Tower Lord (A Raven's Shadow Novel)

by Anthony Ryan

  He forced himself upright and staggered on, the sounds of battle reaching his ears. He emerged into an avenue of flattened buildings, finding five thousand or more Volarians assailing another wall. They had managed to batter a breach through it, bodies piling up as a furious fight raged just within the wall. Another shout from the song confirmed it, she was there, in the thick of it. Where else would she be?

  “We do this,” Hera Drakil said, appearing at his side, his many many warriors running from the surrounding streets.

  “I should appreciate it very much,” Vaelin replied.

  The Volarian host made a curious sound as the Seordah charge struck home, a great sighing groan of absolute despair. Days of torment suffered within these walls only to earn a swift death at the hands of warriors they had no hope of matching.

  He closed his eyes as the sounds of battle faded. Stop now, he told the song, but he was so weary and so very cold.

  “You don’t need to kneel for me.”

  She stood over him, looking down with a warm smile, a sword of Renfaelin design resting on her shoulder, the blade bloody from end to end.

  “Is that it?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I never found it.”

  His vision dimmed, blackness descending for a moment. When it faded he found he was on his back, her face only inches away, tears falling onto his bloody face. “I always knew you would come.”

  He managed to raise a hand and trace his fingers through her hair. Kept it long I see. “What sort of brother would I be if I hadn’t?” He coughed, a plume of blood erupting from his mouth, staining her face.

  “DON’T!” she screamed as his vision dimmed again. “DON’T! Please don’t . . .”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Cold. Absolute, inescapable cold. Cutting through skin and bone to clutch at his heart. Yet there was no tremble to his limbs, no mist to his breath. He blinked as his vision cleared, seeing a wall. He turned and his boots raised an echo, very loud and very long. No echo was ever so long.

  The room was a simple cube of roughly worked stone, a single window in the wall to his right. In the centre stood a plain table fashioned from some dark wood, the surface gleaming even though he could see no lamp or light from the window. A woman sat on the opposite side of the table, regarding him with an expression that was equal parts fury and scrutiny. An empty chair waited before him.

  “I know who you are,” the woman said, her voice birthing another echo of unnatural length.

  Vaelin moved towards the chair, pausing as a faint sound came to him, a soft plaintive call. Did someone call my name?

  “Was it Tokrev, I wonder?” The woman angled her head, eyes narrowing. “No, I don’t think so.”

  She was dark-haired, young and beautiful, her eyes bright with intelligence and a greater depth of malice than he had seen before. It reminded him of the thing that had lived in Barkus, but he saw now that had been a spiteful child compared to her.

  “You know who I am,” he said. “Who are you?”

  She gave a mirthless smile. “I’m a songbird in a cage. And now so are you.”

  He tried to summon the blood-song, searching for some guiding note but finding nothing.

  “No songs here, my lord,” the woman told him. “No gifts. Only those he brings and they are rarely welcome.”

  “He?”

  A spasm of fury passed over her face and her hand slammed onto the table. “Don’t play with me! Do not act the fool! You know very well where you are and who holds you here.”

  “As he holds you.”

  The woman reclined, relaxing with a soft laugh. “His punishments are cruel but unimaginative, for the most part. This room, the cold, no other distraction save memory, and I have many of those.” Her hand moved to her chest, massaging the flesh between her breasts, eyes growing distant. “Did you ever love anyone, my lord?”

  The sound came again, louder this time and he was certain it was a voice speaking his name, distant but familiar.

  He ignored her question and went to the window, looking out on a shifting landscape, the sky a rapidly swirling canvas of cloud above tall mountains. He watched as they slowly descended, the slopes become less steep, richer in grass until he looked upon a land of gently rolling hills.

  “It changes by the hour,” the woman told him. “Mountains, oceans, jungles. Places he knew once I suspect.”

  “Why did he put you here?” Vaelin asked. “What was your crime?”

  Her hand stopped moving on her chest and she returned it to the table. “Loving and not being loved in return. That was my crime.”

  “I’ve met your kind before. There’s no love in you.”

  “Trust me, my lord. You have never met my kind.” She nodded at the table.

  The flute hadn’t been there before but now it sat on the gleaming wooden surface. It was a simple instrument, fashioned from bone, the surface stained with age and use, but somehow he knew if he picked it up and put it to his lips the tune it birthed would be very strong.

  “VAELIN!”

  There was no mistaking it now, a voice beyond this room was calling his name with enough power to shake the stones.

  “He’ll give it back to you,” the woman said, inclining her head at the flute. “It’s a hard thing for those like us to live without a song.”

  The room shuddered, the bricks beginning to break apart as something assailed them from outside, mortar and stone fragmenting and warm white light breaking through the cracks.

  “Just pick it up,” the woman said. “We’ll sing together when he sends us back. And what a song we’ll make.”

  He looked at the flute, hating himself for how much he wanted it. “Do you have a name?” he asked the woman.

  “A hundred or more, probably. But my favourite was the one I earned before I accepted the Ally’s kind bargain. At my father’s behest I once laid waste to a land in the south where the local savages were proving troublesome. A superstitious folk, they thought me a witch. Elverah, they called me.”

  “Elverah.” He looked again at the flute as the wall behind him gave a loud crack of shattered stone. He met her gaze and gave a smile before turning his back on her and the flute. “I’ll remember.”

  He heard her shouting as the wall exploded, light flooding the room and banishing the cold. “Tell your brother!” she cried. “He could kill me a thousand times and it would change nothing!”

  The light came for him, embracing him with its blessed warmth, drawing him from the room. It seemed to seep into him as he was pulled away, bringing visions of a face he knew. “You shine brightly too,” Dahrena told him. “So easy to find.”

  Light filled his gaze, the last vestiges of cold banishing . . . but then a final shiver as another voice reached him. Not the woman this time, something far older, the voice free of all expression save certainty. “We will make an ending, you and I.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  He woke with a shout, convulsing and shivering, as cold and weary as it was possible to be and still live. He felt a weight on his chest, finding his hands tangled in long silken tresses. Dahrena groaned and raised her head, her face pale and eyes dim with exhaustion. “So easy to find,” she said softly.

  “Vaelin!” Reva was kneeling at his side, smiling and weeping. Behind her he could see Hera Drakil standing with his warriors, a deep disquiet on his hawk face.

  “I thought it was Darkblade,” he replied.

  She laughed and pressed a kiss to his forehead, tears flowing freely. “There is no Darkblade. It’s a story for children.”

  He put an arm around her shoulders as she wept, searching inside himself and knowing what he would find. It’s gone. The song is gone.

  PART V

  My father has never been a man to indulge in deep reflection or wise pronouncements. His few writings and typically terse correspon
dence make dry reading indeed, riven as they are with the mundane inanities of military life. But there was one occasion that has stayed at the forefront of my memory, something he said the night Marbellis fell. We stood on a hilltop watching the flames rise above the walls, hearing the screams of the townsfolk as the Realm Guard gave vent to bestial vengeance, and I felt the need to ask him why his mood was so sombre, had he not just secured a victory worthy of glorious celebration for all the ages? I was, you may understand, quite drunk.

  My father’s gaze never lifted from the tormented city and I heard him say, “All victory is an illusion.”

  —ALUCIUS AL HESTIAN, COLLECTED WRITINGS, GREAT LIBRARY OF THE UNIFIED REALM

  VERNIERS’ ACCOUNT

  “Set sail!” the general was shouting at the ship’s captain, voice pitched just below a scream. “Set sail I said! Get this hulk moving!”

  I went to the rail as the slave-sailors rushed in answer to the captain’s orders. The remnants of the army were being herded towards the river now, Varitai fighting to the end in dumb obedience, Free Swords taking to the water in panic. A half mile to the south the Free Cavalry seemed to be making a stand against the men in green cloaks, whoever had command of them rallying his men with admirable coolness as they attempted to break out. It proved a vain ambition however, as a great host of horsemen appeared to their rear, launching a cloud of arrows from the saddle before driving their charge home. Within seconds all vestige of organised resistance had vanished from the Volarian army, leaving only a terrorised mob with no chance of escape.

  I turned my gaze from the ugly spectacle and saw a lone rider galloping along the causeway, followed by what seemed to be thousands of men and women with clubs and bows, not a scrap of armour amongst them. The distance was too great to make out the face of the rider but I had no doubt as to his identity.

  “Faster!” the general was shouting amidst the racket of the anchor’s chain. “If this ship isn’t at sea within the day, I’ll see the backbone of every slave aboard!”

  “Are you sure?” Fornella asked, standing near the map table, wine cup in hand. “Returning home with such impressive tidings is not something I would recommend.”

  “We’re not going home,” he snapped back. “We return to Varinshold to await the next wave. When they get here I will build an army that will leave this land barren. Write this down, slave!” he snarled at me. “I, General Reklar Tokrev hereby decree the extermination of all denizens of this province . . .”

  I was reaching for parchment when something caught my eye. The ship had finally begun to pull away as the sails unfurled and the prevailing wind took us downriver, the crew deaf to the entreaties of the Free Swords struggling in the water. I squinted at the sight of a new sail appearing above a bend in the river little under a mile ahead. I had seen enough of ships by now to recognise the Meldenean pennant fluttering from the mainmast, a large black flag signifying the sighting of an enemy. A shout from the rigging confirmed I was not labouring under a fear-born delusion.

  “Archers up!” the ship’s captain ordered. “Ready the ballistas! Kuritai to the prow!”

  I watched as another sail appeared behind the Meldenean vessel, and two more after that. I glanced over at the general and was surprised to find myself regarding the visage of a coward. All trace of bluster and poise had disappeared, replaced by sweat-soaked features and limbs twitching with unrestrained fear. I knew then that this man had never actually been in a battle. He had seen them, commanded men to die in them, but never fought in one. The thought raised a laugh in my breast which I managed to contain. Coward or not, he had charge of my life whilst this ship still floated.

  However, whilst I was able to restrain my mirth, his wife was not. His fevered gaze swung to her as she stood by the map table, holding the scroll I had handed him earlier, laughing heartily at the contents.

  “What is it!” he demanded. “What causes you so much amusement, honoured wife?”

  She waved a hand at me, still laughing. “Oh, just the pleasure of money well spent.”

  The general’s eyes swung towards me, anger adding some colour to his pale features. “Really? How so?”

  “Allow me to recite quite possibly the last work by renowned scholar and poet Lord Verniers Alishe Someren, entitled An Ode to General Reklar Tokrev, after Draken.” She paused for a theatrical cough, stifling a giggle. “A man of vice and misplaced pride, Rightly detested by his bride, He drank and whored whilst safe afloat, Penning lies for his scribe to quote . . .”

  “Shut up,” the general told her in a quiet tone but she went on without pause.

  “Sent his men to die in flame, Whilst he dreamt of unearned fame . . .”

  “Shut your mouth, you venomous bitch!” He rushed towards her, a hard blow of his fist sending her reeling, delivering a kick to her stomach as she tried to rise. “Year after year of your bile!” He kicked her again, making her retch and writhe on the deck. “A century in your company, true-heart!” Another kick, blood appearing in her mouth. “After the first week I knew I would kill you—”

  The knife my mistress had tossed aside in her cabin had a short blade, but it was very sharp, sinking into the base of the general’s skull with ease. He gave a strange high-pitched groan, a little like a tearful child drawing breath for another sob, then fell forward, his nose making a loud crack as it smashed into the planking. It has always been a matter of great regret to me that his death was so brief, and that he never knew who had delivered the killing blow. However, I have long had occasion to ponder the unpalatable fact that so few of us receive the end we deserve.

  Fornella heaved a red stain onto the deck, casting a weary gaze of acceptance at me. “I . . . suppose a . . . final kiss is . . . out of the question?”

  I turned at the sound of running feet, seeing two Kuritai charging with twin swords drawn. I was about to run for the rail and take my chances in the river but drew up short as an arrow thumped into the planking beside me, quickly followed by many more. I dived for the table, rolling under as the arrows sent the Kuritai tumbling to a lifeless halt. I looked at Fornella as she uttered a frightened whimper, an arrow pinning her gown to the deck. I would like to relate how there was some chivalrous motivation behind my next action, that I acted on nothing more than courageous impulse in grabbing her arms and pulling her under the table as the arrows continued to rain down. However, that would be a lie. I knew she would be valuable to the Meldeneans and thought they might regard me with some favour if I delivered her to them unharmed.

  We huddled together as the arrows fell, soon followed by the whoosh of something large and heavy that brought a blast of heat and an instant pall of smoke. More arrows, more whooshes, Fornella pressing herself against my side though what reassurance she felt I could offer escapes me. Soon the deck pitched at an alarming angle, the hail-like pattering of the arrows replaced by the shouts and metallic clashes of men in combat. A slave-sailor fell dead a foot away from the table, blood still gushing from the wound in his neck as shouts of anger and challenge gave way to screams and pleas for mercy.

  Silence fell for what seemed an age, eventually broken by a voice speaking the Meldenean dialect of Realm Tongue. “Get those fires out!” it called with peerless authority. “Belorath, get below and finish any still in arms. And check the hull for breaches. Be a shame not to claim her as a prize.”

  A pair of boots strode across the deck to stand before the table, polished and gleaming despite the blood that stained them. Fornella coughed, clutching at her belly, and the boots shifted, a familiar face appearing below the table edge, bearded and handsome with golden hair hanging over his blue eyes.

  “Well, my lord,” the Shield said. “You must have a tale to tell.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  The fires were quickly extinguished as per his order, his first mate returning from below to report the hull intact. “Excellent!” the Shield enthused, running a
hand over the finely carved woodwork on the starboard rail. “Have you ever seen the like, Belorath? A ship to sail all the world.”

  “She’s called the Stormspite,” Fornella said in her heavily accented Realm Tongue.

  The Shield turned to her with an expression of dark promise. “She’s called what I choose to name her. And you don’t speak until told to.” He brightened at the sight of something behind us. “In fact, her namesake comes to bless her now.” He strode forward greeting an odd group of people climbing aboard from the Meldenean vessel tied alongside.

  Two men were first on deck, one large with a brutish aspect, the other much younger but clearly no stranger to the sights of battle. They both surveyed the carnage with drawn swords and little sign of alarm. The large man turned and bowed to the three women who followed them aboard, one of whom instantly captured the attention of all in sight. She stood straight and slender in a plain gown and a shirt of light mail, a silk scarf tied around her head, walking across the deck with a sureness of step and innate confidence that gave the lie to the dead general’s pretensions to greatness.

  “Welcome, Highness,” the Shield greeted her, bowing low, “to the Queen Lyrna. My gift to you.”

  The woman gave a slight nod, looking around with keen eyes. “My brother’s fleet had a ship called the Lyrna. I wonder what became of her.” She paused as her gaze fell on me and I saw her scars plainly for the first time, the waxy mottled flesh that covered the upper half of her face, the mutilated ear only partially hidden by the scarf.

  I lowered my gaze as she approached, falling to one knee with head bowed, as I had in her brother’s throne room a few short months before. “Highness,” I said.

  “Do get up, my lord,” she told me and I raised my gaze to find her smiling. “We have an appointment I believe.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lyrna

  There were perhaps fifty people waiting on the riverbank as the boat brought her to shore. There was no sign of any ceremony, just a cluster of hard-eyed, somewhat bedraggled people watching the boat approach with either distrust or puzzlement, many curious eyes lingering on the burnt-faced woman in the headscarf. The Shield stood at the prow, eyes fixed on the tall figure in the centre of the group. He seems so pale, Lyrna thought, unable to slow the sudden thump of her heart. At Vaelin’s side stood an athletic young woman with a sword strapped across her back, long auburn hair tied back from a face of near-flawless porcelain, provoking an unwelcome stirring of jealous regret in Lyrna’s breast.