Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (52 page)

“The fletchers are working to exhaustion as it is,” Lady Veliss said. “I’ve also drafted in every carpenter and woodworker in the city.”

“Draft more,” the Fief Lord said. “Every pair of idle hands not crafting arrows from now on will receive no rations until they do. Lord Arentes, send half your men to the forest and bring back every tree and sapling they can cut in the time that remains to us.”

“Not just wood, my lord,” Antesh said. “We need iron for the heads.”

“This city is awash in iron,” Uncle Sentes said. “I see it in every window, every railing and weather vane. Scour this manor and take all the pots, pans and ornaments you need, then scour the city.” He paused to draw breath, his cheeks suddenly pale.

“Uncle?” Reva said, moving to his side.

He grinned at her, patting the hands she laid on his arm. “Your uncle is old and tired, my wonderful niece.” He took her hands and climbed to his feet, Reva feeling the tremble in his grip. “And hasn’t had a drink in hours,” he added to the assembled captains, drawing strained laughter. “You have your orders, good sirs and lords. Be about them if you will.”

Reva and Lady Veliss helped him up the stairs to his rooms. “The blue bottle, if you would my lady,” he said to Veliss. She fetched it and he held it to his mouth, draining the liquid inside, smiling faintly then doubling over, face contorted in pain, the empty bottle tumbling to the carpet.

“I’ll fetch Brother Harin!” Veliss said, hurrying from the room.

Reva knelt before him, clasping his trembling hands once again. “What is this?” she asked. “What ails you?”

Air rushed from him as he reclined, gasping but smiling. “My life, Reva. My life ails me.”

◆ ◆ ◆

Brother Harin’s face was grave as he closed the door behind him, Veliss and Reva awaiting his word in the hallway. “I’ve doubled his dose,” the healer said. “Given him a flask of redflower which should ease his pain.”

“You said the curative would buy him years yet,” Lady Veliss said.

“Restful years, my lady. Not war years. Exhaustion does not help his condition.”

“What condition?” Reva said.

Harin glanced at Veliss who gave a tense nod. “Your uncle has drunk a lot of wine in his time, my lady,” the brother told her. “More in fact than I would have thought it possible for a man to drink and still be living at his age.”

“He’s not yet sixty,” she said in a whisper.

“Liquor does unfortunate things to a man’s insides,” Harin explained. “The liver in particular.”

“What if he stopped?” Veliss asked. “Just stopped completely. No more wine. Not ever.”

“It would kill him,” Harin replied simply. “His body requires it, even though it’s killing him.”

“How long?” Reva asked.

“With rest, perhaps six months, at most.”

Six months . . . I’ve known him for barely three.
“Thank you, brother,” she said, feeling a slow tear trace down her cheek. “Leave us now, if you would.”

He bowed. “I’ll call again tomorrow.”

Veliss moved beside her, fingers touching her hand. “He didn’t want you to know . . .”

Reva took her hand away, wiping the tear from her face.
No more of this,
she decided.
No more weeping.

“The grain stocks,” she said in a voice void of emotion. “How long will they last?”

Veliss hesitated then spoke in a clear voice, her tone coloured by just the slightest quiver. “Given the expanded population, perhaps four months. And only then if carefully rationed.”

“Send the House Guard forth. Every scrap of food, every cow, pig and chicken within fifty miles of this city is to be brought here. All unharvested crops will be burned, all wells spoiled, anything that might give succour to our enemy destroyed.”

“There are people working those farms . . .”

“Then they’ll find shelter here, as the Fief Lord promised. Or they can take their chance with the Volarians.”

She moved to the door to the Fief Lord’s rooms. “I wish to talk to my uncle, alone.”

He was seated at his desk, a glass of wine at his side, his grandfather’s sword propped nearby, the quill in his hand moving over a sheet of parchment. “My will,” he said as she closed the door. “Thought it was about time.”

“Veliss can have the books,” she said.

“Actually, there’s a parcel of land to the north she always liked. Nice big house, well-kept gardens.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He sighed, tossing the quill aside and turning to her. “I was afraid you’d run,” he said. “And I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had.”

“And yet you curse me with all this anyway.”

He reached for his wineglass, taking a sip. “Did you know, according to Veliss’s figures, I am the most successful lord ever to sit in the Chair? In the history of this fief no other lord has produced so much wine, generated so much wealth or overseen such a period of peace and harmony. And will I be celebrated for it when I’m gone? Of course not, I’ll always be the drunken whore chaser with the mad brother. But you, Reva, you will be the saviour of Cumbrael. The great warrior, blessed by the World Father Himself, who threw wide the city gates and sheltered all within these walls against the vile, godless storm. I had expected it to take years, welding the people’s hearts to you. Thanks to the Volarians, it’ll barely take months.”

She shook her head in grim amusement. “I had thought Veliss the schemer. Turns out it was you.”

He gave an injured groan. “Try not to hate your old uncle. I shouldn’t wish to carry such a thought to the Fields.”

She went to him, putting her arms around his shoulders and planting a kiss on his head. “I don’t hate you, you drunken old sot.”

◆ ◆ ◆

The first Volarians arrived three days later, a troop of cavalry appearing on the horizon about midday, lingering for no more than a few minutes before disappearing from view. Reva ordered scouts in pursuit and had riders sent out with orders to hasten any refugees to the city and call in the foraging parties. The scouts reported back within the day; the Volarian vanguard was no more than fifteen miles distant. She waited until darkness and the last trickle of beggared people had filtered through the gates before ordering them closed.

“Do we fetch the Fief Lord?” Antesh asked her as they stood atop the bastion over the main gate, looking out at the causeway and the pregnant darkness beyond.

“Let him sleep,” she said. “I suspect there’ll be plenty to do in the morning.”

They came as the sun rose over the eastern hills, cavalry first, moving at a sedate pace, their ranks tidy and well-ordered as they made their way to the plain beyond the causeway. The infantry followed soon after, tightly arrayed battalions in front, marching with an unnerving uniformity of step, the formations that followed more open, their pace less regular. The Volarian host arranged itself with the kind of precision and speed that could only arise from years of drill, cavalry on the flanks, the disciplined infantry in the centre, looser formations behind.

“Slave soldiers in the front rank,” Veliss said. “They call them Varitai. Those behind are conscripts, Free Swords. I read it in a book,” she added in response to Reva’s quizzical frown.

“They have slaves in their army?” she asked.

“Volaria is built on slaves,” her uncle said. “It’s what they came for.” He wore a heavy cloak, hand resting on Reva’s shoulder, his breath laboured, although his red-rimmed eyes still shone as bright as ever.

“No engines,” Antesh observed. “No ladders either.”

“All in good time, I’m sure,” Uncle Sentes said. “Though I suspect they’re about to try and scare us to death.”

Reva followed his gaze, seeing a lone rider emerge from the Volarian ranks to gallop along the causeway. He reined in over a hundred paces from the gate, staring up at them, his long cloak billowing in the wind. He was a tall man, wearing a black enamel breastplate, a scroll clutched in his fist. His gaze found the Fief Lord and he gave a shallow bow, a grin of contempt on his lips as he unfurled the scroll.

“Fief Lord Sentes Mustor,” he read in accented but clear Realm Tongue. “You are hereby ordered to surrender your lands, cities and possessions to the Volarian Empire. Peaceful compliance with this order will ensure just and generous treatment for yourself and your people. In return for your cooperation in overseeing the transfer of power to Volarian authority you will receive . . .”

“Lord Antesh,” Uncle Sentes said. “I see no recognisable flag of truce, do you?”

Antesh pursed his lips and shook his head. “Can’t say as I do, my lord.”

“Well then.”

“. . . swift transportation to any land of your choice,” the Volarian was saying, the scroll held in front of his eyes. “Plus one hundred pounds in gol—” He choked off as Antesh’s arrow punched through the scroll and the breastplate beyond. He tumbled from the saddle and lay still, the scroll pinned to his chest.

“Right,” the Fief Lord said, turning away. “Let me know when the rest get here.”

H
e found it impossible to gauge the Eorhil woman’s age. Somewhere between fifty and seventy was his best guess. Her face possessed many lines, her lips cracked with age and her long braids iron-grey. But there was a leanness and evident strength to her that bespoke an ageless vitality, her back straight as she sat cross-legged on the other side of the fire, her bare arms strung with knotted muscle. Behind her the great gathering of Eorhil warriors waited, some dismounted, most not, over ten thousand riders come in answer to the Tower Lord’s call. The Eorhil woman’s name, translated by Insha ka Forna, was unusual amongst her people as it consisted of but one word: Wisdom.

“You ask much, man of tower,” the young Eorhil had cautioned. “Not since war with beast people do so many come. Then they knew old tower man, you they don’t. Wisdom will decide.”

They had been sitting like this for much of the afternoon, the woman staring at him through the smoke rising from the fire. He heard no note from the blood-song, she possessed no gift, at least none it could recognise. Ten days’ march had brought them here to the lake the Eorhil called the Silver Tear, a small placid body of water shining amidst the great expanse of the plains where the Eorhil were already waiting with their full number.

“Al Myrna wanted a quiet life,” Wisdom said finally in flawless Realm Tongue, Vaelin starting at the sudden break in the silence. “A man with many battles in his past, tired of war. Our trust in him was built on that weariness. It’s the man of energy who hungers for war, and you, Vaelin Al Sorna, are a man of considerable energy.”

“Perhaps,” he replied. “But I’ve seen enough battle also. It pains me to lead so many to war once more.”

“Then why do it?”

“Why does any man of reason go to war? To preserve what is good and destroy what is not.”

“The Volarians seek to destroy your homeland. But that is far from here.”

“Your forest sister has seen the hearts of these people. They will not stop at my homeland. And I have seen what they did to the ice people. They will take all they can, from the Seordah, the Lonak and you.”

“And if we give you our warriors, the bright promise of our youth, how many will return?”

“I do not know. Many will fall, I do not deny it. I do know that the Eorhil will have to fight the Volarians, either on these plains or in my realm.”

“To reach your realm we must travel through the forest. You expect the Seordah to allow this?”

“I expect them to heed the words of the blind woman.”

Wisdom gave a start of her own, stiffening as her gaze narrowed. “You’ve seen her?”

“And spoken with her.”

The Eorhil woman’s mouth twitched and he discerned she was fighting fear. She got to her feet muttering, “We named you wrong.” She stalked back to her people, casting her final words over her shoulder. “We will ride with you.”

◆ ◆ ◆

“Wisdom,” Vaelin read slowly, pronouncing each syllable with care.

“Good,” Dahrena said. “And this?” Her finger moved on to the next word.

“Aah-greeed?”

She smiled. “Very good, my lord. A few more weeks and you won’t need me at all.”

“I very much doubt that will be the case, my lady.” He reclined in his chair, yawning. The evening drill had been hard, far too many men still stumbling about with faint notion of the difference between right and left, clumsiness made worse by fatigue from the day’s march, but there was no other choice if they were to have a hope of facing a disciplined enemy.

They were four days from the lake, the Eorhil scouting ahead and covering the flanks as they moved south towards the forest, now no more than a week away. Dahrena fretted over the fact they were yet to meet any Seordah but he told her to stow her worries, forcing more certainty into his tone than he actually felt.
Just tell them you met a blind woman from several centuries hence, and they’ll throw their arms wide in welcome?
he asked himself.
Do you really suppose it’ll be that easy?

But the blood-song was unchanged; the route to the Realm lay through the forest. So he marched his army, trained them for two hours in the morning and two hours at night, suffered the grumbling and doubts of his captains and spent a blessed hour before slumber learning letters with the Lady Dahrena.

He was finding a joy in the words the more he learned, the poetry his mother had tried to impart now laid bare, the emptiness of the catechisms glaring and obvious when captured in ink. It gave him a deeper appreciation of the gift enjoyed by Brother Harlick, the power and the beauty of it, to have an entire library in one’s head.

Dahrena sat at the table they shared, adding the final words to the treaty formalising the Eorhil’s alliance to their cause, including an unasked-for grant of ownership over the northern plains in perpetuity. The treaty would require ratification by the monarch of the Unified Realm, assuming they could find one. Vaelin had ordered Brother Harlick to draw up a list of those with a legitimate claim to the throne should the Al Nieren line prove extinct. It consisted of just four names.

“King Janus lost much of his family to the Red Hand,” Harlick explained. “Many of the survivors perished in the wars of unification. These”—he held up the list—“are the only blood relatives still living in the Realm, to the best of my knowledge, since it’s several years since I lived there.”

“Anyone of note?” Vaelin asked.

Harlick considered the list. “Lord Al Pernil is a famed horse-breeder, assuming he still lives. My lord, you may have to consider the possibility that there is no surviving heir to the throne of the Unified Realm. If that’s the case, other options will have to be considered.”

“Options?”

“The Realm is not the Realm without a monarch. And in a time of chaos people will look to the strongest man for leadership, regardless of blood or station.”

Vaelin studied the man’s face, wondering if some fresh design lurked behind his eyes. “More honest and unselfish intent, brother?”

“Merely the observations of a well-read man, my lord.”

“Well, confine your observations to those subjects I ask you to consider.” He moved to the map table, his eyes picking out Alltor, the blood-song flaring as it always did whenever his thoughts turned to Reva. Recently there had been a change in the tone, an ominous counterpoint to the usual compulsion.
They come for her,
he decided.
And she won’t run.

“The population of Alltor?” he asked Harlick.

“The King’s census ten years ago put the total at some forty-eight thousand souls,” the brother replied without hesitation. “Though, in times of siege it could be expected to double.” He paused. “That’s where we’re going?”

“As fast as the men can stand it.”

“The distance . . .”

Vaelin shook his head. “Is immaterial. We march to Alltor, even if it’s only to survey a ruin. That’s all for now, brother.”

◆ ◆ ◆

Four days’ march saw a dark uneven line appear on the horizon. It thickened as they marched, growing into a great wall of trees, stretching away on either side as far as eyes could see. Vaelin ordered the army to camp a half mile short of the forest and bowed to Dahrena. “Allow me to escort you home, my lady.”

Nortah guided his horse closer, Snowdance padding alongside. “We should go too,” he said. “The sight of a war-cat may ward against anger at your intrusion.”

“It’s more likely to provoke it,” Dahrena told him. “In any case, my people will not harm us. I’m sure of it.” Vaelin detected a wariness to her gaze as she eyed the forest, indicating a lack of conviction in her own words.

“If you don’t return?” Nortah asked.

Vaelin was tempted to offer a flippant response but seeing Dahrena’s unease decided on a reasoned reply. “Then I name you as my successor, brother. You will lead the army back to the tower and prepare against siege.”

“You imagine these people will follow a simple teacher?”

“A teacher with a war-cat.” Vaelin grinned and spurred Flame into motion.

The blood-song swelled as they neared the forest edge, not in warning, but welcome. It subsided to a soft contented note as the trees closed in around them, the air cool and musty with the myriad scents offered by all forests. Dahrena reined to a halt and dismounted, her face raised to the canopy of branches, eyes closed and a faint smile on her lips. “I missed you,” she said softly.

Vaelin dismounted and left Flame grazing on a patch of long grass, his eyes scanning the trees and finding a man standing between two elms, watching him with a deeply furrowed brow.

“Hera!” Dahrena gave a joyous yelp and ran to the Seordah, jumping to embrace him.

The man seemed less joyful as she drew back, his smile of welcome strained. His hair was long and streaked with grey, swept back from a hawk-nosed face stirring Vaelin’s memory.

“Hera Drakil,” he said, moving towards the man. “Friend to Tower Lord Al Myrna. I . . .”

“I know who you are,” Hera Drakil said, his accent thick but clear. “Beral
Shak Ur
, though I had hoped to be hunting in the dream age when your shadow fell on this forest.”

“I come with friendship . . .”

“You come with war, ever the way with the Marelim Sil.” The Seordah laid an affectionate hand on Dahrena’s cheek and turned away. “Come, the stone waits.”

◆ ◆ ◆

There were a dozen Seordah chiefs waiting, five women and seven men, all of an age with Hera Drakil who sat in their centre of their line. He had led them to a small clearing some miles into the forest, in the centre of which stood a stone plinth. The shape and height of the stone reminded Vaelin of one he had seen before, although whilst the stone in the Martishe had been overgrown with weeds and creepers, this was free of any vegetation, the carved granite seemingly unmarked by age or weather. In the trees beyond he could see many other Seordah, faces concealed in shadow, but he made out bows and war clubs amongst the shifting silhouettes.
Warriors,
he thought.
Waiting for something.

Vaelin and Dahrena sat before the dozen chiefs, finding no welcome in any gaze. One of them said something, a woman with a crow feather in her hair.

“We give you no leave to enter,” Dahrena translated. “Yet here you are. She asks for a reason why they shouldn’t kill you.”

“I come to seek your help,” Vaelin replied as she related his words to the chiefs. “A great and terrible enemy has attacked my people. Soon they will come to the forest, bringing fire and torment . . .”

Hera Drakil held up a hand and Vaelin fell silent as the Seordah spoke in his own language. “Your people could not take this forest from us,” Dahrena related. “Though they tried. Why should we fear these newcomers when we do not fear you?”

“My people saw wisdom in making peace. Our enemy has no such wisdom. Ask your sister, she has seen their hearts.”

The chiefs’ gaze turned to Dahrena who nodded and spoke at length in the Seordah tongue, no doubt relating what her gift had revealed of Varinshold’s fate and the Volarians’ nature.

“You face a cruel foe indeed,” she translated when one of the other chiefs responded to her tale, a wiry man with a foxtail hanging about his neck. “But it is your foe, not ours. The wars of the Marelim Sil are their own.”

Vaelin paused, pondering how best to phrase what he hoped would silence their doubts. “I am named Beral Shak Ur by Nersus Sil Nin. I tell you true that I have seen and spoken with the blind woman. She has blessed the course of my life. Can any here claim the same?”

He saw some flickers of uncertainty on the faces of the chiefs, but no shock or fear, and certainly no change of heart.

“If the blind woman blesses you,” Dahrena related the words of Hera Drakil as he pointed over Vaelin’s shoulder, “she will hear you now.”

Vaelin turned, regarding the stone for a moment then getting to his feet. “You don’t have to.” Dahrena moved to his side as he approached the stone, looking down at the smooth flat surface with the single perfectly round indentation in the centre. “Let me talk to them. With enough time, they’ll listen.”

“Who am I to deny them a show?” he asked. “One I suspect they’ve been expecting for a long time.”

“You don’t understand. Seordah have been coming here for generations, usually the old and the sick, some the mad. All come to touch the stone and seek the blind woman’s counsel. Most just touch it, wait for a time then leave disappointed, but some, only a very few . . . Some it takes, leaving their bodies empty.”

“Except you,” he said. “You said you had seen her.”

“After my husband died . . .” Her eyes went to the stone, clouded with sorrowful remembrance. “My grief was such I didn’t care if I lived. I came here in search of some kind of answer, some reason. If that was denied me then I would happily accept death. The blind woman . . . She showed me something to live for.” Her hand reached out, hovering over the surface of the stone. “It put me back in my body, because she willed it.”

“Then,” he said, stepping closer. “Let’s hope she finds me similarly worthy.”

The granite was cool under his palm, but he felt no other sensation, no change in his song, but when he looked up Dahrena and the Seordah were gone. It was night and a woman sat at a fire, face turned away from him but he knew her instantly. “Nersus Sil Nin,” he greeted her, walking to the fire. She was older than he remembered, lines deeply etched into the flesh around her red marble eyes, her hair entirely white. She blinked and glanced up at him.