by Anthony Ryan
“Do you question your queen?”
Vaelin grinned a little. “Not openly.” Alturk failed to respond, putting his war club aside and settling his gaze on the fire. Vaelin saw that the years had aged his face if not his body, lines etched deep into the ink around his eyes.
“You should know,” he told the Lonak, “I believe few of us will return from this journey. Those not claimed by the ice may well fall in battle.”
Alturk sat in silence for several minutes, watching the fire with his aged eyes. Finally, as Vaelin made to leave, he said, “A man already dead need fear nothing.”
Two more weeks brought them in sight of the ice, a ribbon of white on the eastern horizon beyond a curving shoreline fringing grey ocean waters. The mountains had begun to diminish in size in recent days until now they were but foothills, mostly bare of greenery and affording little cover to their enemies. The attacks had become more sporadic the farther north they travelled, possibly through simple weariness, though Vaelin suspected the constant attrition exacted by the Sentar to be the main reason. For all their lack of uniformity or soldierly custom they were every bit as disciplined as any company from the Sixth Order, and perhaps nearly as skilled; only two more had been lost since the night raid.
“Faith, that bites!” Lorkan said, wincing at the cutting wind and casting a questioning glance at Cara. “Can’t you do something?”
She confined her response to a disgusted glance and dismounted as Wise Bear arrived with Iron Claw. The horses had grown only partially accustomed to the bear’s presence and the shaman usually travelled at a short remove from the main body of the company, bouncing along on the beast’s back. There was an odd wariness in the Lonak’s attitude to Wise Bear, moving around him with a cautious silence, and he was the only one of the outsiders not required to share a story at the fire.
“Hello you!” Cara said, scratching at Iron Claw’s mighty head, the animal snorting in pleasure and hunkering down at her feet, though his shoulder still reached as high as her chest.
“Need hunt more,” Wise Bear told Vaelin. “More meat.”
“We have meat,” Alturk said. “Enough for a month’s travel at least.”
“Not on ice,” the shaman insisted. “Need more and more.”
“From where?” Alturk gestured at the barren country around them. “There’s nothing to hunt here.”
Wise Bear stared at him for a moment then gave one of his cackling laughs, pointing towards the shoreline. “Sea brings gifts, Painted Man.”
Wise Bear disappeared with Iron Claw for several hours before returning to lead them to a cliff overlooking the bay where the beasts made their home. There were perhaps forty of them crowding the rocky shore, plump, fur-covered bodies flopping around as they squabbled and barked at each other, impressive tusks bared. “What are they?” Lorkan asked, his voice kept to a whisper although they were a considerable distance from the creatures.
“Fur seals,” Dahrena replied. “We have them on the northern shores of the Reaches, though I don’t recall seeing any so big.”
“Big,” Wise Bear agreed with a happy nod. “Big meat to take on ice.”
“It’ll spoil,” Alturk stated. “And we have not the salt to preserve so much.”
Wise Bear replied with a baffled frown and it took some time for Vaelin to translate the meaning. “Spoil, hah. Meat not spoil on ice. Too cold. Just smoke over fire. Keep many many days.” He beckoned to Kiral and started for a narrow track leading to the shore. “We hunt, you build fires.”
They toiled on the shoreline for the best part of another week, building fires and butchering the unfortunate seals at Wise Bear’s instruction. He skinned the first victim with an unconscious and rapid skill, harvesting a complete hide with seemingly only a few strokes of his knife, a feat none of them managed to match despite continued labour. The meat was cut into strips and hung over the fires to smoke whilst the hides were set aside to be cured, the shaman making it clear they would be needed later, his eyes constantly returning to the white line on the horizon.
“Have we made the journey too late?” Vaelin asked him on the last night. They sat together on a rocky outcrop near the shingle beach where the bloody work had been done, Iron Claw happily munching on a pile of entrails nearby.
“Still time.” Wise Bear raised a hand, the thumb and forefinger forming a narrow gap. “Small time.” He glanced over his shoulder at the camp where a crowd of Sentar were listening as Kiral translated Lorkan’s somewhat ribald version of the Woodsman’s Daughter, a cautionary tale of unrequited love involving murder and adultery, though not usually in such quantity or detail.
“Not all make the islands,” Wise Bear went on. “Way of things on the ice. Always takes some, even Bear People.”
“The islands?” Vaelin asked.
“Where we go. Other side of ice. Home of Bear People once.”
“I thought your people lived on the ice?”
Wise Bear shook his head, eyes moving to the ice once more. It seemed to glow, lit by a pale green luminescence in the night sky the Lonak called Grishak’s Breath in honour of their wind god. “Only small times,” Wise Bear said. “Our travel to your land the most time ever on ice for Bear People.”
Vaelin recalled the emaciated, hollow-eyed folk clustered at Steel Water Creek, a nation raised to survive the harshest climes and yet still brought to their knees by the ice. “I would not ask this of any soul,” he said, “if I didn’t know in my heart it must be done.”
CHAPTER SIX
Lyrna
“Are there no words I can speak to dissuade you from this course?”
They had requested the audience early that morning and stood before her now in the throne room, Hera Drakil’s hawk face betraying no emotion whilst Sanesh Poltar at least managed a regretful grimace. “War is won,” he said with a shrug. “The elk herds grow with no one to hunt them, eat all the grass. We are needed on the plains.”
Lyrna turned to the Seordah war chief, speaking in her barely adequate Seordah. “And you, forest brother?”
“We heeded the wolf’s call,” he replied. “Now it fades. The forest calls us home.”
The finest light infantry and cavalry in the world, Vaelin had called them, not assets to be easily lost. “Our enemies will return if we cannot defeat them,” she told them. “And when they do I may not be able to shield you from their savagery.”
“We fought for this land,” Hera Drakil insisted. “We are glad to have done so. The land across the great water is not ours to fight for.”
She knew there was something more behind his words, a faint flicker in his eyes she knew all too well. She recalled the forest people’s discomfort in Lady Dahrena’s presence, their inherent revulsion at what she had done for Vaelin and their intense dislike of the sea. The Seordah saw much when they left the forest, she surmised. And came to know fear.
“You swore no oath to me,” she said. “So I cannot compel your loyalty. And I would be a fool and a liar to claim this Realm would now be free without your help. Please journey home safely, with my thanks, and rest assured the Seordah and Eorhil will enjoy the friendship and protection of the Unified Realm for all the ages.”
They surprised her by bowing, something she had seen neither do before. “If the dark-hearts come back,” Hera Drakil said as he straightened, “we will fight with you again.”
They left at noon, Lyrna watching from the walls as the great mass of Eorhil galloped away north, the Seordah following in their loose tribal formations, some adorned with various trinkets gathered during their sojourn.
“A grievous loss, Highness,” Count Marven commented at her side. “They would have done fine work across the ocean.”
“The Realm Guard is already three times their number,” Lyrna said, striving to ensure her confidence didn’t sound forced. “And not all have left.” She nodded at the Seordah and Eorhil encamped near the gatehouse, perhaps three hundred warriors who had opted to stay. Some had formed close bo
nds with the Realm folk they had met on the march, even a few marriages; she could see Lord Orven’s rapidly blossoming wife moving among the elk-hide shelters. Others had elected to join her crusade in pursuit of justice for the many outrages witnessed during the campaign, the remainder possessed of nothing more than basic curiosity, a desire to see what lay beyond the great water. The Eorhil elder, Wisdom, was chief among the latter. “I find there is always room in my head for more knowledge, Highness,” she had said in answer to Lyrna’s query.
“At least we won’t have to find room for so many horses,” her new Battle Lord continued. “Burdened as we are with the Renfaelin knights and our own cavalry.” He paused, no doubt mustering the nerve to voice unwelcome advice. “Highness, the fleet grows daily but also slowly. Consequently, I believe it may be necessary to send the army in two waves. The first carrying the elite of the Realm Guard and Lady Reva’s archers. They will secure a defensible port whilst the fleet returns for the remainder.”
Lyrna watched the last of the Seordah disappear over a distant rise. She fancied there was a single figure who lingered a moment. Hera Drakil perhaps, or just a warrior looking on a place he never hoped to see again. “Is there a Countess Marven?” she asked. “A family waiting for you in Nilsael?”
“In Frostport, yes. My wife and two sons.”
“You should bring them here. They will be very welcome at court.”
“I doubt that, Highness. My wife is … possessed of a difficult temper. Within a day of her arrival she would be demanding her own palace.”
“Ah.” She turned from the view as the lone Seordah disappeared from sight. “Attacking in small numbers will avail us nothing, my lord. The Volarians have lost many soldiers but their empire is rich in more. We will descend upon them in but one wave, washing their filth from the land in the process.”
“Forgive me, Highness. But we do not possess even half the number of ships required.”
“No,” she agreed. “A state of affairs I expect to see rectified shortly.”
Davoka waited with the horses in the palace courtyard. “It’s done?” Lyrna asked her in Lonak, climbing onto Arrow’s back.
“It was as you foretold,” Davoka replied, her bland expression at odds with her tone.
“Pity.” Lyrna turned Arrow towards the palace gate. “Let us find a welcome distraction.”
Varinshold thrummed with activity as they rode through the streets flanked by Benten and Iltis, people pausing to bow or call out a loyal greeting before hurrying to their tasks. For all its bustle the fabric of the city was scarcely healed, a few newly completed buildings rising from the devastation, and these only plain, functional barracks devoid of aesthetic value. Malcius would have wept, she knew, surveying her capital, now a city of canvas and wood rather than stone. He did so love to build.
The activity was even more intense at the docks. Varinshold was a port city but had traditionally built few ships, most of the Realm’s vessels being the product of the South Tower and Warnsclave yards where thousands now laboured at a frantic pitch to give her the fleet she demanded, though never fast enough. Winter was upon them and no more than a dozen new ships were ready, and these only warships of traditional design. An exasperated Lord Davern had advised that building a vessel on the dimensions she required would demand the construction of a completely new yard. “Then build it, my lord,” she told him simply.
The Queen’s Forge, as it had come to be called, occupied much of the wharf previously taken up by the city’s warehouses, a sprawling collection of smithies and workshops where skilled artisans laboured day and night in ten-hour shifts. They were former apprentices mostly, young enough to run from the slavers who had claimed their masters, many having to be extracted from the ranks of the Realm Guard, often at great protest. As per her strict orders they gave no pause to bow as she entered the Forge, though there were many quick glances of awe or admiration to greet her.
She proceeded through the cacophony of pounding metal and ceaseless saws to the cavernous space where Alornis waited with Lord Davern, and rising behind them the hull of a vessel fully thirty feet high. Lyrna’s gaze tracked over the scaffolding that covered her sides and the wrights working caulking and pitch into the upper seams. “I was given to believe she stood ready to launch, my lord,” she said to Davern.
“Finishing touches only, Highness,” he assured her with a weary bow, turning and extending a hand to the new-born ship. “I give you the Realm’s Pride, one hundred and sixty feet long, forty-five at the beam, a draught of twenty-three and capable of carrying five hundred fully armed Realm Guard the breadth of any ocean.”
“And,” Alornis added in a prim voice, “constructed in only twenty days by less than a hundred men.”
“So,” Lyrna said to Davern. “It worked.”
“Indeed, Highness.” He inclined his head at Alornis. “My initial skepticism seems to have been unfounded.”
Lyrna moved closer to the ship, pausing to take Alornis’s hand, squeezing it tight. “Thank you, my lady. I hereby name you the Queen’s Artificer. Now the ship is done I would ask you turn your mind to the prosecution of the war. We will face great numbers in Volaria, I should be grateful for any devices you can conceive that might even the odds somewhat.”
She felt Alornis’s hand twitch in her grip. “I … know little of weapons, Highness.”
“You knew little of ships yet that seemed to be of scant matter. I await your designs with interest.” She released her hand and turned to Davern. “When does she launch?”
“The evening-tide, Highness. The masts should be fitted within two days.”
“Have copies of the plans sent to the yards in Warnsclave and South Tower. No other design is to be followed from this day on.”
“Yes, Highness.”
Her eyes picked out the lettering on the hull. The Realm’s Pride. Fitting but hardly inspiring. “And change the name,” she added, turning to go. “She’s to be called the King Malcius. I shall provide a list of titles for her sisters.”
The Dead Company was obliged to encamp beyond the city walls. Count Marven had given them a watchtower on the northern headland to guard, a decent remove from many veteran Realm Guard and former slaves keen to settle old scores. She found Al Hestian training his men with customary gentility.
“Get up you worthless shit-eater!” he growled at a prostrate youth, clutching his belly where the Lord Marshal had delivered a blow with the butt of his halberd. “Guts enough to steal but not enough to fight, eh? Let yourself be beaten down by a crippled old man.” He delivered a vicious kick at the boy’s legs as he continued to cower. “Up! Or it’s a flogging!”
Al Hestian straightened as Lyrna guided Arrow closer, ignoring his bow and looking down at the cringing youth. He stared up at her with bright appeal, tears swelling in his eyes. Little more than a boy, she realised. “Your Lord Marshal gave you an order,” she told him quietly, returning his stare and knowing he saw no kindness in her gaze.
The boy got to his feet, fighting tears and sketching a bow. “Sergeant!” Al Hestian barked and a broad-shouldered man came running to his side, saluting smartly. Lyrna recognised him as the knight from the dungeons, the one who had cried when she gave them their lives. “Run this coward until he drops,” Al Hestian told him. “No rum for a week.”
“This one would do well among the Lonakhim,” Davoka commented at Lyrna’s side.
Al Hestian came forward to hold Lyrna’s reins as she dismounted. She could see a new vitality in him, the defeated man from the Traitor’s Nook seemingly replaced by the epitome of a Realm Guard Lord Marshal, which, she reminded herself, he once had been. However, his straightened back and perfect uniform couldn’t mask his eyes; they still told of a man in the midst of grief.
“My lord,” she said, gesturing at the bluffs where Orena and Murel were laying out a table and chairs. “I come to watch my new ship’s first voyage. Would you care to join me?”
He had his men light lanterns
and hang them from poles along the cliff-top, sitting stiffly opposite her as the sun faded and a harsh seaward breeze drew a whisper from the grass. “How do you find your new command, my lord?” Lyrna asked him, accepting a cup of wine from Orena.
“A mixed bag, Highness. Knights seeking to reclaim their honour serving alongside the scum of the Realm. My Blackhawks could have slaughtered them all in a day.”
“Yes, had they not been wiped out of course.” She looked at the wine in her cup, a dark Cumbraelin red, the scent sweet, holding a tinge of mint and blackberry. “Any desertions?”
“Two, Highness. They were recent recruits, witless outlaws in truth, with little notion of how to evade capture. They were easily returned.”
“And flogged, I presume?”
“Hanged, Highness, in front of the whole regiment.” He nodded his thanks at Orena as she poured his wine. “Examples must be set.”
“Quite so. I would prefer not to drink with you,” she added as he made to sip the wine. He hesitated a moment then laid down his cup, his face betraying no sign of offence.
Benten turned back from the cliff-top, pointing towards the harbour. “My Queen.”
Lyrna rose, beckoning Al Hestian to join her. The headland offered an excellent view of the docks where many torches glimmered as people crowded the wharf to watch the birth of the queen’s mighty ship. The Forge had been built with a slipway jutting out into the harbour, the interior glowing bright and bathing the waters in a yellow glow. Even from this distance she could hear the sound of multiple mallets pounding the blocks that held the vessel in place, fading abruptly to be replaced by a huge cheer from the wharf as the great hull slid down the slipway and into the water, her wake shimmering like gold in the torchlight.
“She makes a fine sight, don’t you think?” Lyrna asked Al Hestian, gesturing for Orena to bring more wine.
He watched the ship for a moment, his sunken eyes brightening only a fraction. “An impressive vessel, Highness.”