Tower Lord (A Raven's Shadow Novel)

by Anthony Ryan

  Arken gave a yell and charged at the man, axe raised, deaf to Reva’s warning. The skilled man brought both swords up in a crossed parry as Arken’s axe came down, then extended a kick into the boy’s midriff, sending him flat onto his back, the axe flying from his grip. Reva ran forward as the Volarian moved in with the killing stroke, flicking her sword at his eyes and forcing him back. There was no surprise on his face as he stood regarding her, blood trickling from the fresh cut below his eye, and barely any pause before he attacked, one sword slashing at her head, the other thrusting at her belly. She twisted, deflecting both blades with a vertical parry, continuing the spin but descending to one knee, bringing the blade round to cleave his leg above the ankle. He wore thick greaves on his calves so the cut wasn’t enough to cripple him, and he registered little pain or shock as he stabbed down at her, the tip of his short sword shattering on stone as she spun again, rising to thrust the sword into the base of his skull.

  The twin swords clattered onto the stone as the skilled man sank to his knees, spasming as Reva pulled her sword free, falling onto his face and lying still.

  She drew breath and looked for Arken, finding him standing with the other defenders clutching his chest and staring at her. The Volarians seemed to have vanished. She went to the wall to watch them flee, some huddled behind shields as they attempted to shuffle to the causeway, others just running blindly towards safety, many falling to longbows as they did so.

  “We may have a little respite . . .” she began turning back, falling silent at the sight of them all kneeling with their heads lowered. She looked around, ready to berate her uncle for coming to the wall, then realised he wasn’t there. They were kneeling for her, even Antesh and Arken.

  “Don’t do that,” she said in a small voice.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Reva spent the rest of the morning helping carry the wounded to the makeshift healing house Brother Harin had established in an inn near the gate. The brother and his two fellow healers from the Fifth Order, an elderly woman and a man of middle years, worked tirelessly stitching cuts and setting bones, whilst occasionally managing to save men from what Reva assumed would be fatal wounds.

  “This may interest you, my lady.” Harin held up an instrument and moved to the archer she had seen take an arrow in the cheek the night before. The shaft had been removed but the head was firmly lodged in the bones of his face. The brother had given him a hefty dose of redflower but he still whimpered in pain, staring up at the instrument in Harin’s hand with fearful eyes. “This is called the Mustorian lance, in honour of your late father.”

  The archer shrank back as Harin crouched down to inspect his wound, a deep gash in his cheek, recently cleaned but still leaking blood. Reva took the man’s hand and squeezed it, forcing an encouraging smile. “My father?” she asked Harin.

  “Yes, his famous arrow wound was pretty much identical to this unfortunate fellow’s. The head so deeply buried that trying to cut it out would have been fatal. The healer who treated him was obliged to design a new instrument.” He held the long probe up for her inspection. “See the way the point is shaped? Narrow enough to fit into the base of an arrowhead and when it does”—he pushed his thumb along the centre of the probe and it split in two—“I extend it and grip the head, allowing swift and easy removal.”

  “And painless?” she asked.

  “Oh, Faith no,” he said, leaning over the wounded archer and starting to guide the probe into the wound. “It’s exquisitely agonising, so I’m told. Hold this fellow’s arms for me would you?”

  She found Arken in the inn’s tap room, the elderly healer wrapping bandages about his chest. “Cracked ribs,” he told her with a rueful grin. “Only two though.”

  “That was foolish,” she said. “Choose an easier kill next time.”

  “None of them are easy, except for you.”

  “All done,” the healer said, tying off the bandages. “I’d normally give you a vial of redflower for the pain, but we’re having to ration it.”

  “There are a few extra bottles at the manse,” Reva said. “I’ll have them brought here.”

  “Your uncle’s care requires redflower, my lady.”

  He won’t last long enough to need it all, she thought then winced at the coldness of it. “He . . . wouldn’t wish to see his people in pain.” She turned to Arken, clasping his hand. “Get some rest.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  She sought out Lord Antesh, finding him in a room in the gatehouse arguing with Lord Arentes about how best to distribute the men. “They’ll know by now that concentrating against one or two points will avail them nothing,” he said with an air of forced patience. “Next time they’ll try to test us in several places at once. The Father knows they have the strength to do it.”

  “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 easter
n 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.”

  “Excellent!” the general applauded, lifting his wine cup in appreciation. “More!”

  “A hero comes with sword laid bare, his steel shines bright and true . . .”

  He waved me to silence as a messenger approached from the shore, climbing aboard and handing over a scroll. “A breakthrough, eh?” he said to the messenger. “About time.”

  “Yes, Honoured General. My commander advises that with sufficient reinforcement the city will be ours by nightfall.”

  “No. The reserve must be husbanded to secure the rest of this rain-sodden dung pile. Tell him to hold off the attacks in other sectors and concentrate on the breakthrough. And tell him if this city isn’t mine by nightfall, I’ll expect him to have secured a sufficiently heroic death, because he’ll get none from me.”

  He waved the messenger away and turned back to me. “Do you know, slave, I believe I’ve forgotten where we left off. Let’s start from the beginning shall we?”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  He had me recite it all three times over, every dreadful line penned by that talentless Volarian dullard. Even now, so many years later, I can still recite Draken at will. Not quite the worst of my scars, but still a painful reminder.

  I was released come the afternoon, sent below to my cabin whilst he occupied himself with another pleasure slave until word of victory came. I sank onto my bunk, shaking with exhaustion and fear, and would have vomited if my stomach had anything to give. However, even this mean respite was to be cut short. The door opened and one of the mistress’s slaves beckoned to me. “You’re wanted.”

  She was in her own cabin, a cavernous space of silk drapery and cushioned comfort in comparison to my narrow prison. She wore a white gown with a neckline plunging to the soft curve of her belly, the skirts transparent and revealing as she walked towards me, a little unsteady on her feet and a wine cup raised to her lips. “You’ve heard, no doubt?” she asked in
slow deliberate tones. “The great siege is almost over? My honoured husband’s triumph nearly complete?”

  “I have, Mistress. A great day.”

  She sputtered into her wine, stumbling as she laughed. “A great day! Yes, an ancient child wins a new toy. A great day indeed.” She frowned, blinking and grimacing. “I haven’t been drunk for over fifty years. I think I’m remembering why.”

  Fifty years? She saw my confusion and laughed again, just a small giggle, like a little girl with a secret. “Older than I look, my lord. How much older do you think?” She moved closer, making me fight the urge to step away. “Honestly now, how old would you say I am?” She pushed an insistent finger into my chest. “And I command you to speak the truth!”

  I took a breath, wondering how a man could feel so much fear and still keep his mind. “I cannot believe my mistress is more than thirty years old.”

  “Thirty?” She stepped back, pretending offence. “I’ll have you know I was no more than twenty-eight when I made my bargain, and that was over three hundred years ago.”

  She stood regarding me in silence, drinking more wine, eyes narrowed and causing me to consider if she was as drunk as she appeared. “Nothing to say?” she asked after a moment.

  “Forgive me, Mistress, but that is impossible.”

  “Yes,” she murmured, moving closer again, pressing herself against me, her head resting on my chest. “And yet here I stand, with so many memories. And I am still beautiful am I not? Do you not desire me, my lord? Or is your mind still so full of your dead poetess?”