Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (77 page)

My father has never been a man to indulge in deep reflection or wise pronouncements. His few writings and typically terse correspondence make dry reading indeed, riven as they are with the mundane inanities of military life. But there was one occasion that has stayed at the forefront of my memory, something he said the night Marbellis fell. We stood on a hilltop watching the flames rise above the walls, hearing the screams of the townsfolk as the Realm Guard gave vent to bestial vengeance, and I felt the need to ask him why his mood was so sombre, had he not just secured a victory worthy of glorious celebration for all the ages? I was, you may understand, quite drunk.

My father’s gaze never lifted from the tormented city and I heard him say, “All victory is an illusion.”

—ALUCIUS AL HESTIAN,
COLLECTED WRITINGS
, G
REAT LIBRARY OF THE UNIFIED REALM

“
Set sail!” the general was shouting at the ship’s captain, voice pitched just below a scream. “Set sail I said! Get this hulk moving!”

I went to the rail as the slave-sailors rushed in answer to the captain’s orders. The remnants of the army were being herded towards the river now, Varitai fighting to the end in dumb obedience, Free Swords taking to the water in panic. A half mile to the south the Free Cavalry seemed to be making a stand against the men in green cloaks, whoever had command of them rallying his men with admirable coolness as they attempted to break out. It proved a vain ambition however, as a great host of horsemen appeared to their rear, launching a cloud of arrows from the saddle before driving their charge home. Within seconds all vestige of organised resistance had vanished from the Volarian army, leaving only a terrorised mob with no chance of escape.

I turned my gaze from the ugly spectacle and saw a lone rider galloping along the causeway, followed by what seemed to be thousands of men and women with clubs and bows, not a scrap of armour amongst them. The distance was too great to make out the face of the rider but I had no doubt as to his identity.

“Faster!” the general was shouting amidst the racket of the anchor’s chain. “If this ship isn’t at sea within the day, I’ll see the backbone of every slave aboard!”

“Are you sure?” Fornella asked, standing near the map table, wine cup in hand. “Returning home with such impressive tidings is not something I would recommend.”

“We’re not going home,” he snapped back. “We return to Varinshold to await the next wave. When they get here I will build an army that will leave this land barren. Write this down, slave!” he snarled at me. “I, General Reklar Tokrev hereby decree the extermination of all denizens of this province . . .”

I was reaching for parchment when something caught my eye. The ship had finally begun to pull away as the sails unfurled and the prevailing wind took us downriver, the crew deaf to the entreaties of the Free Swords struggling in the water. I squinted at the sight of a new sail appearing above a bend in the river little under a mile ahead. I had seen enough of ships by now to recognise the Meldenean pennant fluttering from the mainmast, a large black flag signifying the sighting of an enemy. A shout from the rigging confirmed I was not labouring under a fear-born delusion.

“Archers up!” the ship’s captain ordered. “Ready the ballistas! Kuritai to the prow!”

I watched as another sail appeared behind the Meldenean vessel, and two more after that. I glanced over at the general and was surprised to find myself regarding the visage of a coward. All trace of bluster and poise had disappeared, replaced by sweat-soaked features and limbs twitching with unrestrained fear. I knew then that this man had never actually been in a battle. He had seen them, commanded men to die in them, but never fought in one. The thought raised a laugh in my breast which I managed to contain. Coward or not, he had charge of my life whilst this ship still floated.

However, whilst I was able to restrain my mirth, his wife was not. His fevered gaze swung to her as she stood by the map table, holding the scroll I had handed him earlier, laughing heartily at the contents.

“What is it!” he demanded. “What causes you so much amusement, honoured wife?”

She waved a hand at me, still laughing. “Oh, just the pleasure of money well spent.”

The general’s eyes swung towards me, anger adding some colour to his pale features. “Really? How so?”

“Allow me to recite quite possibly the last work by renowned scholar and poet Lord Verniers Alishe Someren, entitled
An Ode to General Reklar Tokrev, after Draken
.” She paused for a theatrical cough, stifling a giggle. “A man of vice and misplaced pride, Rightly detested by his bride, He drank and whored whilst safe afloat, Penning lies for his scribe to quote . . .”

“Shut up,” the general told her in a quiet tone but she went on without pause.

“Sent his men to die in flame, Whilst he dreamt of unearned fame . . .”

“Shut your mouth, you venomous bitch!” He rushed towards her, a hard blow of his fist sending her reeling, delivering a kick to her stomach as she tried to rise. “Year after year of your bile!” He kicked her again, making her retch and writhe on the deck. “A century in your company, true-heart!” Another kick, blood appearing in her mouth. “After the first week I knew I would kill you—”

The knife my mistress had tossed aside in her cabin had a short blade, but it was very sharp, sinking into the base of the general’s skull with ease. He gave a strange high-pitched groan, a little like a tearful child drawing breath for another sob, then fell forward, his nose making a loud crack as it smashed into the planking. It has always been a matter of great regret to me that his death was so brief, and that he never knew who had delivered the killing blow. However, I have long had occasion to ponder the unpalatable fact that so few of us receive the end we deserve.

Fornella heaved a red stain onto the deck, casting a weary gaze of acceptance at me. “I . . . suppose a . . . final kiss is . . . out of the question?”

I turned at the sound of running feet, seeing two Kuritai charging with twin swords drawn. I was about to run for the rail and take my chances in the river but drew up short as an arrow thumped into the planking beside me, quickly followed by many more. I dived for the table, rolling under as the arrows sent the Kuritai tumbling to a lifeless halt. I looked at Fornella as she uttered a frightened whimper, an arrow pinning her gown to the deck. I would like to relate how there was some chivalrous motivation behind my next action, that I acted on nothing more than courageous impulse in grabbing her arms and pulling her under the table as the arrows continued to rain down. However, that would be a lie. I knew she would be valuable to the Meldeneans and thought they might regard me with some favour if I delivered her to them unharmed.

We huddled together as the arrows fell, soon followed by the whoosh of something large and heavy that brought a blast of heat and an instant pall of smoke. More arrows, more whooshes, Fornella pressing herself against my side though what reassurance she felt I could offer escapes me. Soon the deck pitched at an alarming angle, the hail-like pattering of the arrows replaced by the shouts and metallic clashes of men in combat. A slave-sailor fell dead a foot away from the table, blood still gushing from the wound in his neck as shouts of anger and challenge gave way to screams and pleas for mercy.

Silence fell for what seemed an age, eventually broken by a voice speaking the Meldenean dialect of Realm Tongue. “Get those fires out!” it called with peerless authority. “Belorath, get below and finish any still in arms. And check the hull for breaches. Be a shame not to claim her as a prize.”

A pair of boots strode across the deck to stand before the table, polished and gleaming despite the blood that stained them. Fornella coughed, clutching at her belly, and the boots shifted, a familiar face appearing below the table edge, bearded and handsome with golden hair hanging over his blue eyes.

“Well, my lord,” the Shield said. “You must have a tale to tell.”

◆ ◆ ◆

The fires were quickly extinguished as per his order, his first mate returning from below to report the hull intact. “Excellent!” the Shield enthused, running a hand over the finely carved woodwork on the starboard rail. “Have you ever seen the like, Belorath? A ship to sail all the world.”

“She’s called the
Stormspite
,” Fornella said in her heavily accented Realm Tongue.

The Shield turned to her with an expression of dark promise. “She’s called what I choose to name her. And you don’t speak until told to.” He brightened at the sight of something behind us. “In fact, her namesake comes to bless her now.” He strode forward greeting an odd group of people climbing aboard from the Meldenean vessel tied alongside.

Two men were first on deck, one large with a brutish aspect, the other much younger but clearly no stranger to the sights of battle. They both surveyed the carnage with drawn swords and little sign of alarm. The large man turned and bowed to the three women who followed them aboard, one of whom instantly captured the attention of all in sight. She stood straight and slender in a plain gown and a shirt of light mail, a silk scarf tied around her head, walking across the deck with a sureness of step and innate confidence that gave the lie to the dead general’s pretensions to greatness.

“Welcome, Highness,” the Shield greeted her, bowing low, “to the
Queen Lyrna
. My gift to you.”

The woman gave a slight nod, looking around with keen eyes. “My brother’s fleet had a ship called the
Lyrna
. I wonder what became of her.” She paused as her gaze fell on me and I saw her scars plainly for the first time, the waxy mottled flesh that covered the upper half of her face, the mutilated ear only partially hidden by the scarf.

I lowered my gaze as she approached, falling to one knee with head bowed, as I had in her brother’s throne room a few short months before. “Highness,” I said.

“Do get up, my lord,” she told me and I raised my gaze to find her smiling. “We have an appointment I believe.”

T
here were perhaps fifty people waiting on the riverbank as the boat brought her to shore. There was no sign of any ceremony, just a cluster of hard-eyed, somewhat bedraggled people watching the boat approach with either distrust or puzzlement, many curious eyes lingering on the burnt-faced woman in the headscarf. The Shield stood at the prow, eyes fixed on the tall figure in the centre of the group.
He seems so pale,
Lyrna thought, unable to slow the sudden thump of her heart. At Vaelin’s side stood an athletic young woman with a sword strapped across her back, long auburn hair tied back from a face of near-flawless porcelain, provoking an unwelcome stirring of jealous regret in Lyrna’s breast.

Stop that!
she commanded herself.
A queen is above envy.

But it was hard to watch the way the young woman kept close to him, eyes on him constantly, brows furrowed in concern. She recognised some faces amongst them; Brother Caenis, stern-faced and standing slightly apart from the others. Al Melna, the young captain from the Mounted Guard, holding the hand of a woman with long dark braids and a fresh scar above her eye. Also, the late Tower Lord’s adopted daughter, another who seemed keen to stay close to Vaelin.

The keel scraped through the reeds at the bank’s edge and Ell-Nestra stepped ashore, offering a typically accomplished bow to the assembly. “Atheran Ell-Nestra, Shield of the Isles,” he said, straightening to offer a humourless smile to the tall man. “Although, I believe I know one of you, at least . . .”

Vaelin barely glanced at him, moving forward with an expression of blank amazement as Lyrna stepped from the boat flanked by Iltis and Benten. He halted a few feet away, staring in unabashed wonder as she tried not to shrink from his gaze.

After a moment he blinked and sank to both knees. “Highness,” he said in a voice so thin and strained she wondered if it was truly his, the expression on his face one of overwhelming relief. “Welcome home.”

◆ ◆ ◆

The Fief Lord’s manor seemed to be the only building in Alltor to have escaped the siege untouched. Lyrna’s passage through the city had been marked by the destruction she saw at every turn. Most of the bodies had been cleared away and numerous fires were burning outside the walls alongside the many graves dug by the Cumbraelins. The Volarian dead were being carted a few miles to the south and heaped into a quarry to be covered with earth and no words spoken to mark their passing. It seems the Volarian general’s wife was one of only five hundred survivors from their entire army.

She stood before her now, face tensed with suppressed pain, hands clasped in front of the belly where her unmourned husband had kicked her. The assembled captains of the army stood behind her along with Lady Reva’s court. They were a disparate bunch: a bewhiskered old guardsman who had somehow contrived to survive the siege, a veteran archer apparently of Vaelin’s prior acquaintance and an Asraelin woman with a falsely cultured accent who seemed keen not to meet Lyrna’s gaze for any longer than necessary. Whatever their differences, their fervent loyalty to their new Lady Governess matched the sentiment of the entire city.
I’ll have to watch her,
Lyrna decided with a note of regret, smiling at the young woman standing to her left.
A realm can’t have two queens.

She was seated in an ornate chair on the dais in the Lord’s chamber. Lady Reva had offered the use of the Lord’s Chair but Lyrna wouldn’t hear of it. “That belongs to you, my Lady Governess.”

On her right stood Vaelin, arms crossed and his too-pale face drawn with a weariness that made her worry he might collapse at any moment. But throughout the petitions and judgements that had occupied the preceding hours he stood straight and still with no word of complaint or request for a chair.

“We’ll speak in Realm Tongue,” Lyrna told the general’s wife. “For the benefit of all present.”

The Volarian woman inclined her head. “As you wish.”

Iltis stepped forward with a fierce glower. “The prisoner will address the queen as Highness,” he stated.

The woman winced in discomfort, hand spasming over her midriff. “As you wish, Highness.”

“State your name,” Lyrna told her.

“Fornella Av Tokrev Av Entril . . . Highness.”

“You are hereby judged as an aggressor to this Realm, having made war upon us without just cause, employing such means as to befoul the very name of humanity. The sentence is death.” She watched the woman’s face carefully, finding some fear, but less than she’d hoped for.
Could it be true?
she wondered, recalling Verniers’ tale.
Has she really lived so long death holds little threat?

“However,” Lyrna went on, “Lord Verniers has spoken in your favour. He tells me you are a woman of considerable practicality and, whilst you were happy to profit from the many horrors visited upon this Realm, you took no direct part in it. For this reason I am minded to be merciful, but only on the condition that you answer all questions put to you without hesitation or deceit.” She leaned forward, her gaze boring into the woman’s eyes as she added in Volarian, “And believe me, honoured lady, we have those amongst us who can hear a lie as if it were a scream, and pull the secrets from your head after we hack it from your shoulders.”

The woman’s fear deepened slightly and she gave a nod, making Iltis stamp his foot. “I agree to your terms, Highness,” she said quickly.

“Very well.” Lyrna reclined in the chair, fingers gripping the sides for a moment. “There will be a more detailed questioning in private later. However, Lord Verniers tells me your husband spoke of returning to Varinshold to await the next wave. What did he mean?”

“The next wave of reinforcements, Highness,” Fornella replied with a gratifying lack of hesitation. “The forces that were to occupy this land and prepare for the next stage.”

“Stage?” Lyrna frowned. “If your invasion was complete, what next stage could there be?”

The Volarian woman shifted, suppressing a shudder of pain. “The seizure of this realm was but a first step in a larger design, Highness. This land offered certain geographical advantages for the fulfilment of the ultimate objective.”

Lyrna sensed Vaelin straighten beside her, turning to find him frowning at the woman in intense concentration before breathing a sigh of frustration.

“My lord?” Lyrna asked him in concern.

“Forgive me, Highness.” He offered a wan smile. “I am . . . very tired.”

She surveyed his face, taking in the reddened eyes, the hollow cheeks and the great sadness that clouded his gaze. She knew what he had done the day before, in time she expected the whole world would know, and wondered if it was the killing that brought this malaise. She had always thought of him as immune to such pettiness as guilt or despair, his actions always being so far above reproach. But now . . .
Can he really be just a man after all?

“Speak plainly,” she said, turning back to the prisoner. “What exactly is this ultimate objective?”

“The Alpiran Empire, Highness.” Fornella seemed puzzled she hadn’t already divined such an obvious answer. “The invasion of this realm was a precursor to the seizure of the Alpiran Empire. By the summer of the next year an army will be launched from this realm’s ports to land on the empire’s northern coast. A second force of similar strength will launch a simultaneous attack across the southern border. And so the long-held dream of the Volarian people will be fulfilled.” The woman’s smile was barely noticeable. “Your pardon, Highness, but I must tell you this invasion was never more than an opening move in a much larger game.”

“Yes,” Lyrna replied after a moment’s consideration. “A game I’ll finish when I watch Volar burn.”

◆ ◆ ◆

That evening there was a banquet of sorts. Despite the siege the Cumbraelin capital seemed to be well stocked with supplies and the manse’s long dining table was piled high with food as well as numerous wine bottles of impressive vintage. “My uncle’s collection,” Lady Reva explained. “I’ve already given most of it away to the townsfolk.”

They stood together in the grounds of the manor a short distance from the open dining-room windows, Iltis and Benten standing no more than a dozen paces away on either side. The Asraelin woman, apparently Honoured Counsel to the former and current holder of the Lord’s Chair, stood just outside the windows, her stance and expression rigidly neutral but her gaze bright and unwavering as she surveyed their meeting.

“My lady does not like wine?” Lyrna asked the Lady Governess, turning her back on the counsellor’s scrutiny.

“Can’t stand the stuff.” Reva smiled in discomfort, hands clasped together and head slightly lowered. It was plain she had only a scant knowledge of etiquette and kept forgetting the necessary honorifics, something Lyrna found irked her royal person not at all.

“Your uncle was something of an expert, as I recall,” she said. “I remember he could take a single sniff of a glass and tell the year of bottling, the vineyard and even the direction of the slope on which the grapes had been grown.”

“He was a drunk. But he was my uncle and I miss him greatly.”

“Especially tonight, I’d guess.”

Reva gave a short laugh. “It’s . . . not what I’m used to.” She frowned in annoyance before adding, “Erm, Highness. Sorry.”

Lyrna just smiled and glanced back at the banquet. It was a subdued affair, the conversation muted, the guests preoccupied with the horrors they had witnessed or the friends they had lost. However, the wine was going down well, especially with Nortah Al Sendahl who sat on the manor steps, arm draped over Brother Caenis’s shoulders as he held forth, wine sloshing from his glass with every expansive gesture. “Iss beautiful, brother. Big open spaces, fine view of the sea and”—he nudged the Lord Marshal with a wink—“I go to bed with a beautiful woman every night. Every night, brother! And you’d still rather stay in the Order.”

“That man is very annoying,” Lady Reva said. “Even when sober.”

“He’s certainly talkative for a corpse,” Lyrna replied. She looked at the other guests, noting one significant absence. He had taken himself off to his army’s camp after the first hour of the banquet, pleading tiredness which certainly could not be questioned. Lady Dahrena had left with him, causing Lyrna to realise her unwelcome pang of jealousy towards the Lady Governess may well have been misdirected.

“What happened to Lord Vaelin?” she asked her.

There was an evident reluctance in Lady Reva’s expression, a tenseness to the porcelain mask of her face. “He saved us.”

“I know. But I can’t help but recognise the manner of saving has left its mark. My lady, please tell me what happened to him.”

A thin hiss of breath came from Reva’s lips, her mouth twitching at an unwelcome memory. “He led the forest folk into the city and they killed the Volarians. All of them, in the space of a few moments. By the Father, I wish we’d had them with us during the siege. I found him when it was done. He . . . was bleeding, a lot. We spoke and he fell. It seemed . . .” She trailed off, raising her gaze to meet Lyrna’s. “It seemed that he’d died. Then the Lady Dahrena came. The way she moved was very strange, her eyes were closed but she walked straight to him without a stumble. Her skin was so pale . . . She fell onto him and I thought they had both perished. I prayed, Highness. I prayed to the Father in a scream, for it was so unfair. And then . . .” She shivered, hugging herself tight. “Then they were alive again.”

“Did anyone else see this?”

“Only the forest people. I could tell they didn’t like it at all.”

“It would be best if it was kept between us, for now.”

“As you wish, Highness.”

Lyrna touched her on the arm and started back to the manor. “Did you mean it?” Reva asked. “About burning their city?”

Lyrna paused and nodded. “Every word.”

“Before all of this I was so certain, so convinced of the rightness of my course. I had a mission, a holy quest blessed by the World Father himself. Now . . .” The young Lady Governess frowned in consternation, suddenly seeming so much older than her years. “I have . . . done things here. In defending this city I have done things . . . I thought them right and just as I did them, now I don’t know. Now I wonder if I mistook rage for right and murder for justice.”

“In war they are the same thing, my lady.” She returned and clasped Reva’s hand. “I have done things too and every one I would do again.”

◆ ◆ ◆

“I should like to take a stroll, my lords,” she told Benten and Iltis a short while later. “To view my new army.”

Iltis gave a typically prompt bow whilst Benten was preoccupied with stifling a yawn. “Feeling the lateness of the hour, my lord?” she asked him.

“Apologies, Highness,” he stammered, straightening up. “I am at your . . .”

She waved him to silence. “Go to bed, Benten.”

Like many of the other guests, Orena seemed to appreciate the late Fief Lord’s taste in wine. “We’ll come too, Highness,” she said, slurring a little, her eyes somewhat unfocused. “I like soldiers.”

“I’ll put her to bed, Highness,” Murel said, taking the lady’s hand and tugging her towards the manor despite her plaintive whine, “Wanna see the soldiers.”