Heir to the Raven (The Pierced Veil, #1)

by J. Wesley Bush

  Though he struggled at first, Hornbill sat quite still once the garrote was in place. “They’ll kill you if you do this.”

  “I work for Duke Harlowe. He wants the truth. Now tell me about Edine, or you’ll need a smaller codpiece.”

  “What do you want to know? She’s the Young Dowager’s maid.”

  “Where does she come from?”

  “East. From the east. Lockridge lands.”

  “Tell me one of her secrets.”

  “Secrets?”

  Timble gave the garrote a gentle tug. “Everyone has secrets.”

  “Edine’s not the merchant daughter she claims to be,” the man blurted frantically. “She’s higher-born than people think.”

  “Why would she lie?”

  “I don’t know…” the man said, glancing frantically at his ensnared worm. “I don’t know. She was unhappy. Didn’t talk much about her old life.”

  Timble nodded encouragingly. “Answer these last two questions, and I’ll leave. What was her true name and where was she from?”

  Licking his lips nervously, Hornbill hesitated. “Please don’t ask me that. I have my honor.”

  “Honor won’t get you any more children,” Timble said, drawing the garrote until the man grimaced in pain. “Tell me. And I’ll know if you’re lying.”

  “Millicent. Dunno her family name. She’s from Almsport.”

  Timble stared him in the eye, certainly not wanting to look anywhere else. The man was telling the truth. With a smile, Timble unwound the garrote and wiped it clean on the bedding. “You’ve been helpful. All the best to you.”

  He had just reached the ferry when shouts erupted from town. By law, anyone hearing the hue and cry would be grabbing a rake or cudgel and looking for the offender. It was good he wasn’t in town, as a criminal was liable to be lynched before the Watch could seize him. The ferry boatman gave him a querying look. “Any idea what’s the matter?”

  “None at all.”

  Once they reached the castle, Timble went straight to Lady Alethea’s chambers, but the guard turned him away. “The Young Dowager is out riding. I’ll let her know you called, though I can’t say she wants to see you.”

  If he couldn’t explain himself to Lady Alethea, then the next best thing was to be arrested. Better to do it now, while things were calm, than for the guards to come looking for him. He had attacked one of their own, and they were likely to be vindictive. He thrust out his hands. “I’ve assaulted one of the duke’s knights. You should bind me.”

  The guard laughed. “I saw one of you jesters do an escape trick before. Go on though, try that one at dinner. Castellan Chegatay will have my head if he finds me carrying on.”

  “No, truly. I beat Sir Bartram mercilessly and then tortured him. You should bind me.”

  That made the guard hoot. “Away with you. No more jests for now.”

  Exasperated, Timble went down the hall and took a seat on the floor. “I’ll be over here when you want to arrest me.”

  A half hour later, they did.

  Timble spent two days in the bowels of Nineacre Castle before guards dragged him to Lady Alethea’s chambers. A plain chair sat by the window. They bound him to it securely.

  Lady Alethea entered from the side room, her pale Swan face almost glowing in the stark blackness of her veil. A brooch of transmuted opal glittered on her chest. “Before he left, my son informed me you were hired to investigate his father’s death,” she said gravely. “Clearly one more in his string of rash choices. Before I flog you and slit your pug little nose, please explain why you terrorized Sir Bartram.”

  “Bartram was diddling your lady’s maid. He had information about her.”

  “And why would that matter?”

  “Edine Langton is witness against Sosmun. If she’s playing false, then perhaps Lockridge arrested the wrong man. Duke Harlowe hired me to find his father’s killer.”

  “Edine has suffered much in life. A storm took her merchant husband and both her sons. She came to me penniless and hungry, and has served faithfully for three years. I won’t have her name sullied.” She looked ready to dump him out the window.

  “Her name is Millicent and she’s no merchant’s wife.” He flinched as Lady Alethea raised her fist in a very unladylike way. “I swear it! Got it from her lover’s own lips. She’s noble.”

  “It’s a lie.” Perhaps she sounded a bit less certain.

  “Let me investigate,” Timble said, doing his best to sound reasonable rather than panicked. “Almsport is no great city. If a noblewoman named Millicent went missing, I’ll learn of it.”

  “Sir Bartam told you this?”

  “By my pug little nose, I swear he did. Look, I despise the magus. I want him disgraced and hanged. But I gave your son my word, your ladyship.”

  Alethea’s stare was like taking a bath on glacier during a blizzard. Yet somehow colder. “One month. Return with news in one month or I’ll set a bounty on you.”

  CHAPTER 29

  I t had been weeks since Father died, but Helaena still felt the weight of loss. Even if she could forget the pain of his death, the constant stream of refugees past Castle Dexter was sufficient horror on its own, each family bearing tales of rapine and murder.

  Lord Dexter marshaled his forces well, and they destroyed no less than five warbands, but it was like trying to stop the fog from rolling in. Two full tribes pillaged the frontier: the Green Leapers and the Haunts. Vyr tribes took the name of an underfaie totem, and each marched with one of their namesakes. Survivors told of the freakish speed of the green leaper as it tore men apart, and the chilling, lethal howl of the haunt.

  Gatchena Village was the latest victim, and the closest the Vyr had thus far dared to advance. According to the bird that Lord Dexter received, the entire Haunt Tribe had taken part in the attack. Dexter’s troops had immediately set out in pursuit, and they had ridden hard for most of day. They might even have overtaken the Haunts, but the Vyr chieftain was cunning, and retreated past Mount Kurban.

  The mountain was taboo for the Jandari, as far out as the volcano had belched its black, spongy-looking rocks, for it was where pagan Jandari had once sacrificed to the false god Tengra-Nu. Circumventing it had cost precious hours, and as night fell they were still two miles short of the Haunt’s camp.

  For now, the army clustered around fires of dried animal dung, boiling millet with bits of smoked meat. Nearby flowed the narrow Slipstone River, which they had followed most of the day. A voice shouted from the center of camp, calling all century leaders and above to Lord Dexter. “Saafi, take over,” she said, handing the ladle to her friend. “Olha will want me there.”

  Helaena was a half-century leader in the Third Century, the Caracals, under the command of Olha Lightfoot. Olha was a commoner, and something of a legend among the bowmaids, but she was shy around nobles and usually brought Helaena to war councils.

  Saafi slurped a bit of the porridge and grimaced. “Tell them my idea about a night attack.”

  “Lord Dexter is tired — he’s over forty! He won’t want to flounder about in the dark.”

  Olha had saved her a spot near the fire. The detachment commanders were already in place. Sir Doran Hornebolt sat as straight as a bargepole, staring into the fire, as did Canoness Judit. Elder Tagnik rocked silently in prayer – light lancers from the villages had chosen him as leader. Mayor Andrel, meanwhile, looked out of place. He was city-born, soft-chinned, and led the three centuries of mounted crossbowmen from the towns.

  “Is this spot taken?”

  Helaena looked up to see Prince Lyle, his froggy face creased in a smile. “Not at all. I see they let you out of your plate.”

  “Thank heavens for that. Half of us are sleeping in armor in case of a nighttime raid. Wish Dexter would begin so we could get some sleep.” He crowded into the small space beside her, close enough that their knees touched. “I got a letter yesterday by courier.”

  “Word from your father?”

 
; “Yes. We should talk after the council.”

  Lord Dexter arrived soon after, still in full plate. If he was tired, Helaena could see no sign of it, his mouth set grimly beneath the grand mustache. “Our scouts to the west report the Green Leapers are rushing to the aid of the Haunt Tribe.” Shocked voices greeted the news. Helaena considered the numbers and felt a chill in her bones.

  “We must give battle at the first trace of dawn,” Dexter continued. “Our only hope is to defeat the two tribes in detail. Together, their numbers will overwhelm us.”

  “Should we attack now?” asked Mayor Andrel. A few heads nodded in agreement.

  “No.” Canoness Judit tossed a piece of dung into the fire, setting sparks whirling. “The Haunts alone outnumber us. The only advantage we have is discipline and training. Blundering about in the dark will rob us of even this.”

  “And our horses are exhausted, while the Haunt Tribe’s are fresh. Riding our mounts to death will leave us defenseless when the Green Leapers come,” Helaena said, then covered her mouth. “Excuse me for speaking out of turn.”

  “Wisdom knows no rank,” Lord Dexter said, giving a rare smile. “A true Jandari always thinks first of his mount.” He took a stick and began drawing in the dirt, sketching a wavy line. “We will have the Slipstone on our left flank tomorrow, providing some protection when the Green Leapers arrive.” He drew two small boxes to the right and left, and a long box in the center.

  “A century and a half of bowmaids will serve on each of our flanks, along with a century of light lancers. Our crossbowmen, of course, will dismount and form the center.” He drew a rectangle behind the center. “Heavy cavalry will remain in reserve and watch for the Vyr to commit their Pangolins.” Lastly, he sketched a circle at the far rear. “Packhorses and relief mounts will remain behind the reserves, guarded by the remainder of the bowmaids.”

  “I hope my tithe isn’t left watching the baggage,” Helaena whispered to Lyle.

  “Canoness Judit,” Lord Dexter continued, “have the bowmaids select ten ponies. They should tie well-oiled torches to their tails and hold the mounts in reserve. If God is merciful, we will never need to light them.” He crossed his arms. “Are there questions?”

  “What about the haunt?” Elder Tagnik asked. “It melted our courage like sizzling fat at Little Astrup.”

  “If we plug our ears with waxed cotton, its howling will be awful, but bearable,” Lord Dexter replied. “And we have three spears and a lance tipped with sky-iron. Sir Doran, I entrust you with the lance.” The other knight inclined his head gravely. “Battle will soon be upon us. Go rest.”

  Disobeying the command, Helaena and Prince Lyle slipped down by the river and rested their feet in cool water. “What news?” she asked him, worried that civil war had already come.

  Lyle turned to face her, hesitating a moment. “Duke Lockridge has arrested your father’s murderer.”

  Helaena swallowed, not trusting her voice. “Who did it?”

  “Tancred the Magus.”

  Hot tears burned her eyes. “That can’t be true.” Her fingers dug into the soft mud of the riverbank. “Not Tancred.”

  “I have few details, but your mother’s maid speaks against him and Lockridge claims other evidence.”

  “It’s so hard to believe,” she said, grinding the mud between her fingers. “What would he gain from killing the king? Your father was always good to him.”

  “There’s more. My father has commanded me to return to Chimkant.”

  “He really is going to war against my brother. You’re going to war.”

  Lyle shook his head fiercely. “I serve the kingdom and the true war is here. This is idiocy.” He shrugged sadly. “I sent a refusal with the courier, calling for peace, but I know the old fool won’t listen to me.”

  Helaena washed her hands in the water, working to get emotions in check. “You shouldn’t speak of your father that way.”

  “I love my father, I do. It’s the only reason I’m not riding off to join your brother.” Lyle stood, brushing off his trousers. “We should get some sleep before morning.” He helped Helaena to her feet. “I’ll keep trying to reason with my father.”

  Impulsively, Helaena reached up and gave his neck a squeeze. “Thank you for your friendship,” she whispered. “I know what this is costing you.”

  Lyle returned the embrace. “Be safe tomorrow.” With a courtly flourish, he set off for his detachment.

  Helaena got little sleep. Vyr skirmishers harassed the sentries throughout the night, causing signal horns to blow every time she nodded off. It felt like she had just fallen asleep when Saafi shook her awake. “Ready to feather some Vyr?”

  “Always.”

  Helaena rolled the bedding and then took stock of her tithe. Berna and Delia were cleaning their teeth, swirling a bit of white wine then scrubbing with the mashed end of twigs. Gulferi, a yeoman’s daughter, was already armored and helping pull the laces tight on little Maryse Hurst’s jack of plates. Maryse would need watching in the coming battle. She was green as fresh clover. “Where are the others?”

  “With the horses. Willa, Safren, Nerise and Gwyn pulled last watch, so they were already up.”

  Helaena ate a quick breakfast, and then she and Saafi helped each other don armor. Compared to the knights, bowmaids fought light, wearing blouses and trousers of bluebuck hide, padded jerkins filled with steel plates, skirting of steel-lined leather strips, and boiled leather guards for the thighs and upper arms. Most wore chain coifs on the head, though a few preferred open-faced helms. They carried no shields, leaving hands free for horsebows and sabers.

  She and Saafi ran to the horselines and a few minutes later Dexter ordered the army forward. This time, the Haunt Tribe was no longer fleeing, instead forming on a nearby hill, with only a shallow vale between them. The Slipstone River ran along the western flank, lined with bushy myrrh plants and blackthorn trees. That was bad. The Green Leapers would be coming from the west and those damned trees could hide their arrival.

  Helaena pushed that worry aside, instead focusing on the mass of Haunts covering the opposite hill. Clustered in rough approximation of flanks and center, they were otherwise a mob, light lancers and horsebowmen clustered together in a howling, frenzied throng. The one curious thing was that they wore identical coats of padded armor and rounded steel helms in place of their usual buckskins. Was Leax supplying them?

  At their core was perhaps a century of heavy horse, both men and mounts covered in steel-scale armor. Those were the tribal chief’s Pangolins, so-named because they resembled the scaly anteaters. Helaena looked for the shamans, but none were to be seen. They were likely behind the hill, reading the omens and imploring their harsh god for victory. The haunt would be with them — half pet, half godling.

  “Deploy for battle!” Lord Dexter yelled, voice barely audible over the ululations of the Vyr. His standard bearer repeated the command by whirling the flag twice. They couldn’t rely on signaling horns, not once the haunt began howling. The militiamen dismounted and pulled heavy crossbows and tall, wicker pavise shields from the backs of their mounts.

  “Third Century! Sixth through tenth tithes, on me!” Helaena called, guiding her horse toward the left flank, where her fifty maids joined the First Century. Olha Lightfoot took the rest of the Third to the right flank. Each tithe lined up in column. Once they were in place, Helaena gave her final, shouted command, “Plug your ears, girls!” She pulled two balls of waxed cotton from a waist pouch and stuffed them in her ears.

  She checked to make sure her tithe had done the same and gave Saafi an encouraging smile. Then there was nothing left to do but wait for the signal to advance. She divided her attention between the enemy and Dexter’s tawny eagle battle flag. The Vyr were working themselves into a frenzy, the chieftain riding in front of his men, gesticulating wildly while the warriors slammed sword and shield together in time with their chanting. She knew enough of their tongue to make out the words. A dead enemy smell
s sweet! This tapered off and they began howling in imitation of the haunt.

  It was only then that Helaena realized a battle was coming. A pitched battle, not the grassland skirmishes of the past. Fifty souls depended on her. The thumping in her chest suddenly made it hard to breathe. High King help me, she prayed fervently. Her hand brushed over Addison’s scarf for reassurance. Buttermilk sensed her nervousness, or else the shouting frightened the pony, for she tossed her head, ears pinned back. “It’s all right,” Helaena cooed, stroking the powerful neck. “We’re all right…” At least Buttermilk wouldn’t be harmed by the haunt. Those with experience said it only affected humans, and only those the haunt targeted, though no one knew why.

  Dexter’s battle flag inclined first to the right flank, then the left, and then dipped repeatedly toward the enemy at high speed. The First Tithe commander raised her bow overhead and twisted it in the air, signaling the naga formation. As they had trained so many times before in the hippodrome, five columns of bowmaids charged the enemy, with Helaena’s half-century at the rear of the formation. All called out the ancient battlecry, Uukhoi!

  At precisely the same moment, the five column leaders broke to the left, running across the enemy’s front and loosing arrows. The columns followed like snakes behind, releasing clouds of arrows among the Vyr. The maneuver maximized their rate of fire, while providing the enemy with moving targets. Jandari lancers hovered nearby, in case the Vyr gave chase.

  Buttermilk pivoted nimbly when the time came. Helaena held firm with her thighs, raising the bow and loosing a shot into the mass of Vyr. The ruddy dust of a hundred charging ponies filled her nose and eyes and there was no hope of aiming. She fired two more arrows in rapid succession before it was time to box once more, returning to the safety of the Jandari hill. The enemy’s response fell among them as they retreated. A shaft flew past Helaena, lost to the dust cloud. She clutched tight to the reins as Buttermilk vaulted over a fallen pony. She caught only a glimpse of a broken figure beneath the animal before the swirl of battle carried her on.

  They reformed at the top of the hill, repeated the circling attack thrice more, and then gave their winded mounts a rest. Perhaps a dozen bowmaids lay dead on the field. Thankfully, none were from her tithe.