Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (71 page)

“Udonor,” Lyrna corrected.
God of the winds, the greatest of gods. If so, I wish he’d end this bloody storm.

◆ ◆ ◆

The storm raged all night and for much of the following day, Lyrna venturing from the cabin only once to find the deck repeatedly swept by tall waves and the Shield alone at the wheel, gesturing for her to go back inside although his smile blazed as white as ever through the rain. She provided a welcome distraction for her ladies with a tutorial in the basics of court etiquette, meaningless frippery for the most part but it might offer some uses when they returned to the Realm; people did like their petty rituals. Orena proved the best student, mastering the curtsy and the mysteries of the bow with a fluid grace that made Lyrna suspect she may have found occupation as a dancer in the years before landing her fat but rich husband. Murel, however, quickly grew flustered by her own clumsiness, not aided by the ceaseless pitching of the deck.

“Mother always said there was an invisible rope about my feet,” she grumbled after stumbling through the correct greeting for a foreign ambassador.

The storm abated come evening and they emerged from the cabin to find the
Sea Sabre
alone on the ocean, save for the shark, its fin tracing a winding course through the waves some distance ahead. Belorath was at the tiller and the Shield at the prow.

“Where is the fleet?” Lyrna asked, moving to his side.

“Heading for the Teeth like us, I hope. Those still afloat that is.” His eyes remained fixed on the shark. “You truly have no notion why that thing does your bidding?”

“None. And I’m not sure it’s my bidding. What it did . . . Animals don’t hate, they just feed. It
hates
.”

“Or carries the hate of your dead beast charmer.”

“And he seemed such an affable young man.”

The first Meldenean ship came into view an hour later, soon joined by four more, the crews hailing them with cheers and waving sabres, increasing in volume when Lyrna moved to the prow.
Udonor’s Hand,
she thought, finding the phrase had a certain ring to it. Although she doubted the Aspects would appreciate having it added to her list of queenly titles, if any were still alive to object.

By the time the Teeth came in sight there were over a hundred ships following the
Sea Sabre
, and perhaps another three hundred at anchor in the shallows to the west of the rocks. The
Red Falcon
was there, albeit bearing the scars of battle, the clean lines of her hull dark with scorch marks and her figurehead smashed beyond recognition.

The Shield put the
Sea Sabre
alongside and Ell-Nurin took a boat across to confer.

“No.” Ell-Nestra shook his head, voice firm. “No more delay.”

“More ships arrive by the hour,” Ell-Nurin protested. “We’ll need strength to move against their southern division.”

“Udonor gave it to us last night,” the Shield insisted. “Can you recall a storm of such power sweeping the Erinean at this time of year? He sends us a gift and I’ll not waste it. One more turn of the glass, my lord, then we sail to end this.”

◆ ◆ ◆

The Serpent’s Tail was well named, a twisting submerged snake of rock extending over twenty miles south of the Teeth, its course laid bare by the succession of wrecked Volarian vessels driven onto it by the storm.

The crew became oddly subdued at the sight, ship after ship blasted by waves, tattered sails tossed by the wind. Lyrna noted the guarded glances they cast in her direction, reverence and no small amount of fear on every face.
Udonor’s Hand is not merciful,
Lyrna surmised surveying the line of wrecks.
For which I am grateful.

“I count over two hundred, my lord,” Belorath reported to Ell-Nestra. “There’ll be more already sunk or smashed to splinters.”

“A battle won without a single sabre bared or arrow loosed,” the Shield mused. “Seems your shark will have to wait a while to feed his hate, Highness.”

A shout came from aloft, the look-out pointing off to the south. The Shield took his spyglass to the prow, scanning the waves for a moment before ordering sails to full and changing course. “Or perhaps not.”

There were some twenty ships moving south at a slow crawl, close together with scant canvas to catch the wind. On seeing the danger they clustered even closer, trimming sails as their ragged crews crowded the decks, weapons ready.

“Don’t these bastards ever give up?” Harvin groaned.

The
Sea Sabre
overtook the Volarians in short order, circling with the rest of the fleet, edging closer as the mangonels were readied and archers climbed the rigging.

“Reckon we can hit ’em from here,” Harvin surmised, standing at the rail. “Crave the honour of the first throw, Highness.”

“Granted, my lord.”

He grinned, slapping his hands together and stepping forward. The ballista bolt caught him square in the back, punching through the mail shirt as if it were paper. He staggered for a moment, staring at the bolt’s steel head sticking from his chest with raised eyebrows and an odd grin, then falling flat on his face.

“Harvin!” Orena rushed to the body, pulling it over, hands fluttering over his face, desperate pleas coming from her lips in a torrent. “Love, come back to me love, come back to me . . .”

“Bastards!” Iltis lit the hemp and slammed his boot onto the release, running to the rail and shouting into the fireball’s wake. “Don’t you know when to fucking die!?”

Lyrna crouched at Orena’s side as she cradled Harvin’s head in her lap, whispering now. “Come back to me . . .”

Lyrna looked at the former outlaw’s empty eyes, his teeth bared in the same odd grin.
He was the most likely of us to die laughing.

She joined Iltis at the rail, watching a hundred fireballs descend on the Volarian ships in an inverted fountain of blazing teardrops. “I seek pardon for my language, Highness,” her Lord Protector said in a soft voice.

Lyrna wrapped herself around his thick arm, hugging the rigid muscle tight, her head resting in his shoulder. The flames grew quickly in the midst of the cluster, a tall column of smoke rising, screams drifting across the water. Soon swimming men came splashing out of the smoke, a hundred or more desperate enough to hope for rescue from their enemy, all destined to perish as soon as they came within bowshot.

I know you’re here,
Lyrna thought, scanning the waves.
Who will you find to hate now?

A great crash erupted from the burning ships, flaming splinters bursting into the sky as the shark ascended from the inferno. It rose free of the wreckage, twisting in the air, tail whipping upwards before it dived back down into the carnage, jaws wide and hungry.

Somehow Lyrna knew she would never see it again.

◆ ◆ ◆

They gave the dead to the sea at twilight, the Meldeneans standing in silent regard for their fallen crew-mates, more than twenty canvas-wrapped bodies weighted and lowered into the waves. As each corpse was readied to be carried to the rail crewmen would come forward to choose an item from the belongings laid out on a cloth at their feet. Any coin or valuables had already been collected by Belorath who would see them safely to the bereaved families, the trinkets left behind were merely tokens of remembrance: a die, a Keschet piece kept as a lucky charm, a favoured knife. The only words spoken were the names of the fallen men, enunciated clearly by the Shield to be crossed off the ship’s roll by his first mate.

The ship’s carpenter had fashioned a basic raft for Harvin, his body placed on a bed of pitch-soaked rope and rags, the sword Lyrna had given him resting under his crossed arms. Benten and Iltis lowered him over the side and the former brother said the words at his queen’s behest. Orena stood between Lyrna and Murel, clasping their hands in a tremulous grip, her cheeks dry now as she seemed to have exhausted her tears.

“We stand in witness to the end of the vessel that carried this man through his life,” Iltis said. “We know there are those in the Realm who would remember him without kindness or high regard. But we knew him as a friend and a comrade in a time of great trial, and he never failed us. An outlaw he may have been, but he died a Sword of the Realm, beloved by his woman, his friends and his queen. We give thanks for his deeds of kindness and courage and forgiveness for his moments of weakness. He is with the Departed now, his spirit will join with them to guide us in life and our service to the Faith.”

He let go of the rope holding the raft and it drifted away on the swell. Benten raised a bow notched with a flaming arrow and let it fly, the raft soon a fiery square on the broad ocean, carried towards the horizon and lost to view before the hour was gone.

◆ ◆ ◆

The Shield found her as night fell, keeping company with Skerva once again. The sky was clear now, all trace of the storm gone from a sky lit with numberless stars, the air cool and pleasing on her skin.

“Your Highness owes me an answer,” Ell-Nestra said, resting against the figurehead’s arm. “Your true intent.”

She nodded, eyes still rapt on the sky. “When I was little, I tried to count them all. It proved very difficult, so I devised a plan. I would study just one section of sky seen through a window in the palace roof, count all the stars visible within it then multiply the result with the sky’s overall area.”

“Did it work?”

Lyrna breathed a soft laugh. “The number was so large there is no name for it. But that’s not the interesting thing. You see when I came to check my figures, for a good scholar always checks their figures, the number of stars in the window had changed. It was the exact same date a year later, but there were two more stars in my count. Two distant suns that simply hadn’t been there a year before.”

“And what did this tell you?”

“That if the stars in the sky are not fixed, then nothing is fixed. Nothing is eternal, all is temporary and ever-changing.” She turned away from the stars, meeting his gaze. “Nothing is fixed, my lord. No course is so set it cannot be changed.”

He gave a wry smile. “You would have us change course.”

“I would.”

“Might I ask in what direction?”

“I understand the Coldiron River is navigable to oceangoing vessels at this time of year, all the way to Alltor.”

“Which stands besieged and in dire need of relief.”

“Quite so.”

“And you command this in return for the debt we owe you?”

“You owe me nothing. My father tipped the scales and I tipped them back. I speak only sound strategy. You must know the Volarians will not just swallow this defeat and leave you in peace. This has been but one battle in a war that will end only with their utter ruin. And that ruin will start at Alltor.”

He moved closer, no smile on his lips and just honest appeal in his gaze. “I offer a counterproposal, Highness.” He nodded towards the west. “We have a fine ship, a loyal crew and all the world’s oceans to sail. The Merchant Kings have large fleets, I hear.”

Lyrna laughed, shaking her head. “You would make me a pirate queen?”

“I would seek to preserve your life. For I find it has great value to me.”

“A queen does not live, she reigns, and my reign has begun. Will you take me to Alltor?”

He moved closer still, looming above her, brows creased and eyes lost to shadow as he stared down at her. “May the gods save me, but you know I’d take you anywhere.”

H
e woke to find Illian and Arendil sharing breakfast, a watery porridge of oats from their diminishing supplies. Repeated movement left no time for hunting and hunger was becoming a constant companion. However, neither of them had voiced a single complaint and even their tireless bickering seemed to have abated following the battle with the Kuritai.

They had moved twice in the space of a week. Fief Lord Darnel proved tenacious in his pursuit, sending more hunters with slave-hounds and Varitai in escort, seemingly having exhausted his supply of slave elite. Frentis ordered false trails laid and traps set. At night he led small bands of the more stealthy fighters forth to cut throats and sow confusion in the ranks of their pursuers. Varitai were easier to kill than Kuritai, but they could still be formidable, especially if allowed to form ranks. He would strike in the small hours of the morning, seeking to kill as many dogs and hunters as possible, then withdrawing at speed to a pre-prepared ambush. It worked the first few times, the Varitai marching blindly into arrow storms and spiked pits. But whoever had command of the hunt soon became wise to the tactic, keeping his men together in four solid groups each numbering more than three hundred, whilst Frentis lost people every time they launched another attack and there were no more caravans to raid for recruits.

Their pursuers had evolved an unpleasant tactic of their own, loosing packs of slave-hounds at the slightest hint of a scent, thirty or more of the beasts running unfettered through the forest killing anything they could catch. Yesterday had brought them close enough to the camp to force a battle, the faith-hounds meeting their relatives headlong in a morass of tearing claws and flashing teeth. Frentis led half the fighters against their rear whilst Davoka took the others into their flank. She seemed to have a particular hatred of the slave-hounds, killing without restraint or fatigue as she cut a bloody trail through their swirling ranks. Frentis found her finishing the pack leader with a thrust through the rib cage, an ugly grimace of distaste on her face as she turned the spear to find the heart.

“Twisted,” she said in answer to his frown. “Made wrong and smell wrong.”

“We saved some for you, brother,” Illian said, offering him a bowl of the porridge.

He resisted the urge to ask if she had made it and accepted the bowl. “Thank you, my lady.” He ate the gruel and surveyed the camp. Aspect Grealin sat alone, as he usually did these days, seemingly lost in thought. Davoka and Ermund were practising again, hand-to-hand combat this time. He noticed her occasional grin as they tumbled together and wondered if he should offer some warning to Ermund, then noticed the knight’s own grin and decided it was probably redundant.
Where did they find the time?

Thirty-Four, still undecided on a name, sat practising his Realm Tongue with Draker, although much of the lesson seemed to consist of the correct use of profanity. “No,” the big man shook his shaggy head. “Pig-fucker not fuck-pigger.”

Janril Norin was sharpening his sword, face impassive and eyes empty as he worked the stone along the edge. Beyond him Master Rensial tended their two remaining horses, the veteran stallion and the mare. Recently he had expressed his desire to breed them, providing a new blood-line for the Order’s stables, the state of which drew his constant criticism. “Too much straw on the floor,” he tutted. “Walls haven’t been whitewashed in months.”

“We were wondering, brother,” Arendil said, breaking into his reverie. “About the Volarians.”

“What about them?”

“Where they come from. Davoka says you’ve been there. Her ladyship thinks they all come from the same huge city, whilst my grandfather said their empire covered half the world.”

“It’s a big place,” Frentis said. “And Volar is said to be the greatest city in the world, though I’ve never seen it.”

“But you saw their empire?” Illian asked. “You saw what makes them into these beasts.”

“I saw cities, and roads of marvellous construction. I saw cruelty and greed, but I’ve seen them here too. I saw a people live a life that was strange in many ways, but also much the same as anywhere else.”

“Then why are they so cruel?” There was an earnestness to the girl’s face, an honest desire to know.

“Cruelty is in all of us,” he said. “But they made it a virtue.”

He returned his gaze to the camp, forcing himself to count every soul in sight.
Forty-three, and eight hounds. This is not an army, and I am not a Battle Lord.

He stood up, hefting his sword and bow. “We’re leaving,” he said, loud enough to draw Davoka’s attention.

“Moving camp again, brother?” Arendil asked with a note of weary reluctance.

“No. We’re leaving the forest. There is no victory to be won here. It’s time to flee.”

◆ ◆ ◆

Janril stood with the old Renfaelin sword resting on his shoulder. He carried no pack or canteen, nothing that would sustain him.

“You don’t have to do this,” Frentis told him. “I would hear you sing again, my friend. This land was always richer for it.”

The onetime minstrel just cast an impassive glance over his face then turned to walk away. He went a few yards before pausing to turn back. “Her name was Ellora,” he said. “She died with my child inside her.”

He resumed walking, soon lost from sight in the trees.

◆ ◆ ◆

It wasn’t easy, the master’s eyes seemed about to birth tears as Frentis explained, but eventually he managed to persuade him to loose the horses, sending them north in the hope the hunters would follow the trail. “Too easily tracked, Master,” he said. “They have horses at the Pass, and I’m sure Master Sollis will have need of the finest stable master in the Realm.”

He ordered a westward course, intending to hook north having left more false trails for their pursuers. Frentis and Davoka brought up the rear whilst Ermund scouted ahead with Arendil and Illian, the girl’s ear now as well tuned to the song of the forest as any brother or huntsman. They covered at least twenty miles by nightfall, a good day’s march in the Urlish.

They made a silent and fireless camp, huddling together for warmth. “Stop fidgeting!” Illian hissed at Arendil as they lay side by side next to a fallen birch trunk.

“Your bloody dog keeps licking my face,” the boy returned in a sullen whisper.

Frentis sat watch beside Grealin, eyes and ears alive to the forest’s song.
The forest appears black at night,
Master Hutril had said years ago.
An endless void. But it’s more alive in the dark than the daylight. Still your fears and know it as a friend, for it’s the best watchman you ever met.

In the tree tops an owl hooted at its neighbour with trustworthy regularity. The wind brought only the scents of the forest, free of man’s sweat or the sweeter tang of dog. The void was empty of any telltale gleam of metal in moonlight.

“Open country to the north, brother,” Grealin said in the softest whisper. “And near a hundred and fifty miles of Renfael to traverse before we reach the pass. The risk is great.”

“I know, Aspect. But it’s greater here.”

◆ ◆ ◆

They kept a westward course for the next day, Frentis ordering a turn north come evening. He spent an hour continuing west alone but for Slasher and Ermund, laying a trail of broken branches and conspicuous boot and paw prints. They kept at it until nightfall then moved north to find the river, following the bank to a shallow ford. The others were waiting on the other side, Davoka stepping from the shadows with spear ready and Illian rising from a bush, crossbow in hand.

“We move on at dawn,” Frentis said, slumping at the foot of a pine trunk and letting sleep claim him for the few hours left until daylight.

Morning brought a new scent on the wind, musty and acrid. Frentis called to Illian and nodded at the pine trunk. The girl handed Arendil her crossbow and began to climb, scampering from branch to branch until she had reached the highest point.

“Fire,” she reported on returning to earth. “Lots of fire.”

“Where?” Davoka asked.

“Everywhere. All around. The largest one is burning to the south of us though, just a little ways from the city.”

Frentis exchanged a glance with Grealin.
Darnel burns the Urlish just for us?

“What do we do?” Draker asked, unable to keep the old whine from his voice.

“What every other living thing is this forest is doing.” Frentis slung his bow across his back and began to throw away anything that might slow him down. “We run.”

He ran them for an hour at a time, taking the lead and setting a punishing pace. Some of the fighters flagged, collapsing from the strain, but he allowed no lingering, setting Davoka to haul them along, promising direst punishment if they fell out again. All the time the smell of smoke grew thicker, the first columns rising to stain the sky through breaks in tree cover. Predictably, Grealin found the pace the hardest to bear, huffing along behind with sweat streaming over his fleshy face. But he voiced no complaint and kept on his feet until nightfall.

Illian climbed another tree as the sun waned, her slight form black against an orange sky as she surveyed the forest. “It’s just one big fire to the south now,” she said. “You can’t see the city for it, the flames are so high. There’s another one almost as big to the west.”

“Ahead of us?” Frentis asked.

She gave a grim nod. “Still patchy. But it’s growing.”

“Then we can’t linger. Move in a line and stay together. When the smoke gets thick join hands.”

They felt the heat build after the first mile, a pall of cinder-rich smoke descending soon after, bringing coughs and retching as they stumbled forward hand in hand. Frentis had hold of Illian whilst she held to Arendil. He was forced to stop frequently to peer ahead, looking for a path free from the orange glow of flame. Occasionally a deer or wild boar would come racing through the haze, lost to view before he could discern any escape route their senses may have revealed.

They were following a narrow trail when a great crack told of a falling tree, a tall pine descending to block their path, wreathed in flame from end to end. Frentis looked about for another path, seeing only the orange glow on all sides. He pulled Illian closer, obliged to shout into her ear against the fire’s roar. “Tell the Aspect to come to the head of the line!”

Grealin appeared shortly after, the sweat now a constant slick over his face. Frentis pointed at the blazing pine trunk with a questioning glance. The Aspect stared at it for a moment then stepped forward with a resigned grimace. He raised both hands, fingers spread wide, his shoulders hunched as if straining against an invisible wall.

For a second nothing happened, then the pine trunk trembled, shuddered and burst apart, scattering burning splinters in all directions. Grealin fell to his knees, gasping and retching in the smoke, blood pouring from his nose. He waved away Frentis’s helping hand and gestured impatiently for him to move on.

“I will not leave you, you fat old fool!” Frentis yelled, hooking his free arm under the Aspect’s meaty limb and pulling him upright. “Now walk! Walk!”

The smoke soon became so thick all vision was lost and they were forced to crawl, seeking cleaner air closer to the ground. All around trees snapped and tumbled in the flames, the oak and yew falling with mighty groans.
It’s dying,
Frentis thought.
Between us, we killed the Urlish.

A sudden breeze dispelled the smoke enough for him to gauge their surroundings, finding a broad clearing with widely spaced trees ahead as yet untouched by flame.

“Up!” he shouted, dragging Grealin to his feet. “We’re nearly out. Run!”

The line fragmented as they ran, stumbling and coughing, feeling the ever-rising heat on their backs. Frentis collapsed to a halt when he realised he was running through long grass with a clear sky above. He lay on his back, gulping air and wondering if he had ever tasted anything so sweet.

“Never seen,” he heard Grealin muttering, sitting up to find the Aspect staring at the burning forest. It seemed to be on fire from end to end now, the sky above the trees filled with roiling black smoke, banishing the sun and leaving them in a cold shadow.

“Aspect?” Frentis asked.

“This was never seen.” Grealin shook his head, deep confusion on his face as he continued to stare at the dying forest. “Not by any scrying. We are beyond prophecy now.”

◆ ◆ ◆

They had lost five people to the fire, vanished somewhere in the smoke. Frentis had thought the faith-hounds lost too but Slasher appeared as they marched north, bounding out of the long grass with Blacktooth and six of his pack loping behind. He knocked Frentis onto his back and covered his face with licks, voicing one of his rasping whuffs. “You’re a good old pup,” Frentis told him, running a weary hand through his fur.

They kept a wary eye out for Volarian cavalry but the wind proved a friend, calling the smoke from the Urlish down around them in a concealing fog. Frentis heard distant bugle calls and drumming hooves but none came close enough to pose a threat. The land north of the Urlish turned from rolling hills to gullies and crags after twenty miles or so, well remembered from his Test of the Wild and providing welcome cover. He sought out an overhanging cliff he recalled from the three days before One Eye’s men had come for him, a tall sandstone edifice with an eroded notch in its base large enough to accommodate the whole group. The rushing stream outside also masked any sound they made though they dared not risk a fire.