by Anthony Ryan
“Are those their engines?” she asked.
“We’ve seen no sign of such devices, my lady,” Lord Arentes replied. “Those are towers. They’ll trundle them up to the walls on great wheels.”
“I’ve prepared fire arrows,” Antesh said. “And a plentiful supply of oil pots.”
“They seem to be building a lot of them,” Arken observed. He had taken to wearing a leather jerkin like Antesh, and carried his own longbow and quiver of arrows.
“Then we’ll have plenty of targets, young sir,” Antesh told him. Despite his apparent confidence Reva detected a tightness to his tone. He’s not a fool, Reva thought, suspecting the Lord of Archers had in fact been scrupulous in counting the Volarian numbers.
“When can we expect the attack?” she asked.
“I suspect as soon as the towers are ready,” Antesh replied. “I doubt they’ll want to prolong this siege. They have a whole realm to conquer and won’t want so many men tied down here for any longer than necessary.”
She returned her gaze to the frames, fancying they had actually risen in height in the few moments since she ascended the gatehouse. She removed her cloak, revealing the light mail shirt she had found in the manse’s mostly depleted armoury, and buckled her sword belt about her chest, the weapon worn across her back, the handle jutting over her right shoulder for a quick draw, as Al Sorna had taught her. She held out her hand to Arken and he passed her the wych-elm bow and quiver of iron-heads.
“Reva . . .” Veliss began.
“You should return to my uncle,” Reva told her. “My place is here now.”
Veliss looked at the Volarian host then back at her. “You promised him . . .”
“He will understand.” Watching Veliss hug herself, Reva sensed she was fighting tears. She stepped closer to clasp the lady counsellor’s hand. “Stay close to him. I’ll return when the walls are secured.”
Veliss took a deep breath and raised her head, eyes bright as she forced a smile. “Another promise?”
“This one I’ll keep.”
Veliss returned her clasp, the grip tight as she held it to her lips. A soft warm kiss and she was gone, turning and descending the steps without a backward glance.
“My lords.” Reva turned back to Antesh and Arentes. “I should like to tour the walls once more.”
◆ ◆ ◆
They came that night, perhaps gambling the darkness would afford some cover from their arrows. If so, it proved a false hope. Antesh had prepared bales of pitch-soaked wicker, now cast from the walls and lit with fire arrows, the flames rising high and providing a clear view of the towers as they crawled along the causeway. Each tower had a long canopy extending from the rear under which men laboured to push them forward, their feet moving in time to an unheard rhythm. Antesh held the volley until the first came within fifty yards of the gate. At his order the clay pots were thrown, dozens shattering on the front of the tower, followed by a volley of fire arrows, the lamp oil catching immediately.
The tower continued on for several yards, Reva craning her neck for a clear view of the canopy at the rear of the monster where the legs continued their rhythmic plodding. She unlimbered her bow and notched an arrow, drawing with careful aim. The arrow flew into the mass of legs at the rear of the canopy and she had the satisfaction of seeing a prone figure emerge a few seconds later. He rolled clutching at his leg before several arrows pinned him to the ground. The surrounding archers were quick to follow her example and soon the tower was trailing a line of wounded men as the flames engulfed its upper half. It came to a halt a good twenty yards from the wall, close enough to hear the screams of men burning inside, then seemed to convulse like some great wounded beast, bleeding men as they tried to flee, most falling victim to the longbows before they could run more than a few yards. A cheer arose from the walls as the tower died, the flames eating away the framework and sending the upper half tumbling to the ground, wreathed in fire.
“Cheer later!” Antesh barked, pointing to the next tower as it attempted to manoeuvre around the flaming corpse of its brother. “Get some pots on that thing.”
The second tower fared no better than the first, burned and gutted before it reached the wall, the crew falling under the arrow storm. Reva saw a few men jump into the river in an attempt to evade the rain of iron-tipped shafts. The third tower got closer, only ten yards short before fire and arrows halted its progress.
“Ladders!” a shout went up from somewhere to the left. Reva looked to the causeway, seeing several hundred men running past the line of towers, ladders raised above their heads. On reaching the end of the causeway they split into two groups, scores falling to the archers as they ran parallel to the walls for a hundred paces then turned and charged forward with their ladders raised. There was a strange disregard for safety to these men, barely seeming to notice so many of their comrades dying around them or tumbling from the ladders. Varitai, Reva recalled Veliss’s words. Slave soldiers with no will of their own.
A faint groan of disturbed air gave enough warning for her to duck as an arrow flew overhead. A nearby archer wasn’t so lucky, pitching back from the wall with a shaft embedded in his cheek. Reva risked a glance over the wall, seeing a thick knot of men with strongbows clustered at the end of the causeway, loosing arrows up at the defenders with mechanical speed and precision. Like the men on the ladders they betrayed little sign of fear.
Lord Antesh gathered several dozen archers into a tight group, having them duck down with arrows notched, then rise up and loose as one, swarms of iron-heads sweeping down on the Volarian archers in successive volleys until none remained standing. The Varitai were also dispatched in short order, none climbing more than halfway up their ladders before being brought down, the ladders pushed away from the walls to lie atop the piles of bodies below.
The remaining four towers came on, blundering through the corpse-strewn ground, trying to force their way past the burning remnants of their brothers, but finding their progress blocked and grinding to a halt. “Slow and steady now, lads!” Lord Antesh called as the fire arrows flew. “Let’s not be wasteful.”
Within an hour all four towers were burning and their surviving crew running back along the causeway. The walls erupted in celebration, Reva finding herself pummelled with back slaps as men raised their bows, yelling in exultation or shouting foul-mouthed taunts at the Volarians.
“Wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Arken commented. His face was grimy with mingled smoke and sweat, his quiver empty of arrows. Reva moved to the wall and looked down at the many bodies cluttering the narrow road that circled the city, seeing a few wounded crawling about, their groans lost amidst the tumult of joy. Slaves, she thought. Spent like a few coppers on a long-odds bet. She raised her gaze to the uncountable fires of the Volarian camp, knowing somewhere amongst them whoever had commanded this hopeless spectacle would be staring back at the carnage and calculating a fresh stratagem for the following day.
She noticed that her hand tingled, just where Veliss had kissed it. In fact it had been tingling ever since, though she only realised it now. “I’ll be at the manse,” she told Arken. “Find me when they come again.”
◆ ◆ ◆
Uncle Sentes was in a foul mood when she arrived, though she suspected it had more to do with the broken-nosed priest who stood before him in the Lord’s chamber than her broken promise. “What’s this supposed to mean?” the Fief Lord demanded in a rasp, waving a piece of parchment. Veliss placed a calming hand on his shoulder as he glowered at the priest.
“The Holy Reader’s words are perfectly clear, my lord,” the priest said, casting a wary eye at Reva as she strode to stand at her uncle’s side. “His insight, gifted by the Father himself, has allowed him to divine the cause of our current plight. Our innumerable sins have incurred His anger, the godless beasts outside our walls are His punishment.”
“‘The World Fa
ther sees all, knows all and forgives all,’” Reva quoted. “‘Denying yourself His love is His only punishment.’”
The priest didn’t look at her, addressing the Fief Lord. “Our way is clear, my lord. To secure the Father’s forgiveness we must divest ourselves of our sins.” He gave a pointed glance at Veliss. “All of our sins. This city was built in honour of the Father’s greatest prophet, but we allow the stain of godless souls within its walls . . .”
“Your Reader,” Uncle Sentes broke in, a small line of drool dangling from his lower lip, “sits in his cathedral scribbling nonsense and refusing all entreaties to aid the people of this city as they defend themselves from slavery and slaughter!” He choked off, wincing as a fresh bout of pain coursed through him. Reva smoothed a hand over his back and gently took the parchment from his shaking hand.
“‘All heretics within the city must be gathered for the Father’s judgement,’” she read, walking slowly towards the priest. “‘The Holy Reader himself will adduce their acceptance of the Father’s love. Any found to be unable or unwilling to abandon their heresy will be given over to their fellow heretics outside the walls.’”
She looked up at the priest, finding his gaze averted, his misshapen nose slightly upturned. “This is going to save us, is it?” she asked.
“The Reader’s words are for the Fief Lord . . .”
He trailed off as she ripped the parchment in half and let it drop to the floor. “Get out of here,” she said. “And if you bother my uncle with any more of your old fool’s prattle, we’ll see what the heretics outside the walls will do to two such godly souls as you.”
He bit down an unwise retort and turned to go.
“And tell him,” she said to his retreating back, “that when this is over he’d better cough up the name of that bastard who raised me. Tell him that.”
◆ ◆ ◆
“Was it horrible?” Veliss asked. They sat in the library, her uncle asleep upstairs. The priest’s visit had sent him into a rant that left him exhausted and gulping redflower. Veliss stayed at his side until sleep came.
Reva had taken off her mail shirt, marvelling at how it could manage to smell so bad after only a few hours. She lay on a couch beside the fire, Veliss seated opposite, her gaze intent, as if searching for signs of injury. “We held them off,” Reva replied. “Cost them a lot of men. But they’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Seen plenty of blood,” Veliss said. “Spilled a bit too in my time. But I’ve never seen war.”
Reva thought of the wounded Varitai crawling about as thousands cheered their deaths. “It’s horrible.”
“You don’t have to fight, Reva. These people need you, and the risk . . .”
“I do have to. And I will.” She studied Veliss’s downcast face for a moment, finding she preferred it when she smiled. “I have said things to you,” she said. “Unkind things . . .”
“I’ve heard worse, believe me. Bitch, whore, liar . . . spy. And they’ve all been true. So don’t worry over my feelings, love.”
“Why did you stay? You could be far away by now, and rich into the bargain.”
“I couldn’t leave him, not now.”
Reva sat up, massaging the ache in her arm. Drawing the wych elm was taxing but she only felt the strain now as the excitement of battle faded. “How long have you been with him?” she asked Veliss.
“We met years ago in Varinshold, when he was a guest of the King’s court. He was a regular and generous customer so I was sad to see him called back to sit in the Chair. A couple of years later, when I had a . . . pressing reason to leave Varinshold, I thought I might find a welcome here, or at least enough coin for passage to foreign climes. He proved more welcoming than I hoped, and open to some sage advice.”
“Will you do the same for me, when the time comes?”
Veliss met her gaze, speaking softly. “I think you know I’d do just about anything you asked, love.”
Reva looked away, concentrating on working her fingers into her bicep.
“Your uncle and I,” Veliss said. “We don’t . . . We haven’t, not for a long time. The drink took its toll on more than just his liver, and my, ah, non-professional interests have always lain elsewhere, interests he allows me to pursue, with due discretion. There would be no betrayal, if that’s the issue.”
Filthy, Fatherless sinner . . . “The Book of Reason,” Reva said. “Relates how the Father made men and women to love each other as a reflection of his own love for all humanity. The Book of Laws decrees marriage as a union of man and woman. The Book of Judgement prescribes any desecration of that bond a sin against the Father’s love.”
“Just words, love,” Veliss said. “Just a lot of old words. I see you, Reva, I see where your eyes linger, though you try to hide it.”
Reva rubbed the back of her hand, trying to erase the tingle that suddenly seemed to have sprung to life once more. “He tried to beat it from me,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “But it’s too deeply buried, like a stain that won’t wash.”
“A stain?” She felt Veliss move to sit next to her, felt her hand take hers, the tingle burning now. “It’s no stain. It’s beautiful, it’s a gift.” Her breath drifted over the skin of Reva’s neck, soft and warm, her lips leaving another tingle on her flesh.
The sound of crashing doors reached her and she stood up, slipping from Veliss’s embrace and turning as Arken burst into the room. “They’re back!”
◆ ◆ ◆
They used shields this time, large boards of nailed-together wood held aloft with poles at each corner, wide enough for ten Varitai to shelter under as they trotted towards the walls with their unnaturally uniform step. The sun was rising, revealing the full order of the Volarian battle, Reva guessing the strength of their first assault wave at over three thousand men. Antesh had the archers assail them from the sides rather than waste arrows loosing directly down onto the shields. At least a fifth of the attacking force was lost on the causeway, men tumbling to the ground or into the river as the archers found their marks with dread precision.
On reaching the walls they tried attacking in three places, hauling their ladders up, the shields constantly pummelled by the heavy rocks heaved from above. Reva kept bobbing up to loose at any attackers who strayed from cover, shifting her aim to the men on the ladders when they began to climb. She would wait until they were a good twenty feet off the ground before sending them tumbling back, hopefully onto the heads of their comrades. She stopped counting at six.
“My lord!” a man called to Antesh, running from the wall’s west-facing section. “The river!”
Reva and Arken followed Antesh as he ran to view the danger. The western defenders were staring and pointing at the spectacle of fifty or so large rafts making their way across the dark waters of the Coldiron, each laden with shield-bearing Volarians and propelled forward with long poles. From the constant movement of the rafts’ occupants Reva judged these free men rather than Varitai. Soon to be free corpses, she thought grimly.
“Spread your men out,” Antesh told the House Guard sergeant who had command of this section of wall. “Squads of ten. Each one goes for a different raft, tell them to aim at the polemen.”
He ordered them to loose as soon as the rafts came within range, arrows arcing down into the shifting mass of Free Swords, forcing them to keep their shields raised.
“Got the bastard!” Arken exclaimed as his arrow claimed a pole man on the lead raft, Reva’s shaft taking the man who stepped forward to replace him.
The pitch of the arrow storm increased as the rafts drew closer and the archers could pick out gaps in their shield roofs, the raft in the lead soon drifting out of control and twisting in the current, scattering bodies from its deck that the river carried away. Another two rafts suffered the same fate, but the remainder managed to make the bank, although they all showed sizeable gaps in their ranks.<
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The Free Swords scrambled ashore and ran to preassigned points to begin their assault, losing ever more men to the archers, but there were too many to kill and soon their ladders were reaching up to the battlements. The Free Swords had archers mixed into their ranks, keeping up a steady stream of arrows at the point where the ladders crested the wall. Reva saw two archers fall as they stepped up to push a ladder away.
“Get your spearmen up,” Antesh told the House Guard sergeant as the Volarians began to scale the ladders.
Reva loosed a final arrow at a climber, ducking back before she could gauge the result and moving to stand with the sergeant as he arranged his spearmen into tightly bunched groups. Arken stood at her side, hefting the axe he had chosen from the armoury. She never had enjoyed much success teaching him the sword.
Antesh kept his archers at the wall as long as he could, exacting a fearful toll on the climbers, but losing several more to the Volarian bowmen below. “All right, move back!” he shouted, walking to Reva’s side and placing his bow carefully on the top of the inner wall. “Time to dance, my lady,” he said to her, drawing his sword.
She placed the wych elm next to his longbow. “I still have questions about this,” she said, tapping a finger to the carvings.
“Ask me tomorrow,” he said with a faint grin.
The first Volarian to reach the battlements was a large fellow with swarthy, brutish features under a thick iron helmet, shouting in rage and terror as he pulled himself over the wall. Reva darted forward, ducked and rolled under the Volarian’s wild slash, drawing her sword as she came to her feet and stabbing upwards, under the man’s chin, forcing the blade through tongue and bone into the brain. She withdrew the sword, turning and slashing at the face of the next climber trying to haul himself onto the battlements. He fell screaming and blind onto the men on the ladder below, taking them with him as he plummeted to his death.
More Volarians appeared on either side of her and the spearmen charged forward with a yell, stabbing and killing in a frenzy, the battlements transformed into a confused jumble of thrashing men. One of the Volarians commanded Reva’s instant attention as he cut down the spearman who came for him then began hacking through the melee with a short sword in each hand, three men falling to him in quick succession. He was clad in different armour to the others, less bulky with his arms left bare apart from greaves on his wrists, and no helmet on his head which was shaved bald. His face betrayed scant emotion as he fought, side-stepping thrusts and delivering killing blows with cool precision, moving with a speed that bordered on the unnatural.