BOOK 1

* * *

THE RED PRINCE

THE TALE OF THE OLD BLOODS

* * *

As the Giants became fewer and mortal creatures became more numerous, before ages had names and when time was still in its infancy, the blood was still strong.

The weak beings of this age took the blood gladly and mortal mated with Giant until mighty creatures rose to rule the rock, tree, earth and sea.

As the Giants disappeared, they left beings of strength and twisted form to rule their lands and fight their Long War. These old bloods were few and most bore a visage of madness which they used to cow the primitive men. Faces and bodies, half-twisted by the enormity of their blood, and minds with cunning intent.

As long ages passed, the old bloods waned until the blood was almost spent. They warred with the Great Race of Jekka and they warred with each other. Through the inexorable passage of time, mortals forgot about their masters.

The old bloods that remained bore children and the blood diluted until all that was left were abnormal remnants of Deep Time.

As the Jekkans left and men appeared, gaining their own power, naming their own lands, kingdoms and empires, the old bloods retreated to the darkness of the world. Some hid in forests, some in the deepest caves and some – those that could pass as men – walked paths of their own and kept alive the blood of Giants.

PROLOGUE

* * *

The Lady OF Haran ducked behind a line of rocks and held her breath. The ground was hard and dotted with sharp stones. Beyond the rocks and across the northern plains of Haran rocky pinnacles rose, harsh and unyielding terrain where a thousand warriors could hide in a hundred places, anywhere from Ro Haran to the Walls of Ro.

'How many?' she whispered to Sergeant Ashwyn.

'Maybe a hundred, my lady. Another group of hunters trying to sniff us out.'

No more than forty paces away, the column of Hounds had not seen them and continued their march northwards, oblivious to the warriors of the fifth cohort.

'Not us, Ash ... not us,' she replied. 'They don't know our names or who we are. They only know that Alexander Tiris, the Red Prince of Haran, is hiding up here somewhere.'

The Hounds clanked past, the noise of their marching masking any other sounds. She wondered about their training, or lack of it. To march into enemy territory in such a blatant fashion was ignorant, stupid, suicidal. The Seven Sisters didn't care about their troops – so long as they had more than everyone else. They're just a mob, she thought.

She peered carefully over the rocks to get a better look. Her long black hair, loosely tied in a topknot, brushed her neck as the wind picked up. It chilled her, finding the gaps in her leather armour and making her fingertips tingle. She wore no chain shirt or steel helmet, preferring to avoid blows rather than to bear them. That set her apart from the prince's Hawks more surely than her gender or origin.

'Announce our presence, sergeant,' she said.

Ashwyn drew his short sword and signalled to the men. Two hundred, half the unit, poised to strike. The Hounds were now parallel to them, ambling northwards, a shining mass of black armour and scimitars.

The warriors of Haran moved as one as Ashwyn shouted, 'We are the Hawks of Ro, stand down or die.'

* * *

Although she had lived in the duchy of Haran for ten years, this campaign was her first prolonged stay away from the city of Ro Haran. It was a long way from Hunter's Cross, especially for a young woman untutored in the strict traditions of Tor Funweir, but then she'd never expected to be married to a duke of Ro.

Alexander Tiris had come to her land with an army of Red knights to purge a settlement of Dokkalfar. They met strong resistance from the warriors of the Cross. The knights floundered in the forests, but the fighting still lasted many months. The final battle against Xander's men left only two survivors. They huddled together in the deep woods, far from either camp and badly wounded.

He had told her he was a knight. He had told her he only followed orders. He was of the Red and did his duty for the One God. But his eyes were opened when the Dokkalfar found them.

He struggled at first, but his wounds were severe. He had no option but to accept their help. Over weeks and months they watched each other heal from the hidden branches of a Dokkalfar settlement. Each day she saw his glare softening, his conviction wavering. It wavered until he was no longer the same man. He stopped clutching his sword, stopped fussing over his armour, he even stopped calling them risen men.

At some point – she couldn't be sure when – they began to love each other. Endless days with each other for company meant they shared everything. War and death were a thousand leagues away, too distant to mean anything any more. So the king's brother and an unsuitable woman gave themselves to each other in the stillness of the forest. When they left, clutching hands, they were bound for life. He was handsome, tall and muscular, with strong hands and ardent brown eyes.

Alexander Tiris and Gwendolyn of Hunter's Cross married in a Darkwald village on their way back to civilization, with a vagabond Blue cleric to speak the words that united them.

Their first few months were difficult. Every knight of the Red has a story of a man he once knew who tried to leave. Without exception, those stories end in death: sometimes the noose, more often beheading. Xander was a Red knight who served no longer and neither of them wanted him to hang or lose his head. If he hadn't been of royal blood she might just have had enough time to watch him die in a military camp, north of the Falls of Arnon, before her own execution.

King Sebastian Tiris didn't even look at her as he made the proclamation. He wasn't a wicked man, just a pampered noble who couldn't conceive why his younger brother would wed a commoner in secret. Instead of death, he gave him a duchy, the most isolated in Tor Funweir, and dismissed them. The first and only man allowed to leave the knights of the Red, and his low-born wife, the Lady of Haran.

Ten years hence and time had only brought them closer. She had adapted to his world, knowing that he would never adapt to hers. He was tough on his men, but with her, in the quiet moments when the world went away, he was vulnerable and insecure, a man with great pain in his heart. He took on the role of general and duke, ruling fairly and beloved by the folk of Haran. A duke who had been a prince. A man who had cast away his god for the woman he loved. But he never forgot his family and he never forgot his name.

* * *

The Hounds startled, flailing scimitars and trying to move into a defensive formation. Gwen and Ashwyn led the Hawks in two waves, flanking the mass of black steel, and it was clear that the Karesians were outmatched. Their weapons were adequately forged but poorly wielded. Her first blow drove her Dokkalfar leaf-blade into a man's throat, sliding off his clumsy parry and deflecting the scimitar with little effort. The Hounds' plated black steel armour was not custom-fitted and gaps appeared as each man moved. At the underarm, the knee, the neck, a blade could be crippling or fatal, and the Hawks' short swords were designed to exploit such weaknesses.

Their bloody work was done quickly, with no survivors.

'That's the fourth patrol this week, my lady,' said Ash. 'Do you think they're getting bored of our city? Bored enough to come up here to die?'

'If the enchantress is foolish enough to stay in Haran and send all her Hounds to us ... well, then we'll raise a glass to her stupidity. But we're not that lucky.'

'So if we can't go back to the city until she is gone,' asked the Hawk sergeant, 'when will that be?'

'Do you know a man who can kill them?' she countered. 'Xander won't return if there's any possibility he'll become thrall to Shilpa the Shadow of Lies ... I'll kill him before I let that happen.'

'We've got five thousand Hawks of Ro, my lady, and every one of us would die rather than see the general a slave ...'

'But ...'

He smiled. 'But I'm sick of sleeping under canvas. It's been seven months.'

'Let's hope that assassin turns up soon, then,' she replied.

PART 1

CHAPTER 1

RANDALL OF DARKWALD IN THE TOWN OF KABRIN

* * *

The harbour was called the White Landing, though in the darkness it looked black. He'd never been this far south. It was hot, much hotter than he was used to. He wore a simple tunic, leaving his arms bare, and his belongings were stored in a heavy rucksack back at the inn. He was still sweating, even at night.

He had begun to trim his beard, and his master had remarked that the squire was turning into a strapping young man. Months of continual activity had turned him from wiry boy into well-muscled man of Ro. The sword at his side, the battered travelling boots, the visible scars – he felt older than his nineteen years. And it felt as if his conscience had added a year for each man he'd killed. It was a strange thing to admit. The bloodstains on his hands never seemed to disappear completely, nor did the nausea he felt whenever he pictured the men's faces.

A gust of warm air travelled across the black water and he closed his eyes, breathing in the refreshing wind. Somewhere across the Kirin Ridge was the city of Kessia. Beyond that, he didn't know. Their ship would be here soon and Randall was too impatient to join the others in sleep. He preferred to wait at the White Landing on the off-chance that the boat might arrive early. So far, it hadn't done.

He was also uncomfortable being around Ruth for any extended period of time. The Gorlan Mother had maintained her human form since they left the Fell, but he was sufficiently scared of spiders to struggle to alter his perception of the woman. She had slept when they'd slept, and eaten when they'd eaten, but Randall was certain that was merely a courtesy intended to make the two men feel more comfortable.

He had stopped trying to talk to Ruth and accepted that she simply didn't understand his desire for conversation. That was appropriate, because Randall understood nothing about her. She was an ancient spider and she was a woman. He shook his head and tried to accept that his life was likely to get stranger before it got any easier.

His mind was forced to stop wandering as a sail appeared out of the foggy sea. The ship was of Karesian design and emerged slowly, bobbing gently in the water and gliding towards the White Landing. The harbour was tiny compared to that of Ro Weir and catered mostly for private merchant ships and the occasional pleasure cruise. The king's harbour in Weir was flooded with Hounds, and so Utha had directed them to the small coastal town of Kabrin in order to take passage to Karesia.

Kabrin was one of the nicer places that Randall had visited since he had left the Darkwald, and they had found it easy to pass unobserved through the quiet town to a tavern overlooking the White Landing. If the captain of the ship proved trustworthy, they'd be in the city of Kessia in a week or so, and that thought terrified him. He knew that Utha had never been there and he doubted whether Ruth would have much local knowledge. None of them had a clue about Karesia or how to act around Karesians.

A bell was rung from the harbour to signal that the ship was approaching at the right angle. Men on board began to trim the sails and prepare to dock. Within a few minutes the ship had turned and the sailors were coiling ropes to throw across to men stationed on the landing.

Randall puffed out his cheeks and began to stroll down the wooden steps to the dock. He tried to adopt a tough demeanour for dealing with the ship's captain, imagining the man would react badly to a humble squire. They'd been told that the Karesian's name was Captain Makad and that he was amenable to chartering his boat to strangers. For a price. Randall had twenty gold crowns. Utha had told him to pay no more than fifteen for passage to Kessia.

The Karesian crew quickly roped the ship to the dock and rolled out a wide landing plank over which a dozen men quickly disembarked. They all had the rolling gait of men who had spent most of their lives at sea, and the hard faces of men who don't like other men. Randall thought briefly about going to wake Utha before he attempted to deal with the sailors, but decided at least to try and negotiate a favourable deal on his own. The worst they can do is kill me, he thought.

The sailors were joking and complaining among themselves as Randall approached. The main topic of conversation was the likelihood, or otherwise, of there being a brothel in Kabrin. Randall was fairly sure they'd be disappointed, but hopefully the preponderance of taverns would soften the blow during their time ashore.

'What do you want, boy?' asked a bearded sailor.

'Captain Makad,' replied Randall, keeping his voice even and unemotional. 'I have business for him.'

The dark-skinned Karesian sailor assessed the armed stranger in front of him before nodding in the direction of a man just coming ashore.

'There's your man,' he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the squire.

'Thank you.'

Randall thought that there was no reason to forget his manners, despite the impression he formed that Captain Makad and his crew were far from legitimate traders – something about their demeanour, the cutlasses in their belts, the glares they gave any man of Ro who came too close to their ship.

Randall smiled to himself as he realized how little he feared common criminals. The things he'd seen in the last few months had strengthened his confidence beyond the point where a few nasty glares could bother him. In fact, he found himself meeting them, and standing his ground before the sailors.

Captain Makad was a tall Karesian in late middle age. He was barrel-chested, with a smug look of self-satisfaction on his face. Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he looked as if he had just stopped eating. He was taking his first steps on the wooden dock as Randall approached.

'Captain Makad?' he asked, extending his hand.

The Karesian sailor looked down at the offered hand and then back up to meet his eyes.

'I don't shake hands with Ro.'

Randall snorted confidently, glad he found the insult amusing and not offensive.

'And I don't offer money to rude bastards that don't shake my hand,' he said with a smile. 'Shall we start again?' He extended his hand a second time. 'My name's Randall of Darkwald. Would you be Captain Makad?'

The Karesian sailor narrowed his eyes at the confidence on display and looked around to reassure himself that a dozen or so of his men were still present.

'I am,' he replied, no longer smiling. 'What do you want?'

Randall nodded down to his offered hand and broadened his smile, indicating that he wasn't going to respond until the niceties had been observed. Captain Makad considered his next move carefully and, after a moment, took Randall's hand and shook it half-heartedly.

'You see? We can always be polite,' said the squire, slightly surprised at his own confidence. 'Now, I understand that you are amenable to paying passengers.'

'I might be,' replied Makad. 'Who, and how many?'

'Two men and a woman ... we're going to Kessia.' Randall wasn't turning away and he judged that his stare was making the barrel-chested captain a little unsure of himself.

'I could do that,' replied the Karesian, adopting a more business-like expression, 'for thirty gold crowns.'

'Ten,' countered Randall.

'Who do you speak for, boy? Who am I taking to Kessia?' Makad was obviously wary and, just as obviously, not a fool.

'Me and two friends of mine ... twelve crowns,' replied Randall.

The Karesian looked around at his crew and nodded to the closest men. Four swarthy-looking sailors closed in round Randall and waited for their captain's order, nodding their heads suggestively.

Makad began to look even more smug. 'Give me a reason not to steal your shiny longsword and dump you in the harbour.'

Randall chuckled. 'I could give you a reason, a very good reason, or I could tear your head off and use it to kill your men ... but then you wouldn't get twelve crowns for sailing to Kessia ... which you're going to do anyway.'

It was a bold strategy, but the squire didn't back off a step, even when surrounded by men who would attack him in an instant if their captain ordered them to.

For a moment, Randall thought he'd pushed his confidence a little too far, until Captain Makad replied, 'Fifteen crowns ... and I won't kill you.'

'Done,' he replied. 'When do you set sail?'

Makad looked back at his ship, then up into the dark night sky. 'With a good wind, we'll be out of here a few hours after dawn. I need to give my lads a chance to get drunk and fucked ... assuming there are paid women in town.'

A few nods from his men indicated that they liked this plan.

'Whatever you want,' replied Randall, 'as long as they can sail when hung-over.'

A few of the sailors looked as if they were about to take offence, but Captain Makad shook his head.

'We'll be here two hours after dawn,' said Randall, beginning to turn and leave the dock. 'Oh, and just so we're clear, neither of my companions are as fluffy as me ... so I advise you to take the money and not do anything foolish.'

He maintained his smile for a moment before striding through the Karesian sailors and back up the wooden steps of the White Landing. No one said anything as he left and he allowed himself a moment of self-satisfaction as he walked back to the tavern.

Randall didn't mind the uncertainty, he didn't mind the danger, and he didn't mind being the calm centre of his bizarre little world. He had accepted that his fate was bound to that of his master and where Utha the Ghost went, Randall would follow.

* * *

'Randall, I told you to wake me up when the ship arrived. I did not tell you to talk tough to a bunch of Karesian sailors.'

Utha was always grumpy in the morning and his squire no longer took it seriously.

'It was a sort of experiment,' replied Randall, opening the shutters to their room and letting the bright sunlight intrude.

'Are you trying to fucking blind me, boy,' grumbled the Black cleric, holding an arm up to his eyes and rolling over in bed. 'And what kind of experiment involves you picking a fight with a few dozen men?'