Tower Lord

He won’t run, Frentis thought, seeing the boy continue to tug at the ropes.

He was surprised to find he could move, despite the pain raging in him from head to toe. He could move. He took a step, he actually took a step of his own volition, though the binding still compelled him to slit the throats of this boy and his mother. It was still there, flaring away, but compared to the pain that exploded from his side, it was little more than an irritant.

From downstairs came the sound of combat, multiple voices raised in challenge and fury, steel clashing, then a loud whoosh, like a first spark touched to oil-soaked kindling on a pyre. Screams followed and a pall of smoke started to fog the hallway beyond the door.

Frentis stumbled towards Emeren and the boy, limbs twitching as he fought for control through the pain. He collapsed against her, a shout of agony erupting from him to wash over her face. She twisted away in disgust and terror, screaming again as his dagger came up, wavering as he strove to control it. The boy launched himself at Frentis, kicking, punching, biting. He hardly felt it, focusing all his will on the dagger, bringing its trembling tip onto the rope across Emeren’s chest. One final spasm of muscle and it was done, the rope parting and falling away. He released the dagger, letting it fall into her lap, rolling onto his back, convulsing in pain.

The binding was flaring with a new ferocity, the pain in his side slowly diminishing. Not enough, he thought, teeth gritted as he writhed on the floor. The seed didn’t grow enough.

He was aware Emeren was standing over him, dagger in hand. The look on her face was one of mingled rage and confusion. “S-sorry . . .” he sputtered, spittle flying from his lips, “So . . . s-sorry . . .”

Her eyes bore into him as her son tugged at her hand. “Entahla!”

Frentis wanted to scream at her to run, but the resurgence of the binding left no room for further forbidden action. She gave Frentis a final glare of frustration and fled, lifting the boy into her arms and running from the room. She turned to the left, wisely opting not to take the stairs to the lobby.

The binding closed on him like the fist of a giant, forcing him to his feet with an implacable command: HELP HER!

He ran for the stairs, sword drawn, descending to the lobby to find the woman locked in combat with a white-cloaked guardsman. The walls of the lobby were covered in fire, thick black smoke blanketing the ceiling. The woman attacked the guardsman with every vestige of skill she could muster, her blood-streaked mouth snarling, but he was no easy opponent, fending off her blows with rapid counterstrokes of his sabre. There was something familiar about him, a tall black-skinned man with pepper-grey hair and the lean weathered features of a veteran. Catching sight of Frentis he grimaced, side-stepped a lunge from the woman and launched himself towards the stairs.

Frentis parried the sabre thrust and countered with a slash to the guardsman’s eyes, but he was quick, dodging past the blade with inches to spare, leaping up several stairs to turn and face them. He met Frentis’s gaze, eyes bright with desperation and fury, torn between continuing the fight or running to check on the fate of the lady and her son.

They’re safe, Frentis wanted to say, but of course, the binding wouldn’t let him.

A shout caused him to turn back to the woman, finding her battling two more guards who had braved the flames now licking around the open door. The grey-haired guardsman saw his chance and thrust at Frentis. He managed to twist away before the sabre point found its target but the edge left a shallow cut on his back as it sliced through his black cotton shirt.

He launched a kick at the guardsman’s chest, the boot impacting on his breastplate and sending him sprawling. There was no time to press his advantage as the woman called him to her side. She retreated back from her two opponents, Frentis stepping in to fend them off as she sheathed her sword and pointed both clenched fists at the nearest wall. She screamed as the flames burst forth, two columns of raging fire striking the wall and blasting through in a haze of cinders. She collapsed as the flames faded from her hands, blood streaming in red rivers from her nose, ears, eyes and mouth.

Frentis caught her before she could fall, lifting her onto his shoulder, parrying a final thrust from one of the guardsmen then sprinting through the hole she had blasted in the wall.

The villa grounds were a confusion of running guards and swirling smoke. Frentis ran to the rear of the house, seeking the stables, hoping he didn’t catch sight of Emeren and the boy, knowing what the binding would force him to do. The stables were full of guards and servants trying to save the horses from the inferno now engulfing the main house. Frentis picked out a large stallion, rearing in alarm as a stable boy attempted to lead him away. He felled the boy with a blow to the back of the head and caught hold of the reins, hoisting the woman onto the stallion’s back then vaulting up behind her. The horse ran without need of encouragement, desperate to be away from this place of fire and terror.

They were free of the smoke in a few heartbeats, galloping hard to the west as the villa burned and tumbled to ruin in their wake.

PART II

The exact origins of the people comprising the mass migration into the Northern Reaches, now known as the onslaught of the Ice Horde, remain a mystery. Their language and customs were uniquely unfamiliar to both Realm subjects and the Eorhil and Seordah warriors who confronted their invasion. The vast majority of the Horde died in the carnage following their rout on the plains, only a pitiful remnant fleeing back to the ice. Consequently, opportunities for the scholar to gain a full picture of their society are limited to the experience of Realm-born witnesses, an inevitably skewed interpretation full of prejudice and fanciful tales of Dark skills and unfeasibly monstrous war-beasts. What is clear from the available evidence is the merciless ferocity of the Horde towards any man, woman or child not of their tribe and the unusual level of control they exerted over their animals, large numbers of which were employed in the line of battle.

—MASTER OLINAR NUREN, THIRD ORDER,

THE NORTHERN REACHES: A HISTORICAL SKETCH,

THIRD ORDER ARCHIVES

VERNIERS’ ACCOUNT

I cowered against the ship’s rail, shrinking from the fierce inquisition of the foul-smelling man.

“I do not know,” I said.

The man drew a knife from somewhere. It must have been hidden in his clothing for I had seen no weapon on him when he boarded the ship. The blade was at my throat quicker than I would have thought possible, his free hand coming up to grab my hair, pulling my head back, his reeking breath washing over me. “Where is he, scribe?”

“Th-the Northern Reaches,” I babbled. “King Malcius sent him there when he returned to the Realm.”

“I know that.” The knife blade burned as he pushed it deeper into my skin. “Where is he now? What did the Battle Lord tell you of him? What messages were sent to him?”

“N-none! I swear. He was hardly mentioned. The Battle Lord seemed to have a hatred for him.”

The foul-smelling man leaned closer, eyes searching my face, no doubt looking for signs of deceit.

“I trust you’ll compensate me for any loss,” the general said. “I had intended making considerable use of this one.”

The foul-smelling man grunted and released me, stepping away. I sagged against the rail, fighting to keep upright. Collapsing to the deck would have been deemed an insult to my master. The general’s wife came closer and handed me a silk kerchief. I held it to the shallow cut on my neck, blood staining the finely embroidered material.

“You have been interrogating the captives, as ordered?” the man demanded of the general. He stood by the table, helping himself to wine, downing a cup in a few short gulps, red liquid spilling down his chin and staining his already besmirched clothing.

“Yes.” The general’s eyes were narrow as he regarded the dirty man before him, his tone hard with reluctant compliance. “Plenty of tall tales about this Darkblade they seem to hate so much. No actual information. They find the idea that he would come to their aid ridiculous.”

“Really?” The man turned his gaze on me once more. “Come here, scribe.”

I walked to the table on unsteady legs, avoiding his gaze.

“You travelled with him to the Isles,” the man said. “Do you think it ridiculous that he’d come to save those who hate him?”

I recalled the tale Al Sorna had told me during the voyage, all the trials and battles that had coloured his life. But the clearest memory was the day of the challenge, the Shield lying senseless, Al Sorna walking away and sheathing his sword. I had reasons of my own to hate him, I still thought of Seliesen every day, but it was a hatred that had dimmed that day, never quite dying, but no longer burning with the same passion. “Forgive me, Master,” I said to the general. “But he will come to fight you, if he can. Here or anywhere else.”

“Of course he will.” The man drained another cup of wine and tossed it away, the dregs spilling on the exquisite map. He stalked from the table, walking back to his boat.

“You have no intelligence to offer?” the general called after him.

The man glanced over his shoulder. “Yes, don’t expect it to be easy.” He vaulted the rail with considerably more athleticism than a man of his years should have been capable, landing in the boat and barking an order at the slaves on the oars. The boat pulled away and made its way back to the shore, the man standing immobile in the prow. I felt I could still smell him even at this distance.