Tower Lord
“We must make a stand,” Arentes replied with a sniff. “Keep our best men concentrated for a counterstroke should they break through.”
“Should they break through, this city is lost in any case, my lord.”
They both fell silent as she approached, Antesh betraying the same odd expression as when he and the other men had bowed to her. Arentes was more guarded, perhaps not willing to believe the wild stories circling the walls, something she found she liked him for. “Is there a problem, my lords?”
“The Lord Archer seeks to exert control over my men, my lady,” Arentes said. “Command of the House Guard and the City Guard was given to me. Already too many of my best men have been hived off to bolster the . . . amateur elements of the defence. Further weakening will reduce our ability to contain a serious assault.”
“And the assaults we’ve faced already haven’t been serious?” Antesh scoffed, his patience clearly running thin. “My lady, this city stands or falls on the strength we can place on the walls. If we are attacked at several points at once . . .”
She held up a hand. “My lords, in truth I see merit in both your arguments.” She stepped closer to the map spread out on the table between them. Why did this place have to be so big? “If I may make a suggestion.” She pointed to the barracks near the centre of the city. “Keeping so many men here seems pointless. If the Volarians do manage to seize a section of the wall, it’ll take them too long to get there and drive them back. However, if the force is split into four, one for each quarter of the city, they can rush to wherever the threat is greatest in their sector. I suggest the House Guard be quartered here, just back from the gate. The City Guard divided into three and placed according to Lord Arentes’s discretion.”
Antesh considered the map for a moment then raised his eyebrows at Arentes. The old commander stroked his pointed beard then gave a slow nod. “There . . . may be some value to such a stratagem.” He lifted his helmet from the table and gave a short bow. “I’d best be about it, my lord, my lady.”
“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.”
PART IV
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
VERNIERS’ ACCOUNT
Another 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.”