Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (57 page)

Thirty-Four nodded, reaching into his tunic and extracting a small glass vial on a chain about his neck. “I need this, it numbs the pain . . . my pain. It’s how I do what I do.”

Frentis eyed the pale yellow liquid in the vial and felt an echo of the binding flicker across his chest. “And if you stop taking it?”

“I . . . hurt.”

“You’re a free man now, you can take it or not, as you wish. You can stay with us or go, as you wish.”

“What do you want of me?”

“You have skills, they will be useful to us.”

Davoka arrived, dumping the sack of grain she had carried from the Order House next to the fire and scowling at the sight of the slave. She accepted a bowl of soup from Illian, spooning some into her mouth and promptly spitting it out. “No more of this for you,” she told Illian, taking the soup pot and tipping the contents into a patch of ferns. She went to her tent and returned with a captured Volarian knife, tossing it to the girl. “You learn to hunt. Arendil, make more soup.”

Illian looked at the knife in her hand with obvious delight, waving it at Arendil with a taunting snicker.

“Come, we check the snares,” Davoka said, hefting her spear. She paused beside Frentis, scowling again at Thirty-Four. “Find another place for him,” she said quietly. “Don’t want him near the children.”

She strode off with Illian scampering after. “I’m not a child,” the girl said. “I’ll be old enough to marry in a year and a half.”

Arendil aimed a kick at the soup pot, grumbling, “I’m the blood heir to the Lordship of Renfael, you know.”

Frentis rose, gesturing for Thirty-Four to follow. “Allow me to show you something.”

◆ ◆ ◆

Janril sat opposite the captive, honing the edge of his sword with a whetstone. The Volarian was large, impressive muscles bulging on the arms pulled back and secured to the trunk of an elm with strong rope. His face was a patchwork of cuts and bruises, one of his eyes swollen shut and his lips split with recent damage.

“Anything?” Frentis asked Janril.

The sergeant gave a silent shake of his head, narrowing his gaze at the sight of Thirty-Four. “He may be able to help,” Frentis told him.

Janril shrugged and rose to kick the feet of the bound man, his head snapping up, the one good eye casting about in alarm before understanding returned and it narrowed into stern defiance.

“He was wearing that when we took him.” Frentis pointed to the medallion hanging from Janril’s neck, an embossed silver disc showing a chain and a whip. “We believe he may be a man of some importance.”

“Guild-master’s sigil,” Thirty-Four said. “He’ll have command of fifty overseers. I’ve seen this man before, when the fleet was mustering. I believe he answers to General Tokrev himself.”

“Really?” Frentis said, stepping aside so the captive had an unobstructed view of Thirty-Four. “That is interesting.”

The single eye widened considerably at the sight of the slave. “Our new recruit has some questions,” Frentis told the guild-master.

◆ ◆ ◆

They left them alone for a time, Thirty-Four crouched next to the guild-master as he spoke, the words tumbling from his damaged lips with scarcely any hesitation. The torturer hadn’t touched him at all.

“A large caravan returns from the province to the north in three days,” Thirty-Four reported a short while later. “The lord of that land provided a list of subjects he thought would make good slaves.”

Master Grealin straightened as Frentis related the torturer’s words. “Lord Darnel cooperates with his people?”

Thirty-Four gave a slight shrug when Frentis related the question. “I do not know who that is.”

This has been long planned,
Frentis thought with a grimace. “What else? Any word of our Aspect?”

Thirty-Four shook his head. “He knows nothing of that, his sole concern is slaves and profit.”

“Is he going to be any more use?”

“He has numbers, figures on the slaves shipped back to the empire, likely returns on his master’s investment.”

“Get what you can out of him. Especially about this general he answers to. When you’re sure you’ve got it all, turn him over to Sergeant Norin.”

“I promised him a quick death. He begged for it.”

“A promise made to an animal is no promise at all,” Janril said when Frentis explained. It was the most he had spoken in days.

“You will stay?” Frentis asked Thirty-Four.

The slight man took the vial from about his neck and pulled off the stopper, his hands shaking as he hesitated, then tipped the contents away. “I will, but I have a condition.”

“I leave the manner of the slaver’s death to you.”

Thirty-Four shook his head. “No. I want a name.”

◆ ◆ ◆

“Your role,” Frentis said to Illian and Arendil, lying alongside him in the long grass. “Repeat it to me.”

Arendil rolled his eyes in annoyance but Illian spoke up with prim eagerness. “We walk the road, stumbling about as if wounded. When the caravan comes we sit down and wait.”

Frentis surveyed their appearance one last time, satisfying himself the dried rabbit’s blood and ragged clothing would suffice. “And when it starts?”

Arendil spoke first, drawing a glare from Illian. “Get to the wagons and free the captives.” He brandished one of the keys they had been given. Experience had revealed the slavers were lazy about changing their locks and the keys they had captured would undo most manacles.

“Davoka will run to you as soon as the attack begins. Do not stray from her side.”

He glimpsed the Lonak woman’s stern look of disapproval from her position a few yards away and avoided her gaze, bringing the young ones had not been her idea.

“I thought Lonak children learned war at an early age,” he had said when she voiced her objections back at the camp.

“They are not Lonakhim,” she replied. “Both have known nothing but comfort.”

He knew she had a deeper reason, her eyes seeing another overly comforted soul when she looked at them, especially Illian. “War comes to this forest soon,” he said. “The games we’ve been playing up until now are over. They need to be prepared.”

A short shrill whistle sounded to the north, making the fighters sink deeper into the grass. Frentis turned to the two youths he intended to put in harm’s way. “It’s time.”

They played their part well, although Illian’s stumbles were somewhat elaborate and Arendil’s a little stiff. The caravan crested the low hill a few hundred paces to the north, a full company of Free Cavalry riding in escort. The officer at the head of the column raised a hand at the sight of the two youngsters sitting in the road and the caravan came to a halt. Frentis watched the Volarian captain scan the surrounding fields, taking his time over it. After a moment he barked a command at one of his sergeants and a troop of four riders galloped ahead, reining in a few feet from the bloodied refugees, both of whom were too pretty to kill outright.

Frentis took a firm grip on his bow and stood up, their small company of archers following suit. The volley was inexpert but enough arrows were launched to bring down all four riders in an instant. Davoka leapt to her feet and sprinted towards the road, Frentis leading his twenty archers towards the caravan at a dead run.

The Volarian captain was clearly experienced, stringing his lead company out in skirmish formation before launching the charge, thirty or so riders bearing down on them at full gallop, long swords levelled.

Frentis stopped, notching another arrow and raising his hand, eyes fixed on the large pale boulder he had placed on the road-side earlier. When the first rider came level with the marker he dropped his hand.

They erupted from the grass on both sides of the road, more than twenty snarling, bounding monsters, voicing barks that were more like roars as they bore down on the charging cavalry. Horses and men alike shrieked in panic and fear as teeth rent flesh, the monsters leaping to tear riders from saddles, jaws clamping down and shaking their flailing prey. Swords hacked and slashed amidst the turmoil in brief but hopeless flickers of resistance.

Frentis waited for the screams to stop before venturing closer. So much blood had been spilled so quickly it seemed a red mist hung over the carnage, several of the archers gagging and turning away at the various horrors littering the road.

The beast sat on the remnants of the Volarian captain, licking its reddened paw. Seeing Frentis, it gave a small whine and dropped to low crawl, slinking forward to lick at his hand. “Slasher,” Frentis said, kneeling down to hug his old companion. “Who’s a good old pup, eh? Who’s a really good old pup?”

◆ ◆ ◆

There had been a short but ugly fight around the wagons, the mercenary guards and cavalry rear-guard put up stiff resistance but nothing Davoka and the other fighters couldn’t overcome, though they lost five more of their number in doing so. He found Davoka restraining Illian, the girl flailing in her arms as she kicked and spat at the body of an overseer, a knife buried in his chest. The profanity flowing from the girl’s mouth made Frentis suspect her upbringing hadn’t been as sheltered as he imagined. Eventually she exhausted herself, sagging in the Lonak woman’s arms, sobbing as she cradled her. “Sorry,” she whispered. “He touched me, you see? He shouldn’t have touched me.”

Arendil was at work on the road-side, unlocking the shackles from a line of captives. He had a small cut on his forehead but was otherwise unscathed. Frentis surveyed the freed folk, finding the usual mix of mostly young men and women, picked for beauty or strength. Volarian enslavement standards had the paradoxical effect of providing him the most suitable recruits for his growing army.

“Ermund!” Arendil stared at a figure amongst the milling captives, a broad-shouldered man with a scarred nose and the marks of a recent whipping on his back. The man stared at the boy in confusion as he approached.

“Arendil? Am I dreaming?”

“No dream, good sir. How do you come to be here? My mother, grandfather . . . ?”

The man staggered a little and Frentis helped the boy support him as they propped him against a wagon wheel, Frentis handing him a canteen.

“This is Ermund Lewen,” Arendil told Frentis. “First of my grandfather’s knights.”

“Darnel’s dogs came to the estate,” the knight said, having drunk his fill. “Five hundred or more. Too many to fight. At my urging your grandfather took your mother and fled. My men and I . . . We held them for a time, it was a grand thing to see . . .” The knight’s head began to sag, his eyes drooping with exhaustion.

“I’ll find a horse for him,” Frentis said, touching Arendil on the shoulder and moving on.

A few horses had survived the dogs and the battle. Frentis ordered them all rounded up and taken back to camp as Master Rensial was sorely in need of a distraction. When not simply staring into space the mad master would relate the name of every horse he had ever trained to anyone in earshot. Recalling Frentis’s name, however, seemed to be beyond him; he was always just “the boy.”

He took the reins of one of the horses, a fine stallion with a silky black coat, nostrils flaring at the scent of the dogs still busily feeding on the corpses a short distance away. He soothed the animal with the whisper and led it towards the unconscious knight, pausing at the sight of Janril Norin pacing along a line of six Volarian survivors, idly swinging his sword as he addressed them. “Can anyone here sing, at all? We’ve a lack of music in our camp and I should like some entertainment of an evening.” He stopped, turning to face them, sword point lowering to jab a cut into the cheek of the first in line. “Sing!”

Frentis moved closer as the man stared up at Janril in bafflement, tears streaming from terror-filled eyes.

“I said sing, you poxed son of a whore,” Janril whispered, placing his sword against the man’s ear. “I used to sing and my wife would dance . . .”

“Sergeant,” Frentis said.

Janril turned to him, a faint look of irritation on his face. “Brother?”

“We’ve no time for this.” He nodded at the third captive in line. “That one’s an ensign, he may know something. Take him back for questioning. Kill the others, and be quick.”

Janril stared at him for a second, face as expressionless as usual, then gave a slow nod. “As you wish, brother.”

◆ ◆ ◆

“We had no notion why Darnel chose to move when he did,” Ermund said, the firelight painting his face a pale red. Arendil sat beside him, his brows furrowed in worry. Next to him Illian patted the head of the dog resting in her lap. The girl had betrayed some initial nervousness when Slasher and the rest of the pack had come to join them at the fire and a young bitch, only slightly less huge than the others, placed her head on her knees, eyes raised in expectation of petting.

“She likes you,” Frentis explained. Slasher sat on his left, one of his many offspring on his right. The dogs, named by fallen Master Chekril as faith-hounds according to Grealin, were only a little smaller than Scratch, their long-lost forebear, with longer legs and a narrower snout. However, the unnerving loyalty and obedience of the slave-hound still remained strong in the bloodline, though they were somewhat easier to control.

“Only heard about the invasion after I’d been captured,” Ermund went on. “Saw some ugly sights on the road I can tell you. Darnel’s been quick to settle accounts with those who crossed him.”

“Do his people join him in this treachery?” Master Grealin asked.

“Difficult to tell from the back of a wagon, brother,” Ermund replied. “His own knights will be loyal, he tends to pick men of like mind, vicious dullards driven by greed rather than honour. But I know the temper of our folk. Darnel has never been well liked. Can’t imagine throwing his lot in with foreign invaders will endear him any.”

“My grandfather,” Arendil said. “Do you have any notion where he may have gone?”

“None, my boy. Though, if I were him I’d head north to the Skellan Pass, seek refuge with the Order.”

“The garrison in the pass is not what it was,” Grealin said. “Aspect Arlyn was obliged to reduce their number in recent years. We can expect no great reinforcement from Brother Sollis.”

“We fight alone,” Davoka commented.