The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood (5 page)

‘I’m doing my best, lord,’ he said to the air, addressing the Fire Giant, ‘but this window ledge is rather narrow and I am not as thin as I was.’ He hoped that Jaa would hear him and cushion any fall to the cobbles below.
I won’t doubt or fear, lord, but I still dislike heights.

The spell of the Seven Sisters was strong. They had fooled the faithful into believing that they spoke the will of the Fire Giant. The Thief Taker had been framed for the death of a fellow wind claw. But, he thought, he had never been the kind of man to hide, and he hoped he was harder to kill than the enchantress and her thralls realized. Dalian had stowed away on one of the hound barges and travelled with them from Kessia. The faceless armies of Karesia numbered many thousand – he judged at least thirty – though they were spread out and chaotically organized.
I am one man against an army, lord. I hope they are ready.

At a sound from within he crouched down against the stone wall the better to see through the dirty window. Saara’s office was part of Duke Lyam’s private rooms. She had somehow convinced the Ro noble that allowing an occupation force of hounds was a wise idea and, even now, small packs moved throughout Tor Funweir carrying out the Seven Sisters’ bidding. The enchantress effectively ruled the city.

‘My Lady Saara,’ said a deep voice from within, ‘we await your orders.’

As the speaker moved into his eyeline, Dalian recognized Turve Ramhe, a whip-master and Saara’s second in command. The hound commander was standing in black plate armour and wore an expression of disgust on his scarred face. Next to him stood a dark-haired woman in her early thirties. She wore identical armour and carried a two-handed scimitar across her back: Izra Sabal, a sadistic whip-mistress whom Saara had put in charge of maintaining order in Ro Weir. Both the visitors to Saara’s chamber were unswervingly loyal to the Seven Sisters. They mistakenly believed that they were the highest authority of Jaa’s will.

‘Turve, Izra, please sit,’ Saara said in her lyrical voice. ‘Would either of you like refreshment?’

The hounds declined. Dalian watched them sit down awkwardly in wooden chairs barely big enough to contain them in their armour.

‘Ro Weir is secured, my mistress,’ Izra growled out of the corner of her mouth. Her jaw was slightly out of place. ‘We have not had to immolate anyone for several days.’

Dalian’s lip curled. His gaze was drawn over the roofs of buildings to the knight marshal’s office where several hundred charred wooden stakes could be seen. The hounds were not accustomed to civil disobedience and would simply burn the perpetrators alive rather than lock them up. Prisons were a Ro concept that the Karesians had never adopted. Dalian knew he was far from a good man; he had immolated hundreds of people, but always in the name of Jaa. Izra, on the other hand, took wanton delight in any opportunity to make someone scream. And these were not her people. She had burned Karesian next to Ro next to Kirin.

‘Excellent.’ Saara laughed sweetly. ‘A month to secure the second largest population in Tor Funweir. I would say that is rather impressive. Now I have other orders for you both.’

Dalian thought he could discern the hounds swell with eagerness to conduct further atrocities on Saara’s behalf. Saara was an enchantress without equal; she had certainly wormed her way into the heads of Izra and Turve. Dalian was disgusted.

‘We exist to serve you, mistress,’ Turve stated proudly.

‘I know... and I am forever grateful for your loyalty, Master Ramhe.’ Dalian could only see the back of Saara’s head, but he was certain she wore an expression of seductive serenity.

‘Izra,’ she began formally, ‘you will take a force of two thousand hounds north. Your destination is Cozz and, more importantly, the merchants’ wealth that the enclave contains.’

Izra’s eyes began to sparkle at the prospect of more death and destruction. ‘Am I to sack the town, mistress?’ asked the hound commander.

‘Only if necessary,’ replied the enchantress. ‘I imagine it will be sensible to conduct a few lessons in cruelty to keep the populace in line... much as you have done in Weir. But so long as Knight Marshal Wesson opens his gates for you, I see no need to destroy the enclave. After all, we need its wealth if we are to further our occupation beyond the south lands of Tor Funweir.’

‘It will be as you say, mistress.’ In Izra’s eyes Dalian saw the telltale euphoria that marked those under the influence of enchantment.

‘You will take twenty of the captive risen men with you, to be killed if you need additional forces,’ Saara said quietly.

‘They will not be needed, I assure you,’ responded the whip-mistress. ‘My hounds will be more than enough for a town of merchants.’

‘You misunderstand,’ Saara said, with a sinister note in her voice. ‘I want you to birth more Dark Young.’

For a moment, Dalian thought he saw a trace of hesitation cross Izra’s face, but then she bowed her head. ‘It shall be as you say, mistress.’

Saara leant back in her chair. ‘Turve, you will take a larger force – five thousand hounds should be sufficient – to the plains of Leith and the deep woods of the Fell. There you are to burn the risen men out of their home and capture all that flee.’

The whip-master’s face contorted in what looked like violent pleasure. Dalian cared little for the non-human occupants of Tor Funweir, but was suspicious of all Saara’s motives. There was a larger game being played out by the Seven Sisters, and their final goal eluded him.

‘And what of the old-blood and the dark-blood?’ asked Turve.

‘Pevain has taken his bastards north to find them. I believe they will ally against us, if they have not already done so, and we should all be wary. The assassin is a most dangerous foe, capable of causing great damage to our cause.’

‘And the Ghost?’ prompted Izra.

‘He killed the prince of Ro. I think his own people will turn him in, given the chance.’

Dalian drew himself out of sight. He had made enquiries among the city’s less-reputable populace regarding the identity and location of the Kirin assassin. Few were willing to talk about him and the Thief Taker was beginning to realize that Rham Jas Rami had a fearsome reputation. Most seemed afraid even to speak his name. The word was Rham Jas was friend to Al-Hasim, but even if Al-Hasim were in Ro, Dalian had no way to locate him. The Thief Taker had not seen his son for ten long years.

Dalian turned and began the climb back down to Kirin Tor.

* * *

The two hounds had been on duty for ten hours straight, as had Dalian, waiting in the shadow of Ro Weir’s northern gate. He hoped they would be relieved soon.
I am patient, lord, truly I am. But I will need rest and food at some stage.

He had arranged to meet a particularly paranoid information broker, a man of Ro who claimed to know something about the location of a Karesian scoundrel known as the Prince of the Wastes, which he recognized as his son’s pretentious sobriquet.

The broker had insisted that they meet outside the gate. Dalian understood his paranoia and hoped the man actually knew something. He planned to leave Weir and travel north, another anonymous Karesian face among Izra’s hounds. The merchant enclave of Cozz saw many kinds of business, he thought it the most likely place to start looking for Rham Jas Rami and Al-Hasim. He hoped this broker would give him some valuable contacts in the city.

One of the two hounds on guard began to yawn and Dalian sensed an opportunity. It was early morning, not yet fully light, and the Thief Taker moved closer. He made little effort to remain hidden and trusted that his cloak and nondescript clothing would mask his identity. Timing was important – he had no desire to be interrupted by the relief shift. With a window of no more than a few minutes, he walked slowly but deliberately towards the gate.

The hounds moved to intercept him.

‘Turn round,’ said the first hound. ‘This gate is off limits to common folk.’

Neither of the black-armoured men drew their weapon, and Dalian sauntered closer.

‘Did you not hear me, Ro?’ asked the hound.

‘I’m not a Ro,’ he said, smashing his fist into the throat of one of the guards and spinning to kick the other in the chest before he could react to the sudden attack.

The first guard fell to the ground and gasped for breath through his crushed windpipe. Dalian was quickly on top of the second man; he wrapped an arm round his neck and twisted until he heard it snap.

He stood up and stamped on the first man’s head, crushing the man’s skull.

No one had seen him and Dalian didn’t wait to find out if anyone had heard the men die. He stole one of the hound’s scimitars, tucked it into his belt and pushed open the inner door of the north gate. Before him the road was empty.

Thank you, lord, that went better than expected
. The muster field was visible off to the east, sprawling across the fields of Weir, though the palisade and guard towers were far off, making it unlikely that anyone would see him leaving. To the west, a deserted sea of farmhouses and stables stretched to the coast, mostly intact, but all abandoned for the relative safety of the city.

Nontheless, he took pains to move between the deserted buildings with stealth. He started when he heard the low crackle of a fire from a nearby stable. He slowed his pace and crouched under a wooden beam, between mismatched planks.

Putting his eye to a shard of light from within, Dalian saw a young man sitting in a yellow glow of fire, a bottle of wine in his hand and a crossbow resting next to him on the floor. He looked younger than Dalian had expected – barely twenty years old – and the Thief Taker, a man who had just murdered two of his own countrymen in cold blood, could not help but feel a moment of sympathy for a scared young man.

Taking less trouble to be quiet, he moved round to the front of the stable and paused momentarily, giving the man of Ro a chance to register his presence. The Thief Taker then stepped through the entrance and into the flickering firelight. The broker had his crossbow levelled between Dalian’s eyes. ‘That’s far enough,’ he said nervously.

Dalian stepped further into the stable and lowered his hood. ‘I believe I am expected,’ he said in thickly accented Ro. ‘And that crossbow needs attention. The string is twisted at one end. I doubt the bolt would fly straight. Ordinarily, I would expect you to invite me in and offer me a seat. I have coin, you have information... if we like each other’s currency, this exchange can be over within a few minutes.’

The youth’s hand was shaking. ‘Okay, but I’ll keep you in my sights.’

‘As you wish,’ Dalian said, holding his hands wide and stepping slowly but deliberately into the stable. The cold had begun to creep into his bones and he was glad of the fire to warm his hands. In its light, he could see the young man opposite him had tufts of hair on his chin and his limbs were scrawny, a combination that made Dalian reconsider his original estimate of the boy’s age.

‘How old are you, lad?’ he asked.

‘What... why does that matter?’

Dalian leant back and sighed, keeping his hands extended in front of him. The lad was nervous enough to loose a bolt accidentally. With a lightning-fast movement, he snatched the crossbow cleanly out of the young man’s hands. It was a well-practised manoeuvre and the Thief Taker implemented it perfectly, leaving the boy stunned.

‘Now we can talk,’ he said, placing the weapon on the floor and removing the bolt. ‘Don’t worry, young man, I don’t kill people who aren’t in my way. And you have information for me.’ Dalian crossed him arms in front of his chest and relaxed. ‘A fixer in Cozz?’ he prompted.

The man of Ro took a swig from his bottle of wine in an obvious attempt to steady his nerves. ‘Yeah, he’s a blacksmith – knows everyone.’

‘Might he know a Kirin assassin called Rham Jas Rami or a Karesian called Al-Hasim?’

‘I’ve heard of the Kirin.’ Again Dalian noted the reluctance to say the assassin’s name out loud. ‘He used to kill people for a mobster in Weir.’

Dalian had heard this several times since he came to Weir, but no one seemed to know when the Kirin had disappeared.

‘And the Prince of the Wastes?’ Dalian asked.

The boy nodded. ‘Yeah, he’s a Karesian... I think he’s a pimp or something. The blacksmith would know him. I think he fixed him up with some women.’

Dalian could well believe that his son would make his living as some kind of low life – pimp, rainbow merchant, sword for hire, all these had occurred to him. He had not spoken to Al-Hasim since helping him escape Kessia.

‘How do I find the smith?’ Dalian asked, throwing three small gold coins on to the stable floor.

The lad leapt greedily on the coin, shoving it into his stained tunic. ‘He’s called Tobin. Ask for him in Culver’s Yard.’

‘What are you going to spend it on?’ Dalian asked coldly.

The youth’s hand was still shaking. ‘Why do you care... you got the name?’

Dalian smiled for the first time in several days. ‘I’m an old servant of Jaa, young man. I’ve done hideous things in the name of my god, but I hate the sight of a young man wasting his life. Jaa detests the useless and, in my estimation, few people are more useless than a rainbow addict.’

The young man of Ro looked up sharply with a pathetic expression on his face. ‘Ain’t none of your business.’

Dalian frowned and slowly rocked himself forward into a standing position. He adjusted his cloak and made sure his weapons were well stowed. ‘I do believe you are right, it is none of my business. You are a child of the One and not Jaa’s to punish...’ He paused. ‘You are lucky that your god is ignorant and knows no better.’

The Thief Taker turned sharply, whirling his cloak across the fire and sending a shower of embers into the air as he marched deliberately out of the stable.

Once outside, he shook his head at the ignorance allowed in the lands of Ro. A level of casual lawlessness was tolerated in a way that would result in death in Karesia. The wind claws punished all transgressions against Jaa in as swift and brutal a way as possible. Jaa demanded fear from his worshippers and Dalian knew that nothing promoted fear like seeing your loved ones immolated before your eyes.