The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood (2 page)

The wine was vinegary and warm, probably gathered from various discarded half-glasses, and he pushed it away after a quick sniff. The Ro had only two kinds of wine, the excellent and the shit, and the assassin was not allowed in places that served the former. He hadn’t tried the stew, usefully advertised as
cheap and brown
. He rarely felt hungry before killing a man.

The tavern was half full and, with another hour before midnight, it was about as full as it was going to get. The barman, a blotchy-faced pederast called Reginald, had paid the assassin handsomely to remove a local pimp who had been causing him trouble. He didn’t like doing this kind of work for these kinds of people, but he needed coin and killing was all he knew how to do. Travelling, even travelling rough, was an expensive endeavour.

The target’s back had been facing the assassin for about twenty minutes, as he poured more and more cheap liquor down his throat. He was standing with half a dozen other men, street scum by the look of them, and the assassin judged that none of them was fit for combat. The barman kept glancing over impatiently, not realizing that knifing a man in a crowded tavern would be foolish. The assassin mouthed the words
stay calm
across the smoky tavern, though it did little to mollify Reginald.

Another few minutes, and more vinegary wine, and the target shifted uncomfortably and took temporary leave of his companions. The assassin smiled and thanked the god of bladder control, and stealthily rose from his seat.

The target moved through the tavern, paying scant attention to those around him, and exited through a dirty fabric hanging separating the customers from the slit trench. He was a mid-level pimp, not the kind to have guards or friends in high, or even low, places.

The assassin wasn’t one to moralize, but he thought child prostitution was a loathsome business. The fact that he was being paid by a disgruntled client, rather than an indignant parent, mattered little. He secretly planned to kill Reginald too before he left town.

The target made several unpleasant sounds as he moved into the trench and began to unbuckle his belt. The assassin momentarily lost sight of the pimp and across the tavern he could see unnecessary concern on Reginald’s face. With a furtive glance, he entered the trench and swiftly replaced the fabric. Within was a long and unpleasant-smelling slit in the stone floor. At one end a steady trickle of water was pumped in from the city’s supply and ran along the length of the trench, washing away the worst of the effluent. Another man was squatting uncomfortably and straining to relieve himself.

The assassin stepped close and said quietly, ‘Leave, now!’ He placed a small dagger against the man’s throat and began to draw it across his skin. The man instantly forgot about his bowel movement and left with a flushed look on his face, holding up his trousers.

The target was drunk enough not to have noticed this exchange and was cheerfully urinating at the far end, whistling to himself.

With a swift movement, the assassin pulled back his head and dug his knife into the pimp’s neck. He didn’t cut his throat right away but let the man look back and see his killer’s face before a swift jerk of the razor-sharp knife opened up his neck and let his blood flow down over his clothes.

‘Shh, just keep quiet and let it happen,’ he said calmly. ‘There really is no business in selling kids to sweaty old men...’

The man died quickly and the assassin let him fall in an undignified heap into the slit trench. He smiled at a job well done and retreated into the tavern.

He skulked past the other patrons and stood by the bar. After a moment, Reginald came over to stand next to him. ‘Is it done?’ he asked in a whisper.

‘Yes,’ was the reply. ‘Tell me, Reg, is there someone else that can serve this evening?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Another barman to take over if you should happen to not be around for the rest of the evening,’ the assassin said quietly.

‘Well, I suppose... yes, we’ve got a few serving-boys in tonight.’

‘Good, come with me,’ he said with a disarming grin.

Motioning Reginald to follow, he strolled to the back of the tavern where a small wooden door led into a dark yard used primarily for wine storage. Once outside, he sat on a large barrel and waited for the barman to join him and close the door.

‘Money,’ said the assassin, holding out his hand.

Reginald smiled awkwardly and reached into his stained apron. ‘Ten gold crowns, yeah?’

The assassin nodded and took the coin, placing it in his own purse. ‘I’m afraid there have also been some expenses, Reginald.’

The barman was obviously uncomfortable and moved to stand closer to him.

‘I was told that you were a man that gets things done, but I was also told ten gold crowns,’ he replied guardedly.

‘Relax, Reg, you and I are both businessmen.’ He let his grin encompass his entire face. ‘Who gave you my name?’

‘A mobster called Kale Glenwood,’ Reginald replied.

‘The forger? Since when does he throw my name around?’ It was annoying that a streak of Ro piss like Glenwood was using his name.

‘He said that you and him are good friends, and that you were reliable,’ Reginald responded.

‘Well, he was about a third right. Come here.’ The last words were spoken quietly and with menace, and Reginald leant back to see if there was anyone else close by.

‘Reg, before you think about leaving, be aware that I can kill you much quicker than you can get to that door.’

Reginald began to sweat and took note of the assassin’s weaponry. He was not carrying his longbow, but his hand was casually resting on the hilt of a katana and a knife was sheathed across his chest.

‘Okay,’ said the barman, holding his arms wide in a gesture of submission. ‘How do I get out of this alive?’

‘I’m afraid you don’t.’ He moved his hand with lightning speed and threw the knife across the yard to lodge in Reginald’s chest. ‘I have little time for people that prey on children.’

The barman was momentarily surprised at the blade sticking in his chest, before falling to the dirty ground. Rham Jas stood up slowly and crossed to retrieve his knife.

‘Okay, Mr Glenwood,’ he said to himself, ‘you and I need a little chat.’

* * *

Rham Jas Rami thought of the day everything had changed. He had been a hunter, a farmer, a husband and a father until the day, nearly fifteen years ago, when the Purple clerics of the One God had attacked his home. He had seen smoke on the horizon while out hunting. When he returned all he found was destruction. The Purple clerics had killed his wife and sold his son and daughter into slavery. By the time he’d returned to his farm, there was nothing left except anger, grief and vengeance. Though each of the clerics had since died in pain, he never had discovered why they had chosen to attack his farm.

What the clerics did not know, however, was that he was no normal Kirin. When he was a young man, before Keisha and Zeldantor were born, Rham Jas had repulsed a similar attack. He’d scared off a small patrol, but had ended up pinned by a crossbow bolt to a darkwood tree in an unremarked corner of Oslan. He had hung from the tree for hours, feeling his blood mix with the black sap of the tree, until he had finally managed to pull himself down and felt the world change around him.

Before he was a hunter, farmer, husband or father, Rham Jas was a dark-blood. The sap of the darkwood tree had altered him. He was stronger, faster and sharper than other men. The crossbow wound had healed within minutes and he had run the five miles home without stopping for breath or feeling tired. Now the feeling had become commonplace and the cynical Kirin had learned to trust his abilities. He was very hard to kill and he knew it. He was called Dark Blood by the forest-dwellers,
assassin
by the Ro, and
friend
by a select few.

Rham Jas smiled as he remembered the other advantage the tree had given him – he was the only man alive who could strike at the Seven Sisters. Men had tried, but without exception had been unable to raise a hand or fire an arrow. The enchantresses of Karesia were all but unkillable and, according to the forest-dwelling Dokkalfar, they were planning to exploit their invulnerability to raise the malevolent Forest Giant of pleasure and blood: the Dead God. Rham Jas was uncomfortable about being the sole man who could stop them, and had only agreed to become a soldier in the Long War because the Seven Sisters had bought his children from Karesian slavers.

He had much to do, and needed cash and time to do it. He had been back in Tiris only a few days, having spent a month in Canarn helping Brom and Nanon, the Dokkalfar, clear out the remaining mercenaries and assisting the other forest-dwellers settle into city life. More than a hundred had arrived during the time Rham Jas had remained there, and Nanon was sure more would come as the Ro continued their purges across Tor Funweir.

He had tried not to think of the Seven Sisters’ last words to him. Ameira the Lady of Spiders had mentioned his son, the child he had lost fourteen years before, sold to Karesian slavers by the Purple clerics. The only consolation he could take from the news of Zeldantor’s death was the hope that his sister, Keisha, might still be alive. If that were the case, the Kirin assassin had a better reason than just saving the world to hunt down and kill the remaining Seven Sisters.

CHAPTER 1

He waited. The White chapel had doused its lights ten minutes ago and Randall had seen the last of the nightly congregation leave shortly afterwards, pausing only to exchange words with the cleric in residence. The white dove, symbolizing the One God’s aspect of peace and healing, was displayed prominently either side of the simple wooden doors. Those doors were closed now and the churchman within would be shortly retiring to bed.

The town of Voy was small, with well-spaced estates around the edges and exclusive shops and boutiques in the centre. All the colours of the One God were represented within the town’s walls, but the town was dominated by Oswald’s Cathedral, the huge Gold church that acted as the bank of Tor Funweir.

Randall stood out here in his battered and dirty clothing, and found it easier to move around if he ventured out only after dark and stuck to the side streets. His cloak provided adequate cover but he worried about showing his face for fear of a Wanted poster.

In the month since he had left Tiris, Randall had descended further into lawlessness than he had ever imagined possible. He caught his reflection in a polished glass storefront and a hard and dangerous man looked back. His beard had thickened and become darker, and his hair was long enough now to need tying back. His eighteenth birthday had come and gone with no celebration. Neither of the young squire’s companions had known the significance of the date, two weeks before, when he had got drunk for the first time. Utha was too frail to join him and Vasir, the Dokkalfar, did not understand why anyone should want deliberately to render themselves insensible.

The jewelled bell towering over the Gold church rang a muted peal, signifying midnight in the town of Voy, and Randall stepped out of the side street and towards the White chapel. The streets were well tended and empty, only an occasional figure moving between residences in the distance. His cloak cast a shadow across his face and he walked quickly, keeping his pace even and the sheathed sword of Great Claw out of sight. He reached the front of the chapel and paused. Seeing no one on guard, he removed the key he had stolen earlier in the evening and stealthily opened the door.

Randall had never broken into a church before, but without proper healing Utha the Ghost, Black cleric of the One, would surely die.

Their progress through the forested wilds of Tiris had been slow for the past month. For the first week Utha had not been able to walk or ride, and even after that he needed copious rest so as not to reopen his wounds. In quiet moments, while the cleric slept, Randall and Vasir had formed a plan to reach the forests of the Fell, far to the south. Vasir had assured him that they would be cared for in the Dokkalfar woods.