Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (41 page)

“How do we find our way down here?” Arendil asked, rubbing his stinging head.

Frentis found he had a laugh in him. “How does anyone find their way around their home?”

◆ ◆ ◆

He tried for the northern river outlet first, it was closest and offered the prospect of the north road, the quickest route to the Order House. He had Davoka and Arendil wait whilst he crawled through the pipe to the river, peering out at the half-obscured north gate on the far bank. Varitai were already manning the gatehouse with more on the walls, including several archers. He had hoped to crawl along the bank and through the channel under the city wall but they would be seen almost instantly and swimming upriver against the current was impossible.

“No good,” he reported after crawling back. “The walls are lost.”

“No other way?” Davoka asked.

“Just one.” He didn’t like it, the route was tortuous and would add miles to their journey to the Order House, but all other avenues would be well guarded by now. For all his detestation of the Volarians, their efficiency demanded considerable respect.

“You were there,” Davoka said as he led them on an easterly course through the maze of tunnels, splashing through the foul waters that still made Arendil retch with every other step. “You saw this assassin?”

The King’s eyes . . . the sound his neck made as it broke, like a dry piece of driftwood . . .
“I was.”

“There was no warning? No chance to stop it?”

“If there had been, I would have taken it.”

A pause as she fumbled for the right words. “The
gorin
 . . . character of the assassin? Their name?”

“A Volarian woman. I never knew her name.” He held up a hand as a sound echoed through the tunnels, a brief shout, quickly cut off. He crouched, waiting, listening. Faint whispers came to him, rough voices in argument, the words indistinct.

Frentis crept forward, sliding his feet along under the water, pausing at a corner as the voices became clearer. Two of them, both male. “I ain’t staying down ’ere all fuckin’ night,” a guttural whisper, the words pitched high in desperation.

“Then go for a nice walk outside,” a calmer response, but still edged with fear. “Make some new friends.”

A pause, then a sullen mutter, “Must be somewhere better’n this shit pipe.”

“There isn’t,” Frentis said, stepping round the corner.

The two men crouched in the tunnel ahead gaped at him then surged to their feet. The smaller of the two, shaven-headed with a gold earring, carried a long-bladed dagger. His companion, a large man with a mass of shaggy black hair, brandished a cudgel as Frentis came closer.

“Who the fuck are you?” the large man demanded.

“I am a brother of the Sixth Order.”

“Balls, where’s your cloak?” He advanced raising the cudgel with a snarl, stopping short as Frentis’s sword point appeared under his chin.

“Proof enough?” Frentis asked.

The smaller man seemed about to intervene then caught sight of Davoka advancing along the tunnel, spear levelled. “No offence, brother,” he said, pushing the dagger into his belt and raising his hands. “I’m Ulven and this fine fellow is known as Bear, account of his hair, see? Just two honest folk seeking refuge.”

“Really?” Frentis angled his gaze, studying the large man’s fearful visage. “When this one used to collect for One Eye he was called Draker and you were called Ratter, on account of your trustworthy nature.”

The smaller man drew back, eyes narrowed. “I know you, brother?”

“You used to call me shit-bag when you gave me a kicking. The night I gave One Eye his name you were right behind him as I recall.”

“Frentis,” the man breathed, partly in amazement, but more in fear.

“Brother Frentis,” he corrected.

Ratter swallowed, glancing behind him in preparation for flight. “That . . . was a lotta years gone, brother.”

He had often dreamed of a chance for vengeance, recompense for all those beatings, all his stolen loot. Killing them would be so easy, he was so well practised after all.

“One Eye blamed us, y’see,” Ratter went on, backing away. “For not spotting you that night. We had to leave the city for years, lived like beggars we did.”

“How terrible for you.” Frentis looked into Draker’s eyes, seeing only fear, like the bandit in the desert, or the smuggler’s first mate . . .

“We’re making for the harbour-pipe,” he said, withdrawing the sword point and moving on, Ratter shrinking away as he passed. “You can come, but I hear one ounce of shit from either of you, you’re done. Understand?”

◆ ◆ ◆

It took a good hour’s worth of sloshing through the sewers before they came to the pipe jutting out from the harbour wall. As they moved the sounds of Varinshold’s fall echoed down through the drains, screams of torment and terror, roaring fires and the thunder of collapsing walls. Here and there they heard the unmistakable song of combat, clashing steel and rage . . . followed by the screams of the defeated.

“Faith!” Ratter breathed, gazing up at blood dripping from a drain in the tunnel ceiling. “Never thought I’d feel sorry for the City Guard.”

Frentis peered through the pipe at the harbour, seeing Volarian ships clustered around the quays, more offshore still disgorging troops into their boats. He judged the distance to the nearest ship at little over a hundred paces, well within bowshot and there was a fair chance of being seen, but he was hoping most of the archers were employed elsewhere. In any case there was no other option.

“Mind if I go first, brother?” Ratter volunteered. “Clear the way like?”

“Fuck that,” Draker replied. “Why should you be first?”

“Because whoever’s last is most likely to get an arrow in the back,” Frentis said. He beckoned Arendil closer. “There’s a ten-foot drop onto the rocks below the pipe,” he told the boy. “The tide’s on the turn so we won’t have to swim. Keep to the rocks and head north. That’ll bring you round the headland. When the ships are out of sight, wait for us.” He nodded to Davoka. “You next. Then you two,” he added as Ratter started to speak again.

Arendil took a deep breath then climbed into the pipe, shuffling along then dropping from sight. Davoka paused before following. “If you die?”

“The Order House is twelve miles west. Find the north road and follow it.”

She nodded then followed Arendil through the pipe. Frentis turned to find Ratter and Draker tossing a coin. Ratter lost, much to Draker’s delight. “Enjoy your arrow, y’little bastard,” he said, squirming into the pipe with difficulty.

“Fat sod’s going to block the bloody thing,” Ratter grumbled as Draker seemed to take an age to haul his bulk along. Finally, after much squirming, his great shadow disappeared from the pipe, heralded by a shout as he landed on the rocks below.

Ratter needed no urging to follow, scrambling into the pipe and dropping from view in a scant few seconds. Frentis crawled after, drinking in the sudden rush of fresh sea air as his head emerged from the pipe. He levered himself free and dropped to the rocks, his feet sliding on the wet stone but managing to remain upright. He saw Draker shambling his way towards the headland, already overtaken by Ratter. Frentis glanced back at the ships in the harbour, seeing plenty of activity but no sign they had been seen.

He moved off, leaping from rock to rock. As a child he often came here at low tide, sometimes there would be something worth finding amongst the flotsam washing up onto the rocks, but mostly he just liked to jump from one to the other. It was good practice for the rooftops he hoped to graduate to one day, when he was old enough to do some proper stealing.

“Don’t leave me, brother,” Draker huffed as he overtook him.

“Then hurry up.” Frentis paused at a harsh clanking sound behind them, turned and leapt, catching Draker by the legs and bearing him to the rocks. Something made a loud ding as it rebounded from the stone, spinning away into the gloom.

“What was that?” Draker gasped.

“Ballista bolt,” Frentis said. “Seems we’ve been seen.”

“Oh Faith!” Draker was on the verge of weeping. “Oh Faith what now?”

“You were a lot more impressive when I was a boy.” Frentis raised his head, finding a lantern glowing on the prow of the nearest ship, dim shapes moving about the spiderlike silhouette of the ballista, working the windlass with leisurely ease.
Bored and practising on some strays,
Frentis decided.
Free Swords, not slaves.
“We’re in luck,” he told Draker, standing up and raising his arms.

The large man gaped at him. “What are you doing?”

“Keep going,” Frentis ordered, waving his arms.

“What?”

“Run!” The ballista clattered as one of the crew hit the release. Frentis stood stock still, counted off two heartbeats, then dropped to his knees. The bolt sailed overhead and skittered away amongst the rocks. He heard Draker babbling a constant stream of curses as he fled.

From the ship came the sound of voices raised in consternation, a few laughs of appreciation at the welcome distraction. Frentis turned and walked slowly towards the headland, not glancing back. A ballista was a fearsome weapon, but it wasn’t a bow, and these men could never be as skilled as a well-drilled team of slaves.

He was obliged to duck three more bolts before reaching the headland, by which time Draker had disappeared from view. He paused to wave at the ship before rounding the final outcrop, provoking a chorus of disappointment. Most of the crew now seemed to have gathered on the prow to watch the entertainment. Frentis cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted back in Volarian, as loud as his lungs would allow: “LAUGH ON! YOU’RE ALL GOING TO DIE HERE!”

Students may be forgiven for believing the figure of the Holy Reader to be ancient and original to the Cumbraelin form of god worship, a sacred trust embodying the will and authority of the World Father in a human vessel at the prophets’ behest. However, mention of such a figure can be found nowhere in the Ten Books and the organisational template for the church as it currently stands is hard to discern amongst their varied and often contradictory contents.

The earliest recorded investiture of a Holy Reader dates back only some three centuries, and even then this role seems to have been conceived as little more than an honorary title bestowed on particularly devout clerics. The ascendancy of a man holding absolute and unquestioned leadership of the church did not become an established institution until two hundred years after its arrival in the land now known as Cumbrael, and not without considerable opposition.

—ASPECT DENDRISH HENDRAHL,
FALLACY AND BELIEF: THE NATURE OF GOD WORSHIP
,
THIRD ORDER ARCHIVES

T
he general’s wife released me as dawn was starting to break over the smoking city. The sounds of battle had abated a little earlier, but so far no messenger had appeared with word of victory, and the steady stream of Volarian wounded stumbling through the breach told of a battle far from won. The wounded were all Free Swords. The slave soldiers, naturally, were left to expire where they fell.

The general had remained below with his pleasure slave as I related what I knew of Al Sorna to his wife, leaving nothing out and taking hours over the telling, Alltor continuing to smoke before us. Her curiosity was keen, and she asked many questions, though it seemed to me she had contrived to form a fanciful picture of the Hope Killer’s abilities.

“So you never saw him exhibit these great powers your people speak of?” she asked when I had related a few of the myriad tales told about Al Sorna in the empire.

“He is just a man, Mistress,” I replied. “Greatly skilled and cunning, it is true. With the kind of keen insight that many might mistake for some form of magic. But I saw no real evidence he could read minds or commune with beasts, or the souls of the dead for that matter.”

“When he comes to face my beloved husband, will he display this cunning, do you think? Some clever design to save this city from destruction.”

There was a sardonic lilt to her voice confirming my sense of a deep fatalism to this woman, an impression that there was no novelty to what she witnessed here, the outcome preordained, inevitable and not entirely relished. “I expect so, Mistress,” I replied.

“A great strategist then.” She laughed a little. “I’ve met a few of those. One of them was so convinced of his own genius he sent fifty thousand men to burn in an oil-soaked swamp. Tell me, if Al Sorna had commanded the Realm Guard against my husband, would the outcome have been the same?”

The question was dangerous, as she must have known, and any answer I gave potentially fatal. “Such a thing cannot be judged, Mistress.”

“Oh, I think it can, especially by a man so well versed in history and all its battles, as you.”

Her tone was insistent, I had to answer, knowing any flattery of her husband would be recognised, and unappreciated. “The Battle Lord was overconfident,” I said. “And saw no reason to suspect treachery from an ally. Al Sorna would not have been gulled so easily.”

“And what of the weight of numbers against him. You said yourself it was a decisive factor.”

“At the Lehlun Oasis, Al Sorna was able to turn the course of the entire Imperial elite with only a few hundred men. If there is a path to victory here, he will find it.” She raised an eyebrow and I realised my mistake, adding “Mistress,” with my heart thumping and fresh sweat chilling my brow.

“I was starting to wonder if you would ever forget yourself,” she said.

“Forgive me, Mistress . . .” I babbled but she waved me to silence, returning her gaze to the smoking city. “Is there a wife somewhere, my lord Verniers?” she asked after a moment. “A family waiting for you back in Alpira?”

This reply required little thought, I had voiced it many times. “I have always been too preoccupied with my work to allow for such distractions, Mistress.”

“Distractions?” She turned to regard me with a smile. “Love is a distraction?”

“I . . . wouldn’t know, Mistress.”

“You’re lying. You’ve loved someone, and lost them. Who was she, I wonder? Some studious girl awed by the great scholar? Did she write poetry?” She pouted in mock sorrow. But for my all-consuming dread, the hatred I felt in that moment would have caused me to pitch her over the side and laugh as she drowned.

I chose the safest course, I lied. “She died, Mistress. In the war.”

“Oh.” She winced a little, turning away. “That’s very sad. You should get some rest. My beloved husband will have more slaughter for you to record on the morrow, no doubt.”

“Thank you, Mistress.” I bowed and strode to the steps leading to my cabin, trying not to run. Her husband’s innate cruelty was frightening, but now I knew by far the greatest danger on this ship came from his wife.

◆ ◆ ◆

I slept for perhaps two hours, dreaming my dreams of chaos and blood as the nightly epic of the Realm Guard’s defeat returned yet again.
The Battle Lord’s face when he saw them turn to charge his own flank . . . Brother Caenis trying to rally those who fled . . .

On waking I forced down the gruel that had been left at my door and spent some hours converting my notes from the previous day into a suitably misleading account of the Volarian assault, being sure to note the careful preparations the general had made for a prolonged struggle within the city walls.

I was called to the deck a short while later, finding he had convened a council of war, his senior officers standing around the map table as he listened to a report from the division commander. “We had some success with burning them out, Honoured General,” the man said, fatigue and grime etched into his face. “But they were quick to adapt, creating breaks between the streets, preventing the fires from spreading. Also, much of the city is constructed from stone, it doesn’t burn so easily. And the men . . . fire knows no friend, it claimed almost as many of ours as of theirs. Morale is . . . poor.”

“If your soldiers are so keen on shitting themselves,” the general replied, “we have overseers aplenty skilled in the art of flogging obedience into reluctant men.” His gaze swivelled to the nearest unfortunate, a Free Sword commander with smoke-blackened features and a recently stitched cut on his cheek. “How about you? Hand out any floggings yesterday?”

“Four, Honoured General,” the man replied in a hoarse voice.

“Then make it six today.” His gaze roamed the table in search of more prey. “You!” He jabbed a finger at a man clad in the garb of the engineers who serviced the ballista and mangonels. “My little trick with the prisoners. Did you try it?”

“We did, Honoured General,” the man confirmed. “Fifty heads cast over the walls, as you instructed.”

“And?”

The man faltered and the division commander spoke up. “The enemy have prisoners of their own, Honoured General. They threw fifty heads back at us over the barricades.”

“The witch’s doing,” the commander of a Varitai battalion muttered softly.

The general’s eyes blazed at him, his finger shooting out like a spear. “This man is demoted to the ranks. Get him out of my sight and make sure he’s in the first charge today.”

He fixed his gaze on the map as the miscreant was led away. “Against all sense and history,” he murmured. “When the walls fall the city falls, and the victors reap the reward of plunder and flesh. It has always been thus.” His head came up, eyes finding me. “Is that not so, my scholarly slave?”

It could be a trap or just a sign of his ignorance. In either case I had no time to ponder a careful lie. “Forgive me, master, but no. There is a historical parallel for this current . . . difficulty.”

“Parallel,” he repeated softly, straightening to bark a laugh, heartily echoed by the relieved officers. The general spread his arms, eyebrows raised. “Then educate us ignorant Volarian fools, oh great Verniers. When and where for this parallel?”

“The Forging Age, Master. Near eight hundred years ago, the wars that forged the Volarian Empire.”

“I know what the Forging Age was, you Alpiran wretch.” He glared at me in suppressed rage and I experienced a certainty that my continued existence owed much to his wife’s influence. “Go on,” he rasped when his anger subsided.

“The city of Kethia,” I said. “For which the modern province of Eskethia is named. It was last to fall to the Imperial host, holding out for the better part of a year before the walls fell, but the battle didn’t end. The city’s king, a renowned warrior and, legends say, great user of magics, inspired his people to feats of endurance beyond imagining. Every house became a fortress, every street a battlefield. It’s said despair and terror gripped the Imperial soldiery, for surely this city would never fall.”

“But it did,” the general said. “I’ve walked the ruins of old Kethia myself.”

“Yes, Master,” I said. “The tide of battle turned when the Council appointed a new commander, Vartek, known to history as the Spear-point, for he always led his men into battle, always the first to meet the enemy line. His fearless example dispelled his men’s fears. It took weeks of fighting, but Kethia fell, all the menfolk killed and the women and children taken as slaves.”

Silenced reigned, the general staring at me in frozen fury. I kept as still as I could, my face impassive. Readers should understand that my words were not courageous, I had intended no insult in the obvious implication they held. I had merely obeyed the command of my master by voicing historical fact, at least as far as the sources relate it.

“Honoured Husband.” Fornella had appeared on deck, dressed in a simple gown of white muslin, a red satin shawl over her shoulders. She went to her husband’s side and placed a wine cup next to his hand. “Have another drink, true-heart. Perhaps it’ll distract you from the ancient doggerel my expensive slave offers.”

Slowly the general lifted the wine cup and drank, his gaze remaining fixed on me for long enough to ensure knowledge of impending and severe punishment. “How many slaves have we taken in this province?” he asked, turning to the divisional commander.

“Not so many as from the others, Honoured General. Perhaps three thousand.”

“Five hundred heads tomorrow then,” the general told the engineer. “Have them blinded first. Exact some pain before the beheading, within earshot of the barricades, make them call to their families. Any of ours they behead in answer are no loss. Only a coward becomes a prisoner. If they’re still fighting the day after, make it a thousand more.” He drained the wine cup and tossed it aside, grinning at me. “See, slave? I too know how to provide a fine example.”