Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (4 page)

“Sergeant Norin,” he said.

“My lord,” the man breathed. “I had heard . . . there were rumours, but—”

Al Sorna moved forward and embraced the man warmly, Reva noting the player’s expression of complete astonishment. “It’s very good to see you, Janril,” Al Sorna said, drawing back. “Very good indeed.”

◆ ◆ ◆

“There are a thousand tales of your death,” the minstrel told Al Sorna over supper. They had been welcomed into the wagon he shared with Ellora. She had exchanged her chiffon dancer’s garb for a plain grey dress and cooked them a meal of stew and dumplings. Reva avoided looking in her direction and concentrated on the food. Al Sorna had introduced her as “Reva, my pretend sister for the next few weeks.” Janril Norin just nodded and told her she was welcome, any curiosity he might have felt about the nature of their relationship carefully hidden.
Soldiers don’t question their commanders,
she thought.

“And a thousand more of your escape,” Norin went on. “They say you fashioned a mace from your chains with the aid of the Departed and slew your way out of the Emperor’s dungeons. I wrote a song about it, always goes down well.”

“Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to write another,” Al Sorna said. “About how they just let me go.”

“I thought you went to the Meldenean Islands first,” Reva said, letting her disbelief colour her tone. “Killed the pirates’ champion and rescued a princess.”

He just shrugged. “All I did in the Isles was take part in a play. Though, I’m not much of a player.”

“Player or not, my lord,” Norin said. “You know you’re welcome in this company. For as long as you wish.”

“We’re making for Varinshold. If you’re heading there, we’ll gladly accompany you.”

“We’re going south,” Ellora said. “The Summertide Fair in Mealinscove always reaps a healthy profit.” There was a guardedness to her tone and a clear discomfort at the Darkblade’s presence.
Smart enough to know he brings death everywhere he goes,
Reva surmised.

“We’re going north,” Norin told her in a flat tone, then smiled at Al Sorna. “The fair in Varinshold will be just as fruitful, I’m sure.”

“We’ll pay our way,” Vaelin said to Ellora.

“Won’t hear of it, my lord,” Norin assured him. “Having your sword with us will be payment enough. So many outlaws about these days.”

“Talking of which, we found their handiwork a few miles back. A family, robbed and slaughtered. Came here looking to ensure justice, in fact. Notice any candidates tonight?”

Norin thought for a moment. “There was a rowdy bunch in the alehouse this afternoon. Their clothes were mean but they had money for ale. Drew my interest because one of them had a gold ring on a chain about his neck. Too small for a man’s ring, if I’m any judge. Caused a bit of a ruckus when the brewer refused to sell them one of his daughters. The guards told them to quiet down or move on. There’s a vagrants’ camp a mile or so downriver. If they haven’t gone back to the forest, likely we’ll find them there.”

Ellora’s gaze turned into a glare at the mention of the word “We.”

“If they were drunk they’ll be sleeping it off,” Al Sorna said. “They’ll still be there in the morning, I’m sure. Though, ensuring justice will mean involving the guards, and I was hoping not to draw any attention.”

“There are other forms of justice, my lord,” Norin pointed out. “Was a time we dealt it to outlaws on a fairly regular basis, as I recall.”

Al Sorna glanced at the canvas-wrapped sword in the corner of the wagon. “No, I’m no Lord Marshal these days and no longer exercise the King’s Word. Seems it can’t be helped. I’ll find the guard captain in the morning.”

After supper Norin sat on the wagon steps playing his mandolin, singing with Ellora at his side. The other players gathered round to listen and call for him to sing their favourites. Reva and Al Sorna drew a few curious glances and, from the awed expressions of a few, some had clearly divined his identity. However, Norin’s statement that she and his old friend from the Wolfrunners were his guests and their privacy was to be respected seemed to be all that was required to ensure no questions were asked.

“Doesn’t look a soldier,” Reva observed to Al Sorna. They had placed themselves a short distance from the company, lighting a fire against the night’s chill.

“He was always more of a minstrel,” Al Sorna said. “But a hard fighter when it mattered. I’m glad he took his pension. Seems happy enough with his lot.”

Reva shot a quick look at Ellora, her smile as she rested against Norin’s knee.
Well he might,
she thought.

The company drifted off to their own wagons as the hour grew late and Norin and Ellora retired to bed. He had provided them with thick blankets and soft furs to lie on and Reva marvelled at the comfort of it. Sleeping on hard ground was all she had known for most of her life.
Comfort is a trap,
the priest had said.
A barrier to the Father’s love, for it makes us weak, servile to the Heretic Dominion.
With that he had beaten her for the crime of hiding a sack of straw in the barn to sleep on.

She waited a good two hours. Al Sorna never snored, in fact he barely made a sound or moved at all when sleeping. She watched the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath the blanket for a while longer to be sure, then slipped from her own coverings, picked up her shoes and made her way barefoot to the river. On the bank she splashed water on her face to banish any lingering tiredness, pulled on her shoes and followed the current downstream.

The vagrants’ camp wasn’t hard to find, the smell of woodsmoke announced its location before the cluster of shacks and tents came into view. Only one fire burned in the camp, raucous laughter echoing from the few occupants. Four men, passing a bottle around.
Must’ve scared the rest away,
she thought. She crept closer until their voices became clear.

“You rutted on that bitch when she was dead, Kella!” one of the men laughed. “Fucking a corpse, you filthy animal.”

“Least I didn’t rut on the boy,” the other man shot back. “Against nature that is.”

Reva saw little reason for stealth or further delay. This needed doing quickly before Al Sorna missed her.

The four men fell silent as she walked into the camp, surprise soon replaced by drunken lust.

“Looking for somewhere to sleep, lovely?” the largest of the men said. He had an extensive mop of unkempt hair and the gaunt, wasted look of a man who lived from day to day without regular meals or shelter. There was also a gold ring hanging on a string about his neck.
Too small for a man’s ring, if I’m any judge.
Reva remembered the sight of the woman in the forest, the finger hacked from her hand.

She said nothing and stared back.

“We’ve got plenty of room,” the man went on, coming closer on unsteady legs. “Everyone else’s pissed off. Can’t think why.”

Reva met his gaze, saying nothing. Drunk as he was, some faint warning must have sounded in his head for he stopped a few feet short of her, eyes narrowing. “What you want here gir—!”

The knife came free of the sheath in a blur, she ducked forward then upwards in a fluid motion, the blade slicing through his neck, then twisted away as he fell, blood spraying through his fingers.

The second one she killed was too shocked to react as she leapt, wrapped her legs about his chest and stabbed deep into his shoulder, once, then twice. She leapt free, darted towards the third man, now fumbling for a cudgel in his belt. He managed a single swing which she ducked with ease, rolling on the ground then slashing back to sever his hamstring. He fell, cursing and screaming. Reva turned to the fourth man. His fevered gaze took in the scene around him as he fidgeted, a long-bladed knife in his hand. He gave Reva a final terror-stricken glance, dropped the knife and fled. He had almost reached the sheltering darkness beyond the firelight before her knife throw took him between the shoulder blades.

Reva went to the large man’s body, pushing it over to retrieve the ring from around his neck. There was also a good-quality hunting knife in his belt, Realm Guard issue from the regimental crest on the handle. She took the knife, pocketed the ring and walked to the man with the severed hamstring, now weeping desperate pleas through a cloud of snot and spittle.

“Don’t worry, Kella,” she said. “I promise I won’t fuck your corpse.”

◆ ◆ ◆

Ellora made them a breakfast of eggs and mushrooms fried in butter.
As good a cook as she is a dancer,
Reva thought, tucking in. She waited until Ellora and Norin had gone to tend to the drays that pulled their wagon, then took the ring from her pocket and tossed it to Al Sorna. He looked at it for a long time. “The sun and the moon,” he said softly.

Reva frowned. “What?”

He held it up for her to see, an engraving on the inside of the band, two circles, one wreathed in flame. “They were Deniers.”

She shrugged and returned to her breakfast.

“The bodies,” Al Sorna said.

“Weighted and dumped in the river.”

“Very efficient of you.”

She looked up at the hardness in his tone, seeing something in his gaze that gave new fire to her anger. Disappointment. “I am not here because I choose to be, Darkblade,” she told him. “I am here for the sword of the Trueblade so that I might earn the love of the Father by bringing down your unholy Realm. I am not your friend, your sister or your pupil. And I do not care one whit for your approval.”

Janril Norin coughed, breaking the thick silence that reigned in the aftermath of her words. “Best be looking for the guard captain, my lord. If this is to be done today.”

“That won’t be necessary, Janril.” Al Sorna tossed the ring back to Reva. “Keep it, you earned it.”

T
he shaven-headed man coughed blood onto the sand and died with a faint whimper. Frentis dropped his sword next to the body and waited, still and silent but for the harsh rasp of his breathing. This one had been harder than usual, four enemies instead of the usual two or three. Slaves scurried from the dark alcoves in the pit wall to clean up the mess, dragging the bodies away and retrieving his sword. They kept their distance from Frentis. Sometimes the killing rage the overseer instilled in him took a while to fade.

“Remarkable,” said a voice from above. There were three spectators today, the overseer joined by the master and a woman Frentis hadn’t seen before. “Hard to believe he’s actually improved, Vastir,” the master went on. “My compliments.”

“My only thought is to serve you, Council-man,” the overseer said with just the right amount of fawning servility. He was a diligent fellow and never overplayed his part.

“Well?” the master said to the woman at his side. “Does he meet with our Ally’s approval?”

“I don’t speak for the Ally,” the woman said. Her tone, Frentis noted, was free of anything that might be described as servility, or even respect. “Whether he meets with
my
approval, however.”

Bound as he was Frentis could not outwardly express surprise, or any other emotion not permitted him by the overseer, but he did twitch in astonishment as the woman leapt into the pit, landing from the ten-foot drop with practised ease. She was dressed in the formal robes of a Volarian highborn, dark hair was tied back from a face of feline beauty with eyes that gleamed bright with interest as she examined Frentis’s naked form from head to toe. “Prettier than I expected,” she murmured. She looked up at the overseer, raising her voice. “Why is his face unscarred?”

“He never gets any scars, Honoured Lady,” Vastir called back. “A few have come close over the years, but he was already highly skilled when he came to us.”

“Highly skilled were you, pretty one?” the woman asked Frentis, then grimaced in annoyance when he didn’t respond. “Let him speak,” she called to the overseer.

Vastir glanced over the edge of the pit at Frentis, and he felt the slight loosening of the will that bound him. “Well?” the woman demanded.

“I am a brother of the Sixth Order,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow at the lack of an honorific.

“My profound apologies, Honoured Lady,” Vastir gushed. “However many punishments we administer he refuses to use correct language, and we were cautioned that the only death he should face would be in the pits.”

The woman waved a hand in dismissal. “Swords!” she commanded.

There was a moment’s confusion above, a whispered discussion between master and overseer from which Frentis discerned the words, “just do it, Vastir!” Another brief delay then two short swords were tossed into the pit, landing in the sand between Frentis and the woman.

“Well then,” she said in a brisk tone, shrugging off her robes to stand as naked as he was. Her body was lithe, displaying the finely honed muscle of one who has spent many years in hard training and was, by any standard, quite beautiful. But what interested Frentis was not the curve of her thighs or the fullness of her breasts, but the pattern of whirling scars that covered her from neck to groin, a pattern he knew with intimate precision. They were an exact mirror image of his own, the matrix of damaged tissue One Eye had carved into him in the vaults beneath the western quarter before his brothers came to free him.

“Pretty aren’t they?” the woman asked, seeing how his eyes tracked over the scars. She came closer, reaching out to caress the whirling symbol on his chest. “Precious gifts, born in pain.” Her hand splayed flat on his chest and he felt warmth emanating from it. She sighed, eyes closed, fingers twitching on his skin. “Strong,” she whispered. “Can’t be too strong.”

She opened her eyes and stepped back, removing her hand, the warmth fading instantly. “Let’s see what your Order taught you,” she said, crouching to pick up the swords, tossing one to him. “Release him!” she ordered Vastir. “Completely.”

Frentis could sense the overseer’s hesitation. In the five or more years he had been caged here they had only ever fully released him once, with very unfortunate results.

“Honoured Lady,” Vastir began. “Forgive the reluctance of one who only seeks to serve . . .”

“Do as I say, you corpulent pile of dung!” The woman smiled for the first time, her gaze still locked on Frentis. It was a fierce smile, joyful with anticipation.

Then it was gone, the will that bound him lifted like the planks of the stocks he remembered so well from childhood. The sudden rush of freedom was exhilarating, but all too short.

The woman lunged at him, sword extended in a perfectly straight line for his heart, agile, accurate and very fast. His own blade came up to meet hers, deflecting the thrust with scant inches to spare. He whirled away towards the wall of the pit, jumped, rebounded from the rock, back arched as her blade slashed beneath him, landed on his hands in the centre of the pit then bounced to his feet.

The woman gave a laugh of unbridled joy and attacked again with a prepared scale of thrusts and slashes. He recognised it from one of the Kuritai he had killed a few months ago. It was how they taught him, new tricks every time to sharpen his skills to ever greater heights. He parried her every blow and retaliated with a scale of his own, learned under another master he had once thought harsh but now recalled with fond remembrance.

She was unfamiliar with these moves, he could tell, parrying his thrusts with less fluency than she had displayed in her attack. He forced her back to the wall of the pit, completing the scale by feinting a blinding stab at her eyes then bringing the blade up and around to slash into her thigh. Their swords rang as she parried the blow.

Frentis drew back a little, meeting the woman’s gaze. She was still smiling. The parry had been too fast. Impossibly fast in fact.

“Now I’ve got your attention,” the woman said.

Frentis smiled back. It was not something he did with any regularity and the muscles of his face ached from the novelty of it. “I’ve never killed a woman,” he said.

She pouted. “Oh don’t be like that.”

He turned his back on her and walked to the centre of the pit. They had given him a choice for the first time, and he was taking it.

“This could be a problem,” the woman said, her voice soft, and he realised she was thinking aloud.

“Honoured Lady?” Vastir called down.

“Throw me a rope!” she called back. “I’m done here.” She gestured at Frentis. “You can have this one for the spectacles.”

“He’ll make fine show at the victory celebrations, no doubt,” the master said. Frentis found it strange that he sounded relieved.

“Indeed, most honoured,” Vastir agreed, dragging a rope ladder to the edge of the pit, “I should despair if all my efforts were wast—”

Frentis’s short sword took him in the neck, slicing through veins and spine to protrude from beneath the base of his skull. He staggered for a moment, eyes bulging in terror and confusion, blood gushing from mouth and wound, then collapsed forward, landing on the sand of the pit with a soft thump.

Frentis straightened from the throw, turning to the woman. Death would come now, killing an overseer was a crime they could not forgive, whatever his value might be. However, he was dismayed to find her smile had returned.

“You know, Arklev,” she said to the master, now staring at Frentis in appalled astonishment. “I think I’ve changed my mind.”

◆ ◆ ◆

The binding came again when she had climbed out of the pit, clamping down hard with enough force to make him stagger and fall to the sands, his scars burning with an agony as yet unknown. He looked up to see her smiling and twiddling her fingers, remembering the warmth that emanated from her touch.
This is her!
he realised.
She binds me now.

He watched her laugh and disappear from view, the binding lifting after a few seconds more torment. The master lingered a moment, his lean features regarding Frentis with a mixture of anger and fear, restrained but still palpable to a man well versed in reading the face of his opponents.

“Your Realm will suffer for your failure to die today, slave,” the master said. Then he was gone and Frentis experienced a sudden certainty that he would most likely never see him again. It was a shame, he had hoped opportunity might arise when he could send him to join Vastir in the Beyond.

He got to his feet as the alcove doors clattered open to admit the slaves. They were joined by a platoon of Varitai. They circled him with spears levelled as the slaves did their work, dragging away the overseer’s bloated corpse, raking the blood from the sand, then disappearing back to wherever it was they went. Frentis had never seen beyond the alcove doors, but from the sounds of pain and toil that echoed through them at night, he doubted there was much he wanted to see.

One of the Varitai, silent as they always were, came forward to place a bundle in the centre of the pit. With that they trooped out in single file, the door slamming shut behind.

Frentis went to the bundle. They always left him food after a fight. Usually a bowl of surprisingly tasty porridge and an occasional serving of well-cooked meat. Starving him would not serve their purpose. In that respect at least, they were just like the Order. Today was different. In addition to the food he had been given clothes, the plain and serviceable tunic and trews of a Volarian freeman, dyed blue to signify his status as a journeyman of some kind, permitted to travel between the provinces. There was also a pair of solid boots, a belt of leather and a cloak of tightly woven cotton.

He fingered the clothing and recalled the burn of his scars.
Where will she take me?
he wondered, a new chill in his heart.
What will she make me do?

◆ ◆ ◆

In the morning a rope ladder was lowered into the pit. He had dressed in his new clothes, the feel of cloth on his skin strange after so many years of enforced nakedness. It made his scars itch. He climbed the ladder without hesitation, feeling no need for a final glance at his home of five years. There was nothing here he wanted to remember, but even so he knew every fight, every death, would stay with him forever.

The woman was waiting as he climbed from the pit. There were no guards; she didn’t need them. Her fine robes of the previous day had been exchanged for the more modest gown of a mid-status freewoman, dyed grey. His knowledge of this land and its customs was meagre, confined to what he had learned during his journey here after being taken in Untesh, plus whatever scraps of information he had been able to glean from overheard conversations between master and overseer. The colour grey, he knew, signified a person of property, usually slaves but also land and livestock. If a free Volarian acquired sufficient property, one thousand slaves or assets of equivalent value, they were permitted to wear black. Only the richest Volarians wore red, like the master.

“I hope you got some sleep,” she said. “We have a long way to go.”

The binding was still there, but restrained now, a faint tingle to his scars, enough to prevent him tying his new belt about her neck and strangling her, but with sufficient freedom to allow a survey of the environs. The pits surrounded them on every side, a hundred or more, each thirty feet in diameter and ten feet deep, carved into a broad plateau of bare rock, honeycombed with tunnels and dwellings. From some came the sound of combat, from others torture, screams rising into the morning air, overseers directing the various torments as they strolled the rim of the pits. This was a place of punishment as well as training.

“Sorry to be leaving?” the woman asked.

She had left him enough freedom to speak but he said nothing.

Her gaze darkened and he knew she was considering another punishing burn to his scars. He stared back, still refusing to speak, or beg.

To his surprise she laughed again. “So long since I had something truly interesting to play with. Come along, pretty one.” She turned and began walking to the edge of the plateau. It rose from the Vakesh Desert like an island in a sea of sand; when the midday sun ascended to its full height the temperature on the surface was enough to make even the overseers desist from their labours. Caravan routes ran from the north and west. He had memorised all this when they brought him here, back when he still indulged in the dream that he might one day contrive an escape.

She led him to the winding set of steps carved into the western face of the plateau, where it took them the best part of an hour to descend to the desert floor. A slave was waiting with four horses, two saddled for riding, two more bearing packs. She took the reins from the slave and dismissed him with a wave.

“I am a widowed landowner from the province of Eskethia,” she informed him. “I have business in Mirtesk. You are my journeyman escort, contracted to see me there safely without injury to body or reputation.”

She gave him the care of the packhorses and hauled herself into the saddle of the tallest riding horse, a grey mare which seemed to know her from the way it snorted in pleasure as she patted its neck. Her gown had slits to accommodate riding full saddle and her bare thighs were bronze in the morning sun. He looked away and saw to the pack animals.