The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood (29 page)

Glenwood and Rham Jas were currently well hidden, with the sewage pipe and drawbridge obscuring their location. However, once beyond the darkness, the Kirin assassin would easily be seen. Flaming braziers flanked the entrance and Rham Jas would have to pass several large globes of firelight.

‘Don’t go anywhere, Kale,’ said Rham Jas, beginning to climb on to the sewerage pipe. ‘I won’t be long... and see if you can get that sewer grate loose, that’s our escape route.’

‘She could be anywhere in there,’ growled Glenwood. ‘It’s huge... what are you going to do? Just wander around asking for an enchantress?’

With great dexterity, the Kirin vaulted upright on to the wide steel pipe and sprang up several feet until he was standing on the base of a gold pillar. ‘I’ll know where she is when I get in there,’ he said quietly. ‘Have faith, Kale... oh, and if you leave while I’m up there, you know I’ll find you.’ He directed a grin at his companion.

‘Fuck you, Rham Jas.’ As he watched the Kirin shin up the featureless gold pillar, Glenwood really did want him to fall and break his head on the street below.

Rham Jas climbed quickly, shuffling skilfully up the pillar until he was just below the drawbridge. It was a climb no normal man would have attempted, let alone successfully completed, and Glenwood was again reminded that Rham Jas Rami was no normal man. Whatever gifts the assassin had, and wherever he had acquired them, he was the toughest bastard the forger from Leith had ever known.

Rham Jas reached a globe of light and dexterously moved round the pillar so that he was climbing up the dark side of the column. Glenwood lost sight of him, and the assassin made no sound as he inched past the Gold clerics guarding the drawbridge and made his way to the balcony.

* * *

Time passed slowly. Glenwood plonked himself down on the dusty cobbles of the street under the drawbridge and waited. He took a cursory look at the rusted iron grating that covered the sewer, but made no particular effort to move it. If, by some amazing twist of fate, Rham Jas actually managed to kill the enchantress and escape, he’d have to remove the grate himself. The forger simply couldn’t be bothered.

With nothing to drink and no one for company, Glenwood began to draw. He was far from Tiris and Leith, and becoming increasingly fed up with his situation. Somewhere above him, no doubt skulking in the shadows of the Gold cardinal’s halls, was a Kirin assassin who had decided to make Glenwood’s life miserable. If he’d stayed in Ro Tiris, he’d be well on the way to establishing his mob by now, recruiting sadistic bodyguards, bribing watchmen and generally having a great time. Instead, he was sitting in a dirty alley, in a dirty part of Arnon, by a dirty sewer grate, waiting for a dirty Kirin to kill a dirty enchantress.

He drew a rough sketch of a voluptuous woman, beckoning outwards with a seductive glint in her eyes. He had no coloured pencils, but imagined she would have blonde hair.

As the minutes turned to hours and the darkness became total, Glenwood felt his eyelids drooping. He was uncomfortable and the cracked paving stones hurt his back, but he began to fall asleep anyway. With the rhythmic sound of dripping water in his ears, he closed his eyes. Sleep did not arrive before a body landed noisily within a few feet of him.

‘What the...’ he spluttered, scrambling to his feet and looking at the bloodied mess that had plummeted from above.

A Gold cleric, his head and chest grotesquely crushed, lay twisted in the dust. He had probably been alive when he fell from the balcony high above, and he was neither armed nor armoured. Whoever he was, the drawbridge guards had obviously seen him and Glenwood had to duck back into the underpass to avoid being spotted by bound men and Gold clerics.

‘Rham Jas, you little bastard,’ he muttered, preparing to run.

Glancing towards the sewer grate, he heard footsteps running from behind as the guards came to see who had fallen. Glenwood now had little choice but to attempt to enter the sewer and try the assassin’s escape route.

With panic beginning to rise, he looked up to see a thickly knotted rope fall down from above and heard several crossbow bolts fired at the balcony. He shielded his eyes from the firelight, but couldn’t see clearly what was happening, though a cacophony of shouts came from the guards. He couldn’t make out exactly what they said, but the scene had quickly erupted into chaos.

Through the glare, speeding quickly downwards, a figure emerged from the balcony. It seemed that Rham Jas had thrown the man, followed by the rope, followed by himself, in less than ten seconds. The Kirin assassin was wearing gloves of some kind and he slid down the rope at tremendous speed, avoiding crossbow bolts on the way.

Glenwood stood dumbstruck.

‘Wake up, Kale, time to go,’ called the assassin. ‘The sewer... get it open.’

Glenwood shook himself and rushed across to the metal grating. The clerics and bound men above were too focused on the assassin to worry about the skulking forger, and he managed to force his longsword in between the rusted hinges and wrench it free. Rham Jas came to an abrupt stop, standing poised on top of the sewer pipe.

‘Evening,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Shall we go?’

Glenwood stuttered as he tried to reply. He ended up simply gesturing wildly at the approaching shadows behind them. The Kirin jumped off the pipe and sheathed his bloodsoaked katana, before grabbing the forger by the shoulder and shoving him into the pipe.

‘Close your mouth, Kale, and try not to breathe in,’ he said with a grin.

The man of Leith found himself flying forward into a dark and wet pipe that angled sharply downwards.

* * *

Saara the Mistress of Pain fell heavily to the floor. She grasped the sides of her head and wailed liked a wild animal as she felt Lillian die. The pain was excruciating as more men of the One God entered her mind and became her phantom thralls.

‘My lady,’ cried Kal Varaz from the other side of the room.

Saara had been briefing several of her most trusted wind claws about the deployment of additional hounds. Five hundred thousand more soldiers would arrive in a month or so and she was eager to see them used to maximum effect. The men in front of her had been listening intently to her instructions, but now they stood with anguish on their faces as they saw the enchantress writhing on the floor of the duke’s office.

‘Get out,’ she shrieked in a high-pitched voice.

They didn’t hesitate. These were dutiful and loyal men, and deeply in her thrall. Within seconds the door had been closed and the Mistress of Pain was crying and alone on the floor.

She felt the edge of the dark-blood’s katana as it severed Lillian’s head. She sensed her own mortality for possibly the first time. If he could kill Ameira, Katja and Lillian in the space of three months, he could be at Saara’s door sooner than she had thought possible.

The door was opened suddenly and a serving-boy entered. He was perhaps eighteen years of age and likely a bound man of Duke Lyam’s. The young man was carrying a mop and bucket and had started cleaning the floor before he noticed the quivering enchantress lying by the desk. With staring eyes, the young Ro servant smiled awkwardly and, leaving his bucket, stepped back to the door.

‘No, boy, don’t leave,’ spluttered Saara. ‘Come here.’ She couldn’t focus well and was not strong enough to enchant the bound man. For the moment, she was just a distressed woman, sprawled across the wooden floor, with tear-filled eyes and sweat on her skin.

‘I think I should go,’ said the boy, looking terrified and wishing he’d tried to clean another room first. ‘I can clean any time.’

She tried to pull herself upright, but ended up merely crawling forward in a predatory pose. ‘I won’t hurt you,’ she growled, baring her teeth and salivating.

‘Come here.’ The words made the young man stumble back until he was leaning against the door. ‘I need your strength.’

Saara pounced at him, letting her basest impulses take control as she latched on to his face and delivered a violent kiss to his mouth. He cried out. Her hands pressed against his temples and she began to draw out his life energy in her aggressive embrace. She growled hungrily as she bit deeply into his lower lip and moaned in pleasure as the young man’s blood began to seep from his eyes, nose and ears. The servant’s energy slowly rejuvenated her and the Mistress of Pain felt her mind become clear and focused, her new phantom thralls settling into place.

She stood upright, holding the dead body away from her and dropping it to the floor in a pool of spreading blood. A moment later, and Saara walked demurely back to the desk. Her tightly cut black dress was saturated with blood and her hands and face were both red and sticky.

With a deep breath, and not caring to clean herself, the Mistress of Pain sat back in her large leather armchair. Rham Jas had killed Katja and now Lillian and, Saara thought, Isabel the Seductress would be next. The assassin was being methodical in his attempt to thwart the Seven Sisters’ plan.

With a snarl, Saara decided to send as many wind claws as she could spare to Ro Leith in an effort to capture the troublesome Kirin.

CHAPTER 11

They had reached a cluster of farmsteads late at night and, finding them all deserted, Fallon and his fifty knights had made themselves at home. They were five days’ ride from South Warden and deep in the realm of Scarlet. They had not yet met any resistance and the knight captain figured that the common folk of the area had retreated back to the Ranen fortress. Fallon had sent a rider to Ro Hail several days before, and Tristram would send more men after them within a day or two, possibly the reinforcements from Darkwald.

It was still raining and he still hated the Freelands of Ranen. He hated his orders, the Purple clerics who had delivered the orders and, most of all, he hated the prospect of laying siege to South Warden. Their engineers had been ordered to construct trebuchets – tall engines of war able to hurl giant boulders much further than catapults or ballistae. They were used when the knights didn’t fancy a protracted siege, and Cardinal Mobius and the king had decided that bombarding the peoples of Wraith and Scarlet was more efficient than keeping the fight clean.

‘Rider approaching, sir,’ said Sergeant Ohms from the farm’s front door.

Fallon puffed out his cheeks and pulled himself up from the armchair where he’d been reclining. It was early morning, and he’d enjoyed the night spent under a wooden roof and the novelty of waking up dry.

‘From where?’

‘East, sir. Whoever he is, he’s riding hard.’ Ohms had been on duty for the last few hours and had seen night turn to day across the farms and hamlets of the realm of Scarlet.

Fallon didn’t bother to put on his armour.

‘Get the men up, but keep them out of sight,’ he said.

‘Aye, sir,’ was the formal response from Ohms.

Fallon sauntered away from the farmhouse. He and his men were nestled between several farmsteads, each small and surrounded by good, black earth. This land was more fertile and cultivated than the Grass Sea or the realm of Wraith, and Fallon found it marginally less objectionable.

Several knights were up and about their duties, scouting out the four points of the compass or preparing breakfast. Ohms quickly roused the others. Most of his unit emerged from haylofts and barns into the cold, wet morning. They took up positions quickly, behind bales of hay and crouched against low walls.

‘Theron, Ohms, you’re both with me. Quick now,’ the captain barked behind him.

His adjutant was fully armoured and flustered as he emerged from the barn where he had been sleeping. Fallon saw that he had hurriedly buckled on his breastplate.

‘I’m sure a single rider does not warrant the armour, Theron, but fair enough.’

‘I think it best to be prepared, sir.’ Theron saluted and straightened his red tabard.

The rider was making directly for their position, though Fallon could not yet make out any distinguishing features. The horse didn’t slow down and Fallon drew his sword, holding it casually across his shoulders as a sign of intent. Then he saw a shaved head and sharp, hawk-like features.

‘Sir Theron, you can stand down. I know this man,’ Fallon murmured to his adjutant, ‘though I’d not expected to see him here.’

‘Sir?’ queried the knight lieutenant.

Fallon sheathed his sword and took a few steps closer to William of Verellian as he rode towards them. ‘He used to be my commander, as I am yours, Theron.’

Verellian pulled on his reins and stopped just in front of Fallon. The knight of the Red looked different, though only two months had passed since they’d become separated in the courtyard of Ro Hail. His right hand was heavily strapped and Fallon vaguely recalled an axe taking off most of his fingers. His clothes were of common design, thickly spun wool and leather, and he carried no weapon.

‘I had a feeling you’d be the one they’d send out on patrol,’ Verellian said with good humour. ‘The worst jobs always go to those with the biggest mouths.’

‘You’re alive, you lucky bastard.’ Fallon smiled. ‘How did you manage that?’