Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (66 page)

Frentis did a count as the fighters staggered around in the aftermath of the carnage.
No more than fifty left,
he surmised.
At least a third of those wounded.

Janril was still amongst the living, hacking at something concealed beneath the ferns with slow methodical strokes of his sword. He stopped and bent down to retrieve his prize, holding it up as blood gushed from the stump of its neck. The former minstrel laughed as he shook the head up and down, the mouth opening and closing in a grotesque parody of speech. Frentis found himself shamed by the realisation he had hoped Janril would have found his end today.
There will never be peace for one such as him.

A high-pitched yell came from the rear, Davoka instantly hefting her spear and running towards it.
Illian.

Frentis followed, seeing Master Grealin up ahead, the big man moving with surprising speed once more as he raced through the undergrowth. Beyond him Frentis could see Arendil battling two Kuritai, his long sword moving in fluid arcs as he turned aside their short swords, twisting and ducking as they tried to close. He could see Illian standing amidst the branches of an oak above the fight, hands spread helplessly.
No more bolts.

Arendil was forced to back away at speed as the Kuritai redoubled their efforts, one slashing low the other high. The boy’s feet found a tree root and he stumbled, falling flat on his back, the Kuritai closing, swords raised.

Master Grealin stopped twenty yards short, lowering his sword and raising his free hand, fingers spread wide . . . And the Kuritai flew.

It was as if some great invisible fist swept down to batter them from their feet. One colliding with the trunk of the oak, wrapping around it with enough force to shatter his spine. The other glanced off the branch where Illian was perched, the girl uttering a yelp as he spun from the impact to land some ten yards away.

Davoka paused to stare at Grealin for an instant, a palpable fear and distaste on her face.
“Rova kha ertah Mahlessa,”
she said in a low voice before running on to check on the young folk.

Frentis walked to Grealin’s side, seeing an expression of sombre regret on his face, his skin clammy and pale, as if he had suffered a great pain. “I thought I had imagined it,” Frentis said. “The Volarian impaled on the branch. A feverish vision. Any other surprises for me, Master?”

Grealin gave a slight smile. “Actually, my correct title is Aspect.”

◆ ◆ ◆

He sent Janril after the Renfaelin hunters along with ten of their most capable remaining fighters. As instructed they killed the dogs to erase the memory of their scent and kept one of the hunters alive for questioning. His defiance didn’t last long, a few moments in Thirty-Four’s company proving sufficient persuasion to fully loosen his tongue.

“Our lord is convinced his son resides in this forest,” the man said, a lean fellow of middling years with the weathered look of a professional tracker. The fingers of his left hand dripped blood continually from where Thirty-Four had thrust rose thorns under his nails. “We were promised ten golds to bring him back, twenty if he was still alive. He paid for the slaves out of his own pocket, bought them from the Volarian general.”

“You hunt your own people for gold?” Janril asked him in an expressionless tone.

“I do as I’m told,” the man whined, staring up at them from the tree root to which he had been bound. “Always have. Fief Lord Darnel is not a man to cross, not if you want to stay healthy.”

“Neither am I,” Frentis said. “Tell him that when you see him.”

“You’re letting him go?” Janril asked, following as he walked towards where Arendil was helping with the wounded.

“Leave him bound where he is when we move the camp,” Frentis said. “I assume Lord Darnel will have a just reward for his failure.”

“He deserves a traitor’s death, brother,” Janril insisted, an uncharacteristic heat colouring his tone.

“Not seen enough death for one day, Sergeant?”

“When it comes to scum like him, I’ll never have seen enough.”

Frentis paused, meeting Janril’s gaze squarely. “Does it help? All the killing and the torture, does it take away the sight of her death?”

Janril’s eyes were bright and pale beneath his lowered brow. “Nothing will ever do that. What I do I do in her name, I honour her with blood.”

“Her name? What was it? I’ve yet to hear you speak it.”

The sergeant just stared at him, only a faint uncertainty in his eyes, barely glimpsed beneath the burgeoning madness. “Leave the hunter where he is and get ready to move,” Frentis ordered. “If you can’t follow my commands, then take yourself off and do all the killing you want out of my sight.”

Arendil was helping Davoka bind a bandage around Draker’s arm. The Lonak woman was the only one amongst them with any appreciable healing skill. “Thought I’d clubbed the life from the bugger then he stabs me,” the big man said through gritted teeth. “Finished him then though. Didn’t stop till I saw his brains.”

Davoka tied off the bandage and they moved away, speaking softly. “Ten will die tonight. The rest will heal with enough time.”

“Time is not something we have,” he replied. “We move within the hour.”

She gave a sombre nod then cast a wary glance at where Grealin sat alone beside a small fire, huddling in his cloak as if chilled to the bone. “He comes too?”

“He’s an Aspect of my Faith and leader of this group. Can’t very well leave him behind.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Leader?”

Frentis chose to ignore her and turned to Arendil, beckoning the boy over. “So, how well do you know your father?”

◆ ◆ ◆

“Twenty golds?” Arendil pursed his lips in surprise. “And Grandfather always said the Fief Lord was too cheap to pay a tavern whore.”

“What does he want you for?” Frentis asked.

“I’m his heir. The only issue of his filthy seed.” The boy’s discomfort was obvious, his gaze averted as he shifted from foot to foot. “I’ve never even met him but I feel as if he’s always been there, a hateful shadow. And I know his mind, his need to claim me has become something beyond reason or sense. Sometimes I would see Mother looking at me with a strange frown and I knew she wasn’t seeing me, she was seeing him.” He stopped shuffling, raising his head to meet Frentis’s eye. “I won’t be taken by him, brother. I will die first.”

Cut off a finger and send it to the Fief Lord with the hunter. Provoke him into even rasher action.
It was not his thought, he knew that. It was
her
. The stain of their union went deep, all the way into his soul. “I swear to you that won’t happen,” he told Arendil, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You fought well today. Go help her ladyship with gathering the weapons, will you?”

There was a brief flash of pride on the boy’s face before he ran off to find Illian.

◆ ◆ ◆

“Did Vaelin know?” Frentis asked, sitting down opposite the Aspect of the Seventh Order.

“Not until his brief visit before he went to the Reaches,” the Aspect replied. “We had an . . . interesting discussion.” Grealin’s pallor was still somewhat grey but a pinkness was creeping back into his ample cheeks. Frentis recalled the blood and exhaustion that always accompanied the woman’s use of her stolen gift.

“Your ability. It pains you to use it?” he asked.

“It’s more that it drains me. So much power released all at once has consequences. I remain fat for a reason, brother. It makes the aftermath more palatable.”

“Where do we find the House of your Order?”

“The Seventh Order has no House. And hasn’t for the past four centuries. We are woven like a gossamer thread through the fabric of the Faith and the Realm, our work always hidden.”

“As you were hidden in our Order?”

“Quite. It seemed the most secure hidey hole.” Grealin’s tired features formed into a sardonic smirk. “How spectacularly are the wise proved foolish.”

“The brothers I found that day, Aspect Arlyn sent them with you, as protection.”

“Yes. And they died following his order.”

“Where would you have gone?”

“North, to the Pass. If the way was blocked, west to Nilsael and on to the Reaches. Instead I found myself here with you and our heroic band of rebels. It’ll make a fine story one day, don’t you think? If there’s anyone left to tell it.”

This is a defeated man,
Frentis realised, eyeing the sag of Grealin’s features and the dullness in his eyes. “These people look to us for leadership,” he said. “For hope. As an Aspect of the Faith you can give them that.”

“My only gift to them is fear. They see what I am and they fear it. The Lonak woman is just more honest than the others. To carry a gift is to know fear and isolation. We do not belong in the daylight, we belong in the shadows. That is where we can best serve the Faith. The hardest lesson my Order ever learned.”

“The time for old ways is gone, Aspect. Everything is changed. They came and broke it all apart. How we put it back together is for us to decide.”

“Seeking to remake the world, brother? Looking for a noble quest to wash away all the blood you spilled?”

“It won’t wash away. But that doesn’t mean I have to wallow in it.”

“Then what are we doing here? Why continue to fight this hopeless war? These people are all going to die. There is no victory to be had in this forest.” His gaze dropped, becoming distant. “No victory anywhere. We thought we had won, you see? Turned aside the avalanche when Al Sorna revealed the One Who Waits. But all we did was allow our gaze to be drawn to one threat whilst another grew unseen. An entire army sent across the ocean to crush us. Who would have thought he would be so unsubtle after centuries of guile?”

“He?”

Grealin raised his gaze. “Your dead lady friend called him the Ally I believe. The Volarians do like to indulge their delusions. They may have divested themselves of gods and faith long ago, but they replaced reason with servitude in so doing.”

“Who is he?”

“Who he was might be a more pertinent question, for once he must have been a man. A man with a name, a people, perhaps even a family he loved. All lost, of course, hidden even from the most gifted scryers in my Order. We have no name for him, just a purpose.”

“Which is?”

“Destruction. Specifically our destruction, as it seems there is something about this land that stirs his hatred. He tried once before, when the great cities rose and a people far wiser than us crafted wonders. Somehow he managed to tumble it all into ruin, but not quite enough, something escaped him. And now he wants it gone.”

Grealin lapsed into silence, eyes dulling once more as a wave of fatigue swept over his features.

Frentis got to his feet. “My thanks for saving the boy, I know it has cost you. We move in an hour. I should be grateful if you would come with us.”

The Aspect’s bulk shifted in a shrug. “Where else would I go?”

“I
t means ‘witch,’” Veliss said, peering at the open book in her hand. “Female derivation of the old Volarian for ‘sorcerer.’”

“Elverah,” Reva said, tasting the word. “Has a nice sound to it.”

“They think you’re a witch?” Arken said.

“Godless heretics,” Lord Arentes sniffed. “Mistaking the Father’s blessing for the Dark.”

Reva stifled a groan.
Not him too.

“It’s good,” Uncle Sentes said from his place by the fire, his voice a wheezing rasp. “Means they’re afraid.”

“Well they might,” Arentes said, smiling at Reva. “My lady brings the Father’s justice down upon them every time they assault our walls.”

“The Realm Guard we freed?” Reva asked him, keen to change the subject.

“Joined them with the hundred or so others already on the walls, my lady,” the guard commander replied. “Got them reinforcing the southern section. We’re still thin there.”

“Good.” She turned to Veliss. “Supplies?”

“About two-thirds remaining,” she replied. “But that’s only because we’re rationing so severely. There have been complaints, women mainly. Not an easy thing to see your children cry from hunger.”

“Double the ration for women with children,” Reva said. “I don’t like to hear them cry either.”

“Hunger is the enemy’s best weapon, my lady,” Lord Antesh pointed out. “Every mouthful we eat brings them a step closer to cresting the walls.”

“Winter is no more than a month away,” her uncle said from the fire. “And they have scant pickings for forage. We’ll see who starves first.” He fell to coughing and gave an irritated wave. “Enough of this,” he choked when the fit subsided. “Leave me with my niece.”

The others bowed and moved to the door, Veliss’s hand brushing Reva’s as she followed. She went to sit opposite her uncle, noting the shake in his hands as they rested on the blanket. “You know it’ll only get worse,” he said. “Crying children will be the least of it.”

“I know, Uncle.”

“This”—he waved his hand vaguely—“wasn’t my plan. I’d hoped your tenure would be free of war.”

“Not your doing.”

“I had a dream last night. It was very strange. Your father was there, and mine, and your grandmother. All here in the library. Very strange since my parents could hardly stand to be in the same room . . .” He trailed off, blinking as his gaze drifted.

“Uncle?”

His eyes fluttered closed and she went to pull the blanket over his arms. His head jerked up as she came close, eyes bright with joy. “They said they were proud of me,” he breathed. “Because of you, Reva. Seems I finally did something right.”

She sat at his side, head resting on his knees as his frail hands played through her hair. “Too long,” she heard him murmur. “Cumbraelin women don’t wear it so long.”

◆ ◆ ◆

They came again the following night, attacking in several places at once as Antesh predicted. The battalions came trooping over the causeway in close order, shielded on all sides, Varitai in front marching with their unnatural rhythm, Free Swords behind, ranks not so tightly formed but careful to keep behind their shields. Antesh ordered all bows lowered as they reached the end of the causeway, opting not to waste arrows. The Volarian column split into two, the battalions inching along with slow deliberation to encircle the city, not a gap appearing in their protective walls.

“Buggers learn too quickly for my liking,” Lord Arentes commented. He gave Reva a smart salute. “I shall take command of the western section, my lady. With your permission.”

“Of course, my lord. Be safe.”

The old commander gave a stiff bow and strode off. Reva watched the slow approach of the battalions for a moment then notched an arrow to her bow and vaulted onto the gatehouse roof.

“My lady!” Antesh reached out to her but she curtly waved him away.

“I want to see how much they fear me,” she said.

The battalions kept marching, moving into position in accordance with a well-rehearsed scheme, seemingly oblivious to the hated witch staring down at them with bow in hand. It was the Free Swords who took the bait, as she expected. A small chink appearing in the shield roof of a battalion as it trooped off the causeway and wheeled to the left. Reva waited for the glint of metal to appear in the black triangle then stepped to the side, the arrow leaving a harsh whisper in her ear as it flew past. She drew and released in an instant, her shaft finding the chink. The Free Sword battalion convulsed like a wounded beast, the discord rippling through the ranks as sergeants shouted for order, but not before more gaps had appeared in the shield wall.

“Archers up!” Antesh barked and a hundred bowmen rushed to the wall, arrows descending in a furious iron-tipped rain. The battalion struggled on as the arrows continued to fly, trailing bodies and attempting to re-form ranks but the damage was done. A few more seconds and it convulsed again, flying apart as panic took the remaining men. Some ran for the causeway, others to neighbouring battalions seeking shelter. Most were cut down within seconds but perhaps a few of the more fleet-footed made it to safety.

Reva notched another arrow and continued to stand atop the battlement, eyes scanning the Volarian ranks below for another opportunity. She wondered if hatred was in fact a physical force because she could feel it now, rising towards her like a wave.

The last Volarian battalion trooped into place directly opposite the gatehouse. Smaller than the others, perhaps three hundred men, the ranks moving with greater precision than even the Varitai.
Kuritai,
Reva decided.

She raised her bow above her head, laughing and thinking about her dying uncle.
It seems I finally did something right.
“Well come on!” she called to the silent ranks below. “I’m waiting.”

◆ ◆ ◆

Antesh sent out parties in the morning to retrieve arrows and gather weapons from the dead. Reva chose to go with them, not wanting to be thought of as shirking the more odious duties.

“Lord Arentes puts the count at well over a thousand Volarians killed,” Arken commented. He paused to tug an arrow from the corpse of a Varitai lying half-submerged on the bank, also taking his short sword and dagger.

“They kept us busy enough,” Reva agreed. The night had been a blur of successive crises, seeing her rush from one section of the wall to the other as the Volarians sought to gain a claw hold. They had come close only twice, once on the western section where Varitai had used grapples to scale the wall whilst the main force of Free Swords tried vainly to climb their ladders. Lord Arentes had already contained the assault by the time she got there, the old commander bleeding from a cut on his forehead as he shouted orders to the City Guard. A single charge with lowered halberds had been enough to dislodge the Volarians, heralding another arrow-lashed flight to the causeway.

The incursion on the southern section proved the most serious. Reva had dealt with the Kuritai assault on the gatehouse by the simple expedient of having them soaked in lamp oil when they abandoned their shields to sprint for the wall, grappling hooks whirling. Successive volleys of fire arrows saw most plummeting to the ground in flames but a few made it to the top of the wall, some still alight as they did their deadly two-sworded dance, killing many defenders before being cut down. She was ordering the bodies tipped over the battlements when a messenger came running with news more Kuritai were atop the southern wall.

She sent word ordering the House Guards to reinforce the sector and ran there with Arken in tow. The Kuritai had been hidden amongst the main force of Free Swords, an annoyingly clever tactic she would have to watch for in future. They had formed a tight defensive knot on the southern wall, bodies piled up on either side as the Realm Guard defenders rallied for another counterattack. Their commander was a young sergeant already showing numerous cuts on his bare arms and face.

“One more try, lads!” he called to his men. “We’ll get the bastards this time.”

“Hold,” Reva ordered, eyeing the close ranks of Kuritai, crouched with typically blank expressions as Free Swords struggled over the battlements behind.

“Stand ready,” she told the Realm Guard, stepping forward and unslinging the wych elm. She stood aiming with careful deliberation, barely twelve feet from the nearest enemy, killing one, then another, the Kuritai ranks closing the gaps with an unconscious lack of hesitancy. She killed two more before one of the Kuritai barked a command and they came for her. She tossed the wych elm aside and reached over her shoulder to draw her sword as the Realm Guard charged.

She had difficulty recalling the exact train of events after that. She remembered leaping and whirling, a Kuritai falling with a half-severed neck, but mostly it was all a red-tinged confusion of clashing blades and rending flesh. It ended with the arrival of the House Guards, charging in with halberds to finish the remaining Kuritai and push the Free Swords from the wall.

She found herself hailed once more, the Realm Guard pummelling her with slaps to the back. She was too tired to push them away and Arken had to pull her free from the press. She was gratified to see him unharmed, though his face had the pale aspect of one who has killed at close quarters for the first time.

She paused at the sight of the young Realm-Guard sergeant dragging a wounded Free Sword to his feet, the man clutching his forearm, the bone gleaming white from the gaping wound. “Where’s your whip now, you fucking filth?” He drew a dagger and jammed it into the wound, twisting the blade as the man screamed. “Where’s your whip now, eh?”

“Just kill him and have done!” Reva ordered. “Re-form your ranks. This night’s not over.”

They kept at it for nearly four hours until the first glimmer of dawn broke over the broad river, ever more battalions trooping over the causeway to try their luck, more and more bodies littering the ground as every assault failed. It was costly, Arentes reporting losses of over three hundred killed and another two hundred wounded, but they held. Finally the surviving Volarians pulled back, the Varitai re-forming ranks and reclaiming their shields, the Free Swords forgetting discipline and running as the arrow storm descended once more, burgeoning daylight increasing the toll exacted by the longbows.

Excited shouts brought her back to the present and she saw a live Volarian being dragged from the river. A Free Sword, judging by his evident fear, turning to abject terror when he saw her approach.

“Yes,” she said. “The elverah’s here.”

The man just stared at her in frozen horror, only the faintest glimmer of reason in his eyes.
This one will never fight again.

“My lady?” one of the archers asked, his dagger already drawn.

“Does anyone here speak his language?”

◆ ◆ ◆

Only Veliss had enough knowledge of Volarian to communicate with the man, and even then just in written form. She referred to her books to translate Reva’s message and had him recite it back. Sending a note may have been easier but she wanted his comrades to hear the fear in his voice as he related her words.

“The elverah has much power and will kill all who come against this city. But she is merciful. Your commanders waste your lives in fruitless attacks whilst they sit safe in their tents. Any who throw down their arms and depart this place will be spared the elverah’s vengeance. Only death awaits those who stay.”

“Is he saying it right?” she asked Veliss as the man stumbled through the words held in front of his eyes.

“As far as I can tell.”

Reva turned to Antesh. “Have him read it out ten times then let him go. I’ll be with my uncle.”

◆ ◆ ◆

They didn’t come the next night, or the night after that. The Volarian camp went about its martial business with no sign of preparing another assault. If any more towers or rafts were being constructed, it was done out of their sight. Otherwise they drilled, sent out cavalry patrols and made no further effort to cross the causeway.

“Seems they intend to starve us out after all,” Antesh commented.

“Bloody cowards,” Lord Arentes said. “A few more assaults like the other night and we’d have won this siege.”

“Hence the starving us out.” The Lord of Archers stepped to Reva’s side. “We could sally forth, my lady. Launch a raid or two. Might provoke another unwise attack.”

“As you wish,” she said. “But keep it small, and volunteers only. Preferably men without families.”

“I’ll see to it, my lady.”

The succeeding days saw her settle into an irksome routine of daily inspections, training the defenders to ensure they didn’t slacken and going over Veliss’s reports of ever-more-diminishing supplies.

“We’re down to half already?” she asked one evening. “How is that possible?”

“People seem to eat more when they’re afraid,” Veliss replied. “Plus we went through the fresh meat and livestock in the first few weeks. Now it’s just bread and a little salted meat. I’m sorry, love, but the ration must be cut again. And not just the people, the soldiers too. That’s if we’re going to last the winter.”

Reva stared down at the neatly inscribed figures on Veliss’s parchment. “Did you learn this somewhere?” she asked. “The pen work?”