Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (25 page)

The girl squealed and twisted in his grip but he lifted her easily, advancing towards the fire. The beefy boy’s scream was choked by his gag as he surged to his feet only to be clubbed to the ground by one of the brothers, a sword hilt coming down hard between his shoulder blades.

Reva’s eyes took in the scene in the space of a heartbeat, the ranter, the two by the captives, the sentry. Four that she could see, no doubt more she couldn’t, all well armed, none of them drunken outlaws. It was a hopeless prospect, and this was not her mission. The choice was clear.

The sentry died first, taken by her knife as she stepped out of the blackness, clutching at the gaping wound in his throat and falling face-first to the ground with barely a groan. Reva sheathed the knife, notched an arrow to the bow and sent it into the back of the ranter as he raised the girl above his head. He collapsed instantly, dropping the girl who thrashed at him with frantic kicks of her small legs, scrabbling free.

Reva had time for one more arrow as the two remaining brothers recovered from their shock and turned to face her, swords ready. She chose the one closest to her, the one who had been forcing the man to witness the girl’s end. He was quick, dodging to the left as she drew a bead on his chest, but not quick enough. The shaft took him in the shoulder, sending him sprawling. She drew her sword and advanced on the other, killing the wounded brother with a slash to the neck as she passed.

His companion moved from behind the captives, raising a crossbow. With a howl the beefy boy launched himself at the brother, his shoulder connecting with an audible crunch of breaking ribs, pitching the black-cloak into the fire. He screamed and flailed in the flames, tumbling free to roll on the ground, voicing his pain in a continuous torrent of high-pitched yelps.

A shout drew Reva’s attention to the left where three more brothers came charging out of the blackness, crossbows raised. Reva glanced at the boy, crouched on his knees, eyes wide and pleading above the gag.

She turned and sprinted for the trees, ducking to scoop up the fallen bow, a crossbow bolt fluttering her hair before the darkness claimed her.

She stopped after twenty paces, turned and crouched, taking two great breaths then forcing stillness into her body as she waited. The three black-cloaks were all anger and confusion, aiming kicks at the boy to vent their fury before heaping earth on their smouldering brother, babbling at each other about their next course of action, standing in a row, outlined against the fire.

Not so hopeless a prospect after all,
Reva thought, raising the bow and taking aim.

◆ ◆ ◆

The boy was named Arken, his sister Ruala, the mother Eliss and the father Modahl. The body on the fire belonged to Modahl’s mother, her name had been Yelna although Ruala and Arken called her Gramma. Reva had no inclination to ask the only surviving brother his name so kept on calling him Ranter.

“God-worshipping witch!” he cried at her from his place slumped against a tree trunk, his legs splayed out on the earth before him, slack and useless. Reva’s arrow had punched clean through his spine, leaving him dead below the waist. Sadly, his voice was unaffected. “Only with the aid of the Dark could you slaughter my brothers so,” he accused, waving an unsteady finger at her. His skin was pale and clammy, his eyes increasingly dull. Killing him would have been a mercy, but Modahl had stopped her wielding the knife the night before.

“He was going to burn your daughter alive,” she pointed out.

“What is mercy?” he said, his long face tense with fresh grief but still devoid of any anger, his eyebrows raised as if he were asking a sincere question.

“What?” she replied, frowning.

“Mercy is the sweetest wine and the bitterest wormwood,” Eliss, the mother, said. “For it rewards the merciful and shames the guilty.”

“The Catechism of Knowledge,” Arken informed Reva, heaving a black-cloaked body onto the fire. His voice had a bitter edge to it. “She’s obviously Cumbraelin, Father,” he said to Modahl. “I doubt she wants to hear your lessons.”

Catechism?
“You are of the Faith?” she asked in surprise. She had expected to find them adherents of one of the myriad nonsensical sects appearing out of the shadows since the Edict of Toleration.

“The true Faith,” Modahl said. “Not the perversion followed by these deluded souls.”

Ranter said something, scattering earth with his breath. It sounded like “Denier lies!”

“Tell me if this hurts,” Reva said, reaching down to pluck her arrow from his back. It didn’t, he couldn’t feel it.

The burnt brother had also survived her attack but succumbed to his wounds before the sun came up. He had screamed for quite some time and once again Modahl had stood in her way when she went to silence him. Nonplussed, she busied herself with aiding Arken in consigning the bodies to the fire.

“This one was skilled,” she commented, hefting the legs of the tallest brother, the last one to fall. “Expect he was Realm Guard before the Fourth Order took him.”

“Not skilled enough for you,” Arken said, lifting the corpse by the shoulders. “I’m glad you made him suffer.”

Was that what she had done? She had certainly played with him a little. After the others had fallen to her arrows, he had managed to duck the final shaft, running for the safety of the forest. She met him at the edge of the clearing, sword in hand. He was fast, experienced and knew many tricks. She knew more, and was faster. She made it last longer than it should, feeling her skill grow with every parry and thrust, every scar she left on his face or arms, like a lesson with Al Sorna only played for real. She finished it with a thrust to the chest when she caught sight of the little girl weeping on the ground, still bound and gagged.

Forgive me my indulgences, World Father.

Modahl said the words as the flames grew high, calling on his family to thank Yelna for the gift of her life, to remember her kindness and wisdom and to reflect on the flawed choices that had brought these unfortunate men to their end. Reva stood apart, cleaning the blood from her sword, seeing how Arken’s face darkened as his father spoke on, glaring at him with a fury that seemed to border on hatred.

Morning brought a light rain and the sound of Ranter’s voice, rousing her from a fitful sleep. The fire had burned down to a pile of black-grey ash, the rain washing it away to reveal a jumble of human bone and grinning skulls.

“Oh my fallen brothers!” Ranter cried. “To be taken by the Dark. May the Departed cleanse your souls.”

“Not the Dark,” Reva told him, yawning. “Just a knife, a bow, a sword and the knowledge to use them.”

Ranter started to voice a reply but choked instead, coughing and rasping. “I . . . thirst,” he croaked.

“Drink the rain.”

The brothers had left a clutch of good horses, food for several days, plus a decent harvest of coin. Reva chose the tallest of the horses, a somewhat feisty grey stallion with the rangy look of a mount bred for the hunt, and scattered the rest. At Modahl’s insistence the brothers’ weapons had all been heaped onto the fire the night before, Arken making a disgusted noise when his father gently but firmly tugged the sword he had claimed from his grasp.

The family’s wagon was still intact along with the oxen that pulled it, although the contents had been badly ravaged, evidenced by the sight of Ruala crying over the ripped and tattered remains of her doll.

“We were heading for South Tower,” Arken said. “We have family there. It’s said Tolerants have less to fear under the gaze of the Tower Lord of the Southern Shore.”

“They hunted you,” Reva said.

Arken nodded. “Father is keen to speak the words of Toleration to all who will listen. He hopes to find more willing ears in the south. It seems Aspect Tendris didn’t relish the prospect.”

Reva’s gaze was drawn to the sight of Modahl laying out a blanket in the back of the wagon, casting aside sundry items as he endeavoured to clear a space. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“For the injured brother,” he explained. “We must find him a healer.”

Reva moved close to the man and spoke very quietly into his ear. “If you attempt to make your daughter share a wagon with that piece of dung, I’ll hack his head off and throw it in the river.”

She lingered for a moment, eyes meeting his to ensure he understood. Modahl’s shoulders slumped in weary defeat and he began ushering his family onto the wagon.

“There’s a village some miles east of here,” Reva said. “I’ll ride there with you if you wish.”

Modahl seemed about to protest but his wife spoke up first, “That would be greatly welcome, my dear.”

Reva mounted the grey hunter and trotted over to where Ranter was slumped against the tree.

“Will you . . . kill me now . . . witch?” he enquired between rasps, his eyes two black coals in the pale wax of his face.

Reva took a full canteen from the hunter’s saddle and tossed it into his lap. “Why would I do that?” She leaned forward, casting a meaningful glance at his useless legs. “I’m hoping you live a very long time, brother. If the wolves or the bears don’t get you, of course.”

She turned the hunter and cantered after the wagon as it trundled on its way.

◆ ◆ ◆

The village proved a strange place, Cumbraelin and Asraelin living side by side and speaking a strange accent that seemed to accommodate only the most jarring vowels from both fiefs. It was clearly an important way-station from the numerous travellers and wagoners milling about. Wine going north, steel and coals going south. A company of Realm Guard was in evidence, the soldiers policing the cross-roads about which the village clustered, ordering diversions and clearing blockages to ensure the trade kept moving. A temple to the World Father stood on the south side of the cross-roads, facing a mission house of the Fifth Order on the other side.

“The Order will have salve for your cuts and such,” Reva told Modahl. “Best if you tell them it was outlaws. They stole but were on their way quickly. No need to trouble the guards.”

Modahl gave a slow nod, his eyes betraying a severe wariness.
No room for killers in his heart,
Reva surmised.
Even though he’d tend to them if they lay dying. What comedy their faith is.

“Our thanks go with you,” Eliss said as Reva tugged on the grey’s reins. There was genuine warmth in her eyes, and gratitude. “We would welcome your company on the road come the morrow.”

“I’m bound for the Greypeaks,” she replied. “But I thank you.”

She guided the horse further into the village, glancing back to see Arken gazing after her from the rear of the wagon, raising a hand in hesitant farewell. Reva waved back and rode on.

The inn was the smallest of the three found in the village, a sign above the door proclaiming it as the Wagoner’s Rest. The interior was crowded with travellers and drovers, mostly men with wandering hands, quickly withdrawn at the sight of a half-bared knife. She found a stool in a corner and waited for the serving girl to come round. “Shindall owns this place?” she asked.

The girl gave a wary nod.

Reva handed her a copper. “I need to see him.”

Shindall was a wiry man with a fierce growl to his voice. “What’s this you bring me?” he demanded of the serving girl as she led Reva into a back room where he sat counting coin. “Makin’ me lose count with some boney wh . . .” He trailed off as his eyes found Reva’s face.

She placed her thumb on her chest, above her heart, and drew it down, once.

Shindall gave a barely perceptible nod. “Ale!” he barked at the serving girl. “And a meal, the pie not the slop.”

He pulled a chair over for Reva to sit at the table, his eyes fixed on her face as she unbuckled her sword and removed her cloak. He waited until the serving girl had come and gone before speaking, a hushed reverent whisper. “You are
her
, aren’t you?”

Reva washed down a mouthful of pie with a gulp of ale and raised an eyebrow.

Shindall’s voice dropped even further and he leaned closer. “The blood of the Trueblade.”

Reva smothered a surprised laugh, the man’s earnestness was both funny and disconcerting. The light in his eyes calling to mind the dozens of idiot heretics who had gathered at Al Sorna’s house. “The Trueblade was my father,” she said.

Shindall stifled a gasp, clasping his hands together in excitement. “Word came from the priest that we should expect news of you soon. News that would shake the foundations of the Heretic Dominion. But I never thought, never dreamed I would see you myself, certainly not here in this hovel where I play innkeeper.”

Word came from the priest . . .
“What did he tell you?” she enquired, keeping her tone light, only mildly curious.
That I’d be dead soon? That you had a new martyr to worship?

“The priest’s messages are brief, and vague, for good reason. If the Fief Lord or the heretic King were to intercept them, too much clarity could undo us all.”

She nodded and returned to her meal. The pie was surprisingly good, steak marinated in ale and baked with mushrooms in a soft pastry.

“If I may,” Shindall went on. “Your mission, though I would never dare ask its object, is it complete? Do we finally draw near our deliverance?”

Reva gave a bland smile. “I need to find the High Keep. The priest told me you had charge of seeing pilgrims safely there.”

“Of course,” he breathed. “Of course you would want to undertake the pilgrimage, whilst time remains.” He rose and went to a corner of the room, the one least favoured by the lamplight, bending down to lift a brick from the base and extract something from the space behind.

“Drawn on silk,” he said, placing a rectangle of material in front of her, no more than six inches across. “Easy to hide, or swallow should you need to.”

It was a map, simply drawn but clear enough to follow, a line stretching from a cluster of icons she took to be the village, winding its way past mountain and river until it ended at a black symbol shaped like a spear-point.

“Six days’ travel from here,” Shindall told her. “Not so many pilgrims these days so the way should be clear. There are friends of ours there, playing the role of beggars in need of shelter.”