by Anthony Ryan
Reva looked back at the city, shrouded in the pall rising from many chimneys, the dim outline of the manor where the servants would be preparing the evening meal, and the great twin spires, home to a great old liar. “I’ll take you to him,” she said. “He’s my uncle.”
CHAPTER TWO
Vaelin
“The Volarian Imperial Army is formed of three principal contingents,” Brother Harlick said, voice rising and falling as he bounced along on the back of a pony. “The citizen conscripts known as Free Swords, the great mass of slave-soldiery known as Varitai, and the Kuritai, highly trained slave-elite of fearsome reputation. A basic structure that has been in place for nearly four hundred years.”
At Vaelin’s command he had been talking constantly for hours, relating all he knew about the Volarian Empire as they journeyed back to the tower. “Individual units are grouped into battalions, which are in turn grouped into a division comprising eight thousand men when at full strength. A typical division will include both Free Swords and Varitai with smaller specialist contingents of engineers and Kuritai. An army grouping consists of three or more divisions under the command of a general . . .”
Vaelin had insisted on setting off the night before, having recovered from the vision which laid him low on the beach. Despite its intensity, the vision had been brief, the chill lingered but without the same depth as before, although the images it left brought all the discomfort he could want, the conclusion inescapable. Something very bad has happened.
He could offer only a brief farewell to Nortah and Sella, sensing their alarm and feeling a liar for the comforting words he spoke as he left. “It’s likely nothing,” he had said. “I grow overly cautious with age.”
“Burning!” little Lohren was saying in a sing-song voice as he made for the door, jumping in excitement. “Burning houses! Burning people! Bad men burning everything! Uncle’s going to kill them!”
He roused Captain Orven, finding scant surprise at the sight of the Eorhil woman’s head poking out from his tent as he stumbled into his boots. “Battle order,” Vaelin told him. “Scouts on both flanks. Torches for every man. Send a squad to the beach, they’ll find a man in a hut. He’s coming with us. If he objects, tie him to a horse.”
“Officers of general rank are typically drawn from the small but immensely wealthy ruling class,” Harlick was saying. “The only class of Volarian society entitled to wear red. Although such privileged status affords the chance of high command, appointments are given only to those of proven leadership experience . . .”
“What do they come for?” Vaelin broke in. “What do they want?”
Harlick thought for a moment, perhaps considering a complex response, but seeing Vaelin’s expression replied simply, “Everything, I imagine.”
He began a description of the working practises of the Volarian Governing Council but Vaelin waved his hand. “That’s enough for now.”
The Lady Dahrena had ridden in silence, her expression one of controlled concern as she listened to Harlick’s knowledge. “I know this reaction may seem excessive . . .” Vaelin began but she shook her head.
“I trust my lord’s . . . judgement.”
“I regret the necessity of making my next request . . .”
“Tonight,” she said. “When we return to the tower.”
“It’s not too far?”
“It’s a fair distance, but I have managed it before, during the riots after the Aspect Massacre. Father was concerned the Realm might be undone.”
“My thanks, my lady.”
“Thank me when I bring news all is peace and harmony.”
“I fervently hope to.” Hope all you want, his doubts mocked him. You know what she’ll tell you.
◆ ◆ ◆
Dawn was breaking as they clattered through the cobbled streets of North Tower, the courtyard gates swinging open as they approached. Vaelin climbed down from Flame’s back, fighting weariness and calling for Captain Adal.
“My lord.” The captain’s greeting was clipped, his hard gaze evidence he still smarted from Vaelin’s threat of dismissal.
“Sound the muster,” Vaelin told him, ascending the steps to the tower. “Every North Guard is to report here forthwith. Send emissaries to the Eorhil and the Seordah. The Tower Lord calls for all the warriors they can send.”
“My lord . . . ?”
“Just do it, please, Adal,” Dahrena said, moving past him and making for the stairs. “I’ll need a few hours,” she called to Vaelin before disappearing from view.
For want of another resting place, Vaelin slumped into the Lord’s Chair, wincing against the din of shouted orders as Adal went about his business. Can I do this again? he wondered. The canvas bundle rested on his knees, feeling heavier now.
“Vaelin?” Alornis stood before him, a shawl over her shoulders, feet slippered against the chill of the stone floor. Her eyes were wide with uncertainty and her gaze continually drawn to the commotion outside. He noticed her fingers were stained with dried paint.
He held out a hand and she came to him, sinking down to rest against his knees. “What’s happening?” she asked in a small voice.
“It seems, as ever, my mother is shown to be a very wise woman.” He smiled as she frowned up at him, teasing the hair back from her eyes. “There’s always another war.”
◆ ◆ ◆
“The palace is a ruin,” Dahrena said, her features pale and eyes red with recent tears. However, her voice was clear and free of any tremble as she made her report. “Bodies lie thick in the streets. Volarian ships fill the harbour. People line the docks, hundreds of them, in chains.”
Vaelin had convened a council in his rooms on the upper floor. Captain Adal stood by the window, arms crossed. Brother Kehlan, invited at Dahrena’s insistence, sat at her side, face drawn in concern. Also present, at Vaelin’s invitation, was Brother Hollun of the Fourth Order, clutching a bundle of scrolls, eyes wide with unabashed fear as he regarded Dahrena. She had waved aside Vaelin’s suggestion she contrive to conceal her gift from those not already party to the knowledge. “After what I saw, I fear secrets are of small use now. Besides, I’ve long suspected most already know.”
Seated in the corner was Brother Harlick. Although appointed archivist to the tower he made no notes of the meeting, Vaelin knowing he would remember every word spoken here for transcription later. Alornis sat at Vaelin’s side, hands clasped tight to conceal the tremble that had begun the night before. She worries for Alucius, he thought. And Master Benril.
“The Realm Guard?” he asked Dahrena.
“I saw no sign of them, my lord. Clearly the City Guard made a stand in several places, to no avail.”
“The King? Princess Lyrna?”
“I lingered over the palace as long I could, seeing only corpses and blackened ruin.”
Vaelin nodded and she sat down, Brother Kehlan grasping her hand as her head slumped in sorrow and fatigue. “Captain,” Vaelin said. “What is our strength?”
“Over two thousand have answered the muster so far, my lord. The remainder should arrive within seven days. The North Guard on hand numbers three thousand and will be at full complement when the outlying companies report in. That may take over two weeks, given the distances involved.”
“It’s not enough,” Dahrena said. “The army I saw must number five or six times our strength, even if the Seordah and the Eorhil answer our call.”
“Expand the muster,” Vaelin told Adal. “All men of fighting age, including the miners and fishing folk.”
Adal gave a slow nod. “I shall, my lord.” He gritted his teeth in hesitation.
“Problem, Captain?” Vaelin asked him.
“There’s been some grumbling already, my lord. Amongst the men.”
“Grumbling?”
“They don’t want to go,” Brother Kehlan said when Adal h
esitated further. “Half of them were born here and have never seen the Realm. The other half will be well pleased if they never see it again. They ask, not without justification, why they should fight for a land that sent no aid when we faced the Horde. It’s not their war.”
“It will be when the Volarians get here,” Dahrena said before Vaelin could give vent to his anger. “I saw their souls, they burn with greed and lust. They won’t stop at Varinshold, or Cumbrael or Nilsael. They will come here and take all we have, and any they don’t kill will be made slaves.”
Vaelin took a breath to calm his temper. “Perhaps if you spoke to the men, my lady,” he said. “I feel your word will carry great weight.”
She nodded. “Of course, my lord.”
Vaelin turned to the captain. “And any further grumbling must be stamped on, hard. I rule here by the King’s Word, not by their consent. Their war is what I say it is.”
“The question of numbers is still pertinent, my lord,” Brother Hollun said. He had scribbled some figures on a piece of parchment and placed them under Vaelin’s gaze.
“Just tell me,” Vaelin ordered the rotund brother.
“With an expanded muster, I calculate we will have perhaps twenty thousand men under arms, a figure at least doubled by the Eorhil and Seordah. We have one warship in harbour and the merchant fleet numbers a little over sixty ships, half of which are currently at sea. To transport so many men and horses to the Realm, with weapons and supplies, will take at least four round-trips.”
“Assuming we are spared storms,” Captain Adal added.
“A moot point,” Vaelin said. “We won’t sail, we’ll march.”
Dahrena’s head came up slowly. “There is only one land route to the Realm from the Reaches.”
It had happened as he surveyed the map earlier, a clear note of confirmation from the blood-song when his eye tracked over the dense mass of symbols comprising the Great Northern Forest. The note had summoned a memory, a blind woman in a clearing on a distant summer day. “I know.”
◆ ◆ ◆
They established a camp outside the town for the growing army, the mustered men falling into their assigned companies with well-practised ease. Tower Lord Al Myrna had insisted on four musters a year to ensure their discipline didn’t slacken. The new recruits were a mixed bunch of artisans, miners and labourers, many openly resentful at the interruption to their lives, although Captain Adal had been quick to crush any signs of mutiny and Dahrena’s repeated speeches to each batch of new arrivals did much to assuage any doubts over the need to muster. “Many of you ask, ‘What would Tower Lord Al Myrna have done?’” she would say. “I tell you as his daughter his course would have been the same. We must fight!”
Adal set the North Guard to work training the recruits and picked out those he knew had distinguished themselves in the battle against the Horde, making them sergeants or captains. The lack of equipment was a worry, although every smith, tailor and cobbler in North Tower was working to exhaustion to produce the weapons, armour and boots needed by an army. Vaelin knew every day spent in building their strength was precious, but the need to begin the march was a constant nag. Varinshold fallen in a day. Where do they strike next? Dahrena had offered to revisit the Realm every day if need be, but the depth of fatigue that had gripped her after her first foray convinced him it would be best if she saved her strength. “When we get through the forest,” he said. “Then you’ll fly again.”
“You’re so sure they’ll grant us passage?” she asked as they toured the camp, Vaelin keen to be seen by as many of the men as possible. “My father was the only Realm subject allowed to walk there, and even then he was permitted no weapon or escort.”
He just nodded and moved on, his gaze drawn to the sight of two men sparring with wooden swords amidst a circle of onlookers. The taller of the two batted his opponent’s stave aside and swept his legs from under him in a smoothly executed combination of strokes. The tall man helped the defeated recruit to his feet, spreading his arms wide with a broad grin. He was a well-built fellow with long hair, tied back and reaching down to the middle of his bare back, his skin slick with sweat, toned muscle shining. “Number four! Who’s next?”
Despite his evident skill he was young, barely twenty by Vaelin’s reckoning, with the confident swagger of youth. “Cowards!” he berated the audience with a laugh when none stepped forward. “Come on! Three silvers for the man who can best me!” He laughed again then sobered as he caught sight of Vaelin in the crowd. His grin flickered for just an instant, his gaze narrowing as the blood-song told Vaelin an unwelcome truth.
“How about you, my lord?” the young man called, holding up his wooden stave in a salute. “Care to honour a simple shipwright with some gentle sparring?”
“Another time,” Vaelin said, turning away.
“Come come, my lord,” the young man called again, a slight edge to his voice. “You wouldn’t want these good men to think you afraid. Many already wonder why you wear no sword.”
One of the North Guard in the crowd stepped forward to rebuke the man but Vaelin waved him back. “What’s your name, sir?” he asked the young man, stepping into the circle and taking off his cloak.
“Davern, my lord,” the man replied with a bow.
“Shipwright eh?” Vaelin handed his cloak to Dahrena and stooped to retrieve the wooden sword from the earth. “Skills like yours don’t come from swinging an adze.”
“All men should have interests beyond their work, don’t you think?”
“Indeed.” Vaelin stood before him, meeting his eyes. Davern hid it well, but Vaelin saw it—deep, festering hatred.
Davern blinked and Vaelin’s stave came up, feinted towards his head, avoided the parry, sweeping under his guard to place a single hard jab in the centre of his chest. Davern back-pedalled, arms windmilling as he sought to retain his balance before collapsing heavily onto his rump, much to the amusement of the crowd. There was a jingle of coin amongst the laughter as men settled bets.
“Don’t look at a man’s eyes,” Vaelin told Davern, offering his hand. “The first lesson my master taught me.”
Davern ignored the hand, scrambling to his feet, all sign of joviality vanished from his face. “Let’s go again. Perhaps I’ll teach you one.”
“I don’t think so.” Vaelin tossed the stave to the North Guard. “Make this man a sergeant. Have him teach the sword to his brothers.”
“The offer is always open, my lord!” Davern called after him as he retrieved his cloak from Dahrena and walked on.
“Have a care around that one,” she cautioned. “I think he means you harm.”
“Not without cause,” Vaelin replied in a murmur.
◆ ◆ ◆
He found Alornis outside his tent on returning from his daily tour. He had chosen to live amongst the men, setting up a tent on the fringes of the encampment. His sister’s brush was busy on the canvas propped on her easel. She had made it herself with tools borrowed from the tower’s carpenter, an ingenious contrivance of three hinged legs, easily folded into a single block less than a yard in length. She had become a common sight about the camp, bag of brushes over her shoulder and easel under her arm as she moved about, stopping to paint when something caught her eye. Her latest was a rendering of the whole camp, each tent and paddock depicted with the precision Vaelin still found unnerving. “How do you do it?” he wondered, looking over her shoulder.
“The same way you do what you do.” As he sank onto a nearby stool, she turned, dipping a cloth into some spirit and cleaning her brush. “When do we march?”
We? He raised his eyebrows at her but chose to ignore the word. They had argued enough over this already. “Another week. Maybe longer.”
“Through the forest and into the Realm. I assume you have a plan for when we get there.”
“Yes. I intend to defeat the Volarians then c
ome home.”
“Home? That’s how you think of this place?”
“Don’t you?” He looked beyond the camp at the town and the tower rising beyond, framed by the dark northern sea. “I’ve felt it since we got here.”
“I do like this place,” Alornis replied. “I wasn’t expecting to find it so interesting, so many colours. But it’s not my home, my home is a house in Varinshold. And if Lady Dahrena has it right, it’s now most likely a burnt-out shell.” She looked away for a moment, eyes tight against fear-born tears. When she spoke again her gaze was hard, the words repeated several times over the preceding days. “I will not be left behind. Tie me up, lock me in a dungeon. I’ll find a way to follow.”
“Why?” he asked. “What do you think you’ll find there, besides danger, death and suffering? It will be war, Alornis. Your eyes may find beauty in everything you see but there’s none to be found in war, and I would spare you the sight of it.”
“Alucius,” she said. “Master Benril . . . Reva. I need to know.”
Reva . . . His thoughts had turned to her many times, his song surging at every instance, the note one he knew well, the same note from the night assassins came for Aspect Elera, the note that had impelled him through the Martishe in pursuit of Black Arrow, and through the High Keep in search of Hentes Mustor, implacable in its meaning. Find her. He had resisted the impulse to sing, seek her out, fearing becoming trapped in the vision once again, this time for good.
“As do I,” he said. “Present yourself to Brother Kehlan in the morning, I’m sure he’ll be glad of another pair of hands.”
She smiled, coming closer to press a kiss to his forehead. “Thank you, brother.”
◆ ◆ ◆
He held a council of captains every evening, reviewing progress in training and recruitment. Seven days on and their numbers had swollen to well over twelve thousand men, though only half could be counted as soldiers.
“We’ll have to train on the march,” Vaelin said as Adal pleaded for a month’s delay. “Every day spent here costs lives in the Realm. Brother Hollun reports the full complement of weapons and clothing will be ready in just five more days. It seems an enterprising merchant kept a warehouse full of halberds and mail as a speculative investment. When every man is armed and armoured, we march.”