Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (60 page)

“I think he likes you,” Antesh said when Arentes had gone. “Bit of a twinkle in his eye when you’re around.”

“Watch your tongue, my lord,” Reva told him without much conviction. “How many did we lose today?”

“Thirty-five dead, twenty more wounded. Not a bad rate of exchange considering how many bodies lie on the other side of these walls.”

“These slavers waste their men like cheap corn. How does such indifference breed loyalty?”

“Loyalty and fear are often the same thing, especially in war.” He paused, expression guarded. “May I enquire as to the health of the Fief Lord?”

Reva saw little point in concealment. “He’s dying. With the Father’s grace he may last another month.”

“I see. I’m sorry, my lady. He . . . proved a better man than most in the end.”

“The end is not yet come.” She held up her wych-elm bow. “You owe me a story.”

◆ ◆ ◆

“Arren was the finest bowsmith known to Cumbraelin history,” Antesh said. They were on the battlements, touring the eastern section, Reva forcing polite nods at the reverent greetings, tolerating the stares and whispered awe. “Possibly the finest in the world. So great was his skill and so impressive were his bows that some have claimed there was a touch of the Dark to their fashioning. In truth, I think he was just a highly skilled man who saw great art in an ancient craft. From an early age he was crafting bows of great power but also beauty.”

Antesh held up his own bow, displaying the thick stave, smoothed by years of use. “The longbow is powerful, and there’s a pleasing aspect to its simplicity, but Arren brought an elegance to it, somehow managing to decorate the stave without diminishing its power. Naturally his bows carried a high price, though when the Lord of Cumbrael came calling he was wise enough to work for free.” His eyes moved to her own bow.

“He made this for my great-grandfather?”

“That he did, and four more like it, all decorated differently to reflect the lord’s various interests, literature, music and so on. Yours appears to be the hunting bow. The lord decreed they were his gift to future generations of the Mustor family. But, within a few short years they were all lost when Janus set about forcing us into his new Realm. Arren himself died in a raid on his village, though there’s a story Janus had wanted to take him alive and had the men responsible executed, but who can say?”

He halted, resting his back against the wall, regarding her with the same troubled expression from before, when he had named the bow. “And now here you are, lost daughter of House Mustor, making an art of battle the way Arren made an art of the bow, carrying one of your family’s greatest treasures found by pure chance. A life of war, sustained by mere luck, has given me occasion to doubt the sight of the Father. But you, my lady, do give me pause.”

She moved next to him, looking at the far bank. There was a caravan making its way towards the Volarian camp, bulky wagons drawn by oxen, men in black riding escort. After a moment they came to a halt, one of the riders dismounting and moving to the last wagon. He disappeared inside for a moment then emerged pulling a young man behind him. The man had something binding his wrists, making it seem as if he begged as the rider forced him to his knees. Something glittered in the rider’s hand and the young man fell forward, a faint plume of red trailing from his neck. The rider bent down to remove his chains then remounted his horse, the caravan continuing on at a sedate pace leaving the corpse behind on the bank.

“I too have doubted the sight of the Father,” Reva confessed. “I have seen ugliness, cruelty, lies . . . betrayal. But I’ve also seen beauty, kindness and friendship. If this city falls, I’ll never see any of it again, nor will any of us. And I have a sense the Father’s sight does fall here. I can’t explain it, but I know it.”

She watched the caravan until it came to a halt on the fringes of the Volarian camp, not fully within the picket line.

“They haven’t fortified the eastern bank,” she observed to Antesh. “We have boats don’t we?”

◆ ◆ ◆

Antesh refused to countenance her going, to the point that he threatened to give up his Lordship and become a common archer if she didn’t agree. He sent thirty picked men in a dozen boats, launched from the north shore of the city shortly past midnight. The Volarians had left them in peace this night so all was quiet until they returned, pulling hard on the oars towards the eastern wall, the slavers’ camp burning behind them and each boat laden with freed captives. The tide was friendly at this hour and they didn’t have to fight the current, but the Volarians provided plenty of danger in the sheets of arrows they launched in pursuit. Most boats pulled free but the last fell victim to the iron rain. They had freed over forty people, about half Realm Guard the others Cumbraelin, mostly younger folk, signs of recent mistreatment obvious in the pale-faced stares of the women.

The picked men had also contrived to bring her a gift. He was a tall man in a black leather jerkin with large hands that would plainly have preferred to be holding a whip rather than confined by his own manacles.

He drew back from the sight of Reva as the picked men dragged him ashore, eyes wide in fear, his lips forming a tremulous whisper.
“Elverah!”

“What do you want done, my lady?” asked the raid leader, a hard-eyed veteran Antesh knew from the desert war.

“Put him on top of the gatehouse,” she said. “Wait until midmorning to be sure they’re all awake to see it, then cut his throat.”

You will know him by the blade he carries and the Dark-born skill with which he wields it, for none who know the love of the Father may defeat the Darkblade yet all must stand against him.

—THE TEN BOOKS, BOOK 4
:
PROPHECY, VOL. 7: DREAMS OF THE MAIDEN

A
nother interminable day and still it hadn’t fallen. More smoke, more wounded straggling back, more rage from the general. It has caused me guilt since, but I must confess I began to hate these Cumbraelins as much as he did, for if they would just succumb to their inevitable defeat, then there would be no more reason for me to be there on that hateful ship suffering his inventive cruelties.

I had come to understand that the general was not a truly intelligent man, he was cunning and manipulative with a keen eye for opportunity, but so are many children. No, I am ever more convinced he was in fact a stupid man, but privilege had contrived to provide him an education, and an educated sadist knows well how to punish a scholar. I was commanded to learn by heart the complete poems of Kirval Draken, easily the worst poet in Volarian, or any language for that matter, and guilty of inflicting the most sentimental, unmetred drivel on the human ear. I was given an hour to learn all forty poems and recite them perfectly for the general’s entertainment, standing on the prow of the ship, calling forth the doggerel as sweat streamed down my face and back, for he had promised instant death if I stumbled but once.

“My lady’s lips bud like roses, and burn like fire upon mine own, I weep my tears of joy then grief, for now our love has flown.”

“Excellent!” the general applauded, lifting his wine cup in appreciation. “More!”

“A hero comes with sword laid bare, his steel shines bright and true . . .”

He waved me to silence as a messenger approached from the shore, climbing aboard and handing over a scroll. “A breakthrough, eh?” he said to the messenger. “About time.”

“Yes, Honoured General. My commander advises that with sufficient reinforcement the city will be ours by nightfall.”

“No. The reserve must be husbanded to secure the rest of this rain-sodden dung pile. Tell him to hold off the attacks in other sectors and concentrate on the breakthrough. And tell him if this city isn’t mine by nightfall, I’ll expect him to have secured a sufficiently heroic death, because he’ll get none from me.”

He waved the messenger away and turned back to me. “Do you know, slave, I believe I’ve forgotten where we left off. Let’s start from the beginning shall we?”

◆ ◆ ◆

He had me recite it all three times over, every dreadful line penned by that talentless Volarian dullard. Even now, so many years later, I can still recite Draken at will. Not quite the worst of my scars, but still a painful reminder.

I was released come the afternoon, sent below to my cabin whilst he occupied himself with another pleasure slave until word of victory came. I sank onto my bunk, shaking with exhaustion and fear, and would have vomited if my stomach had anything to give. However, even this mean respite was to be cut short. The door opened and one of the mistress’s slaves beckoned to me. “You’re wanted.”

She was in her own cabin, a cavernous space of silk drapery and cushioned comfort in comparison to my narrow prison. She wore a white gown with a neckline plunging to the soft curve of her belly, the skirts transparent and revealing as she walked towards me, a little unsteady on her feet and a wine cup raised to her lips. “You’ve heard, no doubt?” she asked in slow deliberate tones. “The great siege is almost over? My honoured husband’s triumph nearly complete?”

“I have, Mistress. A great day.”

She sputtered into her wine, stumbling as she laughed. “A great day! Yes, an ancient child wins a new toy. A great day indeed.” She frowned, blinking and grimacing. “I haven’t been drunk for over fifty years. I think I’m remembering why.”

Fifty years?
She saw my confusion and laughed again, just a small giggle, like a little girl with a secret. “Older than I look, my lord. How much older do you think?” She moved closer, making me fight the urge to step away. “Honestly now, how old would you say I am?” She pushed an insistent finger into my chest. “And I command you to speak the truth!”

I took a breath, wondering how a man could feel so much fear and still keep his mind. “I cannot believe my mistress is more than thirty years old.”

“Thirty?” She stepped back, pretending offence. “I’ll have you know I was no more than twenty-eight when I made my bargain, and that was over three hundred years ago.”

She stood regarding me in silence, drinking more wine, eyes narrowed and causing me to consider if she was as drunk as she appeared. “Nothing to say?” she asked after a moment.

“Forgive me, Mistress, but that is impossible.”

“Yes,” she murmured, moving closer again, pressing herself against me, her head resting on my chest. “And yet here I stand, with so many memories. And I am still beautiful am I not? Do you not desire me, my lord? Or is your mind still so full of your dead poetess?”

The anger returned and I forced it down, knowing it to be a traitor. “My mistress is very beautiful.”

“I am. But you do not desire me, I feel it. And I know why.” She raised her gaze, searching my face. “You see it don’t you? You feel it?”

“Mistress?”

“The weariness. Who would have thought that I should grow so tired? So utterly weary. You would not believe how many have been drained to give me so many years, so much life wasted to keep a tired old woman on this earth, cursed to marry a murderous fool and witness his slaughters. That was the bargain we made, you see? Power for years, though only for those who wear the red of course, and even then only a select few. It made us the true power, the Council a convenient fiction. We, the endlessly young, and ever more weary, are the real power, for now they clamour for our favour. All those red-clad idiots, begging for a chance at the same bargain. We think we are slave owners, we are fools. We are the slaves. The great gift we bargained for was the greatest of chains.”

Her hand came up, swift and smooth, and I felt the chill of a steel blade against my neck. “You spurn me,” she said in a wounded tone. “Lusting after some book-loving corpse when you could have me. Do you know how many lovers I’ve had? How many men have begged just to plant a single kiss on my foot?”

“I will happily kiss my mistress’s foot,” I said, words softly spoken for the knife blade was pressed hard into my flesh and I felt a single drop of blood trickle down my neck.

“But you don’t want to. You want your Alpiran bitch back. Maybe I’ll send you to meet her. Would you like that?”

I never understood why, and I have tried very hard for many years to comprehend it, but at that moment all the fear fled and I felt what she felt, a great and terrible weariness. I do recall that I knew my death was now unavoidable. Her husband’s anger or the overseer’s whip would see me dead tomorrow or, if I was extremely fortunate, the day after.

I stepped back from her, opening my arms as the blood seeped from the shallow cut she had given me. “There was no poetess,” I said. “No woman. But I did love, and the man I loved died, killed by the man who I hope with all my heart comes here now to kill you and that vile wretch you call your husband. You offer me a gift, Mistress. I welcome it, for it means I will no longer have to stomach the thought of sharing the same air as you.”

She stared at me for a long moment as I marvelled at the steady beat of my heart.
Is this courage?
I wondered.
Is this what the Hope Killer feels when he rides to battle? This strange calm.

“I often look for distraction amongst the slaves,” she said. “I find it dispels the weariness, for a time. And you are so very talented.” She tossed the knife away, sending it clattering across the floor. “Go and write some more flattering nonsense,” she said, slumping onto the cushions with a tired wave of her hand. “It’ll probably buy you a few more days.”

◆ ◆ ◆

I was summoned back to the upper deck barely two hours later, by which time my newly discovered calm had evaporated. Fornella sat next to her husband, apparently sober now, and dressed more appropriately in an elegant gown of red-and-black chiffon. She gave me the barest glance and turned back to the general. “The overseers are properly educated, I assume?”

The general seemed pensive, his time with the pleasure slave having done little to ease his temper. “Leave the practicalities to me, true-heart,” he muttered. “Your family will get its share of any we find, as it always does.” His gaze fixed on me and the scroll in my hand. “Your latest account, scribbling slave?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Well give it here, let’s see if you continue to earn my indulgence.” He was unrolling the scroll when a guard called out the approach of another messenger. “Finally.” He tossed the scroll onto the map table, standing with a studied air of stoic reflection, the dignified commander accepting news of his hard-won victory.

“Has the witch been captured?” he asked the messenger, looking off into the middle distance and speaking in an almost wistful tone. “Or did she die fighting? I expect she did. Strange that I should find room in my heart to admire such a creature . . .”

“Forgive me, Honoured General!” the messenger blurted. He wore the armour of an officer in the Free Cavalry, his face tense and slicked with sweat. “I come with graver tidings. A rider was found by one of our scout troops this morning, the only survivor of the Twelfth Free Sword Battalion. It seems he was captured and then set free. He brings word of an army marching towards us with great haste.”

The general stared at him. “An army? What army?”

“Their number is estimated at over fifty thousand.” The officer took a folded piece of parchment from his belt and held it out to the general. “The man was also given a message for you, Honoured General.”

The general flicked a hand at me. “Read it. I don’t speak their babble.”

I took the parchment from the officer and unfolded it. “The message is in Volarian, Master,” I said.

“Just read it.”

I briefly scanned the contents and felt my already speeding heart increase the pitch of its hammering. I cast a furtive glance at the scroll I had given him earlier, wondering if I could contrive to retrieve it in the confusion that would doubtless follow my reading of this message.

“To the commander of Volarian forces currently besieging the city of Alltor,” I began, hoping he hadn’t noticed the slight hesitation. “You are hereby ordered to disarm, surrender all captives and stand ready to receive justice for your many crimes. If you comply with this order, your men will be spared. You will not. Signed under the King’s Word, Tower Lord of the Northern Reaches, Vaelin Al Sorna.”