The Long War 01 - The Black Guard (39 page)

Bronwyn huddled as close as possible to the soft, mossy tree trunk. The canopy above sheltered her from the worst of the rain, but frequent drips, enough to prevent her sleeping, kept finding their way through the branches.

She was far enough from the road and deep enough within the small wood to feel moderately safe from discovery, but the weather and the need to sleep rough had soured the young noblewoman’s disposition to a point where she almost wished for capture. At least a gaol cell in Canarn would be out of the weather.

She’d seen no sign of pursuit, though she was sure knights would have been sent after her, and had focused on the advice given her by Al-Hasim. He’d told her to turn due west at the blasted tree and contact Wraith Company in the ruins of Ro Hail. Whether that was wisdom or desperation didn’t really matter – either way, Bronwyn was getting further from home and growing more miserable with each step.

As the darkness grew and the moonlight was obscured by branches, Bronwyn of Canarn drifted into a restless sleep.

Her dreams when growing up had always been curiously vivid, and frequently shared by her twin brother. Their father used to say that Bromvy and Bronwyn were bound by more than simply their blood, and that Brytag the World Raven allowed them to experience each other’s worries and fears. Whether that was just an old man’s story or a true reflection of the twins’ bond was not clear, but she had felt better every time she had shared a dream with her brother.

She found herself viewing Ro Canarn from above, a lump of stone and smoke perched on a low cliff side and battered by waves. It was dark and lifeless, with individual buildings impossible to discern, though the tower of the World Raven acted as a lighthouse of sorts for her dreaming consciousness.

As she plummeted further down, the sound of the sea growing to a roar and the dark stone gaining texture, she saw people in the streets of her home. The figures were armoured, though none wore the tabard of Canarn – a raven with talons bared – and most were evidently foreigners. They patrolled the empty streets, between ruined buildings of wood and stone, their eyes wary and their weapons ready.

Bronwyn found herself at street level, drifting between mercenaries and knights, trying to get her bearings. If it weren’t for the World Raven shining overhead, she thought she would easily have become lost, for Canarn had changed. It was no longer vibrant and friendly – those things were for a peaceful and stable population – instead, it was dark and brooding, and she thought it owed its continued existence to stubbornness: the stubbornness of Brother Lanry determined to keep his chapel safe and the population alive; the stubbornness of Father Magnus, who refused to be cowed by Rillion; and, most of all, the stubbornness of Bronwyn and her brother, who were both still free.

The entrance to the keep was stained with blood and she remembered the desperate fight to hold the drawbridge. Dozens of men had died, standing their ground against the knights of the Red. Even now, a stack of crossbows, swords and shields was piled next to the drawbridge. Each item bore the raven of Canarn – the heraldry most prominent on the shields – but most had sword cuts and puncture marks which defaced the image of Brytag.

The central square was much as she remembered it from her flight with Al-Hasim, though the funeral pyres had now reduced to embers and the corralled population had been allowed sanctuary in the Brown chapel.

If she’d been awake, Bronwyn knew she would be reduced to tears. As it was, she allowed her dream to remind her of why she must remain free.

‘This isn’t the end of the tale.’ The voice was familiar.

She let herself turn and identified the speaker as her brother, Bromvy, standing next to the drawbridge.

‘It seems like the end,’ she replied.

Brom wore his armour of steel-reinforced leather and his sword was sheathed. He was dressed as he had been the morning he left for Ro Tiris, shortly before the assault, and Bronwyn was glad to see him.

‘Are you dreaming as well, brother?’ she asked.

He looked upwards and smiled at the tower of the World Raven. ‘It would appear so.’

‘Father is dead.’ Bronwyn spoke plainly. ‘That makes you the duke of Canarn.’

Brom bowed his head. ‘I don’t feel like a duke. I feel like a criminal… and my back’s sore from sleeping rough.’

‘But you are safe?’ she pressed.

‘After a fashion. I’m still alive… and I plan to remain so.’

She wished that she could fling her arms around his neck and cry long and hard into his shoulder. She wished that her dream would allow her to grieve, to weep, even to feel vulnerable for a moment, but all she could do was look at him.

‘And you?’ he asked. ‘Please tell me you’re not the trophy wife of some mercenary.’

A moment of silence, before laughter erupted suddenly from both of them.

‘Thank you for making a joke,’ Bronwyn said wearily.

Their eyes were both drawn to the World Raven, looking down on them. The tower was an unassuming structure, with a small statue of Brytag, wings spread and talons bared, perched on a flat plinth high above. In their dream, the tower was taller, its lines starker against the dark greys and browns of Ro Canarn, and Brytag himself was much larger, looming over his town to look down at the twins.

‘Are we really dreaming?’ asked Bronwyn, not sure whether to address the query to Brom or to the World Raven.

‘He wants us both to see something,’ replied Brom. ‘Father always said that Brytag was fond of twins.’

They were drawn towards the keep, their feet barely touching the bloodstained cobbled streets. Bronwyn felt no sea breeze and no cold touched her limbs, making the city of her birth feel alien and far-off. Her brother glided next to her and the twins emerged into the central keep of Canarn, a square courtyard framed by high stone walls. The area was dominated by cooking fires and stowed weaponry, as knights of the Red camped on the cold stone.

‘Bronwyn,’ said Brom, pointing into the shadowy courtyard, ‘do you see those shapes?’

She directed her eyes where he pointed and saw a number of strange, indistinct figures moving around the edges of the keep. They moved with inhuman grace and wielded leaf-shaped knives. She perceived that the knights had not seen them and something about their presence was comforting and strangely alien.

‘I see them,’ she replied, ‘but I don’t know what… who they are.’

The scene froze and the twins tried to get a clear look at the shadowy figures, only to be denied by a rapid movement that whisked them away from the keep and towards the Brown chapel. It was clear that this dream, if that were what it was, was being directed by a force they couldn’t truly understand.

The chapel was unmolested, though the greenery that used to surround it was now mud, trampled by patrolling mercenaries. They joked and cursed, waiting for the order to clear the chapel – an order that would hopefully never come. Bronwyn knew, from the time she’d spent in Canarn after the battle, that Commander Rillion was reluctant to defile the humble Brown chapel.

Brom looked at the men, his hands twitching with anger and a deep-seated desire to draw his sword and kill these invaders. His anger was different from Bronwyn’s, it came from a sense of duty imparted by their father. He was the duke and his honour would forever be linked to Ro Canarn. He could live as one of the Black Guard, or he could retake his city – there could be no in-between.

‘Settle, brother. Brytag isn’t showing us this to increase our anger.’ She again wished she could reach out to touch Brom.

‘I wish I could turn it off… just for a while, but I can’t see beyond the rage.’ A tear appeared at the corner of his eye. ‘I hope Lanry is still alive.’

‘Let us see,’ replied Bronwyn.

They moved smoothly over the mud and past the mercenaries. The chapel was large enough to house many people – but it was not a tavern, and those inside could hope only for shelter, not for comfort.

The scene within made Bronwyn gasp. The seats had been shoved to the sides of the nave and in their place lay a hundred hastily laid bedrolls, occupied by quivering bodies. There were few lights and a figure, robed in brown, hunched his way to each person in turn, using a globed candle to minister healing. Some wounds were minor, bruises and cuts, but many of the commoners within had serious injuries and missing limbs.

‘The knights haven’t allowed them proper healing,’ said Brom, letting his tear-filled eyes play over the gruesome scene.

Gathered around the humble Brown altar were uninjured citizens of Canarn, and the staircase leading down showed that many more were resident in the chapel’s undercroft.

‘This isn’t war… I don’t know what it is.’ Brom no longer looked angry. Instead, his eyes were downcast and his hand shook.

Five thousand people had lived in Ro Canarn, with many more in the surrounding farmlands. The survivors, huddled in the Brown chapel, numbered fewer than five hundred. Bronwyn hoped that more had survived the battle and were hidden elsewhere in the town, but the knights had done their work well.

The brown-robed figure looked up. Brother Lanry was an old man, but he appeared even older in the minimal candlelight, the lines on his face deeper and the pain in his eyes more pronounced. For a moment, Bronwyn thought he saw them, but she knew that wasn’t possible.

The sound of a raven calling jolted both the twins away from the chapel.

* * *

Brom woke suddenly, light rain caressing his neck. The face of his sister and the calling of Brytag faded only slowly, and the Black Guard sat in a moment of quiet remembrance.

Above him were trees, next to him the unconscious Karesian criminals and his friend, Rham Jas Rami. Somewhere to the north, over the sea, and occupied by knights and mercenaries, was his home. As he blinked his eyes to focus in the morning gloom of the Kirin run, Lord Bromvy Black Guard of Canarn decided that he would not yield, he would not surrender. He would not stop until his people were free and the One had paid for what his knights had done.

BOOK 2

As gods slowly ascended and empires of might and terror were formed, the Giants did war upon each other.

The battlegrounds of air, fire, earth and water were joined by shadow, forest, dust and void until all the land was broken. Alliances were formed, Giants fell, and the wars raged longer than the understanding of mortal men.

Each Giant saw himself a god and each god grew strong or died, falling to the inexorable passage of Deep Time.

The Water Giants, more alien than most, fought with malign cunning and chose the Ice Giants as their chief foe, doing war upon them as mountains rose and the land changed shape.

As ages passed and Rowanoco ascended to the ice halls beyond the world, the Water Giants sensed that their end was near. Their race, who had missed godhood by a hair’s breadth, cried tears of pain and their tears became the rolling seas of the north. Their leaders, the twin Giants Ithqas and Aqas, were felled by Rowanoco himself and sent to the bottom of the deepest seas to gnaw on rock and fish.

Rowanoco gave no thought to his fallen foes, but the twins remained, mindless and primal, swirling endlessly amidst the watery tears of their long-dead kin.