The Long War 03 - The Red Prince (51 page)

‘General!’ shrieked the king. ‘You insult a cleric of the sword.’

Frith removed his boot and stepped back. ‘Of course, my king, I forget myself,’ he said conversationally.

Cleon Montague stood and adjusted his tabard. He stared at the general but didn’t answer the challenge. Picking up his fallen saddle, the cleric went to retrieve his horse. The rest of the Purple clerics dismounted and assisted the king as he clumsily tried to reach the ground.

‘Are we going to die?’ mumbled Vladimir. ‘He looks angry.’

‘He looks pathetic,’ replied Theron.

‘Both of you, shut up,’ snapped Fallon. ‘We’re not going to die here.’

‘I advise you to be silent,’ whispered Dolf Halan sharply. ‘Let us handle things and you and your men may survive.’

Frith approached Sebastian Tiris and dropped to one knee.

‘My king, I report from Arnon as ordered,’ he said, ignoring the armed Purple clerics glaring at him.

‘I receive you gratefully,’ slurred the king, offering his hand. ‘I command that you place these criminals under arrest.’

The Red cardinal kissed the offered hand and stood up. His eyes were now narrow as he studied the king’s face.

‘As you say, my king. What is their crime?’ asked Frith.

‘Treason!’ he shrieked.

‘I see,’ replied the general. ‘And the details of this treason?’

Montague returned, leading his horse. His manner was more guarded now. Perhaps a boot to the throat was the best way to talk to a Purple cleric. ‘The details are incidental, general,’ said the king’s bodyguard. ‘You have been ordered to arrest them and arrest them you must.’

‘I don’t believe I was speaking to you, cleric,’ replied Frith, dismissing the man with a wave of his hand.

The raven made its presence known with a caw. It had been there since the king had arrived, silently circling them, but now its shrill call signalled the appearance of Torian’s shade. All eyes except Fallon’s looked up. The Grey Knight studied the ghostly purple image that was facing the king, while the other men shouted curses at the bird.

Montague pointed at Dolf Halan. ‘You, knight! Fetch me a crossbow. I’ll deal with this winged harbinger.’

Halan looked unimpressed. He turned to his general for confirmation and Frith shook his head.

‘Throw your sword at it,’ said the knight general. ‘And don’t give my men orders.’

‘Cardinal!’ barked the king. ‘I have given you an order. I trust I am permitted.’

The bird caught a downdraught and soared towards the ground. It flew over their heads and turned sharply, plunging directly at Torian’s shade and the king. The raven was large and its glossy, black wings shone in the morning sun. It pulled up before the king and the others all followed its graceful flight. Fallon didn’t look up. He looked at the ghostly raven that had sent its shade out towards Torian and the king. The form looked exactly like the raven, but was transparent and shimmering white.

Torian’s shade held his arms wide and received the ghostly raven in its chest. The two apparitions fused and a bright blue light made Fallon wince. Then the bird emerged from the cleric’s back and plunged at the king.

‘For the One!’ roared Torian in the depths of Fallon’s mind.

The raven entered the king and the light disappeared. The other knights and clerics reacted only because Sebastian Tiris appeared to faint. They had not seen the ghostly raven and Fallon had kept his astonishment under control.

‘My king,’ spluttered Montague, moving to assist him.

Sebastian held his head while his clerics formed a circle round him. Fallon puffed out his cheeks and cocked an eyebrow. He found himself amused. He wasn’t sure why, but so much time spent with Torian’s shade had made him cynical, even about the supernatural. He was jaded about so much and this was just the latest thing to add to the list.

He nudged Vladimir. ‘This should be interesting, my lord.’

‘What? The king fell over. Fear of birds maybe,’ replied the Lord of Mud.

‘Just wait,’ said Fallon. ‘It would seem the gods are not above an alliance.’

Vladimir and Theron looked at him in confusion. He wished Lanry were here. The old cleric would have had wise counsel. He would probably also have seen the two shades meet. As it was, Fallon had to endure being an exemplar alone.

Captain Halan and General Frith did not go to the king. They left the clerics to flap around and help him stand up. Montague allowed Tiris to lean on him and the king was shaking his head and coughing.

‘Perhaps you should return to the city and rest, my king,’ said Frith. ‘The winds of Scarlet seem not to agree with you.’

Sebastian Tiris was standing. His brow was creased and he pushed away the clerics. Montague sought to lead him away but was waved aside.

‘What the devil is going on here?’ he said, looking at himself as if he wanted a bath. ‘I’m in a frightful state.’

‘My king, we should return to Cardinal Mobius,’ said Montague.

‘Mobius? Where is he?’ asked the king, his confused eyes darting from side to side. He noticed the Red cardinal. ‘Malaki! Excellent, someone with sense. Now, tell me what’s going on, old boy. I am in a field... it’s cold... and there are a lot of warriors milling about. I say! A bloody awful lot of warriors.’

His manner had changed completely, as if a fog had lifted. Fallon took a gamble and spoke. ‘What’s the last thing you remember, my king?’ he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the Purple clerics.

‘You do not speak here,’ commanded Montague.

The king frowned at his bodyguard. ‘Er, there’s no need for rudeness, Cleon. I’m sure we can sort this out in short order... obviously if someone tells me where I am.’

‘You’re in the Freelands, your grace,’ said General Frith. ‘And I think Fallon’s question is a fair one. What’s the last thing you remember?’

‘Fallon, yes,’ replied the king, smiling at the Grey Knight. ‘Fallon of Leith, isn’t it? The finest swordsman in Tor Funweir, by reputation. I’m honoured, Sir Fallon.’

Montague whispered in the ear of another cleric and two Purple men wheeled their horses swiftly, riding back to South Warden.

‘Where are they going?’ asked Frith.

‘They are reporting in,’ replied Montague. ‘Lord Mobius will want to know what is happening here.’ His voice was quiet and his tone worried. ‘My king, we should leave. You’re confused, these knights are not what you think. They are traitors.’

Frith and Halan began to respond, but were interrupted by the king. ‘Nonsense!’ snapped Sebastian Tiris. ‘Malaki here is a dear old friend. Isn’t that right, old boy?’

The Red general shoved two clerics out of the way and stood before his king. He smiled and offered his hand. ‘It’s good to see you again, Sebastian.’

They shook hands and the king leant in. ‘I am awfully confused, though. What is going on here?’

‘As Fallon asked, what is the last thing you remember, my king?’

His face screwed up and he chewed on his lower lip. ‘Hmm, a party, I think. Well, a gathering, at the very least. Wine, food, music. My house in Ro Tiris.’

‘You’ve been in Ranen for almost eight months, my king,’ said Fallon. ‘Ro Canarn, Ro Hail, South Warden, you’ve conquered the southern Ranen. Do you not remember?’

Sebastian Tiris studied himself. He looked at his tarnished royal armour, his stained gold cloak. He scratched at his greasy hair and inspected his blackened fingernails. He frowned at what he saw.

‘Have I been ill?’ he asked. ‘I remember nothing since... since meeting that Karesian woman. Cardinal Mobius introduced me to her.’ He rubbed his face and Frith extended a hand to assist him.

‘Thank you, old boy, you’re a loyal servant.’

He leant forward and steadied himself against the Red cardinal. Montague and the Purple clerics stepped back and Dolf Halan joined Frith.

Torian’s shade stood next to Fallon. The figure was brighter, the purple of his armour more vibrant and the sparkle in his eyes more penetrating. There was pride and conviction on his shimmering features, as if a plan had come to fruition.

Vladimir stood. ‘I met him once before, years ago,’ whispered the Lord of Mud. ‘He was exactly like that.’

‘What’s happened?’ asked Theron, less perceptive.

‘The king regains his mind,’ replied Fallon.

They both looked at him, keeping half an eye on the king leaning on Frith’s shoulder. Neither man showed much faith, but they had not seen what he had seen.

‘Right, let’s sort this out,’ announced the king. ‘If Mobius is in South Warden, to South Warden we will go.’

His words were punctuated by the opening of the distant city gates. The two clerics rode inside and the gates closed. Whatever message they delivered to the Purple cardinal, Fallon guessed that the next hour would be rather interesting. But hopefully not terminal.

‘As you say, my king,’ replied Frith. ‘We will accompany you.’

The Red cardinal signalled to his bound men and their horses were returned. Montague and the clerics had already wheeled their horses and left Sebastian Tiris with Frith. The king’s eyes were brighter and he chatted with the general about the weather, the state of his clothes and a hundred other mundane things as they remounted.

‘I hope the Ranen will allow me to have a bath, I smell frightful.’

‘We don’t know how many Ranen are left, my king,’ replied Frith. ‘Many were killed when your knights and yeomen took the city.’

Sebastian Tiris dropped his eyes to the grass. He had lived a sheltered life of power and nobility, but Fallon felt for him; he had woken from an enchanted sleep after many months to be told that he had started a war and killed thousands of men.

‘Are we going with them?’ asked Vladimir, pulling himself back into his saddle.

‘Ask him,’ replied Fallon. ‘I doubt he’ll kill you.’

‘Reassuring. Thanks.’

The Lord of Mud nudged his horse close enough to be heard and coughed politely, interrupting the king’s chatter.

‘Lord Corkoson, isn’t it? Of the Darkwald.’

‘Yes, yes that’s right,’ replied Vladimir, smiling nervously. ‘I don’t know if you remember, but you sentenced me to hang, your grace.’ The words were blurted out. ‘Does that sentence no longer stand?’

‘I should bloody well think not,’ replied the king. ‘Execute a lord of Tor Funweir? Such things should not be done. Well, not without due process and the necessary proof. What are you supposed to have done, my lord?’

The Lord of Mud tried to smile, but his nerves made it a strange mix of pain and fatigue. ‘I disagreed with you on a matter of tactics, my king.’

‘What matter of tactics?’

‘Well, you and Mobius wanted to get all my men killed in the breach and I disagreed,’ replied Vladimir, affecting his best upper-class accent.

Frith chuckled, though the Lord of Mud didn’t relax.

‘Don’t you worry yourself,’ said the king. ‘You come with us, Sir Fallon too, and we’ll sort this out. Lead the way, Malaki, old boy.’

Frith, Dolf Halan and five bound knights encircled the king and nudged their horses forward. Twelve riders left the parlay table with hundreds of eyes watching them from three separate military camps. Nothing had been conveyed to the camp of the yeomanry and Fallon knew that Major Dimitri and Brother Lanry would be exasperated.

Tristram and his adjutant were uncertain, but had said nothing to contradict either the general or the king. Now, as everyone rode towards the city gates, the knight commander fell in beside Fallon.

‘The king regains his senses,’ he said.

‘I said that to Vladimir a minute ago,’ replied Fallon. ‘Good news for both of us.’

‘Not for Mobius,’ said Tristram. ‘He will give up control reluctantly.’

‘But you’re with us, yes?’ he asked, giving his former commander a chance to throw his lot in with the Red cardinal.

‘I’m a knight of the Red, Fallon. I do what I’m told. As you once did.’

‘After all of this we may eventually get to go home,’ replied the Grey Knight, surprised at his brief feeling of optimism.

Vladimir interjected, ‘That would be pleasant.’

‘Best be quiet now,’ said Tristram, as the city loomed before them.

Since he had escaped, Fallon had been looking at South Warden for weeks. Each morning and each night, he’d seen its repaired wooden walls and its red-armoured defenders. It was strange now to be at its gates. It was stranger still to be riding with Knight General Malaki Frith and King Sebastian Tiris. If only the One would inform him of a plan before it was enacted. He felt reactive and unprepared, as if something was yet to happen.

‘That blasted raven,’ said Vladimir, ‘it’s perched on the gate. Where they repaired it.’

The large bird was looking down at them, flaring its wings and emitting a mocking caw. Bound men, guarding the forward battlements, aimed crossbows, but could not get a clear shot.

‘If it’s an omen, it’s a good one,’ replied Fallon.

The Lord of Mud frowned at him. ‘I was mostly worried about getting bird shit on my head.’

‘Good omens can still shit on you,’ he said, chuckling.

‘Quiet,’ repeated Tristram.

The riders stopped before the gates, allowing Frith and the king to advance. The men above were bound Red knights, staring at their king in confusion. Through the narrow gaps in the gate, purple tabards shone in the sun. No red could be seen, except on the walls. There were five thousand Red knights in South Warden, picketed somewhere beyond the entranceway.

‘Where are your men?’ he asked Commander Tristram.

‘Mobius ordered us round the edge of the city, guarding the Ranen prisoners. The centre is just for the clerics, two hundred of them.’

‘That’s a lot of Purple,’ he replied.

Fallon looked at the raven. It looked back, silently craning its neck forward. There was intelligence in the small, black eyes, and the bird managed to be more expressive up close.

‘Open the gate!’ commanded Frith in a deep, clear voice. ‘The king returns.’

Men ran across the battlements, their steel-shod boots clattering on wood as they asked for orders. No one took charge and the gates remained closed, indicating a breakdown of command within. Whatever Mobius intended, he was taking his time.