The Long War 01 - The Black Guard (69 page)

‘Do you remember what Duke Hector said as he gave out the prizes?’ Lanry asked.

Fulton shook his head and Lanry placed a comforting arm round his friend’s shoulder. Looking out across the deserted city of Canarn, the Brown cleric said, ‘My memory may be failing me, but I think he said, “
Brothers and sisters, friends and family, we stand together as people of Canarn, people with an unbreakable spirit and inexhaustible warmth
.”’ Lanry was paraphrasing, but the words had stuck with him and he had recalled them often, particularly over the past month.

‘Spirit and warmth need to be fuelled by food and water,’ Fulton replied with a friendly smile.

‘That may be true, but let’s keep the old duke’s words in mind as we try to make this stuff stretch, shall we?’ He kept his arm round Fulton’s shoulders and led him towards the door.

Within, the Brown church was quiet, and both men breathed a sigh of relief as if they felt safe once they were within its walls. The faces of men and women of Canarn looked up as they entered and Lanry saw weak smiles across the floor of the church. The seats had been set aside or made into makeshift beds, and the weakest and most needy had called this place home for several weeks. In the vaults below were those who simply needed a place to stay – men, women and children whose houses and businesses had been pillaged and destroyed.

A blacksmith named Carahan and his heavily pregnant wife, Jasmine, were closest and Lanry saw concern on the man’s face as he looked at the meagre supplies.

‘Is there another cart outside, brother?’ Carahan asked.

‘I’m afraid not. It seems Sir Pevain is not feeling especially charitable this evening,’ Lanry replied, directing a thin smile at Jasmine, who shifted uncomfortably on her rickety bed.

‘Any more healing supplies?’ asked the blacksmith. ‘We’re almost out of etter root and the cramps are getting worse.’

Lanry shook his head and saw real concern on Jasmine’s face. Etter root was a painkiller which was neither expensive nor difficult to find, but now the only apothecary in town had been destroyed and Pevain controlled the supply, it had become as rare as gold.

‘I may be able to find some upstairs, but it’ll be the last until the mercenaries let us have more. Unfortunately, I still have wounded who need it as well.’

Lanry hated having to ration medicine. It was the way of the Brown clerics to want to care for all people, and to have to decide who was the more deserving of pain relief was one of Lanry’s most unpleasant responsibilities.

‘Fulton,’ he said to the taverner, ‘Carahan will help you distribute what we have. Give to the neediest first, then those who had nothing yesterday. If there’s anything left, ration it as usual. The same with the water.’

Fulton nodded and motioned for the blacksmith to assist him. Brother Lanry walked past the men and approached the stairs leading up to his personal chamber. He greeted people who stood eagerly awaiting a ration of grain and something to drink. At the end of the nave, the tubs for collecting water had been bought down from the roof and he saw the supply of rainwater was pitifully low.

‘I can pray for salvation or I can pray for rain,’ he said to himself, as he began to walk up the wooden stairs. ‘I wonder which is more likely to yield results.’

At the top of the stairs he opened the simple oak door that led to his chamber. It had few comforts – all of his linen and clothing had already been distributed amongst the needy – but the small room was still a much-needed refuge from the despair all around him.

Brother Lanry, Brown cleric of the One God, sat down heavily in his old rocking chair and loosened the neck-fastenings of his robe. On a small table by his right arm were an oil lantern and his clay pipe. Allowing himself a moment of calm, Lanry loaded the pipe with sweet-smelling tobacco and touched a match to the bowl. He rocked back on his chair and turned to look out of the shuttered window. Seeing the dark, ghostly town beyond, he inhaled deeply and tried to think how to keep the people’s spirits up. The weeks since the battle had passed slowly. Lanry thought the people of Canarn had endured more than their fair share of hardships at the hands of, first, the knights of the Red, and now the hateful mercenaries of Sir Hallam Pevain.

As he mused on the situation and puffed on his pipe, Lanry sensed someone behind him and began to turn round. He was stopped by a hand on his shoulder and an arm round his neck. The grip was not tight or constricting and was mostly designed to stop the cleric from turning round.

‘Whoever you are, you sneaked in here without making any sound. That is to be commended,’ Lanry said. ‘I have little of value to steal, I’m afraid, so if burglary is your intention, may I recommend the lord marshal’s office. Anything of worth left in the town is probably there somewhere.’ He ignored the restraining arm and moved his pipe back up to his mouth.

‘You should lock your window, Lanry,’ said a familiar voice, at which the cleric swiftly removed the arm and spun round in his chair.

‘My Lord Bromvy!’ Lanry exclaimed with emotion in his old face. ‘It is… beyond words.’ The cleric abandoned any sense of propriety and flung his arms extravagantly round the young lord.

‘Easy, brother,’ said Brom. ‘You look thin and I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.’

Lanry looked down at his shrinking waistline. ‘Yes, I have been on an enforced diet for a month,’ he said with a smile.

Lord Bromvy of Canarn looked different – taller and more grizzled than the last time Lanry had seen him, with a hard look in his eyes and a few new scars on his face. His armour was of leather, with hardened wooden struts of a strange design. Lanry grinned broadly as he saw the cast of Brytag the World Raven on the hilt of Brom’s sword – an insignia of the house of Canarn that had been presented to him by Duke Hector on his sixteenth birthday. It was strange to see the young lord again, and stranger still that Brom had managed to keep hold of his longsword – a weapon noble in appearance and dangerous for a Black Guard to carry.

‘Did you return with an army?’ Lanry asked, only half joking.

‘No, but I’m here,’ said another voice from a shadow in the corner of the room.

‘Who…?’ began the cleric, before a swarthy Kirin man stepped into the light.

He was shorter and thinner than Brom, with lank black hair hanging to his shoulders. He carried a longbow across his back and a thin-bladed katana at his side. The strangest thing about the Kirin was the broad grin splashed across his face.

‘Rham Jas Rami. Pleased to meet you, Brother Lanry,’ said the Kirin, extending his hand. ‘I’d introduce you to our other friends, but they are a little shy, so they’re waiting in the city.’

Lanry was perplexed at the notorious Kirin assassin accompanying Lord Bromvy, but he shook his hand nonetheless. Any allies are good allies, thought the cleric.

‘Do your friends number in the hundreds?’ he asked.

‘Forty… not including us two,’ said Brom, ‘but we have a plan.’

CHAPTER 10

The snow had disappeared swiftly as they moved inland and headed south-east from the frozen coastline, progressing slowly and with increasing caution as the days went on. Halla had insisted that her group of beleaguered Fjorlanders hold a defensive position close to the sea for no less than a week in order to allow wounds, both mental and physical, to heal as best they could, and now, a further week into their unplanned expedition, they were approaching the Grass Sea of Wraith Company.

Two hundred and five men of Fjorlan were all that had been accounted for. A further twenty had not left the beach and six had needed assistance to come this far. Most of the Ranen had taken off their armour and stowed it in carts they had manufactured out of the wreckage of the ships. They had no oil or metalworking equipment to care for their chain mail and breastplates, and Halla had ordered it to be preserved in case of need. They carried their weapons, though over the last week most had been used as walking sticks or for hunting, and the few whetstones that remained had been passed around to keep their blades sharp.

Hunting game on the low grassy plains was a challenge, and with no hunting bows or nets the party had been relying on stationary targets like Gorlan nests and edible mushrooms. Wulfrick had managed to sneak up on a deer and fell it with a well-aimed throw of his axe, but the meat had been tough and had not lasted long when divided among so large a group. Halla’s men, as she had begun to think of them, had not complained about their empty bellies, and each had done his bit during their forced march inland.

Rexel Falling Cloud was still limping but he acted as an invaluable lieutenant to Halla and she was grateful to have someone else do the shouting. Oleff Hard Head, the chain-master of Fredericksand, had displayed an unlikely talent for singing during their journey and had done his bit to keep their spirits up. His songs were usually vulgar, but amusing, and he had made the men laugh at the most inappropriate times. Even Wulfrick had been caught in the midst of a raucous belly laugh at one of Oleff’s songs – one of the few moments when he’d not been brooding over the loss of his thain.

‘We should sight Ro Hail tomorrow, my lady,’ said Falling Cloud, as they settled down for the night among the rocky protrusions at the edge of the Grass Sea.

‘Have the men don armour in the morning, I don’t want any surprises,’ replied Halla, in the commanding voice she’d adopted since taking charge two weeks before.

The rocks rose from the grass in irregular pinnacles and provided one of the better rest spots of their journey. They were out of the wind and, with swiftly arranged canvas, out of the rain that frequently swept this land. It was warmer than Tiergarten and there was no snow, but without cold-weather clothing the men were feeling the biting breeze.

Wulfrick came to join Halla and Falling Cloud, plonking his enormous frame down on the grass next to their small cooking fire.

‘Do we actually have anything to cook on that?’ he asked, pointing to the low flames.

Halla shook her head. ‘No, we’re out of Gorlan parts and there’s been no sign of game for a couple of days. You’d know that if you hadn’t been off sulking.’ She wasn’t being mean, but was becoming increasingly annoyed with Wulfrick’s mood.

‘Sulking? Cheeky bitch,’ he said with a mock hurt expression.

‘My Lord Wulfrick,’ interjected Falling Cloud, ‘I must caution against speaking to my battle-mistress in that manner again.’ He was smiling, but the sentiment was appreciated by Halla.

‘Okay, so I may have been a little… out of sorts,’ Wulfrick conceded. ‘Still alive, though.’ The axe-master had used this phrase several times since the shipwreck and seemed to take comfort in the simple fact of his continued existence. ‘I’ll be better when I get back to Fredericksand and have a little chat with Rulag Ursa.’

‘That’s a long way north, brother,’ said Falling Cloud, who often provided the level head among the boisterous axe-men.

‘Indeed, but that’s where I need to be. Alahan needs me, as his father did, and I’m still pledged to Fredericksand and the family of Teardrop.’

He took comfort in his honour, and Halla found that easier to deal with than his earlier complaining about how he had got Algenon killed.

‘I’m quite eager to see who else got away as well. A ship or two of mentally unbalanced berserkers would be rather handy when I call out the traitorous bastard.’ He hung his head for a moment. ‘And I need to tell Alahan and Ingrid that their father has fallen.’

‘Later, Wulfrick,’ said Halla. ‘Can we not have a single day pass without musing on the unfairness of our situation? We have pressing issues of survival to consider. Food is getting thin on the ground and if we don’t reach Ro Hail soon, men are going to be too weak to make it through the Deep Cross.’

The mountain passes that led from the south land of the Free Companies to the north land of Fjorlan were a natural defensive line and during the colder months they were impossible to traverse. Halla knew that if they didn’t reach the lowlands of the Deep Cross within a month, with the strength required to weather the high passes, they’d be trapped by snow and would die unremarked deaths.

‘Find a troll and follow him,’ Falling Cloud said with a smile. ‘If you can stand the smell…’

‘Have you ever met a troll with a sense of direction, Rexel?’ asked Wulfrick with a grin. ‘I’ve seen one of the big idiots dive off a cliff in pursuit of a bird.’

This caused a ripple of laughter among the men within earshot and Halla was again impressed at their ability to laugh in the face of adversity.

‘I’ve never actually met one,’ interjected Halla. ‘I’ve seen them from a distance, but never close up.’

‘You’re not missing much,’ said Falling Cloud. ‘In Hammerfall, we lose settlements to the things every so often.’

‘Troll bells,’ supplied Wulfrick unhelpfully. ‘At least you’ll be able to hear them coming.’

‘You need to shoot the bell into them first and we’re a bit short of ballistae that can pierce their hides. Hammerfall is not Fredericksand, remember.’

Halla had been told by her mother of the troll-wranglers, who would enter the high passes with heavy, winch-operated ballistae designed to attach large bronze bells to the trolls. The oversized arrows didn’t kill the creatures, but they were too dim-witted to realize what the ringing sound was, and stories existed of trolls remaining alive for centuries with ballista arrows stuck in their dense bodies.