would have liked to believe that he was a cold, heartless killer, it simply wasn’t the truth.

‘Tell me what you want,’ he said quietly.

Brom nodded and his eyes softened slightly before he spoke. ‘I need to know how you managed to kill one of the Seven Sisters.’

Rham Jas raised his eyebrows. ‘Er… I put an arrow in her forehead… that was… maybe four years ago, not long before I met you,’ he replied.

‘I know you shot her in the head, but how did you manage to do it? As far as I know, no one has ever succeeded in killing one before or after you. Anyone who swings a blade or pulls back on a bow string misses. Jaa gives them some way of avoiding death,’ Brom said angrily.

Rham Jas was a little confused by this. He’d thought that Brom would want his help in exacting revenge, or something similar. To hear that he was trying to kill a Karesian enchantress was a little concerning.

‘Look, I’ve been asked about this before, you know I have. All I can tell you is that I stood… maybe… ten feet from her. She smiled at me for some reason, perhaps thinking I would be bewitched and be unable to let the arrow go… then I just shot her in the forehead and she died,’ he said. ‘Brom, what do the Seven Sisters have to do with you?’

‘That’s why I wasn’t in Canarn during the battle. I saw the Lady of Spiders in the town and went to Tiris looking for you or Al-Hasim.’ He looked down at his feet and shielded his face from the heat of the sun. ‘When I saw the Red fleet launch I saw another Karesian witch at the king’s left shoulder,’ he said. ‘That makes two of the Seven Sisters somehow involved in the attack on my homeland.’

Rham Jas considered it. Not much solid information was known about the enchantresses or their designs, but Rham Jas and Hasim had got on the wrong side of one in Kessia. She had been a beautiful woman, despite her facial tattoos, and Al-Hasim had made an inappropriate suggestion to her. Neither of them had known who she was, and they were surprised when she spoke some words and made blood appear from Hasim’s mouth and eyes. Rham Jas had warned her and, when she’d refused to release his friend, he’d shot her. It was only afterwards that they had learned of who she was and the enormity of her death. It meant little to Rham Jas, except that he could never safely return to Karesia. Al-Hasim, however, had never accepted the fact that he could not return to his homeland for fear of reprisals from the Sisters. The Karesian’s father had been tasked with executing Al-Hasim and, in an uncharacteristic show of paternal affection, had let him flee to Tor Funweir instead.