Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (69 page)

“Might be an idea if they left some alive in future,” Nortah commented. “Dead men have no stories to tell.”

“I’d hazard we’ll have a few storytellers in hand tomorrow.”

◆ ◆ ◆

Count Marven had taken no chances with the Volarian infantry, sealing the flanks with his cavalry whilst the archers weakened them with successive volleys. The full army was unleashed when he judged the enemy sufficiently decimated. The Volarian host consisted of one battalion of Free Swords and two of Varitai. Predictably, the Free Swords were the most keen to surrender whilst the Varitai had to be slaughtered to a man. Even then there were only a handful of prisoners, most of them wounded.

“No officers,” the count reported to Vaelin. “Highest rank amongst them seems to be a sergeant, or whatever they call a sergeant.”

He gave an irritated glance over at Fief Lord Darvus’s twin grandsons as one of them shouted in pain, his brother attempting to stitch a cut on his forearm.

“Didn’t piss their breaches then?” Vaelin asked quietly.

“Hardly. No holding those two, my lord. Bravery they have in abundance.” He dropped his voice. “Brains, however . . .”

“My lords,” Vaelin called to the twins. “Best take yourselves off to Brother Kehlan’s tent.”

The two lords rose and bowed with their customary uniformity, the one on the left voicing their response. Vaelin had noted he was the only one who spoke, possibly in order to prevent them speaking in unison. “More grievously injured men require the healer’s attentions, my lord. A true knight would not trouble him over a trifle.”

“Clearly, your experience with true knights is limited. Your grandfather won’t thank me if you return having lost limbs to festered stitching.” He nodded at the tent flap. “Get you gone.”

“We collected more than enough weapons for the Free Company, my lord,” Brother Hollun reported when the twins had left. “In fact, we should have enough for six such companies.”

“Our losses?” Vaelin asked.

“Thirty-five killed, sixty wounded,” the brother responded with his usual lack of hesitancy.

“Would’ve been less if the freed folk hadn’t joined in,” Count Marven said. “Hate makes people careless of their lives, I suppose.”

“Nevertheless it was well done, my lord,” Vaelin told him. “Brother Harlick has been drawing up maps of Alltor and the surrounding country. I should like you to take a look, judge our best line of approach.”

The Nilsaelin gave a hesitant bow of assent. Their time in Linesh had made the man wary of him, Vaelin knew, and in his turn he had distrusted the count’s obvious desire for martial distinction. Now though, circumstance made such concerns seem trifling. “I . . . am pleased to enjoy your trust, my lord,” Marven replied.

◆ ◆ ◆

The prisoners were no different from any other group of defeated men Vaelin had seen over the years. Eyes full of fear, gaze downcast and wary of drawing attention as they shuffled under his scrutiny.

“They’re all fairly ignorant and barely literate,” Harlick reported. “Volarian education is notoriously poor. People are expected to teach themselves whatever they need to know. This lot know how to fight and follow orders. How to rape and murder too, no doubt. But they’re somewhat close-lipped about their prior exploits in the Realm, as you might expect.”

“Do they know the name of the man who commands their army?” Vaelin asked.

Like Brother Hollun, Harlick had no need to consult notes or pause before providing a response. “General Reklar Tokrev. A red-clad, as they usually are. Distinguished veteran of several border clashes with the Alpirans and renowned commander of numerous expeditions against the northern tribes. I have to say, I find the list of his achievements a little improbable since one of the campaigns he supposedly led took place over seventy years ago.”

“Any news of Alltor?”

“They’ve never heard of the place. Seems they were sent after the Realm Guard before the general marched on Cumbrael. I . . . doubt they have anything else to offer, my lord.”

Vaelin watched the wretched men fidget, some unable to keep the terrorised tremble from their limbs. The song rose as he saw their fear, a familiar complex note that denoted the birth of a stratagem. He turned to Orven, captain of the only company he could trust with this duty. “They’re coming with us,” he said. “Make sure they’re suitably fed and watered. And keep them well away from Captain Nortah’s people.”

◆ ◆ ◆

Crossing into Cumbrael brought sights of an even greater level of destruction and murder than those already witnessed. The succession of ruined villages along their line of march seemed endless, littered with so many rotting corpses Vaelin was forced to order them left where they lay as they couldn’t afford the time needed to give them all to the fire. Unlike the Nilsaelin villages, these were extensively vandalised, mills and chapels burned, many bodies mutilated and showing signs of torture. Also the surrounding fields were often black from burning, the crops turned to ash and every well they found spoiled with a sheep or goat carcass.

“Doesn’t make any sense,” Adal said as they rode through a ruined cornfield. “All armies need to be fed.”

“The Volarians didn’t do this,” Vaelin replied. “I suspect the Cumbraelin Fief Lord was keen to deny them any succour from his own lands. May explain their viciousness towards the people.”

They came upon a macabre sight in the evening, ten men hanging from a large yew, eyes and tongues removed and the first two fingers of their hands severed and stuffed into their mouths. Vaelin saw his sister pale at the sight, swaying in her saddle a little.

“We’ll see to them,” he said, pressing his hand to her shoulder. “You don’t have to linger here.”

“Yes,” she replied, dismounting and extracting parchment and charcoal from her saddlebags. “I do. Leave them there a moment, please.”

She walked stiffly to a nearby tree stump and sat down, fixing her eyes on the scene and starting to draw.

“Must be archers,” Nortah commented. “Taking their fingers like that. Saw our own men do something similar in the Martishe.”

Vaelin saw that Alornis was crying as she sketched, tears streaming from her eyes as they constantly shifted from the hanging men to the image forming on the parchment. Dahrena went to her side as she finished, hunching over and weeping softly. “People will need to know,” he heard her whisper as Dahrena pulled her close. “They’ll need to remember.”

◆ ◆ ◆

The town had been named Two Forks for the branching streams that surrounded it. Vaelin had once passed through it with the Wolfrunners during one of their fanatic-hunting expeditions prior to the Alpiran war. He recalled a bustling place of winepresses and merchants bartering for the best price on the latest casks. The people had been guarded but not so hostile towards him as most Cumbraelins, their priest a hearty fellow of broad girth and rosy cheeks who happily offered Vaelin a prayer of the Father’s forgiveness, wine cup in hand as he quoted the Ninth Book.

His church was a ruin now, the only sign of him some anonymous blackened bones in the scorched wreckage. The Seordah had found the place, the warriors standing in the streets and staring at the various horrors, more baffled than enraged. The town hadn’t been easily taken, barricades had been constructed across the roads and the surrounding waterways made for effective defensive barriers. Vaelin judged it had taken several days to fall from the bodies in the factor’s house, all lying in a row, bandages visible on the putrefying flesh.
Fought it out long enough to have a care for the wounded,
he thought.

“Children all in one place,” Hera Drakil said, his face like stone. “No sign of wounds, but smelling of poison.”

“Killed by their parents to spare them the torments of enraged men,” Vaelin said. It seemed the Volarians had been obliged to visit their frustrations on the few surviving adults. A pile of dis-constituted corpses lay in the centre of the town, not one left whole. The limbs were arranged in a circle about a central mass of severed heads, a thick cloud of flies buzzing amidst the miasma of decomposition. Vaelin was glad Alornis wasn’t here to feel compelled to draw the scene.

“I would be grateful if you could bury them,” Vaelin said to Hera Drakil, deciding this was worth the delay.

“We shall.”

He nodded and went to where Flame was tethered, pausing as the Seordah called after him. “We were right.”

Vaelin turned back with a questioning look.

“To heed the wolf’s call,” Hera Drakil said. “A people that would do this need to die.”

◆ ◆ ◆

“I once had occasion,” Vaelin told the Volarian captive, “to meet the Alpiran Emperor. He presided over my trial, of course, but he came to my cell afterwards to talk to me alone. Just once.”

The captive stared at him with bright but uncomprehending eyes. Vaelin had chosen him for his youth and the greater pitch of his terror. His fellow captives were hanging from the branches of a willow tree on the riverbank south of Two Forks, the ropes creaking as they swung in the breeze.

“It’s not widely known,” Vaelin went on, “but the Emperor is a very frail man. Victim of a bone disease since childhood. He’s very small, very thin, and has to be carried about on a litter as his legs will break if he attempts to walk. But there’s a great strength to him, I could feel it burning away inside when he looked at me. It’s a very humbling thing to look into a man’s eyes and know yourself his inferior.

“They brought him to my cell after the trial, servants placing him before me and leaving us alone, even though I was unchained and he must have known I could crush the life from him in an instant. I bowed and he told me to get up. I had been taught Alpiran at his instruction, for a man should understand every word spoken at his trial according to Imperial law. He asked if I had any complaints about my treatment, I said no. He asked if I felt any guilt over the death of the Hope and again, I said no. He asked why. I told him I was a warrior in service to the Faith and the Realm. He shook his thin, bony head and called me a liar. ‘The song tells you,’ he said. ‘That you did no wrong.’

“He knew, you see. Somehow he knew, though I could hear only the slightest murmur of a gift within him. He said those chosen to sit in the Emperor’s chair share the same gift, the ability to discern potential. Not greatness, not compassion or wisdom. Just potential, and the nature of that potential would only be revealed over time, sometimes with unfortunate consequences. Shortly before the war he had begun to discern the temper of the Hope’s potential and found it worried him greatly. Also there was another within his court who offered a far brighter prospect, though choosing them would invite accusations of favouritism, a serious charge in a land where anyone may ascend to the throne with the favour of the gods, a mystical force for which the Emperor is merely a conduit. My actions had solved his dilemma, and so I would be allowed my life and suffer no torments. However, he loved his people and their suffering at the hands of our army made such mercy his own torment. ‘If I have any claim to greatness,’ he told me. ‘It will lie in the victory I won over the hatred you tried to place in my heart. An Emperor can allow no such luxury.’

“As I said, I knew myself as his inferior, even more so now. I should like you to know I have tried to follow his example, to act without hatred in prosecuting this war. Sadly, your people have contrived to defeat me in this ambition.”

Vaelin took a leather satchel containing the message he had dictated to Brother Harlick and lifted the strap over the captive’s head, making him flinch and utter a whimper, calming a little when Vaelin smiled. “For the general,” he said, recalling Harlick’s words. “Tokrev,” he repeated, patting the satchel.

The captive just stared back in unblinking terror. Vaelin took a moment to study his face, feeling the song swell as he committed it to memory.

“Put him on a horse,” Vaelin told Orven, “and let him go.”

S
o many ships.
The harbour was jammed with them, the masts resembling a gently swaying forest, the crews crawling over deck and rigging like ants as she looked on from her balcony.

“Must be over a thousand by now,” Iltis surmised.

“I make it twelve hundred,” Orena said. “If you put them end to end, maybe we could walk home.”

“Right now I’d rather swim,” Harvin muttered, straightening as he caught Lyrna’s glance. “Not that I would, Highness.”

Lyrna turned back to the harbour without reply. Her decision to accompany the Meldenean fleet when it sailed forth had not been well received, Iltis protesting about the obvious dangers whilst Harvin had the additional worry of Orena who, along with Murel, refused to be left behind.

“My queen needs her ladies,” she had stated. “She said so herself.”

She had expected some obstruction from the Shield but he had just frowned and said, “Of course, Highness. I would have you nowhere else but at my side if the choice were mine.” His dazzling smile was almost enough to order Iltis to strike him down there and then.

She could see him now, striding along the quay, exchanging words with various captains and sailors. Whereas he was all charm with her, his countenance when dealing with his own people was one of grim toleration, for all their obvious respect and relief at his presence.
They disappointed him,
she concluded.
He wonders whether they were truly worth the sacrifice he was prepared to make.

“I realise it may be too early in my service to ask a boon, Highness,” Harvin said. “But when this is over, I formally request never to be sent to sea again. I’ve seen enough rat-infested bilge tubs for this life.”

Lyrna allowed herself a smile. “Your request is granted, my lord.”

She watched the Shield as he strode closer, face upraised as he found her on the balcony, bowing deeply and extending an arm to where the
Sea Sabre
was moored.

“My ladies and lords,” she said. “Our vessel awaits.”

◆ ◆ ◆

“The best way to avoid a trap,” the Shield said, “is to kill the bastard who made it before he gets a chance to set it.”

“As long as you can find him first,” Ship Lord Ell-Nurin pointed out.

They stood around a map table set up in the
Sea Sabre
’s hold, an extensive chart of the Isles and surrounding waters spread out before them. There were eight other senior captains present along with Belorath, now happily returned to his role as first mate. Ell-Nurin was the sole Ship Lord present, apparently the only member of the council Ell-Nestra could stomach for any length of time.

“Thanks to Her Highness we know the Volarians intend a feint,” he went on, finger pointing to the southern approaches. “Probably here, the most direct route to the capital aided by favourable winds. Whilst we can most likely expect them to send their troop ships to the beaches here.” He tapped at three bays on the northern shore of the largest islands. “Where the wind will be against them, but since they expect us to be fully occupied to the south, it won’t matter.”

“What does that tell you?” Lyrna enquired.

“That they’ll have to separate here.” His finger picked out a small speck some eighty-odd miles to the east.

“The Teeth of Moesis,” Ell-Nurin said. “A prophetic place for a battle.”

“The gods are bound to smile on us there,” Belorath put in. “If they smile on us anywhere.”

“You intend to attack as they separate?” Lyrna asked.

“Indeed, Highness,” the Shield replied. “We tack from the north-west with the wind in our favour, sink the troop-ships first. Without them their invasion is a pointless endeavour after all.”

“What’s to stop them simply joining forces again when they see our sails on the horizon?”

Ell-Nestra’s finger tapped a point just to the south of the Teeth of Moesis. “The Serpent’s Tail. The god left more than just his teeth behind.”

“A great stone reef, Highness,” Ell-Nurin explained. “Their southern division will have to navigate it to join up with the troop-ships. Not an easy task at the best of times.”

“All dependent on whether they stick to the plan outlined in the book,” Lyrna said. “A plan they may never have received.”

“There was more than one book,” Ell-Nurin said. “Safely received in Varinshold according to our sources. We are also advised the Volarian general wrote to the Council-man expressing his condolences at the loss of his son, presumably to a storm since no trace of his ship has been found.”

“We sail with the tide,” the Shield said, moving back from the table.

“The fleet is not fully gathered,” Ell-Nurin said. “Another two days will give us fifty more ships.”

“And hand the Volarians the Isles. We’ve tarried too long as it is, every scrap of sail will be needed to get the fleet to the Teeth in time.” He looked at Lyrna with one of his hateful smiles. “My first mate tells me Your Highness is a great exponent of Keschet. Perhaps you would honour me with a game once we’re under way?”

◆ ◆ ◆

He was a much better player than Belorath, relying on his own tactical acumen rather than learned strategies, improvising with considerable flair and imagination. But he was also overly aggressive and inflexible in the long game. But at least she didn’t have to string it out.

“Fifty-eight moves,” she said, plucking his emperor from the board. “Very impressive.”

“It must have been hard,” he said, reclining on his stool, his smile now genuine.

“Hard, my lord Shield? Keschet is very simple in essence . . .”

“Not the game. Pretending all those years. Not being you. After all, who wants the keenest mind in the room to be the princess in the corner? Did you do needlework whilst your father held his councils? I expect you’re very good at that too.”

“Actually I never learned needlework. Nor felt the need to sit through my father’s meetings, since I could usually anticipate every word likely to be spoken. But yes, it was hard to pretend stupidity to the stupid.”

“Now there is no need. The whole world can see your . . .” He faltered and fell silent, turning his gaze out to sea and the great host of ships surrounding them.

“My true face?” she asked, finding considerable enjoyment in his discomfort.

“I misspoke, and crave your forgiveness.”

She busied herself removing her pieces from the board. “I’m sure I’ll hear worse when I return to the Realm.”

“You think they’ll accept you?” he asked. “As you are?”

“You talk as if they have a choice. I am queen by right of blood. That’s all they need to know.”

“And you expect their instant servile obedience?”

“I am returned from the dead, bearing the scars of my suffering in service to the Realm’s need at this time of greatest peril. Surely the Departed must favour me.” She smiled and gestured at the board. “Another game, my lord?”

“I don’t think there’s much point, do you?” He leaned forward, all trace of a smile gone from his lips. “Why did you come? You could have stayed in the isles, sailed safely away if the battle went against us.”

“Perhaps I wanted to see you perform.”

His eyes flicked to the Keschet board. “You told me more than you intended, Highness. With you, seemingly simple moves always conceal complex intent.”

“My intent is not so complex. Win your battle and I’ll happily share it.”

“I intend to.” He rose and bowed before striding off towards the helm.

◆ ◆ ◆

A night and a day brought the Teeth in sight, a black nub on the horizon occasionally obscured by crashing waves. The Shield ordered the fleet to strip sails and took the
Sea Sabre
on ahead, dropping anchor barely a half mile away from the Teeth. They were an impressive sight at this distance, great slabs of stone rising from the sea, swirling currents bringing wave after wave to batter their flanks.

“A great serpent’s teeth?” Murel said when Benten had related the story of the Teeth’s origins. She gave a scornful laugh. “All gods are a lie, but that’s a gem.” She fell silent at Lyrna’s glare, the crewmen within earshot bristling with indignation.

“My apologies,” Lyrna told them. “My lady is young and knows very little.”

“Sorry, Highness,” Murel murmured, gaze downcast as the crew resumed their tasks.

“Gods are real to those that hold to them,” Lyrna told her, patting her hand, leaning close to add in a whisper, “But a lie is still a lie, no matter how big.”

The Shield climbed aloft with his spyglass, standing on the mainmast and scanning the horizon, hair whipping in the wind. Lyrna saw Murel staring in open admiration then looking away with a flush on her cheeks when she caught Lyrna’s eye. The hours stretched as Ell-Nestra maintained his vigil, the afternoon sun eventually burning through the haze and the sea calming in the warmer air.

He may very well be wrong,
Lyrna thought, gazing at the empty sea to the east.
The Volarian fleet could have passed by in the night and we would never know.
She had never been a great believer in intuition, preferring reason and evidence to instinct and guesswork. But there was something in his certainty that told her they were in the right place, a lifetime at sea had to be worth something.

She occupied herself searching the waves for sign of the shark but finding no trace of the fin. Perhaps the echo of Fermin’s call had finally faded, or maybe it had sensed the coming battle and gone in search of easier prey. It was strange, but she found she missed it, the constancy of its presence had become a talisman for their continued survival.
I should have given you a name,
she thought.
One should always name a pet.

“Hoist the black!” the Shield’s order sounded from above as he descended to the deck, sliding down a rope to drop at the helm. “Raise anchor! Archers to the rigging!” He took the wheel and spun it as the anchor was hauled from the sea, the ship’s prow pitching as they turned north. A large rectangular banner was raised to the top of the mainmast, completely black with no decoration. The signal for an enemy in sight.

Lyrna watched Ell-Nestra at the wheel, finding his expression graver than expected, the gaze he turned on her speaking of grim tidings.
Something is very wrong.

They sailed north for a mile or so, turning and trimming canvas as the Meldenean fleet hurried in answer to the black banner’s call. The Shield gave the wheel to the helmsman and went to the prow, eyes narrowed as he stared ahead. Lyrna went to his side, remaining silent as he continued to stare, face rigid with suppressed anger.

“I,” he said after a moment, “am a fool.”

“They did not split their fleet?”

“Oh they split it all right. Their feint sails south as we speak. Five hundred ships.”

Five hundred.
“The spies said their fleet was no more than twelve hundred ships. That would mean we sail towards only six hundred.”

“The fleet that landed in Varinshold was twelve hundred strong, the fleet in front of us nigh on two thousand. They have been reinforced whilst at sea.” He closed his eyes, cheeks bunching and fists balled on Skerva’s wooden shoulder. “Why did I not see this?”

“What do we do?” Lyrna asked.

He straightened, unclenching his fists and breathing out slowly then turning to her with a grin. “We do what we came to do, Highness. The wind is at our backs and there are many prizes to claim this day.” He turned back to the deck, pausing to brush his fingers over her hand, breath soft on her ear. “And I am so keen to hear of your true intent.”

◆ ◆ ◆

The Volarian battle line came into view all too soon, a long parade of dark-hulled ships all following the same southward course. “Trying to get some wind in their sails,” Belorath explained. “Probably want to hook round and have at our arses.”

“Watch your tongue in front of the queen,” Iltis growled but Belorath just laughed and tossed him a broad leather-bound shield.

“You and your fellow lordships can keep the arrows off the women. Best leave the fighting to us, eh?”

“Pirate dog,” Iltis grumbled, fixing the shield’s strap over his arm, Benten and Harvin doing the same, as the first mate strode away. They wore much the same kit as the Meldeneans, a broad helm with leather chin-straps and mail shirts, though Iltis had been forced to stitch two together to fully cover his chest. Lyrna and her ladies had donned specially tailored mail of smaller dimensions which proved remarkably uncomfortable with a tendency to produce large amounts of unladylike sweat. However, she felt it preferable to a stray arrow in the chest. She also had a small dagger strapped to her forearm, the blade a little longer than she was used to but she had practised and found she could still throw it with reasonable accuracy. She doubted it would be much use in the coming maelstrom but drew some reassurance from the feel of it against her skin.
Never be without it.

The Meldenean fleet were strung out in two roughly equal divisions, one following the
Sea Sabre
the other a narrow-hulled vessel commanded by Ship Lord Ell-Nurin. “The
Red Falcon
,” Belorath had said. “Fastest ship afloat, some say.”