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

marched out of the room, the noise of his armour announcing his presence to everyone on that floor of the inn. Those who were sufficiently awake to open their doors were met with the sight of an imperious knight, hand rested on his sword hilt, ready for action. Randall followed close behind as the knight strode down the stairs to the common room below. He seemed clear-headed, the fog of alcohol masked to some degree, his hatred of the Purple church employed as a shield. A few men turned and showed their silent approval at the sight of the fully armoured knight. The tavern keeper looked daggers, remembering the destruction of the previous evening. The inn was a low-class establishment in the old town of Ro Tiris, with little finery and catering to those citizens who simply wanted somewhere to sleep, drink or find willing women. All three services were cheap and of the lowest possible quality. The broken wood caused by Sir Leon’s extravagant storytelling had been piled by the fireplace, a testament to how much damage a drunken man in armour can cause. Sir Leon stood fully upright, glaring across the bar until his eyes fell upon the Purple cleric standing by the door.
    The churchman was tall and broad-shouldered, with brown hair and a fierce look in his eyes. His features suggested a man in his middle thirties and his purple cloak, though stained, was still an evident symbol of his order. Those around him averted their gaze, knowing that a cleric of nobility held absolute power in Tor Funweir. The Purple clerics were feared throughout the kingdom and their arrogance and prowess in battle were legendary. Most men simply avoided them for the sake of an easy life. They were answerable only to the king and few men equalled them in power and influence.
    The cleric straightened as Sir Leon entered the common room, an imperious look flowing across his face. He sneered at Randall, pulling his cloak around him as if to emphasize the stain. It was a considerable testament to Sir Leon’s nightly visits to the piss-pot. Randall wondered if the old knight knew how many times he relieved himself each night, and how his alcohol intake had indirectly contributed to his squire covering a Purple cleric with his piss.
    ‘You, knight.’ The cleric spoke loudly, jutting his bearded jaw at Sir Leon. He then nodded towards Randall, who was standing behind the knight’s left shoulder. ‘That lad your squire?’
    Sir Leon raised an eyebrow and slowly closed the distance to stand nose to nose with the cleric. He looked him up and down critically. The knight was several inches taller and, though in bad physical condition, still appeared the more imposing man. ‘My name isn’t knight; it’s Sir Leon Great Claw,’ he said clearly, making some effort to appear a well-spoken nobleman.
    ‘I asked you a question, old man. Don’t make me ask it again.’ The cleric was clearly not intimidated by Sir Leon and did not flinch as they looked at each other. Randall stayed by the stairs at the far end of the common room. He hoped Sir Leon would handle this delicately and enable them to leave without angering the Purple church. However, this was unlikely as Sir Leon had, on several occasions, spoken of his desire to fight a Purple cleric.
    ‘Did my squire do something to offend you, my lord?’ The words were spoken with scorn, his hand resting suggestively on his sword hilt. ‘He’s young and has much to learn, your Purpleness. I seem to have neglected to teach him the proper etiquette for covering a cleric in piss.’
    The churchman did not look impressed. ‘If your intention is to exert some kind of dominance over me, old man, I should warn you that one more insult and I may have to skewer that fat belly of yours.’
    The others in the tavern gasped and Randall held his breath. A few patrons quietly left, not wanting to be around if the cleric was driven to violence. Others sat open-mouthed, eagerly enjoying the spectacle of two men on the verge of a