Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (13 page)

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King Malcius Al Nieren wore a more ornate crown than the plain band favoured by his father, a ring of gold inlaid with an intricate floral design and featuring a centre-piece of four different gemstones, each presumably representing the four fiefs of the Realm. The eyes beneath the crown held a wariness not matched by the warm smile he offered Vaelin as he rose from one knee before the throne.

“Record,” the King intoned, making the three scribes positioned to the left of the throne dip their pens in readiness. “King Malcius Al Nieren welcomes his most loyal and honoured servant Lord Marshal Vaelin Al Sorna back to the Unified Realm. Be it known that all honours and titles previously his are restored.”

He came forward, arms wide, gripping Vaelin by the shoulders. Malcius had always struck Vaelin as a man of considerable vigour, a seasoned warrior possessed of a strong arm and a keen mind. The man who confronted him now was thinner, his complexion sallow beneath a dusting of powder, the hands on his shoulders trembling a little.

“By the Faith it’s good to see you, Vaelin!” the King said.

“And you, Highness.” He glanced around as the King’s hands remained on his shoulders. There were numerous courtiers in attendance, it seemed the King had delayed the royal procession to the fair to honour his unexpected guest. To the right of the throne sat a young woman, hands clasped in her lap, a crown smaller but otherwise identical to the King’s on her head. She was handsome and slender, with a keen intelligence shining in her eyes, which were, like her husband’s, also wary.

“Rest assured,” the King said, dragging Vaelin’s attention away from the queen. “This Realm is fully aware of the debt it owes you.” His hands clutched Vaelin even tighter.

“Thank you, Highness.” He lowered his voice. “I . . . wondered if I may raise a small matter with you, regarding my father’s estate.”

“Of course, of course!” The King finally released him, drawing back. “But first, I must present you to my queen. She has been looking forward to meeting you since word reached us of your return.”

The queen rose as Vaelin went to one knee before her.

“Lord Vaelin,” the King said. “I present Queen Ordella Al Nieren. Please pledge your loyalty to her as you would me.”

Vaelin glanced up at him, finding his smile had faded somewhat. “Merely a formality,” Malcius said. “Required of all Swords of the Realm these past four years.”

Vaelin turned back to the queen, head lowered. “I, Lord Vaelin Al Sorna, hereby pledge my loyal service to Queen Ordella Al Nieren of the Unified Realm.”

“I thank you, my lord,” the queen said. She had a cultured voice with the soft vowels of southern Asrael, but there was something of an edge to it as she continued. “Do you pledge to follow my commands as you would your King?”

“I do, my Queen.”

“Do you pledge to protect me and my children as you would your King? To lay down your life in our defence should it be necessary? And to do so regardless of what lies or deceits are voiced against us?”

Vaelin became aware of how silent the court had become, feeling the weight of so many eyes on his kneeling form.
This is not for me,
he decided.
This is for them.
“I do, my Queen.”

“You honour me, my lord.” She held out her hand, which Vaelin duly kissed, finding her skin icy on his lips.

“Excellent!” Malcius clapped his hands together. “My love, be so good as to proceed to the fair with the court. I shall be along directly, once Lord Vaelin and I have concluded our business.”

Alone with Vaelin save for two guards at the door, Malcius took off his crown, hanging it on the arm of his throne with a weary sigh. “Sorry about all that,” he said. “A necessary piece of theatre, I’m afraid.”

“I meant what I said, Highness.”

“I’m sure you did. If only every Sword of the Realm were so sincere in their oaths, this would be a much easier land to govern.” He sat in his throne, crouching forward, elbows resting on his knees, meeting Vaelin’s gaze with tired eyes. “Got old, didn’t I?”

“We all did, Highness.”

“Not you, you barely look a day older. I was expecting some wizened creature from the depths of the Emperor’s dungeon. But here you are, looking like you could take on every knight at the fair with barely a laboured breath.”

“The Emperor’s hospitality was generous, but lonely.”

“I’m sure.” Malcius reclined in his throne. “You know why I took your father’s estate, I presume?”

“You needed to ensure my loyalty.”

“I did. I see now it wasn’t necessary. But I had to be sure. You have no notion of the plots that surround my family. Every day word comes of a new group of conspirators, hatching murderous schemes in darkened rooms.”

“The Realm was always rich in wild rumour, Highness.”

“Rumour? If only it was just that. Two months ago they found a fellow in the palace grounds with a poisoned blade and the Catechism of the Faith tattooed on his back and chest, every word of it. I gave him a quick death, which is more than my father would have done, eh?”

Janus would have tortured him for a month, if he was feeling generous, two if he wasn’t.
“Indeed, Highness. But one madman doesn’t make a plot.”

“There are others, be assured of that. And I must face them on my own, Aspect Arlyn wants no part of it. Since the war your former Order has regained much of its independence.”

“Even in your father’s day Aspect Arlyn was keen to draw a distinction between the Crown and the Faith.”

“The Faith.” The King’s voice was soft and faintly bitter. “When trouble brews in this Realm like as not you’ll find the Faith stirring the pot. Ardents and Tolerants at each other’s throats, Aspect Tendris and his ridiculous attempts to turn his bureaucrats into warriors. It’s supposed to unite us, instead it threatens to tear itself apart and this Realm with it.” His eyes fixed on Vaelin again. “And each side will wish to enlist your support.”

“Then each side will be disappointed.”

The King blinked, straightening in surprise. “I know you have left the Order behind, but the Faith too? What forced you to this? Did the Emperor make you worship the Alpiran gods?”

Vaelin suppressed a laugh. “Merely the hearing of a truth, Highness. The Faith was not tortured from me, nor do I look to any god for comfort.”

“It seems you are more of a danger to the harmony of the Realm than I realised.”

“I am a danger to no-one, provided they offer no harm to me or mine.”

Malcius sighed again then smiled. “Lyrna did always like you for your . . . complexity.”

Lyrna . . .
It was strange, but it only occurred to him now that the princess had been absent from the court today. “She is at the fair, Highness?”

“No, gone north to conclude a treaty with the Lonak. If you can believe such a thing.”

Lyrna treating with the Lonak.
The thought of it was absurd and appalling in equal measure. “You offered them peace?”

“Actually the offer came from their High Priestess. But she would only talk to Lyrna. A Lonak tradition apparently. Only the word of a woman can be trusted by the High Priestess, men are too easily corrupted.” He grimaced at the doubt on Vaelin’s face. “I had to take the chance. We’ve lost enough blood and treasure fighting the wolfmen, don’t you think?”

“Fighting us is what they live for.”

“Well, perhaps they want to start living for something else. As do I. This land needs to be reborn, Vaelin. Remade into something better. United once more, truly united, not forever riven by our borders and our faiths. The Edict of Toleration was but the first step. Reshaping our towns and cities is the next. Improving the fabric of the Realm will improve the souls of its subjects. I can do what my father never did despite all his wars and his scheming. I can bring peace, a lasting peace that will make this land great again. But I need your help.”

And so to the price.
“You have my loyalty, Highness. However, I would be more secure in my service if I knew my sister was given her due.”

The King waved a hand. “Done, I’ll have the papers signed today. You can have all that your father owned. But you cannot remain here, not in Asrael.”

“In truth I had intended to ask your leave to depart the Realm, once my father’s estate is restored.”

The King frowned. “Depart? To where?”

“You recall Brother Frentis, I’m sure. I believe he still lives. I intend to find him.”

“Brother Frentis.” The King shook his head, voice heavy with sorrow. “He died at Untesh, Vaelin. They all did. Every man under my command.”

He was on a ship, bound somehow, his scars were burning . . .
“Did you see it, Highness? Did you see him fall?”

The King’s gaze became distant, brow creased with reluctant memory. “Again and again we fought them off, Frentis at my side for much of it. And he was a sight to see, throwing himself into the thickest fight, saving us time and again. The men called him the Faith’s Fury. Without him the city would have fallen on the first day, not the third. I sent him to bolster the southern section that morning. The Alpirans were like a wave boiling over a harbour wall in a storm.”

He ran a hand through his hair, once rich red-gold, now thinner and shot through with streaks of grey. Vaelin noted how his hand shook. “They wouldn’t kill me. No matter how many I cut down, how hard I hacked and cursed at them. When they finally bore me down they roamed the city killing every Realm Guard they could find, the deserters, the wounded, it didn’t matter. But me they kept alive. Only me.”

He was on a ship . . .
“In any case, Highness. I believe my brother to be alive, and request your leave to search for him.”

The King gave a grim smile and shook his head. “No, my lord. I’m sorry, but no. I require a different service from you.”

Vaelin gritted his teeth.
I could just leave,
he thought.
Leave this sad, tired man to his dreams and his phantom plots. An oath compelled before an audience of pampered sycophants is just another lie, like the Faith.

Malcius rose from his throne to point to a large embroidered map of the Realm on the wall, his finger tracking from Asrael to a large blank expanse above the Great Northern Forest. “There, my lord, is where I require your service.”

“The Northern Reaches?”

“Quite so. Tower Lord Al Myrna passed away last winter. His adopted daughter’s been running things since then, but since she’s a Lonak foundling of no breeding whatsoever, I can hardly allow such a state of affairs to continue.” The King straightened, speaking in formal tones. “Vaelin Al Sorna, I hereby name you Tower Lord of the Northern Reaches.”

He could refuse, state his unwillingness and walk from the palace without a hand raised against him. Malcius was effectively barred from acting against him for fear of raising rebellion the length of the Realm. But the notion evaporated when the blood-song gave a sudden and unexpected crescendo of assent. The music faded quickly but the meaning was clear enough:
The path to Frentis lies in the Northern Reaches.

He bowed low to the King, replying in formal tones. “An honour I gladly accept, Highness.”

W
hy hasn’t she killed me?

Davoka’s eyes flared in warning, her hand firm on Lyrna’s mouth, it smelt of woodsmoke. Lyrna swallowed, did her best to stem the harsh torrent of her breathing and raised a questioning eyebrow. Davoka’s eyes flicked to her right. Lyrna strained to see but could only discern the dim greyness of the tent wall, still thumping in the mountain wind. She looked back at Davoka, both eyebrows raised now. The Lonak woman’s eyes were elsewhere, gaze tracking along the tent wall, the bare muscle of her arms tensed in readiness.

It was only the smallest sound, a faint whisper of parting cloth. Lyrna’s eyes picked out a pinprick of gleaming metal in the tent wall, growing into a knife point then a blade at least ten inches long. The whisper grew into a shout of ripping canvas as the knife slashed downward, the tent wall parting to reveal the face of a man, a Lonak warrior if Lyrna was any judge, shaven-headed and tattooed across the forehead, teeth bared in a killing snarl.

Davoka lunged, her knife taking the Lonak under the chin, his head jerking up and back as she forced it deeper, finding the brain. She pulled the knife free and threw her head back, her scream vast and savage. From outside came an instant clamour of alarm, shouted orders and the cacophony of men in combat.

Davoka hefted her spear, pushing her gore-covered knife into Lyrna’s hand. “Stay here, Queen.” Then she was gone, diving through the gash in the canvas into the blackness beyond.

Lyrna lay on her back, the bloody knife sitting in her open hand, wondering if a person’s heart could truly burst with overuse.

“HIGHNESS!” A rasping shout from outside. Brother Sollis.

“Here,” she croaked through a sand-dry throat, coughed and tried again. “I’m here! What is happening?”

“We are betrayed! Stay insi—” He broke off and there came a harsh clang of colliding steel followed by a grunt of pain. More shouts, voices raised in cries of challenge or shock. She could hear many Lonak voices amongst the riot of sound.

A sharp thwack jerked her gaze to the roof of the tent where a steel-tipped arrow dangled from the canvas, caught by its fletching.

GET UP!
her mind screamed.

Another thwack, another arrow, lower this time, coming straight through the fabric to thump into the fur an inch from her leg, the shaft quivering.

Get up! If you stay here, you will die!

The knife sat ungripped in her open palm, a bead of blood dripping from the hilt and onto her skin. The heat of it was enough to shock her into motion. She gripped the knife, gore seeping between her fingers, and forced herself to her feet and out into the night.

The campfire surged as Sollis threw another log on the flames, bloodied sword in his other hand, ducking as an arrow buzzed overhead. The two other brothers, Hervil and Ivern, were positioned in front and rear of her tent, strongbows ready with notched arrows. Out in the darkness beyond the fire battle raged unseen, the tumult of combat revealing no sign of victory or defeat.

“Stay down, Highness!” Sollis commanded and Brother Hervil reached up to grasp her forearm, pulling her to her knees.

“My apologies, Highness,” Hervil said with a grin. He was a veteran brother, his craggy features painted red in the fire.

“How many are there?” she asked him.

“Hard to say. We’ve killed at least ten already. That Lonak bitch has fucked us.” He grinned again. “Pardon my low-born tongue, Highness.”

“The Lonak bitch just saved my life,” she told him. “She’s not to be harmed, do you hear?”

A harsh yell drew her gaze to the south of the camp where three Lonak warriors came screaming into the light, war clubs and hatchets raised. Brother Hervil loosed two arrows, so fast his hands blurred, two Lonak falling. Sollis dispatched the third with a single sword-stroke, combining a parry with a riposte in the same fluid arc of steel. The Lonak staggered back, throat agape, and Hervil put a shaft in his chest for good measure.

“Thirteen,” he chuckled. “Haven’t had such a fruitful night for years.”

Something thrummed in the darkness off to the left and Hervil threw himself onto Lyrna, bearing her to the ground with a suffocating weight, jerking as something made a hard smacking sound. She squirmed beneath him, fighting to draw enough breath to voice a protest, then felt a warm torrent staining her shift. Hervil’s face was inches from hers, features slack, half-lidded eyes dim. She touched a hand to his craggy face, feeling the warmth drain away.
Thank you, brother.

“Highness!” Sollis hauled the body off, pulling her upright, eyes widening at the blood making the shift cling to her breasts and belly. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “Where is the Lord Marshal?”

“Fighting I assume.” He turned back to the darkness, eyes searching, sword point held low. The song of battle was fading, the shouts and thuds of combat lessening until the only sound was the ceaseless northern wind.

“Have they gone?” Lyrna asked in a whisper. “Did we win?”

Something leapt out of the black void beyond the fire, something pale and quick and lithe, dodging under Sollis’s sword, side-stepping Brother Ivern’s arrow, launching itself at Lyrna, hatchet raised. Lyrna’s shock was such that time slowed as the figure descended towards her, her eyes drinking in every detail of the assailant. It was a girl, no more than sixteen years in age, chest encased in a wolf skin, finely muscled arms bringing her hatchet down, and her face . . . There was no snarl here, no screaming fury, this was a face of serene joy and doll-like beauty.

Lyrna lurched backwards, the knife in her hand coming up in a slash born of pure instinct. It jarred on something, coming loose and tumbling off into the dark. The Lonak girl reeled away, spinning to the ground. Her gaze flashed at Lyrna, a red line running from her chin to her brow.
Her eyes are very blue,
Lyrna noted.

Sollis charged the Lonak girl, sword arcing down with enough force to cleave her to the ribs, meeting only hard ground as she leapt clear, pivoting to face him, hatchet ready.

“Kiral!” Davoka came running out of the blackness, leaping the fire, bloodied spear levelled.

The Lonak girl’s gaze flashed at Lyrna, blue eyes bright and joyous, blood streaming from her new scar, teeth bared in a fierce smile. Then she simply wasn’t there, vanished into the night like a snuffed candle.

“Kiral!” Davoka screamed after her, halting at the edge of the firelight.
“Ubeh vehla, akora!”
Please, sister, come back.

◆ ◆ ◆

Nersa was dead, pierced by half a dozen arrows a few yards from her tent. Lyrna assumed the Lonak had mistaken them in the darkness. If so, the lady may well have saved her life by drawing so many arrows. She watched a guard sergeant wrap the body in a cloak to be taken to the base of the hill where a large pyre was under construction.

“A moment please,” she said as he lifted the body.
There should be no guilt,
she thought, knowing it to be a lie, her hand tracing through the lady’s hair, finding something amongst the tresses, a tortoiseshell comb of scant value.
I didn’t kill her.

“Thank you,” she told the sergeant, taking the comb and stepping back.

They counted over a hundred Lonak bodies, mostly boys and men but also a dozen or so women and girls. Lord Marshal Al Smolen, sporting a bandaged hand and a spectacular multi-coloured bruise on his jawline, reported the loss of twenty-three guardsmen plus six more wounded. Over half the horses had been lost, scattered or slaughtered, Sable amongst the dead. Lyrna had only a small affection for the animal but still felt the loss. The remaining mounts were all bred for war and unlikely to offer so comfortable a ride.

Davoka sat by the smouldering remains of the fire, spear resting on her shoulder. She had said nothing since the battle, offering neither argument nor contrition despite several calls for her immediate execution, all of which Lyrna had refused.

“She led us into this, Highness,” Smolen insisted. “Half my men are dead thanks to this wolf bitch.”

“My word is given, Lord Marshal,” Lyrna told him. “Do not make me give it again.”

She went to sit opposite Davoka, seeing the sadness that shrouded her face.
“It’s time for truth between us
,”
she said in Lonak.

The Lonak woman’s head rose, a faint glimmer of amused surprise in her eyes.
“So I see.”

“The Mahlessa’s rule is not complete, is it?”

“She commands peace with the Merim Her, the greatest and most vile enemy in our history. There was . . . disagreement amongst the clans. Voices were raised in dissent. We killed those who questioned her, of course, but there were always more, too many to kill. The Mahlessa named them as varnish, to be driven from their clans, and so they formed a clan of their own. The Lonakhim Sentar.”

“Sentar? I do not know this word.”

“It’s rarely spoken now, a tale from the days before your people came across the sea to steal our lands. The Sentar were a war-band composed of the greatest Lonakhim warriors, chosen for outstanding skill and courage, the Mahlessa’s own shining spear. The Sentar won our greatest victory over the Seordah, and would have led us to dominion over all this land but for the arrival of the Merim Her. They were all killed in the Great Travail, when our people fled to the mountains, holding the pass long enough to allow the remnants of the Lonakhim to secure a new home here. Now they are reborn, a twisted perversion of past glory.”

“The girl who tried to kill me, she is your sister?”

Davoka closed her eyes and nodded.
“Kiral. We were born to the same mother. The gods were kind to take her before she could see what she has become.”

“And what is that?”

“Something vile, something that kills without reason and speaks poison. She is their leader, called the true Mahlessa by those varnish who follow her.”
She opened her eyes, meeting Lyrna’s gaze.
“It was not always this way with her, something . . . changed her.”

“What something?”

Davoka fidgeted in discomfort.
“That which is known only to the Mahlessa.”

Lyrna nodded, knowing she would reveal nothing more on this subject.
“Will she come for us again?”

“When she sent me to the pass the Mahlessa dispatched three war-bands to hunt down the Sentar. It was hoped this would force them to fight instead of coming for you. It seems my sister managed to evade them.”
She glanced over her shoulder at the base of the hill where Smolen’s guardsmen were piling up the Lonak bodies.
“The Sentar are strong in number, and they will not stop.”

“Then we shouldn’t linger.” It was Brother Sollis, speaking in Realm Tongue. Behind him a pyre was burning, Brother Hervil’s body wreathed in flame. The Order was never slow in seeing to its dead. “If we push hard, we can be back at the pass before nightfall. I’ll find you a suitable horse, Highness.” He turned to go.

“Brother Sollis,” Lyrna said, making him pause. “This expedition is under my command and I have given no instruction to end it.”

Sollis’s gaze flicked to Davoka then back to Lyrna. “You heard what she said, Highness. There can be no chance of success now. We cannot survive another attack on this scale.”

“He’s right,” Davoka said, switching back to Realm Tongue. “Too many men, too many wounded. We leave a trail my sister can follow eyes closed.”

“Is there another way?” Lyrna asked. “A path for a smaller party, harder to track?”

“Highness . . .” Sollis began.

“Brother,” Lyrna cut in. “The Order does not answer to the Crown, it is true. Therefore, you have my leave to depart without risk of disfavour and my thanks for your service.” She turned back to Davoka. “Is there another way?”

The Lonak woman gave a slow nod. “Yes. But great risk, and there can only be . . .” She grimaced, then held out a hand, fingers splayed. “This many. No more.”

Five, including me. Meaning only four swords against the Departed know how many more of these Sentar.
She knew Sollis spoke wisdom, the correct course was a speedy return to the pass and on to the much-missed comforts of the palace. But Davoka’s words had added fuel to her burning need for evidence.
That which is known only to the Mahlessa . . .
There was evidence here, she knew it, and more to be had at the Mountain of the High Priestess.

She got to her feet and beckoned Smolen over. “Choose your three best men,” she told him. “They will accompany me north. Brother Sollis will guide you back to the pass.”

“I prefer to stay, Highness,” Sollis said. She could tell he was fighting to keep the anger from his voice. “With your permission, Brother Ivern and I will go with you.”

“And I am my best man, Highness,” Smolen informed her. “And even if I wasn’t, you must know I would never leave your side.”

“My thanks to you both.” She pulled her fur about her shoulders, glancing up at the forbidding peaks ahead, the tops shrouded in cloud, hearing a distant note of thunder.
Let’s see what you can tell me.