Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (50 page)

◆ ◆ ◆

“No moving!” Davoka told Draker as she stitched the cut on his arm. The big man gritted his teeth with a whimper, arm trembling as the needle did its work.

“Serves you right, you clumsy bugger,” Ratter said. He sported a livid bruise on his cheek and badly scraped knuckles from beating one of the slavers half to death. The freed captives had gathered round to finish the job.

Altogether they had rescued some thirty-five people, none appearing to have passed their fortieth year, an even mix of men and women, plus a few barely in adolescence. There was also a decent haul of weapons and loot gathered by the slavers, some of which the captives had immediately begun to squabble over.

“This belonged to me old mum!” a young woman insisted as she hugged an antique vase in a tight grip.

“That belongs in the house of Lady Allin, as you well know,” Illian scolded. “Brother”—she tugged at Frentis’s sleeve as he passed—“this servant seeks to thieve from her employer.”

Frentis paused, staring hard at the young woman with the vase. After a moment she swallowed and handed it over. He turned it over in his hand, noting the artistry of the decoration, an exotic bird of some kind flying above a jungle, reminding him of the country south of Mirtesk. “Beautiful,” he said, and threw it against the nearest tree.

“Weapons, tools, clothing and food only,” he said, raising his voice, the squabblers falling silent. “That’s if you’re going to stay with us. This Realm is at war and any who stay are soldiers in that war. Or grab whatever loot you can carry and run, though I’d be surprised if you didn’t find yourself back in a slaver’s wagon within days. This is a free Realm, so I leave the choice to you.”

He moved on then paused at the sight of a man sifting through the pile of assembled weapons. He was thin with long hair veiling his face, but there was a familiarity to his movements, a noticeable limp as he sifted through the pile. He stopped, recognising something, his hair parting as he knelt down to retrieve it.

“Janril!” Frentis rushed over, extending a hand to the onetime bugler of the Wolfrunners. “Faith, it’s good to see you, Sergeant!”

Janril Norin didn’t look up from the assorted weaponry, lifting a sword from the pile. It was a Renfaelin blade, plain but serviceable. Janril sat back on his haunches, grasping the hilt, his fingers playing over the blade. Frentis took in the many bruises on his narrow face.
They slit her throat . . . Her husband screamed until they beat him senseless . . .

“Janril,” he murmured, crouching at the minstrel’s side. “I . . .”

“We were sleeping when they came for us,” Janril said in a dull tone. “I hadn’t posted a guard, didn’t think we needed one so close to the capital. This”—he tapped the sword—“was under our bed, all cosy and tucked up in a blanket. I’d barely got a hand to it when they dragged us out. Sergeant Krelnik gave it to me the day I left the Wolfrunners. Said all men needed a sword, be they minstrel or soldier. Apparently he picked it up the night we stormed the High Keep. Don’t know why he kept it so long, not much to look at, is it?”

Janril’s gaze swivelled to Frentis, who knew he was looking into the eyes of a madman. “You kill them all?” the minstrel asked.

Frentis nodded.

“I want more.”

Frentis touched a hand to the sword blade. “You’ll have it.”

“T
he entire Realm Guard?” Uncle Sentes asked.

The cavalryman nodded, the brandy glass in his hand trembling. It was his third measure but seemed to have done little to calm his nerves. “Save those regiments not quartered on the coast or borders, my lord. Forty thousand men or more.”

Reva watched her uncle slump in his chair. Apart from Lady Veliss and the cavalryman, they were alone in the Lord’s chamber.

“How is this possible?” Veliss asked the man.

“They were so many, my lady. And the knights . . .” He shook his head, trailing off and choking down more brandy before continuing. “Smashed into our flank and cut down two full regiments before we knew what was happening. By then the Volarians were coming on in full strength.”

Uncle Sentes continued to sit silently in his chair and Lady Veliss seemed unable to formulate another question, tracing a less-than-steady hand over her forehead.

“Let me see if I have this right,” Reva said as the silence stretched. “The Realm Guard was two days out from Varinshold when word came of invasion. Correct?”

The cavalryman nodded.

“The Battle Lord turns you all around, a day later you’re drawn up against the Volarians then Fief Lord Darnel appears on the horizon with his knights.”

“We thought he’d come to aid us. Though the Departed know how he could’ve gotten there so quickly.”

“You are saying,” Veliss put in, “that Fief Lord Darnel is a traitor? That he led his men against the King’s host?”

“I am, my lady. And as for the King, I met some refugees from Varinshold on the road. Word is the King’s dead.”

Silence reigned and Reva wondered at her lack of exultation.
The King of the Heretic Dominion lies slain and all I feel is dread.

“There were no survivors?” Veliss pressed. “The Battle Lord?”

“Last seen charging the Volarian line, alone,” the cavalryman replied. “As for survivors, Lord Marshal Caenis had rallied the Wolfrunners and a few other regiments for a rear guard, but they were sorely pressed last I saw. My own Lord Marshal sent me and four others to bring news to you here, I was the only one to make it.”

“Thank you,” Uncle Sentes said in a faint tone. “Please leave us to consider your tidings. Quarters will be provided.”

The cavalryman nodded, rising to his feet, then hesitating. “You should know, my lord. The tales I heard on the road leave little doubt as to the nature of our enemy. These Volarians do not come just for conquest, but for slaves and blood. They cannot be treated with.”

Lady Veliss gestured at the door with a polite smile, leading the man from the chamber. “Lord Darnel seems to have found grounds for treaty,” she commented when the door closed.

“Darnel is a self-glorying fool,” the Fief Lord replied with little emotion. “Though I never thought his vain ambition would lead him to this. One wonders what they promised him.”

“I told the guard captain on the gate to send scouts north,” Reva said. “If they come, we should have warning.”

“I seriously doubt it’s a question of ‘if.’” He turned to Veliss who stood with a hand covering her mouth, eyes distant. “No counsel for me, my most trusted advisor?”

Veliss swallowed and glanced at Reva.

“My heir should hear your wise and honest guidance, don’t you think?” he told her.

“Five pounds of gold lie waiting in the basement of this manse,” Veliss said. “Swift horses in the stables and a well-attended port an hour’s ride south.”

Reva found herself on her feet, advancing towards the woman with fists clenched.

“He desires honest counsel,” Veliss protested, backing away.

“Reva!” Uncle Sentes barked as she reached for the Asraelin woman. “Leave her be!”

“Just a whore after all,” Reva said, glowering at Veliss but stepping back.

“In recognition for your good and faithful service to this fief,” Sentes told Veliss, “you may take one of those pounds of gold, and a swift horse of your choosing, and depart with no recrimination.”

A flush of anger marred Veliss’s face. “You know I won’t do that.”

“But you would have me do it?”

“I would have you live. You heard what the soldier said. If the Realm Guard can’t oppose them, what chance have we?”

Uncle Sentes rose from his chair and went to the long window at the rear of the chamber, looking out at the grounds and the rooftops jutting above the manor wall. “Did you know this city has never been taken? My grandfather held it against Janus’s father for a whole summer. Eventually, the besiegers grew more starved and diseased than the besieged and they went back to Asrael, leaving half their army behind. Janus, always wiser than his father, never even tried to take this city, he knew all he had to do was keep ravaging the fief.”

“What’s to stop the Volarians doing the same?” Veliss asked.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Uncle Sentes turned back from the window, smiling at Reva. “You, my wonderful niece, are also free to take . . .”

“What do you intend, Uncle?” she broke in before he could finish.

An unfamiliar expression came to his face as he looked at her, an odd smile of contentment on his wine-red lips.
Pride,
Reva realised after a second.
He finds pride in me.

“When I first went to enjoy the hospitality of King Janus’s court,” the Fief Lord said after a moment, “before I developed my appreciation for wine, and other pleasures, I had a liking for games. Especially cards. They have a complex game in Asrael called Warrior’s Bluff, where victory depends largely on how you bet. Stake too much and your opponents know you have the better hand, too little and they see your bluff. I must have played a thousand games, becoming rather rich in the process I must say. Eventually it was difficult to find others willing to play against me and I found other distractions.”

“So,” Veliss said. “How much do you intend to stake now?”

“Warrior’s Bluff gets its name from one particular hand, the Lord of Blades and the five other cards in the martial suit. Even if every other player holds cards with grater value, if you hold the Warrior’s Bluff, the game is yours.” He moved to Veliss and embraced her, Reva seeing how her fists bunched in his tunic, the knuckles white. Uncle Sentes drew back and kissed her softly on the cheek. “I intend to stake it all, my lady, for I suspect the Lord of Blades sits high in our deck.”

◆ ◆ ◆

The commander of Alltor’s City Guard stood tall and straight, breastplate gleaming, his grey whiskers neatly groomed. Behind him the six hundred men of the guard stood in ranks, all similarly polished and straight-backed. Beside them stood the four hundred some men who made up the Fief Lord’s House Guard, all at least six feet tall as tradition dictated.
A thousand men to hold a city,
Reva thought as her uncle stepped onto the back of a cart.
It won’t be enough.
As many times as she had fought, she had never seen battle so had no experience to support the gloomy conclusion, but the cavalryman’s tale had left little room for optimism.

The muster had been called less than an hour before, convened on the gravelled parade ground next to the barracks. Rumours were already flying: the cavalryman’s appearance at the gate had been well marked, so many of these men would no doubt suspect trouble was brewing, yet every face betrayed only the stoic discipline of the long-serving soldier. The wind was stiff, stirring dust and setting cloaks and banners aflutter, her uncle obliged to shout to make himself heard.

“War comes to us,” he called. “Unsought and unjust, brought to our shores by the foulest race this world has yet to birth. I do not beg your loyalty, I do not seek to persuade. I tell you simply you must stand here and fight what comes or face death if you are fortunate and slavery if you are not. Our enemy brings no other gifts. I give you all this day as your own. Go home, be with your families, look into the face of your wife and imagine her raped, look on your children and see them as corpses. Look at this city and see it as a burnt and wasted shell. Then, come the morning, decide if you will stand with me and my valiant niece, as we defend this city.”

He turned to step down from the cart, pausing in surprise as voices were raised in the ranks, a few at first but soon building until a great cheer ascended from every soldier present, fists and swords raised to punch the air. Reva scanned the chanting faces in the ranks, seeing mostly fear and sweat, but also something more.
Not courage. Desperation, or is it hope? They find hope in a drunkard’s words.

The commander of the City Guard strode forward as the Fief Lord stepped down from the cart, saluting smartly.

“Lord Arentes?” her uncle asked.

“I know I speak for my men, my lord,” the man said in formal tones, his back just as straight as before. “We need no day for reflection. The defence of this city requires every hour at hand.”

“As you wish. No doubt you will have requests to make in due course.” He extended a hand to Reva. “The Lady Reva will stay at your side throughout the preparations, any requests will be made through her.”

The old guardsman gave Reva the briefest glance of examination, too quick to judge his reaction, but she heard a certain tightness to his tone when he replied to her uncle. “As my lord wishes.”

Uncle Sentes leaned close to kiss her cheek, whispering, “Keep an eye on the old buzzard for me.”

“I’d like Arken to assist me,” she said as he drew back.

“I’ll send him along.” He went to his carriage, leaving her with the Lord Commander.

“I thought I might tour the walls, my lady,” he said. “If you would care to join me.”

◆ ◆ ◆

The walls were fashioned from great blocks of granite, each taller than she was, held in place by virtue of their sheer weight. “Stood unbroken for four hundred years, my lady,” Lord Commander Arentes said in answer to her query. “Some cracks showing in the lower stones, but I’ll still stake the city on their strength.”

Reva recalled one of the stories about Al Sorna’s exploits during the desert war. The details were vague, and Al Sorna himself had simply ignored or waved away any question she voiced about those days, but it had something to do with the Alpirans sending great engines against the city he had seized.

“Aren’t there engines?” she asked. “Devices capable of bringing down walls like these.”

Arentes gave an indulgent chuckle as they strode along the battlements where his men were busy stacking weapons. “Not like these, I assure you. A castle may fall to siege engines, given enough time, but the walls of Alltor have stood against the greatest such devices Asraelin cunning could devise. No, the battle will be won here.” He slapped a hand on one of the crenellations forming the battlements. “To take this city they’ll have to climb these walls, and when they do . . .” He sniffed, narrowing his gaze. “Well, they’ll find they’re not facing Asraelins now.”

“I’m Asraelin,” Arken said. “And I believe there are about two hundred others who make their home here.”

“Then, young man, I fervently hope they fight for it better than the Realm Guard fought for their fief.”

Arken drew breath for a retort but Reva motioned him to silence. “The Volarian army is said to be huge,” she said. “But we have barely a thousand men.”

“Yes,” Arentes admitted with a sigh. “I would ask that your Lord uncle call every man of fighting age to assist in the defence. Plus all those we can gather from the wider fief whilst time allows.”

“What of their families? Do we bring them here too?”

“Hardly. Sieges are not just won with battle, but also hunger. The fewer mouths to feed within these walls the better.”

“So we just leave them out there to face slavery and death, whilst their men fight for us?”

“This is war, Lady Reva. And Cumbraelins know well how to bear the cost of war.”

“You won’t be bearing it,” Arken pointed out. “You’ll be safe behind these unbreachable walls of yours.”

Arentes stiffened. “My lady, I doubt His Lordship permits you to keep this Asraelin commoner at your side so he can offer insults to his betters.”

This man is a pompous fool,
Reva decided. She inclined her head, smiling. “My apologies, my lord. Shall we complete the tour?”

◆ ◆ ◆

By nightfall Lady Veliss had added over three thousand men to the rolls, about half possessing longbows or sundry weaponry. Messengers were sent to all corners of the fief commanding men of fighting age to report to Alltor within three weeks. At Reva’s urging a paragraph had been added to the message offering sanctuary within the city walls for any who sought it. Veliss had protested, echoing the objections of Lord Arentes, but the Fief Lord overruled her. “If we can’t offer protection to our own people, what worth will they see in us?” he enquired, although Reva detected a certain calculation in his gaze as he spoke, making her wonder if her influence served a deeper purpose.

Every day parties of woodsmen brought freshly cut ash and willow back from the surrounding forests to be fashioned into arrows, the smiths working hard to churn out the thousands of arrowheads needed. Food was stockpiled and the warehouses in the merchants’ quarter were soon so full of grain the grounds of the manor were given over as extra storage space. A note from the Fief Lord to the Reader requesting use of the cathedral vaults for the same purpose received a terse response: “The Father’s House is not a shed.”