Tower Lord (A Raven's Shadow Novel)

by Anthony Ryan

  He turned to watch the mass of cloud rumble towards Alltor, pregnant with menace and hopefully enough rain to quench the fires raging within the walls. North Guard scouts had reported in the day before bringing news of the city’s dire straits and he had ordered the army’s pace quickened. He drove them hard, riding along the columns of trotting men with a grim visage and sincere threats for any who seemed likely to fall out. They continued through the night, covering fifty miles before he called a halt. In the morning Nortah had brought Cara to his tent with a suggestion.

  “I have to stress, my lord,” the girl said. “I cannot predict the consequences if I do this. I can bring the rain down on the city, but what happens next . . .” She gave a helpless shrug. “When I was a girl a drought blighted our village, the crops withered and my mother said we were like to starve come the winter. I had some knowledge of my gift by then, making little whirlwinds and such, sometimes forming the clouds into pretty shapes. So I made a big cloud, called all the other clouds to join it, and it rained. For three days it rained and people rejoiced. Then the rain stopped and the duck pond froze over. It was the middle of summer. Erlin found me shortly after, telling my parents of a place in the north where I would be safe.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” Vaelin cautioned her. “I know well the price our gifts exact.”

  “I didn’t come all this way just to watch, my lord.”

  He waited until the clouds were over Alltor, glimpsing the curtain of shifting grey that told of heavy rain. The song was strong now, singing Reva’s tune with a note of pride but also foreboding. Time was short.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  “Odds of at least two to one,” Count Marven told the council of captains. “Lengthening by the hour as they draw more troops from Alltor to face us. Given the enemy’s strength, my lord, I am bound to suggest a feinting strategy.” He pointed to the centre of the map Harlick had drawn, showing the Volarian camp now no more than a few hundred paces distant, lines of Free Swords and Varitai drawn up to bar the route to Alltor, cavalry in large numbers on both flanks. “Keep our infantry where it is and send the Eorhil to the western bank to draw their gaze. At the same time the Nilsaelin horse and the North Guard go west. The enemy will be forced to reorder their ranks, allowing for an assault around here.” His finger moved to a section on the right of the Volarian line. “We hit them hard then veer off to the west to join up with the cavalry whilst the Eorhil threaten their eastern flank. It should draw off enough of their forces to buy the city some time. We can then pull back to the forest where I’m sure our Seordah friends can make great play with their infantry. We tie them up in small battles, ambushes and the like. It won’t be quick, a matter of weeks rather than days, but I think this is a battle we can win.”

  “Alltor doesn’t have weeks,” Nortah said. “Or even days.”

  “And we do not have the numbers, good Captain,” Marven returned, the strain of the past week telling in his voice. “We need an army twice the size to break their line.”

  “So we’ve come all this way to run around the woods whilst the city perishes?” Nortah gave a disgusted snort.

  “What about the river?” Adal put in. “We could build boats. There are plenty in our ranks who know how. Send reinforcements to the city that way.”

  “By the time we get across there won’t be anyone to reinforce,” Nortah said. “That’s if we can make it past that monster they’ve got moored in the river.”

  Vaelin glanced up at the tent roof as a thunderclap sounded overhead. Cara’s storm was gathering force and soon the ground would be too sodden for cavalry. He went to the rear of the tent where the canvas bundle lay on his bunk, the captains’ dispute continuing as he undid the knots, pulling back the wrapping to reveal the sword. The blood-song swelled in welcome as he grasped the scabbard, the heft of it so comfortable in his hand. He was aware their voices had stilled as he strapped on the sword, the scabbard resting against his back with a familiar weight.

  “My lord?” Dahrena asked as he walked from the tent. He went to where Flame had been tethered, hauling the saddle onto his back and tying it in place, then leading him towards the ranks of assembled infantry.

  “What are you going to do?” Dahrena stood in his path, a little breathless, eyes bright with fearful suspicion. Behind her the captains all stood, most looking on in bafflement but Nortah and Caenis wearing expressions of grim understanding. They exchanged a glance then moved off in opposite directions, Caenis calling to his sergeant, Nortah running to his company, with Snowdance padding along in his wake.

  “My lord?” Dahrena said.

  “You see the souls of others when you fly,” he said. “But do you ever see your own?”

  She gave a wordless shake of her head.

  “That is a great pity.” He reached out to cup her face, thumb tracing over her cheek. “Because I can see it, and I find it shines very bright indeed. I should be grateful if you would have a care for my sister. She will not understand this.”

  He turned away and mounted up, trotting to the front rank of the army, finding the miners’ banner and reining in. “Break ranks!” he called to the surrounding regiments. “Gather round.”

  There was some hesitation amongst the officers before they repeated the order and a few minutes delay before they stood around him a loose circle, the bulk of the infantry with the Seordah crowding behind.

  “We have reached a point,” he told them, “where I can no longer command your obedience through duty alone. Now every man and woman in this army must choose their own course. For my own part”—he turned in the saddle, pointing to the rain-lashed city beyond the Volarian line—“I intend to ride to the centre of this city. For my friend is there, and I would very much like to see her again.”

  He reached behind his shoulder and drew the sword, raising it high. The light was meagre under the darkening sky but still it caught enough sun to gleam. He cast his gaze over their faces, pale and rapt in the rain as he spoke again, “And I will kill any man who raises a hand to stop me. Those who wish to come with me are welcome.”

  He turned Flame about, moving forward at a slow walk, hearing the commotion build behind him, Marven’s and Adal’s voices audible above the multitude of shouted orders. He called on the song and let the voices fade, scanning the Volarian ranks and waiting for the note of recognition. Perhaps they executed him for cowardice. But then it rose, a clear note of pure fear as his gaze fell on a battalion positioned just to the left of the Volarian centre.

  Well, he thought. At least I got to know Alornis.

  He kicked his heels into Flame’s flanks and the stallion reared before spurring into a gallop.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Time seemed to slow as they sped towards the Volarian line, the spectacle of it all filling his gaze. Fireballs fell in a low arc, cast by the ballista-ships in the river, the city’s fires now smouldering under the rain, the clouds above thick and black save for the occasional flicker of lightning.

  Arrows came for him as he charged, easily avoided thanks to the song, its music louder than he had ever known it. He waited until it picked out the former captive, his fear a high-pitched scream in the second rank of his battalion, then began to sing, forcing every vestige of anger and bloodlust into the song he cast forth. He felt it strike home, the Free Sword’s last hold on sanity breaking like glass as he beheld the charging figure on the horse, coming straight towards him with sword levelled. The ranks of the battalion rippled as the youth began to claw his way towards the rear, lashing out at restraining hands with his short sword, screaming in terror, a few soldiers in the front rank turning to look on the commotion.

  In truth it wasn’t much, just a small flaw in an otherwise impressively disciplined line, but today it was enough.

  Flame struck home with the fearless charge of a born warhorse, smashing men aside and trampling the slow-footed into the earth as V
aelin’s sword began its own song. He cleaved a man’s face apart from chin to skull with an upward slash, his helmet parting with the force of it, then spurred Flame onward, the sword slashing in an unceasing, unstoppable blur. Men rolled limbless in their wake, screams adding to those of the former captive, still fighting his maddened way towards safety.

  A hard-faced veteran loomed out of the throng, short sword raised in a swift thrust, but the song saw all today and blared a warning, the veteran sinking to his knees a second later, eyes and mouth agape at the jetting stump of his wrist. Another Free Sword tried to hack at Flame’s legs, earning a sweep of the sword that left him headless.

  They burst through the rear of the Volarian line, Vaelin hauling Flame to a halt in a fountain of churned sod. The terrorised Free Sword was kneeling in the open ground beyond, eyes wide and unblinking, all trace of sanity having fled. Vaelin turned the horse about, finding the Volarians moving to encircle him, blades levelled as they edged closer, fear on every face.

  Vaelin heard laughter somewhere and realised it was his own. He also felt the trickle of blood from his nose that told him he had sung long enough. He ignored it and charged again, riding down the nearest Free Sword and killing the men on either side of him, wheeling to the right and hacking down a man shouting orders, then another who stood frozen in fear.

  But not all were so fearful, a dozen men or more leaping and slashing in an attempt to bring him down, but the song warned of every attack. He parried, ducked and killed in a whirl of song and blood until Flame gave a loud pain-filled whinny and reared, an arrow buried in his flank. The horse stayed upright for a few more seconds, rearing and lashing out with his hooves, but a spasm of pain brought him to his knees, Vaelin rolling free of the saddle, coming to his feet to parry a thrust and punch his sword point through the breastplate of the man who delivered it, the star-silver blade penetrating the armour with ease.

  He wrenched the blade free and stood beside his dying horse, Free Swords on all sides, creeping closer as officers hounded them with curses. The song birthed a new note, something discordant, touched by wildness but also a fierce and boundless loyalty. He laughed again and the Free Swords paused.

  “I’m sorry your general didn’t take my offer,” he told them.

  Snowdance landed in their midst in a blaze of teeth and claws, pinning two men to the ground, her great jaws fixing on each head in turn and ripping them free. Her gaze fell on Vaelin for a moment, the song rising in warm regard, then she was gone, charging into the thickest knot of Volarians, blood and limbs scattering in her wake.

  The Volarian line was torn apart now, a gaping rent some twenty yards wide proving an irresistible target for the North Guard and Captain Orven’s guardsmen. They came streaming through with swords flashing, the gap widening further until the entire Free Sword battalion broke apart. Captain Adal hacked down a running Volarian and pulled up as he caught sight of Vaelin standing beside Flame’s corpse. “You’re hurt, my lord.”

  Vaelin touched a hand to the blood streaming from his nose and shook his head. “It’s nothing. Rally your men and wheel to the left, engage the cavalry on their flank.”

  “You’re dismounted . . .” the captain protested as Vaelin walked towards the nearest Volarian battalion.

  “I’ll be all right,” he replied with a wave, not turning.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  The song was an unquenchable fire now, fuelling his charge through their ranks as he killed and killed again, parrying or side-stepping blows that should have brought death. He attacked the next battalion from the rear, finding them Varitai immune to any terror he might spread but lacking the instinct needed to counter his song-born skill. He hacked his way into their midst to cut down their commander who, unlike them, was entirely capable of feeling fear, whipping his horse bloody and laying about with a whip as he tried to fight free of their ranks. It didn’t help.

  The battalion disintegrated around him as Foreman Ultin led his miners in a headlong charge against their front, the men of the Reaches giving full vent to their rage, born of the terrible sights witnessed on the march. The Varitai responded with automatic precision, forming densely packed defensive knots as they fought to the end.

  “Re-form!” Foreman Ultin was shouting, having planted his banner to the rear of the Volarian line. “Form on me!”

  “Take them left,” Vaelin told him, frowning at the man’s appalled expression.

  “You . . .” Ultin gulped, eyes staring into Vaelin’s for a moment, then blinked and looked away. “Yes, my lord!”

  Vaelin felt a dampness on his cheeks and touched a hand to his eyelids, the fingers coming away bloody. He paused and tried to quiet the song, but a new note of warning made it flare again. He turned to the right where Count Marven’s infantry were engaged in a furious struggle with a smaller number of lightly armoured men. Vaelin saw how they moved with a remarkable fluency as he ran towards the fight, most armed with a sword in each hand as they did their terrible dance, the Nilsaelins falling by the dozen as they pressed around them. The famed Kuritai, he realised, ducking under a slashing sword, rolling into a kneeling position and hacking back to hamstring the swordsman. The Nilsaelins roared and fell on the wounded Kuritai in a mass, swords and daggers flashing.

  The song flared again and Vaelin looked up to see three Kuritai coming for him, one in the lead and two moving to his flanks. He removed all restraint from the song and suddenly the Kuritai were moving through air made of clay, their coordinated attack clumsy and sluggish, leaving so many openings. The song faded a little as the three Kuritai tumbled to the earth around him, splashing mud in the unending rain, blood gushing from near-identical wounds to the throat.

  He straightened, seeing a Kuritai regarding him with his head tilted, face blank like a child seeing a puzzling trick for the first time, an expression also worn by many of the onlooking Nilsaelins. A bowstring snapped and the curious Kuritai fell with an arrow in his chest, his brothers turning to face a new threat as Hera Drakil led his Seordah into the fray. The Nilsaelins were brave but could only prevail through weight of numbers. The Seordah, it transpired, needed no such advantage.

  Vaelin watched the Seordah chief slide under a slashing short sword and bring his war club round as he sprang to his feet, the back of the Kuritai’s head exploding from the impact. The other Seordah dealt with the remainder, war clubs and knives whirling, Kuritai falling in a matter of seconds.

  “I see why the forest remains untouched,” Vaelin commented as the war chief crouched at his side.

  “You need the healing man, Beral Shak Ur,” he said, pulling him to his feet.

  Vaelin staggered a little as the song flared again, fighting down a shout of pain as fresh blood rose in his mouth. Reva! He turned to the city, eyes tracking along the causeway to find the gates lying wrecked and open. “I need a horse,” he said.

  The Seordah was clearly reluctant but Count Marven pulled up beside them, dismounting and offering Vaelin the reins. “Fight better on foot in any case,” he said, blood flowing freely from a cut on his cheek.

  “Form your men up,” Vaelin told him, hauling himself into the saddle. The new vantage point gave him a clearer view of the battle. He could see every section of the Volarian line now engaged, broken here and on the right where Nortah’s company gave full vent to their rage as they tore apart a Free Sword battalion twice their number to join up with Ultin’s miners. The left still seemed to be holding despite a furious assault by Caenis’s Realm Guard. Beyond them the swirling mass of horses just visible through the rain told him the Eorhil were in the process of mastering the Volarian cavalry.

  “Push through their rear opposite the Realm Guard,” he told Marven, finding he had to keep hold of the pommel to stop from falling. “Hera Drakil,” he addressed the Seordah, “I should like you to meet a friend of mine in the city.”

  He tugged Marven’s horse around and set off
at the gallop. He saw something near the causeway that made him pause for a moment. The captive Free Sword, lying dead with his throat cut, a bloody knife in his hand, his face frozen in the same mad rictus born of the song.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  He knew from Harlick’s reports that this causeway was almost exactly three hundred yards long, so it was strange to find it seemed to have grown by several miles. His breath was laboured now, he could feel the blood seeping through his shirt under the light mail as it flowed from his nose, mouth and eyes. He spat it out every few yards and forced Marven’s mount to a faster pace.

  He was obliged to jump the horse over the remnants of the gate, clattering through the cobbled streets beyond, finding bodies and destruction everywhere. Blood ran in rivers along the rain-soaked gutters, streaming in red streaks from the corpses he found at every turn. Some Volarians were stumbling about but offering no threat, madness plain on their faces. The defenders had constructed walls within the city, forcing him to find the breaches made by the Volarians before proceeding further, the delay making him seethe in frustration as the song rose ever higher.

  He was compelled to dismount a short distance from the cathedral, the streets so choked with bodies even Marven’s veteran warhorse shied from going further. He moved on, his vision clouding as he tripped over bodies, stumbling to his knees beside a young man with a short sword buried in his back and an axe resting under his pale hand. Little more than a boy.