The Long War 01 - The Black Guard Read Free

indistinct.
    Sir Leon cleared his throat with a guttural growl. ‘Now, young Randall, should I be concerned as to why this Purple bastard wants to speak to me?’ The old knight looked long and hard at his squire, who shrank under his gaze.
    ‘I think I offended him, without meaning to.’ Randall doubted the details of the encounter would defuse the situation.
    Sir Leon inhaled deeply, causing him to cough again, and this time he placed his hand over his mouth to catch the globule of blood and phlegm. He sat up on his bed, rubbing his considerable stomach as he did so.
    ‘Well, I believe I should be properly attired so as not to offend her ladyship. Did he give a name?’
    ‘No, we didn’t really get to introduce ourselves.’
    He shot Randall a hard glance. ‘Enough of that cheek, boy. Fetch a basin so I can wash those women off my skin. The Purple arse-face would probably faint if he knew some people actually fucked.’
    Randall had grown up in the Darkwald and knew little of the various coloured clerics and how they lived their lives in service to the One God. ‘Are they not allowed to take a woman, master?’
    Sir Leon stood and stretched as he answered, ‘Some clerics do: the Black ones, and maybe the Brown. The knights of the Red and those Purple bastards are forbidden from the time they gain their cloak. It’s one of the main reasons they get such pleasure from riding those armoured horses.’ He laughed wickedly at his own commentary and narrowly averted another coughing fit. ‘The Gold Church is another matter; those fat bastards can barely stand without a few paid women to carry their jewel-encrusted cocks.’
    A bowl of relatively clean water was placed on a bench in front of the knight and he proceeded loudly to wash his corpulent frame. Randall had lost much of the revulsion he once felt at the sight of the overweight old man, but was still given to turn away when Sir Leon washed himself.
    ‘Armour!’ he said without looking up.
    The knight’s armour was burnished steel, fastened at the midriff and over each shoulder. Randall had adjusted it several times over the years and it now covered less than half of Sir Leon’s upper body. If he had to fight while wearing it, he’d need to stand directly facing his opponent or else risk a fatal wound to his exposed sides. Not that he had fought in recent memory. In fact, Randall distinctly recalled the last time his master had been driven to violence. It was not a pleasant evening and had involved five dead town guardsmen and a very angry tavern owner. Sir Leon remained a dangerous man despite his years and poor health, and the guardsmen’s jibes at his storytelling had angered the old knight. But that was two years ago and much alcohol had been consumed over the intervening time.
    ‘Randall, get your fucking head together and dress me. Purple clerics are not known for their patience,’ he said, flicking his dirty wash water on to the floor.
    The armour went on quickly, giving the fat old drunkard a semblance of nobility. He was a tall man, though he rarely stood fully upright, and his beard and matted hair, even when swept back, gave him a wild appearance which he evidently found quite pleasing.
    ‘Master, I think your armour may need adjusting again; the undercoat is showing through at the bottom… and I don’t like the way your sides are exposed.’
    ‘I like a bit of wear on it; shows it’s not just an ornament. A real man’s armour is stained, battered and ill-fitting.’ Sir Leon posed, flexing his arms, before sitting back on the bed and pulling on his boots and greaves. ‘Sword!’ he said loudly.
    Randall held out the ornate longsword, hilt-first, with the scabbard belt unfastened. Sir Leon grasped it firmly and, as he always did, gazed with genuine affection at the crest of Great Claw on the cross-piece, before buckling it around his waist.
    ‘Right, lad, let’s go and kiss his lordship’s clerical arse,’ said a defiant Sir Leon. He