The Long War 03 - The Red Prince (48 page)

They were between an empty stable and a wooden house, nestled in dead ground. Looming over nearby houses was Long Shadow’s hall, a wooden long house with a sloping roof, thatched with golden straw. Beyond that, the crumbling dome of Rowanoco’s Stone.

‘The Red bastards,’ grumbled Fynius. ‘Is nothing sacred?’

‘This isn’t Tor Funweir,’ replied Hasim. ‘Nothing is sacred outside Tor Funweir. To the knights you’re just peasants and lesser men.’

‘Is that how they won?’

Hasim nodded. ‘They couldn’t take the breach, so they bombarded the assembly and drove the Ranen to frenzy.’

‘Stupid, rage-filled, hairy, southern, Free Company idiots.’

‘That’s a bit strong. They fought like the Ice Giant himself to defend their ground.’

‘They lost... bravery means fuck all if you lose,’ replied Fynius.

The Karesian snorted and shook his head. He cared for these southern Ranen. It was all over his face. He’d fought to defend this city and stayed alive. That put him a little way above Scarlet Company.

‘Why do you care?’ he asked Hasim. ‘This isn’t your land or your god.’

‘My god’s a vicious tyrant... if I’m going to fight for something, it might as well be a god that gives a shit about his followers.’

‘Good attitude,’ he replied.

The opening was in a disused corner of South Warden and moving the crumbling stone to poke his head out was free of risk. Fynius gained his bearings quickly. The tunnel travelled under the hall and snaked its way across the town. It poked above the ground at irregular intervals, forming mounds of grass and brick.

There were few knights in evidence. They appeared between buildings and disappeared again, making their way towards the main gate. Small patrols were far off, keeping their eyes on the western defences. They had hubris enough to ignore the peasants and lesser men of Ranen skulking to the north. The bulk of the king’s forces were in here somewhere, but not looking for a couple of men in a cheese cellar.

He left the spy-hole and carried on along the tunnel, moving quickly again. He counted his strides, judging when he was below Long Shadow’s hall. There was little light now and Fynius narrowed his eyes and trusted in his night vision. The ceiling was flat and the tunnel angled downwards.

‘Are you going to tell me your plan yet?’ asked Hasim.

‘Something’s going to happen,’ he replied.

‘What?’

‘Not sure, but we need to be ready when it does,’ stated Fynius.

The Karesian puffed out his cheeks. He was impatient and needed to relax. Fynius wondered why people were so reluctant to trust him.

‘Are we going to have a problem?’ he asked Hasim. ‘So far you’ve only been slightly stupid. Much more, and we may fall out.’

‘You’re taking all this very lightly,’ replied the man of the sun. ‘People have died. Lots of people. And, unless you’re cleverer than you appear, many more are going to die before this is done.’

‘Don’t worry, I am much cleverer than I appear,’ replied Fynius.

Hasim chuckled. At least he had a sense of humour. ‘You’re funny, man of Gar. But I’m taking a lot on trust.’

Fynius was confused. He didn’t really feel the need or the inclination to explain himself. He was following Brytag and he trusted the World Raven with his life. Why did others not just keep out of his way?

‘Answer me this, man of the sun – what choice do you have?’

He didn’t wait for an answer.

The tunnel had opened into a basement, a cube of grey, mouldy stone. Old doors hung limply on broken hinges, turning a dark green in the musty air. Above, a long-sealed trapdoor and a few slivers of light.

‘Right, first things first,’ he said. ‘I need to see the king.’

‘Er, what?’ asked Hasim.

Fynius smiled, splitting his mouth into a broad grin. ‘I don’t plan to have a drink with him. I just need to see him. Then I can think about Scarlet Company and the wise woman.’

He moved a heavy barrel to the centre of the basement and vaulted on top of it. At full stretch he could reach the trapdoor.

‘Do you know where that leads?’ asked Hasim.

‘Nope. Well, yes... it leads up.’

He grabbed a rusted semicircle of metal that used to be a handle and used his weight as leverage. A few seconds of creaking and falling dust, and the trapdoor buckled downwards. Fynius let go and fell to the stone floor, covered in wooden splinters and thick dust. Two white fabric sacks fell down from above and bounced off his head, eliciting grunts of annoyance.

When the dust had cleared there was an open hatchway leading up.

Fynius coughed and rubbed the grime and dirt from his face, kicking the sacks out of the way.

‘Up we go then,’ he said, getting back on the barrel.

He leapt up and got a good hold on the lip of the opening, pulling himself up into musty darkness. It was another basement, built on top of the cheese tunnels. This one was full, with sacks and barrels in disorganized lines across the slotted wooden floor. Fynius had emerged in the middle of forgotten supplies and under a low ceiling. The wood above was poorly maintained and each floorboard had gaps. The light was flickering, coming from fire-pits in the long hall. Best of all, he could hear muffled voices.

Hasim hauled himself up into the basement of Long Shadow’s hall, crouching amidst the barrels.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Fynius.

‘I’m hiding,’ whispered Hasim in response.

‘From what? There’s no one here.’

The Karesian pointed upwards. ‘There are people up there.’

‘They’re not looking for two sneaky rodents in their basement, though, are they?’

‘Rodents? Fuck off,’ replied Hasim.

Fynius moved across the discarded barrels to the corner of the basement. The gaps between the floorboards were wider here and larger blades of light illuminated his face. The voices were still too far away. He needed to get closer. He tested the floorboards and found them loose. With a lift and a slide, he moved a plank of wood out of the way and poked his head up through the floor.

It was a small room, filled with food and bottles of mead. A door at each end, both latched from the outside. Sides of salted pork, baskets of apples, oranges and rounds of hard bread. The larder of the long hall was well used, with little dust and multiple footprints.

‘Stay down there, man of the sun. Your big, heavy feet will give us away.’

He ignored the grumbled reply and hefted himself into the larder. Voices, footsteps, the clank of armour, all were clear and alarmingly close. The knights and clerics occupying the hall appeared to be flustered. Their voices were raised and their movements quick.

‘The king, the Purple man, the king, the Purple man, the enchantress, the wise woman. What to do, what to do?’

With the tip of Leg Biter, he gently raised the latch on the left-hand door. Glancing into the hall, he saw light, natural and unnatural. Torches in the corridors, fire-pits in the long hall, and the silvery glow of dawn from the windows.

He darted across the corridor to an adjacent room. Two Purple clerics clanked across the carpet a second later, talking about the Red cardinal. They were encased in ornate armour, looking like mobile fortresses of interlocked metal and leather strapping. They hadn’t seen or heard him.

His new location was a bedroom, perhaps formerly belonging to a cook or a kitchen servant. There was blood on the white sheets and sword marks on the wall. Someone had died there. Bastard knights.

‘Up or along, up or along?’ he muttered, hoping for an answer. ‘Up is safer, along is quicker.’

‘Up it is!’

Above the room, a dense criss-cross of interlocked wooden beams held up the thatched roof. There was no lower ceiling and a sufficiently nimble man could traverse the length of Long Shadow’s hall in the rafters.

‘I’m sufficiently nimble. Let’s go and see the king,’ he said to Brytag, making sure the World Raven was still with him.

He put a chair on top of the bed and climbed up. It was tricky to reach the rafters, though the lack of light helped conceal him. Within a few minutes he was hanging in the middle of the small bedroom, clinging to the horizontal wooden beams. He strained with exertion and flexed his forearms, pulling his lean body into the dark rafters.

‘Much better, I can see where I’m going.’

Perched on a beam in darkness, Fynius could see a lot of men. A dozen small bedrooms were occupied by clerics. Ranen prisoners were held in a dozen more storerooms. Ranen women were cleaning the corridors and the long hall was flanked by Purple clerics. The hierarchy was obvious. The Purple men were in charge and the Red men were the muscle. What a strange way to organize an army. What gave them the right to rule? And Purple was a stupid colour.

He moved through the rafters, silently edging his way towards the hall. Raised voices and the crackle of a fire greeted him. South Warden was warm compared with Old Gar, but cold for these men of Ro, and they kept the fire-pits burning.

‘Will the king tell me what’s going to happen?’ he asked Brytag. ‘Hmm, let’s see.’

At the far end of the hall, seated in Long Shadow’s chair and surrounded by men of the Purple, was the king of Tor Funweir. Fynius didn’t know his name but he looked like a manic child.

‘There you are,’ he whispered.

A cleric, older and haughtier-looking than the rest, was at the king’s side, arguing with him.

‘And you’re the Purple man.’

He moved closer, trusting in shadow and stealth, until he could hear what they were talking about.

‘I know what she wants, my king,’ said the Purple cardinal. ‘She has touched me with her love and blessed me with conviction.’

‘Be silent, Mobius,’ said the king. ‘Saara is my love, my life, and I feel her needs better than you.’

The cardinal grimaced, as if he were fighting the urge to do or say something unwise. The seated man was his king, but some other influence was causing a rift. Was this what Fynius needed to see?

‘Educate me, my king... what does she need?’ asked Mobius, containing his anger.

‘She needs her king to act with strength and certitude. I have been idle and weak. This Fallon of Leith needs to be taught not to defy his king. The Red general must annihilate the peasants of Darkwald.’

The king was flapping his hands in the air. He twitched and contorted, moving his body into strange angles. Whatever else he was, the king of Tor Funweir was clearly under the influence of sorcery.

‘This is wrong,’ muttered Fynius. ‘This is very, very wrong.’

‘My king!’ snapped the Purple cardinal. ‘Please listen to counsel. I know her heart and I know what she wants.’

The king widened his eyes and his face flushed red. ‘You claim to know her better than me? Insolence!’

Mobius put a hand on the hilt of his sword. The other clerics did the same, indicating that they were loyal to their cardinal before their king.

‘Be careful, my king,’ said the cardinal. ‘I spoke to our beloved allies before you’d even heard of them. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I am your servant.’

The king, oblivious to the armed men all around him, raised his chin. ‘I do not like the knights of the Red meeting without me. When they parlay, I will attend.’

Mobius motioned for his men to stand at their ease and they withdrew their hands from their swords. Fynius didn’t understand these men. Even taking into account the sorcery, they were strange creatures. The king was in charge, but not really. The cardinal maintained a strange deceit that he obeyed his monarch, while flexing his muscles and reminding the king how tenuous his power was.

‘The situation needs the leadership of nobility, my king. Let your clerics lead.’ The cardinal stepped close to the king. ‘Stay in the hall, be quiet, know your place. Saara has tasked me with keeping you in line.’

The king began to stand, but was shoved back into his seat by Mobius. He curled up in a mockery of childish emotion, clutching his knees to his chest and crying.

‘If you insist on attending the parlay, my men will accompany you and they will be in charge. You will do as you are told.’

‘I just want her to love me,’ he wailed.

‘We all do, my king, but she only truly loves me,’ replied Mobius, the mania of enchantment bringing a glint to the corner of his eyes.

‘So you’re both enchanted,’ said Fynius. ‘Lovely.’

Around the hall, slouching on chairs and round tables were a dozen men of the Purple. A further squad stood behind Mobius. Fynius had expected the Red men to be in charge, but none of them were in Long Shadow’s hall.

‘Right, I know what’s going to happen,’ he told Brytag. ‘And I know how we can help. Excellent.’

With a jaunty spring in his step, Fynius hopped back across the rafters to the cook’s bedroom.

* * *

Five cheese cellars were now full of blue-jacketed men of Twilight Company. Vincent Hundred Howl had moved everyone under the city and they had spread out through the first few tunnels. When it happened, they would be ready, but Fynius had one more thing to do. He had to find the wise woman.

‘What about Two Hearts?’ asked Hasim. ‘He’s got a lot of men.’

‘He’ll just get in the way,’ replied Fynius. ‘Your lover will be useful, though.’

The man of the sun chuckled, slumped against the wooden floor of the cellar.

‘She’d hate you calling her that.’

‘Don’t care,’ replied Fynius. ‘The World Raven likes her, which means I trust her.’

‘You trust her, a lady of Ro, and not me?’

‘I’d forgotten she was Ro,’ he responded. ‘Gods come before countries. She can speak on my behalf to this Fallon of Leith.’

‘You got his name right... well done!’

Fynius ignored him and again left the bulk of his men. He didn’t need Hasim to accompany him this time and he knew exactly where he was going. He took the same tunnel, ignoring the trapdoor that led up to Long Shadow’s hall, and continuing as far as Rowanoco’s Stone. He could feel the wise woman, huddled under the ruined chapel. At least some of Scarlet Company had not felt the need to die foolishly in the breach.

The cheese tunnels ended in a central stone chamber. Wooden framing lined the circular walls from the floor to the ceiling twenty feet above. Mouldy wheels of cheese and forgotten cheese-making equipment sat on broken wooden shelves. A sufficiently foolhardy man could use the frames as a ladder to reach the hatch in the centre of the ceiling.