Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (75 page)

Reva watched from a rooftop as Varitai tried repeatedly to storm a chapel a few streets away, squads attempting to scale the walls or force their way through the windows, their bodies soon flung out again. Eventually they surrounded the building and assailed it with a hundred or more oil pots before an officer threw a torch. The flames took hold quickly and the defenders came streaming from the chapel, not in panic but fury, throwing themselves at the Varitai with no trace of fear. Reva straightened in surprise at the sight of the man leading the defenders, portly and dressed in a priest’s robes, hacking at the Volarians with a thin-bladed sword.
The priest from the square.
He died of course, along with the others, hacked down and butchered in the street, but not before they had felled at least twice their number.

Reva was turning away when something impacted on the roof-tiles with a wet smack. It rolled along the roof to rest at her feet, slack leathery features and empty eyes staring up at her. She looked around as more impacts sounded, the heads raining down around her. She heard a woman screaming in the street below, perhaps in recognition of one of the disembodied missiles.

She went to the manor where Arentes and Antesh were conferring over a map. “Do we have any prisoners?”

◆ ◆ ◆

There were a little over two dozen men herded into a corner of the manor grounds under close guard, most wounded and all mute with the expectation of death. They were all Free Swords—Kuritai and Varitai didn’t surrender and none of the defenders felt inclined to care for any too wounded to keep fighting. “All officers or sergeants,” Antesh explained. “Thought they might have something to tell us.”

“We’re in here, they’re out there,” Reva replied. “That’s all we need to know.” She turned to the House Guard sergeant in charge of the prisoners. “Any problem with this? If so, I’ll see to it myself.”

The sergeant gave a stern shake of the head and hefted his pole-axe. “Spread them around a bit,” Reva told him. “Throw them over where the Free Swords are thickest.”

She forced herself to stay and watch, finding it curious that so few of them begged or tried to run. They had to know there was no refuge for them here, that surrender had only delayed the inevitable. Most were too cowed and fearful to do any more than stumble weeping to the block, eyes closed or vomiting in terror as the axe fell, but one man was straight-backed and defiant, staring at Reva with hard eyes as he was forced to his knees. “Elverah,” he said.

Reva gave a slight nod in response.

“No better,” he said in thickly accented Realm Tongue. “No better than us.”

“No,” she replied. “I’m much worse.”

◆ ◆ ◆

Somehow she had managed to sleep, waking on a rooftop near the square with Arken sitting on the edge. He had found a blanket to cover her though the chilled night air still left her shivering. “Might have bought us some respite,” he said. “The thing with the prisoners. There hasn’t been an attack for nigh on two hours.” There was no reproach or judgement in his voice, just tired acceptance.

“They’ll be back,” she replied, standing and working the stiffness from her limbs. “Lord Arentes had good things to say about the help you gave the Realm Guard yesterday. Seems they want to adopt you.”

“Not a decent archer amongst them,” he said with a shrug. “Easy to stand out.”

She pulled the blanket tighter over her shoulders, surveying the half-ruined city before her, the fires burning in the streets taken by the Volarians, watching them scurry from doorway to doorway having learned not to linger in sight of the defenders’ archers. Below her, people huddled together in the cramped streets behind the third ring, sitting around cook fires or just slumped in exhaustion. There was little talk, just the occasional infant’s cry or a sergeant’s shouted rebuke to a weary guard.

“I lied, Arken,” she said.

“What about?”

“Al Sorna. There was no vision, no gift of the Father’s Sight. For all I know he’s still in the Reaches. Perhaps he never had any intention of coming to our aid. Why would he? This land is filled with those who curse his name.”

She heard him rise and soon felt his arms close around her, strong and warm. “Is that what you think?”

I came back to this land to find a sister, instead I found two.
“No,” she breathed, stifling a groan at the sight of a column of Varitai mustering in the streets opposite the south-facing wall. “No. He’s coming.”

◆ ◆ ◆

It began again in the small hours of the morning and continued all day, the Volarians attacking in strength at four separate points, each fresh assault preceded by a rain of engine-launched gifts. Not just captive defenders now, women and youths amongst the severed heads smacking into the cobbles as they steeled themselves for the next rush. Inevitably some broke at the sight, a townsman running from his company and vaulting over the wall when a girl’s head landed amidst their ranks, screaming with a meat cleaver in hand as he charged the Free Swords approaching the wall, soon disappearing under a mass of stabbing short swords.

Reva rushed to wherever the need was greatest, killing with bow or sword to restore the position. Sometimes just the sight of her was enough, people gathering courage and rejoining the fight as she appeared on the rooftops or leapt into their midst. But as the noon sun rose she knew the time had come and ordered the three blasts sounded.

She was running with Arken across a walkway towards the fourth ring when she saw Lord Arentes in the street below, fighting together with a small band of surrounded guardsmen, Varitai assailing them on all sides. “Steady now!” the old commander intoned as they slowly inched their way towards the safety of the third ring. “One step back.”

Reva unslung her bow and took down three Varitai in quick succession, but it wasn’t enough. A tight formation of Free Swords came charging in, crashing into the guardsman and shattering their ranks. She saw Arentes parry a sword thrust and deliver an overhand slash to his opponent, cutting him down but leaving his sword embedded in his shoulder. Reva re-slung the bow and leapt from the walkway, landing in the swirling battle with sword drawn, cutting down a Volarian lunging at Arentes. Another came for her but was crushed under Arken’s boots as he dropped from the walkway, hacking wildly with his axe.

“The wall my lord!” she told Arentes and they ran, scrambling over with the help of many defenders as the archers above drove the Volarians back.

She looked up to see Arken cresting the wall, a large silhouette against a clear blue sky, tumbling to a heap on the street before her. “Arken?”

His face was pressed into the cobbles, the flesh bunched, eyes dim and unseeing. A Volarian short sword protruded from his back.

◆ ◆ ◆

The third ring held for no more than an hour, despite the killing she did around Arken’s corpse as the Free Swords came over the wall. All sense of time lost in the fury of it, no weariness could touch her. They came and she killed them until hands grabbed her and dragged her away. Her senses returned then, a red slick covering her sword arm from blade to shoulder, eyes fixed on Arken’s body lying amidst the Volarian dead, lost to sight as they rounded a corner and she was borne over the fifth ring.

“My lady?” Antesh stared into her face, hand rough on her shoulder. “Please, my lady.”

She blinked at him and got slowly to her feet. “How many left?”

“Half at most. We lost too many when the last ring fell.”

Arken . . .
“Yes, we lost too many.”

She looked down at the sword in her hand, finding half the blade sheared off. She couldn’t remember breaking it. She tossed it to the cobbles and found a trough, sinking her head into the water to get the blood out of her hair. “We can’t hold here,” she told Antesh, raising her head from the water. “Fall back to the last ring. The killing ground is wider.”

◆ ◆ ◆

Reva went to the manor as Antesh and Arentes organised the final defence. The sword was where she had left it, propped beside the fireplace in her uncle’s memory. She hefted it, finding it lighter than she remembered. The edge keen and bright, all trace of the Reader’s blood cleaned away. “You’re not what I came for,” she told the sword. “But you’ll do.”

The sixth and final ring was constructed around the cathedral square, every foot of it sheltering at least one defender. Those too old, injured or young to fight were crammed into the cathedral. The remaining guardsmen were arrayed in the square itself, ready to counter any breakthrough. They were weary, she could tell, but all stood straight as she approached, her grandfather’s sword resting on her shoulder.

“I thought it was time,” she said. “That I thanked you for your service. You are hereby dismissed with full honours and may depart at your leave.”

The laugh was surprisingly loud, if short-lived thanks to Lord Arentes’s glower of disapproval. “It can be said,” Reva went on, “that my family has not always deserved such great service. Nor in truth, have I. For I am not blessed, you see. I . . . am a liar . . .” She paused as a drop of rain fell onto her hand, strange, as the sky had been so clear for so long. She looked up to find the sky darkening, clouds forming with uncanny speed. Soon the rain was falling, driven by a hard wind, the fires on the other side of the ring dying under the deluge.

“My lady!” Antesh called from the walkway above, standing and pointing towards the south. “Something’s happening!”

C
ara swayed a little as the clouds began to move in the sky, thin wisps of cotton coalescing into dark spidery tendrils, forming into a slowly spinning spiral a mile wide.

“Are you all right?” Vaelin asked, reaching out to steady her as she stumbled.

“Just a little light-headed, my lord,” she replied with a forced smile. “Haven’t done this for such a long time.” She took a breath and raised her gaze to the sky once more, a fresh breeze stirring the grass on the hilltop. The spiral twisted in the sky, darkening with every passing second, the tendrils thickening into roiling mountains of grey and black. Cara gritted her teeth and gave a pained grunt, the swirling mass of cloud starting to drift towards the smoke-shrouded city some six miles away, its course heralded by a rumble of thunder and lit by the occasional flash of lightning.

Cara sank to her knees, face pale and eyes dim with exhaustion. Lorkan and Marken rushed to her side, the young gifted casting a resentful glare at Vaelin which he chose to ignore. Weaver stood a little way off, his usually placid features now drawn in confusion as he paced back and forth, his ever-growing rope grasped tight in both hands. As far as Vaelin knew he hadn’t used his gift throughout the entirety of the march, though he was often seen carrying wounded from the field in the aftermath of battle. The song sounded a clear a note of frustration as Vaelin watched Weaver turn his gaze from Cara, wincing in discomfort before straightening into a determined stance.
He waits for something,
Vaelin realised.
Or someone.

He turned to watch the mass of cloud rumble towards Alltor, pregnant with menace and hopefully enough rain to quench the fires raging within the walls. North Guard scouts had reported in the day before bringing news of the city’s dire straits and he had ordered the army’s pace quickened. He drove them hard, riding along the columns of trotting men with a grim visage and sincere threats for any who seemed likely to fall out. They continued through the night, covering fifty miles before he called a halt. In the morning Nortah had brought Cara to his tent with a suggestion.

“I have to stress, my lord,” the girl said. “I cannot predict the consequences if I do this. I can bring the rain down on the city, but what happens next . . .” She gave a helpless shrug. “When I was a girl a drought blighted our village, the crops withered and my mother said we were like to starve come the winter. I had some knowledge of my gift by then, making little whirlwinds and such, sometimes forming the clouds into pretty shapes. So I made a big cloud, called all the other clouds to join it, and it rained. For three days it rained and people rejoiced. Then the rain stopped and the duck pond froze over. It was the middle of summer. Erlin found me shortly after, telling my parents of a place in the north where I would be safe.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Vaelin cautioned her. “I know well the price our gifts exact.”

“I didn’t come all this way just to watch, my lord.”

He waited until the clouds were over Alltor, glimpsing the curtain of shifting grey that told of heavy rain. The song was strong now, singing Reva’s tune with a note of pride but also foreboding. Time was short.

◆ ◆ ◆

“Odds of at least two to one,” Count Marven told the council of captains. “Lengthening by the hour as they draw more troops from Alltor to face us. Given the enemy’s strength, my lord, I am bound to suggest a feinting strategy.” He pointed to the centre of the map Harlick had drawn, showing the Volarian camp now no more than a few hundred paces distant, lines of Free Swords and Varitai drawn up to bar the route to Alltor, cavalry in large numbers on both flanks. “Keep our infantry where it is and send the Eorhil to the western bank to draw their gaze. At the same time the Nilsaelin horse and the North Guard go west. The enemy will be forced to reorder their ranks, allowing for an assault around here.” His finger moved to a section on the right of the Volarian line. “We hit them hard then veer off to the west to join up with the cavalry whilst the Eorhil threaten their eastern flank. It should draw off enough of their forces to buy the city some time. We can then pull back to the forest where I’m sure our Seordah friends can make great play with their infantry. We tie them up in small battles, ambushes and the like. It won’t be quick, a matter of weeks rather than days, but I think this is a battle we can win.”

“Alltor doesn’t have weeks,” Nortah said. “Or even days.”

“And we do not have the numbers, good Captain,” Marven returned, the strain of the past week telling in his voice. “We need an army twice the size to break their line.”

“So we’ve come all this way to run around the woods whilst the city perishes?” Nortah gave a disgusted snort.

“What about the river?” Adal put in. “We could build boats. There are plenty in our ranks who know how. Send reinforcements to the city that way.”

“By the time we get across there won’t be anyone to reinforce,” Nortah said. “That’s if we can make it past that monster they’ve got moored in the river.”

Vaelin glanced up at the tent roof as a thunderclap sounded overhead. Cara’s storm was gathering force and soon the ground would be too sodden for cavalry. He went to the rear of the tent where the canvas bundle lay on his bunk, the captains’ dispute continuing as he undid the knots, pulling back the wrapping to reveal the sword. The blood-song swelled in welcome as he grasped the scabbard, the heft of it so comfortable in his hand. He was aware their voices had stilled as he strapped on the sword, the scabbard resting against his back with a familiar weight.

“My lord?” Dahrena asked as he walked from the tent. He went to where Flame had been tethered, hauling the saddle onto his back and tying it in place, then leading him towards the ranks of assembled infantry.

“What are you going to do?” Dahrena stood in his path, a little breathless, eyes bright with fearful suspicion. Behind her the captains all stood, most looking on in bafflement but Nortah and Caenis wearing expressions of grim understanding. They exchanged a glance then moved off in opposite directions, Caenis calling to his sergeant, Nortah running to his company, with Snowdance padding along in his wake.

“My lord?” Dahrena said.

“You see the souls of others when you fly,” he said. “But do you ever see your own?”

She gave a wordless shake of her head.

“That is a great pity.” He reached out to cup her face, thumb tracing over her cheek. “Because I can see it, and I find it shines very bright indeed. I should be grateful if you would have a care for my sister. She will not understand this.”

He turned away and mounted up, trotting to the front rank of the army, finding the miners’ banner and reining in. “Break ranks!” he called to the surrounding regiments. “Gather round.”

There was some hesitation amongst the officers before they repeated the order and a few minutes delay before they stood around him a loose circle, the bulk of the infantry with the Seordah crowding behind.

“We have reached a point,” he told them, “where I can no longer command your obedience through duty alone. Now every man and woman in this army must choose their own course. For my own part”—he turned in the saddle, pointing to the rain-lashed city beyond the Volarian line—“I intend to ride to the centre of this city. For my friend is there, and I would very much like to see her again.”

He reached behind his shoulder and drew the sword, raising it high. The light was meagre under the darkening sky but still it caught enough sun to gleam. He cast his gaze over their faces, pale and rapt in the rain as he spoke again, “And I will kill any man who raises a hand to stop me. Those who wish to come with me are welcome.”

He turned Flame about, moving forward at a slow walk, hearing the commotion build behind him, Marven’s and Adal’s voices audible above the multitude of shouted orders. He called on the song and let the voices fade, scanning the Volarian ranks and waiting for the note of recognition.
Perhaps they executed him for cowardice.
But then it rose, a clear note of pure fear as his gaze fell on a battalion positioned just to the left of the Volarian centre.

Well,
he thought.
At least I got to know Alornis.

He kicked his heels into Flame’s flanks and the stallion reared before spurring into a gallop.

◆ ◆ ◆

Time seemed to slow as they sped towards the Volarian line, the spectacle of it all filling his gaze. Fireballs fell in a low arc, cast by the ballista-ships in the river, the city’s fires now smouldering under the rain, the clouds above thick and black save for the occasional flicker of lightning.

Arrows came for him as he charged, easily avoided thanks to the song, its music louder than he had ever known it. He waited until it picked out the former captive, his fear a high-pitched scream in the second rank of his battalion, then began to sing, forcing every vestige of anger and bloodlust into the song he cast forth. He felt it strike home, the Free Sword’s last hold on sanity breaking like glass as he beheld the charging figure on the horse, coming straight towards him with sword levelled. The ranks of the battalion rippled as the youth began to claw his way towards the rear, lashing out at restraining hands with his short sword, screaming in terror, a few soldiers in the front rank turning to look on the commotion.

In truth it wasn’t much, just a small flaw in an otherwise impressively disciplined line, but today it was enough.

Flame struck home with the fearless charge of a born warhorse, smashing men aside and trampling the slow-footed into the earth as Vaelin’s sword began its own song. He cleaved a man’s face apart from chin to skull with an upward slash, his helmet parting with the force of it, then spurred Flame onward, the sword slashing in an unceasing, unstoppable blur. Men rolled limbless in their wake, screams adding to those of the former captive, still fighting his maddened way towards safety.

A hard-faced veteran loomed out of the throng, short sword raised in a swift thrust, but the song saw all today and blared a warning, the veteran sinking to his knees a second later, eyes and mouth agape at the jetting stump of his wrist. Another Free Sword tried to hack at Flame’s legs, earning a sweep of the sword that left him headless.

They burst through the rear of the Volarian line, Vaelin hauling Flame to a halt in a fountain of churned sod. The terrorised Free Sword was kneeling in the open ground beyond, eyes wide and unblinking, all trace of sanity having fled. Vaelin turned the horse about, finding the Volarians moving to encircle him, blades levelled as they edged closer, fear on every face.

Vaelin heard laughter somewhere and realised it was his own. He also felt the trickle of blood from his nose that told him he had sung long enough. He ignored it and charged again, riding down the nearest Free Sword and killing the men on either side of him, wheeling to the right and hacking down a man shouting orders, then another who stood frozen in fear.

But not all were so fearful, a dozen men or more leaping and slashing in an attempt to bring him down, but the song warned of every attack. He parried, ducked and killed in a whirl of song and blood until Flame gave a loud pain-filled whinny and reared, an arrow buried in his flank. The horse stayed upright for a few more seconds, rearing and lashing out with his hooves, but a spasm of pain brought him to his knees, Vaelin rolling free of the saddle, coming to his feet to parry a thrust and punch his sword point through the breastplate of the man who delivered it, the star-silver blade penetrating the armour with ease.

He wrenched the blade free and stood beside his dying horse, Free Swords on all sides, creeping closer as officers hounded them with curses. The song birthed a new note, something discordant, touched by wildness but also a fierce and boundless loyalty. He laughed again and the Free Swords paused.

“I’m sorry your general didn’t take my offer,” he told them.

Snowdance landed in their midst in a blaze of teeth and claws, pinning two men to the ground, her great jaws fixing on each head in turn and ripping them free. Her gaze fell on Vaelin for a moment, the song rising in warm regard, then she was gone, charging into the thickest knot of Volarians, blood and limbs scattering in her wake.

The Volarian line was torn apart now, a gaping rent some twenty yards wide proving an irresistible target for the North Guard and Captain Orven’s guardsmen. They came streaming through with swords flashing, the gap widening further until the entire Free Sword battalion broke apart. Captain Adal hacked down a running Volarian and pulled up as he caught sight of Vaelin standing beside Flame’s corpse. “You’re hurt, my lord.”

Vaelin touched a hand to the blood streaming from his nose and shook his head. “It’s nothing. Rally your men and wheel to the left, engage the cavalry on their flank.”

“You’re dismounted . . .” the captain protested as Vaelin walked towards the nearest Volarian battalion.

“I’ll be all right,” he replied with a wave, not turning.

◆ ◆ ◆

The song was an unquenchable fire now, fuelling his charge through their ranks as he killed and killed again, parrying or side-stepping blows that should have brought death. He attacked the next battalion from the rear, finding them Varitai immune to any terror he might spread but lacking the instinct needed to counter his song-born skill. He hacked his way into their midst to cut down their commander who, unlike them, was entirely capable of feeling fear, whipping his horse bloody and laying about with a whip as he tried to fight free of their ranks. It didn’t help.