The Long War 01 - The Black Guard Read Online Free Page A

the great cities of Tor Funweir and disliked the idea of returning to the simple life of a commoner.
    Time passed slowly, Sir Leon muttering to himself as he drank. He looked up rarely, moving only to scratch under his armour or shift his weight to a more comfortable position.
    The sun began to shine through the tavern windows and Randall thought it would be a hot day. Ro Tiris was on the northern coast of Tor Funweir and the wind that blew across the straits of Canarn generally kept the capital cool. Across the straits lived the men of Canarn. Randall had never been to Ro Canarn, but the rumours he’d heard since arriving in Tiris made him think the city might not be currently very safe.
    Randall was startled when Sir Leon banged his fist on the bar and proclaimed, ‘Right, time to kill a cleric.’ He stood up and puffed out his chest. ‘Sword!’ he demanded of his squire.
    Randall gathered himself and passed the sword, still in its scabbard, with the belt wrapped carefully round it. Sir Leon took his time, looking fondly at the crest before buckling it around his waist.
    He turned to his squire, the smell of wine heavy on his breath. ‘Don’t worry, lad. A poor old man like me shouldn’t make you frown.’ Smiling, he put his hand on Randall’s shoulder. ‘You’re getting tall. Maybe it’s time for you to get a sword of your own and find someone to show you how to use it.’ Sir Leon had mentioned this before. It was the duty of a knight properly to school his squire in the way of handling a sword, but Sir Leon had simply never got round to it. He had shown Randall a couple of stances and the correct way to swing a longsword, but his squire was not a swordsman yet and had never possessed his own blade.
    ‘Well,’ said the knight with a grin, ‘consider this your first real lesson.’ He suddenly threw the empty wine bottle at the line of glasses next to the tavern keeper. The sound echoed around the empty common room and glass shards flew, causing the man to dive to the floor. Sir Leon didn’t wait to see the reaction to his outburst, but simply strode towards the door.
    Randall followed, several steps behind his master, and smiled awkwardly at the tavern keeper as he left.
    The tavern doors were propped open and the street outside was relatively empty. The narrow cobbled back street was being swept clean by bound men of the crown – men paid in food, clothing and a place to sleep. They were doing a poor job and the street remained unpleasant. Sir Leon ignored the workers as he turned a sharp left into the street. He breathed in the air of the city and turned up his nose at the mix of alcohol, vomit and dirt. Randall followed behind him and had to run to keep up with the striding knight.
    Sir Leon stopped at the corner of the tavern building and took a long look down the street. The buildings in the poor quarter were close together and little direct sunlight reached the ground. Debris from a hundred nights of revelry filled the narrow side street and Randall had to dodge bottles, crates and items of broken furniture as he struggled to keep up with his master. At the rear of the tavern was the alley into which Randall had thrown Sir Leon’s waste, insulting Brother Torian in the process. Beyond were stables, serving several taverns and a number of brothels.
    Sir Leon stepped over the open sewer and came to a halt. As Randall pulled up next to him, he saw Sir Leon’s sturdy brown horse and his own black and grey pony mixed in with several mangy old horses munching on bales of straw. Standing in the middle of the stable was the Purple cleric, fully armoured and with sword in hand. His breastplate, greaves and gauntlets were of burnished steel. Although he had removed his cloak in preparation for the duel, other items of purple adorned his dress. His scabbard and belt both had an ornate purple design and the colour was repeated on most of the fabric that showed under his armour.
    Now Brother Torian was wearing