The Long War 01 - The Black Guard (68 page)

The man laughed heartily and slapped Lanry on the back.

‘You’re all right, cleric,’ he said with a smile, and banged on Pevain’s door himself. ‘Hallam, it’s that Brown cleric.’

There was a momentary pause and then a frustrated voice from within said, ‘All right, Lanry, get your clerical arse in here.’

Lanry smiled politely at the mercenary, taking care to keep Fulton as close to him as possible, turned the door handle and entered the marshal’s office.

Within, he immediately averted his eyes from the spectacle of Sir Hallam Pevain, lounging back on his chair, his rough hand on the back of a young girl’s head. Pevain’s leather trousers were pulled down and the girl was crouched between his legs. There was a look of twisted pleasure on his face as he roughly jerked the girl’s head back and forth, and she gripped his chair with red, trembling hands.

‘I hope we’re not disturbing you?’ asked Lanry through gritted teeth, looking down at the floor.

‘I said I was busy, cleric…’ He didn’t look at them.

He grabbed a handful of the girl’s hair and pulled her away, making a loathsome sound of contentment as he did so. Lanry glanced up and recognized the girl. She was a servant from the inner keep, one of Lady Bronwyn’s attendants. The cleric couldn’t remember her name, but recalled having heard her sing at Duke Hector’s birthday celebrations.

As Pevain roughly shoved her towards the door, the look on her face was of fear and revulsion. Brother Lanry stopped her momentarily, whispering, ‘Strength, sister, strength and we will overcome.’

He hoped the words might help, but he also knew how petty they must sound to a young girl, no more than sixteen, who was daily being abused.

‘Same time tomorrow, darlin’,’ said Pevain with a chuckle, as the girl hurriedly left the room.

Fulton hadn’t looked up and Lanry thought that he ought to come alone in future, or at least leave his companion outside with the cart.

Lanry tried not to show his anger as he crossed the small office to stand in front of the desk. Pevain styled himself as some kind of military governor – a lesser master of Canarn now that Sir Rillion had made it clear he cared nothing for the common people. The knights of the Red were more honourable and, in their own way, kinder than the mercenaries. However, Lanry had not seen any of them since the larger force had moved through some two weeks ago, and he’d been stuck with Pevain and his bastards. Lanry wasn’t sure whether
the bastards
was actually their name or just a fitting description, but either way the term had entered common usage.

‘Food and water is it, Lanry?’ asked Pevain, making a show of standing to fasten his trousers and stretch his back and arms.

‘It is indeed. A little more than yesterday would be appreciated,’ replied the cleric.

‘You’ll get what you get.’ Pevain remained standing and glowered at Lanry. ‘I only have so many supplies and my men need to eat and drink too.’

‘But your men take it when they want it, my people have to ration the little I am allowed. People are dying, Pevain.’

The matter was serious and Lanry was responsible for their well-being now there was no duke to speak for them.

The mercenary laughed as though Lanry had said something funny. ‘So, some peasant cunts lose a bit of weight… what’s the big deal?’

Lanry clenched his jaw and felt a sudden urge to have a wash when he got home. Having to be in the presence of so refined a scumbag each day was not an easy thing to put up with.

‘Just because you’ve killed half the population, it doesn’t mean the remainder need any less food and water,’ Lanry said, with as much restraint as he could manage. ‘Wine we can do without, huge feasts of meat and fish are barely a distant memory, but bread, grain and water are essential… sir knight.’

Pevain moved round the desk and stood close to Brother Lanry. The knight was a very tall man and carried an unpleasant odour with him. The cleric had wondered recently whether Pevain actually cultivated the smell in order to make himself more memorable.

‘Don’t take things so seriously, Lanry. Why don’t we open a bottle together and get some peasant bitch to make us glad we’re men for a couple of hours?’ Pevain’s smile was almost as bad as the smell, and dirty, rotten teeth poked through his straggly black beard as he spoke.

‘I am a cleric of the Brown first and foremost. I’ll be sure to remind myself that I’m a man at a later date. For now, can I please have some supplies?’ Lanry asked, allowing some offence to show in his voice.

Fulton was still looking at the floor and, aside from the odd frown of discomfort, the taverner had remained silent and expressionless. Pevain had not paid any particular attention to him up to this point but now he directed a questioning look at Lanry.

‘Your friend looks nervous. Maybe he should be the one to remember he’s a man.’ The mercenary stepped in front of Fulton. ‘How about it, little man? You want a girl to fuck?’

Lanry moved Fulton gently to the side and took his place under Pevain’s glare. ‘If you could… we are in a hurry,’ he said politely.

‘Very well.’ The mercenary knight was irritated. ‘You’re all business, you church types. Follow me.’

Lanry breathed a little easier as Pevain walked to the side door and down the stairs beyond. The marshal’s office was a stone structure on the outside but inside a latticework of wooden staircases led to various grain silos and food warehouses. In times of peace the storage spaces were used for salting and smoking meat and fish, and for stockpiling goods for the harsh winters of Canarn. While under the knights’ occupation, the warehouses were largely used as a means to control the starving population.

Lanry and Fulton walked after Pevain and descended two flights of wooden stairs to a tunnel below. This led under the cobbled streets of the port side of Ro Canarn and was one of several entrances to the grain silos. They had been built underground by Duke Hector’s father in order to protect against theft and to help preserve the goods. Formerly, the lord marshal had been responsible for them, but over the years Lanry had been in the town they’d been used less and less, as business flourished and the people had enjoyed several good harvests.

At the end of the tunnel more wooden staircases led back up to the streets. A small group of mercenaries was hanging around, watching the warehouses while drinking themselves insensible.

‘All right, boss,’ said one of the mercenaries by way of greeting to Pevain.

The knight ignored him and motioned for Lanry to ascend the nearest set of stairs.

‘Are we not going to the warehouse?’ the cleric asked.

‘No,’ replied Pevain. ‘I thought that I’d have a few of my lads prepare your supplies ahead of time. It’ll stop you looking longingly at the stuff you can’t have.’ His grotesque smile returned and Lanry felt a little sick. ‘You see, brother,’ he said, placing a patronizing arm round the cleric’s shoulders, ‘you need to know your place. I’m in charge here and that’s not going to change. Get it?’

Lanry didn’t look away from Pevain and smiled through gritted teeth. ‘And if the supplies your men have prepared are not enough?’

‘Then people may go hungry. It’s up to you to make sure it goes far enough, brother. Isn’t that what you Brown fuckers are all about? Charity and that?’

Pevain was as ignorant of charity as he was of kindness or honour, and Lanry again had to force himself not to be rude to the mercenary.

Not trusting himself to engage in further dialogue with the bastard – a term Lanry was beginning to think increasingly appropriate – the Brown cleric pulled himself up the steep wooden staircase and back up to the street. Fulton followed and they returned to the evening air of Canarn. They were just off the docks and underneath the tower of the World Raven. Lanry looked upwards and said a quiet prayer to Brytag, the Ranen god of luck and wisdom, before he was shoved out of the way by Pevain as the knight came out of the tunnel behind them.

At the side of the street, flanked by three mercenaries, were a number of barrels and a few sacks. Lanry estimated the contents would be barely enough for five hundred, let alone the two thousand hungry people who were waiting for food.

‘Pevain, is this all?’ Lanry asked without turning round.

‘It is,’ he replied. ‘And you can address me as
sir knight
, cleric.’

‘Very well. This isn’t enough to stop starvation and I humbly request more… sir knight.’ Lanry knew his duty to the people of Canarn must come before his personal feelings.

‘Come back tomorrow, same time, and I’ll see about a loaf or two extra,’ Pevain replied, and the three mercenaries nearby chuckled to themselves.

‘Fulton, go fetch the cart. I’ll wait here,’ Lanry said to the taverner.

His friend left quickly, and Lanry thought he’d be happier out of the presence of the mercenary knight.

Pevain let Fulton walk away towards the front of the marshal’s office to retrieve the cart before he moved to stand in front of Brother Lanry.

‘Right, you little shit-stain, now we can talk without the common citizenry listening, I want to make you an offer,’ he said conspiratorially.

‘I don’t think I’d be interested in your offer, sir knight,’ Lanry responded, with a slight bow of the head.

‘Wait till you hear it.’ Pevain was grinning broadly and his breath made Lanry feel nauseous. ‘It might be a way for you to make things easier for yourself. After all, there’s no reason why you and I shouldn’t be friends.’

‘I can think of several, sir knight, but none that I care to repeat to your face.’

Lanry was skirting round the edges of being rude, but he didn’t want to push his luck too far. Pevain was unstable and, given sufficient motivation, Lanry was sure he’d ignore Rillion’s order and kill the Brown cleric as soon as he’d kill anyone else.

‘You’re not an idiot, cleric,’ said the knight, ignoring Lanry’s half-insult. ‘And you must appreciate that I’m in charge here and am gonna be for a while yet. So why make things difficult between us? If you play this right, I can see Brother Lanry becoming a rich man if he makes the right friends.’

Lanry smiled again, this time with his eyes locked on Pevain’s. The knight was a large man, easily a foot taller than the Brown cleric, but Lanry didn’t fear death and the sword and armour mattered little to him.

‘You are a… singular man, with singular skills, sir knight. A humble cleric such as myself does not think of riches or station. We prefer to gain our reward in the grateful faces of our flock.’ Inwardly, Lanry liked to play the piety card, and he saw a look of confusion come over Pevain’s face, as if the mercenary simply didn’t understand a man to whom money meant nothing.

‘There must be something you want, cleric. Can the Brown take women?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows in a suggestively vulgar expression.

‘We can marry, yes,’ Lanry replied. ‘But not until our work for the One is completed, and I have much work left to do.’

Fulton appeared again at the corner of the marshal’s office, pulling the cart behind him. Before he came within earshot, Pevain stepped closer to Lanry and whispered, ‘All right, cleric, I understand. Just know that Hector is dead, Bromvy is dead and I’m all you’ve got left. You’d better get used to it.’

‘Bromvy…?’ queried Lanry, who had not heard that Hector’s son had been captured, let alone killed. ‘You know this?’

‘It’s only a matter of time. Purple clerics have been despatched after the lordling. Even with the nasty friends he’s got, he’s done for.’ Pevain showed no respect towards the house of Canarn. ‘So, unless Lady Bronwyn wants to ride into the city, I’d say the house of Canarn is dead and gone,’ he added with a snarl.

‘We’ll see, sir knight,’ was all Lanry said before turning to load the meagre supplies on to their cart.

* * *

The walk back to the Brown church was a sombre one. The streets were deserted and, once they were out of sight of the marshal’s office, eerily silent as well. Fulton said nothing and merely concentrated on pulling the heavy cart over the uneven cobbles. It was a lighter load than Lanry had secured on previous evenings and he genuinely doubted the people of Canarn would survive much longer. Pevain had given them no new healing supplies and Lanry’s skill would only go so far in helping those who were malnourished or injured. It would be a difficult night and, the cleric thought, it would get much worse before it got any better.

The Brown church of Canarn was a small building on the edge of the town square, previously a joyous place of market stalls and colour. Now, it resembled a cross between a builder’s yard and a battleground, with wooden debris and the remnants of funeral pyres spread haphazardly across the cobbles. The pens that had been used to confine dissenting citizens were now empty, and the majority of the populace had returned to their houses, steadfastly refusing to give the mercenaries any excuse for further brutality. Those who had lost their homes during the battle or in the weeks that followed were staying in the vaults of the Brown church, which had formerly been used for storage and were now heaving with displaced common folk.

‘It’s not enough,’ said Fulton, breaking the silence as they approached the church doors. ‘There’re two pregnant women, dozens of children and old people, and I’ve lost count of how many injured or starving. We can’t live on porridge, dried fruit and water forever.’

‘I know,’ was Lanry’s simple reply.

The Brown cleric paused before the door to his church and turned to face Fulton. He put an arm round the taverner’s shoulder.

‘Do you remember when Lord Bromvy had that tournament for his eighteenth birthday?’

Fulton’s eyes widened slightly, as if he were trying to recall, and nodded slowly in response.

‘Great fun, from what I remember,’ supplied Lanry. ‘Duke Hector allowed anyone to take part.’ The cleric smiled. ‘I even had a go at duelling with Brom. I lost, but he was nice enough not to crow about it.’

Fulton smiled weakly as he brought to mind the event that had taken place five years before. ‘I think I unhorsed Haake in the joust,’ he said. ‘Though I’m pretty sure the guardsman let me win.’