Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (68 page)

Brother Harin was washing the blood from his hands when she got to the healing house. Arken lay face down on a table, his bare flesh bone-white save for the red rivulets streaming from the partly bandaged wound on his back. His eyes were closed, but she could see a soft flutter beneath his eyelids.

“Will he live?” she asked the healer.

“I expect so,” Harin replied. “Being young and strong as an ox.”

Reva collapsed in relief, slumping against the wall and sinking to the floor.
No more tears,
she reminded herself as she felt them welling.

Harin came to her with a blanket, gently pulling her upright and wrapping it around her shoulders. “Not good, my lady,” he commented, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Not good at all.”

He sat her by the fire, blanket about her shoulders, clutching a cup of something dark and steaming as he stitched Arken’s wound. “The city’s all abuzz with it,” he said, eyes fixed on his work. “Bringing the Father’s fiery justice to the heretics’ dread engines.”

“I doubt such sentiments are shared by you, brother,” she replied and sipped her drink, face wrinkling with instant distaste. “What is this?”

“Brother’s Friend. Always good for banishing a chill if warmed over the fire for a few minutes.”

She recalled how Alornis’s drunken poet had lapped up this concoction like buttermilk and could only shake her head in wonder as she forced down another mouthful. “Is it supposed to make you dizzy?” she asked after a moment.

“Oh yes.”

“That’s all right then.” She sat, feeling the warmth spread as she sipped, her tongue numbed against the liquor’s bitterness. Brother Harin’s hands moved with a curious deftness for such a large man as he worked the catgut through the lips of Arken’s wound with two tweezers. “You are very skilled, brother.”

“Why thank you, my lady.”

“He told me about you lot, y’know.” She paused to drink some more. “Fifth Order. Besht healers in the world, he said.”

“He?”

“Al Sorna. Darkblade. Who elsh?” She raised the cup to her lips, wondering how it had contrived to empty itself so quickly. “Thought I could do it, y’see? Do what he did. Just got everyone killed instead. Not me though. I’ve got the Father’s blessing.”

“I don’t know about the Father’s blessing, my lady,” the big healer said in a soft tone. “But I do know this city continues to stand because of you. Never forget that.”

There was commotion at the door and Veliss burst into the room, sighing in explosive relief at the sight of Reva. She came to her, hands soft on her cheeks, eyes wide with delight.

Reva hiccuped and gave a small burp.

“She’s drunk,” Veliss accused Harin.

“And considerably warmer,” the brother replied.

Veliss’s eyes went to Arken’s unmoving form. “Just the two of them?”

“Sadly, yes. Lord Antesh had the banks searched, without luck.”

“Fifty men,” Reva slurred, wondering why the room was suddenly so much darker. “Never killed so many at once before.”

“Did what you had to, love.” Veliss put an arm around her shoulders and tugged her to her feet. “Let’s go home. Your uncle’s been asking for you.”

“Fifty men,” Reva whispered as all sensation began to fade and her eyelids fell shut like lead weights. “Blessed by the Father . . .”

◆ ◆ ◆

Her head hurt worse than she thought possible, making her wonder if the Father had placed an invisible axe in her skull as punishment for her sinful doubts. The ceaseless thump of the engines’ stones did nothing to help. She went to view the breach first thing in the morning, flanked by four House Guards to keep the more ardent townsfolk at bay. Many voices were raised as she moved through the streets, calls of thanks and simple wonder, some kneeling as she passed, much as they knelt for the Reader in the square. It was too much.

“Stop that!” she said, halting by an elderly couple who knelt outside a wool shop. They both continued to stare up at her with baffled awe.

“The Father sent you to us, my lady,” the old woman said. “You bring His sight upon us.”

“I bring a sword and a bow, one of which I lost last night.” She bent down, taking the woman’s elbow and lifting her up. “Do not kneel to me. For that matter, don’t kneel to anyone.” She was aware of other people crowding round, the many eyes boring into her face as they stood in rapt attention. “This city will not be held by kneelers. Kneel now and the walls will fall, and the people who brought them down will ensure you’ll be kneeling for the rest of your lives.”

The crowd remained silent around her, reverence on every face . . . save one.

A young woman stood cradling an infant towards the rear of the crowd, her face sullen with despair, cheekbones sunken from lack of food. The baby in her arms pawed at her face with tiny hands. Reva moved through the throng, the people parting with bowed heads.

“May I see?” Reva asked, placing a hand on the baby’s swaddling. The young woman gave a slight nod and pulled the blanket aside revealing a pink and happy face, cheeks plump and dimpled as the child smiled up at Reva. “He’s well-fed,” she said. “You’re not.”

“No sense both of us going hungry,” the young woman replied in an Asraelin accent, which explained the lack of reverence.

“His father?”

“Went to the wall, didn’t come back. They told me he was brave, which is something, I suppose.”

Reva winced at the thunder-crack impact of another stone on the wall. The deepening breach was visible from here, a jagged upturned triangle above the rooftops.
When it’s done this won’t be a siege any more,
she realised.
It’ll be a battle.

“The rations will be doubled tomorrow,” she told the young woman. “My word on it. In the meantime, go to the manor and ask for Lady Veliss. Tell her I sent you to help in the kitchens.”

◆ ◆ ◆

Lord Antesh was overseeing the construction of a stout defensive wall twenty yards back from the breach. The surrounding houses were gone, their stone used for the new wall. Masons were hard at work with mortar and trowels to build a barrier some ten feet high, curving around the breach site in a semicircle complete with a parapet.

“My lady,” Antesh greeted her with a bow. “Two more days and we’ll be done here. Of course we’ll need more when they start on their second breach, as they’re bound to do.”

“Was half hoping they’d risk it all on this one,” Reva replied, knowing that the previous night had provided ample evidence their opposing commander was done making mistakes.

“I have a surprise for you,” Antesh said, moving to a nearby cart. “One of my men found it this morning when we were searching the bank.” The wych-elm bow had lost its string but otherwise seemed undamaged, the wood still gleaming, no nicks or scars to mar the carvings. “Seems the Father doesn’t want you to be parted from it,” Antesh observed.

Reva suppressed a sigh. It would be all over the city within hours.
The Father returns the charmed bow to the Blessed Lady.
More evidence of His benevolent sight.

She was appalled to find an echo of the townsfolk’s reverence in the Lord Archer’s gaze as he handed her the bow.
Even him,
she thought.
Is that where the Father’s sight truly resides? In the gaze of those who cling to him for hope and deliverance.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said. “I’ll be on the wall if you need anything.”

◆ ◆ ◆

It took another ten days, the unending crunch of the stones on the wall a constant reminder that the sand in their glass was running low. Reva took to sitting cross-legged on the battlements some fifty paces short of the breach, watching the great globes come rushing down. It was a strangely compelling sight to see them descend in a blur, dust and stone exploding upwards as they found their mark. She entertained a faint hope she would be spotted by the Volarian commander and he would waste a few stones trying to crush her, but if he had seen her, it appeared he was in no mood for distractions.

Afternoons were usually spent in the healing house helping Brother Harin or visiting with Arken, still recovering from his arrow wound. Despite the brother’s best efforts the wound had contrived to fester, necessitating some deft work with the scalpel and a liberal application of corr-tree oil. “You stink,” Reva told him the following day, wrinkling her nose at the acrid aroma.

“The smell I can get used to,” he said. “The sting’s the worst of it.”

“From Veliss.” She placed a bag of sugared nuts next to his bed. “Make them last, there won’t be any more.”

“Promise me,” he said, reaching for her hand, eyes dark with serious intent. “You’ll call for me when they come. Don’t let me die in this bed.”

You’ve a lot of years ahead,
she wanted to say, but stopped herself.
He may be young but he’s no fool.
“I promise,” she said.

For all their apparent devotion, and despite the increase in rations, the mood of the people darkened as the breach widened. There were fewer shouts of adulation as she walked the streets, and she often saw people weeping openly, one old man surrendering to despair and collapsing to the cobbles, hands clamped over his ears against the slow drumbeat of the engines’ labour. And the Reader kept preaching.

Veliss’s reports told of the old man’s increasingly deranged sermons. He would often speak for hours with no reference to the Ten Books, the words “heretic” and “judgement” most prominent in his rantings. “A mad old man screaming in a hall,” Reva had said in answer to Veliss’s worried frown.

“True,” she replied. “But the hall isn’t empty. In fact it’s more full than ever.”

A stone crashed into the breach, raising another cloud of dust and shattered masonry. Reva turned her gaze to the ships and found them busier than usual, the engineers rushing to and fro as they hauled ropes and worked levers, the engines swivelling on their mounts with slow deliberation.

She walked to the lip of the breach, staring down at the dust-shrouded wreckage below. Stones that had stood for centuries reduced to rubble in a few weeks. A familiar thrum sounded from the engines as they launched in unison, the stones describing their lazy arcs against a clear sky, smashing into the wall some two hundred paces north of where she stood.

She raised her gaze to the Volarian warship. The awning cast a dark shadow but she could just see him, a tall figure staring back. It may have been her imagination, or a trick of the light, but she fancied she saw him offer a bow.

“My lady . . .” A faint call behind her. She turned to find a woman hurrying up the steps to the battlements, a wailing bundle in her arms. The young Asraelin mother from the other day, face pale and drawn in fear. Reva rushed to her, reaching out a steadying hand as she swayed a little, her breath laboured, the words barely audible above the child’s cries.

“They took her,” she gasped. “Lady Veliss hid us but they took her, and all the other Faithful.”

“Who did? Where?”

“A great many people, shouting about the Father’s judgement.” She paused, hugging the child to her. “They said they were taking them to the Reader.”

“A
nother two hundred today,” Nortah said, putting his bow aside and collapsing onto a chair. “Mostly men this time. All raring for revenge, which is nice. Their women and daughters all got taken by another caravan. Poltar’s off looking for them now.”

“How many does that make?” Vaelin asked Brother Hollun.

“We have freed fifteen hundred and seventy-two people since crossing into Nilsael, my lord,” the brother replied without pause. “Just over half are of fighting age. Almost all have opted to join our ranks. Though I should point out our continued lack of weapons.”

“We’ve got the slavers’ swords,” Nortah pointed out. “Plus any axes and bill-hooks we can scavenge from all the corpse-strewn villages we keep finding.”

Vaelin looked out over the camp, the tents clustered around a bend in the river which changed its name from the Brinewash to the Vellen when it crossed the Nilsaelin border. The camp grew larger every day, home to over forty-five thousand men now they had Marven’s Nilsaelins to swell the ranks. Soon after Brother Harlick penned their agreement, their Fief Lord had taken himself off to his capital, pressing his seal into the wax with a customary cackle and waving at his litter bearers to get moving.

“You can have the idiot twins,” he said to Vaelin, bobbing in his chair as they bore him away. “Been lusting for a war all their lives. Don’t be too surprised if they piss their breaches at the first whiff of blood though. I’ll conscript all the men I can and send them on after. Try not to lose too many. Fields don’t plough themselves, y’know.”

Alornis had been busy sketching during the sealing ceremony, beginning a new canvas depicting the event shortly after. Unlike Master Benril she felt no need for additional drama or embellishment. Although still roughly worked, her painting conveyed her gift for uncanny realism in its rendering of a grinning old man leaning over a scroll whilst the captains of the army looked on, varying depths of unease or suspicion on every face.

“Did I really look that angry?” Vaelin asked.

“I do not flatter, lord brother,” she replied, flicking pigment at him with her brush. “I see and I paint. That is all.”

Vaelin scanned the line of scowling or frowning faces, finding one exception. Nortah stood near the back of the assembly, a faint wry smile on his lips.

“They’ll need training,” he said to his brother now, moving to the table and reaching for parchment. He dipped his quill and began to write, the letters formed with slow precision. “Nortah Al Sendahl is hereby appointed Captain of the Free Company of the Army of the North.” He signed the parchment and held it out to Nortah. “You can have Sergeant Davern as second.”

“That blowhard?” Nortah scoffed. “Can’t I have one of the North Guard?”

“He’s good with the sword and he knows how to teach it. And I can’t denude the North Guard any further. We can linger here only two more days, so train them hard.”

“As you wish, mighty Tower Lord.” Nortah went to the tent flap then paused. “We’re really marching all the way to Alltor?”

The song’s insistence had deepened the further south they marched, the tone ever more urgent.
She fights,
he knew.
They come to tear the walls down and she fights.
“Yes, brother,” he said. “We really are.”

◆ ◆ ◆

Two days later they were on the march once again, Vaelin setting a punishing pace of thirty miles a day and letting it be known that he would be less than forgiving to stragglers. As in any army however, there were shirkers and deserters. The former he left to the sergeants, the latter were pursued by the North Guard and brought back to be stripped of weapons, coin and shoes before they were flogged and set loose. It was no more than a handful of men, and he hated the need for it, but this was far from a professional army and the leeway he had allowed the Wolfrunners would be a dangerous indulgence now.

They forded the Vellen on the fifth day, keeping a southward course until the jagged outline of the Greypeaks came into view and he ordered a halt for a day’s rest and reconnaissance. As expected, Sanesh Poltar brought grim tidings come the evening.

“Many horsemen,” he said to the council of captains. “South-east of here. Riding hard after Marelim Sil soldiers, on foot and only a third as many. They hurry to the mountains, seeking shelter.” His expression was grave as he shook his head. “Won’t reach them.”

“Is there enough time for our horse to get there?” Vaelin asked.

The Eorhil war chief shrugged. “We will, can’t speak for others.”

Vaelin reached for his cloak. “Captain Adal, Captain Orven, muster your men. We ride immediately. Count Marven, send the Nilsaelin horse to screen the south and west. The Army of the North is in your hands until I return.”

◆ ◆ ◆

Flame reminded him somewhat of Spit in his love of the run, tossing his head and snorting in appreciation as they galloped south, the mass of horses around them raising thunder from the earth. Dahrena rode at his side, having snapped a curt rebuke at Adal when he suggested she stay with the army. They managed to keep up with the Eorhil, though the North Guard and Orven’s men were obliged to trail in their wake by a half mile or so. The onset of darkness forced a halt after they had covered some twenty miles.

No fires were lit, the horsemen simply sitting or standing with their mounts, waiting for daylight. Dahrena had immediately slipped from her saddle and wrapped a cloak tightly about her shoulders as she sat on the grass. “Shan’t be long,” she said to Vaelin with a small smile before closing her eyes.

“Is this really necessary, my lord?” Adal asked, worry etched into his face as he stared at Dahrena’s unmoving form.

“I do not command her, Captain.” The blood-song gave a soft murmur, a note of anger and resentment, but also something else, something that now appeared obvious in the intensity of the captain’s gaze.
All the years at her side and he’s never told her,
Vaelin wondered.

Dahrena gave a soft gasp, opening her eyes and blinking rapidly. “They’ve stopped,” she breathed, slumping forward a little. Adal stepped closer to steady her but she waved him away, climbing to her feet with a groan.

“The Volarians?” Vaelin asked.

“The Realm Guard. Stopped on a hill some sixty miles directly south of here.”

My brother makes a stand,
Vaelin thought. The song was quite clear, Caenis had command of the Realm Guard’s remnants, and they were tired of running.

“Remount!” Vaelin called, striding to Flame and vaulting into the saddle. “We ride through the night!”

◆ ◆ ◆

They kept to a trot until the sun rose then spurred to a full gallop, Vaelin driving Flame hard although the horse’s flesh seemed to sing with joy as he struck out ahead of the Eorhil. After an hour’s ride the ground flattened out into rolling plains, a low hill visible on the horizon and a large dust-cloud rising in the east. Sanesh Poltar managed to urge yet more speed for his mount, pulling ahead of Vaelin and raising his strongbow over his head then waving it towards the east. A third of the Eorhil host immediately peeled away from the main body, striking out in a parallel course to the approaching dust-cloud.

Vaelin could see the Realm Guard on the hill now, standing three ranks deep, a few banners waving. They were too distant to make out the sigils but he knew the one in the centre bore a wolf running above a tower.

The Volarian cavalry came into view shortly after, dark-armoured figures riding tall warhorses, charging with lances levelled. Sanesh Poltar waved his bow again and another contingent of Eorhil separated from the host to charge directly at the Volarian flank. Vaelin followed the war chief as he led the remainder into the ground between the Realm Guard and the oncoming Volarians. On either side of him Eorhil warriors all notched an arrow to their bows with smooth unconscious precision, still at full gallop. They rode to within a hundred paces of the Volarians and loosed as one, no commands had been given. The arrows descended onto the leading companies in a dense cloud, horses screaming and falling as they struck home, men tumbling from the saddles to be trampled by their onrushing comrades. The Volarian charge faltered as the Eorhil continued to loose from the saddle, skirting their ranks and sending arrow after arrow into the mass of men and horses.

Vaelin reined in and watched the unfolding spectacle. Whoever had command of the Volarian horse was evidently quick in recognising a hopeless cause; assailed on three sides by horse archers and outnumbered into the bargain. Trumpets sounded amidst the roiling companies and they drew back, striking out for the only open ground to the south. The Eorhil, however, were not done.

Sanesh Poltar kept his contingent on the Volarian right flank whilst the two other wings continued to assail their rear and left, the arrows falling in a continuous rain, claiming ever more cavalrymen and horses. Vaelin watched the mobile battle fade towards the south as the North Guard and Orven’s men galloped past to join in the deathblow.

He turned Flame and trotted towards the hill where the Realm Guard were still standing in ranks. Their discipline held until his face came into view, whereupon they broke, running towards him with a great cheer, clustering around, joy and relief on every face. He nodded to them, smiling tightly at the babble of acclaim, nudging Flame forward until they came to the hill where a lone figure stood below a tall banner. He broke free from the clustering soldiers and guided Flame up the slope.

“Sorry, brother,” he said, dismounting at Caenis’s side. “I had hoped to get here sooner . . .”

He fell silent at the look on his brother’s face, eyes glaring amidst the dirt-covered visage of a man who had known nothing but battle and torment for weeks. “This all happened,” he said, the words spoken in a coarse echo of the voice Vaelin had known since childhood, “because you left us.”

◆ ◆ ◆

Adal’s scouts brought news of three battalions of Volarian infantry to the west. It seemed the Volarian commander had split his force in his eagerness to finish the Realm Guard. Vaelin ordered the Eorhil to cut off their line of retreat and sent word to Count Marven ordering him to crush the enemy force with all dispatch.
Time they were blooded.

“Five regiments,” Caenis reported in a clipped voice, the tones used by a subordinate to a superior, lacking familiarity or affection. “Or what remains of them. The Thirty-fifth is the most numerous with a third of its men still standing.”

“Is it true?” Vaelin asked. “About Darnel?”

Caenis gave a short nod. “We were drawn up for battle, the Volarians coming on in strength. When Darnel’s knights appeared we thought it a deliverance. There was no warning, they just trotted within a few hundred paces of the left flank and charged, smashing it to pieces. As of that moment we were undone. The men stood though, every regiment stood and fought, most to the death. I don’t have the words to do them justice. Lord Verniers might, if he still lives.”

“Verniers?” Vaelin asked. “The Alpiran Emperor’s chronicler. He was there?”

“At the King’s command. Grist for his history of the Realm.” Caenis met his gaze for the first time since their meeting on the hill. “He had an interesting story to tell and many questions, especially about our time in the Order.”

“What did you tell him?”

“No more than you did, I suspect.”

“How did you get away?”

“We rallied, launched a counter at the Volarian centre. I gambled their general would be careful enough of his own person to halt the advance and gather forces to his defence. As luck had it, I was right.”

“Your men are alive thanks to you, brother.”

“Not all, we lost many on the march.”

“Gallis? Krelnik?”

“Krelnik during the countercharge. Gallis in the retreat.”

Vaelin wanted to offer some words of commiseration, share memories of the grizzled veteran and the former climbing outlaw, but Caenis had taken his gaze away, staring rigidly ahead once more. “I regret asking you to march again so soon,” Vaelin said. “But we have business at Alltor.”

His brother’s expression didn’t change. “As my lord commands.”

Is this how it will be from now on?
Vaelin wondered.
Brotherhood turned to hate by lost Faith?

His gaze was drawn by the sound of drumming hooves as Nortah rode into their makeshift camp at the gallop, Snowdance loping in his wake.
Perhaps this will lighten his mood,
Vaelin thought as Nortah leapt from the saddle, striding towards Caenis with a broad grin.

“
You
are dead,” Caenis greeted him with a smile, his lack of surprise confirming Vaelin’s long-held suspicion his tale of Nortah’s supposed demise had never been believed by his brothers.

Nortah just laughed and enfolded Caenis in a warm embrace. “It’s a great thing to see you, brother. Your niece and nephew have long wanted to meet you.”

Caenis drew back a little as Snowdance padded closer, sniffing curiously. “Don’t mind her,” Nortah said. “We found some more slavers today so she’s well-fed.”

“We’ve solved your weapon-supply problem,” Vaelin told him, pointing towards the dark mound of bodies to the south. The Eorhil didn’t understand the concept of prisoners, war was a matter of absolutes to them, shorn of restraint or misplaced compassion, though they had been careful to spare as many horses as possible.