by Anthony Ryan
“The priest!” she said. “Who is he? I know he answers to you.”
“Such sin.” The old man shook his head, madness and wonder in his eyes. “Such corruption of holy flesh. You, the one promised as our salvation, vile with unnatural lust . . .”
“Just tell me!” She forced him lower, the sword point pressing through his robe.
“The bright light of your sacrifice would unite us. It was promised to him by the Father’s own messenger . . .”
“REVA!”
It was the only voice that could have stopped her. She turned to see her uncle hobbling through the crowd, people backing away with heads lowered. He made a pathetic sight, a wasted, dying man shuffling along, using an old sword as a walking stick. But there was dignity there too, a command in the unwavering gaze he cast about him, a few of the sword-bearers lowering their weapons as he made his slow progress to the steps.
Reva let go of the Reader, stepping back as her uncle came to a wheezing halt a few steps below. “I think,” he said in a thin gasp, “our people should like to hear your news.”
“News, uncle?” she asked, chest heaving with repressed rage.
“Yes. The Father’s revelation. It’s time we shared it.”
Revelation? Reva’s gaze tracked over the crowd, seeing a confusion of expression on the assembled faces; fear and hope but mostly just great uncertainty. That’s what he offers, she realised, glancing down at the Reader. Certainty. The lie of a great truth. Killing him won’t disprove it.
“Lord Vaelin Al Sorna rides to our relief!” she told them, casting her voice as wide as she could. “He rides towards us now with a great and powerful army!”
“Lies!” the Reader hissed, getting slowly to his feet. “She seeks to usurp the Father’s words with lies! Invoking the name of the Darkblade no less!”
“Al Sorna is not the Darkblade!” she shouted as the crowd began to murmur. “He comes to save us. I am Lady Reva Mustor, heir to the Chair of this fief and daughter to the Trueblade. You call me blessed, you believe the Father’s Sight rests upon me. I say it rests upon all of us. And the Father does not reward murder.”
“They shun the Father’s love!” The Reader cast a bony hand at the kneeling captives. “Their presence within these walls weakens us!”
“Weakens us?” Reva picked out the fruit seller who had confronted her earlier. “You! You have a sword. Why haven’t I seen you on the wall?”
The man shuffled and looked around warily. “I have a daughter and three grandchildren, my lady . . .”
“And they’ll die unless we hold this city.” She turned on a priest standing near the steps, a portly man with a thin-bladed sword dangling from his plump hand like a wet twig. “You, servant of the Father, I haven’t seen you either. But this man”—she pointed at Arken—“him I’ve seen, fighting and shedding blood in your defence. Whilst this man”—she pointed at Brother Harin—“works tirelessly to tend our wounded. And this woman . . . ” Veliss’s eyes were wide above the gag, shining bright. “. . . this woman has served this fief faithfully and well for years, and worked without pause or rest to secure this city and ensure all are fed.”
Her gaze blazed at the crowd. “They do not weaken us. You do! You are the weakness here! You come here like the slaves our enemy would make us, bowing down to this lying old man, filling your hearts with easy hate when you know the Father only ever spoke of love!”
She looked at the portly priest once more. “Put that down before you hurt yourself.” He stared at her, his sword falling from his grasp to clatter onto the tiles. She cast her gaze over the other sword-bearers, each dropping his blade as her eyes met their faces, looking away in shame or staring back in wonder.
There was a commotion off to the right as Antesh and Arentes forced their way through the throng, the entire House Guard behind them along with dozens of archers and Realm Guard. Reva held up a hand as they advanced towards the disarmed men, then pointed at the captives. “Free these people, my lords, if you would.”
She glanced over her shoulder at the Reader, his face white with either rage or disbelief. “The cathedral is closed until further notice. Don’t show your face outside it again.” She sheathed her sword and descended the steps towards the Fief Lord, reaching out to him. “I think you need a nap, Uncle.”
He nodded wearily, smiling then blinking in shock, eyes widening in alarm at something behind her. She turned to find the Reader flying towards her, a dagger raised high in his bony hand, yellowed teeth bared in a hate-filled grimace, too fast and too close to side-step or parry. Something blurred in the corner of her eye and the Reader doubled over before her, the dagger scraping a shallow cut on her arm as he collapsed onto the cathedral steps, her grandfather’s sword buried in his belly. He coughed, twitched and died.
She caught her uncle as he fell, cradling his head on her lap, her hand on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart slowing. “Never . . . killed anyone . . . before,” he said. “Glad it . . . turned out to be . . . him.” His hand fluttered to her cheek and she held it there. “Don’t . . . doubt the Father’s love . . . my wonderful niece. Promise me.”
“I won’t, Uncle. Not now, not ever.”
He smiled, his red eyes dimming. “Brahdor,” he whispered.
“Uncle?”
“The man the priest called lord . . . His name . . . Brahdor . . .” The bony hand went limp in her grasp. His eyes still stared up at her but she knew they saw nothing.
◆ ◆ ◆
Fief Lord Sentes Mustor was laid to rest in the family crypt within the manor walls. By Reva’s order only she and the coffin bearers were present. She had wanted Veliss at her side but the lady was too stricken by the day’s events to attend, stumbling back to the manor white-faced and locking herself in her room. Reva sent the bearers away and sat by the coffin until nightfall. It was a plain pine box, incongruous next to the ornately carved marble of her forebears, something she would have to fix in time. Outside the faint thump of engine-cast stones could be heard as they ate another breach into her wall. Antesh reported that it was only another two weeks away from completion.
She had hoped sitting here with the bones of her ancestors might provoke some vision or insight, a cunning stratagem to win the day when the final stone fell. But all she earned was a cold behind and a sense of loss so great it felt as if some invisible hand had scooped out her insides.
She rose and went to the coffin, touching her fingers to the unvarnished wood. “Good-bye, Uncle.”
Veliss opened the door at the seventh knock, red-eyed and pale. A ghost of a smile played on her lips before she turned back, leaving the door open. Reva closed it behind her, watching Veliss sit at her desk where a piece of parchment waited, half-covered in her fine script. “My formal letter of resignation,” she said, picking up the quill. “I think I’ll take you up on that horse, and the gold. When this is all over, naturally. I hear the Far West offers many opportunities . . .”
She fell silent as Reva came to place her hands on her shoulders, eyes raising to meet hers in the mirror as they lingered. “I thought it was a stain.”
Reva bent to press a kiss to her neck, exulting in the thrill of delight as she provoked a gasp. “It washed.” She took Veliss’s hands and drew her towards the bed. “Now it’s a gift.”
◆ ◆ ◆
Is it wrong? she wondered the following morning. To feel so good at a time such as this? She had been fighting to keep the smile from her face all through the council with her captains, scrupulously avoiding catching Veliss’s eye for fear of a betraying grin or blush. Her uncle dead, the Reader slain on the steps of his own cathedral and the city on the verge of destruction, but all she could think about was the wondrous night before.
“It’s just not enough,” Antesh was insisting to Arentes, his knuckles thumping onto the map on the library table. “We’ll hold them at the breac
hes for no more than a few hours, and all the time you can bet they’ll be making a fresh assault on the walls to draw off our strength.”
“What else can we do?” the old guard commander asked. “This city’s defence rests on its walls. There is no provision, no plan for anything else. My lady”—he turned to Reva—“it might help if we had some notion of how long the Dar—, Lord Al Sorna will take in getting his army here.”
Reva stopped the amused frown before it reached her brow. He believed me. Seeing the intent gaze of Lord Antesh she realised the old guardsman was not alone. They actually think the Father has sent me some holy vision. “Such . . . details were not revealed to me, my lord,” she replied. “We must plan on holding this city as long as possible.”
Antesh sighed, returning his gaze to the map. “Perhaps if we build towers here and here, just behind the new walls. Pack them with archers to loose down at them as they rush through . . .”
Reva surveyed the map as he went on, noting how circular it was, the empty space of the square in the centre like the bull’s-eye of an archer’s target, the surrounding streets ordered in a circular pattern radiating outwards. She reached for a charcoal stub and began to draw on the map. “We have been thinking on too small a scale,” she told the two lords, tracing a series of black circles through the streets, each one smaller than the last. “Not two inner walls, six. Each to be held for as long as possible. Archers on every rooftop. The streets are narrow so their numbers won’t matter so much. When one wall is breached, we fall back to the next.”
Arentes looked at her plan for a good while before commenting, “It’ll mean tearing down a quarter of the city.”
“The city can be remade, its people can’t.” She looked at Antesh. “My lord?”
The Lord of Archers gave a slow nod. “It seems the Father’s blessing is not misplaced. But it’ll take a mighty effort to have it all done by the time the breach is complete.”
“Then let’s be about it. Besides I think the people will welcome any distraction from the sound of those bloody stones.”
◆ ◆ ◆
Veliss organised work gangs based on neighbourhood allegiance, putting a skilled builder in charge of each one. They worked in seven-hour shifts, no-one was hungry now as rationing had been abandoned in the face of more pressing need. They worked through the night pulling down houses that had stood for centuries, their bricks moulded into the new barricades which had quickly been dubbed the Blessed Lady’s Rings. The taller houses were turned into miniature fortresses with wooden platforms added to the rooftops to accommodate additional archers, each one well-stocked with arrows and weapons. A series of walkways was also constructed across the rooftops, allowing reinforcements to be rushed from one point to another.
Reva spent the time rehearsing the House and City Guard in their response to the coming Volarian assault. “Is this really necessary now?” Veliss asked, watching the soldiers running from the wall for the tenth time as Reva counted down the seconds.
“Every one we kill on the wall or in the breaches is one we don’t have to kill in the streets,” Reva replied. She strode over to where the House Guard sergeant stood wheezing with his men. “Better than last time, but still too slow. Do it again.”
“You’re lucky they love you,” Veliss observed as the guardsmen trooped back to the stairs.
“I’m discovering the Father’s Blessing can do wonders, real or imagined.”
Veliss nodded, pursing her lips. “I, ah, thought I’d take another look at the stocks in the cellar. Should take an hour, perhaps longer.”
She gave a precisely formal bow and strode away, Reva hoping the guardsmen would ascribe the flush on her cheeks to the recent exertions. This was how it had been since that first glorious night, hurried but delightful fumblings in dark corners, the sense of stealing private pleasures adding a wicked charm to every encounter.
“Working hard?”
She turned to find Arken walking towards her with a stiff gait, his face tense with suppressed pain. “Go back to bed,” Reva instructed him flatly.
“Another minute of the healing house and I’ll go mad,” he replied. “Brother Harin is a good man, but his stories never end. This is his fifth war, you know? He’ll tell you all about the others in great detail, if you let him.”
She saw the determination in his gaze and let it drop. “Lord Antesh requires help in the eastern quarter,” she said. “There’s an old wine-shop with unusually deep foundations.”
He nodded, hesitating. “We’re never going to the Reaches, are we? Even if we win this.”
Looking at his broad, honest face she saw the boy he had been replaced by the good and brave man he now was. It hurt, because she knew he couldn’t stay with her now. She might want a brother but he already had a sister. “I’ve decided on Lady Governess of Cumbrael,” she said. “As my formal title. As you said, Fief Lady didn’t sound right.”
“Lady Governess,” he repeated with a grin. “Suits you.” He gave an overly florid bow, wincing and rubbing his back as he straightened then walked off towards the eastern quarter.
◆ ◆ ◆
She was with Veliss when the stones stopped falling, lying entwined on a pile of furs in a shadowed corner of the manor cellar, sweat-covered and panting. “I love your hands,” Veliss said, entwining their fingers together, nuzzling at her neck.
“They’re rough, callused and the nails are horrible,” Reva replied. “Though my feet are worse.”
“You’re mad.” Veliss raised herself up to kiss her, lips lingering, tongue probing. “There isn’t an inch of you that isn’t gorgeous.”
Reva giggled as her lips moved lower, her hands bunching in Veliss’s rich, strawberry-flavoured hair . . .
“Wait!” she said as it came to her.
“What?” Veliss raised her head, pouting in annoyance.
“They’ve stopped.” After so long the absence of the stones on the wall was like an endless shout of silence. Reva disentangled herself and reached for her clothes.
“I thought I’d help Brother Harin with the wounded,” Veliss said as they dressed. “Not much else I can do now, is there?”
She stared at Reva with wide eyes, a frown of desperate hope on her brow. Reva strapped her sword across her back and paused to plant a kiss on her lips. “Stay safe.” She brushed the tousled hair back from Veliss’s forehead. “I love you.”
◆ ◆ ◆
The Kuritai gave a soft grunt as the sword slashed across his eyes, the only time she had witnessed one express any pain. She leapt and planted both feet on his chest as he slashed the air, blind but still deadly. The kick propelled him to the wall, sending him tumbling over onto the heads of his comrades. Reva rolled to her feet, dodging sword thrusts from three directions, the House Guards closing around her, halberds stabbing and slashing.
She did a quick head count, finding she had lost half her command already. She glanced over at the inner wall around the first breach, noting the piles of Volarian dead and the constant rain of arrows delivered by the archers on the rooftops. But there was a cohesion to the attackers now, a hard knot of shielded men inching forward with more crowding in behind. It’s time.
“Break!” she shouted, lunging forward to spear the exposed neck of a Kuritai, then turning and running with the guards. They were faster than any practice, sprinting down the steps and vaulting the first of the rings without losing any more to the pursuing enemy. The Kuritai didn’t pause in their charge, coming on at a run to scale the new wall but falling by the dozen to the archers on the rooftops above. Those that did make it over were hopelessly outnumbered and soon hacked down.
“Remember the signal,” she told Sergeant Laklin. “Three blasts of the horn and you break for the next ring.”
“I remember, my lady.” Laklin wiped his sweat-streaked brow and gave a grin. “Made them pay for it, didn’t we
?”
“That we did. Let’s see if we can exact the full price.”
She ran for the western section where Antesh was assembling his companies after breaking from the breach defences. She was forced to duck as one of the Volarian fireballs came crashing down a few yards ahead, scattering bricks and embers in a blast of heat and smoke. Antesh had anticipated this tactic, forming firefighting companies to safeguard the streets between the rings. They came running now with buckets in hand, older people mostly with a few youngsters. They attacked the blaze with all the ferocity of a company of guardsmen, sand and water quelling the flames in a few minutes. It had been surprisingly small considering the size of the fireball.
“Pays to live in a city of stone, my lady,” the fire-company leader said, a brawny woman of middling years Reva recognised from the line of petitioners the day she had intruded into the manor. Despite her words Reva could see half a dozen columns of smoke rising from the surrounding streets, evidence that some parts of the city were not so immune to fire.
◆ ◆ ◆
“No letup, lads!” Antesh was on the rooftop overlooking the western section. He had placed his command post atop the home of the masons guild, the most sturdily built structure in the city, the walls thick and the windows narrow, perfect for bowmen. Below them the Volarians clustered about the wall with shields raised, more pouring through the breach behind. The Volarians seemed to be assaulting the wall itself rather than attempting to climb it, the occasional flash of short swords through the shields told of a concerted effort to hammer their way through the recently finished brickwork.
Reva took a clay pot of lamp oil and threw it at the knot of shields, the liquid exploding across them as it shattered. She followed it with a fire arrow, the Volarians soon forced to abandon their flaming shields, most perishing under the instant volley from the archers above. But there were more trooping through the breaches, always more.