Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (28 page)

Grow!

He reached under his rags, gripping the sandalwood handle of the knife.

“Ah, new faces.” The Tower Lord smiled as they reached the head of the line. “Welcome, friends. And what can I call you?”

GROW!

“Hentes Mustor,” the woman said, loud enough for all the crowd to hear.

The Tower Lord frowned. “I don’t . . .”

Her first blow was deliberately non-fatal, designed to produce as much shock amongst the onlooking poor folk as possible, this was as much theatre as murder. The Tower Lord gasped in pained astonishment as the knife blade sank into his shoulder, the woman ripping it free, crying, “In the name of the Trueblade!” before bringing it down again, this time straight at his heart. The Tower Lord, surely once a soldier, managed to raise his arm in time to block the knife, the blade sinking deep into his forearm.

The two guards were quick to recover from the shock, charging forward with pole-axes lowered, the one in front pitching to the ground as Frentis’s knife throw found the gap in his armour between chest and neck. Frentis darted forward, snatching up the fallen pole-axe and delivering an overhead swing at the second guard. His parry was swift, however, and his riposte the precise jab of a veteran, nearly skewering Frentis through the thigh. He managed to side-step the thrust and replied with a whirling sweep to the guard’s legs, sending him sprawling.

There was a shout behind him and he turned to see the woman advancing on the Tower Lord, now on his back, bleeding freely from both wounds, legs working to push himself away.

“Die, heretic!” the woman screamed, raising the knife. “Such is the fate of the Father’s ene—”

A pair of skinny arms wrapped themselves around her, pulling her back. It was one of the ragged beggars, the grog-addicted woman the Tower Lord knew by name, Dimela.

The woman jerked her head back into Dimela’s face, breaking teeth in a plume of red. The beggar-woman howled but held on. More arms reached out to grab the Tower Lord’s assailant, an old man clutching at her legs, a cripple swinging his crutch at her midriff, more and more closing in until she was lost from view in a press of rags and unwashed flesh.

Please!
Frentis begged.
Please die!

But the binding surged, fiercer and stronger than ever.
HELP HER!

He delivered a hard kick to the helmeted head of the fallen guard then charged into the throng of flailing poor folk, the pole-axe laying about with deadly effect, four of them felled in as many seconds as he tried to hack his way through, all the time hoping the binding would suddenly fade as the beggars tore the woman’s life from her.

He was halfway through the crowd when it happened, a blast of heat and a surge of flame burning a hole in the centre of the throng, people reeling back in shock and pain, screams and panic amidst the sudden smoke.

Frentis fought his way through the dazed remnants of the crowd, finding her on her knees, bloodied as he knew she would be, both from use of the stolen gift and the attentions of the mob. Her face was a red mask of malice and fury. Behind her Dimela’s body lay in a twisted tangle of scorched rags and flesh. Frentis dragged the woman to her feet and they ran.

◆ ◆ ◆

“One hundred and seventy-two years,” she said, voice soft, reflective, but the anger still shining in her eyes. “That’s how long it’s been since I last failed, beloved.”

Frentis had known many sewers in his time, they made for fine hideaways or speedy thoroughfares beneath the streets of Varinshold and later he had helped Vaelin seize Linesh via its shit-choked underground channels. This one was the cleanest so far, wider too with well-pointed brickwork and a ledge or two to rest on. The stench, however, was everything he remembered.

Making for open country would have been suicide with the South Guard sure to be ranging in strength, so he followed his street-born instincts and dragged her to the sewers. They followed the flow to the outlets in the harbour, waiting for night when the evening tide would allow them to swim away.

“One hundred and seventy-two years.” She turned her gaze on him, beseeching a response and freeing his mouth of the binding.

She wants comfort,
he thought.
Commiseration for her failed murder.
Not for the first time, he wondered at the depth of her madness.

“There’s a difference,” he said.

She was baffled, shaking her head and gesturing for him to continue.

For the first time in weeks he smiled. “Between a hungry beggar and a sated slave.”

“O
ur patrol put their numbers at about four thousand. Crossing from the ice here.” Captain Adal’s finger picked out a point on the map unfurled on the table before them. “They were following a south-westerly course.”

“Last time they made straight for North Tower,” Dahrena said. “Killing everything in their path.”

“Four thousand,” Vaelin said. “A large force but hardly a horde.”

“Just a vanguard, no doubt,” Adal replied. “Seems they learned a lesson from their last attempt.”

“As I understood it, the Horde was destroyed in their last attempt.”

“There were some survivors,” Dahrena said. “A few hundred. Just women and children. Father let them go, though there were many who argued for their death. We always wondered if there were more, waiting beyond the ice to plague us again.”

Adal straightened, turning to Vaelin and speaking formally. “My lord, I request permission to sound the muster.”

“Muster?”

“Every man of fighting age in the Reaches will be called to arms. Within five days we will have six thousand men under arms plus the North Guard.”

“We’ll also send word to the Eorhil and the Seordah,” Dahrena added. “If they respond as they did before, the full army will number more than twenty thousand. But it will take weeks to marshal them. Enough time for the Horde to cross in strength whilst their vanguard wreaks havoc on the settlements to the north.”

Vaelin reclined in his chair, regarding the lines Adal had drawn on the map. They had ridden hard to be back at the tower before nightfall where Adal selected one of the more detailed maps of the Reaches from the collection in the Lord’s chamber. From outside came the tumult of men readying for war as North Guard and Captain Orven’s men sharpened their steel and saddled their horses. He had hoped the days of maps and battle plans were behind him, that here in the Reaches there would be no more need to orchestrate slaughter, but as ever, war contrived to find him. He took some solace from the fact that the blood-song was strangely muted, not entirely devoid of warning, but free of the strident urgency he recalled from when he had planned the attack at the Lehlun Oasis, the plan that cost Dentos his life.

“How strong was the Horde when it came before?” he asked.

“We can only guess, my lord,” Adal said. “They moved in a great mass and formed no ranks or regiments. Brother Hollun’s official history puts the figure at over one hundred thousand, including children and old folk. The Horde was not so much an army as a nation.”

“The northern settlements have been warned?”

Dahrena nodded. “Gallopers were sent as soon as the news reached us. They will be readying their own defences, but their numbers are small and without help they won’t last long.”

“Very well.” Vaelin rose. “Captain, sound your muster. Choose good men to take charge of the levies and secure the tower and the town against siege. We will lead the North Guard and the King’s men north to provide what aid we can to the settlers.”

“Over half my guardsmen are posted throughout the Reaches,” Adal pointed out, his gaze flicking to Dahrena. “That gives us barely fifteen hundred men.”

“All the better.” Vaelin lifted his canvas-wrapped bundle from the table and went to the stairwell. “We’ll ride so much faster. Lady Dahrena, I realise you may wish to remain here, but I must request that you accompany us.”

She frowned in surprise and he knew she had been preparing an argument against being left behind. “I . . . shall be glad to, my lord.”

◆ ◆ ◆

They rode hard until the night grew dark, making camp in the foothills about twenty miles north of the tower. Alornis had been furious as he said good-bye at the tower steps, but he remained adamant. “Battle is no place for an artist, sister.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” she said. “Just sit around for days worrying over your fate?”

He took hold of her hands. “I doubt these are capable of remaining idle.” He pressed a kiss against her forehead and went to where a guardsman stood holding Flame’s reins. “Besides,” he said, climbing into the saddle, “I need you to be seen about the place. The presence of the Tower Lord’s sister will reassure the townsfolk. No doubt many will be asking for news. Tell them everything is well in hand.”

“And is it?”

He trotted closer, leaning down and speaking softly. “I have no idea.”

The North Guard demonstrated an effortless ability to form a camp within what seemed like moments, fires readied, horses tethered, saddles stacked and pickets posted with no shouted orders or instruction from Captain Adal. The King’s Guard made something of a contrast with their neatly aligned fires and tents, plus an end-of-day inspection from Captain Orven who fined two men for poorly polished breastplates.

“Makes a change from the desert, eh, my lord?” he said, joining Vaelin at the fire he shared with Dahrena and Adal. He had found a wolf fur from somewhere and tugged it about his shoulders before blowing into his hands.

“You were at the Bloody Hill?” Vaelin asked.

“I was. My first battle in fact. Took an Alpiran lance in the leg during the last charge, lucky for me. The healers took me to Untesh and put me on a ship back to the Realm. Otherwise, I’d’ve been at the King’s side when the city fell.”

“They killed everyone but him, didn’t they?” Dahrena asked.

“Indeed, my lady. I’m the only survivor from my entire regiment.”

“Seems Alpirans are just as savage as the Horde, then,” Adal commented. “My people have many stories of the oppression they suffered at the hands of the Emperors.”

“They weren’t savages,” Vaelin said. “Just angry. And not without good reason.” He turned to Dahrena. “I need to know more about the Horde. Who are they? What do they want?”

“Blood,” Adal said. “The blood of any not born into their Horde.”

“That’s their creed? Death to all outsiders?”

“It’s what they do. We never had any notion of their creed. The language they speak is an unfathomable babble of clicks and snarls, and any prisoners we took were too savage to keep alive long enough to get any sense from them.”

“I heard they fight with beasts,” Orven said. “Giant cats and hawks.”

“That they do,” Adal said. “We were fortunate they never had more than a few hundred of the cats. Not an easy thing to stand in ranks facing a charge from those monsters, I can tell you. The spear-hawks, though, they had those by the thousand, screaming out of the sky to tear at your eyes. Even today, you’ll see many a man in the Reaches sporting an eyepatch.”

“How did you beat them?” Vaelin asked.

“How is any battle won, my lord? Guts, steel and”—Adal glanced at Dahrena with a small grin—“good intelligence of the enemy’s dispositions.”

Vaelin raised his eyebrows at her. “Good intelligence?”

She gave a somewhat forced yawn and got to her feet. “If you gentlemen will excuse me. I should rest for the morrow’s journey.”

◆ ◆ ◆

Two more days’ riding brought them to the first settlement, a stockaded clutch of dwellings in the shadow of a ridge-back mountain, the southern slopes marked by numerous mine-works. They were greeted at the gate by a North Guard sergeant and a greatly worried town factor.

“Any news, my lady?” the factor asked Dahrena, sweat-damp hands clasping and releasing. “How long before they fall upon us?”

“We’ve seen no sign of them yet, Idiss,” Dahrena assured him. There was a tightness to her voice that spoke of a palpable dislike. She gestured at Vaelin. “Do you have no greeting for your Tower Lord?”

“Oh, of course.” The man gave Vaelin a hurried bow. “My apologies, my lord. Welcome to Myrna’s Mount. We are
very
pleased to see you.”

“Any word from the other settlements?” Vaelin asked him.

“None, my lord. I fear for them.”

“Then we’d best not linger.” Vaelin turned Flame away from the gate, pausing as the factor reached out to clutch at his reins.

“But surely, my lord, you can’t leave us. We have just two hundred miners with swords, and only a dozen North Guard.”

Vaelin looked at the man’s hand on his reins until he removed it. “A good point, sir.” He raised his gaze to the North Guard sergeant. “Gather your men. You ride on with us.”

The sergeant glanced at Adal, receiving a nod in response, then marched off to collect his men.

“You leave us defenceless!” Idiss cried. “Naked before the Horde.”

“Then you have my leave to make for North Tower,” Vaelin told him. “The road behind us is clear. But if you care for this place and its people, perhaps you would prefer to stay and fight for them.”

Idiss, it transpired, had a fast horse, raising a sizeable cloud of dust in its wake as he galloped south.

“The head of the Miners Guild has agreed to take on the factorship,” Dahrena advised, emerging from the gate an hour later. “At my urging they’ve armed the womenfolk too, which gives them over three hundred and fifty swords to hold the wall.” She mounted her mare and met Vaelin’s gaze. “Idiss is a cowardly, greed-shrivelled soul, but he was right. If the Horde come, this place will fall in an hour, at most.”

“Then it rests with us to ensure they never get here.” He waved a command at the ranks of horsemen behind him and spurred towards the north.

◆ ◆ ◆

They called at the three settlements north of Myrna’s Mount over the next two days, finding only fearful miners and no word of the Horde. Thankfully, these were led by hardier souls than Idiss and their defences were well prepared. Vaelin offered each the option of making for Myrna’s Mount where greater numbers might offer more protection, but they all refused.

“Been hewing stone from these hills near twenty years, m’lord,” the factor at Slade Hill told him, a burly Nilsaelin with a large axe strapped across his back. “Didn’t run from those frost-arses last time, not runnin’ now.”

They pressed on into the plains where the wind swept down with a chill that seemed to cut through clothing like a steel-tipped arrow cuts through armour.

“By the Faith!” Orven cursed through clenched teeth, blinking away tears as the wind lashed at his face. “Is it always like this?”

Adal laughed. “This is just a balmy summer day, Captain. You should try it in winter.”

“There are no more mountains between us and the ice,” Dahrena explained. “The Eorhil call it the black wind.”

They halted after ten miles and Vaelin ordered scouts sent east, west and north. They all returned by late evening, having found no trace of the Horde.

“This makes no sense,” Adal said. “They should be well into the mountains by now.”

Dahrena suddenly straightened, her gaze switching to the west, eyes bright with expectation.

“My lady?” Vaelin asked.

“It seems we have company, my lord.”

It came to him then, a faint rumble of thunder, but constant, and growing.

“Saddle up!” he barked striding to where Flame was tethered, sending men scrambling for their horses.

“There’s no need,” Dahrena called after him. “The Horde don’t ride. We have other visitors.”

The dust-cloud grew in the west, coming ever closer, the thunder rising as it neared. The first riders came into view, mounted on tall horses of varying colour, each carrying a lance with a horn bow strapped to every saddle, more and more resolving out of the dust until Vaelin lost count. They reined in a short distance away, the dust settling to reveal what must have been over two thousand riders, men and women. Their pale-skinned faces were an echo of the hawk-faced Seordah Vaelin had met years ago, their hair uniformly black and tied into braids. Their clothing was mostly of dark brown leather decorated with necklaces of bone or elk antler. They sat waiting in silence, not even a snort rising from their horses.

A lone rider trotted forward, making unbidden for Vaelin. He halted a few paces away, looking down on him in stern appraisal. He was not a tall man, but there was an evident strength to him, his face lined but possessed of the kind of leanness that made guessing his age difficult.

“What is your name?” the rider asked in harshly accented Realm Tongue.

“I have a few to choose from,” Vaelin replied. “But the Seordah call me Beral Shak Ur.”

“I know what the forest people call you, and why.” The man reclined in his saddle a little, his features taking on a frown. “Ravens are rarely seen on these plains. If you want a name from us, you must earn it.”

“I will, and gladly.”

The rider grunted, reversing the hold on his lance and throwing it into the ground at Vaelin’s feet. Despite the hardness of the earth the steel point was buried up to the hilt, the lance shuddering with the force of the throw. “I, Sanesh Poltar of the Eorhil Sil, bring my lance to answer Tower Lord’s call.”

“You are very welcome.”

Dahrena came forward to welcome the Eorhil chieftain with a broad smile. “I never doubted you would find us, plains-brother,” she said, reaching up to clasp his hand, their fingers entwining.

“We hoped to find the beast-people first,” he replied. “Make you a gift of their skulls. But they leave us no tracks to follow.”

“They elude us also.”