Tower Lord (A Raven's Shadow Novel)

by Anthony Ryan

  “I thought a little reconnaissance might be in order,” Grealin replied. “A brief ranging to ascertain if we are truly alone here.”

  Frentis nodded. “I’ll go.” He gave a brief but formal bow to Davoka, presently engaged in skinning a freshly caught rabbit by the fire. “My lady ambassador, would you care for a stroll?”

  She shrugged, handing the half-skinned catch to Arendil and reaching for her spear. “Like I showed you. Keep the fur.”

  “Master Grealin’s words are to be respected at all times,” Frentis told a sullen Ratter, now rubbing his head. “And his commands obeyed. If you can’t do that, feel free to leave. It’s a big forest.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  “Your sleep is troubled,” Davoka observed as they struck out in an easterly direction. In addition to his sword Frentis carried an Order-fashioned bow Arendil had had the presence of mind to retrieve from one of the fallen brothers, although his foresight hadn’t extended to securing more than three arrows.

  “The fever,” Frentis replied.

  “In sleep you speak a tongue I don’t know. Sounds like the barking of the new Merim Her. And your fever is gone.”

  Volarian. I have been dreaming in Volarian. “I’ve travelled far,” he said. “Since the war.”

  Davoka halted and turned to face him. “Enough shadow talk. You know of these people. Your coming brought celebration, followed by death and fire. Now you speak their tongue in your dreams. You are part of this.”

  “I am a brother of the Sixth Order and a loyal servant of the Faith and the Realm.”

  “My people have a word, Garvish. You know this?”

  He shook his head, increasingly aware of how she held her spear, a measured distance between each hand, grip tensed and ready.

  “One who kills without purpose,” she said. “Not warrior, not hunter. Killer. I look at you, I see Garvish.”

  “I always had a purpose,” he replied. Just not my own.

  “What happened to my queen?” she demanded, her grip tightening.

  “She was your friend?”

  The Lonak woman’s mouth twisted as she suppressed something deep felt, and painful. Carrying some guilt of her own, Frentis surmised.

  “My sister,” Davoka said.

  “Then I grieve for you, and for her. I told you what happened. The assassin burned her and she fled.”

  “The assassin only you saw.”

  Beloved . . . “The assassin I killed.”

  “Seen and killed only by you.”

  “What do you think I am? A spy? What purpose would I serve in leading you and the boy here to skulk in a forest?”

  She relaxed a little, the grip on her spear loosening. “I know you are Garvish. Beyond that, we’ll see.”

  They kept on towards the east for five hundred paces then turned north, circling around in a wide arc until the trees began to thin. “You know this forest?” Davoka asked.

  “We would train here often, but never this deep. I doubt even the King’s wardens come this far in more than they have to. There any many stories of those who ventured into the deep woods and vanished, swallowed by the trees and wandering until hunger claimed them.”

  Davoka gave an irritated grunt. “In the mountains you can see. Here only green and more green.”

  They stopped in unison as a sound reached their ears, distant but clear. A man screaming in pain.

  They exchanged a glance. “We risk the camp,” Davoka said.

  Frentis notched an arrow and set off at a run. “War is ever a risk.”

  The screams trailed off to a piteous wailing as they neared, replaced by something else, a thick, savage cacophony of growls stirring a rush of memory for Frentis. He slowed to a walk, moving forward in a crouch, keeping to the thickest brush. He held up a hand to signal a halt and raised his head, nostrils flared, a pungent scent coming to him on the breeze stirring yet more memories. Upwind, he thought. Good.

  He lowered himself to the forest floor and moved forward at a crawl, Davoka moving beside him with equal stealth until the expected sight came into view through the foliage. The dog was huge, standing over three feet at the shoulder, thick with muscle from haunch to neck, the snout broad and blunt, ears small and flat. It growled as it fed, occasionally pausing to snap at the three other dogs clustered around, its jaws red and dripping gore.

  Scratch, Frentis thought in automatic recognition, knowing the foolishness of the thought with instant chagrin. This animal was not quite Scratch’s size and its snout was mostly free of the scars for which his old friend was named. He often wondered what became of him, assuming he had been lost or killed when Vaelin sacrificed himself at Linesh. Wherever he was, this wasn’t him. This was a slave-hound pack leader, and it had made a kill.

  “Please!” Frentis’s head came up in a jerk at the call from above, finding himself staring at a girl’s face, a pale oval of wide-eyed terror framed by dark oak leaves.

  The pack leader left off feeding to issue a curious grunt at the new sound, raising its nose, nostrils flaring. Something pink and red dangled from its jaw, Frentis taking a moment to recognise it as a human ear.

  “Oh please!” the face in the branches called again and the pack leader gave a loud rasping yelp, its brothers closing in around as they charged towards the oak barely fifteen paces from where they lay. The oak was old, and tall, the trunk thick and gnarled. Scant obstacle for a slave-hound. Frentis had seen Scratch clamber halfway up a birch without breaking stride.

  He raised his head from the brush, casting his gaze about. No Volarians, yet. But they’ll soon come to see what the dogs brought down.

  “Don’t let them get close,” he told Davoka and stood up.

  He waited for the first dog to leap up the trunk then sent an arrow through its back, the beast slumping back to earth with a faint whine. The others turned, snarling, the pack leader charging straight for them, the other two circling round. Scratch was always so clever, Frentis remembered.

  He made sure of the kill, waiting for the pack leader to close then putting the arrow in his eye. The animal’s momentum kept it coming as the arrowhead found its brain and its legs gave way, tumbling towards him. He leapt the corpse, dropping the bow and drawing his sword, slashing at the dog closing from the side, the blade slicing through its nose. It reared back, head shaking furiously from side to side, still snarling in fury . . . then pitching over dead as Davoka’s spear punched through its rib cage.

  She pulled the weapon free then whirled on the remaining dog, now standing still, blinking in confusion, beginning to cower as Davoka charged.

  “Wait!” Frentis called, too late as the Lonak woman skewered the animal through the neck.

  “Strange,” she commented, wiping the spear-blade on the dog’s pelt. “Come at you like an enraged rock ape then cower like a sick pup.”

  “It’s . . . in their nature.” His gaze was drawn to the sight of the girl dropping from the branches of the oak. She landed heavily on bare feet and ran to them, terror still lighting her gaze. She was perhaps fourteen, dressed in a fine but somewhat besmirched dress, her hair showing the semblance of a noble fashion.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She flung herself against Frentis, hugging him tight. “The Departed must have sent you.”

  “Erm,” Frentis said. The war, the pits and a long journey of murder hadn’t prepared him for a circumstance like this. He touched the girl lightly on the shoulders. “There, there.”

  She continued to sob into his chest until Davoka came over to tug her off. The girl started at the sight of the Lonak woman, pulling away and sheltering behind Frentis. “She’s a foreigner!” she hissed. “One of them!”

  “No,” Frentis told her. “She’s from somewhere else. She’s a friend.”

  The girl gave a dubious whimper and continued clutching at Frentis’s sleeve.


  “Are there more of you?” he asked.

  “Just Gaffil. We ran from the wagon. He hit one of the whippers and we ran.”

  “Gaffil?”

  “Lady Allin’s steward. He must be here somewhere.” She stepped away, raising her voice. “Gaffil!” She fell silent as Davoka pointed her spear at something in the brush, something that might once have been a man.

  “Oh,” the girl said in a small voice and fainted.

  “You’re carrying her,” Davoka stated.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Her name was Illian Al Jervin, third daughter to Karlin Al Jervin, recently favoured by the King for the quality of his granite.

  “Granite?” Davoka asked with a frown.

  “Stone,” Frentis explained. “You build things with it.”

  “The King loves to build!” Illian said. “And Father’s quarries make the best stone.”

  “Quarries don’t make stone,” Arendil scoffed, stirring the stewpot suspended over the fire. “You take stone from them.”

  “What do you know?” Illian rounded on him. “You’re a Renfaelin, and a peasant if I’m any judge.”

  “Then you’re not,” he replied evenly. “My grandfather is Baron Hughlin Banders . . .”

  “Enough!” Frentis said. “Lady Illian. You spoke of a wagon.”

  She made a face at Arendil and continued her tale. “I was visiting with Lady Allin, she often invites me when father’s away. We saw smoke rising from the city, then those men came. Those horrid men, with whips and dogs . . .” She trailed off, sniffling.

  “You were captured?” Frentis prompted.

  “All of us, apart from the older servants and Lady Allin . . . They k-killed them all, right there in front of us. We were chained up together and put in wagons. They already had other people in the wagons. Mostly commoners but people of quality too.”

  “How many?” Frentis asked, choosing to ignore her unconscious snobbery.

  “Forty, maybe fifty. They were taking us back to the city, anyone who cried out or even gave them a bad look was whipped. There was a woman in the wagon next to ours, captured before they came for us. One of the whippers t-touched her, she spat at them and they cut her throat, her husband was chained beside her. He screamed until they beat him senseless.”

  “How did you get away, my lady?” Master Grealin asked.

  “Gaffil had a small pin in his boot, he used it to do something to the locks on the chains and they came off.”

  “He would have been useful,” Ratter muttered.

  “He freed everyone in the wagon and told us to wait until the trees were closer. When they were he hit one of the whippers with his chains and we ran. There were ten or twelve of us when we started running, soon it was just Gaffil and I. Then we heard those dogs.” She fell silent, face tensed against more tears.

  “Other than the men with whips,” Frentis said. “Were there guards? Soldiers?”

  “There were some men on horses with swords and spears. Perhaps six or seven.”

  Frentis smiled and gestured at the stewpot. “Eat, my lady. You must be hungry.”

  He inclined his head at Master Grealin and Davoka and they went a short distance into the trees, beyond earshot of the others.

  “Two thieves and a couple of children,” Grealin said. “Plus a fat old man. Not an impressive army, brother.”

  “Armies need recruits,” Frentis pointed out. “And thanks to her ladyship we know where to find some.”

  “Be miles gone by now,” Davoka said.

  “I doubt it. No slaver’s likely to leave his dogs behind.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  They had dragged the bodies of the dogs a good two miles north before doubling back to the camp. Finding the trail of those who came in search of them wasn’t especially difficult, though keeping Ratter and Draker quiet enough to follow without being detected was another matter.

  “See?” Davoka said in a fierce whisper, picking up a broken twig from the forest floor. “Wood is dry. Step on it and it cracks.” She tossed it at Draker. “Look where you step.”

  It was early evening before they found them, encamped in the more open fringes of the forest. Master Grealin waited with Illian and Arendil as Frentis led the others forward. “Wait until you see me,” he whispered to Ratter and Draker then beckoned Davoka to follow as he circled around to the right. The four wagons were arranged in a square, rows of cowed people chained within. There were six guards on the perimeter and five slavers sitting around a fire, one of them weeping openly.

  Overconfident, Frentis decided, noting the casual saunter of the guards between the wagons. Shouldn’t have ventured so far in.

  He crept up behind the nearest guard, waited until his closest compatriot disappeared behind a wagon and slit his throat with a hunting knife. Free Sword mercenary, he judged from the man’s nonuniform gear.

  He caught Davoka’s eye and pointed to the next guard, sitting on a wagon wheel with his back to the trees and guiding a whetstone over the blade of his short sword. Frentis didn’t wait for the spectacle and moved to the wagons, close enough to hear the slavers’ conversation.

  “Raised ’em from pups,” the crying man was saying. “Trained ’em myself.”

  “Cheer up,” one of the his companions said with a sympathetic smile. “Fuck one of the boys we found. Always perks me up.”

  “When I find who did my pups,” the weeper went on. “I’ll do plenty of fuckin’ all right.” He brandished a long-bladed dagger. “With this.”

  A shout came from the other side of the camp quickly followed by the din of an untidy scuffle; Ratter and Draker failing to remain hidden. Frentis drew his sword, keeping the hunting knife in his left hand, and stepped from behind the wagon. “In compensation for your loss,” he told the man with the long dagger, “I’ll kill you last.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  “No moving!” Davoka told Draker as she stitched the cut on his arm. The big man gritted his teeth with a whimper, arm trembling as the needle did its work.

  “Serves you right, you clumsy bugger,” Ratter said. He sported a livid bruise on his cheek and badly scraped knuckles from beating one of the slavers half to death. The freed captives had gathered round to finish the job.

  Altogether they had rescued some thirty-five people, none appearing to have passed their fortieth year, an even mix of men and women, plus a few barely in adolescence. There was also a decent haul of weapons and loot gathered by the slavers, some of which the captives had immediately begun to squabble over.

  “This belonged to me old mum!” a young woman insisted as she hugged an antique vase in a tight grip.

  “That belongs in the house of Lady Allin, as you well know,” Illian scolded. “Brother”—she tugged at Frentis’s sleeve as he passed—“this servant seeks to thieve from her employer.”

  Frentis paused, staring hard at the young woman with the vase. After a moment she swallowed and handed it over. He turned it over in his hand, noting the artistry of the decoration, an exotic bird of some kind flying above a jungle, reminding him of the country south of Mirtesk. “Beautiful,” he said, and threw it against the nearest tree.

  “Weapons, tools, clothing and food only,” he said, raising his voice, the squabblers falling silent. “That’s if you’re going to stay with us. This Realm is at war and any who stay are soldiers in that war. Or grab whatever loot you can carry and run, though I’d be surprised if you didn’t find yourself back in a slaver’s wagon within days. This is a free Realm, so I leave the choice to you.”

  He moved on then paused at the sight of a man sifting through the pile of assembled weapons. He was thin with long hair veiling his face, but there was a familiarity to his movements, a noticeable limp as he sifted through the pile. He stopped, recognising something, his hair parting as he knelt down to retrieve it.

&nbs
p; “Janril!” Frentis rushed over, extending a hand to the onetime bugler of the Wolfrunners. “Faith, it’s good to see you, Sergeant!”

  Janril Norin didn’t look up from the assorted weaponry, lifting a sword from the pile. It was a Renfaelin blade, plain but serviceable. Janril sat back on his haunches, grasping the hilt, his fingers playing over the blade. Frentis took in the many bruises on his narrow face. They slit her throat . . . Her husband screamed until they beat him senseless . . .

  “Janril,” he murmured, crouching at the minstrel’s side. “I . . .”

  “We were sleeping when they came for us,” Janril said in a dull tone. “I hadn’t posted a guard, didn’t think we needed one so close to the capital. This”—he tapped the sword—“was under our bed, all cosy and tucked up in a blanket. I’d barely got a hand to it when they dragged us out. Sergeant Krelnik gave it to me the day I left the Wolfrunners. Said all men needed a sword, be they minstrel or soldier. Apparently he picked it up the night we stormed the High Keep. Don’t know why he kept it so long, not much to look at, is it?”

  Janril’s gaze swivelled to Frentis, who knew he was looking into the eyes of a madman. “You kill them all?” the minstrel asked.

  Frentis nodded.

  “I want more.”

  Frentis touched a hand to the sword blade. “You’ll have it.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Reva

  “The entire Realm Guard?” Uncle Sentes asked.

  The cavalryman nodded, the brandy glass in his hand trembling. It was his third measure but seemed to have done little to calm his nerves. “Save those regiments not quartered on the coast or borders, my lord. Forty thousand men or more.”

  Reva watched her uncle slump in his chair. Apart from Lady Veliss and the cavalryman, they were alone in the Lord’s chamber.

  “How is this possible?” Veliss asked the man.

  “They were so many, my lady. And the knights . . .” He shook his head, trailing off and choking down more brandy before continuing. “Smashed into our flank and cut down two full regiments before we knew what was happening. By then the Volarians were coming on in full strength.”