Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (40 page)

Who lives here?
she wondered, going to the desk and placing
The Wisdoms of Reltak
next to the stack of parchment.
Which lonely old woman lives here and spends her days in endless scribbling?

She permitted her maids some fussing before ordering a suitable gown laid out and food brought for her guests. “I don’t know how long this will take,” she told Davoka when she had exchanged her riding gown for a blue silk dress with a gold-embroidered bodice. She stood in front of the mirror as one of the maids pushed her coronet into the remolded mass of her hair. “Best if you wait here with the boy. I’ll arrange a time for you to meet the King on the morrow.” She turned as Davoka failed to answer, finding the Lonak woman staring at her, a faint frown on her brow. “What is it?”

“You are . . . different,” Davoka said softly, eyes tracking over Lyrna’s form.

“Just trappings, sister,”
she replied in Lonak.
“A disguise in fact.”
Save for this,
she thought, fingering the throwing knife hanging from the chain about her neck. She had taken to wearing it openly since leaving the pass but decided it was probably best to keep it hidden once again, so took it off to hide behind the laces in her bodice.
Never be without it.

◆ ◆ ◆

“Princess Lyrna Al Nieren!” The page at the door announced her entry with a booming voice, thumping a staff onto the marble floor of the throne room three times. Lords only got one thump of the staff, Aspects two, she and the queen three. It was one of the rituals her father had instigated on assuming the throne. She had once asked him the significance of the thumping staff and received only a wry smile in response.
All ritual is empty,
Reltak had written. The more of the long-dead Lonakhim scholar she read, the more she appreciated his insight.

“Sister!” Malcius came to greet her, his embrace warm and close. “Your adventures had me greatly worried,” he whispered into her ear.

“Not so much as I. We have much to discuss, brother.”

“All in good time.” He stepped back and extended his hand to the two figures standing in the centre of the room, a young man and woman, dressed in mean clothing, but also both handsome of face and athletic of build. The man was well muscled with a stern visage, his features possessed of a hungry leanness. The woman was no less striking, lithe like a dancer and darkly beautiful. She seemed somewhat overawed by her surroundings, keeping close to the man’s side and casting wary glances at the assembled lords and guards.

“You are in time to join me in a joyous occasion,” Malcius said, moving towards the young man. “Brother Frentis.” He shook his head in wonder. “How you gladden my heart!”

Lyrna moved to her usual seat on the left of the throne, pausing to press a kiss to the queen’s cheek on the way and exchange hushed greetings with her niece and nephew. “Did you bring me a gift, auntie?” little Dirna asked.

“I did.” She tweaked her niece’s nose, drawing a giggle. “A Lonak pony for you and a new playmate for your brother. We’ll all go riding tomorrow.”

“I come . . .” Brother Frentis was saying in a halting voice as she took her seat. “I come, Highness. To beg . . . forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness?” the King replied with a laugh. “Whatever for?”

“Untesh, Highness. I couldn’t hold the wall . . . My men . . . My failure saw the city fall.”

“The city was always going to fall, brother. Do not seek forgiveness for an imagined failing.”

Lyrna noticed Lord Al Telnar, onetime Minister of Royal Works, standing at the far side of the room. His expression, normally one of smug self-satisfaction or obsequious solicitation, was oddly tense as he offered her a bow. She had heard from a maid that he had been the one to recognise Frentis at the docks that very day, a perfect opportunity to curry lost royal favour.
So where is his triumph?
she wondered.
Or his customary leer?
The man had been another unwelcome suitor over the years, one she dismissed with almost as much alacrity as she had dismissed Darnel, but like the Fief Lord it hadn’t dimmed his ardour.

“For all the long years of slavery and torment,” Brother Frentis was saying, “it has been my one ambition to stand before you and crave your pardon.”

“Then it grieves me to disappoint you,” Malcius replied, moving forward with his arms wide, enfolding Frentis in a warm embrace. “For no pardon is required.” Malcius drew back a little, his hands on the brother’s shoulders. “Now, tell me of how you came to be here, and in company with such a lovely associate.”

Frentis smiled a little, head downcast, nodded, and reached up to clasp the King’s head between both hands, jerking it up and to the side, breaking his neck with a loud crack.

The knife was in Lyrna’s hand as she rose to her feet. She had no memory of having drawn it from her bodice. The screams began as the shocked stillness turned to confusion and rage, as the queen shrieked and the lithe woman dodged a guard’s pole-axe and drove a punch into his throat. Lyrna’s knife flew from her hand and buried itself in Frentis’s side. He convulsed instantly, back arching, a scream every bit as terrible as Kiral’s erupting from his throat, collapsing onto the marble floor, jerking as the agony wracked him.

The Volarian woman turned from the dead guard at her feet, gaping in shock at the sight of Frentis’s writhing form, his jerks ending abruptly, limbs suddenly slack. A single Volarian word issued from her lips in a whisper:
“Beloved?”

“Kill her!” cried the queen in terror and grief. “Kill them both!”

Guards charged from all sides of the room, pole-axes levelled. The woman paid them no heed, her gaze fixing on Lyrna, face rendered ugly with malice and revenge. She extended both arms as the guards closed, and flame erupted from her hands.

Lyrna staggered back in shock, reeling from the heat as the woman whirled, her flames engulfing guards and lords as they swept the room. Lyrna saw little Dirna bathed in fire, her mother next, then little Janus, their bodies charred and blackened in seconds. Lyrna would have screamed but for the choking stench of smoke and burning flesh, making her crawl and rasp on the floor.

“You took him from me!”
the woman screamed at Lyrna, advancing towards her on unsteady legs, blood flowing from her eyes in thick red tears.
“You took my beloved! You festering cunt!”

A figure came staggering out of the swirling smoke as the woman raised her hands towards Lyrna, reaching out to restrain her.
Al Telnar!
Lyrna realised in shock.

The lord shouted at the woman as he grappled with her, his words lost amidst the roaring flame. The woman bared her teeth in a feral snarl and drove her hand open-palmed into the centre of his face. Al Telnar staggered back, sinking to his knees, his nose driven back into his skull, then collapsed lifeless to the floor.

Lyrna scrabbled back as the woman lurched closer, arm raised, flames erupting . . . and she burned.

A
gony erupted as the knife sank into his flesh, instantly spreading to seize his entire body. He heard screams he knew were his own as his legs gave way. It was like being squeezed by a fist made of a million jagged steel points, the pain so intense he felt his reason slipping away, memory fading amidst the torment. Vaelin, the Order, the woman . . . the King’s eyes just before he killed him, the brightness of them—a man finding relief from guilt. Far away there were more screams, a great heat filling the air, but it was so dull, beyond the wall of pain that surrounded him. He retained sufficient reason for one more thought:
At least I won’t live to suffer the guilt.

Then it changed, the agony born of the knife blade shifted as it met something, an echo of a previous pain, a seed, stunted, prevented from growing, now given new life.
The seed will grow . . .
The steel-point grip faded, replaced by something worse, a burning, a searing fire ripping through him, covering his skin, finding his scars. It reached a crescendo then, the pattern of scars covering his torso flaring with a force greater than any he had known before . . . Then it was gone. All the pain, gone in an instant . . . along with the binding.

Air escaped him in a rush as he rolled on the floor, the sensation of freedom overwhelming. His hands found his chest, searching for the scars, finding only smooth flesh. They were gone, healed and disappeared.
No scars, no binding. I can move. I CAN MOVE!

He began to rise then grunted as a fresh pain gripped his side where the princess’s knife was still embedded.
An Order knife,
he thought in wonder, tugging it free. The cut was bad, bleeding freely, but not fatal. He surged to his feet, finding himself standing amidst an inferno. Blackened and burning bodies lay everywhere, flame and smoke covered the walls, the King’s corpse lying before him, dead eyes open, meeting his own.

A shout to his left dragged his gaze away, finding the woman, flame streaming from her hands towards the prone form of Princess Lyrna. For an instant it caught her hair, her face, raising a scream of terror and agony. “No,” the woman said, stilling her flames, stumbling towards Lyrna, blood dripping from her face. “Too quick. You I’ll have raped every day for a year. You I’ll have cut, one piece at a time. You I’ll ha—”

The pole-axe blade slammed into her back and erupted from her chest. Her back arched as blood fountained from her mouth. She hung there for a moment, head lolling to the side, her eyes finding his face. “Beloved,” she said, showing red teeth in a smile of complete devotion. Frentis twisted the blade and watched the light fade from her eyes.

More screams from the princess as she found the strength to rise, her hands scrabbling at her face and hair as they beat down the flames.

“Princess . . .” He went to her but she reeled away, still screaming, running through the smoke, her blue gown lost in the haze. He ran after her, rebounding from flaming walls, stumbling over corpses. The smoke faded as he found the corridor. Screams echoed in the distance as the princess continued her unreasoned flight. He ran on, pausing at the sight of a guardsman’s body a short way along the corridor. This one wasn’t burned, his throat gaping open. Slit from behind, a single stroke.
Kuritai. They’re here. It’s started.

He took the guardsman’s sword and ran on, following the princess’s screams, finding more bodies with every turned corner, bloody streaks staining clean palace marble. The screams were soon lost amongst the rising cacophony of terror and combat as the Kuritai abandoned stealth and began their work in earnest. He found a maid standing amidst four bodies in a courtyard, staring about in shock, for some reason still holding a basket of laundry. Before he could approach her a Kuritai appeared from the shadowed arches behind to cut her down with a single thrust through the back.

Frentis held up a hand as the man came for him, short sword raised, speaking in Volarian. “The King has been dealt with. I have orders to secure his sister.”

The Kuritai hesitated, his sword dropping only a fraction, but it was enough. Frentis’s sword point scraped past the opposing blade, taking the man in the eye, punching through to the brain. Frentis tugged the sword free and ran on.

More bodies, more Kuritai killing servants and soldiery alike with typical efficiency, too many to fight. Any who tried to block his path were killed, otherwise he ran on. There was a joy in the familiar feel of the Asraelin sword in his hand as it parried and cut, years of Order training returning in an instant.
I am no slave,
he remembered, side-stepping a thrust and severing his assailant’s arm.
I am a brother of the Sixth Order.
Freedom was exhilarating, adding speed to his flight through the palace. There should have been guilt; he had just killed the King of the Unified Realm, he had left a trail of death the length of the Alpiran Empire, but the absence of the binding was too wonderful to allow the onset of despair. That, he knew, would come later.

They should have killed me in the pits,
he thought as he ran.
I’ll turn this invasion into their ruin. I’ll wring blood from their army until their empire’s bled white.

He drew up short at the sight of a guard officer fighting two Kuritai in a hallway lined with huge paintings. He was a Lord Marshal of horse judging by his uniform, and a skilled swordsman, managing to keep two such able opponents at bay, though they were slowly backing him into a corner, his parries becoming more desperate as they closed for the killing blow.

Frentis took the princess’s throwing knife from his boot, still red with his blood, and threw it at the nearest Kuritai, the blade sinking into the base of his skull. His companion stepped back from the Lord Marshal, his gaze finding Frentis, then dropping into a defensive stance he recognised from the pits. The Lord Marshal saw his chance and aimed a thrust at his chest.

“No!” Frentis shouted but it was too late, the Lord Marshal had taken the bait. The Kuritai ducked under the blade, rolling and jabbing upwards with his short sword, the blade sinking deep into the guardsman’s chest.

Frentis charged the Kuritai as he vaulted to his feet, spinning to parry the first thrust, replying with one of his own, only blocked with instinctive speed. Frentis took in the man’s features, finding recognition there.
The One who answered the door to the warehouse,
he realised.
A Kuritai captain
.
The man’s face was devoid of expression, betraying no surprise at finding himself fighting a man who had been at the mistress’s side the night before. It was the way with these automata. Bred and trained for war, conditioned with drugs and Faith knew what other Dark devices. Made perfect killers, immune to fear or distracting insult. Even so, he had killed many, and now would kill one more.

It was a scale from his days under Master Sollis, drilled into him with merciless precision, for use against a skilled enemy. A series of slashes and thrusts, delivered with dizzying speed, all aimed at the face, forcing the opponent to raise his blade, leaving the midriff open, not for a sword but a kick. Frentis’s boot took the One full in the sternum, bone breaking with an audible crunch. The Kuritai slumped against the wall, blood coming from his mouth, but finding the strength for a final thrust. Frentis swept it aside and cut his throat with the backswing.

“K-King . . .” the fallen Lord Marshall stuttered, staring up at Frentis, his face white from loss of blood.

Frentis went to his side, looking at the wound and seeing it was hopeless. “The King is fallen,” he said. “But Princess Lyrna lives. I need to find her.”

“Brother . . . F-Frentis, is it not?” the guardsman asked in a croak. “I saw . . . with the Wolfrunners, years ago . . .”

“Yes. Brother Frentis.”
I am a brother of the Sixth Order.
“And you, my lord?”

“S-Smolen . . .” He coughed, staining his chin with blood.

“My lord, your wound . . . I cannot . . .”

“Care not for me, brother. L-look for her in the east wing . . . Her rooms are there . . .” He smiled as his eyes began to dim. “Tell her . . . It was a great thing to travel so far . . . with the woman I loved . . .”

“My lord?”

The smile faded from the Lord Marshal’s lips and his features slumped into a lifeless mask. Frentis gripped his shoulder and turned away, turning a corner and running in what he hoped was an eastward direction. The palace was empty here, no more bodies, although the sounds of slaughter still echoed through the halls. He passed a broad window and saw flames rising in the city. He paused, taking in the sight of the Volarian fleet crowding the harbour, well over a thousand ships, disgorging a great mass of soldiery onto the wharfs, a constant stream of boats carrying more from the ships outside the harbour wall. He could see no Realm Guard, just Varitai and Free Swords, forming ranks and moving off at the trot, spreading throughout the city in accordance with a well-rehearsed design.
This has been long planned my love . . .

Varinshold will fall this night,
he realised, tearing his gaze away and running on. He would find the princess and spirit her from the city. Then to the Order House with warning of the impending attack.

He came upon more bodies as he entered the east wing; it was separated from the main palace by a narrow courtyard, several corpses lying amongst the rosebushes and cherry blossoms. A tumult of combat came from the doorway ahead, shouted challenges in an unfamiliar language. A woman’s voice.

He charged in, finding four Kuritai battling a tall tattooed woman wielding a spear, the blade trailing blood as she whirled it. One was already down and she speared another through the leg as he stepped forward to make an unwise thrust, twisting away before the others could close.
Lonak,
Frentis realised, noting her tattoos and the indecipherable abuse she yelled at her attackers. Crouched to her rear was a lanky youth clutching a long sword, staring at the melee with wide-eyed indecision. Frentis was impressed he hadn’t run.

He killed the wounded Kuritai with a slash to the neck, took another down with a thrust to the back, parried the third’s slash and stepped back as the Lonak woman speared him in the guts. She finished him with a bone-crushing stamp to the neck and whirled to face Frentis, spear levelled. “Who are you?” she demanded in Realm Tongue.

“I am a brother of the Sixth Order,” he replied. “Come in search of Princess Lyrna.”

“You wear no cloak,” she said, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Brother Frentis?” the lanky youth came forward, staring at him. “Could you be Brother Frentis?”

“I am,” he said. “Is the princess here?”

The Lonak woman lowered her spear, though her suspicion still lingered. “This place falls to deceit,” she told the boy. “Don’t give your trust so easy.”

“This is Brother Frentis,” he replied. “And you saw what he just did. If we cannot trust him, there is no-one to trust.”

“The princess,” Frentis repeated.

“She’s not here,” the boy said. “We haven’t seen her since she went to meet with the King. I’m Arendil, this is Davoka.”

“You are far from the mountains,” Frentis observed to the Lonak woman.

“I am ambassador,” she replied. “What has happened here?”

“The King has been assassinated, also his queen and the children. Princess Lyrna has fled, badly wounded. We must find her.”

The Lonak woman’s eyes lit with rage and concern. “Wounded! How?”

“She burned. The assassin . . . had a Dark ability with fire.”

Davoka hefted her spear. “Where is this
assassin
?”

“Dead by my hand. We have no time for this. A Volarian army comes ashore as we speak and this city will be in their hands within hours.” He cast around at the empty palace halls.
She will not be found here.
“We have to leave,” he said. “Get to the Order House.”

“Not without my queen,” Davoka stated.

“If you linger here, you’ll die and she’ll still be unfound.” He gestured at the long sword in the boy’s hands. “Can you use that?”

The boy took a firmer grip on the hilt and nodded.

“Then next time do so, don’t just stand there.” He started for the courtyard, Arendil trotting after.

“Davoka,” he paused to hiss at the Lonak woman. “Please!”

Frentis ran on, making for the western wall. The gates would be in Volarian hands by now, they would have to find another way. He glanced back on reaching the wall, seeing Davoka’s tall form following. He moved right for another forty feet or so until he found it, a shallow drain leaking foul-smelling water into the city sewers through a channel in the base of the wall.

“We won’t fit,” Arendil said, nose wrinkling at the smell.

The channel was barely one foot high, though fortunately without bars. “Strip,” Frentis told him, pulling off his shirt. “Smear yourself with shit. It’ll ease your passage.”

He went first, scooping up muck from the drain water to cover his chest and arms. He cast the sword ahead of him then lay down and crawled through, straining to squirm into the sewer beyond, skin scraped and chafed by the rock, his knife wound stinging from the foulness that would surely infect it. With a final grunt he hauled himself free of the channel, bending down and extending a hand to the boy. He pushed his long sword through then followed, coughing and retching from the stench. Davoka was next, her spear clattering past them before her head appeared, teeth bared as she tried to pull herself free. Frentis and Arendil took hold of her arms and hauled her out, Arendil gaping at her bare though shit-covered breasts. She cuffed him on the side of the head and retrieved her spear.