to know someone else hates all this shit,’ he said quietly to his mount.
From Tristram’s pavilion, Fallon saw a small group of knights and clerics emerge on to a well-built dais, raised ten or so feet from the cobbles.
Cardinal Mobius appeared first, standing tall and proud in his spotless purple armour. Next to him were three lesser clerics, including Brother Jakan and an older noble called Rathbone of Chase. Knight Commander Tristram stood to the side, adopting a subservient position behind the Purple clerics.
All the men in the courtyard were silent now, as King Sebastian Tiris emerged from the command pavilion. The monarch looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale and his hair greasy. He wore gold armour that didn’t sit right on his shoulders, and a fur-trimmed cloak designed to make him look more bulky and muscular than he really was. At his side were two other clerics – his bodyguard, Cleoth Montague, and an elderly Black cleric called Aleister of the Falls of Arnon. The cleric of death was the army’s chaplain. He seemed far too old for the position and Fallon thought he must have greatly angered his cardinal to be appointed at such an advanced age.
Mobius raised his hand. ‘Brothers, you will salute your king.’
The five thousand knights and bound men banged on their breastplates in unison, again causing Fallon’s horse to buck and paw at the ground.
Brother Cleoth Montague, a tough-looking Purple cleric and son to one of the richest men in Tor Funweir, stepped to the front. As a bodyguard he was largely useless, having been knocked unconscious by the Fjorlan axe-woman Halla Summer Wolf, but as a symbol of the king’s wealth and nobility he was priceless. ‘You will remember this day,’ Montague announced in a clear and formal tone. ‘For on this day, your king retakes Ranen.’ He was a skilled orator, and as his voice rose in volume he encouraged the assembled knights to cheer. When they did not, several Purple clerics in the crowd banged on their breastplates until a slow cheer rose from the army.
Fallon shook his head. He had not cheered, neither had his unit. A glance across at Tristram showed that the knight commander was also silent.
Cleoth bent a knee in front of the king and bowed his head. ‘My king,’ he said, inviting Sebastian Tiris to speak.
Fallon narrowed his eyes as the lord king of Tor Funweir stepped on unsteady feet to the front of the raised platform. His eyes were wide and unfocused, leading Fallon to think that he had been drinking as well as not sleeping. A few knights made sniggering sounds or exchanged low murmurs of disapproval at the king’s demeanour, but they were instantly singled out and ordered to remain silent by Mobius’s clerics.
And then the king spoke. ‘I will have order,’ he began, in a quiet voice. ‘I will have order and I will have obedience.’ His words were slurred and Fallon frowned. Something was not right here. ‘This land is mine by right,’ he continued in the manner of a petulant youth rather than a middle-aged monarch. ‘Our beloved allies have shown us the way... yes, yes, they have...’ His eyes were wider now and a look of mania had appeared on his face. ‘We will sack South Warden, we will bombard their city, burn their houses, kill their warriors and return these peasants and lesser men to their rightful place... as servants to the men of the One.’ Again, the Purple clerics saluted and a murmured cheer was dragged from the knights of the Red.
‘Brother Jakan of Tiris, step forward,’ said the king, in a voice intended to be commanding.
‘My king,’ said the pompous Purple cleric, as he joined Cleoth on bended knee.
‘Ten thousand men of the Darkwald yeomanry will arrive within days and I name you lord commander of their force.’ Jakan’s eyes widened in glee at his first command, and Mobius nodded with approval. ‘You will form the vanguard of our advance, brother cleric.’
Fallon bit his lip at
From Tristram’s pavilion, Fallon saw a small group of knights and clerics emerge on to a well-built dais, raised ten or so feet from the cobbles.
Cardinal Mobius appeared first, standing tall and proud in his spotless purple armour. Next to him were three lesser clerics, including Brother Jakan and an older noble called Rathbone of Chase. Knight Commander Tristram stood to the side, adopting a subservient position behind the Purple clerics.
All the men in the courtyard were silent now, as King Sebastian Tiris emerged from the command pavilion. The monarch looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale and his hair greasy. He wore gold armour that didn’t sit right on his shoulders, and a fur-trimmed cloak designed to make him look more bulky and muscular than he really was. At his side were two other clerics – his bodyguard, Cleoth Montague, and an elderly Black cleric called Aleister of the Falls of Arnon. The cleric of death was the army’s chaplain. He seemed far too old for the position and Fallon thought he must have greatly angered his cardinal to be appointed at such an advanced age.
Mobius raised his hand. ‘Brothers, you will salute your king.’
The five thousand knights and bound men banged on their breastplates in unison, again causing Fallon’s horse to buck and paw at the ground.
Brother Cleoth Montague, a tough-looking Purple cleric and son to one of the richest men in Tor Funweir, stepped to the front. As a bodyguard he was largely useless, having been knocked unconscious by the Fjorlan axe-woman Halla Summer Wolf, but as a symbol of the king’s wealth and nobility he was priceless. ‘You will remember this day,’ Montague announced in a clear and formal tone. ‘For on this day, your king retakes Ranen.’ He was a skilled orator, and as his voice rose in volume he encouraged the assembled knights to cheer. When they did not, several Purple clerics in the crowd banged on their breastplates until a slow cheer rose from the army.
Fallon shook his head. He had not cheered, neither had his unit. A glance across at Tristram showed that the knight commander was also silent.
Cleoth bent a knee in front of the king and bowed his head. ‘My king,’ he said, inviting Sebastian Tiris to speak.
Fallon narrowed his eyes as the lord king of Tor Funweir stepped on unsteady feet to the front of the raised platform. His eyes were wide and unfocused, leading Fallon to think that he had been drinking as well as not sleeping. A few knights made sniggering sounds or exchanged low murmurs of disapproval at the king’s demeanour, but they were instantly singled out and ordered to remain silent by Mobius’s clerics.
And then the king spoke. ‘I will have order,’ he began, in a quiet voice. ‘I will have order and I will have obedience.’ His words were slurred and Fallon frowned. Something was not right here. ‘This land is mine by right,’ he continued in the manner of a petulant youth rather than a middle-aged monarch. ‘Our beloved allies have shown us the way... yes, yes, they have...’ His eyes were wider now and a look of mania had appeared on his face. ‘We will sack South Warden, we will bombard their city, burn their houses, kill their warriors and return these peasants and lesser men to their rightful place... as servants to the men of the One.’ Again, the Purple clerics saluted and a murmured cheer was dragged from the knights of the Red.
‘Brother Jakan of Tiris, step forward,’ said the king, in a voice intended to be commanding.
‘My king,’ said the pompous Purple cleric, as he joined Cleoth on bended knee.
‘Ten thousand men of the Darkwald yeomanry will arrive within days and I name you lord commander of their force.’ Jakan’s eyes widened in glee at his first command, and Mobius nodded with approval. ‘You will form the vanguard of our advance, brother cleric.’
Fallon bit his lip at
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