Queen of Fire

Verniers’ Account

In contrast to my first voyage aboard this ship I found myself provided with a cabin, once occupied by the first mate who had perished at the Battle of the Teeth. Our captain stated loudly to his threadbare crew that he had yet to find a worthy replacement and I might as well have it since none of these dogs deserved the honour. The welcoming prospect of ship-borne comfort, however, was diminished by his insistence that I share the space with my former owner.

“She’s your prisoner, scribe,” he stated. “You guard her.”

“To what end?” I enquired, gesturing at the surrounding ocean. “To where is she likely to escape, pray tell?”

“Might damage the ship,” he replied with a shrug. “Might throw herself to a passing shark. Either way, she’s your responsibility and I’ve no hands spare to watch her.”

“It’s a small bed,” she observed as the cabin door slammed shut behind us. “Still, I don’t mind sharing.”

I pointed to a corner of the cabin. “Your place is there, mistress. If you’re quiet, I might spare you a blanket.”

“Or what?” she asked, pointedly sitting on the narrow bunk. “Will you flog me? Bend me to your will with cruel torment?”

She smiled and I turned away, going to a small map table set into the woodwork below the porthole. “There are a dozen men on this ship who will happily mete out all the correction you require,” I said, reaching into my bag and extracting the first scroll to hand.

“I’ve no doubt,” she agreed. “Will you watch? My dear husband liked to watch when the slave girls were whipped. He’d often pleasure himself at the sight. Will you do the same, my lord?”

I sighed, biting down a response and unfurling the scroll. An Illustrated Catalogue of Volarian Ceramics, Brother Harlick’s precise but overly florid letters provoking me to an amused grunt. Even the man’s script is pompous. Although I couldn’t pretend any liking for the brother, I had to concede Harlick’s draughtsmanship was excellent, the illustrations possessed of a flawless exactitude, the first depicting a hunting scene from a vase dating back some fifteen hundred years, naked spearmen pursuing a stag through pine forest.

“Ceramics,” Fornella said, peering over my shoulder. “You think the Ally’s origins lurk in pots, my lord?”

I didn’t look up from the scroll. “When studying an age often bereft of writing, decorative illustration can be highly informative. If you can enlighten me as to another course, I would be grateful.”

“How grateful?” she asked, leaning close, breath soft on my ear.

I merely shook my head and returned to the scroll as she laughed and moved away. “You really have no interest in women at all, do you?”

“My interest in women varies according to the woman in question.” I unfurled the scroll further, finding more hunting scenes, some images of ritual worship, various gods, and creatures of bizarre design.

“I can help,” she said. “I… would like to.”

I turned, finding her expression cautious but earnest. “Why?”

“We have a long voyage ahead. And whatever you may suspect of my motives, I am keen to see this mission succeed.”

I looked again at the image on the scroll, naked revellers frolicking before a great ape-like creature, mouth agape and vomiting fire. Kethian jug fragment, read the inscription below the image. Pre-Imperial.

“When exactly,” I asked her, “did the Volarians give up their gods?”

“It was all long before my birth,” she said, “long before my mother’s birth in fact. But she was ever a studious woman and keen for me to learn the history of our most glorious empire.”

We had repaired to the deck, sitting near the prow as she spoke and I scribbled my notes. The captain had growled something at our appearance but made no protest and the crew seemed happy to ignore us, bar a few hostile glances at Fornella.

“The empire may speak with one tongue now,” she went on, “and follow the Council’s edicts be they denizens of the greatest city or the foulest swamp. But it was not always so.”

“I know your empire was forged in war,” I said. “Many wars in fact, lasting some three centuries.”

“Quite so, but whilst the Forging Age left us with an empire, true unity eluded us for centuries to come. There were too many different coins with too many different values. Too many languages spoken by too many tongues. And far too many gods. My mother used to say that men would fight and kill for money, but they would only die for their gods. For the empire to endure we required that kind of loyalty, untainted by any divine distraction. And so there were more wars, called the Wars of Persecution by some, but Imperial historians refer to the entire period as the Great Cleansing, a sixty-year trial of blood and torture. Whole provinces were laid waste and entire peoples took flight, some to the northern hills, others across the sea to found new nations free of Volarian persecution. But, for all we lost, it was this that truly birthed the empire, for this is when we became a nation of slavers.

“There had always been slaves, of course, mostly in the Volarian heartland, but now there were more, conquered for refusing to give up their gods, beaten, cowed and bred so successive generations forgot them altogether. To marshal such a resource requires two things: great organisation and vast cruelty. I often think it was these particular traits the Ally found so alluring. After all, we must have been chosen for a reason.”

“Do you know when he made himself known?”

“I know not whether the Ally is male, or even truly human. My mother told of a time, near four centuries’ years ago, when the empire was strong in its unity. War with the Alpirans was nothing new but it took on a new intensity, the battles grew in size, the campaigns lasted years instead of months, though victory still eluded us. Eventually the Alpirans became tired of our endless attacks and launched one of their own, overrunning the southern provinces in a matter of months. Crisis has a tendency to reveal noteworthy talent and thus it was that a young general from the southern city of Mirtesk rose to prominence, a general with a revolutionary notion, and the means to make it happen. If our slaves could build our cities and work our fields, why not also fight our wars? And so, via his new-found knowledge, we created the Varitai and Kuritai. Through tactical genius and prodigious use of his slave soldiers, our new general won eternal fame by driving the Alpirans back. He was lauded the length and breadth of the empire, statues were raised in his honour, epics composed by our finest scholars to document his wondrous life.”

Fornella paused, her lips forming a wry smile, though her eyes betrayed a sadness I hadn’t seen before. “But it was not a normal life. For our young general stayed young, whilst his fellow officers grew old and withered around him, he stayed young.”

“He was the first,” I said.

“Indeed. The first Volarian blessed by the Ally’s voice, or, I assume, the first he sent one of his creatures to seduce. But his gifts didn’t end with the secret of binding slaves so completely they would fight and die at their masters’ command. No, he had more to offer, the greatest gift of all. It was from him the Council learned the secret of endless life, at the Ally’s behest of course. And, over time, they all made themselves its creatures. The general became the Ally’s voice on the Council, speaking softly at first, guiding rather than commanding, hinting at the great task it had chosen for the empire. Although, as the years passed, the general’s behaviour became ever more erratic.

“My mother said she met him once, at a feast held in his honour. My family is, as you may understand, vastly wealthy and has held a Council Seat since the empire’s earliest days. I asked my mother what he was like and she laughed, ‘Quite dreadfully mad,’ she said, ‘though I hear his daughter is worse.’”

“His daughter?” I asked.

Fornella pulled her woollen shawl tighter about her shoulders, the sadness fading into fearful remembrance. “Yes, a daughter. I met her too, once. One meeting was more than sufficient.”

“Are they like you? The general and his daughter, do they still live?”

“The general’s madness grew with the centuries, his hunger for victory over the Alpirans becoming a madman’s obsession, birthing a calamitous defeat. The Council, by now all recipients of the Blessing and advised by the Ally’s other lieutenants that the general’s glorious career should reach a conclusion, employed their chief assassin to provide one. If what the queen says is true, however, she may well have met her end alongside King Malcius.”

“The general’s daughter? She killed her own father?”

“She’s taken countless lives the breadth of this world, my lord. If we’re fortunate, she’ll plague us no more. But I increasingly find fortune to be a rare commodity.”

“Does your mother still live? Did she also take the Ally’s Blessing?”

She shook her head, raising her gaze to meet mine, smiling fondly. “No. She grew old and she died, though I begged her to join me in this new age of limitless life. She alone knew the true nature of the bargain we had struck, though none would listen to her. She knew what drew the Ally, if not what had birthed it.”

“And what is it? What draws it?”

“Power. That’s how the first were chosen, not those with the greatest wealth, but those with the most influence, the greatest sway in Council. Because it happened over decades rather than years, only one being chosen to receive his bounteous gift in every dozen years, it seemed the choosing was random, the whim of a being as close to a god as any could be. But my mother lived long enough to see the pattern. Every bargain struck increased its hold on us, every gift bestowed made us more its servants.

“She said just one word the last time I was permitted near her, before she ordered me barred from her house. She was nearly ninety years in age, just a tiny collection of bone and skin in a very large bed. But her mind had never faded and her eyes were so very bright, and though she could only speak in whispers, I heard it, clear and true, though at the time I thought it just the final croak of a bitter old woman.”

She fell silent, gazing off towards the southern horizon where a heavy cloud bank could be seen, signalling an uncomfortable night, not that I expected to sleep much lying by her side. There was more grey in her hair now, I saw, watching it swirl in the wind.

“Just one word,” she said in a faint voice. “‘Slave.’”

As I had predicted, sleep proved elusive. The sea grew turbulent come nightfall, the wind rising to lash the clouded glass of the porthole with rain and howl through the myriad channels in the fabric of this ship. Fornella lay on her back, breathing slow and regular. I lay on my side, turned towards the hull. I had removed my shoes but was otherwise fully clad whilst she was naked, sloughing off her clothes without the slightest flicker of embarrassment, slipping into the bed beside me as I turned my back. We lay in silence for the better part of an hour, robbed of rest by the wind and the sheer oddness of our circumstance.

Finally, she said, “Do you hate me, my lord?”

“Hatred requires passion,” I replied.

“Ah, The Cantos of Gold and Dust, verse twenty. Don’t you think it a trifle conceited to constantly quote your own work?”

“The verse was drawn from an ancient ode sung by the tribes of the western mountains. As noted in my introduction.”

She gave a soft laugh. “So I do not stir your passion? Hardly surprising, given your preferences. Still, a woman accustomed to male admiration can’t help but feel somewhat slighted.” I felt her shift behind me, moving to lie on her side. “Who was he? The man you said you loved?”

“I will not discuss that with you.”

Something in my tone must have held sufficient warning because she gave a sigh of amused frustration before persisting. “I may have something to stir your passion, at least as far as it relates to your lust for knowledge. A small nugget of information concerning the Ally.”

I gritted my teeth, hard, wondering if I didn’t in fact hate her after all. I sat up, turning to find her regarding me with head tilted on her pillow, the gloom sufficient to hide all but the gleam of her eyes. “Then tell me,” I said.

“The name,” she insisted.

I rose, turning my back to swing my legs off the bed. “Seliesen Maxtor Aluran,” I said.

I had expected laughter, cruel and mocking, but instead her tone was calmly reflective. “The Hope of the Alpiran Empire, slain by the very man who destroyed my darling husband’s army. My people do not hold to notions of fate, the concept of invisible forces moving to shape our destiny is anathema to a people cleansed of superstition. But there are times when I wonder…”

I felt her shift again, her warm nakedness pressing against my back, resting her head against my shoulder. There was no desire in the way she held to me, at least none I could sense, just a need for closeness. “My sorrow for your loss, honoured sir,” she said in formal Alpiran. “My brother is the longest serving member of the Volarian High Council, so he knows the Ally’s schemes better than most, and even he is blind to their true nature, their ultimate purpose. However, its servants have often spoken of a man, endless in years like us, but not in thrall to the blood of the Gifted. A man who has lived many lifetimes and walked around the world more than once. The Ally is drawn to power, as I said, and what greater power is there, than the defeat of death itself?”

“It seeks him?”

“Indeed, but never has it found him.”

“And he has a name, this endless man?”

“A thousand, changed with every lifetime as he passes from nation to nation. One of the Ally’s creatures, the one they call the Messenger, caught his scent some fifteen years ago in the Unified Realm. He was calling himself Erlin.”

CHAPTER ONE Lyrna

It took some time to find her garden, the ruins having been cleared by Darnel’s slaves to make way for his architectural ambitions, leaving only an outline of stunted brick and bare earth where flowers had once grown. Strangely, her bench was still intact, if somewhat blackened. She sat surveying the wasted remnants of the vanished refuge she had cherished. It was here she had led Vaelin that night, winning his enmity with her clumsy intrigues but learning a lesson in the process; some eyes will always see through a mask. Here also she had spent those delightful hours with Sister Sherin after securing her release from the Blackhold, the healer’s innate kindness and sparkling intellect dispelling jealousy, for the most part. Lyrna remembered finding friendship an enjoyable if brief novelty and, when Sherin sailed away to Linesh, she had stopped coming here. The secluded courtyard no longer felt like a welcoming haven, just an empty corner of a palace where a lonely woman nursed flowers and schemes whilst she waited for her father to die.

“Ler-nah!”

She raised her gaze in time to catch a glimpse of a tall figure striding towards her before Davoka’s embrace forced the air from her lungs and pulled her from the bench, her feet coming free of the ground as she was crushed into the Lonak woman’s chest. Lyrna heard the pounding of boots accompanied by swords scraping free of scabbards. “Unhand our Queen, savage!” Iltis snarled.

Davoka ignored him, releasing Lyrna after a final crushing squeeze, clasping her head in both hands. She was smiling, something Lyrna found she couldn’t remember her doing before. “I thought I had lost you, sister,” she said in Lonak, fingers tracing over her face, from her brow to the rapidly growing red-gold locks beyond. “He said you burned.”

“I did.” Lyrna clasped her hands and kissed them, nodding reassurance at Iltis and Benten, who sheathed their swords, retreating with bows and bemused expressions. “I still do, sister.”

Davoka stepped back, a certain tense reluctance showing in her gaze before she spoke again, slipping into Realm Tongue with practised ease. “Brother Frentis…”

Lyrna turned away from her, Davoka falling silent at the sudden sharpness in her expression. Mention of the famed Red Brother had been frequent since her arrival the previous evening, amongst the first words spoken by her Battle Lord on disembarking at the docks, as well as a heartfelt entreaty from Aspect Elera and a clipped request for mercy from Brother Sollis. She had given the same answer to each of them, the same answer she gave Davoka now. “Judgement will be rendered in due course.”

“We fought together in the forest before it burned,” Davoka went on. “We are gorin. He is my brother as you are my sister.”

The Volarian woman’s red tears, the searing pain as her hair caught alight… Lyrna closed her eyes against the memories, feeling the breeze on her skin, her healed, unmarred skin. Healed? she asked herself. Is that what I am?

The night before she had watched Alucius on the fire. She had spoken briefly beforehand, formally naming him Sword of the Realm, his sigil to be a pen and a wine cup, for she knew it would have made him laugh. Lady Alornis stepped forward to add her voice, face pale and expressionless but with tears streaming from her eyes as her brother laid comforting hands on her shoulders.

“Alucius Al Hestian…” she began, faltered then continued in a broken voice, “… will be called a… hero by many. A poet by others, and…” she paused to form a faint smile, “overfond of wine by some. I will always call him… simply, my friend.”

Lakrhil Al Hestian had been permitted to attend, standing by, hollow-eyed and silent in his chains. He made no speech and stared at the rising flames with dry eyes. Lyrna allowed him to remain until the fire burned down to embers then ordered him returned to the dungeons, now crowded with other traitors awaiting the queen’s justice.

Justice. She had watched the smoke blossom on the pyre, concealing Alucius’s face and sparing her the sight of the flames consuming his flesh. What justice would I have shown you, old friend? Spy, traitor to the Realm, and now hero of Varinshold’s liberation. My father would have made show of forgiveness, lauded you with titles and gold, then, after a decent interval, had one of his hidden talents ensure a suitably accidental end. I would have been far crueler, Alucius. I would have made you follow me, stand witness as I administered full justice to our enemies, and for that, I know you would have hated me.

The clouds above must have parted for she felt a blush of warmth on her head, her new-grown hair no doubt making a fine sight as it shimmered, the sensation pleasant and free of the tear-inducing agony she recalled from her days on the Sea Sabre. Healed? she wondered again. You can remake a mask but the face beneath still lingers.

She opened her eyes and her gaze lit on something, a small yellow flower emerging from between two shattered flagstones. Lyrna crouched, reaching out to touch a finger to the petals. “Winter-bloom,” she said. “Always the clearest signal of changing seasons. Ice and snow come, sister, bringing hardship but also respite, for no fleet will sail the ocean whilst winter storms rage.”

“You think they will come again?” Davoka asked. “When the ocean calms?”

“I’m certain of it. This war is far from over.”

“Then you will need every sword, every ally.”

Lyrna looked at the winter-bloom again, resisting the urge to pluck it and resolving to plant a new garden here in time, one without walls. She rose, meeting Davoka’s gaze and speaking in formal Lonak. “Servant of the Mountain, I have need of your spear. Will you wield it in service to my purpose? Think well before you answer for our road is long and I offer no promise of a return to the Mountain.”

Davoka’s reply betrayed no hint of hesitation. “My spear is yours, sister. For now and always.”

Lyrna nodded her thanks, beckoning to Iltis and Benten. “Then you had best meet your brothers. Try not to kill Lord Iltis, his manner can be somewhat provoking.”

Karlin Al Jervin stood as straight as his somewhat bent back would allow. Lyrna remembered him as a cheerful, pot-bellied fellow with a shiny bald head, less inclined to obsequiousness than many of his fellow nobles and not one to linger at court longer than his business required. Slavery and hard labour, however, seemed to have robbed him of humour and belly alike. His cheeks were hollowed and his eyes sunken, though he met Lyrna’s gaze with admirable composure. His daughter, however, was less well attuned to royalty and fidgeted as she stood before the throne, an appreciable gap between her and her father. Lady Illian wore a hunter’s garb, buckskin trews, and a light cotton blouse, stained brown and green to hide her in the forest, her hair cropped so it wouldn’t encumber her eyes. A dagger sat in a sheath strapped to her ankle with another at her wrist. Despite her martial accoutrements she still seemed very young as she squirmed under the scrutiny of those present and avoided her father’s glares. Behind her stood Brother Commander Sollis and Davoka, whilst Lord Al Jervin stood alone.

Lyrna had been quick to discard the garish monstrosity Darnel called a throne in favour of a comfortable straight-backed chair retrieved from one of the abandoned merchants’ houses, and found herself grateful for the depth of the cushion beneath the royal posterior. She had been hearing petitions for some four hours now and could only marvel at the lingering pettiness of people fortunate enough to survive such a savage occupation. They came with complaints of theft against vanished neighbours, claims of inheritance for property now naught but ash, appeals for restitution of lordly status, and a plethora of other trivia that shortened her patience by the hour. However, not all claims were petty, or easily resolved.

“Brother Sollis,” Lyrna said. “You must admit, Lord Al Jervin makes several valid points. This is all very unusual.”

“Forgive me, Highness,” the Brother Commander replied in his customary rasp, “but I doubt anything in this Realm could now be termed as ‘usual.’”

“My knowledge of your Order’s history is hardly copious, but I believe there has never been a sister of the Sixth Order. And are not recruits normally inducted at a much younger age? Circumstance may have forced us to forget some custom in the face of necessity, but this is a radical step indeed.”

“There is provision in the Order’s tenets to allow for older recruits, Highness. Master Rensial, for example, came to us as a former captain in the Realm Guard cavalry. As for Lady Illian’s gender, war has provided ample evidence that our custom in this regard may require modification.”

“Are our laws to be cast aside now, Highness?” Al Jervin spoke up, once again glaring at Illian. “The Sixth Order cannot just take a man’s daughter.”

“They aren’t taking me!” Illian responded hotly, then flushed and lowered her gaze as Lyrna turned to her. “Your pardon, Highness.”

“Lady Illian,” Lyrna said, “is it truly your wish to join the Sixth Order?”

The girl drew breath and raised her head, speaking in a clear and certain tone. “It is, Highness.”

“Despite your father’s objections? His well-founded fears for your safety?”

Illian glanced at Al Jervin, her expression sorrowful and her voice low. “I love my father, Highness. I thought him dead for so long, finding him alive when the city fell was wondrous. But I am not the daughter he lost, nor can I be. I am fashioned by war into something else, a role I believe ordained for me by the Departed.”

“She is a child!” Al Jervin stated, his face reddening. “By the laws of this Realm her status and condition are mine to decide until her majority.” He quailed a little as Lyrna met his gaze, refusing to look away but adding “Highness,” in a strained whisper.

“Lady Davoka has told me much of your daughter, my lord,” Lyrna said. “By all accounts she has served with great distinction in the struggle to free this Realm. She stands before me now the author of many well-deserved ends suffered by our enemies. According to the Sixth Order’s tenets she is vouched for by a subject of good character and Brother Sollis is willing to accept her, setting aside ancient custom and the usual tests in recognition of her evident skill and courage. As a Sister she will no doubt provide even greater service to the Realm and the Faith. Whilst you, my lord, apparently spent the entire war carving fatuous art for the traitor Darnel.”

Al Jervin flinched but managed to control his tone as he responded, “I hear rumour Your Highness was also made a slave by our enemies. If so, I’m sure you know well the shame of performing a hated act in pursuit of survival.”

Iltis bridled, stepping forward and speaking in ominous tones. “Caution your tongue, my lord.”

Al Jervin gritted his teeth, pausing before speaking on, his voice coarse and fighting a choke. “Highness, I have no house, no wealth, no pride left. My daughter is all that remains to me. I ask you to cleave to our laws and prevent her taking this mad course.”

This is not injured pride, Lyrna decided. He simply wants to keep her alive. A good man, and a builder with skills much needed when peace comes. She looked again at Illian, watching her reveal a set of perfect white teeth as she smiled at an encouraging nod from Davoka. Beautiful, but so is a hawk, and for now I have more need of hawks than builders.

“Lady Illian,” she said, gesturing for one of the three scribes present to formally record a Royal Pronouncement, “Under the Queen’s Word I hereby strip you of all rank and set aside your father’s authority. As a free subject of this Realm you may choose any path open to you by law.”

She had been surprised to find the council chamber mostly intact, though there was a sizeable gap in the west-facing wall, the tapestry that covered it flapping in the breeze. In a break with custom Lyrna had requested the two surviving Aspects attend the Council, formally appointing Aspect Elera as Minister of Royal Works and Dendrish as Minister of Justice. Neither her father nor her brother had ever appointed an Aspect to an official position and there had been some notable apprehension among the other council members.

Never give them an inch more than you have to, her father had once said of the Faith. I tied the Crown to them to win the Realm, but if I could, I’d sever them from me like a diseased limb. Lyrna however, felt time had taught a different lesson. Aspect Tendris’s diatribes against her brother’s toleration of Denier beliefs had done much to weaken the Realm, but his power had been limited by the closeness of the other Orders to the Crown. Your mistake wasn’t in binding to them, Father. It was in not binding them tight enough.

“As in Warnsclave, more people arrive by the day,” Brother Hollun reported, seated on Lyrna’s left. “The civil population of Varinshold now stands at over fifty thousand. We can expect the figure to double within the month.”

“Can we feed so many?” Vaelin asked him.

“With careful rationing,” Brother Hollun said. “And continued supply from our Alpiran friends and Fief Lord Darvus’s provision of Nilsaelin produce. The winter months will be hard but none should starve.”

“How stands the army, my lord?” Lyrna asked Vaelin.

“With our new recruits, Baron Banders’s knights and common folk, we will have eighty thousand men and women under arms before the year’s end.”

“We need more.” Lyrna turned to Lord Marshal Travick. “Tomorrow I will draft an edict of conscription, all Realm subjects of fighting age will be inducted into the Realm Guard. Train them hard, my lord.” She switched her gaze to Lady Reva. “The edict will extend to all fiefs, my lady. I trust you have no objection.”

The Lady Governess maintained a neutral expression but Lyrna saw she was carefully phrasing her response. “For myself Highness, no,” she replied after a moment. “And for many of my people who suffered at Volarian hands. However, there are some corners of Cumbrael untouched by war where old resentments will linger.”

“To be dispelled by the Blessed Lady’s words, I should hope,” Lyrna told her. “Perhaps you should return home for a time, Lady Reva. Let your people see you, hear the tale of your deeds, for they are so inspiring.”

Reva’s nod of assent was immediate and her tone free of any rancour. “As Your Highness commands.” Never the slightest glimmer of disloyalty from this one, Lyrna mused. So why does she cause me such unease?

She set the question aside for further consideration and turned to the Shield. “Fleet Lord Ell-Nestra, please advise on the strength of your command.”

As was his wont these days, the Shield’s perpetual half grin disappeared as he addressed her, his eyes only briefly meeting hers. “Just over eight hundred ships of varying draughts, Highness. We’ve captured quite a few Volarian traders but the seas grow ever more empty as the winter storms descend.”

“A decent-sized force to repel any invasion,” Count Marven commented. “Crewed by the best sailors in the world. Plus, this time we are forewarned.”

“How many soldiers could your eight hundred ships carry?” Lyrna asked Ell-Nestra.

The Shield frowned in puzzlement, his tone cautious as he responded. “If we make full use of the Volarian vessels, perhaps forty thousand, Highness. And certainly not in any comfort.”

“Comfort is a long-forgotten luxury, my lord.” She calculated for a moment, feeling the silence thicken. They know what you’re about. And they fear it. “Your man is here?” she asked Vaelin who nodded and ordered the Realm Guard on the door to bring in the shipwright. Sergeant Davern marched to the centre of the chamber, giving a smart salute and a formal bow, seemingly completely untroubled by his august audience.

“My Battle Lord tells me you build ships, sergeant,” Lyrna said.

“Indeed, Highness.” He favoured her with a smile that would have shamed the Shield for its innate confidence. “I was inducted into the Shipwrights Guild at sixteen. The youngest ever, so I’m told.”

“Very impressive. I require a ship capable of carrying five hundred soldiers across the ocean to Volaria. You will design and build it in such a manner so as to be easily duplicated and constructed by unskilled hands.”

Davern blanched as the other captains at the table stirred in discomfort, apart, she noted, from Vaelin, who betrayed no surprise at all. “Such a task is… a mighty one, Highness,” the sergeant began. “Requiring much labour, not to say timber…”

“Brother Hollun has compiled a list of surviving subjects with suitable skills and experience,” she told him. “They will be placed at your disposal. As for timber, rest assured it will be provided. I name you…” She pondered for a moment. “Davern Al Jurahl, Master of the Queen’s Yard. Congratulations, my lord. I shall expect your designs on the morrow.”

Davern stood in dumb silence for a moment longer then gave a hesitant bow and walked from the chamber.

“I believe that concludes today’s business,” Lyrna said, rising.

As expected it was Count Marven who spoke; the Nilsaelin commander was brave by all accounts, but also unabashed in counselling caution. “Highness, if I may?”

She paused, raising an eyebrow as he faltered then forced himself to continue. “So there is no misunderstanding, it is Your Highness’s intention to invade the Volarian Empire?”

“It is my intention to win this war, my lord. By the most expeditious means.”

“To sail across the ocean with so many. I must voice my doubts as to the practicality of such a thing.”

“Why? The Volarians managed it.”

“With years of preparation,” the Shield pointed out. “And not borne from a Realm so damaged as this one.”

“A Realm that has already performed wonders.” She scanned their faces, finding doubt on most though once again Vaelin alone gave no sign of unease. “My lords, this council is not a debating chamber. I ask for counsel as I see fit and issue commands accordingly. And I command a fleet be built to carry our justice to the Volarian Empire, for when our business there is complete they will never again dream of returning to this land save in their nightmares.”

She paused, awaiting further dissent, but finding only wary acceptance. “I thank you for your counsel and set you to your duties.”

Lakrhil Al Hestian failed to rise when she entered his cell, merely glancing up at her with dull eyes, slumped in a corner on bare stone, shackles on his wrists and ankles. Iltis gave an angry grunt at the discourtesy but Lyrna restrained him with a wave. “Guard the door, my lord, if you would.”

Iltis bared his teeth at Al Hestian in a disgusted snarl before exiting the cell, leaving the heavy door ajar and standing with his back turned.

“They call this the Traitor’s Nook,” Lyrna told Al Hestian, moving to the only window, a narrow gap in the thick stone wall through which a patch of sky could be glimpsed. There were faint marks on the stone, some ancient inscription scratched by desperate hands long ago.

“Last occupied by Artis Al Sendahl on the eve of his execution,” she went on, turning back to Al Hestian. “It speaks much for our enemies that, for all the destruction wrought on this city, they left our dungeons intact.”

Al Hestian gave the faintest of shrugs, his shackles sounding a dull clink. “Artis Al Sendahl was given no trial,” she continued. “Simply waking one morning to find a brace of guards at his door holding a King’s Warrant. A week later he was dead.”

“Whilst I am afforded only two days,” Al Hestian said, his voice a toneless croak. “And also no trial.”

“Then let this be your trial, my lord.” She raised her hands, gesturing at the surrounding walls. “And I witness and judge both, eager for your testimony.”

“My testimony is redundant. My reasons plain.” He turned his gaze from her, resting his head against the wall. “I make no defence or appeal for clemency, save that the matter be settled with all dispatch.”

She had known this man since childhood and never with any fondness, finding perhaps too clear a reflection in his naked ambition. But the sons with whom she had played as a child had never faltered in loving him, for all his flaws. “Alucius will be honoured for all time in this Realm,” she said. “Your house is partially cleansed of dishonour by his sacrifice.”

“A dead son has no need of honour. And I have two to face in the Beyond if you would do me the favour of sending me there.”

Her gaze went back to the scratches on the wall, finding two words legible in the scrawl sufficient to divine the meaning of the rest. Death is but gateway to the Beyond… The Catechism of Faith, upon which so much had been built, and also destroyed. To her it had always been empty words, devoid of interest when there was so much genuine wisdom to be read.

“I have no mercy for you, my lord,” she told him. “Only more punishment. Lord Iltis!”

The Lord Protector returned, standing at stiff readiness as she pointed to the shackles on Al Hestian’s ankles. “Remove those and bring him.”

Darnel’s former knights and huntsmen stood blinking in the courtyard outside the cavernous vaults that served as the city’s dungeons. They numbered perhaps three dozen men, stripped of all armour and possessions save for threadbare clothing, surrounded on all sides by Lord Adal’s North Guard, chosen for the strength of their discipline; the Realm Guard were likely to commit massacre when faced with those who had betrayed them at the first fateful clash with the Volarians. Lyrna led Al Hestian to a walkway looking down on the assembled prisoners, finding most too cowed to meet her gaze, though some stared up in silent entreaty.

“You know these men, I believe?” Lyrna asked him.

Al Hestian looked down at the captives, his impassive mask unchanged. “Not well enough to grieve their passing, if it is Your Highness’s intention to have me witness their murder.”

She moved away from him and stepped closer to the edge of the walkway, raising her voice. “You all stand guilty of treason and worthy of immediate execution. Many of you will no doubt make a defence of loyalty, service to an oath binding for life. I tell you now this is no defence, an oath sworn to a traitorous madman is worthless, to be set aside by men of reason or true knightly honour. You have shown yourselves possessed of neither.” She paused to glance at Al Hestian, finding him meeting her gaze with grim understanding.

“However,” she spoke on, “the Faith teaches us the value of forgiveness for acts truly regretted. And this Realm stands in need of all hands fit to hold a sword. For these reasons alone I offer you the chance to swear another oath, an oath to your queen. Swear your service to me and I will spare your lives. But know that your sentence is not commuted, condemned you stand and condemned you remain until the day battle claims you. You will be the Dead Company. Any who do not wish to swear this oath, speak now.”

She waited, watching them tremble and sag in relief. One man, a great broad-chested fellow of knightly bearing, wept openly whilst beside him a scrawny man, probably a hunter, stood shuddering, with urine flowing down both legs. She waited for a full minute but no voices were raised.

“My lord,” she turned to Al Hestian, gesturing at the men below. “Your new command awaits, if you’ll accept it.”

Lakrhil Al Hestian stood expressionless for some time before replying with the smallest of bows.

“Very well,” she said. “In addition to these wretches, our patrols find the country to be depressingly rich in outlaws, scum preying on those fleeing the Volarians. Rapists and murderers will be executed of course, but the remainder I’ll send to you.” She moved to his side, speaking softly. “You have your sons to thank for your life. And know well, I will not prove as kind as my father should you betray this Realm once more.”

She returned to the palace in the evening having spent the day amongst the newly arrived refugees, finding the usual mix of beggared nobles and dispossessed commoners each with their own epic of woe and survival. As in Warnsclave, however, there were precious few children and those mostly orphans. She had them gathered and conveyed to the palace rooms set aside for Brother Innis’s charges where she spent the rest of the evening.

It was amazing to see how quickly the children’s spirits returned as they raced around her, loud with laughter and play, though there were a few who sat apart from the others, eyes haunted by lingering horrors. She spent most time with the silent ones, speaking in soft tones and trying to draw them out, usually with only marginal success though one little boy climbed into her lap and fell into an immediate sleep the moment she opened her arms to him. She stayed and sat with him as night fell and the others went to their beds, waking somewhere past midnight at Murel’s gentle nudge.

“Lady Davoka begs your attendance in the courtyard, Highness.”

Lyrna gently laid the boy in one of the many empty beds. “Where is Orena?” she asked as they made their way through the corridors.

“She craves pardon, Highness. The sight of the children always upsets her so I took her duty.”

Gentle hearts are often well hidden, Lyrna thought.

In the courtyard she found Davoka embracing a slight figure beside a stout, bare-backed pony flanked by two Eorhil warriors looking on with obvious suspicion. “Lerhnah!” Davoka called to her. “My other sister comes with the Mahlessa’s word.”

Kiral displayed none of the confusion left by the Mahlessa’s healing beneath the Mountain, smiling shyly as Lyrna approached. Her scar had healed well but still made a grim sight, a deep line from chin to brow provoking unpleasant memories of the night Lyrna had given it to her. “Servant of the Mountain,” Lyrna greeted her in Lonak.

“Queen.” Kiral surprised her with a warm embrace. “And sister, also.”

“What word from the Mahlessa?”

“She sends no word, Queen, save two gifts.” She held up a small glass vial containing a dark viscous liquid. “She believes you will have use of this, and has provided me the knowledge of crafting more.”

Lyrna hesitated before taking the vial, recalling the screams of the thing that had possessed this girl as a single drop touched her flesh. “How is it to be used?” she asked.

“She said it is a key to unseen chains and you would know best how to use it.”

Lyrna handed the vial to Murel with stern instructions to keep it safe and on no account open it. “And the other gift?” she asked Kiral.

“Only myself.” She cast a questing gaze around the courtyard. “I seek one who lost his song, so that he might hear mine.”

CHAPTER TWO Vaelin

The conclave was held in the House of the Sixth Order, the only intact building remaining to the Faith in the vicinity of Varinshold. The place had been abandoned in the aftermath of Frentis’s visit, the courtyard, halls and corridors shouting their silence at Vaelin as he toured them, awash in memory as his eyes lit on the landmarks of his childhood. The corner of the yard where they used to play toss-board, the chipped cornice near the Aspect’s chamber where Barkus had made an over-enthusiastic swipe with his sword. He spent a few moments staring at the steep stairwell in the north tower, his eyes picking out the copious dark stains on the stone where an unfortunate brother or Volarian had met his end, but made no move to ascend to the room above. Some memories are best left to wither.

He had only agreed to come thanks to Aspect Elera’s insistent note and purposely delayed his arrival, having no wish to be drawn into discussion or decision regarding the Faith’s many challenges. However, as the brothers on the door permitted him entry to the dining hall, he found them still engaged in fervent argument. There were perhaps twenty people in attendance, all that remained of the senior servants of the Faith. A quick survey revealed more blue cloaks than others, though the Seventh, represented by Caenis and a handful of his more mature subordinates, wore no formal robes. Aspect Dendrish was accompanied only by Master Benril, apparently the sole surviving members of the Third Order in the city. The Aspect was holding forth in typically loud voice, the words “mad enterprise,” fading from his lips as Vaelin entered.

“Do I interrupt, Aspect?” Vaelin enquired. “Please continue.”

“Vaelin.” Aspect Elera rose to greet him with hands outstretched, limping a little as she approached. Her touch was as warm as ever though he detected a faint tremble in it and found himself disconcerted by the paleness of her complexion.

“Aspect,” he said. “You are well?”

“Quite well. Come.” She turned, leading him forward. “Your counsel is welcome here.”

Aspect Dendrish gave a conspicuous snort whilst he noticed Caenis stiffen a little in his seat, his expression more grimly accepting than welcoming. “I confess I know not what counsel I can offer,” Vaelin said. “This proceeding being of the Faith, whilst I am not.”

“The Faith still holds to you, brother,” Sollis said. He was flanked by Brother Commander Artin from Cardurin and Master Rensial, who sat with his wide-eyed gaze fixed on the floor, arms tight across his chest. “Regardless of whether you hold to it.”

“We believe your insight will be valuable,” Aspect Elera went on. “Especially as regards the queen’s intent.”

Vaelin nodded at Brother Hollun, the only representative of the Fourth Order in attendance. “Brother Hollun is at the queen’s side every morning. I’m sure he can provide ample clarity as to her intent.”

“She wants to invade the Volarian Empire,” Aspect Dendrish said, his voice coloured by an unhealthy rasp. “With this Realm in ruins, she intends to spend our remaining strength on a…” He paused, jowls quivering a little as he struggled to formulate the least offensive phrase. “A questionable course.”

“The queen’s course is not yours to question,” Vaelin told him.

“You surely understand our concerns, Vaelin,” Elera said. “We are charged with protecting the Faithful.”

“Forgive me, Aspect, but the current state of this Realm is ample evidence of your failure in that regard.” He moved away from her, his gaze roaming over them, the remnants of something he once thought immutable, eternal. “You kept secrets for centuries, and spilled blood in the keeping. Knowledge, strength and wisdom that might have aided us when the Ally’s blow fell. All in the name of preserving a Faith built on a lie.”

“One man’s lie is another man’s truth.” The voice was frail, tremulous, but strong in conviction, spoken by an old man in a stained white robe. He sat alone, kept erect by a gnarled staff formed from an old tree branch, regarding Vaelin with a single bright blue eye, his other milky white.

“Aspect Korvan,” Elera said. “Last of the First Order.”

“The Departed are captured souls,” Vaelin told the old man. “Gifted ensnared in the Beyond by a being of vile purpose. Is that a lie?”

Aspect Korvan sighed, lowering his head in momentary weariness. “For five decades I was Master of Insight at the House of the First Order,” he said. “Today I find myself an Aspect, a title derived from the varied character of our Faith. And the Faith is but a reflection of what awaits us in the Beyond.”

“I’ve been to the Beyond,” Vaelin returned. “Have you?”

The old man’s hand twitched on his stick and he took a moment to answer. “Once, long ago. You are not the first to taste death and return, young man. The Beyond is a place that is not a place, both form and mist, endless and yet finite. It is a crystal formed of many facets and you have seen only one.”

“Perhaps,” Vaelin conceded. “And perhaps the Faith is but a fumbling attempt to understand a thing beyond understanding. But I saw enough to know that our enemy is not done, he wishes our end and will not stop. The queen sees the key to his defeat in striking at the heart of the empire he built to crush us. Be assured that the queen’s intent is also mine.”

“Though it may lead us to ruin?” Dendrish asked.

“Ruin has already befallen us,” Vaelin replied. “Queen Lyrna offers a chance to avoid utter destruction.” He turned to Caenis with a questioning glance. “Are there no signs and portents to guide us, brother? No messages divined from the swirling mists of time?”

“Brother Caenis is now Aspect Caenis,” Elera said, somehow contriving to retain her smile.

“Congratulations,” Vaelin told him.

Caenis’s lips formed a small smile and he got to his feet. “My brother knows well scrying is not an exact art,” he said. “And there are few left in our ranks with gifts capable of aiding us in this decision. I can only speak for my own Order, and I have already sworn us in service to the queen’s purpose, regardless of where it might lead us.”

Vaelin turned at the scrape of a chair, finding Master Rensial on his feet. He stood casting his gaze around them for a few seconds, frowning in concentration. When he spoke his voice was free of any shrillness or quivering uncertainty. “They tortured me first,” he said. “But stopped when it became clear I could tell them nothing. They chained me to a wall and for four days I listened to my brothers’ torment. The same question was asked, over and over, ‘Where are the Gifted?’ Through it all I heard no answers given.” His gaze lost focus again and he hugged himself tighter, sitting down once more, adding in a whisper, “Where is the boy? The forest is burning and the boy is gone.”

Sollis rose, placing a hand on the mad master’s shoulder as he continued to mutter to himself. “By assent of this conclave,” Sollis said. “I speak for my Order until Aspect Arlyn is recovered or proved dead. We will follow the queen’s course.”

“As will the Fourth Order,” Brother Hollun stated.

Aspect Dendrish slumped into his seat, waving a plump hand in either dismissal or assent. It was Master Benril who spoke, standing to regard them with a grim visage. “War is ever the folly of the ignorant. But I have seen much to convince me some wars must be fought, to the bitterest end if need be. Our Order, such as it is, will support this endeavour.”

The Second Order was represented by a pair of sisters from their mission in Andurin, both tired from the journey and clearly overawed by the occasion. They apparently had no knowledge of their Aspect’s fate though rumours told of all their brothers and sisters perishing when their House burned to rubble. They conferred for a second before the older of the two confirmed their agreement in a strained voice.

“Aspect?” Sollis asked Elera.

Her smile had faded completely now, her face, always so open and bright as to defy signs of age, now told of a tired woman of middling years with eyes that had seen too much. She stood in silence for some time, hands clasped together and face downcast. “So much has changed so quickly,” she said eventually. “So many certainties overthrown in the space of a few months. Lord Vaelin is right to speak of our past crimes, for we are guilty of grievous errors. I myself said nothing when my brightest pupil was taken to the Blackhold for speaking against the desert war. There is blood on our hands. But I fear what crimes await us should we take this course. Every day people come to my Order for healing but burning with a hatred I have not seen in all the troubled years to beset this Realm. When the queen takes them across the ocean, what manner of justice will she ordain?”

“I am Battle Lord of the Queen’s Host,” Vaelin said. “And will allow no violence to be visited on those who do not raise arms to oppose us.”

She raised her gaze, smiling at him once more, but with something behind her eyes she hadn’t shown him before: regret. I delivered you, she had told him once. Perhaps she wonders what she pulled into the world? “I will trust your word, Vaelin, as I always have.” She turned to the others, speaking formally. “The Fifth Order pledges to support the queen’s course.”

He said farewell to Reva at the south gate, pulling her close to plant a kiss on the top of her head, finding himself both surprised and heartened when she returned the embrace. “No doubts?” he asked her as she drew back. “No hesitation in following the queen’s orders?”

“Doubts I have aplenty,” she replied. “But that’s nothing new. At Alltor I saw enough to convince me this fight is to the death. They won’t stop, so neither can we.”

“And will your people see it that way?”

Her expression grew sombre, her tone soft with reluctant admission. “They will when they hear the Blessed Lady speak with the Father’s voice.”

She mounted up and rode off with an escort of House Guards. Watching her go, he was struck by a sudden sense of loss, a knowledge he might never see her again.

“My lord.” He turned to find himself confronted with one of Lyrna’s ladies, the taller one with dark eyes, though her name escaped him. “The queen requests your presence at the palace.”

Her eyes flicked to the left, a slight frown of unease on her brow. He followed her gaze to where the Gifted folk from the Reaches had established themselves in a half-ruined wineshop. A couple of passing Realm Guard were recovering their composure, clearly victims of Lorkan’s love of surprising the non-Gifted, the young man bowing in apparently sincere apology as Cara smothered a laugh in the background. Lorkan caught Vaelin’s eye and gave a weak smile before turning and walking to a shadowed corner where he seemingly blinked out of existence.

He turned back to the lady, finding her narrow gaze still fixed on the shadow where Lorkan had disappeared. “Forgive me, my lady,” he said, recapturing her attention. “I don’t believe I know your name.”

“Orena, my lord.” She bowed again. “In truth, Lady Orena Al Vardrian, by the queen’s good graces.”

“Vardrian? From south of Haeversvale?”

“My grandmother was from Haeversvale, my lord.”

He was about to inform her that they most likely shared some blood but the evident discomfort in the woman’s face gave him pause. She clearly didn’t relish the prospect of remaining so close to the Gifted and there was a tenseness to her demeanour that discouraged further conversation. “These people are our allies,” he said, nodding to the wineshop. “They offer no threat.”

Her face took on a bland neutrality and she bowed. “The queen waits upon your attendance, my lord.”

She was in the palace grounds surveying the part-completed marble relief carved by Master Benril. A short way off the Lady Davoka stood alongside another Lonak woman, younger and considerably less tall. The younger woman straightened at sight of Vaelin, her face curious, as if voicing an unspoken question.

“My lord,” Lyrna greeted him brightly. “How went the conclave?”

He was unsurprised by her knowledge. She had all of her father’s gift for accruing intelligence and more subtle ways of exploiting it. “The Faith seeks to rebuild itself,” he said. “And will, of course, support your endeavour with all their remaining strength.”

“And Lady Reva?”

“Also unrelenting in pursuit of your purpose, Highness.”

She nodded, her gaze still fixed on the marble relief. Although it was unfinished Vaelin found the carvings remarkably lifelike, the expressions and poses of the figures possessed of a precision and verisimilitude surpassing even Benril’s other work. The faces of the Volarian soldiery and Realm folk alike were riven with all the fear, rage and confusion of people truly faced with the horrors of war.

“Remarkable isn’t it?” Lyrna observed. “And yet Master Benril has formally petitioned me to have it destroyed.”

“No doubt it serves as a painful reminder of his enslavement.”

“But in years to come, perhaps we will all require something to remind us of what provoked our course. I think I’m minded to leave it as it is. If the master’s temper cools in time, he may be persuaded to finish it, to his own design of course.”

Lyrna raised a hand to call Davoka and the other Lonak woman forward. “This is Kiral of the Black River Clan. She has a message for you.”

“You speak my tongue very well.” He had taken her to his father’s house where he and his sister made a home of sorts amongst the less damaged rooms. Alornis was absent, gone to the docks on some errand, probably keen to paint the panorama of ships crowding the harbour. They sat together under the sheltering oak in the yard, its mighty branches bare of leaves as winter’s chill grew deeper by the day.

“She knew your tongue,” Kiral said. “So I know it.”

He had heard the story from Lyrna and could scarcely credit it: a soul possessed by one of the Ally’s creatures and now freed. And a singer with a message. Yet somehow he knew the truth of it, just by looking into her face he knew she heard a song and found himself shamed by the jealousy it stirred.

“She remembered you,” the Lonak girl went on. “You barred her from a kill. Her hatred was great.”

He remembered Sister Henna’s enraged, hissing face as he held her to the wall. “You possess her memories?”

“Some. She was very old, though not so old as her brother and sister, nor so deadly. She feared them and hated them in equal measure. I have the healing arts she learned in the Fifth Order, the rites performed by a priestess somewhere in the far south of the Alpiran Empire, the knife skills of a Volarian slave girl sent to die in their spectacles.”

“Do you know when she was first taken?”

“Her early memories are a mist of confusion and fear, chief among them the sight of mud huts burning under a broad night sky.” Kiral paused to give an involuntary shudder. “The vision fades and she hears his voice.”

“What does he say?”

She shook her head. “She always shrank from the memory, preferring to dwell on her many lifetimes’ worth of murder and deceit.”

“I’m sorry for you. It must… hurt.”

Kiral shrugged her slender shoulders. “When I dream, mostly.” She looked up at the branches of the great oak above her head, a small smile coming to her lips. “There,” she said, pointing to a wide fork near the main trunk. “You would sit there, watching your father groom his horses.” Her smile faded. “He was afraid of you, though you never knew it.”

He stared up at the oak for a time. His memories of playing in its arms had always been happy, but now he wondered if his child’s eyes had seen more than he recalled. “Your song is strong,” he told her.

“Yours was stronger. I can hear its echo. To lose such strength must be hard.”

“As a younger man I feared it, but in time I knew it as a gift. And yes, I miss it greatly.”

“So now I will be your song, as the Mahlessa commands.”

“And what does she command?”

“I hear a voice calling to me from a great distance, far to the east. It’s a very old tune, and very lonely, sung by a man who cannot die, a man you have met.”

“His name?”

“I know not, but the music carries an image of a boy who once offered him shelter from a storm, and risked his life to save him and his charge.”

Erlin. It all tumbled into place in a rush, the rage Erlin had been shouting into the storm that night, his world-spanning travels, and his unchanged face when he came to share the truth about Davern’s father. Erlin, Rellis, Hetril, he’s got a hundred names, Makril had said, though Vaelin now knew he had begun with only one. That day at the fair as he stared at the puppet show… “Kerlis,” he said in a whisper. “Kerlis the Faithless. Cursed to the ever death for denying the Departed.”

“A legend,” Kiral said. “My people have another story. They tell of a man who offended Mirshak, God of the Black Lands, and was cursed to craft a story without ending.”

“You know where to find him?”

She nodded. “And I know he is important. The song is bright with purpose when it touches him, and the Mahlessa believes he is key to defeating whatever commands the thing that stole my body.”

“Where?”

Her scar twisted as she gave an apologetic grimace. “Across the ice.”

CHAPTER THREE Frentis

She pauses to survey the Council before taking her seat, twenty men in fine red robes seated around a perfectly circular table. The council chamber sits halfway up the tower, each member having been hauled to this height by the strength of a hundred slaves working the intricate pulleys that trace the length of this monolith. Blessed by endless life though they are, no Council-man relishes the prospect of climbing so many stairs.

She sits through the tedium of the opening formalities as Arklev intones the formal commencement of the fourth and final council meeting of this, the eight hundred and twenty-fifth year of the empire, the slave scribes scribbling away with their unnatural speed as he drones on, introducing each member in turn, until finally he comes to her.

“… and newly ascended to the Slaver’s Seat, Council, ah, Woman…”

“I am to be recorded as simply the Ally’s Voice,” she tells him, casting a meaningful glance at the scribes.

Arklev falters for a moment but recovers with admirable fortitude. “As you wish. Now, to our first order of business…”

“The only order of business,” she interrupts. “The war. This council has no other business until it is concluded.”

Another Council-man stirs, a silver-haired dullard whose name she can’t trouble herself to recall. “But, there are pressing matters from the south, reports of famine…”

“There was a drought,” she says. “Crops fail and people starve. Have any surplus slaves killed to husband supplies until it abates. All very sad but survivable, our current military situation may not be.”

“Admittedly,” Arklev begins, “the invasion has not progressed according to plan…”

“It’s been a miserable failure, Arklev,” she breaks in, smiling. “That preening dolt Tokrev orchestrated his own death and defeat with more efficiency than any of his victories. Sorry about your sister by the way.”

“My sister yet lives and I have no doubt as to her facility for continued survival. And we still hold their capital…”

“No.” She reaches out to pluck a grape from the bowl nearby, popping it into her mouth, savouring the sweetness. Although not entirely to her liking, this shell does possess an impressively sensitive palate. “As of three days ago, we don’t. Mirvek lies dead along with his command. The Unified Realm is lost to us.”

She enjoys the shocked silence almost as much as the grape. “A tragedy,” one of them says in cautious tone, a handsome fellow of misleadingly youthful appearance. She remembers killing a man at his request forty years ago, husband to some slattern he wanted to wed. She never thought to ask if the marriage was a success.

“But,” the handsome Council-man continues, “whilst the disgrace of defeat is hard to bear, surely this means the war is at an end. For now at least. We must gather strength, await a suitable opportunity to launch another attempt.”

“Whilst an entire nation with every reason to hate us gathers its own strength.”

“They are weakened by our invasion,” Arklev points out. “And an ocean stands between us.”

“I imagine King Malcius entertained the very same delusion up until the moment he felt his neck snap.” She gets to her feet, all humour vanishing from her face as she looks at each of them in turn. “Know, Honoured Council-men, that the Ally does not indulge in conjecture. I speak unalloyed fact. The Unified Realm now has itself a queen and she sees no more obstacle in an ocean than she would a shallow stream. When the seas calm she will be coming, whilst we have spent our best forces on an invasion commanded by a fool, one chosen by your vote, as I recall.”

“General Tokrev was a veteran of many campaigns,” the silver-haired Council-man begins, falling quiet at her glare. She lets the silence linger, feeling a familiar lust build in her breast as her song senses the burgeoning fear, clenching fists to keep it at bay. Not yet.

“It is the Ally’s wish,” she says, “that reserves be mustered to meet the threat. Former Free Swords will be recalled to their battalions and the conscription quotas for new recruits are to be tripled. The garrisons in Volar are to be reinforced by troops drawn from the provinces.”

She waits for dissent, but they all just sit and stare, these men who own millions, ancient cowards for the first time realising the depth of their folly. She considers leaving with a final veiled threat or humiliating barb, but finds herself possessed of a great desire to be away from them.

Was this how it was for you? she asks the uncaring ghost of her father as she turns and walks wordlessly from the chamber. Did they see how sickened you were by their stench? Is that why they had me kill you?

He was woken by the harsh clatter of the lock in his cell door. His principal gaoler, like all his guards, was drawn from the Queen’s Mounted Guard, a veteran sergeant with a distinct disinclination to conversation who glared at Frentis with unabashed detestation every time he opened the door. The queen had been punctilious in choosing guards unlikely to be swayed by the legend of the Red Brother. Today, however, the man’s hatred was slightly muted as he pulled the heavy door ajar and motioned for him to come out. To his continued surprise, Frentis had not been shackled, or in fact subject to any mistreatment. He was fed twice a day and provided with a fresh jug of water each morning when the sergeant came to fetch his waste bucket. Otherwise he was left to sit in darkness, absent any company or conversation… save her of course, waiting every time he succumbed to sleep.

The sergeant stood well back as he exited the cell, finding the queen standing in the chamber beyond flanked by Davoka and her two ennobled guards. “Highness,” Frentis said, dropping to one knee.

The queen gave no response, turning to the sergeant. “Leave us please. Give your keys to Lord Iltis.”

She waited until he had gone before speaking again. “The Blackhold has not been so empty since the day of its construction.” Frentis remained on one knee as she surveyed the chamber, eyes tracking over dark stone lit by meagre torchlight. “I find I prefer it that way. I intend to have it torn down at the conclusion of our current difficulties.”

Frentis lowered his head and took a breath, speaking in formal tones, “My Queen, I most humbly offer my life…”

“Be silent!” Her voice lashed like a whip as she advanced towards him, coming close enough to touch as she loomed over him, her breath harsh and ragged. “I killed you once before. So I already have your life.”

Her breathing slowed after a moment and she moved away. “Rise,” she ordered with an irritated wave and he stood, waiting as her flawless face regarded him, anger replaced by an icy calm. “Brother Sollis has related your account to me in full. Your actions were not your own, you are no more to blame for the King’s death than a sword is to blame for the blood it spills. I know this, brother. And yet I find I have no forgiveness for you. Do you understand?”

“I do, Highness.”

“Lord Vaelin also tells me you claim that Lord Al Telnar was complicit in the Volarian invasion.”

“He was, Highness, on the promise of power and… other rewards.”

“And what might they be?”

“He was at pains to extract promises that no harm should come to you during the attack.”

She sighed, giving a faint shake of her head. “And I thought he died a hero.”

Frentis drew breath, steeling himself before uttering his next words. “Might I crave a moment to speak in private, Highness? I have a message to convey.”

“Lady Davoka and these lords have seen me at my lowest state and still judge me deserving of their loyalty. Any words you say to me are worthy of their ears.”

“I speak for a Lord Marshal of the Mounted Guard, a man I saw slain when the palace fell. His name was Smolen.”

The queen’s face betrayed no emotion as she stared at him, but he saw how her hands shifted as if itching to reach for a hidden weapon. “Relate your message,” she ordered.

“He said it was a great thing to travel so far with the woman he loved.”

Her hands clenched, forming tight fists as she advanced towards him. He heard two swords scraping free of scabbards as her lords came to her side, steel poised to take his life. “How did he die?” she demanded.

“Bravely. He fought well but the Kuritai are skillful, as you know.”

He found himself unable to meet her gaze, the impassive perfection of her face a terrible contrast to the burnt screaming woman who had fled the throne room. “I make no plea for mercy,” he said, lowering his head. “And await your judgement.”

“Do you hunger for death then? Do you imagine the Departed will make a welcome for one such as you?”

“I doubt it, Highness. But hope is at the heart of the Faith.”

“Then your hope is to be dashed, for now at least.” She gestured Iltis towards a locked cell, the Lord Protector working the keys and hauling the door wide, he and his fellow lord going inside to retrieve the occupant. Unlike Frentis this man had been festooned with chains, ankles, knees, wrists and neck all secured with newly forged shackles, forcing him to move in an inching shuffle as the two lords dragged him into the light. Despite his obvious discomfort his face was absent of any sign of distress, the features the familiar immobile mask of the slave-elite. His chest was bare and thick with well-honed muscle, a patchwork of scars covering the flesh from waist to neck.

“Kuritai,” Frentis murmured.

“The only one we have managed to capture in this entire war,” the queen said. “Found senseless at the docks the day the city fell. According to Lord Al Hestian he was set to guard Alucius, assurance of his father’s compliance. His name is Twenty-Seven.”

She moved closer to the slave-elite, her eyes scanning him from head to toe in critical appraisal. “Brother Harlick tells me these creatures have no will of their own, it’s driven from them through torment, drugs and, according to Aspect Caenis, various Dark means that stink of the Ally’s influence. Much as your will was driven from you, I imagine. What would he do if we were to free him, I wonder?”

“I would strongly advise against it, Highness,” Frentis said.

She turned to him with the same look of examination still in place, her eyes going to a particular spot on his chest. “Lady Davoka tells me the wound I gave you festered, that you have her to thank for your life.”

Frentis glanced at Davoka, finding her more ill at ease than he could remember, her forehead beaded with sweat. He saw she held a small glass bottle, the contents seeming to shimmer a little and he noted her hand was actually trembling. “That is correct, Highness,” he said, his unease deepening. What’s in there that could scare her so? “Though I believe it was your knife that truly saved me. Somehow it… freed me.”

“Yes.” Her gaze returned to the prisoner and she held out her hand to Davoka, speaking in Lonak. The queen accepted the bottle from her and held it up to the dim light, the dark liquid inside producing a foul odour as she removed the stopper. “The blade that freed you was coated with this,” she told Frentis. “A gift from our Lonak friends. One I suspect may prove highly useful to our purpose.” She moved closer to the Kuritai, speaking to him softly in Volarian, “I take no pleasure in this.”

She lifted the bottle to a spot at the top of his chest, tipping it to allow a single drop of the liquid to fall onto the slave’s scars. The result was immediate, the scream that erupted from the Kuritai’s throat enough to pain the ears as he convulsed, collapsing in his chains to writhe on the stones. The queen stepped back from him, her face grim, eyes bright as she stoppered the bottle. Frentis saw how she stiffened her back and forced herself to watch the slave’s torment. After a few seconds his screams abated to agonised whimpers, his back-straining writhes diminishing to gasping shudders. Finally, he lay still, panting and bathed in sweat.

Lyrna took a cautious step forward but Frentis raised a hand. “If I may, Highness?” She gave a nod of assent and he went to the Kuritai’s side, crouching to peer into his face, finding life returning to pain-dulled eyes.

“Can you talk?” he asked in Volarian.

The eyes blinked, finding focus, the response a croaking cough from a throat unused to speech. “Yesss.”

“What is your name?”

The eyes narrowed a fraction, the answer coming in rough, harshly accented Volarian. “I… began as Five Hundred. Now… I am Twenty… Seven.”

“No.” Frentis leaned closer. “Your real name. Do you know it?”

The eyes wandered a little, his brow creasing at a rush of memory. “Lekran,” he said, his voice faint then turning to a snarl. “Lekran… My father… was Hirkran, of the red axe.”

“You are far from home, my friend.”

Lekran jerked, his chains snapping tight. “Then… get this fucking metal off me… so I can go back there. For time on this earth is short, and I have many men to kill.”

“It truly prevents dreams?” Frentis gave the contents of the flask a dubious sniff, finding the scent less than inviting, like mildew mixed with stewed tea.

“It renders a sleep deep enough to prevent them,” Brother Kehlan replied. “I first concocted it in the aftermath of the Ice Horde. There were many in the Reaches troubled by nightmares when the killing was done, myself included. It will stop your dreams, brother. Though the aching head you’ll have come the morning may make you pine for the dreams.”

They aren’t dreams, Frentis knew. But it might at least guard against wayward thoughts when she touches my mind. The Fifth Order had established itself in the merchants’ houses near the docks, the many rooms and deep cellars providing space enough for most of the wounded and storage for their growing supply of bandages and curatives. It seemed Lady Al Bera had managed to persuade a few Alpiran merchants to risk a final supply run across the wintry Meldenean, bringing much needed medicines along with the food.

He thanked the healer and made his way outside, walking along the wharf to where Vaelin stood regarding the huge Volarian warship. He was aware of the many glances he drew as he walked, and more than a few openly hostile glares, but mostly just fear or surprise. He might still be the Red Brother to some, but to most he was now the King’s Assassin, freed by virtue of their queen’s endless grace. She stirred no fear in them, only adulation, and they laboured tirelessly at her command. Everywhere he looked people were at work, rebuilding fallen walls, hammers ringing in makeshift forges and new recruits being drilled to unaccustomed discipline. He saw fatigue on many faces but no idleness, all moving to their allotted tasks with a singular determination. Her captains might fear her course, but these people would sail every ocean in the world at her word.

He heard raised voices on the ship as he neared, his eyes picking out two figures on the deck, one short, the other tall. The shorter of the two seemed to have the loudest voice. “Your sister has a surprisingly waspish tongue, brother,” Frentis observed to Vaelin.

“Our new Lord of the Queen’s Yard brings out the worst in her,” he replied, watching Alornis angrily bunch up a sheaf of parchment and throw it in Davern’s face before stomping off the gangplank. “He asked her to make drawings of the ship. Something I suspect he now regrets.”

“Arrogant numb-head!” Alornis fumed, having made her way to the quay, her stern visage unmoved by her brother’s comforting hug.

“He didn’t like the drawings?” Vaelin asked.

“It wasn’t the drawings.” She raised her voice, casting it back at the ship. “It’s his pigheaded refusal to listen to reasonable advice!”

“I’m sure he knows his business,” Vaelin said, earning a reproving scowl.

“This monstrosity,” she said pointing at the Queen Lyrna’s hull. “Is massively over-engineered, yet he wants to copy it, expending vast amounts of labour and timber in the process.”

“Your own design being more elegant, no doubt?”

“Actually, yes, dear brother, it is.” She drew herself up, clutching her satchel to her chest. “I shall take this to the queen.” She gave Frentis a stiff bow and walked off with a determined gait.

“When last I met her,” Frentis said, “she was more softly spoken.”

“We are all much changed, brother.” Vaelin turned away from the ship, walking towards the mole with Frentis falling in alongside. “The queen’s design for you,” he said, halting a good distance from other ears. “You can refuse.”

“Hardly, brother. Nor would I wish to.”

Vaelin gazed out to sea, grey waters chopped by the wind under a turbulent sky. “The woman who haunts your dreams, do you think she will sense your coming?”

“Possibly. Though I’m hoping Brother Kehlan’s physic will mask my thoughts. In any case, her interest in me might work to our advantage, my mission being diversionary.”

“It seems we both have hard roads ahead of us.”

“It would be best if you don’t share your course with me. If she found me and somehow took me alive, I… doubt I could keep secrets from her should she bind me again.”

Vaelin nodded, turning back from the sea, sorrow plain on his brow. “I searched for you for such a long time, casting my song out far and wide, but I never caught more than the vaguest glimpse. Now, it seems I am bound to send you away again and have no song to find you in any case.”

“I have much to balance, brother. And an assassin shouldn’t linger in sight of his victim’s sister.” He extended his hand and Vaelin gripped it tight. “We’ll find each other in Volar, of that I’ve no doubt.”

The headache was everything Brother Kehlan promised, the pain alleviated somewhat by the welcome realisation that the concoction worked. His sleep had been free of dreams, absent any further horrors or entreaties to surrender to her will. He had continued to sleep at the Blackhold in the days since his release, he and Lekran now more comfortably accommodated in the guard room. It was a strange feeling to reside in such a large building now stripped of all but two occupants, the queen having quickly redeployed her guardsmen to training duties. He found the former Kuritai at practice in the courtyard, moving with all the speed and precision instilled by years of conditioning and battle. Instead of the usual twin swords today he wielded an axe, whirling as he fought an army of imaginary opponents.

“Redbrother,” he greeted Frentis, coming to a halt, panting a little from the exertion. He had forsaken the razor since his liberation and a dark stubble had formed on his face and head. “Your chief-woman sent a slave with this. She makes a mighty gift.” He hefted the axe, grinning broadly. It was a double-bladed weapon of Renfaelin design, the flat steel of the inner blades inlaid with an intricate pattern of gilded gold. Probably one of Darnel’s toys, Frentis decided, once again feeling a pang of regret that he hadn’t been the one to kill the Fief Lord.

“There are no slaves here,” Frentis told him, a fact he had been obliged to repeat several times. Lekran seemed to have difficulty conceiving of a land free of slavery. He was fulsome in his description of his homelands, apparently lying somewhere among the wild mountain country beyond the northern provinces, his tribe’s principal occupations seemingly digging for ore and waging constant war on their neighbours.

“Good stuff.” Lekran said after a hearty gulp of wine. “You have any more?”

Frentis gestured to a stack of bottles nearby, found beneath the bed of the Free Sword officer who had command of this place. The city had turned out to be rich in hidden stashes of wine and assorted loot. The Volarian army permitted looting on a formalised basis, as long as all booty was declared and subject to a one-tenth tax, but clearly many had felt disinclined to abide by this policy.

“Your chief-woman,” Lekran said, sitting down again with bottle in hand. “She has a man?”

“She’s called a queen, and no.”

“Good. I’ll claim her.” He took a long drink and burped extravagantly. “How many heads will it take, do you think?”

Apparently it was the custom of Lekran’s tribe to offer the heads of fallen enemies to prospective brides as proof of husbandly worthiness. “A thousand should do,” Frentis advised.

Lekran frowned and gave an annoyed huff. “So many?”

“She’s a queen. They’re expensive.” He watched the former slave exhaust the bottle in a few gulps and knew, for all his bluster, this was a man attempting to drown the many horrors in his head. “How long were you Kuritai?” he asked him.

“I had nineteen years when they took me. Now I see my father’s face when I look in the mirror. Time is lost to the binding.” Lekran grimaced at the empty bottle and threw it against the flagstones.

“You don’t remember it?” Frentis pressed. “I recall every instance of mine.”

“Then you are greatly unfortunate.” Lekran sat fidgeting for a moment, muscular arms bulging as he clasped his hands together, casting a hungry glance at the wine. “I remember… enough.”

“Alucius Al Hestian, you remember you were set to guard him?”

A very faint smile played over Lekran’s lips. “Yes. He wanted a drink too.”

“He died a hero, trying to kill a much-hated enemy of mine.”

“That fuck-brain on the big chair?” Lekran gave an amused grunt. “Well, good for him. Let’s drink to his memory.” He rose to fetch another bottle.

“You know our course?” Frentis asked him as he rummaged through the wine, unstoppering a bottle to sniff the contents before grimacing and tossing it aside. “You are content to follow me?”

“My father was the only man I ever followed willingly.” Lekran sniffed another bottle, raising his eyebrows in appreciation. “But I’ll lend my axe to your cause on the way home.” He sat back down, grinning as he took another drink. “Your queen is owed a thousand heads, after all.”

“Belorath,” the captain introduced himself, regarding Frentis with obvious suspicion, deepening even further at the sight of Lekran stepping off the gangplank complete with twin swords on his back and axe in hand. “Welcome to the Sea Sabre. Your comrades are here already.”

The morning air was bracing, the sea-borne wind adding a cutting edge as they came aboard, the cluster of familiar figures on the deck huddling in their cloaks as Frentis advanced on them, his chill banished by a sudden anger. “What is this?” he demanded.

“Come to follow the queen’s command, brother,” Draker said, getting to his feet, the others rising at his back. “In truth, brother. She was kind enough to grant our request, since none of us relished the thought of life in the Realm Guard.”

Frentis’s gaze swept over the thirty survivors of his company from the Urlish, hard-faced men and women garbed in muted colours and bristling with a variety of favoured weapons. Although there was one exception. Illian made a striking figure in her dark blue cloak, seeming to have grown somewhat in the few days since their last meeting. On either side of her sat Blacktooth and Slasher, both gazing up at him with wide eyes and heads lowered as they licked their lips; pups greeting the pack leader. Frentis knelt to run a hand over their heads, provoking a welcoming whine.

“Brother Sollis has a message, I assume,” Frentis asked Illian, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice.

She replied with a tight smile, her tone formal. “Only that you allow me to join this mission, brother. And to ensure my training doesn’t slacken during the voyage.”

Frentis forced down the impulse to order her from the ship as she continued, “Davoka wasn’t happy about it either, if that’s any comfort.”

“It isn’t… sister. She stays by the queen’s side, I take it?”

Illian nodded. “Not without regret. She did give me this.” She held up a sack containing a number of leather flasks. “Mixed by Brother Kehlan according to the Lonak recipe.”

Frentis nodded. “Keep it safe, and don’t be tempted to open a single flask.” He rose from the dogs as Thirty-Four came forward to grip his hand. “You are a free man now,” he reminded the former slave. “Returning to the land of your bondage. And our success is far from certain.”

“I’ve yet to find my name,” Thirty-Four replied with a shrug, dropping his voice a little and slipping into Volarian. “And I find your queen… troubling.”

Frentis released his hand and turned to Master Rensial, standing apart from the others, expression more vacant than usual. “I had hoped you would return to the stables, Master,” Frentis told him. “The Order will have need of your talents.”

“The boy isn’t there,” Rensial muttered. “Or the girl, or the tall woman.” He glanced around suspiciously and moved closer, speaking in a whisper. “Where are the horses?”

“We go to find them, Master.” Frentis gripped his arm in reassurance. “Far across the sea is a whole empire of horses.”

Rensial replied with a grave nod then wandered off towards the prow. Frentis decided to warn Captain Belorath to make sure his men gave the horse master as much space as possible. His gaze was drawn to the rail where an unfamiliar figure stood staring out to sea, a young well-built man with a thick head of curly blond hair.

“His name’s Weaver,” Draker said. “Doesn’t talk much.”

Frentis knew the name of course. The Gifted who healed the queen. “He also comes at the queen’s command?”

“Not really sure, brother. He was already aboard when we arrived.”

Frentis nodded, turning back to meet the weight of their collected gaze. “I thank you all,” he said. “But you offer me too much. Please go ashore and leave me to this mission.” They stared back in silence, expressions expectant rather than angry. None made a single step towards the gangplank. “This mission holds no return journey…” he began then stopped as Draker gave a broad grin.

“I think our captain is eager to be off, brother,” he said.

CHAPTER FOUR Reva

Lord Brahdor’s house must have been a grand place once. Formerly a minor stronghold, successive generations had seen it moulded into a sprawling three-storey mansion, grown beyond the walls that once enclosed it, the defensive ditch long since filled in. The surrounding fields were dotted with stables, storehouses, and, Reva well knew, a large barn over the crest of a nearby hill. She had called there earlier, halting her horse a good distance short of the dilapidated pile of leaning timber, the roof now vanished and the doors lying on the weed-rich ground.

She was alone, having ordered her guards to proceed to Alltor without her some miles back. She found Kernmill ravaged and burnt as expected, all the people she had once spied on dead, taken by slavers or fled. The house of Lord Brahdor lay some two miles north and was in only marginally better repair. It seemed to have escaped the attentions of the Volarians, possibly because its evident ruin had been wrought before their arrival, the various rooftops stripped of slate, either by the elements or greedy villagers, the walls streaked with dirt and peeling daub, every door seemingly vanished.

What do you expect to find here? she asked herself with an inward sigh before dismounting and tethering her mount to a fence-post. It was a placid mare, much more amenable than poor old Snorter, who had been lost to the stewpot during the early days of the siege. She left her to nibble at the long grass as she approached the house, peering through glassless windows at the musty darkness within. Did they meet here? she wondered. Was this the seat of their plots? The Sons coming to huddle in front of the godly lord who spoke such wondrous truth, never knowing the true nature of the thing that lied to them, probably laughing to itself the whole while.

She went to a doorway and stepped into the chilled shadows inside. Despite the gloom she was impressed by the grandeur of the lobby, an elegant staircase sweeping down from the upper storey to a chequerboard floor of fine marble, a ringing echo rising from her boots. She scanned the walls seeking paintings or sigils, finding only bare plaster and no sign as to the character of the late occupant. A brief exploration of the other rooms on the ground floor was no more fruitful so she tentatively mounted the staircase, finding it surprisingly firm underfoot, sounding only the faintest creak as she went aloft.

The upper floor was colder, wind gusting through the ruined windows, stirring rags that had once been drapes. She went from room to room, finding only dust, shards of pottery and the sticks of ruined furniture. In one room she paused at the sight of a large stain on the floor, part obscured by a moulded carpet, a cobweb-shrouded bed standing against the wall. She knew the stain of blood well enough to make closer inspection unnecessary; someone had died here, but not recently.

She was turning away when she caught it, a slight acrid tint reaching her nostrils, the scent of a recently snuffed candle. She paused, closing her eyes, nose and ears alive to further clues. It was just the smallest creak to the beams above her head, only a few ounces too heavy for a rat. She opened her eyes, raising her gaze to the ceiling, picking out a hole no bigger than a copper coin, flickering light then dark as something covered it.

She went to the hallway and sought out the steps to the third storey, finding them much less well preserved than the grand staircase. The balustrade was gone and several steps were missing, forcing her to leap and grab her way up. This final level consisted of four attic rooms, only one of which held a door. She tried the handle and, finding it locked, kicked it open, drawing her sword before going inside. There was a small but neat pile of blankets near the window, the room shielded from the elements by a few planks of wood, tied in place with twine. The stub of a candle sat next to the blankets, a thin tendril of smoke rising from the wick.

Reva surveyed the rest of the room, finding a small stack of books and a pile of assorted vegetables in the corner, carrots and potatoes, mouldy and sprouting roots, small bite marks in some. It was the intake of breath that warned her, a sharp gasp just above her head.

Reva took a step forward and something landed behind her. She whirled, the sword coming round in a precise slash, connecting with a small knife, the blade skittering away into the shadows. Its owner stared up at her with wide eyes in a dirt-smeared face framed by a mass of matted curls.

“Who are you?” Reva demanded.

The girl’s face held the same astonished gape for a second then transformed into a snarl. She hissed, launching herself at Reva, her hands like claws, long nails seeking to tear at the intruder’s face. Reva dropped her sword, sidestepped the charge and caught the girl about the waist, pinning her arms as she thrashed, snarling and spitting. She held her in place as she continued to struggle, feeling the bone-thin form beneath her ragged clothes and wondering at the ferocity of one so near starvation. The girl subsided after a full two minutes’ thrashing, slumping exhausted in Reva’s arms, voicing a whimper of helpless rage.

“Forgive the intrusion,” Reva told her. “My name is Reva. Who might you be?”

“Did Ihlsa send you?”

Reva added more fuel to the fire and checked the contents of the pot, an old iron vessel found amidst the shattered remnants of the mansion’s kitchen. The girl had followed her readily enough after Reva released her, although she had maintained a sullen silence until now, sitting opposite her in front of the fireplace as Reva stacked broken furniture for fuel. She had filled the pot with the oats from her saddlebags flavoured with a little honey and cinnamon, bought from a Nilsaelin soldier back in Varinshold for the price of a Volarian officer’s short sword and dagger. Long weeks marching with the Queen’s Crusade had told her much about the character of the Realm’s various subjects, and Nilsaelins could usually be relied upon to supply a few luxuries for the right price.

“Who’s Ihlsa?” she asked, stirring the porridge.

The girl drew herself up a little, chin jutting as she attempted a dignified air. “My maid.”

“Making you the lady of this house?”

“Yes.” The girl’s face clouded somewhat. “Since Mother died.”

“You are daughter to Lord Brahdor?”

The girl’s expression abruptly switched from sadness to outright fear. “You know my father? Is he coming back?”

Reva sat down, meeting the girl’s fearful eyes. “What is your name, girl?”

She took a few attempts before managing to form a reply, the word a hesitant whisper. “E-Ellese.”

“Ellese, I must tell you, your father is dead. Slain at Alltor, along with many others.”

There was no grief in the girl’s face, just sagging relief. She hugged herself, head lowered to her knees, the soft sound of weeping emerging from behind her mask of matted hair. Reva hadn’t appreciated just how young she was before, but now saw she couldn’t be more than ten, and so thin.

Reva scooped some porridge into a wooden bowl and held it out to the weeping girl. “Here. You need to eat.”

The sobs stopped after a moment, the smell of the porridge raising an audible groan from Ellese’s belly as she raised her head and reached for the bowl. “Thank you,” she said in a faint voice before commencing to attack the porridge with unladylike gusto.

“Slowly,” Reva cautioned. “Eat too quick on an empty belly and you’ll sicken.”

The girl’s gulps slowed a little and she nodded. “Did the Fief Lord kill him?” she asked when the bowl was almost empty.

“What makes you ask that?”

“Ihlsa said the Fief Lord would visit the Father’s justice upon one who was… cursed.”

“How was he cursed?”

“It happened when I was little. Before he was kind, as much as I can recall. But he fell ill, a brain-fever Mother said. I remember she took me into their room to say good-bye. He had fallen to a deep sleep and she said he would never wake up.” She looked down at her porridge, scraped the last few dregs from the bowl, and put it aside. “But he did.”

“And he was different?”

“Father wasn’t Father anymore. He… hurt Mother. Every night. I could hear… Through the walls. For years he hurt her.” Her face bunched and she began to weep again, tears streaking through the grime on her face.

“Did he ever… hurt you too?”

The girl’s head sagged again, her continued sobs all the answer Reva needed. After a while she spoke again, forcing the words out. “He would keep us locked up when he was away, the house going to ruin around us. The day before he left he… He killed her. He tried to kill me too but Ihlsa took my hand and we ran. We ran to the woods and hid, for such a long time. When we came back the house was empty… apart from Mother. We went to the village but there were soldiers there, not the Realm Guard or the Fief Lord’s men. They were doing terrible things. We ran back to the house and hid in the rafters. They came in and stole things, breaking what they didn’t want, but they didn’t find us. Ihlsa would go out and find food for us every few days. One day she didn’t come back.”

Reva watched her weep, head filled with images of a girl shivering in the dark as she huddled in a corner of a barn, clutching the carrot she had stolen the day before. She wouldn’t eat it right away because there might be none tomorrow.

“He wasn’t killed by the Fief Lord,” she told Ellese. “He was killed by a soldier in service to the queen. If it’s any comfort, his death was far from quick.” She reached for her pack and extracted the scroll-case containing Alornis’s sketch of the priest. “Did you ever see this man here?” she asked, holding it out to Ellese.

The girl’s head rose and she wiped a threadbare sleeve across her face before reaching for the parchment, nodding as she glanced at the image. “Sometimes. Father called him his holy friend. I didn’t like the way he looked at me. Neither did Mother, she would take me upstairs whenever he came. But one time I heard them arguing and went to the top of the stairs to listen. Father’s voice was too soft to hear but I could tell it was different, not like him at all. The other man was louder, angry, he said something about years of wasted effort.” Her eyes darted to Reva’s face for a second. “He kept saying things about a girl, a girl of some importance I think.”

“What did he say?”

“That her mar…” Ellese trailed off, fumbling over the word.

“Martyrdom?” Reva suggested.

“Yes. Martyrdom. He said the girl’s martyrdom should wait upon her uncle’s hand, when there were more eyes to see it.”

Her uncle’s hand. Reva grunted in grim amusement. They thought Uncle Sentes would kill me. Vaelin’s arrival made the Ally’s creature change his plans. How much do they fear him?

“Thank you.” She took the sketch from the girl’s hand and returned it to its case then rose, gathering up her things and strapping on her sword. “If there’s anything you want to take, fetch it now.”

The girl’s head came up, eyes wide and fearful once more. “Where are you taking me?”

“To Alltor. Unless you’d rather stay here.”

“What happened to the walls?” Ellese asked three days later as they crested the hill east of Alltor. She sat atop the mare’s back, Reva leading her by the reins. The girl’s legs were too weak to allow her to walk any distance and the mare not strong enough to bear the weight of two. However, regular meals had done much to brighten her spirits, and provoke an unending torrent of questions.

“They were broken,” Reva told her.

“By what?”

“Big stones launched by great engines.”

“Where are they now?”

“They were burned.”

“By who?”

“One by me, the other two by a load of pirates.”

“Why?”

“They were very angry.” Reva’s eyes went to the river, swelled by winter rains, the dark waters concealing the boats that bore the dread engines along with the Father knew how many corpses. “And the queen asked them to.”

“Is she very beautiful? Mother went to Varinshold once. She said Princess Lyrna was the most beautiful woman she ever saw.”

At Warnsclave she had seen the queen with the orphans, the smile she showed them so different to the one she showed all others, a smile of real warmth and depthless compassion. Later the same day she received word of a band of outlaws preying on refugees to the west and ordered Lord Adal to hunt them down, sparing one in every three captured and these were to be flogged before being pressed into service as porters. She sent the North Guard commander off with a smile that day too.

“Yes,” she told Ellese. “She is very beautiful.”

She saw scaffolding on the walls as they progressed along the causeway to the main gate, clustered around the breaches where men could be seen at work hauling stone.

“Blessed Lady Reva!” the House Guard sergeant on the gate fell to one knee before her, his men following suit. “Thank the Father for your safe return.”

“Just Lady will do,” Reva told him, her eyes taking in the sight of the city. Rubble all gone but still so many ruined houses. “Or just Reva if it suits you.”

The sergeant gave an appalled laugh as he backed away, head still lowered.

Ellese leaned forward in the saddle, speaking in a covert whisper, “Who are you?”

“I told you who I am.” Reva’s eyes lit on a burgeoning cluster of people in the streets beyond the gate, downing tools and starting in her direction, voices already raised in joyous welcome. “Sergeant, I believe I will require escort to the mansion.”

Veliss greeted her with a formal bow and a chaste embrace. “I’ve been away too long,” Reva murmured, feeling the flush build on her cheeks.

“I heartily agree, my lady.” Veliss turned to Ellese standing nearby and squirming a little under the scrutiny. The crowd beyond the mansion gate was large and loud with acclaim. News of Varinshold’s liberation and the extinction of the Volarian army had spread swiftly to all corners of the Realm and Reva’s arrival seemed to serve as a spark for a general victory celebration.

“This is Lady Ellese,” Reva said, beckoning the girl forward. “Heir to Lord Brahdor’s estate and now Ward of the Lady Governess. Find suitable rooms for her, if you would.”

“Of course.” Veliss extended a hand to Ellese, who came forward to take it after a moment’s hesitation.

“I thought Lord Sentes ruled here,” the girl said.

“He died.” Reva glanced back at the still-cheering crowd. “Declare a holiday,” she told Veliss. “Forever more this will be the Day of Victory. And hand out that hidden stock of wine you think I didn’t know about.”

“The walls,” she said later when they were alone in the library and Ellese tucked into a voluminous bed upstairs.

“To be repaired first by virtue of popular demand,” Veliss explained. “The people don’t feel safe without them. I’ve seen to the reconstruction of the larger dwellings when I can, but they wanted the walls repaired and who am I to deny them?”

“The treasury?”

“Surprisingly healthy. Volarian soldiers were rich in loot and I had Arentes set his men to gather up as much as they could before the Nilsaelins or sundry outlaws got to it. Even so, rebuilding a city is a costly business, and when that’s done we have a half-ravaged fief to see to.”

“The queen has made firm promises regarding the costs of reconstruction. Apparently the Northern Reaches now yields more gold than it does bluestone. It may take some months to arrive, however.”

“Well, we shouldn’t starve thanks to Lady Al Bera and Lord Darvus. It’ll be a hard winter though.” She sat next to Reva on the couch beside the fire, taking her hand, their fingers entwining with automatic intimacy.

“The Reader?” Reva asked, resting her head on her shoulder.

“Sends a messenger every week with stern advice on how best to govern the fief in accordance with the tenets of the Ten Books. Sometimes it’s addressed to your grandfather, sometimes your great grandfather, and it rarely makes much sense. Last week he fell asleep during his own sermon, not that it matters since the cathedral was mostly empty.”

“A good choice then.”

“So it seems.”

“Where is Arentes?”

“Off chasing down the last of the Sons and hopefully subduing a band of outlaws in the western dales. They’re becoming a bit of a problem. War tends to succour only the vilest hearts.”

“The Book of Reason, verse six.” Reva smiled and pressed a kiss to her neck. “Are you becoming seduced by the love of the Father, Honoured Lady Counsel?”

“No.” Veliss stroked a hand through her hair, even longer now as Reva couldn’t recall the last time she had cut it. “I’ve only ever been seduced once. And I find it more than enough.”

Reva tensed in anticipation of the response to her next words, feeling a great temptation to leave it until the next morning but knowing the reaction would be even worse if she did. “Tomorrow I will call a general assembly in the square, where I will read out the queen’s Edict of Conscription.”

Veliss’s hand withdrew from her hair, her eyes wary. “Conscription?”

“The queen builds an even greater army, and a fleet to carry it to Volarian shores.”

Veliss rose from the couch, moving to the fireplace, her hand gripping the mantel. “This war is won.”

“No, it is not.”

“Am I to take it, my Lady Governess, that you will sail with the queen and her mighty fleet?”

Reva resisted the urge to reach out to her, seeing the whiteness of her knuckles on the mantel. “Yes.”

Veliss shook her head. “This is madness. Her father, for all his myriad schemes, would never have dreamt of such folly.”

“We need to stop them coming back. This is the only way.”

“Lord Al Sorna’s words, or yours?”

“We are of the same mind.”

“Or are you just hungry for another war? I can see it, you know. The way you chafe with impatience to be gone when you’re here, how bored you are by this place, by me.”

Though the words were softly spoken they held enough truth to make Reva flinch. “I will never be bored by you. If I seem impatient it’s because I’m not made for governance. And believe me or no, I have seen enough of war. But this has to be done, and I require your help to see it done right.”

“What’s conscription?”

Reva turned to find Ellese standing at the library door, wrapped in a blanket and rubbing her eyes. “Couldn’t sleep?”

The girl nodded and Reva patted the couch next to her, Ellese trotting over to sit beside her. “I had a dream,” she said. “Father was alive again, looking for me in our house.”

“Just a dream,” Reva told her, smoothing back the now-unmatted hair from her forehead. “Dreams can’t hurt you.”

Ellese’s gaze moved to Veliss, still standing at the fireplace, back stiff and eyes averted. “What’s conscription?”

Veliss’s shoulders slumped and she gave the girl a weary smile. “The worst of things, love. A hard sell.”

“All men of sound health between the ages of seventeen and forty-five are to report to Alltor by the last day of the month of Interlasur, bringing with them any bows or other weapons in their possession. Any childless woman of the same age may also volunteer her service. All who serve will be paid at the same rate as the Realm Guard and will receive a pension for the rest of their lives at the conclusion of the war, this pension to be paid to the widow or surviving children of any who sacrifice their lives in this cause.”

Reva fell silent, handing the scroll to Veliss and trying not to make her scrutiny of the crowd too obvious. Veliss had placed a wooden crate on the topmost of the Cathedral steps, giving her a complete view of the throng, some five thousand people in the square itself with more crowding the ruins beyond. There was some murmuring, clear surprise showing amidst the sea of faces before her, but for the most part they were silent, the predominant expression one of expectation. They await the Blessed Lady’s word, she thought, keeping the sour grimace from her face.

“We have suffered much,” she told them. “Our trials have been many and our struggle long. I wish I came before you with news of peace, I wish I came to tell you our battles are over and we can at last rest, but that would make me a liar. You trusted my word when the enemy was at our walls and I beg you to trust me again now.” She paused, gathering strength, her own words loud in her head… that would make me a liar…

“And trust that I have heard the Father’s voice.” She put all the force she could muster into the words, hearing them echo from the walls of this wasted city. “And he will permit no turning from this path. Many of you will have heard of the so-called Eleventh Book. I tell you now that book is a lie, worthy only of your scorn. But the Father has ordained there will be a new book, the Book of Justice, written by the Father’s own hand with us as his mighty instrument!”

It wasn’t a cheer, more a roar, instant and savage, rising from the throat of every soul present. There was hate on their faces now, every head no doubt filled with ugly memories of fallen loved ones and burning homes, a hatred permitted free rein by the Blessed Lady who spoke with the Father’s voice. We drowned in their blood, Reva thought as the sound washed over her. And still it wasn’t enough.

She stepped down from the crate, pausing at the sight of Ellese burying her head in Veliss’s skirts, small face tensed with fearful tears as she tried to hide from the crowd’s roar. Reva knelt beside her and wiped the wetness from her face. “It’s all right,” she said. “They’re just happy to see me.”

She waited two days for Arentes to return, greeting the old guard commander at the gates with a warm embrace. “Forgiven me yet, my lord?”

“My lady commands and I follow,” he replied, his tone a little stiff though she could detect the vestiges of a smile behind his moustache. “Besides,” he went on, gesturing at the line of shackled men arrayed on the causeway, “securing your enemies is my sacred charge, and not one I’ll shirk for any glory.”

“There was no glory to earn. Just more blood.” Her eyes tracked over the captives, about twenty emaciated men in varying states of raggedness, some fearful and sagging with exhaustion, others glaring at her in sullen defiance. “The Sons.”

“Plus a few outlaws. Thought it best to hang them in front of the people, make an example.”

“Unless they’ve raped or murdered I’ll send them to the queen. She’s keen to make use of all men, even those of meanest worth.”

“Word of the edict flew far and wide. Not all were glad to hear it.”

“They will when they’ve heard the Father’s word. I’m afraid I’ll need you and your men on the morrow, it’s time I saw my fief in full.”

He gave a precise bow. “Of course, my lady.” He turned a baleful eye on the prisoners. “What do you want done with the Sons?”

“Lady Veliss will question them. When I return we’ll see justice done.”

Ellese had clung to her and cried again, begging to be allowed to come. Reva had been firm in ordering her to remain with Veliss, firmer than necessary judging by the increased pitch of the girl’s wails. “Motherhood has a price,” Veliss told her, holding Ellese to her bodice.

I’m not her mother, Reva had stopped herself saying, crouching to push the hair back from Ellese’s eyes. “Mind Lady Veliss well and stay at your lessons. I’ll be back soon enough.”

She let Arentes choose their route, acceding to his greater knowledge of the fief. “West then south I think, my lady,” he advised. “Westerners are the least godly folk in Cumbrael so we may as well get the hardest task done first.”

There was plenty of evidence of Volarian activity to the west, a procession of ruined villages and the occasional pile of rotting corpses amidst the vineyards. In each instance Reva ordered a halt to have them buried, the words spoken by the only priest to accompany them, a spindly fellow of middling years chosen for his renowned courage during the siege and taciturn nature. She found herself greatly disinclined towards sermons these days. The quiet priest is the good priest, she quipped to herself, wondering if she should write it down.

The devastation abated the farther west they went, disappearing altogether in the hill country on the Nilsaelin border. She knew from Veliss this was one of Cumbrael’s more prosperous regions, the wine being of the finest quality and the people noted for gay celebrations and lax adherence to the Ten Books. Arentes guided her to the largest town in the region, essentially a sprawling hill-fort ringed by impressive walls that traced the line of the surrounding vine-covered slopes in an uninterrupted ribbon of stone.

“Easy to see why the Volarians left it alone,” Arentes commented as they rode up to the gates.

“They’d have gotten to it in time,” Reva said. She expected some difficulty at the gates — it was quite possible these people had no notion as to who she was after all — however she found the town guard already drawn up in ranks and the gates standing open. A stout man in a long robe was on both knees beneath the gate arch, arms spread in supplication.

“Lord Mentari, the town factor,” Arentes explained. “Owns most of the vineyards for miles around. He had great regard for your grandfather.”

“But not so my uncle?” Reva asked.

“Your uncle was much more punctilious when it came to the collection of taxes, and less inclined to favouring old friends.”

“Lucky it is then, that I only have new friends.”

“Blessed Lady!” Lord Mentari clasped his hands together as she approached, dismounting to cast her gaze around the city, finding it strange to see so many intact buildings after weeks of viewing ruins. “You bring the Father’s word to our unworthy ears.”

Reva frowned down at the man’s wide-eyed countenance, expecting to see some glimmer of calculation there but instead his awe appeared completely genuine. “All ears are worthy of the Father’s word,” she told him. “But he doesn’t require you to kneel, and neither do I.”

The stout lord got to his feet, though his back remained at a servile stoop. “The tale of your victory is already legend,” he gushed. “The gratitude of our humble home knows no bounds.”

“I’m glad to hear it, my lord.” She hefted the scroll-case containing the queen’s edict. “For I bring word of how it can be expressed.”

It took two days to gather the people from the surrounding country to hear the Blessed Lady’s words, two days suffering through the feast Mentari organised in her honour and a round of petitions, by far her least favourite occupation. She gave judgement in only the most clear-cut cases and had Arentes note the others for dispatch to Veliss. Despite the apparent comfort and security enjoyed by these people the petitions did give an insight into the fact that war didn’t have to visit your doorstep to cause ill. Complaints abounded of refugees from the east stealing produce and livestock or occupying land they didn’t own, and whilst Tokrev’s armies might not have marched here, his slavers certainly had; weeping mothers telling of sons and daughters stolen in raids. For all their sorrow, Reva took a grim comfort from these tales, her task made easier by the Volarians’ talent for birthing hate in every soul they touched.

She read the edict on the evening of the second day, standing on the porch of Mentari’s house as people crowded the space below, a broad avenue surrounding an elegant fountain of bronze. This time the murmuring was louder when she finished, and the expressions of the crowd not so rapt. However, despite the evident discomfort, there was no open dissent or shouts of disapproval and plenty of godly souls to voice their approval as the Blessed Lady told her lie.

“An eleventh book,” Lord Mentari breathed as she stepped down, the crowd still cheering. “To think I would live to see such a thing.”

“We live in changing times, my lord.” Reva accepted the book Arentes handed to her and checked the notes Veliss had provided on this region. “My honoured advisor calculates your quota as a minimum of two thousand men of fighting age, accounting for recent troubles and the census compiled five years ago. I’m sure the Father will smile upon you should it be exceeded.”

Touring the entire fief took the best part of a month, town after town, village after village, some swollen with refugees, others nearly empty as many of the occupants had fled in advance of the expected Volarian onslaught. She found her lie most readily welcomed in those places rich in the dispossessed, many of whom had firsthand experience of the enemy’s nature. Even in places where none had been scathed by the war, there were still plenty of willing ears keen to hear the Blessed Lady’s words, though not all were so open to the Father’s message.

“Got four sons and the queen wants three of them,” said a burly woman in a village in the south-western riverlands. People here were renowned for their hardiness, scratching a living from the eel-pots with which they harvested the myriad waterways surrounding their homes, settlements often limited to no more than a few houses and rarely accompanied by a church. The woman glared at Reva as the assembled villagers gave a murmur of agreement, though some were clearly intimidated by Arentes and his fifty guardsmen. The glaring woman, however, paid them no heed at all. “How’s a family s’posed to feed itself with no hands to work the boats and haul the pots?”

“No one will go hungry,” Reva assured her. “Any additional food required will be provided by House Mustor and the queen at no charge.”

“Heard promises from your house before,” the woman replied. “When my husband got dragged off to get his throat cut by those Asraelin bastards. Now you want us to fight for them.”

“This fief was saved by Asraelin hands,” Reva said. “And Nilsaelins, folk from the Northern Reaches, the Seordah and the Eorhil. At Varinshold I fought alongside Meldeneans and Renfaelins. The old age is dead, now we fight for each other.”

The woman pointed a finger at Reva, her voice rising to an angry growl. “You fight for them, girl. I don’t know them, never seen these… Volarans you talk of, and any liar can claim to talk with the Father’s voice.”

The guardsmen immediately snapped to attention, their sergeant stepping forward with sword half-drawn before Reva barked at him to halt. “She speaks blasphemy and treason, my lady,” the sergeant said, face rigid with fury as he glared at the woman in the crowd, now standing alone as her fellow villagers moved back, any former sympathy abruptly forgotten. Despite the lack of support the woman stood her ground, glaring at Reva with no sign of fear or regret on her weathered features as the sergeant spoke on, “You were not at Alltor. You did not see what the Blessed Lady did for us. But for her, you, your sons and this village would now be nothing but ash and bone. You owe her everything, as do we all.”

The woman’s gaze didn’t shift from Reva. “Then you’d best hang me, lady. For my sons aren’t yours to take, Father’s word or no.”

Reva’s eyes scanned the crowd, picking out three young men near the back, two of them clearly cowed by the circumstance, heads lowered and no doubt praying for the confrontation to end, but the tallest stood regarding the burly woman with a grim resentment.

“Can your sons not speak for themselves?” Reva asked he woman. “Both the Ten Books and Fief Law decree manhood at age seventeen. If your sons are of age, let them make the choice.”

“My sons know their duty…” the woman began but trailed off as the taller of the three young men held up his hand and pushed his way through the crowd.

“Allern Varesh, my lady,” he said with a bow. “I offer my service in accordance with the Queen’s Edict.”

“Stop that!” the woman growled, stepping forward to aim a cuff at the young man’s head before glowering at Reva once again. “He’s not yours to take!”

Reva was about to simply ignore her and thank the young man for his loyalty but paused as she saw the wetness in the woman’s eyes, how she moved protectively in front of her son. Reva stepped down from the cart, coming forward to stand in front of the woman. “Your name?”

The woman clenched her teeth and wiped her eyes with thick fingers. “Realla Varesh.”

“You have lost much, Realla Varesh. And it pains me to ask for more.” She pointed at the still-kneeling Allern. “Therefore, in recognition of your sacrifice the quota for this village will be considered fully met by this man’s service.”

The woman sagged, hands going to her face. From the shocked reaction of her son and the crowd Reva surmised it was probably the first time any living soul had seen her weep. “Lord Arentes,” Reva said.

“My lady!”

“This young man has sufficient height for a guardsman, wouldn’t you say?”

Arentes gave Allern a brief look of appraisal. “Just about, my lady.”

“Very well. Allern Varesh, you are hereby inducted into the House Guard of Lady Governess Reva Mustor.” She glanced again at the man’s sobbing mother. “You have an hour to say your farewells. Lord Arentes will find you a horse.”

She returned to Alltor with five hundred men and fifty women in tow, all volunteers willing to march at the Blessed Lady’s command. There could have been a thousand of them but they had neither the provisions or packhorses to supply so many. The lands south of Alltor had been richest in recruits and willing ears for her lie, having suffered much at the hands of Volarian raiding parties. They had fought a minor war of their own among the Cold Iron’s forested banks and tributaries and were rich in captured weapons. According to Arentes the region had always been the heartland of Cumbraelin archery, the first longbows being hewn from the yews that proliferated in the thick forest. In the face of the Volarian threat long-defunct companies, once the backbone of Cumbraelin military strength, had re-formed under veteran captains, fighting a deadly game of chase among the trees for months until Alltor’s relief.

Reva ordered the companies to stay in formation and gather more strength before mustering at Alltor in the spring. For all the fierceness of their commitment she found them a disconcerting lot, hard-eyed and grim of aspect, the many rotting bodies of captured Volarians hanging in the forest evidence of a lust for vengeance far from sated. What will they wreak when we sail the ocean? she wondered, searching her memory in vain for a passage in any of the Ten Books that gave succour to vengeful thoughts.

Ellese greeted her with a fierce joy, thin arms tight around her waist as she complained of Veliss’s endless lessons. “She makes me read every morning and every night. And write too.”

“Skills of great importance,” Reva told her, gently undoing her arms. “Still, I have a few to teach you too, in time.”

Ellese’s small face frowned up at her, the gauntness now gone though she retained a slightly sunken look to her eyes. “What skills?”

“The bow and the knife. The sword too when you get older. Only if you want to.”

“I want to.” She gave an excited jump, taking Reva’s hand and dragging her towards the mansion. “Teach me now!”

Reva caught the grave expression on Veliss’s face and hauled the girl to a halt. “Tomorrow,” she said. “I have another task today.”

“Still no name for me?”

The broken-nosed priest cast a single, tired glance at her and shook his head. They were lined up on the causeway, twelve men in threadbare clothing, besmirched from their captivity in the mansion’s cellars, some swaying a little as the effects of Veliss’s various herbal concoctions could linger for days. The notes she had accrued during the interrogations were fulsome, near five hundred pages of names, dates, meetings, murders, enough to see the Church of the World Father revealed as a nest of traitors from Reader to Bishop, perhaps enough to shatter it completely.

“He really thought he could do it?” Reva asked the nameless priest. “Bring down House Mustor and rule the fief in the Father’s name?”

The priest raised his head, swallowing as he mustered his courage. “A holy endeavour, blessed by the Father.”

“Blessings spoken by a wretch in service to a creature of the Dark.” Reva stepped back, raising her voice and casting her gaze across each face. “You are fools, so steeped in the Ten Books you can’t even see the truth they hold. The Father does not bless deception and murder, the Father does not offer succour to those who would torment children to vile ends.”

She fell silent, feeling it build again, the same rage that had seized her during the siege, the fury that had seen her slit the throats of slavers and cut the heads from prisoners. The nameless priest shuddered, swallowing again as he fought down terror-born vomit. Arentes stood behind the shackled line with a full company of House Guard, swords drawn, each of them glaring at the traitors with an expression of grim hunger.

We are all killers now, she remembered. Bathed in blood with more to come. Her gaze lit upon a familiar figure at the end of the line, a wiry man, unlike the others in his willingness to meet her gaze, his visage oddly reverent. Shindall, she recalled. The innkeeper who had set her on the road to the High Keep. Seeing your face is the only thanks I’ll ever need.

Reva took the scroll tucked into her belt, holding it up so they could see the seal and the somewhat unsteady signature. “By order of the Holy Reader you are all named as ex-communicants from the Church of the World Father. You are forbidden from reading or reciting any of the Ten Books as you have proved yourselves unworthy of the Father’s love.” She looked once again at the broken-nosed priest. “And I know your name since the Father doesn’t want it, Master Jorent.”

She watched them close their eyes, heads bowing, some whispering prayers, one or two weeping with stains on their trews, much like the Volarian prisoners before being led to the block, though they hadn’t prayed, only begged.

“Lord Arentes,” Reva said. “Remove the shackles. Let them go.”

Veliss hadn’t voiced any rebuke, only puzzlement. “They plotted against your house once, what’s to stop them doing so again?”

“A plot requires concealment, hidden names, hidden faces. Now they are denied the shadows.”

“And you have denied yourself justice.”

“No, only revenge. The Father has ever been clear they are not the same thing.”

The various contingents of conscripts began arriving a month later, even though the rapidly descending winter did much to discourage marching. With the ever-deepening cold Reva ordered work on the walls stopped and all hands put to repairing the city proper, tents and oilskins to be replaced with walls and tiled roofs. Rationing was resumed as the snows blocked the passes through the mountains to Nilsael and halted further supply from the southern shore.

Reva began each day with Ellese’s lessons, starting with the knife, finding a long-bladed dirk that suited the girl’s small grip. For all her enthusiasm she was a clumsy student, given to frequent falls and scraped knees, though, unlike every other chore she was put to, her lessons with Reva never provoked tears, but her passion for questions remained unabated.

“Were you my age when you learned to do this?”

“I started younger. Don’t jump when you thrust, it’ll leave you unbalanced.”

“Who taught you?”

“A very bad man.”

“Why was he bad?”

“He wanted me to do bad things.”

“What bad things?”

“Too many to list. Watch me, not your feet.”

She left her to practice on the lawn and joined Veliss on the veranda, wrapped in furs against the frosty air and holding a sealed scroll. “It’s come then?”

Veliss nodded, handing her the scroll, though her gaze was still on Ellese, dancing her clumsy dance on the lawn. “She’s not really suited to this.”

“She’ll learn, from both of us.”

“Why did you take her in? You could have found a decent home for her elsewhere. Cumbrael is rich in bereaved mothers hungry for children.”

Reva glanced back at Ellese as she parried a thrust from an invisible enemy. “She didn’t run. When I went into her house she tried to stab me, and when I took her knife away she still didn’t run.” She turned back to Veliss. “I would appreciate it if you would see to the articles of adoption.”

“You’re sure? She’s so young.”

“She’s of noble birth and keen mind, with you to guide her she’ll do very well. And we need to secure the future.”

Veliss’s eyes went to the scroll, lingering on the queen’s seal. “I have never asked you for a promise. But I ask one now. Whatever awaits you across the ocean, promise you will stay alive and come back to me.”

Reva unfurled the scroll, finding it penned in the queen’s own hand, rich in warm regard and appreciation for her diligent enforcement of the edict, ending with a politely phrased order to bring her forces to South Tower by the last day of Illnasur. When winter will not have ended, Reva realised. She intends to sail before the onset of spring.

“Reva,” Veliss said in a choked whisper.

Reva took her hand and pressed a kiss to her cheek, voicing another lie. “I promise.”

CHAPTER FIVE Vaelin

Vaelin had once spent a winter at the Skellan Pass attempting to combat an upsurge in Lonak raids. Then it had been busy with brothers and Wolfrunners, a stark contrast to the silent walls and turrets he saw now, bereft of brothers to greet them as they approached the squat tower at the mouth of the pass. He knew Sollis had abandoned it with good reason, the Lonak having agreed peace and the invasion requiring every hand he could muster, but still the emptiness of the Realm’s great northern shield was disconcerting, a measure of how much had changed in so short a time.

“My people would have rejoiced at such a sight once,” Kiral said, no doubt sensing his feelings. “Now even they find it a grim omen.”

Vaelin turned as Lord Marshal Orven reined to a halt at his side, his fifty men all that remained of the Queen’s Mounted Guard. “Post guards. We’ll rest here tonight.”

He spent the night in the tower with Kiral and the Gifted from Nehrin’s Point, all of whom had opted to accompany him rather than join the queen’s impending voyage across the Boraelin. The queen herself had blessed their endeavour with well-chosen words and a fine smile, both of which belied her reaction when he had related his intention in private.

“You want to go trekking across the northern ice floes in the middle of winter?” She had called him to her rooms at the palace and the hour was late. Although, judging by the laughter seeping through the door, some of the children were still awake. They had grown steadily in number since the city’s liberation until there were near two hundred orphans crowding this wing of the palace, all formally recognised as Wards of the Crown under the Queen’s Word. Lyrna’s rooms were mostly bare of finery, filled with books and a selection of Brother Harlick’s scrolls, her desk holding several neat piles of notes in her precise script. The space was dimly lit by a single lamp and the glow from the fire, leaving half her features in shadow as she fixed him with a frown of wary bemusement, as if waiting for him to conclude a poor joke.

“Kiral’s song will be our guide,” he replied. “She speaks with the Mahlessa’s blessing, I know you trust her word.”

“I trust the Mahlessa to act only in the interests of the Lonak. If it suited her purpose to set us on a fool’s errand, I’ve no doubt she would do so.” Her frown softened and she reached for a piece of parchment on the desk, holding it up to the light. He recognised it as Alornis’s work — the lines were too precise and perfect for another hand — but the subject was new, a semicircular design of some sort, the shape formed from an intricate pattern of straight lines.

“Your sister proposes a radical departure from traditional methods of ship construction,” Lyrna said. “An inner hull formed of interconnected short beams describing a curve, essentially a practical application of Lervial’s concept of tangential arcs, though she claims never to have read it. If we adopt her approach, unskilled hands can be put to work crafting thousands of straight beams, saving months of skilled labour.”

“Then why not do so?”

“Because it’s never been done before. No ship has ever been built along such lines. Just as, insofar as I can recall from any history I have ever read, no explorer has successfully journeyed across the ice floes, not even in the height of summer.”

“Kiral trusts her song, and I trust her.”

“This man Erlin is so important?”

“I believe so. One so long-lived will possess knowledge far more valuable than anything in Harlick’s scrolls. And the legend says he was denied the Beyond, which may mean he has glimpsed it, as I have. But perhaps he saw more than I did.”

Lyrna’s brow furrowed once more in remembrance. “Arendil once told me a story about Kerlis, claiming his uncle had met him years ago. He said he had been cursed to live forever for refusing to join with the Departed. So he spent his endless days circling the earth in search of one who has the means to kill him, one who would be born to the Gifted of this land.” She sighed a weary laugh. “All just tales, Vaelin. You can’t expect me to sanction this course, to send my Battle Lord to die in the frozen wastes, on the basis of legend.”

“To our cost, we have both learned not all legends are bereft of truth.” He straightened, drawing breath to speak in formal tones but she held up a hand to stop him.

“Spare me the offer of resignation, please. I may command every other soul in this Realm, but I’ll not pretend to do so with you.”

“My thanks, Highness. I propose Count Marven be appointed Battle Lord in my place.”

“Very well. How many troops will you take?”

“None. Just myself and Kiral.”

She shook her head. “That is unacceptable. The Gifted from the Reaches and Lord Orven’s company will escort you.”

“Orven’s wife is with child. I’ll not ask him to follow such a hazardous course…”

“But I will, my lord. Orven is a soldier and knows his duty, happy news or no.”

He saw the implacable set of her face and nodded. “As you wish, Highness. The other matter we discussed?”

Her hands twitched on the desk as her face hardened yet further. “You ask much of me, Vaelin.”

“He was not responsible…”

“I know. But the sight of my brother’s murder does not easily fade.”

“If it’s punishment you desire, it seems the course I have proposed should provide it in ample measure.”

She met his gaze, the pale lines on her forehead standing out in the firelight, her voice flat with certainty. “I desire but one thing, my lord; a secure future for this Realm. I’ll send your brother across the ocean to be the harbinger of my coming, but do not ask me to forgive. I find such sentiment no longer within my grasp.”

Had Janus had his way, we would be married now, Vaelin reflected. He had taken leave of the others and climbed to the top of the tower, cloak wrapped tight and breath misting as he stared at the pregnant darkness beyond the pass. Would our children have been beautiful or terrible? Or both, like her.

There was a faint shift in the wind gusting across the tower, carrying a slight scent: mingled woodsmoke and sweat. “I know you’re there,” Vaelin said, not turning from the view.

Lorkan gave a wry laugh as he appeared at his side, unruly hair tumbling across his frost-pale face. “My lord’s gift has returned then?”

“There are other senses than sight.” He let Lorkan’s hesitant fidgeting continue for several moments before speaking again. “I assume you come with a request?”

“Indeed, my lord.” Lorkan rubbed his hands together, eyes averted, attempting a jovial tone. “It, ah, seems to me, my lord, this grand crusade of ours has provided all the excitement I could wish for. Proud as I am of my service, which I think you would agree, has been valuable, the time has come for me to seek adventure in warmer climes.”

“You wish to be released.”

Lorkan inclined his head with a smile. “I do.”

“Very well. Given your gift I could hardly compel you to come in any case.”

“My thanks, my lord.” He lingered, fidgeting some more.

“What is it?” Vaelin demanded in a weary sigh.

“Cara, my lord.”

“She also wishes to be released?”

“No, she is firm in her determination to follow you. However, if you were to order her to leave…”

Vaelin turned away from him. “No.”

Lorkan’s tone grew harder. “She is little more than a child…”

“With a woman’s heart and a great gift. She is welcome in my company and I am proud to have her loyalty.” He went to the stairwell in the centre of the roof. “You can keep your horse, weapons, and any booty gathered during the campaign, but please be gone before sunrise.”

“I can’t!” Lorkan was glaring at him now, his shout ringing through the pass. “You know I can’t leave without her.”

Vaelin cast a glance back at the young Gifted, face tense with anger and a little fear, his stance poised as he no doubt prepared to blink out of sight. “I know that sometimes life gives us nothing but hard choices,” Vaelin told him before starting down the stairs. “If you’re not here come the morning, I’ll be sure to explain your absence to Cara.”

They were five miles beyond the pass the next day when Kiral abruptly reined her pony to a halt, her eyes turning towards the west, features drawn in sharp scrutiny. “Trouble?” Vaelin asked her.

She narrowed her eyes, frowning in confusion. “Something… Someone new.”

“Another song?”

She shook her head. “Not a singer, and my song holds no warning. But he calls to me.”

“From where?”

Her face took on a sudden wariness, the first sign of fear he had seen her exhibit. “The Fallen City.”

Vaelin nodded, turning and beckoning to Orven. “I require five men, my lord. Make camp in the valley ahead and await our return.” He raised his voice, addressing a somewhat sullen figure farther back along the column. “Master Lorkan! Please join us.”

It was a two-day trek to the city, the journey shortened by Kiral’s intimate knowledge of the mountains. The ruins were much as he remembered, though now he felt none of the oppressive weight that had plagued him during his last visit here, although both Kiral and Lorkan enjoyed no such immunity.

“Faith, this is worse than the forest.” Lorkan grimaced and sagged in his saddle, his complexion taking on a pale hue.

“Never have I come so close before,” Kiral said, her unease clear in the rigid set of her shoulders. “This is no place for the living.”

“Master Lorkan?” Vaelin said, favouring the youth with an expectant smile and nodding at the ruins. After a long moment’s hesitation Lorkan inclined his head and climbed down from his horse. He took a deep breath and started for the city at a steady walk, slipping into the air after a few steps and drawing a murmur of disquiet from the guardsmen.

“Whoever waits in there will see him,” Kiral advised.

“I know,” Vaelin replied.

“Then why send him?”

“What is life without an occasional amusement?”

They sat surveying the silent ruins for only a few more moments before the shout came, a shrill exclamation of alarm echoing from the tumbled stones. Kiral unlimbered her bow and the guardsmen fanned out, swords at the ready as Lorkan burst into view at the city’s edge, cloak trailing behind him as he pelted in their direction, eyes wide with unabashed terror. The reason for his flight soon became apparent, a large brown shape lumbering in pursuit, mouth wide and teeth bared in a challenging roar.

“Didn’t know they grew so large,” Vaelin commented. The bear must have stood perhaps five feet tall at the shoulder, meaning its full height would be nearer ten. Although its pursuit of Lorkan appeared laboured, it covered the ground with deceptive speed thanks to the length of its stride.

“Kill it, for Faith’s sake!” Lorkan yelled, sprinting towards them, the bear now only a few strides behind.

“Don’t!” Vaelin said to Kiral as she raised her bow, his eyes picking out a figure among the ruins, small and familiar with another at its side, only slightly taller and holding aloft a long stick of some kind. The bear skidded to an abrupt halt, scattering gravel, a mournful growl issuing from its snout. It bounced on its forelegs, claws digging into the rocky ground, continuing to stare in challenge at Lorkan who was now on all fours behind one of the guardsmen, panting and clearly on the verge of losing his breakfast.

Scar, like the other horses, had begun to rear at the sight of the bear and was now on the verge of outright panic, tossing his head in protest as Vaelin hauled on the reins. “It’s all right,” he said, dismounting to smooth a hand along the animal’s flank. “He won’t hurt you.”

The bear snorted again, shaking its great head from side to side as if gathering strength for another charge, but then stiffened, became near as still as a statue. “He still young.” A small, fur-clad man holding a bone as long as a staff appeared at the bear’s side, his voice holding a note of apology. “Friend and enemy smell same.”

“Wise Bear!” Vaelin came forward to clasp hands with the shaman, heartened by the strength of his grip. “You are far from the Reaches.”

“You go on the ice,” Wise Bear replied with a shrug. “I show you how.”

“He was very insistent.” Dahrena stood a short distance away, smiling tightly. “Could hardly let him come alone.”

Vaelin went to her, pulling her close, the realisation of how much he had missed her provoking a harsh ache. I will send her back, he thought, knowing himself a liar. In the morning I will send her back.

They shared a meal of spitted goat, apparently the victim of the great brown bear’s hunting skill judging by the deep rents in the carcass. “Iron Claw brings good meat,” Wise Bear said. “Only keeps insides for himself.”

When the meal was done Vaelin followed the old shaman as he toured the ruins, peering at the shattered statuary and occasionally jabbing his bone-staff at weed-covered rubble. The bear roamed nearby, displaying equal scrutiny as he poked his large snout into the various nooks and crannies, sometimes using his dagger-like claws to pull the stones apart.

“Iron Claw wants bugs,” Wise Bear explained. “Bear belly never full.”

“How did you know to come here?” Vaelin asked him.

Wise Bear gave him a quizzical look, as if the answer were obvious, raising his eyebrows when Vaelin failed to discern his meaning. “Big…” He frowned, fumbling for the right words. “Big power, big…” He made a wide, flailing gesture with his arms, blowing air through his lips.

“Disturbance?” Vaelin asked, adding, “Storm?” at the shaman’s blank gaze.

“Storm, yes, big storm in the… sea. Power sea.”

Power sea. He sees the Dark as a sea of power. “You can see the power sea?”

Wise Bear barked a laugh. “None can see it all. Just feel storms, feel those touching it, hear songs if they sing. Felt the storm brewing, heard the girl’s song, followed it here with Flies High Woman.” His frown returned as they came to the great stone head Vaelin recalled from his first visit here, the bearded man with a troubled brow.

“The storm is coming here?” Vaelin asked, watching him tentatively touch the tip of his staff to the stone face.

“Storm came here before.” Wise Bear lowered his staff to place a hand on the bearded man’s forehead, closing his eyes. “Now just echo.”

“Of what?”

“What was, what will be.” The shaman removed his hand from the stone head, sadness dominating his wrinkled face.

“I thought he might be a king, a chief,” Vaelin said but Wise Bear shook his head.

“No, wise man, keeper of many stories.”

“But not wise enough to stop the city falling?”

“Some things nothing can stop. He build this place, shamans filled stone with power to sing its song.”

Filled stone with power? Vaelin recalled Wisdom’s tale of how she had gained her name, the stone given to her by the shade of Nersus Sil Nin, and she but a memory preserved in the stones in the Martishe and the Great Northern Forest. “They could place their memories in stone?” he asked.

Wise Bear nodded. “More than… memory. Feeling.” He raised his staff and swept it slowly around, tracking over the remnants of a city that must once have been wondrous. “This place, filled with power.”

He moved on, eyes bright with scrutiny, scanning the ruins with a near-predatory intensity. Vaelin followed him through the maze of rubble, past the rare intact building Brother Harlick had fancied a library and onto what appeared to have been some kind of raised platform. Vaelin judged it might have stood ten feet high when intact, but the supporting pillars were shattered and the stone surface had tumbled to be cracked from end to end. Wise Bear paused, his limbs betraying a spasm of discomfort before he stepped onto the platform, moving to the centre where he touched his staff to the bare stone.

“Something here,” he said. “Something… black.”

Vaelin found he didn’t like the confusion he saw on the shaman’s face, his features sagging a little, making him seem even more aged. “Something black?” he prompted as the old man crouched to touch a tentative hand to the stone. “You mean Dark? Something that had the power?”

“Black,” Wise Bear stated in an emphatic tone before straightening. “Gone now, far away. Taken.”

“By who?”

Wise Bear turned, meeting Vaelin’s gaze. “You know,” he said. “We go across ice to find him.”

“I left Ultin in charge,” Dahrena said, settling next to him and pulling the furs across them both. “I doubt he relished the honour but there wasn’t anyone else halfway capable.”

“The gold?” Vaelin enquired.

“The first shipload should dock in Frostport within the month, much to Lord Darvus’s delight I’m sure.”

“He won’t be the first or the last to profit from war.” He paused, enjoying the feel of her pressed against him, regretting the necessity for his next words. However, she evidently read his intent and spoke first.

“I’m not leaving.” She raised her head to press a kiss to his lips then settled back. “How is Alornis?”

He recalled Alornis’s rigid face the morning he left, her valiant attempt at holding back the tears, falling to ruin as she collapsed against him, only drawing back at Lyrna’s gentle but insistent tug. His final glimpse of her lingered like a guilty stain, her head on Lyrna’s shoulder as she turned her face, refusing to watch him ride away. “She does good service in the queen’s cause,” he told Dahrena. “Her talents are even greater than we knew.”

She shifted a little, turning her gaze to the sky, clear of cloud and offering a fine view of the stars. “It’s faded,” she murmured. He knew the star she spoke of; Avenshura, from which Sanesh Poltar had taken his Eorhil name. It’s said no wars can be fought under the light it brings. Now it was just a small pinprick of light amongst many others.

“We’ll see it shine again,” he told her. “We just have to live a very long time.”

She turned back to him, her voice sombre. “I do not like this place.”

“Terrible things were done here once. Wise Bear says the stone carries the memory.”

“Not the city. The mountains, the home of the people who birthed me…” She trailed off but he knew the words she left unsaid.

“And killed your husband.”

Her head moved in a faint nod.

“What was his name?”

“His people named him Leordah Nil Usril, Lives in Dreams. I just called him Usril. The Seordah thought him a quiet soul, seldom given to speech and often lost in thought. He rarely joined war parties against the Lonak though in the battle with the Horde he had proved himself brave and skillful. One summer the Lonak came in larger numbers than usual, raiding deeper than they had before. I was visiting with my father when word came of the raid. I flew to the forest, finding his body amongst many others, a dead Lonak lay atop him. I remember how peaceful they looked, as if they had fallen asleep together. I searched far and wide for his soul, but he was at least a day gone.”

She fell silent, her breath soft on his chest as he held her even tighter. When she spoke again her voice was barely above a whisper and coloured with suppressed fear, “I did my best to die that day, Vaelin. I hung above the forest and watched over his body, knowing my own would soon lose its warmth, hoping I could join his endless hunt in the shadows… Father brought me back, somehow I heard his voice pleading with me to return. I barely felt the chill when I slipped back into my body, in truth for weeks I barely felt anything. Then I went to the stone and sought counsel with Nersus Sil Nin. She told me something, something I didn’t want to believe.”

She rose, bringing her face level with his, staring into his eyes. “She told me I had much still to do. That great trials lay ahead and a lifetime of grief was not a luxury I would be permitted. And she said she had once gifted a Seordah name to a man, a man I would come to love.” She gave a laugh, her breath soft on his lips. “I thought she was mad. I was wrong.”

They returned to Orven’s company two days later, finding them all mounted and drawn up in battle formation. The reason was easily found, at least a hundred Lonak on their stout ponies plainly visible on the crest of a hill a quarter mile to the north.

“They appeared this morning, my lord,” Orven reported as Vaelin rode up, greeting Dahrena with a surprised bow. “Very good to see you again, my lady.”

“My lord. I hear congratulations are in order.”

Orven gave a small grin before casting a wary glance at the Lonak. “I fear they’ll have to wait.”

Vaelin raised an eyebrow at Kiral who looked upon her fellow Lonak with steady gaze. “They come at the Mahlessa’s bidding, though not without misgivings.”

“Then we’d best say hello.” He told Dahrena and the others to wait with Orven’s men and rode forward with Kiral. They approached to within a few yards of the base of the hill, halting when one of the Lonak spurred his pony down the slope, a hulking man with a bearskin vest and a mazelike tattoo covering his shaven head. His face provoked a rush of recognition as he halted his pony a few yards away, regarding Vaelin with a baleful glare and greeting Kiral in terse Lonak.

“This is Alturk,” she told Vaelin. “Tahlessa of the Mahlessa Sentar.”

“We’ve met,” Vaelin said, nodding at the big man. “Your son is well?”

Alturk’s face spasmed with anger and Vaelin resisted the urge to reach for his sword as Kiral tensed beside him.

“My son was varnish,” Alturk said in harsh Realm Tongue. “A worthless life well ended.”

Vaelin wondered if he should voice some word of sympathy but guessed it would only be taken as further insult. “The Mahlessa has granted us passage,” he said. “What is your purpose here?”

Alturk gritted his teeth, speaking in slow controlled tones as if worried his anger might choke him. “The Mahlessa commands one hundred of the Sentar follow you. The finest blood of the Lonakhim, to be spilled at your word.”

“You know our course? We travel across the ice to the lands of our enemy. The dangers are many.”

“Word from the Mountain is not questioned.” Alturk tugged on his reins, turning the pony. “Follow our track, do not stray from it. There are few here who welcome your coming and I give no promise of safety.”

They covered thirty miles by nightfall, the Sentar setting a punishing pace through myriad canyons and valleys. Vaelin noted they rode with weapons ready, many holding bows with arrows notched, eyes constantly scanning the surrounding hilltops. His eyes also picked out a few riderless ponies among them and noted some warriors sported recently bound wounds.

“The Mahlessa asks much of our people in allowing your passage,” Kiral explained, following his gaze. “The False Mahlessa may have fallen but her words still linger in many ears.”

“But you are… were the False Mahlessa,” Vaelin said. “Won’t your presence among us discourage them?”

Kiral smiled sadly. “When the Mahlessa freed me I went forth from the Mountain with my sisters, telling my story at the fires of every clan. It’s a story welcome at any fire, being so rich in incident. Most believed it, some didn’t, thinking me somehow turned from my true course by the Mahlessa. The thing that held me had a way with words, an ability to plant the seeds of doubt in the hearts of those already versed in malice and cruelty. It’s easier to hate when given a reason, and she had many.”

They encamped amidst the crags of a low plateau some hours later, Alturk posting a heavy guard on all approaches. Most of the Sentar seemed content to stay away from the Merim Her but not all were so wary, one stocky woman approaching to peer at Dahrena as she unsaddled her horse, speaking in rapid Lonak.

“I don’t know your language,” Dahrena said, clearly discomforted by the scrutiny.

“She asks if you belong to the Arrow Glass Clan,” Kiral explained. “Your face reminds her of a cousin she lost years ago.”

Dahrena offered the stern-faced Lonak woman a cautious frown. “Lost how?”

“A raid,” Kiral related. “An entire village was wiped out, her cousin died along with her sisters and their children. They thought it the Seordah but the tracks were wrong, and the Seordah never kill children.”

Dahrena’s expression became more intent and she laid down her saddle, stepping closer to the Lonak woman. “Did her cousin have a name?”

“Mileka,” Kiral translated. “It means Owl.” She paused as the Lonak woman spoke on. “She asks if you have a story for the fire.”

“Yes.” Dahrena gave a reluctant nod. “I have a story.”

The Lonak woman brought a dozen or so more Sentar to hear the story, squatting around the fire as Kiral translated Dahrena’s tale. The presence of Wise Bear and Iron Claw was an obvious source of discomfort but apparently not sufficient to assuage the desire for a new tale. They sat, clearly fascinated as she related her dim memory of the destruction of her village. Some became agitated when she mentioned the wolf that had borne her through the forest, but they all stayed until she finished, relating how Lord Al Myrna had found her and made her his daughter, nodding and grunting in appreciation as she fell silent.

“They liked it,” Kiral said, a note of relief in her voice. “A good story means much to my people.” She tensed somewhat as Alturk stepped from the shadow of a nearby crag, arms crossed and gaze fixed on Dahrena.

“You lived as Merim Her,” he said. “But your arms are adorned with Seordah trinkets.”

“I am both Merim Her and Seordah,” she replied evenly. “In soul if not in blood.”

Alturk grunted something that might have been a laugh. “Lonak blood doesn’t weaken so easily. You may feel it swell again before this tale is done.” He growled something at the onlooking Sentar and they quickly scrambled to their feet before disappearing into the shadows. “Be sure to wake before dawn,” he told Vaelin, stalking back into the night.

The first attack came the following day as they traversed a deep canyon half a day’s march from the plateau. A group of some two dozen Lonak appeared out of a cave mouth to launch a volley of arrows before hurling themselves at the Sentar, clearly intent on fighting their way through to the hated Merim Her. Only one managed to breach the cordon, the others being clubbed down or speared in short order, seemingly without any loss to the Sentar. The lone warrior ran directly for Vaelin, screaming madly with war club raised, then skidding to a halt as Iron Claw lumbered into his path. The Lonak stared, eyes wide in horror as the bear bellowed his challenge, rising to his full height. The warrior dropped his club, apparently now unreasoned by terror and numb to the arrow that punched through his chest a second later. Kiral walked to the corpse, bow in hand, kicking his legs to make sure before kneeling to reclaim her arrow.

They were attacked again three nights later, though this time their assailants were content to linger in the shadows and loose arrows at the campfires, claiming the life of a Sentar who had stepped in front of the glow at the wrong moment. Alturk gathered together twenty warriors and led them into the darkness, returning a little while later with bloodied clubs and lance points. Their efforts seemed to have been enough to ensure an untroubled night and a group of Sentar soon appeared at their fire in search of a story in what was becoming a nightly ritual.

“I’ll take a turn,” Orven said. “The Tale of Lord Vaelin’s Charge at the Battle of Alltor.”

Vaelin got to his feet with a groan. “Spare me.”

“But they want a story, my lord,” Orven said with a small grin.

“I, however, do not.” He walked away from the fire as Orven began the tale, moving through the camp where the other Sentar greeted him with cautious eyes or studied indifference. He found Alturk sitting alone, wiping a buckskin rag over his war club, a recently sharpened knife placed close to his side.

“I come to ask more of your son,” Vaelin said. “I hope my actions had no part in his death.”

Alturk didn’t look up, grunting, “Your hope is wasted.”

“You killed him for disobeying the Mahlessa?”

The Lonak’s eyes rose from his work, bright with warning. “My clan killed him. His death was right and just. And I’ll speak no more of it.”

Vaelin moved to the fire, squatting down to extend his hands to the warmth. The nights grew ever colder, the northerly winds stiff with ample warning of what lay ahead. “My queen told me men are forbidden the company of your Mahlessa,” he said. “You have never met her, yet you follow her word without question.”

“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 bonds 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.”

“Yes. I must confess I have misled you somewhat, Lord Marshal. My mission here tonight was not to show you my ship.”

She saw him tense, glancing at Iltis and Benten who stood a little way off on either side, eyes hard and hands resting on their sword hilts. “It was not, Highness?”

“No.” Lyrna turned as Orena approached, meeting her gaze and tipping her wine onto the grass. “It was to show you the face of our enemy.”

Orena froze, all expression draining from her features, but her eyes flicked across them all with an unnatural speed.

“Lord Vaelin noticed,” Lyrna told her. “You saw the boy who can’t be seen, unless by another Gifted. That was foolish.”

Orena didn’t move, her eyes settling on Lyrna as Benten and Iltis closed in on either side, swords drawn and levelled, Davoka moving behind her with spear poised.

“Orena Vardrian,” Lyrna continued. “Family names follow the female line among the farming folk of Asrael. Brother Harlick has memorised every census ever taken in this Realm so it was an easy task to discern that you and Lord Vaelin are cousins, sharing a grandmother, one who no doubt passed her Gifted blood to both daughters. Maternal blood carries the Dark but the nature of the gifts can vary between generations. What is hers?”

Orena’s features spasmed, a variety of expression marring her mask-like visage, malice, fear and amusement all flickering across her face before settling on the most unexpected; sadness, her brow softening and mouth forming a slight grimace. When she spoke her voice was flat, though Lyrna found the cadence horribly familiar. “She can place her thoughts in the heads of others. A difficult gift to master and one she rarely used, being so terrified of discovery, knowing her own people would deliver her to the Fourth Order should it become known. Little wonder she determined to escape the farm and marry a rich husband, she made great use of her gift during the courtship.”

“And to tell your fellow creature and his pet priest where to find me that night at Alltor.”

Iltis bared his teeth, sword quivering a little as he fought his rage, though she was gratified by the discipline he displayed in not surrendering to it.

“A task I was forced to,” Orena said. “Like countless others.”

“More than once, no doubt. I assume our enemies are fully aware of our preparations.”

“They know all I know.”

“So why risk discovery tonight? Lady Davoka has kept careful watch on you since Lord Vaelin imparted his suspicions. Why choose tonight to poison my wine?”

Orena said nothing though Lyrna saw her eyes flick in Al Hestian’s direction.

“It seems our enemy fears you also, my lord,” Lyrna told the Lord Marshal. “I find myself suddenly glad I didn’t execute you.” She levelled her gaze at Orena once more. “Why does the Ally want his death?”

“He has a genius for command. One that will be of great use when you reach Volaria.”

“We have met before, have we not? In the mountains.”

“It matters not.” The woman’s voice grew yet more devoid of emotion, her gaze losing focus, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Nothing matters. Build your fleet, gather your army, sail them to their deaths. We are all but pieces on his board and if the game goes awry, he’ll start another. I have died a hundred times and woken in shell after shell, each time praying that this time he will leave me be. When I first awoke in this one I heard no whisper of his voice and I thought…” She fell silent, head lowering as she hugged herself.

“You had ample opportunity to kill me on the Sea Sabre,” Lyrna said. “During the battle, it would have been an easy matter with so many arrows flying, so much smoke to conceal the deed. Why didn’t you?”

Orena issued a wistful laugh, soft and soon lost to the wind. “You made me a lady. You were… my queen. And…” She paused to smile. “And there was Harvin. To live so long without ever touching another heart is a terrible thing. To think I should find it with him, a common outlaw with no more wit than a scavenging fox.”

“You expect me to believe this?” Lyrna felt her anger quicken and fought to keep it in check. This thing’s attempt to manipulate her was dangerous, provoking her to hasty revenge. “A creature such as you is immune to love.”

“You think yourself so wise, my queen, but you are still a child. I have seen much done in the name of love, the wondrous and the horrifying, always finding it so amusing. There is a corner of my soul that wishes you were right, that I had remained immune to its touch, for then my grief would not have been so great. I think that’s how he found me again, hearing my despair as it seeped into the void, calling me back to his service.”

“A call you could have refused.”

“He bound me to him long ago, welded my soul to his, cutting away any will to resist. It’s how he chooses us, those souls best suited to his purpose, those with malice sufficient to match his own and weakness enough to be moulded.”

She sank to her knees, glancing over her shoulder where Davoka now stood, a small glass bottle in hand. “You should know,” Orena said, turning back to Lyrna, “that the mind of this shell is fractured. Broken by rape and near strangulation the night the city fell, saved only by her gift, which shattered the mind of her assailant, but left her spent and easily claimed.”

“She will have the best care,” Lyrna said. “And I promised Lord Vaelin I would return his cousin.”

Orena nodded and drew back her sleeve, raising her hand, palm extended. “This time there will be no forgiveness, my failures become too frequent, my soul too sullied by feeling. This time he will rend me to nothing, stripping away even the memory I was once alive. A fate I believe will suit me very well.” Her face was set, determined, her fear well controlled, a stark contrast to the girl who had begged and wailed beneath the Mountain. “I am ready, my queen.”

In later years there would be few among the Dead Company left alive to recall the scream that pealed across the headland that night. But those that did, although calloused by many horrors, would still manage a shudder at the memory of the sound, recalling it as an omen of what lay ahead.

The full fury of winter came early that year, heavy rain giving way to snow with unwelcome speed, the tent roofs of Varinshold sagging under its weight. Lyrna had ordered fuel stockpiled but the depth of the cold took many by surprise and there were some who perished in its grasp, mainly the old and the sick. Others were found outside the city walls, shorn of warm clothing, their frozen faces often serene, accepting. The invasion had left many bereft of all family and vulnerable to despair, precious hands lost to grief that wouldn’t heal.

Despite the cold and the privation the work continued, the Forge produced weapons at a furious rate and Davern’s wrights had given her three more ships in less than a month, the pace of construction quickening as they grew accustomed to the new techniques. “You should forget the gold from the Reaches, Highness,” Davern advised one day with his customary grin. “When the war’s won this land will be made rich on shipbuilding alone.”

In truth she often wished she could forget the gold. Acting Tower Lord Ultin was a frequent correspondent with his demands for more miners and Fief Lord Darvus’s scribes were scrupulous in counting and weighing every ingot to reach Frostport, even to the point of delaying onward shipment to the Alpiran merchants. If Your Highness were to send more scribes, the old man had written in response to her gently worded rebuke, I feel sure the flow of gold would resume with all alacrity. She had resisted the urge to dispatch Lord Adal with a formal edict dissolving Darvus’s agreement with Vaelin and placing the gold trade under Crown control. However, as her Minister of Justice was ever keen to remind her, she had already exercised the Queen’s Word with a frequency that made her father appear the paragon of light-handed rule and was loath to earn a reputation for setting aside inconvenient laws.

Aspect Dendrish had taken on the unenviable task of hearing petitions, troubling her with only the cases of greatest import or complexity. He also had been obliged to reconstitute a system of courts in a land now severely denuded of lawyers or magistrates, obtaining her permission for a complete reorganisation of the Realm’s machinery of justice.

“Three Senior Judges?” she asked him on reading his plan. “Should the role of highest judge not fall to you, Aspect?”

“Too much power vested in a single office is often a recipe for corruption, Highness.”

She gave him an amused frown. Although possibly the least personable man she had met besides the blessedly deceased Darnel, the Aspect had quickly earned a reputation for sound judgement and rigid impartiality, reporting every attempted bribe and decreeing swift punishment on the transgressor. “You feel corrupted by your duties?” she asked.

“I will not hold this office forever.” There was a weight to his words that gave her pause, taking in the paleness of his skin and rapidly disappearing girth. She had noticed before how his words were often coloured by a faint wheeze and he would pause to cough with a disconcerting frequency.

“Three judges,” she said, turning back to the document. “To ensure their decisions are not deadlocked, I assume?”

“Indeed, Highness. All rulings to be subject to your approval, naturally.”

“Also, I note there is no mention of the Faith in your amended code of criminal transgressions.”

“The Faith pertains to the soul and the Beyond. The law pertains only to the Realm and its subjects.”

“Very well. I shall need time to fully consider this.”

“My thanks, Highness.” He hunched over, trying to suppress a cough and failing, a lace handkerchief held to his mouth, coming away spotted with red. “Forgive me.”

“I will. I’ll also order you to see Brother Kehlan immediately and abide by whatever instruction he gives you.”

He gave a reluctant nod as she set down the document, musing, “Neither my brother nor father ever attempted such radical change to the Realm’s laws.”

Aspect Dendrish drew a wheezing breath, his eyes slightly moist as he replied, “All in this Realm is changed, more than I would ever wish it to be. But wishes do not make a land fit to live in.”

“It’s based on a Volarian engine,” Alornis said, her slender arm working the windlass at the rear of the contraption, gears clanking and diagonally crossed arms drawing back. It did indeed resemble one of the ballistae with which the Volarians festooned their ships, but was substantially larger with a heavy iron box fixed over the central body. It stood on a wide base also of iron, but with a bowl-shaped aperture through which a supporting rod was thrust, allowing the entire engine to be swivelled about with surprising swiftness despite its size.

Lyrna had joined her Battle Lord on the Realm Guard’s main practice ground to witness the trial of her Lady Artificer’s first invention. The broad plain that played host to the Summertide Fair was mostly covered in snow now, troops of conscripts labouring through the drifts a good way beyond the row of targets placed at varying distances from the device. Each target consisted of four Volarian breastplates arranged in a square, Alornis having assured them the device had enough power to pierce their armour.

“The range, my lady?” Count Marven enquired.

“A Volarian ballista can manage about two hundred yards,” Alornis replied, locking the engine’s thick string in place and stepping back. “I’m hopeful we’ll better it. They use wood for their bow staves, we have used steel.” She took a moment to align the contraption then thumped her palm onto a lever. The bow arms snapped forward in a blur, the bolt flying free too fast for Lyrna to track its flight, though the tinny clunk from one of the farthest targets indicated it had found its mark.

“Close to three hundred yards,” Count Marven said with a laugh, bowing to Alornis. “Well done, my lady. A remarkable feat.”

“Thank you, my lord. But I am not yet done. The original Volarian design was slow to load, taking over a minute to loose two bolts. However, I recalled seeing a grain seeder, which gave me an odd notion.” She reached for the windlass again and began to work it, the arms drawing back as the gears rattled anew. “It’s all a matter of aligning the cogs,” she explained, grunting a little with the effort. “The gears draw the string back to a certain point whereupon the box on the top releases a new bolt.” A faint clatter came from the engine as she continued to work the windlass. “And the next gear releases the string.”

The bow arms snapped again, scoring another hit on the farthest target. “All one need do is continue to turn the windlass,” Alornis went on, adjusting the engine’s aim so the next bolt flew towards a different target. “Until the bolts are exhausted, whereupon a new box can be hauled up to replace it.”

She continued to work the engine, loosing bolts at varying trajectories until all targets had sustained a hit. When the last bolt had flown she stood back, perspiring a little despite the cold. “Still some details to work out,” she said, chest heaving a little. “It tends to seize up if it’s not oiled frequently, and I think I can improve on the design of the bolt-heads.”

“Give me a hundred of those, Highness,” Count Marven said, his tone now entirely serious. “And I’ll match us against any army the Volarians can field.”

Lyrna went forward to favour Alornis with a soft embrace, planting a kiss on her forehead. “What else can you show me, my lady?”

CHAPTER SEVEN Frentis

Illian ducked under the arc of his wooden blade and countered with a jab at his eyes, easily turned before stepping close to trap her arm under his shoulder, pulling her close. “Now what will you do, sister?” he asked in a light tone.

He saw her bite back a retort, features red with frustration, detecting the decision in her eyes a fraction of a second too late. Her forehead connected painfully with his nose, leaving him stunned for the brief moment it took her to wrestle free, her ash sword coming round in a clumsy but fast swipe at his midriff. His wooden blade connected with hers an inch from his chest, deflecting it with a loud crack, then sweeping it aside to thrust into her belly. She grunted from the blow and lowered her sword, chest heaving and eyes dark with resentment.

“Anger is your enemy,” he reminded her, wiping blood from his nose. “A little better this time, but still not fast enough. Practice your scales until midday then feed the dogs.”

She took a deep calming breath before nodding, her tone carefully modulated. “Yes, brother.”

He left her to it and strode across the deck where his company were engaged in their own practice, Draker teaching a trio of their younger members the basics of cutting a man’s throat. “Gotta get it done in one stroke,” he advised, a beefy arm around the chest of a lanky youth named Dallin, a Renfaelin farmhand rescued from slavers shortly before their time in the Urlish reached its disastrous conclusion. “Forget about finding the veins.” Draker demonstrated the technique with a sheathed dagger. “Just cut deep and draw it all the way around. Then get hold of his hair and pull the head back to open the cut as wide as you can.”

Frentis passed Weaver on the way to the stern, Slasher and Blacktooth at his side as they often were these days, seemingly fascinated by his work. Halfway through the voyage he had abruptly stopped plaiting rope and begun working strips of leather into a tight arrangement fixed onto a circular frame, replying with only a vague smile when asked what he was about. The creation had initially resembled a shallow basket but its purpose had gradually become clear as Weaver fixed straps to the concave side and borrowed pitch from the crew to cover the curving outer surface.

“A fine shield, sir,” Frentis offered, pausing at his side and raising a hand for Slasher to lick.

“A Lonak design,” Weaver replied, an oddly familiar cadence to his voice as he used a large bone needle to thread twine along the edge of the shield. “Though rarely used, since their martial culture is essentially aggressive in nature.”

He continued to work, not looking up as Frentis moved on. Captain Belorath was at the stern, standing as still as the shifting deck would allow, his sextant trained on the horizon. Frentis had no notion of how the device worked or the meaning of the numbers the captain paused to scribble on parchment, but knew it was how he fixed their position on this ocean.

“Seas are calmer today,” he offered. In fact it was the first calm day for over a week; the stories he had heard of the Boraelin’s tempestuous wintry nature had not been exaggerated.

Belorath replied with a customary grunt, raising his sextant once more. “But the clouds aren’t. Promises another storm by tomorrow.” He squinted, keeping the sextant level, his eyes tracking to a brief glimpse of the sun through the cloud. “I believe, brother,” he said, consulting the numbers on his parchment. “We are less than two weeks from Volarian shores. It’s time a decision was made.”

“Eskethia.” Thirty-Four’s finger tapped the chart where a two-hundred-mile-long stretch of Volarian coastline traced from north to south. “One of the last provinces to fall to Volarian rule. The free people there may be less inclined to fight for the empire. Also, New Kethia is home to the largest slave market in the western provinces. Many of the slaves seized in your homeland will still be there, awaiting the winter auctions.”

“Well garrisoned?” Frentis asked him, although it was Lekran who replied.

“At least a division,” he said. “As our friend says, Eskethians are ever resentful at the loss of their sovereignty, though it happened centuries ago.”

Frentis eyed the chart closely, gauging the distance from Eskethia to Volar. Close enough to threaten the capital, but sufficiently distant to ensure any forces sent against us won’t have time to return when the queen lands. He raised his gaze to Belorath. “Captain?”

“It’s not a shore I’m familiar with, may take a while to find a suitable landing site. Luckily the coming storm should mask our approach from their patrol ships.”

Frentis nodded. “Eskethia then,” he said, hating himself for the dread that clutched at his chest, knowing the decision meant his weeks of dreamless sleep would soon have to be abandoned. Just one night, he told himself. What can she do in just one night?

There was a time she would have made them watch, delighting in their impotence as they squirmed in their bonds, helpless witnesses to the slaughter of their families. But for reasons she can’t fathom such diversions hold no interest for her now and she has been content to gather them atop the Council Tower, standing at the parapet with the tip of a sword pricking every back, watching smoke and flames rise from the wealthier districts of the city as their estates are laid waste. It is close to midnight and the flames are bright, though they are at too great a height to hear the screams. For all their unnatural vitality these greats of the empire are now revealed as old men, sagging in grief, weeping or choking out desperate pleas for mercy, kept upright only by the promise of instant death should they falter.

“I realise this may be a redundant statement, Honoured Council-men,” she tells them. “But the Ally is less than impressed by your efforts to fulfil his great design.”

She moves to the grey-haired dullard, the one whose name she still can’t recall although she is almost certain he must have known her father as a youth. He wears the formal robes of a Council-man, red from head to toe, though a telltale stain is spreading across the fabric around his legs. “Barely a tenth of the forces required have been gathered,” she tells the somewhat pungent greyhead, “whilst you present me with an endless parade of ever-more-pathetic excuses. The Ally has ordained a great destiny for this empire whilst you wallow in your comforts and blind yourselves to the threat growing across the sea.”

He attempts to beg, but his words emerge in a stumbling incoherent babble of spit and tears. She lets him burble on and turns an appraising glance on the man standing at his back, dressed in light armour like the Kuritai, but armed with but one sword, the blade longer and more slender than the Volarian standard, reminiscent in fact of the Asraelin pattern. Also, unlike the Kuritai, his armour is enamelled in red rather than black. He is of average height but his body is toned to near perfection, the product of decades of breeding and years of conditioning. It had always been a persistent delusion among these long-lived clods that the Kuritai were the ultimate slave soldiers, incapable of improvement, and now here they were, once again proved fatally wrong.

The swordsman is aware of her scrutiny, returning her gaze with a respectful nod, a grin of anticipation on his lips. They had been the Ally’s most cherished project for centuries, a slave soldier capable of thought as well as obedience, but successive generations had proved a disappointment, either too difficult to control or too easy. It was her beloved who had provided the clue; during his time in the pits they had studied him closely, finding him most deadly when the binding was loosened, when his rage added precious speed to his blows. And so they had begun to change their diet of drugs, subtly alter their training regimen, weeding out those lacking the required spirit. In a few short years the results achieved had been… impressive.

“Step forward,” she tells the swordsman and his grin widens as he complies, his sword digging into the Council-man’s back. The scream is long as he plummets to the ground. She doesn’t bother herself to view the result, waving a hand at each of the swordsmen in turn, the Council-men forced over the edge with varying degrees of panic and terror, some begging as they fall, as if their pleas will conquer gravity. In a few moments only one remains. He stands with his back straight, staring fixedly at the northern suburbs where his villa burns, the ornamental lake that surrounds it providing a fine reflection as the air is still tonight.

“Nothing to say, Arklev?” she asks him.

He doesn’t react, not even to turn his head. She moves closer, finding his posture oddly noble, stoic in the face of death, refusing to acknowledge his enemy. A classic Volarian pose, worthy of any statue. “I’ve always wondered,” she says, resting her arms on the parapet beside him. “Was it you who proposed the Council employ me to assassinate my father?”

The question is pointless, she knows. He will not speak to her. She is an unworthy enemy, bereft of consideration, deserving of no more respect than the tiger that eats the unwary traveller.

Instead, he chooses to surprise her. “It was not a proposal,” he says, face still composed and voice free of any quaver. “It was an order, conveyed by the creature you call the Messenger.”

She stares at him for a moment then laughs. Was it reward or enticement? she wonders. “I ordered your wife and most recently spawned brats be killed quickly,” she says. “I felt I owed you that much.”

He says nothing, his composure still fully in place. She toys with the idea of letting him stand there for a full day, curious to see how long it will take before his legs buckle, but yet again finds her appetite for indulgence diminished this night. “Take him to the vault,” she tells the swordsman standing at his back.

Arklev casts an appalled gaze at her then lurches forward, trying to launch himself from the parapet, but his guard is too swift, catching him by the legs and dragging him back. “Kill me!” Arklev rages at her. “Kill me you pestilent bitch!”

“You have too much yet to do, Arklev,” she replies with an apologetic smile. He continues to rage as his guard drags him to the stairs, his cries echoing all the way down.

She lingers for a while, watching the fires, wondering how many living in the city below had any notion of what they portended, of the different world that would greet them on the dawn, a now-familiar fugue of confusion settling over her mind.

The fires are smaller when she comes back to herself, the confusion fading. How long has she stood here? She turns to one of the swordsmen, the one who had killed the greyhead, finding him viewing her with open admiration, his eyes lingering where the slit in her gown reveals a length of thigh. “Do you know what you are?” she asks him.

“Arisai,” he replies, meeting her gaze with a grin. “A servant of the Ally.”

“No.” She turns back to the city. “You are a slave. In the morning I will be an empress, but also a slave. For we are all slaves now.”

She is moving to the stairs when it strikes her, the sensation of his return falling like a hammerblow. She staggers, falling to her knees. Beloved! Her song swells in welcome and foreboding, the same notes it has always sung in his presence. He is close, she can feel it, the ocean no longer between them. Beloved, do you come to me?

The song shifts as it touches his hatred, his sweet hatred, a vision coming to her mind, foggy but clear enough to discern a stretch of coastline, tall waves breaking on a rocky shore, a single word in his voice, his wonderful hate-filled voice: Eskethia.

“Reminds me of southern Cumbrael,” Draker said, shielding his eyes from the sun as he surveyed the landscape. “Did some smuggling there in my youth.”

Eskethia did indeed bear some resemblance to the Realm’s driest region, and seemed similarly rich in vineyards, rows of neatly ordered vines stretching away across the rolling hills, interspersed with an occasional villa or farm building. Frentis glanced back at the Sea Sabre, wallowing in the morning tide. Belorath had been obliged to land them when the shore was clear of waves to avoid smashing them onto the rocks, resting the hull on the sands before they disembarked. “I’ll ask the gods to favour your mission,” the captain had called down to Frentis from the stern, casting a wary eye at the shore, his final words a barely heard mutter, “though I doubt even they could preserve you here.”

“I put us fifty miles south of New Kethia,” Thirty-Four advised, examining an unfurled map. “If the captain’s reckoning is to be trusted.”

“Good navigation is about the only thing I’d trust a Meldenean with.” Frentis’s gaze tracked to the nearest villa, perhaps a quarter mile off with outbuildings large enough to be stables.

“It’ll be home to a black-clad,” Thirty-Four said, following his gaze. “Too grand for anything else. They are likely to have guards; house Varitai. An estate this large will keep perhaps a dozen.”

“All to the good.” Frentis gave the sign for the company to adopt the loose skirmish formation he had taught them in the Urlish. “We need to start somewhere.”

They managed to take a Varitai alive, a guard posted on the villa’s western side, roped and beaten down by Draker with Thirty-Four’s assistance. His comrades were not so fortunate, running to confront them with weapons drawn when a panicked slave gave the alarm, screaming shrilly of bandits as she fled back to the house. Frentis had ordered no chances taken and the fight was short, half the Varitai cut down by their arrows and Illian’s crossbow before the company closed in with drawn swords to finish the others.

How much they have learned, Frentis thought, finding a grim satisfaction at the efficiency with which his people dealt with the Varitai, lanky Dallin ducking under a short sword to jab his own into a slave soldier’s eyes then moving behind him to finish it with Draker’s trick. Beyond them Illian deflected an overhead slash and delivered a deadly counter-thrust, finding a gap in the Varitai’s armour just above the breastbone. It was over in a few moments, the company kneeling beside fresh corpses to claim weapons and trinkets, a ritual born in the forest.

“Leave that,” Frentis barked. “Search the villa. If he hasn’t fled, the owner will be in the upper rooms. Draker, take Thirty-Four and gather the slaves.”

“Redbrother.” Lekran stood at the arched entrance to the villa’s courtyard, wiping blood from his axe, his expression dark. “Something you should see.”

The man had been strong, the muscle on his arms and back clearly revealed as he hung from two posts, dried blood streaking his wrists where the shackles held him upright. His head hung forward, still and lifeless, the length of his broad back striped with two-day-old whip strokes. Frentis noted his left foot was stunted, the front half having been hacked off at some point, the standard punishment for slaves who run from their masters, death being the fate of any who run twice.

Opposite the dead man a young woman had been chained to another post, arms drawn back and legs tied in place so she couldn’t turn, a leather gag secured about her mouth. She was partially naked, breasts and shoulders showing the signs of repeated beatings. She collapsed in Illian’s arms as Lekran smashed the chains with his axe and the sister cut away her bonds. She choked on the water from Illian’s canteen, an expression of utter confusion on her face fading slowly as she took in the sight of Frentis, her eyes tracking over his garb, the blue cloak and the sword on his back. “Brother?” she asked in Realm Tongue, her accent unmistakably Asraelin.

“Yes, Brother Frentis.” He knelt at her side. “This is Sister Illian.”

The woman’s head lolled, her gaze losing focus. “Then I am finally dead,” she said with a shrill laugh.

“No.” Illian took her hand, squeezing it gently. “No. We are here. Come to save you at our queen’s orders.”

The woman stared at her, apparently unable to comprehend the reality of her survival. “Jerrin,” she said after a moment, raising herself up, gazing around with a wild animation. “Jerrin. Did you save him too?” She stopped as her gaze found the man hanging from the posts. She sagged in Illian’s arms and voicing a despairing wail. “I told him we shouldn’t run,” she whispered. “But he couldn’t stand the thought of him touching me again.”

Frentis turned at the sound of a fearful whimper. A plump little man in loose robes of black silk stood trembling beside the ornate fountain in the centre of the courtyard, his chins bulging somewhat as Master Rensial pressed his sword blade harder, forcing him to stand on tiptoe. “Where are the horses?” he demanded.

The plump man raised a shaking hand, pointing to an arched doorway off to the left. Rensial raised a questioning eyebrow at Frentis. He turned back to the woman they had freed, seeing the depth of hatred in the stare with which she fixed the plump black-clad. “Not just yet, Master,” Frentis told him. “If you don’t mind.”

They found another six Realm folk among the slaves, none more than forty years in age, all possessing skills of some kind. “Jerrin was a wheelwright,” his wife explained. Her name was Lissel, a chandler from Rhansmill come to live in Varinshold at her husband’s insistence. “Money grew tight after the desert war. Varinshold would be our fortune, he said.” She began to voice another of her shrill laughs but mastered the impulse with a visible effort, her gaze moving to the villa’s owner, now stripped naked and chained to the posts where her husband had died. Thirty-Four had questioned him for a short time, his skills unnecessary as the black-clad had been all too eager to cooperate.

“He tells of a larger estate twelve miles to the east,” Thirty-Four reported. “The master there is a renowned breeder of horses and has also purchased many slaves from the recent influx.”

“The nearest garrison?” Frentis enquired.

“Ten miles north of here, a single battalion of Varitai, though fewer in number than they should be. It seems the Council has been concentrating forces on the capital recently.”

“Not for much longer.” Frentis took the whip they had found on the overseer’s body. He had tried to run, displaying an impressive turn of speed for such a large man, but Slasher and Blacktooth were faster. Frentis placed the whip in Lissel’s lap. “I leave this matter in your hands, mistress.”

He went outside where Draker had gathered the slaves, the Realm folk standing apart from the others, some already holding weapons taken from the Varitai and greeting Frentis with bows and expressions of grave intent. The others numbered over forty people and displayed only fear. A clutch of girls, the youngest no more than thirteen, clustered together in a protective huddle, casting tearful glances at the men surrounding them. Only one slave was prepared to meet Frentis’s gaze, a trim man of middle years dressed in a clean dun-coloured tunic. He winced a little as the first scream came from the courtyard, the crack of the whip an indication that Lissel was a quick learner.

“You are One here?” Frentis asked the trim man.

He winced again as another scream sounded, then bowed low. “I am, Master.”

“I am not a master and you are not a slave. What is your name?”

“Tekrav, m— Honoured Citizen.”

Frentis studied the man’s face, seeing the keen intelligence he tried to hide with a servile stoop. “You were not always a slave. Those born to slavery have no names. What was your crime?”

“An overfondness for dice.” Another scream pealed forth, longer and louder, followed by a babble of desperate entreaties and promises. Tekrav swallowed and forced a smile. “And a dislike of resultant debt.”

“Your skill?”

“I am scribe and bookkeeper here. Should you require my talent, Honoured Citizen, I am at your disposal.”

“I’ll have need of it in time. Whether you choose to offer it is a matter for you.” Frentis stepped back, raising his voice to address them all. “By order of Queen Lyrna these lands are hereby seized for the Unified Realm and all who reside here afforded the rights and privileges due free subjects of the Crown.”

There was little reaction beyond bafflement, most remaining immobile, eyes fixed on the ground, the clutch of girls huddling even closer together.

“You’re free,” Frentis went on. “You may go and do as you please. However, any who wish to join with me and free your brothers and sisters are welcome.”

More silence; even Tekrav just stared at him in incomprehension.

“You’re wasting your time, brother,” one of the Realm folk said, a short but broad man with the teardrop scars of the forge visible on his forearms. “You’ll find more spirit in a whipped dog than this lot.”

Frentis gave them a final glance, seeing the truth of his words plainly enough and suppressing a sigh of frustration. Slavery is more than just chains, he knew. It binds the soul as much as the body.

“We leave in an hour,” he told the slaves, turning away. “You may take what you like from the villa, but I advise you not to linger.”

The Varitai exhibited no fear, kneeling with his arms bound behind his back, stripped of armour and undershirt to reveal the pattern of scars. They were less elaborate than the matrix that once covered Frentis’s chest, similar to Lekran’s markings but plainly administered with scant regard to artistry or the discomfort of their wearer.

“How much?” Illian asked, removing the cap from the flask.

“No more than a teardrop,” Frentis said, watching the Varitai keenly as she stepped closer, pouring a small amount of the liquid into the cap.

“Varitai are not as strong as Kuritai,” Lekran advised in a wary tone. He stood at the rear of the bound slave soldier, axe at the ready. “Could kill him.”

“Then we’ll try a smaller dose on the next one.” Frentis nodded at Illian and she upended the cap, allowing the contents to fall onto the scars on the Varitai’s chest.

Unlike Lekran there was no scream, the Varitai’s head snapping up, the veins in his neck bulging, teeth gritted so tight it was a wonder they didn’t break. His eyes widened, the pupils shrinking to dots as spit began to drool from his mouth. A second later he collapsed, convulsing on the ground with white foam covering his lips, his jerks gradually slowing to twitches, then nothing.

Frentis crouched down to feel for the pulse in his neck, finding it weak, and slowing. “He’s dying,” he said with a sigh. He looked up as a shadow fell across him, finding Weaver staring down at the scene with naked disgust. Frentis began to rise when Weaver’s fist came down in a blur, connecting with his jaw and sending him sprawling.

Frentis lay stunned, hearing Illian’s sword scrape free of its scabbard. After a moment his vision cleared and he found Weaver on his knees, both hands placed on the dying Varitai’s chest, paying no heed to Illian, who had touched her sword point to the nape of his neck. “Leave it,” Frentis ordered, getting to his feet and waving her back.

Weaver kept his hands on the Varitai’s chest for some time, his expression one of deep concentration, eyes half-closed and lips moving in a silent whisper. Frentis heard Illian stifle a gasp as the slave soldier’s scars began to fade from his chest, shrinking to faint pale lines in a matter of minutes. Finally Weaver removed his hands and rose, stepping back as the slave soldier issued a weary groan.

“He’ll sleep a while,” Weaver said, turning to Frentis with a stern expression. “Freedom will not be won with cruelty.”

Frentis rubbed his jaw, feeling the bruise already beginning to form and the iron tang of blood on his tongue. “I’ll leave it in your hands next time.”

They built a pyre for Lissel’s husband in the courtyard, liberally dousing the stacked wood with oil before doing the same to the villa. She had left the owner alive, though he was barely conscious, hanging bloodied and ruined from the posts. She had borrowed a knife from Illian and a small red lump was visible in the large pool of blood beneath his splayed legs. Frentis assumed he would probably find the flames a mercy.

They moved east as the sky dimmed, the burning villa casting a tall column of smoke into the air at their backs. The stables had yielded half a dozen carts but only enough horses for ten riders. Frentis sent Master Rensial and Lekran to scout their route and set the others on either side of their small column. The freed Varitai sat in the back of one of the carts, head lolling and features drawn in a perpetual frown of deep confusion. They had managed to elicit only a few words from him; naming himself only as Eight before voicing a keenly expressed desire to know when he would receive his next dose of karn.

“It’s a mix of various drugs,” Thirty-Four explained. “Subdues the spirit, dulls the memory and captures the will. He will feel its absence tonight.”

Frentis recalled the nights Thirty-Four had spent writhing and moaning in the forest after he had discarded his own vial. His recovery had been swift but he was a man of considerable inner strength and had at least the memory of freedom, whilst this Eight had clearly been a slave since birth.

“Have we freed this man or cursed him?” he wondered aloud.

“Freedom is never a curse, brother,” Thirty-Four insisted. “But it is often a hard road.”

Frentis turned as a shout came from the rear, finding a small group of figures running from the burning villa. He tugged his horse to a halt and waited as they came into view, Tekrav followed by the clutch of girls plus a few of the younger male slaves, all burdened with various bundles of clothing and valuables.

Tekrav came to a halt a few yards away, chest heaving and staring up at Frentis with a desperate appeal. Behind him the girls and the men huddled together, not so fearful as before, but still wary.

“Honoured Citizen…” Tekrav began, falling silent as Frentis held up a hand.

“My name is Brother Frentis of the Sixth Order,” he said. “If you join us, you will be free but you will also be soldiers. I offer no protection and promise no victory.”

Tekrav hesitated, glancing back at his companions in search of guidance. They shuffled uncomfortably until one spoke up, a dark-skinned girl no more than twenty, her voice coloured by a faint Alpiran accent. “Your men will not touch us?”

“Not unless you want them to,” Draker said, quickly lowering his gaze at Frentis’s glare.

“You will not be mistreated in any way,” Frentis promised the girl.

She exchanged glances with the others then stepped forward with a nod. “We will join you.”

Frentis briefly scanned the bundles they carried, picking out the telltale gleam of gold and silver amongst the rolled blankets and clothing. “Keep hold of any weapons,” he said. “But we cannot be burdened with loot. Discard it.”

He sat and waited until they complied, tossing away their shiny cups and plates with varying degrees of reluctance, Tekrav wincing as he gently laid a small, gold-embroidered tapestry on the ground.

“Sister Illian,” Frentis called her over. “These people are in your care. Commence their training on the morrow.”

They came upon the horse breeder’s villa the next day, finding it far richer in spoils but also much better protected, boasting a complement of over thirty house Varitai. It sat atop a wide hill surrounded by enclosed fields where horses were set to grazing and mounted Varitai moved in well-organised patrols.

“Not an easy prospect, brother,” Draker said. They had crawled to the top of a rise a half mile away. “If I was looking for a likely place to steal, I’d pass this by.”

“We fight our way in,” Lekran said with a shrug.

“It’ll cost us,” Draker warned. “And we’ve scant swords to lose.”

Frentis suppressed a groan. He had resumed taking Brother Kehlan’s sleeping draught the night before and the resultant headache left him impatient to get on and tempted to accede to Lekran’s desire for a fight. He was about to order them to their mounts when Illian dropped down beside him, the Alpiran girl from the villa crouching at her side. “Brother,” Illian said. “I believe our new recruit has some intelligence to impart, but my Volarian is too poor to discern her meaning.”

The girl blanched a little as Frentis and the two men turned to her, looking down and stumbling over her first words. “What is your name?” Frentis asked her in his broken Alpiran.

She lifted her gaze, a faint smile playing over her lips and making him wonder how long it had been since she heard her own language. “Lemera.”

“Your words have value, Lemera,” he told her, switching back to Volarian. “Speak on.”

“I have been to this place.” She pointed at the villa. “The master sent me and two others. We were… amusements for the owner’s son on his birthday. That was almost a year ago.”

Frentis turned to Lekran who grinned and nodded. “We kept the Varitai’s armour.”

In the event they suffered but one casualty, one of the newly freed Realm folk displaying an over-abundance of courage when Illian led them over the wall that shielded the villa’s southern side. The main house had already fallen and the remaining Varitai were being forced back into the central courtyard, formed in a tight ring around their master and his family. He had made the mistake of coming to greet them at the main entrance, his broad grin disappearing as Tekrav’s black silk mask fell away from his face and Lekran’s axe hacked down the nearest Varitai. Despite his shock, the master’s wits were quick enough to organise a hasty defence as he fled back inside, though not quick enough to organise an escape, which should have been his first priority.

Frentis had pulled his fighters back from the dense knot of Varitai and set the archers to work when Illian’s recruits came over the wall. The young man had run at the Varitai unarmoured and armed with only a small wood-axe, his face betraying a depth of hatred nurtured over the months of his captivity. He managed to bury the axe in the skull of a Varitai before a dozen rapid sword strokes cut him down. However, he had disordered their ranks sufficiently for the following recruits to pile in and break their formation apart, the men hacking away with clubs and axes and the girls stabbing with the daggers Illian had distributed. Cursing, Frentis raised his sword and led his fighters into the fray, Lekran voicing a joyful whoop as he leapt and bore a Varitai to the ground, both feet planted on his breastplate and axe sweeping down.

It was over in a few moments, all the Varitai slain along with the master and his family. The master lay across the bodies of his wife and son, a boy who couldn’t have been more than fifteen, his father’s black silks rent in a dozen places and soaked with blood.

“I tried to hold them, brother,” Illian said, face lowered in contrition. “But the Realm folk are full of rage and the others can’t understand a word I say.”

His rebuke died on his lips in the face of her evident dismay. “Gather the weapons and armour,” he told her. “Then search the villa. Take any documents you find to Thirty-Four.”

Draker called to him from atop the west-facing wall, waving his club. “Riders coming in, brother.”

Frentis ran outside where Rensial waited, mounted with sword drawn. Frentis mounted his own horse and unhitched his bow from the saddle. “Master,” he said, trotting his mount to Rensial’s side. “Shall we?”

They managed to take two of the riders alive, both knocked senseless when they tumbled from their mounts as Rensial’s sword neatly severed the ties of their saddles. Frentis accounted for the remainder with his bow, none of the Varitai coming close enough to press a charge and displaying a typical failure to realise the hopelessness of their cause.

As promised he gave the captives over to Weaver. Vaelin had intimated the man was possessed of a confused mind, and his behaviour during the voyage had done much to confirm it, so it was strange to witness the grim understanding on his face as he surveyed the two unconscious Varitai. “Great pain,” he said softly.

“Pain can bring freedom.” Frentis held up the satchel containing their supply of the Lonak elixir. “It freed me. It will free them, with your help.”

The screams were terrible, rising high into the night sky as they gathered in the courtyard to eat a meal of looted spoils. The freed slaves had proved even less welcoming of liberation than at the first villa, several weeping at the sight of their master’s body. “He was sparing with the whip,” Lemera explained. “Allowed the children he fathered on the pleasure slaves to live. Usually they are exposed and left to die. He would keep them until they were old enough to sell. A generous man.”

“These people are fucking disgusting,” Draker said when Thirty-Four translated, casting a dark glower at the slaves keening over the master’s body. “Shut up you simpering dogs!” They scattered as he threw a half-eaten chicken leg at them, fleeing into the darkness or retreating to their quarters, too fearful to even ask about their fate.

The Varitai’s screams ended abruptly, heralding a silence that seemed to last an age. Frentis scanned the faces of his veterans at the fire, for the first time seeing a grim understanding of the magnitude of their task. A handful against an empire was always a hopeless cause. He had known it from the day they sailed, but had they?

“Should we go after the runners?” Illian asked, breaking the silence. “They’ll no doubt spread warning of our arrival.”

“Good,” Frentis said. “We are here to cause as much fear and confusion as possible.”

“We need more fighters,” Lekran stated. “The cowards we keep finding won’t make an army.”

“Then we may be in luck.” Thirty-Four produced a large ledger, opening it to reveal row after row of neatly inscribed figures. “The master’s scribe kept excellent records. It seems he did much business with a Varikum to the south.”

“Varikum?” Frentis asked. “I don’t know this word.”

“Training school,” Lekran translated. “For the Garisai, those chosen to partake in the spectacles.”

“Slaves?”

He nodded. “But not like Varitai or Kuritai. No binding for them. Captured in war and chosen for strength, or savagery. Nearly got sent to one myself but the Kuritai quota was light that year.”

“It will be well defended,” Thirty-Four advised. “Inside and out.”

Frentis turned to Lemera, noticing for the first time the perfection of her profile, skin smooth and flawless. A few hours ago he had seen her stabbing at the master’s body, teeth bared and voicing a joyful laugh every time the knife came down. “It’s a rare man who can guard against beauty,” he said.

CHAPTER EIGHT Vaelin

Wise Bear called it The Long Night, the time when the sun vanished from the ice for a full month, its coming heralded by the shortened days and the increased brightness of Grishak’s Breath. “Must reach islands before it comes,” he had warned the first day they set foot on the ice. “Long Night kills all.”

The first week had been easier than expected, the novelty of traversing such a vast and stark environment doing much to dispel their discomfort at the ever-deepening cold. Wise Bear led the way, moving with short economical strides with Iron Claw lumbering along behind. The great bear would sometimes disappear for a day, returning with dried blood on his snout though Vaelin was baffled as to what prey it had managed to find. To him the ice seemed as barren as the Alpiran desert, a place void of life for all its beauty, fully revealed at twilight when the green-tinged fire danced in the sky and the ice became a mirror to its majesty. The Lonak would fall into a reverent hush when the sun fell, whispering thanks for Grishak’s blessing.

Wise Bear seemed to hold a similar reverence for the dancing sky lights, greeting their appearance by sinking to his knees and holding his bone-staff aloft, a lilting song rising from his throat. Vaelin had yet to hear the shaman speak of any god but it was clear the sky-fire held considerable significance.

“He’s not praying,” Kiral said one evening as Vaelin’s gaze went to the old man, her face sombre as her song related the meaning of Wise Bear’s lilting ode. “He offers greetings to his wife and the children they lost on the ice.”

Vaelin looked up at the swirling green fire, watching it coalesce and break apart in an unending dance. It might resemble flame but there was no fury to it, the constant swirl conveying a strange sense of serenity. “He thinks she’s up there?” he asked.

“He knows it. Every soul that ever lived is there, looking down on us until the world’s end.”

The Beyond made real, Vaelin mused, watching Wise Bear finish his song and lever himself upright with his staff. At least he can see the object of his faith.

They moved only in daylight at first, horses and ponies laden with supplies and dragging the sleds Wise Bear had them make before leaving the shore, simple frames of twisted gorse branches skidding along on runners fashioned from seal-bone. Scar, like all the horses, had shied the first time his hoof touched the ice, eyes widening in alarm at the unfamiliar sensation, only consenting to venture further at Vaelin’s gentle insistence. Even after several days the animal still displayed a wariness of his new surroundings, as if understanding the grim warning Wise Bear imparted when they set off: “Horses won’t last. Have to eat them before the end.”

As the days grew shorter the shaman kept them moving into the night, until the last vestige of luminescence lit the horizon, leaving only enough light to see by as they made their camp. The nightly fires were small, their supply of wood quickly diminishing and augmented by horse dung which burned well but birthed a foul stench, cloying at clothes and hair.

“What a grand adventure you lead us on, my lord,” Lorkan said one evening, his red-nosed face scarcely visible amidst the swaddle of seal fur, his misting breath leaving icicles on the hem of his hood. “Cold that cuts to the bone and the stink of shit from morn to night. If I have failed to say so before, please accept my humble gratitude for the opportunity to partake of such momentous history.”

“Shut up,” Cara told him wearily. She sat as close to the fire as she could, her face a worrying shade of white. The past days had been harder on her than any other in their company, seeing her stumble on at the tail end of their narrow line, shaking her head at Dahrena’s entreaties that she ride her pony for a while. I should have sent her back to the Reaches, Vaelin thought, a pang of guilt prickling his chest as Cara held her mittened hands to the fire, her eyes a dull gleam in dark hollows. She gave enough at Alltor.

Wise Bear appeared at Cara’s side, stooping to peer into her face with a critical frown before straightening, his expression one of hard reproach as he looked from Dahrena to Marken. “Why you not share?” he demanded.

Marken frowned at him, heavy brows bunching in bafflement. “Share what? She is welcome to my rations.”

“Cah!” Wise Bear pointed his bone-staff at the large Gifted, sweeping it round to point at Lorkan, Dahrena and Kiral in turn. “Not meat. Share power.” He laid a gentle hand on Cara’s head, his voice softening with a faint tone of regret. “She is needed.”

Dahrena leaned forward, her expression intent. “How? How do we share?”

Wise Bear stared at her for a moment then uttered a cackle of realisation. “Know so little,” he said, shaking his head. He bent down to guide Cara to her feet and took her hand, holding his other out to Dahrena. “All share.”

Dahrena rose to take his hand, soon joined by a cautious but clearly intrigued Kiral. Marken hesitated then went to take the huntress’s outstretched hand. Lorkan, however, sat still and stared at them with sullen reluctance until Vaelin gave him an insistent prod with the tip of his scabbard. He got slowly to his feet but kept his arms crossed, his gaze lingering on Cara as she swayed a little from fatigue. “How do we know it won’t hurt her?” he asked.

“No hurting,” Wise Bear assured him. “Only need small power from each.”

“It’s all right, Lorkan,” Cara said, smiling a little as she held out her hand. “If I trust him, so should you.”

Vaelin stood as Lorkan completed the circle, casting a careful eye over the Lonak, sensing their sudden unease. Some murmured softly and turned their backs to walk away. A few lingered, shuffling in discomfort but seemingly unable to resist the sight of the Gifted, or the palpable change in the air around them; a new warmth that prickled the skin and drew a thin mist from the ice beneath their feet. They stood in utter stillness, hands clasped and silent, their features placid, even content, a small smile appearing on Cara’s lips as the warmth deepened and they became wreathed in mist, a thin pool of melt-water playing about their fur-wrapped feet.

Vaelin found himself shamed by a sudden surge of envy, an unwelcome knowledge that such things were lost to him now. At Alltor he had thought himself the master of his song, finding a sense of completion amongst all the blood and carnage. I was still just a child, he realised, fighting a burgeoning sense of resentful despair, his gaze fixing on Wise Bear. How much could he have told me?

Cara gave an abrupt gasp, opening her hands to break the circle, her smile turning into a delighted laugh, cheeks flushed with a healthy pinkness. The others seemed similarly enlivened, Marken pulling the girl into an embrace and lifting her with a happy bellow, the others all exchanging glances rich in shared joy. Dahrena touched hands with Kiral, their faces bright with an identical expression of understanding. She caught sight of Vaelin and laughed, rushing to wrap her arms around him, her breath hot on his face as she raised herself to plant a kiss on his lips. Looking down at her wide-eyed, honest exuberance, he pulled her close, his resentment withering away.

Wise Bear gave a grunt of satisfaction and thumped his staff on the ice. “Sharing,” he said then turned his gaze to the north, his wizened features hardening as he scanned the jagged horizon. “Needed soon.”

The storm hit the following day, a gale-driven blizzard swallowing the sun and turning the world into a howling white morass. The air became so thick with snow every breath drew jagged ice into Vaelin’s throat and the wind seemed to cut through his furs as if they were no more than paper. He soon found himself fully occupied with holding fast to Scar’s reins as the horse stumbled through the piling drifts, head lowered and eyes tight against the wind, his mane frozen and stiff on his neck.

This is madness, he knew with an awful certainty, a gust of wind driving into his side like a hammerblow. I have doomed us.

He turned as a shout reached him through the storm, catching a glimpse of two small figures, no more than the vaguest shadows in the ceaseless white. It seemed as if one of the figures raised something and the shadows instantly resolved into full clarity; Wise Bear holding his bone-staff aloft, his other hand clasped tight to Cara’s as she knelt at his side, her face bleached and drawn from the cold but also set in a determined frown. The snow seemed to swirl around them, leaving them in a bubble of calm air, growing larger as they shared their power. The bubble expanded steadily, the calm air sweeping over Vaelin and Scar, the horse huffing a relieved sigh as the wind abated. Vaelin cast around until he found Dahrena, huddled against her pony’s flank.

“And I thought the Black Wind the harshest in this world,” she said, forcing a smile as he hurried to her side, lifting her clear of the snow that had collected around her and the pony.

Vaelin surveyed the company, finding them all now nearly enveloped in the bubble, the blizzard still raging beyond its confines. Orven’s guardsmen were the last to receive its shelter, many stumbling to their knees in shock as they struggled free of the storm’s fury. He saw Alturk moving amongst the Sentar, dealing out cuffs and harsh rebukes as they stood staring in wonder and fear, forcing them back into motion. Vaelin went to Wise Bear and Cara, the shaman still holding her hand whilst she stood in serene indifference, her gaze distant, face free of any sign of fatigue. “How long can you do this?” he asked.

“As long as there is power to share,” the shaman replied, pointing his staff at the other Gifted. “Hope storm ends first.”

It took another day and a night for the storm to fade, the Gifted taking turns to share their strength with Cara. She was kept in the centre of the group, now tightly bunched to stay within the limits of the bubble she had crafted, moving east at a slow but steady pace. Whilst Cara showed no sign of weariness the sharing took an evident toll on the others, Marken sinking to his knees when his two-hour shift was done, wiping a trickle of blood from his beard before stumbling on as Vaelin hauled him up, providing a shoulder to lean on until he recovered sufficiently to walk unaided. Dahrena and Kiral were even more drained, rendered unable to walk and sagging pale and listless on the backs of their ponies. For some reason Lorkan proved the most durable of the Gifted, lasting a full three hours at Cara’s side and only consenting to release her hand at Wise Bear’s harsh insistence.

The storm ended as quickly as it had begun, the wind dying and the last flurries of snow falling to reveal a bright midday sun. Cara swayed a little when Wise Bear released her hand but otherwise seemed unharmed by her exertions, though her initial triumph at the feat dimmed at the sight of her companions. “I… didn’t know I had taken so much,” she offered to a pale-faced Lorkan.

He just smiled and shook his head. “Take all you want.”

She shifted a little in discomfort at the directness of his gaze and turned to Wise Bear. “We should be cautious. There will be a price. There always is.”

He nodded and thrust his staff through the snow to touch the ice beneath, angling his head as if straining to hear a distant sound. He stood unmoving for some time then straightened and turned to Vaelin with an urgent light in his eyes. “Need move fast,” he said. “Much fast.”

They covered another six miles by nightfall but Wise Bear permitted no rest, hounding them on with impatient wafts of his bone-staff and tirades in his own language, unintelligible clicks and grunts that nevertheless conveyed the clear message that to linger meant death. Although cold enough to freeze misted breath, the air was calm now, barely touched by a breeze, the sky clear and bright with stars and the occasional flurry of Grishak’s Breath. The atmosphere took on such a depth of silence that, when it came, the sound was enough to make Vaelin lift his hands to his already covered ears.

It was more a boom than a crack, a tremor thrumming the ice beneath his feet and making Scar rear in alarm. The entire company was forced to halt as the other horses gave shrill whinnies and sought to break free of their masters’ grip. The booming crack went on unabated, the sound at first seeming to surround them on all sides but soon becoming concentrated on the westward floe they had just traversed, Vaelin’s eyes picking out a curtain of shattered ice rising from the surface and moving from north to south so fast his eye couldn’t track its course.

The sound ended without warning, leaving a vast but brief silence soon filled by a great grinding, almost beastlike in its intensity; as if the ice itself were groaning in pain. Another tremor shook the ice, this time with enough force to tip many from their feet, the surface beneath rising and falling in a great heave as the grinding faded. About a half mile to the west a fog of displaced snow and ice had risen, lingering for long enough to make Vaelin wonder if what he looked upon might be some trick of the eye; could the ice really be moving?

As the fog faded, the truth of it became clear; a huge expanse of ice was adrift, snow trailing from its jagged flanks as it detached from the main body and began a southward voyage. It must have measured at least five miles across, a newborn island where they would have undoubtedly perished as it bore them away.

Kiral woke him whilst the sky was still dark, shaking him from Dahrena’s slumbering embrace with insistent shoves. “My song is dark,” she said. “Something to the north.”

He followed her to the northern flank of the camp where they found Alturk kneeling amidst a broad patch of red-stained ice, gloved hands tracing the marks left by a brief but furious struggle. Vaelin had enough tracking skill to discern the meaning of the surrounding marks, the amount of blood and the furrows leading away into the blackness beyond the firelight. “How many were taken?” he asked.

“One, and his pony.” Alturk, rose to his full height, heavy brows knitted in mingled anger and puzzlement. “These marks I do not know.”

Vaelin looked down at the impressions left in the snow: a paw print, large enough for a black bear but not a brown.

“Not a bear,” Kiral said, tracing an outline around one of the marks with the tip of her hunting knife. She rose to unsling her bow. “My song will find it soon enough.”

“No.” She turned at the sound of Wise Bear’s voice, the shaman striding closer to prod at the bloodied prints with his staff. “Sent to leave a trail so you would follow.”

“Something hunts us,” Alturk said.

Wise Bear said something in his own language, mouth twisting in disgust as if the words stained his tongue. He caught Vaelin’s enquiring gaze and provided a terse translation, “Cat People.”

“I hoped they had all perished.” Dahrena sat close to the fire, extra furs heaped on her shoulders, clasping hands with Cara and Lorkan. “They were so few in number after the battle.”

Vaelin resisted the impulse to ask her to forget this; shared strength or not, her gift always exacted a heavy toll and the prospect of once again confronting the Ice Horde no doubt stirred ugly memories. She saw his concern and gave a reassuring smile. “A short flight only. Wise Bear assures me they can’t be far.”

She closed her eyes, body stiffening and her face taking on the expressionless mask that indicated she had flown free, Cara and Kiral both issuing a gasp at the sensation. “She takes much,” Kiral said with a grimace.

“What is this?”

Vaelin glanced up to find Alturk at his side, gazing at Dahrena with deep suspicion. Like all the Lonak his distrust of the Dark was obvious, but so far he was the only one who dared enquire as to its nature.

“She seeks our hunter,” Vaelin told him.

The Tahlessa paced back and forth as Dahrena continued to sit immobile, his face betraying the only sign of fear Vaelin had yet seen in him. “There are Gifted among your people,” he said, nodding at Kiral. “She serves the Mahlessa, as you do.”

“As she should, for such things are only for the Mahlessa to know. Children like her are taken to the Mountain. If not they grow to be varnish, or worse.”

“What happens to them at the Mountain?”

Alturk shrugged. “Some come back, some do not.”

Vaelin returned his gaze to Dahrena, recalling her tale of the wolf and the men who had come to lay waste to her village. It took her away, before she could journey to the Mountain. Was it saving her from death or from something worse?

Dahrena’s face spasmed and she uttered a harsh groan, slumping forward, prevented from falling into the fire by Kiral and Cara who gently guided her onto her back. She shuddered for a while as her body returned to warmth, finally getting to her feet, a deep frown betraying barely controlled pain. “A rock,” she said. “Jutting from the ice five miles to the north-west. Only one man, but many cats. I think he sensed me. And I don’t think he liked it.”

Wise Bear’s staff thumped hard onto the ice, his ancient face twisting as he voiced a name in his own language. Iron Claw seemed to sense his master’s fury and lumbered to his side with an inquisitive growl.

“You know who we face?” Vaelin asked him.

“Cat People shaman,” Wise Bear said. “The one who set them to war. Cat People named him Shadowed Path. Bear People called him No Eyes.”

The Sentar adopted a battle formation as they moved towards the north-west, stringing out in a loose but cohesive skirmish line for a hundred paces on either side of the company, the Gifted in the centre leading the horses and ponies. Orven’s company brought up the rear, marching with swords drawn under orders to keep a constant watch on all approaches. Vaelin took the lead alongside Alturk and Wise Bear, Kiral trailing a little behind with an arrow notched to her bow. Iron Claw was out ahead, moving at a sedate run with an occasional pause to sniff the air.

Vaelin was struck by the abrupt change in Wise Bear; but for his creased face, all signs of age seemed to have vanished and he moved with a steady, unfaltering stride, bone-staff gripped tight and eyes locked on Iron Claw. He knew the expression well, a man intent on revenge.

Iron Claw halted and Wise Bear raised his staff bringing the company to a stop. The bear swayed from side to side, voicing a low rumble of disquiet as it eyed the ice ahead. It was different from the usual flat expanse, the surface raised in places to form jagged abstract shapes wreathed in a low-hanging mist. In the distance Vaelin could see the dim grey spike of the rock Dahrena had described, stabbing at the clear sky like a misshapen dagger.

“Good place for ambush,” Alturk commented, eyes tracking over the fractured ice-scape.

Wise Bear strode to Iron Claw’s side and took a two-handed hold of his staff, raising it above his head and standing immobile. He uttered no sound but Kiral’s sudden gasp indicated he had sent a message by different means. Vaelin saw the huntress’s gaze darken somewhat as she stared at the old man, her eyes betraying an even greater depth of awe, along with a clear sense of dread that caused Vaelin to wonder what grim notes rose from her song.

Wise Bear lowered his staff, expression unchanged as he stood, waiting.

It was only the space of a few seconds before an answer rose from the jagged ice, a cacophony of hissing, feral howls, a sound he had only heard from one beast before, but now there were many. He unslung his own bow as Kiral moved quickly to Wise Bear’s side. Vaelin shrugged free of his heaviest furs and moved to the shaman’s left, arrow notched, eyes scanning for the slightest movement.

“There!” Kiral shouted, her bow coming up but Vaelin was faster, his shaft flying free in an instant, streaking towards a silver-grey shape that had leapt into sight from behind a jagged ice pillar. It bounded on for a few strides then tumbled to the snow, lying still.

Wise Bear gave a harsh grunt and started forward, Iron Claw loping in his path. “We should wait,” Vaelin told him. “There are more.”

Wise Bear ignored him and kept on, betraying no reaction at all when a dozen more war-cats appeared out of the ice and charged towards him at full pelt. Vaelin judged them as roughly the same size as Snowdance but of much leaner appearance, their fur patchy and far more ragged, and their eyes… Snowdance was fearsome but he had never seen her eyes shine with such malevolent intent.

He put an arrow into the cat directly to his front as Kiral claimed two more in quick succession. The Sentar’s bows also thrummed into life, more cats falling to the swarm of arrows, but leaving six still charging at Wise Bear, too fast for any archer to claim.

The lead cat, larger and even more ragged in appearance than its companions, leapt at Iron Claw, fangs bared and eyes blazing with an unnervingly knowing hatred. The great bear’s claw caught it in midair before it could land a bite, sending it sprawling. It scrabbled on the ice, gathering itself then leaping once more, its wailing hiss enough to pain the ears. This time Iron Claw made sure of the kill, both arms closing on the cat as it sought to latch its fangs onto his throat, ribs breaking with audible cracks as it was borne to the ice and the bear stamped down, his shoulders rising and falling in rapid hammerblows until the beast lay in a broken and bloody ruin.

Vaelin notched a second arrow and took a bead on the other cats, finding to his horror that Wise Bear now stood before them, arms open and offering no resistance as they closed. Vaelin drew back his bowstring, aiming for the nearest cat’s flank.

“Don’t!” Kiral laid a hand on his arm. “Wait!”

Alturk barked a command at the Sentar and they lowered their bows, standing in appalled amazement as Wise Bear extended a hand to one of the beasts… and it shrank back, the snarl fading from its face, eyes suddenly freed of hate. The shaman’s eyes roamed over the each of the cats producing an identical result, every one becoming instantly cowed under his gaze, lowering themselves in supplication, eyes averted, some even trembling.

Wise Bear turned to Vaelin, his expression no less implacable than before. “You come. Others stay.”

They proceeded through the maze of jagged ice alone save for Iron Claw, who was obliged to clamber over much of the disrupted surface as their way became ever more narrow. “How did you do that?” Vaelin asked, unsure whether he wanted, or would even understand the answer. The more he learned of Wise Bear the more mysterious, and more worrying his power.

“No Eyes grows weak,” the shaman replied, a grim note of satisfaction in his voice. “Hold slackens. Cats are mine now.”

“So there was no need for us to kill the others?”

Wise Bear paused as they came to an opening in the ice ahead, little more than a narrow crack in the blue-white wall. Beyond it Vaelin could see a patch of granite, the spike of the huge rock now looming above them, its flanks gleaming like poorly polished metal where ice had found purchase. “Not enough meat for all,” Wise Bear said. His gaze locked onto Vaelin’s, fierce and certain. “Say nothing. Do nothing. Listen only.”

The ice beyond the crack was flat, forming a wide frozen moat around the great rock. Wise Bear led Vaelin to the right, a burgeoning stench of something rotten birthing a nausea in his gut, deepening at the sight of a large brownish black stain spreading out from the rock’s eastern face. Moving closer Vaelin saw the stain was littered with bones; seal vertebrae and ribs mostly but here and there the unmistakable shape of a human skull, picked clean of flesh. The source of the stench became clear a moment later, a freshly dismembered pony carcass lying beside a shallow grotto in the face of the rock. From the crude but regular shape of it Vaelin deduced it as a man-made feature, providing some measure of shelter from these terrible climes.

A man sat at the base of the grotto, clad in moulded furs and seated on what appeared to be a chair fashioned from lashed-together bone. He was old, though not as old as Wise Bear, his skin leathery and discoloured, red sores visible on his bald head and cadaverous cheeks, and his eyes were two dark patches of old scar tissue. He sat so still Vaelin initially assumed him a corpse but then saw his nostrils flaring as he caught their scent and a thin smile curved his cracked lips.

“We’ll speak in my brother’s tongue, old friend,” he said to Wise Bear. “It’s only polite, don’t you think?”

Vaelin knew him then, the awful familiarity of his voice, the same mocking smile. Wise Bear raised a hand and he realised he had unconsciously taken hold of his sword and started forward, intent on this thing’s immediate murder. The Witch’s Bastard. How long has he been waiting?

He released his grip and stepped back as Wise Bear stood regarding the thing in silence.

“Nothing to say?” the thing enquired, hairless brows raised above its scar eyes. “No final curses or long-prepared speeches? I’ve heard many over the years. Sadly, most are rather forgettable.”

Wise Bear kept silent, shifting his gaze to the bones littering the surrounding ice, using his staff to prod at a skull lying amidst a shattered rib cage. It was small, little larger than an apple, but clearly human.

“Last of the Cat People,” the thing said, hearing the sound of bone on bone. “They died happy, you know. Worshipping me, content to surrender their flesh in sustenance of my divine light.”

His grin widened, revealing blackened and half-rotted teeth, his eyeless face turning to Vaelin. “They were a remarkable people, brother. Centuries spent living apart from all vestige of what we term civilisation, yet they had laws, art and wisdom enough to survive in the harshest place on earth. But they had no notion of a god, until I taught it to them, and how quickly they succumbed to the idea. After all, what else would you call a man who comes back to life after a spear-hawk rips the eyes from his skull?”

The cracked lips lost their smile, the face turning to Wise Bear once more. “It could all have been avoided, old friend. If you had but opened your heart to my message, my great mission for the ice people. The southern lands would have fallen to us, and the great forest beyond. Now your people are a wasted remnant and mine nothing but bones.”

The sound of breaking ice heralded Iron Claw’s arrival as he clambered over the surrounding wall, moving to Wise Bear’s side, nostrils flaring at the scent of flesh. The eyeless man stiffened at the sound of the bear’s approach but his voice remained free of fear. “You cannot threaten me, little man. Your beast holds no horrors for me. Ask my brother, he killed me once before and yet here I am. As I am elsewhere. I have waited here these long years for you to come. Pity my cats proved unequal to the task, but I am patient and I suspect you still have far to go.”

“So you wait,” Wise Bear said, moving forward in a rush, his hand flashing out to clamp onto the eyeless man’s bald scalp. “Wait longer.”

The eyeless man’s mouth gaped, foul air rushing forth as he voiced a soundless scream, jerking spasmodically on his bone chair. He tried to claw at Wise Bear’s arm but his fingers lacked any strength, fluttering like feathers over his sleeve as he convulsed.

Finally the shaman released him, stepping back as the eyeless man sagged, his face a mask of confusion and pain. “What did you do?” he asked in a faint rasp, his hands flailing at his own chest and face, the nails leaving shallow scars on his flesh.

“You wait,” Wise Bear said again, turning his back. “Then you die. Forever.”

“This is…” The thing tried to rise from the bone chair, reaching out to Wise Bear as he began to walk away. “This is impossible.”

Wise Bear didn’t turn, striding towards the crack in the ice wall with Iron Claw lumbering along behind.

“Brother!” It slid from the bone chair, reaching out to Vaelin as it crawled towards him, imploring. “Brother! Make him free me!”

Vaelin watched the thing crawl, seeing how little strength remained in its limbs, a twisted collection of skin and bone destined to perish when night brought a deadly chill. He gave no reply, turning to follow Wise Bear.

“You loved Barkus!” the thing called, voice cracking. “I am Barkus! I am your brother!”

Vaelin kept walking.

“I have knowledge! I know the Ally’s design.”

Vaelin stopped.

“I know…” The thing’s voice faltered as he dragged air into ruined lungs. “I know what he wants.”

“So do I,” Vaelin said, glancing over his shoulder, seeing a dying man flailing amidst rotting flesh. “He wants to make an end. And we will.”

“Did you kill all of it?”

Wise Bear gave a regretful smile and shook his head. They had encamped in the shadow of the great rock amidst the shelter offered by the jagged ice, the Lonak raising their shelters at an even greater remove than usual, disconcerted by the five war-cats that sat around the shaman in unnerving silence. Vaelin turned to watch as Cara cautiously held a morsel of seal meat out to one of the cats, the beast ignoring her until Wise Bear glanced in its direction whereupon it snapped the treat from her fingers in a lightning bob of its head.

“Only part,” he said turning back and extending his hand, splaying the stubby fingers. “Take one, can still use,” he went on, miming the amputation of his thumb and making a fist. “But weaker now.”

“If we find other parts of it,” Vaelin said, “can you do the same to them?”

Wise Bear nodded. “If we find.”

Vaelin looked at the looming rock spike wondering if the Witch’s Bastard still somehow clung to life. I suspect you still have far to go, it had said. It knew we were coming, but not why. “Oh, I’ve little doubt they’ll find us.”

CHAPTER NINE Lyrna

Tower Lord Al Bera’s health had improved greatly since the liberation of Varinshold, his skin notably less pale and his hands free of any tremors. However, he still had difficulty standing for long periods and Lyrna had been quick to usher him into a chair. She had summoned him to her father’s old rooms adjoining the council chamber. Once richly adorned with various treasures it was now, of course, stripped of all but a few paintings and tapestries, former possessions of the late Lord Darnel no doubt looted from murdered nobility. She had been scrupulous in cataloguing every item found in the palace, distributing the list so that their true owners could reclaim them, but no more than a handful of beggared lords and merchants had so far come forward.

“I recall my father naming you the Smuggler’s Scourge, my lord,” she told Al Bera. “A hard-won title, no doubt.”

Al Bera gave a stiff nod. She had noted before his discomfort in her presence, a wariness presumably born of the low station from which he had been raised. “The smuggling gangs were greater in number in my youth, Highness,” he replied. “I was a captain in the Realm Guard before King Janus ordered me to take charge of his excisemen, a slovenly lot, given to graft and drunkenness. Forging them into an effective arm of the Crown took time, and more than a little blood.”

“And yet you did it, breaking the strangle-hold the smugglers had on the southern shore and doubling the port revenue in the process.”

Al Bera gave a cautious smile. “With a little help from the Sixth Order.”

“Nevertheless, the sword my father gave you was well earned.” She reached for the small wooden chest on the desk. “Sadly, I do not have another to give you. As you might expect, the Volarians stole the entire royal collection. But I did find an old trinket of mine in the ruin of what was once my own rooms.” She extracted the item from the box. The chain was new, fashioned from finely crafted silver but attached to an ancient amulet, a plain disc of bronze inlaid with a single bluestone.

“It’s said this was worn by the mother of King Nahris,” she continued. “The first to claim overlordship of all four fiefs of the Realm. Sadly, he was prone to bouts of madness and so the business of ruling his dominion fell to his formidable mother, Bellaris, the first to be named Chamberlain and Regent of the Unified Realm. A title I myself held briefly towards the end of the Alpiran war, and this”—she placed the amulet on the desk and slid it towards him—“was my badge of office.”

The right choice, she decided, seeing the way he eyed the amulet, like a child regarding a snake for the first time.

“I…” he began, face reddening a little. “I am to be left behind, Highness?”

“You are to serve this Realm as ordered by your queen.”

“If it is a question of my fitness for battle…”

“It is a question as to whom I can safely entrust governance of these lands in my absence. Nothing more. Lord Chamberlain Al Bera, please put on your badge of office.”

He fingered the silver chain for a moment, jaws clenched and striving to conceal a faint tremble in his hand. “Did King Janus ever tell you why I was so good at catching smugglers, Highness?”

She smiled blandly and shook her head.

“Because my father was a smuggler. A man of great kindness at home but vicious temperament in business, a business that would have been mine had I not fled to join the Realm Guard at thirteen. By then I had come to understand what manner of man he was, how he was steeped in deceit and murder, and I wanted no part of it.” He removed his hand from the chain. “And I want no part of this.”

She maintained her smile, taking the chain and amulet from the desk and standing to move behind him. She felt him sag as she lifted the chain over his head and laid it on his shoulders, although it weighed no more than a few ounces. “Exactly, my lord.” She leaned down and planted a soft kiss on his cheek, choosing to ignore his flinch as she moved back and he rose unsteadily to his feet.

“I will leave you twenty thousand Realm Guard,” she told him. “They are to crush every remaining vestige of criminality within Asraelin borders, all miscreants to be executed without exception under the Queen’s Word. I feel we have been too lenient of late. You will, however, steer clear of Cumbraelin lands unless in dire emergency or called upon by Lady Veliss. I will provide a list of other priorities, Aspect Dendrish’s legal reforms and the reconstruction of this city being the most pressing.”

She angled her head, studying the way the amulet hung around his neck, finding that his stoop had worsened a trifle. “It suits you very well, my lord.”

He gave the most shallow of bows, his reply tense and clipped to remove all expression. “Thank you, Highness.”

Orena liked to dance in the afternoons, moving among the barren palace gardens with a joyful grace, sometimes catching hold of Murel’s hands and pulling her into a whirl, laughing her girlish laugh. Today she wore winter-blooms in her hair, pale petals shining like stars in the dark mass as she spun and spun.

“Sit with me,” Lyrna said as her dance finally came to a halt, Orena’s skirts blossoming as she whirled to the ground with an exhausted but happy giggle. “I have cakes.”

They were in the remnants of her former hidden garden, Lyrna arranging cakes alongside a porcelain tea-set on the bench next to her. Orena was very fond of cakes but continually lacking in manners, cramming one into her mouth the moment she sat down, fingers sticky with icing and cream. “Yum,” she said, one of the few words she consented to speak these days, although it transpired this new Orena had little need of speech. Lyrna’s head momentarily flooded with the sensation of enjoyment, the texture of the cake on her tongue, the softness of the cream. She had to concentrate to clear the images, a skill learned from Aspect Caenis, who advised repeating a numerical sequence as the best means of blocking Orena’s wayward thoughts.

“Brother Innis tells me you have not been attentive at lessons recently,” Lyrna told her.

Orena’s thoughts took on a bored weariness, swallowing the last of the cake and rolling her eyes.

“Learning is important,” Lyrna persisted. “Don’t you want to read again?”

Orena shrugged and her thoughts shifted: joy and sunshine, the whirl of the dance.

“You can’t dance forever, my lady.” Lyrna reached out to take her hand. “I have to tell you something.”

A sudden wariness at the gravity in her voice, a swelling fear.

“I have to go away for a time.”

The fear surged and Orena’s gaze went to Murel, standing nearby, hands clasped tight and forcing a comforting smile. She found being in Orena’s company a painful trial, the weight of her unconstrained gift hard to bear, especially when it chose to share memories dreadfully reminiscent of those Murel fought to suppress.

“Yes,” Lyrna said. “Murel too. And Iltis and Benten.”

More fear, bordering on terror, a jarring sense of abandonment. Orena’s hands clutched at Lyrna’s, a desperate plea filling her gaze.

“No.” Lyrna forced a note of command into her tone. “No, you cannot come with us.”

Anger mingled with churlish reproach as Orena snatched her hands away, averting her gaze, her face a mirror of her thoughts.

“It is my hope,” Lyrna said, voice soft as she traced her fingers through Orena’s dark curls, “to return with a man who I think can heal you. I was selfish to let him go, but when he looked at me, looked at this face, I knew he saw that his gift had failed. I am beyond healing, but I think you are not, for your soul is so bright.”

Orena’s features softened, her face suddenly losing all vestige of the woman-sized child she appeared to be. She met Lyrna’s gaze, brow furrowing… and the memories flooded forth.

Lyrna tried to summon a calculation to suppress the inrush of image and sensation, but the torrent was too great, overwhelming the trickle of numbers with an ease that told her Orena had been exercising much more control over her gift than they knew. The smell came first, brine, sweat and excrement. Then the sounds, the clink of chains, the muffled sobs of despairing souls. Vision and pain arrived together, the shackles chafing wrist and ankle, the dim outline of huddled captives. She was back in the hold, a slave once more. Her panic flared then receded as she saw the view differed from her own memory, the steps leading to the upper deck now seen from a less acute angle, and chained next to them a young woman in a blue dress, her face shadowed but the play of light on her hairless scalp revealing dreadful burns. Nevertheless, she knew this profile, she had seen it outlined against a campfire on a distant mountainside a few months before. Exhilaration mixed with malicious satisfaction in her breast… along with heady anticipation of the Ally’s reward.

The memory blurred, fracturing and re-forming into a scene of terror, the hull splintered by the shark’s ramming, screaming desperation on all sides. She saw the burnt woman standing next to the steps, key dangling from her grasp. The moment of hesitation was brief, barely noticeable but these eyes had centuries of practice in discerning weakness and she knew in a rush of grim understanding that this newly risen queen was about to abandon her subjects to their fate.

It had been a long time since she felt anything close to wonder, but the sensation that gripped her as she watched the burnt woman return to free first the brutish brother, then the outlaw, and then, incredibly, herself, was the closest she had come for many lifetimes. The babble of thanks she offered the burnt woman as she struggled towards the steps surprised her further, for it was completely genuine.

The images blurred into another memory, Harvin’s scarred face poised above hers, breath mingling as their lips touched. “I’ll never hurt you,” he whispered. “And nor will anyone else.”

“You can’t promise that,” she whispered back. “No one can.”

His fingers played over the bruises on her neck, faded but still dark enough to spoil the pleasing smoothness of this shell’s skin. “I promise I’ll visit bloody murder on every Volarian shit we find, just on the off-chance he was the one who did this.”

She felt something then, something more than familiar lust, and it irked her. “Enough talking,” she said, pushing him onto his back and straddling his waist. “And try to keep quiet this time.”

The final shift was more abrupt, as if Orena sensed her discomfort. The deck of the Sea Sabre pitched continually that day, the seas around the Wensel Isle were rarely calm. She looked up at the burnt woman and the ring she offered, wondering why the tears came so easily. Normally she had to force them, but that day they streamed unbidden from her eyes. “I think such trivia is beyond us now, my lady,” the burnt woman said and a thing that had long forgotten its own name knew then she had found a queen.

Lyrna gasped as the final memory slipped away, finding herself staring into Orena’s apologetic eyes, an uncertain smile on her lips.

“Highness?” Murel hovered at her side, touching a tentative hand to her shoulder.

Lyrna stood and pulled them both into an embrace, Orena clutching her waist as Murel rested her head on her shoulder. “I only ever had ladies,” Lyrna told them. “Never friends.”

Orena’s thoughts gave a final pulse, heavy with a sense of regretful necessity; a lesson she barely understood but needed to share: they can change.

They thronged the docks to watch her go, drowning her in a tumult of cheers and exhortations as she ascended the gangplank to the deck of the Queen Lyrna, all those not chosen to sail the ocean and finish her great crusade; the old, the young and the skilled. Many were weeping, some openly decrying their shame and begging to be allowed to join her. A cordon of Realm Guard kept them back, preventing the more ardent from jumping into the harbour and attempting to swim for the ship.

“Fleet Lord Ell-Nestra,” she greeted the Shield as he performed a precisely formal bow.

“Highness,” he said in the neutral tone she found ever more grating. “The ships from South Tower and Warnsclave approach. We will rendezvous ten miles from shore, weather permitting.”

She ignored the final jibe, softly spoken though it had been. He and several of his captains had voiced objections to her decision to sail so early in the year, advising the winter storms would still be raging on the high seas. He was unmoved by Brother Harlick’s carefully prepared tables of historical weather patterns, indicating the northern Boraelin underwent a five-week period of relative calm during the months of Illnasur and Onasur. “Just marks on paper, Highness,” the Shield had said, casting a dismissive eye over the librarian’s papers. “Udonor doesn’t read.”

“He may not, but I do,” Lyrna replied. “Our enemies do not expect us until the spring and I will not pass up an opportunity to surprise them. Our fleet will be complete within the month whereupon we will sail, with or without you.”

Her gaze went to the King Malcius, unfurling sail as she cleared the mole. Beyond her a long line of equally huge vessels ploughed towards the horizon. At the end of the mole she could see a figure seated before a vast canvas perched precariously on an easel. Master Benril, come to capture the scene, though the slate-grey sky and misted horizon made for a gloomy spectacle.

The Shield bowed again and began calling out the orders that would see them away from the docks, the crew running to detach lines and heave the beams into place to push them from the wharf.

“Wait!” Lyrna ordered as her gaze found a diminutive figure at the prow. Alornis didn’t look up from the contraption as Lyrna approached, gently tapping a small hammer to some piping on its underside. “My lady,” Lyrna said.

“Highness.” Alornis gave the pipe a final tap, smiling in satisfaction at the sound it produced.

“If your work here is complete,” Lyrna went on, “I would ask that you go ashore.”

“Sadly this new device requires more work.” Alornis gave a transparently forced laugh and crouched to inspect the machine’s supporting legs. “I can’t possibly let it sail in such condition, Highness.”

Lyrna went to her side, speaking in soft tones. “I gave your brother the most solemn promise that I would keep you safe. Now, remove yourself to the shore or I’ll have Lord Iltis do it for you…”

“They killed Alucius!” Alornis whirled towards her, the hammer flying across the deck as she tossed it aside, face livid, her shout heralding a frigid stillness on the deck. “You promise justice.” Alornis’s voice had taken on a strangled tone though she forced the words out, her gaze tearful but unwavering. “I have travelled the length of this Realm recording murder and destruction with every mile, and laboured without sleep for months to provide you these deadly instruments. All without request for reward or expectation of favour, because you promised justice, and I want mine.”

He will never forgive this, Lyrna knew. Even if she lives.

“Fleet Lord Ell-Nestra,” she said, turning away. “Please get us under way.”

The first few days were hard, the seas high enough to rob the fleet of any appearance of cohesion, many of the ships lost to sight in the near-constant rain. At the Shield’s orders, every vessel had experienced navigators on board, most of them Meldeneans who could be trusted to keep an eastward bearing regardless of the weather. Even so there were times when Lyrna looked out on the shifting grey wall that surrounded them and had to suppress the feeling they were sailing alone.

Belowdecks Lord Nortah’s regiment suffered continually with sea-sickness and the confines of shipboard life. They had to be ferried to the top deck in relays for fresh air and exercise, most stumbling through their drills, moving with perfunctory lethargy, though Lyrna’s presence seemed to provide some stimulus to extra effort. The slight woman with the daggers she remembered from Alltor greeted her with a grave bow upon ascending into the daylight the third morning out from Varinshold, proceeding to throw herself into a series of sword drills with zealous energy before collapsing in a sudden convulsion. Her bleached white face looked up at Lyrna stricken with mortification as she strode forward to help her up.

“I beg forgiveness, Highness,” she stammered. “Though my wretched weakness deserves no pardon…”

She fell silent when Lyrna pressed a hand to her forehead, finding it far too chilled and clammy. “Guardswoman Furelah,” she said, “you are unwell.”

Furelah blinked in surprise at being addressed by name then drew herself up to her not-considerable full height. “No more than anyone else, Highness.” She staggered as the ship’s hull crested another steep wave, Lyrna feeling how she trembled as she reached out to steady her by the arm.

“What did you do?” she asked. “Before the war.”

“My father owned a mill, Highness. I worked it with him.”

“Then you are familiar with gears and machinery?”

“Had to be, Highness. After that worthless fu—… My daughter’s father was not a dutiful man, forcing us to seek refuge with my father. After a while his hands got too gnarled for fixing things.”

“Come with me.”

She led her to the stern where Alornis was rigging a tarpaulin over one of the ship’s four ballistae. The constant rain and spume were a source of great consternation as she sought to keep her precious engines free of rust and the salt that played havoc with her various mechanical novelties. “Lady Alornis,” Lyrna called to her, gesturing at Furelah. “I am appointing this guardswoman as your assistant. Please instruct her in the operation of your engine.”

Alornis greeted Furelah with a bemused smile. “Thank you, Highness, but I need no assistance.”

“Battle will be upon us soon, my lady,” Lyrna replied. “And it plays no favourites. Should you fall it is important your knowledge not perish with you.”

Alornis winced a little at the harshness of her tone then offered her hand to Furelah who, despite her evident nausea, stood regarding the ballista with deep fascination. “You built this, my lady?”

“I had help.” Alornis took her hand and led her towards the contraption. “Come, best if we start with the gearing.”

The evening of the tenth day brought the first storm, a howling northerly gale slamming a series of ever-taller waves against the Queen Lyrna’s port side, eventually forcing the Shield to order a turn to the south. Lyrna had expected some expression of reproach as she watched him take the tiller, his hands moving with expert efficiency to steady the great vessel, but instead he seemed oddly content, casting occasional glances at the sky and frowning in apparent satisfaction.

“It seems my calculations may have been optimistic,” Lyrna offered, having to shout above the wind as she moved to his side.

“You mean this?” A spectre of his once-continual grin played over his lips as he jerked his head at the roiling sky overhead. “This is a gentle breeze compared to the Boraelin’s usual winter fury. It’ll have blown itself out come the morning.”

She lingered, seeing his reluctance to look at her, the stiffness of his shoulders. “Why did you stay?” she asked. “I know you wanted no part of this.”

“Despite my misgivings I can’t deny the wisdom in your words. If we don’t finish them, they’ll come again. Better one long war than a dozen short ones, bleeding the Isles white with every generation called to fight them. Besides, I made a commitment, as you may recall.”

She remembered that night after the Teeth, his offer of another life and the promise made beneath the stars. “If it’s any comfort,” she told him, “we would never have sailed the western ocean together. Regardless of any other… developments.”

He didn’t turn but she saw his shoulders slump a little. “No,” he replied, his tone sombre rather than bitter. “That day at Alltor, the way you looked at Al Sorna… And I thought there was nothing else he could take from me. And your face. The face of a stranger.”

“I had hoped you might see the face of a friend.”

She heard him utter a faint laugh above the wind. “Is that what you imagine the future holds for us? Friendship? When this war is won you think I’ll still command your fleet? Stay at your side for all the long years of your reign? Your faithful former pirate? Your muzzled dog?” He glanced over his shoulder at her, rain coursing down his face, all vestige of his smile gone. “I let you put me in a cage, Lyrna. Don’t ask me to live in it forever.”

Lyrna turned as Murel tugged insistently on her arm, gesturing at the door to her cabin where Iltis stood, drenched from head to toe and wearing an expression of pointed impatience.

“I strongly suggest you take shelter, Highness,” the Shield said, hauling on the tiller anew as another wave lifted the prow towards the sky. “Storms have no respect for rank.”

As he had predicted the weather calmed over the succeeding days, allowing Lady Alornis an opportunity to demonstrate her new device. “Brother Harlick was kind enough to provide a few inspiring examples from history,” she said, fitting a large set of bellows onto a copper tube protruding from the contraption’s underside. The engine had been placed on the Queen Lyrna’s port bow and was even odder in appearance than the ballista; a brass-and-iron tube some twelve feet long, bulbous at one end tapering to a narrow spout. A large barrel sat atop it halfway along its length and it rested on an identical base to the ballista, meaning even someone of Alornis’s diminutive proportions had little difficulty adjusting its angle. Furelah stood at the thing’s narrow end, fixing what appeared to be an elongated oil lamp to the spout. From the way she stood, working with arms fully extended and eyes continually straying to the barrel fixed to the device, Lyrna divined her Lady Artificer’s latest novelty harboured considerable potential.

“There were no images to work from,” Alornis went on, running a cloth over some kind of circular lever on the contraption’s bulbous end. “But an Alpiran text from some six hundred years ago did provide a fulsome description of the machinery. The greatest difficulty was in establishing the correct mix for the fuel.”

“This is an Alpiran device?” Lyrna asked her.

“Indeed, Highness. Used in a sea battle during one of their civil wars. It seems the emperor of the day witnessed its first use and promptly outlawed it, fearing the gods might judge him needlessly cruel. They called it Rhevena’s Lance.”

Rhevena, Lyrna knew, was a principal goddess in the Alpiran pantheon, guardian of the dark paths that must be traversed by every soul upon death. But Rhevena was a kindly goddess and lit the paths with fire so that no good souls lost their way. However, the fire was a living thing, possessed of wisdom and insight, and would flare to engulf an unworthy soul. Lyrna’s heart began to beat faster as she noted the way Furelah completed her task and moved back from the engine with ill-concealed haste, the lamp she had fitted to the spout now lit with a bright yellow flame.

“Lamp oil is too thin,” Alornis continued, working a spigot on the side of the barrel, “and burns away too quickly. So I was obliged to use base oil. Even then it required thickening with pine resin.” She stood back, giving her invention a final look of appraisal before turning to Iltis and Benten. “My lords, the bellows if you would.”

The two lords moved to the bellows, standing side by side to grip the large iron rod fixed to it, both raising a questioning glance at Lyrna. She tried to still the rising pitch of her heartbeat and inclined her head to set them to work. It took several heaves before anything happened but when it did Lyrna was grateful for the shout of alarm that sounded the length of the ship as it concealed her own fearful gasp. A stream of bright yellow fire erupted from the machine’s spout, arcing fully thirty feet from the ship to cascade into the sea amidst a cloud of steam. The becalmed seas had allowed much of the fleet to resume their formation and a chorus of excited shouting could be heard from the nearby ships as the arc of fire continued to flow.

“Aiming is fairly straightforward,” Alornis said, manoeuvring the lance about so the arc wafted the air like a flaming fan. She signalled for Benten and Iltis to stop and turned to Lyrna, the last dregs of burning oil falling behind her, smiling in expectation of royal praise.

Lyrna resisted the urge to wipe the sweat from her brow and kept her hands clasped together beneath her cloak, fearing so many eyes witnessing how badly they trembled. The smell of her hair burning… The searing lick of the flames as they ate her flesh… The tremble in her hands increased, threatening to spread to her arms as she continued to stare at Alornis’s prideful visage. What have I made in you?

She felt a gentle touch on her arm and turned to find the Shield at her side, favouring Alornis with his broadest grin. “A remarkable feat, my lady,” he said. “A weapon to win a war if ever I saw one. Wouldn’t you agree, Highness?”

Lyrna took a breath, feeling the tremble abate as the warmth spread from his touch. “My Lady Artificer exceeds all expectations,” she said to Alornis. “Do you have more of these?”

“I brought sufficient components for only another two, Highness. Perhaps, when we reach our destination I can fashion more if the right materials could be found.”

More? I’m not sure I want one. “Please proceed with construction. Fleet Lord Ell-Nestra will decide which vessels will benefit from your mighty gift.”

She tried to sleep but found herself unable to settle, squirming in her bunk and trying to force the image of the flaming arc from her mind. Finally she abandoned the attempt and went to seek out Alornis, Iltis rousing himself and following without need of any instruction. The Queen’s Artificer was hard at work in the corner of the hold given over to her various novelties. Furelah lay in a hammock nearby, her sleep untroubled by the gentle sway of the ship. “Her stomach seems to have adjusted to ship life,” Alornis said, looking up from a length of copper tubing. “Sleep comes easier to her now.”

“She is fortunate,” Lyrna replied. “You find her work satisfactory, I trust?”

“She’s very deft and clever, Highness. Given enough time I’m sure she’ll craft some devices of her own.”

Lyrna sat on the bench opposite Alornis, watching her work, nimble hands shaping the copper tube as she held it over a flame to soften the metal. “You should get some rest yourself,” Lyrna told her.

A faint tic of discomfort passed across Alornis’s brow, though she remained intent on her task. “I find sleep often eludes me these days, Highness.”

“You miss your brother, and Alucius.”

She saw Alornis smother a sigh and put the tube aside. “Is there something you require, Highness?”

“Don’t you wonder what he would have made of this? If he would have been as fierce in his devotion to this cause as you are?”

“Alucius was a peaceful man. It didn’t save him.”

“He was also a spy in service to a foreign power. Did you know that?”

“Not until recently. The slave soldier, the one set to guard him, came to me before he left with Brother Frentis. Alucius gave him a message for me before he died. So yes, I know all about his… unfortunate allegiances, and I find it does not lessen my opinion of him one whit.”

“What else did the message say?”

“Words for my ears alone, Highness.”

Lyrna felt she could discern the contents of the freed Kuritai’s message clearly enough from the guarded look in Alornis’s eyes. Did you love him back? she wanted to ask, but stopped herself. “War has changed us all,” she said instead. “And I know Alucius would not have relished seeing the change in you.”

Alornis’s gaze became a hard glower. “Or in you, Highness.”

“You have a choice, I was robbed of such luxury the day they took my face and came to ruin our nation. But you can still turn away. How do you imagine you’ll feel when that monstrous device of yours turns men into living torches? The cries of a burning man are not an easy thing to hear.”

“You have asked all of us to bear many burdens. I’ll not shirk mine.”

I will send you back the moment we land, Lyrna decided as Alornis returned to her work. I should never have brought you, the Realm has no need of one more twisted soul, however skilled.

She raised her head as a shout sounded through the decking above, soon followed by a tumult of booted feet and the rapid pounding of the bosun’s drum calling all hands to arms.

“What is it?” Alornis asked.

“An enemy ship.” Lyrna rose and made for the steps to the upper deck. “Perhaps we’ll have an early opportunity to see your novelties at work.”

Crewmen ran to their stations, weapons in hand, whilst archers climbed the rigging with bows on their backs. The deck below her feet thrummed with the din of Lord Nortah’s regiment readying itself for battle. She found the Shield at the starboard rail, eyeglass trained on something to the south.

“How many?” Lyrna asked, moving to his side and peering into the gloom, finding only the faintest smudge some miles distant. The sky had brightened somewhat, still dim and thick with cloud but there was enough light to reveal the horizon.

“One,” he replied and pointed to a smaller Meldenean vessel a half mile away, sails full and wake bright about her hull as she ploughed towards the newcomer. “I’ve signalled the Orca to investigate.”

Lyrna glanced at the prow where Alornis and Furelah were busy readying the ballista and resisted the urge to order her below. “A patrol ship?” she asked Ell-Nestra.

“Most probably, though they’re too far out for this time of year.”

It took perhaps a half hour’s tense waiting as the Orca faded into the misted horizon before the Shield gave a satisfied grunt and lowered his spyglass. “The Orca hoists the signal for a captured prize and requests we come alongside.”

“Then do so.”

The Shield’s orders sent men hurrying to haul sail and it wasn’t long before the Orca came into sight, her sails lowered as she wallowed next to a dark hulled Volarian freighter, held close by numerous lines and boarding ladders. Lyrna could see several Meldeneans on the Volarian’s deck, standing over a short line of kneeling captives, all grey-clad with one exception. A red-clad, Lyrna wondered as the captive’s appearance became clearer. In the middle of the ocean with no escort.

“Have that one brought aboard,” she told the Shield, pointing to the red-clad who she now saw was of somewhat ragged appearance, his robes dishevelled and face grey with stubble and fatigue. Peering closer she found a familiarity to his features, a resemblance to another red-clad who had the misfortune to find himself in Meldenean hands. “And signal the ship carrying Aspect Caenis,” she added. “I have need of one of his brothers.”

“How old are you?”

The red-clad stared back at her with dull eyes, features slack with fatigue. She had ordered him taken to her cabin where he sat slumped in a chair with Iltis standing at his back. Brother Verin of the Seventh Order stood near the door, a thin young man with a nervous smile who had only managed the barest mumble of acknowledgment at Lyrna’s greeting before bowing with such haste he nearly fell over. She could only hope his awe didn’t affect his gift.

As the red-clad continued to stare silently Iltis put a large hand on his shoulder, leaning down to speak softly in his ear. “Answer the queen or I’ll skin your hide before the pirates throw you to the sharks.”

From the red-clad’s spasm of anger Lyrna deduced his understanding of Realm Tongue to be more than adequate, though he spoke in Volarian. “Older than you can imagine,” he said, his voice the cultured vowels of the Volarian ruling class.

“Oh I think not,” Lyrna replied in Realm Tongue. “And speak in my language, if you please. As to your age, from what your sister told me, I estimate you to be somewhere over three hundred years old.”

His gaze regained some spark of life at the mention of his sister, though he gave no reply.

“Honoured Citizen Fornella Av Entril Av Tokrev,” Lyrna went on. “She is your sister is she not? And you are Council-man Arklev Entril.” Whose son I had the pleasure to kill some months ago, she added silently.

“You hold my sister?” he asked, dropping into heavily accented but understandable Realm Tongue.

“Not at present. Though she was well when last I saw her, if slightly aged.”

“Where is she?”

“You seem to misunderstand the purpose of this meeting, Council-man. We are not here so I can answer your questions, quite the opposite in fact. And our first order of business is to establish why a member of the Volarian Ruling Council comes to be so easily captured on the high seas.”

Arklev slumped further, weariness and defeat plain in the sigh that escaped him. “There is no Ruling Council now, just the Ally and the elverah he chooses to name Empress.”

Lyrna glanced at Brother Verin. He had been carefully instructed in his role though his hands shook a little as he touched a single finger to his wrist.

“Elverah means witch or sorceress, as I recall,” Lyrna said.

“The name began with her, she earned it well.” A faint glimmer of defiance crept into his eyes as he raised his head. “You met her the day she had her creature kill your brother.”

Lyrna fought down the anger and the instant flood of horror-filled memories. Anger is dangerous here, she knew. Provoking unwise action when so much can be learned. “Brother Frentis killed her,” she said.

“Merely the destruction of an old shell. Now she has a new one.”

“And this creature alone has seized your empire?”

“She does the Ally’s bidding. It seems he has decided the Council was superfluous to his needs.”

“They were killed?”

He lowered his gaze and nodded.

“And yet you survive.”

“I was delayed on a business matter the day she struck. Her Kuritai were everywhere in Volar, killing all who served the Council, every servant, slave and family member. Thousands purged in a single day. I managed to flee to the docks. My family owns many ships, though there was only one in the harbour and we were obliged to sail with scant supplies. The ship was half-wrecked by a storm three days ago.”

Lyrna saw Brother Verin stiffen and gave him a questioning glance. His nerves clearly hadn’t abated but there was a certainty in his movements as he touched his wrist, this time with two fingers.

“I assume,” she said, turning back to Arklev, “this new Empress is fully aware of our intentions?”

“Your invasion was expected in the summer. She gathers forces at the capital and calls the remaining fleet there. It was the Ally’s plan to sail out to meet you with a thousand ships and all the troops we could muster. It seems he becomes impatient and keen to see an end to any more frustrations.”

Lyrna’s gaze flicked to Verin’s hands, finding he was once again touching his wrist with two fingers instead of one.

“I realise I have been remiss,” she said to Arklev, gesturing at the young brother, “in not introducing Brother Verin of the Seventh Order, a young man with a very useful ability. Brother, please relate what lies this man has told me.”

Verin coughed, flushing a little and speaking in slightly tremulous tones. “I… I believe he was present when the Council fell. He lied about running to the docks and taking ship. He lied about the plan to counter the invasion.”

“Thank you, brother.” She looked down at Arklev, finding him now tense with fear but also a determined defiance, glaring back at her, jaw set and mouth firmly closed. “Lord Iltis,” Lyrna said. “Remove this man’s robe.”

Arklev tried to fight, flailing at Iltis with his manacled wrists only to be cuffed to the deck and pinned with a knee pressed into his back. The Lord Protector ripped the robes from his back in a few seconds, revealing an intricate pattern of fresh scars covering his torso from waist to chest.

Lyrna turned to a white-faced Brother Verin who blanched a little under her gaze, edging away a little. “Please fetch Lady Davoka,” she told him. “She will know what to bring.”

CHAPTER TEN Frentis

The Varikum sat on a low hill, a squat stone fortress of five interconnected circular bastions. They had been obliged to wait for three days in the hills to the south for a caravan to appear, twenty wagons bearing supplies and fresh slaves for training. It was well protected with a mix of mounted Varitai and Free Sword mercenaries. Fortunately it appeared news of the Red Brother’s favoured tactics hadn’t made it across the ocean because they reacted with all predictability to the sight of a cluster of terrified slave girls stumbling along the road. Whoever had command of the convoy’s guard promptly sent his Free Swords galloping to investigate without bothering to properly secure the column’s flanks. Frentis waited until the Free Swords surrounded the girls, watching as Lemera tearfully related the tale of her poor murdered master, collapsing to her knees from the terror of it all. The Free Sword leading the riders made the mistake of dismounting to pull her upright, taking hold of her head and turning it side to side in appraisal, then staggering back as her hidden knife came free to slash his neck open.

The archers accounted for the remaining Free Swords, a cloud of arrows arcing down from the surrounding rocks to claim them, the girls falling on those still living as they lay in the road, daggers rising and falling in a frenzy. Frentis led Illian’s group of freed slaves on foot against the convoy’s flank, Slasher and Blacktooth bounding on ahead to each drag a Varitai from the saddle. The column’s fate was sealed when Master Rensial and their dozen mounted fighters charged against its rear, quickly dispatching the remaining defenders. The convoy’s overseer was the last to fall, a typically hulking figure, standing atop the lead wagon, his whip cracking viciously as he lashed at the circling riders with no apparent sign of fear. Illian ducked under his whip to leap up onto the wagon, slashing his feet from under him and deftly tugging the whip from his hand as he fell. In the Martishe they had always endeavoured to take any overseers alive; newly liberated slaves tended to appreciate it.

The slaves numbered over thirty people, mostly men, sitting shackled in caged wagons in the centre of the column. There were also half a dozen women, chosen for youth and strength. “The spectacles are more popular when they offer a certain variety,” Lekran explained. “It’s a tradition to match women against beasts in honour of ancient myths. The Volarians discarded their gods but kept much of their stories, especially the bloody tales.”

Frentis was gratified to find most of the slaves were Realm folk, with some dark-skinned Alpirans from the southern empire. From the treatment meted out to the overseer it was also clear they would make willing recruits.

“You did well,” Frentis told Lemera, crouched over the body of a Free Sword as she divested it of any useful or shiny items. She replied with a shy smile which faded into a wince at the overseer’s scream. “Freedom is a hard road,” Frentis told her before going to find Thirty-Four.

“You are content with your part in this?”

Eight glanced at his two fellow former Varitai and nodded. The days since their liberation had seen them suffer through many hours of sleepless pain as the absence of karn took its toll. However it had also brought a new light to their eyes, plus a tendency to stare at the sky or the landscape, as if seeing them for the first time. They spoke little and Frentis had begun to wonder if they truly understood their situation, but now saw an awareness in their gaze, as well as a sense of certainty.

“We will free as many Varitai as we can,” Frentis went on, “but we cannot free all. You understand this?”

Eight nodded again, speaking slowly, his voice raspy and the words formed with deliberate care, “We were… dead. Now… we are alive. We will make others… live.”

“Yes.” Frentis lifted the sword taken from a fallen Varitai and handed it to Eight. “Many others.”

Thirty-Four’s brief discussion with the overseer revealed the Varikum to be protected by no less than sixty Varitai supplemented by a dozen overseers. Fortunately they were largely devoted to internal defence with no more than a handful set to guarding against an incursion. “Garisai are notoriously difficult to keep,” Thirty-Four advised. “They are never given drugs and are not bound like Kuritai.”

“How many can we expect to free?” Frentis asked.

“The overseer estimated over a hundred. But you should not expect all to be willing recruits, brother, or easy to command. Life in the Varikum is brutal and short, many perish in training and fewer still survive their first experience of the spectacles. It is not uncommon for Garisai to be driven mad by their trials.”

Frentis glanced at Master Rensial, sitting on the ground nearby with the vacant expression that always seemed to grip him in the aftermath of a battle. Then they’ll be in good company.

He had Lekran play the role of the overseer, clothed in black with whip in hand. Frentis and Master Rensial had donned the garb of Free Sword mercenaries and rode alongside the lead wagon as it ascended the slope to the Varikum’s main gate. The establishment’s lack of preparedness was evident in the fact it was already open, a large man striding forth to greet them with a harsh glower.

“You fuckers are late!” he snarled at Lekran, then paused with a suspicious frown. “Where’s Mastorek?”

“If the old women in my village are to be believed,” the former Kuritai said, standing to unsling his axe from where it was hidden beneath his jerkin, “suffering a thousand years torment beyond the endless sea. You can greet him there.”

The overseer was still wearing a baffled expression as the axe swept down to cleave his skull.

Frentis spurred his horse forward, sword drawn as he galloped through the gate, cutting down another overseer trying desperately to haul it closed. Two Varitai rushed forward from a shadowed doorway, short swords drawn back, then rolled under the hooves of Master Rensial’s horse as he rode them down. Frentis dismounted, falling in beside Lekran as he came charging past, axe in hand, the three former Varitai close behind along with all the fighters in their small army, Frentis having seen little point in moderation now.

According to a prearranged plan, their force divided as it reached the inner keep, Lekran taking half the force right whilst Frentis went left. Resistance was sporadic but fierce, three or four Varitai at a time attempting to block their path but soon overwhelmed by the onslaught. Eight, together with Weaver and his two freed Varitai, had been given the role of capturing as many alive as possible; Weaver would loop his thick rope around one and drag him to the ground whilst the others closed in to bind him. Their success was small, only seven more captured alive by the time the Varikum fell, its elegant curving marble hallways liberally streaked with blood from end to end.

Frentis ordered Illian’s group to scour the Varikum for survivors then sent Draker and his disguised Realm folk to the battlements with instructions to give every appearance that business here continued as normal. He made his way to the wide sand-covered circle in the centre of the main keep, finding a dense knot of men and women standing in a defensive formation. They had arranged themselves in three tight, disciplined ranks, faces set and grim with defiance, although their weapons consisted of only wooden short swords and spears. The sand around them was littered with the bodies of their overseers, cut down by the archers who had occupied the balcony overlooking the arena. It seemed their attack had caught the Varikum in the middle of its afternoon practice.

“They think we’re bandits on a slaving expedition,” Lekran commented as Frentis entered the circle. “Finding it hard to convince them otherwise.”

Frentis sheathed his sword and strode towards the group, seeing how they tensed at his approach, his eyes picking out the scars they bore. It appeared none had escaped injury, either from the whip or whatever torments the veterans had suffered in the spectacles. He halted ten paces short, scanning for some semblance of recognition among the faces but seeing only suspicion.

“Are there any here from the Unified Realm?” he asked in Realm Tongue. The response was mostly a series of baffled glares though one did stir at the words, a light-skinned man slightly older and even more scarred than the others. Like all of them his head was shaven and he wore a loose shift that revealed a body honed to the kind of leanness that only came from years of hard training.

“Last of the land-bound died two days ago,” he said in a Meldenean accent. He cocked his head at Frentis, mouth twisting in faint contempt. “They rarely last long.”

One of the others spoke up, a short but well-muscled young woman holding a wooden spear level with Frentis’s eyes. “Tell him if he intends to sell us, he better be prepared to bleed for the privilege,” she said in Volarian.

“I speak your language,” Frentis told her, raising his hands, palm open. “And we come only to free you.”

“For what?” she replied, her glower losing none of its intensity.

“That,” he told her, “is surely for you to decide.”

In all some two dozen of the freed Garisai opted to leave, the Meldenean among the first to depart. “No offence, but a pox on your rebellion, brother,” he said in an affable tone at the gate, hefting a sack laden with sundry valuables and provisions. “Done two spectacles and that’s enough blood for any life. I’m taking myself to the coast where I’ll find anything that floats and sail to the Isles. Expect my wife’s probably found another willing prick by now, but still, home is home.”

“Your people are allied with us,” Frentis pointed out. “The Ship Lords have agreed a formal treaty.”

“Really? Then a pox on them too.” He gave a brief grin of farewell and started off towards the west at a steady run.

“Coward,” Lekran muttered.

Or the wisest man I’ve met in a long time, Frentis thought, watching him go.

The young woman from the practice ground had been elected to speak for her fellow Garisai and named herself as Ivelda. Frentis divined a certain tribal enmity from the hard looks and similar accent she shared with Lekran. “She is Rotha,” he had advised, his gaze darkening. “They cannot be trusted.”

“Othra means ‘snake’ in our tongue,” she replied, her hand closing on the short sword she had claimed from the pile of captured weapons. “They drink the piss of goats and lie with their sisters.”

“If you intend to kill each other,” Frentis said as Lekran bridled, finding himself too weary to intervene, “do it outside.”

He turned his gaze to the map Thirty-Four had laid out in the luxurious apartments where the Varikum’s chief overseer once made his home. Much to the annoyance of the freed Garisai they had failed to take him alive, though great play had been made of his corpse, his head now adorning a spear thrust into the centre of the practice ground.

“The Volarian garrison will no doubt have word of our activities by now,” Thirty-Four said, tapping an icon some fifteen miles north-west of the Varikum. “It won’t be hard to follow our trail here.”

“Our full strength?” Frentis asked.

“Two hundred and seventeen.”

“Not enough,” Lekran said.

“Craven sister-fucker,” Ivelda said with a scornful laugh. “Each Garisai here is worth ten Varitai.”

“He’s right,” Frentis said. “We need more fighters.”

“If they come here, they’ll have to assault the walls to take us,” Draker pointed out. “Evens the odds a bit.”

“We can’t linger, much as I’m tempted to. Besides, putting this place to the torch gives a clear signal of our intentions. Perhaps even a rallying call to those in bondage.” His finger tracked to a cluster of hills thirty miles north-east, the route liberally marked with plantations. “We’ll turn to face them there, hopefully in greater numbers. Be ready to march in an hour.”

They raided four plantations in as many days, their ranks swelling with every attack. The landholdings were larger farther inland, richer in slaves and ample evidence the overseers indulged in a level of cruelty even greater than they had seen on the coast. The bulk of their new recruits were still Realm folk, those born into bondage proving the least willing to forsake a lifetime of servitude, in some cases even striving to defend their masters. This had been particularly evident at the fourth plantation where the most loyal slaves had formed a protective cordon around the owner, a tall grey-haired woman dressed head to toe in black, standing with straight-backed and flint-eyed defiance as her villa burned around her. The slaves protecting her were unarmed but had linked arms, refusing to budge despite Frentis’s entreaties.

“Our mistress is kind and does not deserve this,” one of the slaves told Frentis, a woman of matronly appearance garbed in cloth noticeably less threadbare than most slaves they had encountered. Her fellow slaves were also similarly well attired and he saw little evidence of any scars. This plantation was also unusual in being the only one so far where they had failed to find a single overseer and featured only four poorly maintained Varitai, all but one easily captured.

Frentis looked at the woman in the centre of the cordon, seeing how she avoided his gaze, stoic in refusing to acknowledge an inferior. “Your mistress has grown wealthy on your labour,” he told the matronly woman. “If she’s so kind, why doesn’t she free you? Come with us and know freedom.”

It did no good, they all stood in place and proved deaf to any further persuasion.

“Kill them, brother,” one of the Realm folk said, the former blacksmith from their first raid, snarling as he spat at the cordon of slaves. “They betray us with this disgusting servility.”

There was a growl of agreement from the other slaves and, he noticed, not all of them Realm folk. The freed fighters were becoming more fierce with every raid, each overseer or master they tormented to death seeming to stoke a greater bloodlust. “Freedom is a choice,” he told them, “gather up these supplies and prepare to march.”

The blacksmith grunted in frustration, pointing his sword at the straight-backed mistress. “What about the old bitch? Put an arrow in her and they might see sense.”

He staggered as Illian appeared at his side and delivered a swift punch to his jaw. “This enterprise is under the command of the Sixth Order,” she told him, “and the Order does not make war on old women.” Her hand went to her sword as he rounded on her, spitting blood. “Question Brother Frentis again,” she continued, voice flat and unwavering, “and we’ll settle this with steel. Now pack up and move.”

That evening Frentis watched as Weaver freed the captured Varitai. They had rested for the night on a rise ten miles north of the old woman’s villa, the Varitai, now numbering some thirty individuals, establishing their own camp at a short remove from the main body. They remained a mostly silent group, uniform in the expressions of wonder and curiosity with which they regarded the world, and rarely venturing far from Weaver, reminding Frentis of new-born fawns clustering around a parent.

The three captives sat in the centre of their group, stripped to the waist and impassive as Weaver crouched at their side, flask in hand. He dipped a thin reed into the flask and touched the tip to their scars, each time provoking a jerking spasm of instant agony and a shrill scream that never seemed to lose its lacerating chill no matter how many times Frentis heard it. The surrounding Varitai came closer as the screams faded, the captives now huddled at Weaver’s feet. He bent to touch each in turn, resting his hand on their heads until they blinked and awoke to their new lives, each face a mask of confusion.

This is a ritual, Frentis realised, watching how the Varitai all turned to raise their hands to Weaver, touching the wrists together then pulling them apart. A broken chain, he recalled from his lessons in sign language, wondering where they had learned it. Despite their obeisance, Weaver displayed no sign of enjoying the Varitai’s supplication, merely replying with a faint smile, his brow drawn in sadness.

“Is he a priest?”

Frentis turned to find Lemera standing nearby, regarding the Varitai with a bemused expression. “No, a healer,” Frentis replied in his halting Alpiran. “Owns… great magic-power.”

“You butcher my language,” she said, slipping into Volarian with a laugh. “Did you learn it in my country?”

He turned back to the Varitai, wincing at best-forgotten memories. “I have travelled far.”

“I was only eight when they took me, but memories of home are still bright. A village on the southern shore, the ocean was rich with fish and blue as a sapphire.”

“You’ll return one day.”

She moved to his side, gaze low and sorrowful. “There will be no welcome for me there… ruined as I am. No man will make offer for me and the women will shun me for my despoilment.”

“Your people have harsh customs it seems.”

“My people no longer.” She nodded at the Varitai now helping their freed brothers to stand, a few voicing soft words of comfort and reassurance. “These are my people now, and the others. You are the King of a new nation.”

“I have one already, and my queen is unlikely to tolerate another crown in her Realm.”

“The sister says you are the greatest hero in your land. Do you not deserve lands of your own?”

“Sister Illian tends to exaggerate, and servants of the Faith are denied ownership of property.”

“Yes, she tried to teach me your faith. An odd notion to worship the dead with such devotion.” Lemera shook her head before turning and walking back to the main camp, her parting words faint and barely heard, “The dead can’t love you back.”

They reached the hill country two days later, their number now swollen to over five hundred though many lacked decent weapons, about half armed with nothing more than clubs or farming tools. An increasing number of recruits were now runaways, fleeing their masters upon hearing of the great rebellion as those who had escaped the raids spread word of their exploits. The runaways brought news of the terror they were provoking amongst the free folk of Eskethia, the northern roads now crowded with black- and grey-clad alike, seeking the safety of more heavily garrisoned lands.

Frentis led them deep into the hills, a mostly bare landscape dotted with small trees and distinguished by the monolithic stones adorning the winding slopes. He chose a rock-strewn plateau for their main camp, offering clear views on all sides and shielded on the northern flank by a fast-flowing river. He sent Master Rensial and Illian to scout the western approaches, reporting back after a two-day ride that the Volarian garrison was pursuing with an impressive turn of speed, a thousand troops force-marching at a pace of fifty miles a day.

“This lot can’t face a thousand, Redbrother,” Lekran stated that evening. “The new ones still think it’s a game and most have never seen a real fight.”

“Then it’s time they did,” Frentis replied. “We can’t run forever. I will take the archers, see if we can thin their ranks a little. Sister Illian, get your people to start piling these rocks up into some semblance of a fortification. You and Draker will have charge of the camp until I return.” He turned to Lekran and the Garisai woman. “Can I trust you both to perform a task without spilling each other’s blood?”

Ivelda gave Lekran a sour glance but nodded, the former Kuritai issuing a terse grunt of agreement. They watched as Frentis scratched out a map in the dirt, listening intently as he explained their role.

“Much could go wrong in this,” Lekran observed.

“Even if it doesn’t work, it should at least claim half their number and the people here will have a fighting chance.” Frentis stood, hefting his bow. “Master Rensial, if you wouldn’t mind joining me?”

They found a shadowed overhang to hide in as they watched the Varitai march into the hills, Frentis using his spyglass to pick out the officers. Identifying the commander proved an easy matter, a sturdy man on horseback in the middle of the column, his authority plain in the curt nods he gave to the younger men who occasionally rode to his side. The column was tightly ordered but had a loose skirmish line of Free Sword cavalry at its head, flanks and rear.

“This fellow’s a trifle too cautious for my liking, Master,” Frentis commented, passing the glass to Rensial.

The master held it to his eye for a brief moment then handed it back with a shrug. “Then kill him.”

Frentis beckoned Corporal Vinten and Dallin to his side and pointed to the column’s southern flank. “Dallin, you’ll come with Master Rensial and me. Vinten, take the others and circle around. When they make camp wait for twilight and pick off as many pickets as you can. Once it’s done head back to the camp, don’t linger.”

The City Guard gave a reluctant nod. “Don’t feel right leaving you, brother.”

“Do this right and we’ll be fine. Now go.”

They tracked the column until dusk, watching as it formed itself into a square-shaped encampment with the usual disconcerting speed and precision of Volarian slave-soldiery. Watching the way the entire battalion moved like one living beast made Frentis glad he had never had to face them in open field and wondrous as to how Vaelin had managed to beat so many at Alltor. Little wonder she thought they could conquer the whole world.

They left Dallin with the horses a half mile ahead of the Volarian camp and approached on foot, making for the northern picket line. He and Rensial wore their Free Sword mercenary garb, basically identical to the standard kit but slightly less uniform in appearance, the breastplates adorned with various scribblings in Volarian. Frentis couldn’t read the words but Thirty-Four had translated enough to indicate it consisted of various cynical and fatalistic slogans common to veteran Free Swords: free in spirit but a slave to blood, was a typical example. However, their garb was clearly sufficiently similar to the other Free Swords to allow them to approach the first one they saw without raising any sign of alarm.

“Fucking cold tonight,” he greeted them cheerfully, steam rising as he pissed against a rock.

Master Rensial didn’t speak a word of Volarian but repeated, “Fucking cold,” with uncanny precision before stepping close to cut the man’s throat. They hid him in the lee of a large boulder and moved on, making it all the way to the camp’s fringes without interruption. Varitai were posted at intervals of twenty feet, silent, barely moving sentinels who also offered no challenge as they made their way to the camp’s interior, picking out the large tent positioned in the centre. Frentis was dismayed to find two Kuritai standing outside the tent; the Volarian commander’s caution was proving ever more trying. They made their way to a fire a short distance away, hands hovering to catch the warmth and listening to the faint snatches of conversation from the tent’s interior.

“… every day we delay earns more criticism, Father,” a voice was saying, earnest with youthful impatience. “You can bet those bastards in New Kethia are making great capital of our misfortunes already.”

“Let them,” came a more placid response, the voice older, gravelled and weary. “Victory always silences criticism.”

“You heard the scouts yesterday, at least two hundred slaves have taken to foot in the last week alone. If we can’t crush this rebellion soon…”

“It’s not a rebellion!” the older voice snapped, a sudden anger banishing the weariness. “It’s an invasion by blood-crazed foreigners and you’ll not say any different. There has never been a slave revolt in the history of the empire and our family will not have its name sullied by the mention of one. You hear me?”

A pause before a sullen response, “Yes, Father.”

The older voice issued a tired sigh and Frentis pictured its owner sinking into a chair. “Get the map. No, the other one…”

They waited until the sun had vanished behind the skyline and a flurry of alarm sounded from the southern perimeter, Vinten following his orders with typical efficiency. Frentis filled his palm with a throwing knife and met Rensial’s gaze. “Don’t kill the son.”

They ran towards the tent, Frentis waving frantically at the south with his empty hand. “Honoured Commander, we are attacked!”

As expected the Kuritai both stepped forward in unison to block their path as a curse sounded from the tent’s interior, a broad grizzled face appearing at the flap, demanding, “What’s all this babble?” in a gravelled voice.

Not so cautious after all, Frentis decided as the knife flew from his hand, flashing between the two Kuritai to take the commander in the throat. Frentis danced aside as the Kuritai on the right lunged, his sword clashing with the twin blades as he spun, his own blade slicing deep into the slave-elite’s arm. It barely seemed to slow him, his good arm whipping around to slash at Frentis’s chest, their swords colliding with a flash of sparks before Frentis reversed his hold on the short sword, sinking to one knee, and thrusting up at the Kuritai’s head. The sword tip caught him under the chin, punching through into the brain.

Frentis looked up to see Master Rensial finishing the other Kuritai, blocking an overhead swing with his sword as his other hand brought a dagger up to find the gap in the slave-elite’s armour between armpit and chest. The master stepped back as another figure erupted from the tent, a tall young man swinging a short sword in a double-handed grip, yelling in anger and grief, his blows frenzied and poorly aimed. Rensial sidestepped an overextended thrust and batted the sword from the young man’s grip before felling him with a swift backhand across the face.

The young man scrabbled back as Rensial advanced, hands coming up to protect his face, a barely coherent plea for mercy gibbering from his bloodied lips. Frentis went to stand over him, the young man shrinking back farther, eyes wide with terror. “You dishonour your father with this display,” Frentis told him with stern disapproval then inclined his head at Rensial. “Master, I believe it’s time to go.”

As he had hoped, Vinten’s attack had drawn attention to the southern perimeter and their progress from the camp was largely free of any interruption, shouting to every guard they met that the camp was facing a heavy assault and the commander slain. It had little effect on the Varitai but the Free Swords were soon hurrying to investigate. Only one attempted to block their way, a burly cavalryman of middling years with the bearing common to sergeants the world over.

“You saw the Honoured Commander fall?” he demanded, a grim fury plain in his craggy features.

“Two assassins,” Frentis said, putting a note of panic in his voice. “They killed the Kuritai as if they were children.”

“Calm down,” the Volarian ordered in his sergeant’s voice, frowning a little as he took a closer look at Frentis and Rensial, his eyes lingering on their inscribed armour. “Which company are you? What’s your name and rank?”

Frentis glanced around, finding no others within earshot and straightening from his fearful hunch. “Brother Frentis of the Sixth Order,” he said, jabbing his fore-knuckles into the sergeant’s upper lip. “Here on the queen’s business.”

He left the man barely conscious but alive. From his reaction to their tidings Frentis surmised he had been a long-serving subordinate to the fallen commander whose son might well benefit from such fiercely loyal counsel.

Dallin waited where they had left him on the eastern side of one of the larger rocks, keeping tight hold of the horses despite their skittishness at the burgeoning uproar from the camp. “Press hard,” Frentis told him, climbing into the saddle. “No rest till sunrise.”

The Volarian pursuit proved more sluggish than expected, the dust raised by their outriders not appearing until well past dawn the following day.

“Back in the Urlish they’d’ve been nipping our heels by now,” Dallin observed.

Frentis raised his spyglass to get a better view of their pursuers; thirty men, all bunched together. “I’m starting to suspect their best troops are all lying dead in the Realm.”

He ordered Dallin on ahead with instructions for Ivelda and Lekran whilst he and Rensial lingered to leave some obvious traces for the Volarians; an overturned stone, a strip of torn clothing on a gorse branch. He waited until the riders were no more than a mile distant and the infantry could be seen filing along a narrow track in their wake. They rode on for a time then reined in on the crest of a hill, plainly silhouetted against the sky. He could see the infantry more clearly now, a long column of Varitai all moving at a steady run and somehow still managing to stay in step. The outriders were coming on at a good pace, Frentis’s spyglass picking out two figures in front, a tall young man closely followed by a burly figure with a discoloured upper lip. Grief dispels caution, he thought in satisfaction, turning his mount towards the east once more.

Lekran came into sight some two hours later, axe raised as he waved from atop one of the monolithic boulders, the Garisai appearing out of the rocks on either side.

“All is ready?” Frentis called to him, dismounting to scramble up the boulder’s steep side.

“The Rotha bitch holds the southern flank with half the Garisai.” Lekran pointed to the box canyon below, a narrow gouge in the landscape some two hundred paces long and about fifty wide. The canyon was closed at the far end where a group of free fighters had made a suitably obvious camp, smoke rising from cookfires and meagre shelters raised among the rocks. “And the hook is baited.”

Frentis knew this was a gamble; he could only hope the Volarians’ fury would blind them to questioning why their enemies had chosen such a poor spot for a campsite. However, Lekran saw scant risk in the plan. “Volarians see slaves as less than men,” he said. “Incapable of true reason. Trust me, Redbrother. They’ll swallow it whole and we’ll make them choke.”

“The gorse?”

Lekran nodded to where Vinten’s archers crouched among the rocks just back from the canyon’s northern edge, surrounded by bundles of tight-bound gorse. Frentis began to clamber down from the boulder. “I’d best take my place. Remember to let a few Free Swords escape.”

He made his way to the far end of the canyon, finding Illian overseeing preparations. “I told you to make ready the main camp, sister,” he said in annoyance.

“Draker has it well in hand,” she replied, meeting his gaze with little sign of contrition. “And since I have trained these people, I am unwilling to let them face battle without me.”

He fought down the urge to order her gone. She was becoming less deferential by the day, exercising a certain flexibility in interpreting his orders and often more than willing to argue her case. It was not necessarily a bad thing, he knew. There always came a point in the Order when novices stepped from their masters’ shadow, but he had hoped it might take longer for her; she still had much to learn and he feared the consequences of her ignorance.

“Stay close to me,” he said. “No more than an arm’s length away at any time. Understood?”

Her defiance softened a little and she nodded, hefting her crossbow and notching a bolt before clasping a second between her teeth in what was now a recognisable pre-battle ritual.

“Brother!” Dallin stood atop a rock pointing to the canyon’s west-facing opening where the Volarian cavalry had appeared.

“You know the plan!” Frentis called to the others as they made ready, hefting their assorted weapons and arranging themselves in a loosely ordered line. They were mostly his original fighters from the Urlish mingled with the more able recruits gathered on the march, Weaver and his Varitai among them, laden with ropes and cudgels. All had tied dampened cloths around their mouths, something he hoped the Volarians would interpret as an effort to avoid recognition.

“We have to hold the first charge,” Frentis went on. “When their lines break, pair off and cut your way to the centre of the canyon.”

The Volarians came to a halt a hundred paces away and began forming up. There was clearly an animated discussion taking place in the centre of their line, Frentis recognising the tall figure of the commander’s son as he bickered with the burly sergeant, gesturing impatiently at the waiting rabble of miscreant slaves. Charging uphill on horseback over broken ground, Frentis mused, watching the sergeant being shouted down before the commander’s son drew his sword, pointing it directly at him. Your father really would have been ashamed, Honoured Citizen.

Frentis turned to Illian as the Volarians spurred into a charge, stones scattering as they laboured up the slope. “The big fellow next to the tall man, if you would sister.”

The bolt flew free barely a second after she brought the crossbow to her shoulder, rising and falling in a perfectly judged arc to smack into the sergeant’s breastplate before the riders had covered half the distance, the burly form falling from the saddle to lie limp on the rocky ground. Illian moved with an unconscious speed to reload the crossbow, grunting as she braced the stock against her midriff, slamming the next bolt into place and biting down on another, all in less than three seconds, a feat Frentis had never seen anyone match. The crossbow string snapped again as the riders came within twenty paces, a Free Sword tumbling to the ground with a bolt protruding from his helmet.

Frentis found himself nurturing a reluctant admiration for the way the commander’s son came on, spurs digging into his horse’s flanks as he strove to get to grips with his father’s murderer, blind hate and rage writ large on his face, seeking to wipe away his shame with courage, a courage that made him oblivious to the fact that the ground had disordered his company and he had outpaced his men to charge alone.

Frentis ran towards a nearby boulder, the hate-filled Volarian now no more than ten feet away, veering to intercept him. He leapt atop the boulder, bringing him level with the son, whirling to deliver a slash that connected with his long-bladed cavalry sword, the Order blade shattering it above the hilt. The Volarian hauled his horse to a halt and tried to wheel it around, fumbling for a spare short sword strapped to his saddle, then arching his back as Illian’s crossbow bolt slammed into it.

She ran in as he fell, pinning him to the ground with a boot to his neck and raising her dagger. “Leave him,” Frentis said, striding forward to slam his sword pommel into the Volarian’s temple, leaving him senseless. “We’ll see what he has to tell us later.”

He surveyed the fight unfolding around them, feeling an indulgent pride in the way the Volarian charge had been successfully blunted, the fighters leaping from rocks to unhorse the riders, whilst Weaver’s Varitai tripped horses with their ropes or dragged the cavalrymen from the saddle before closing in with cudgels flailing. It was done in a few moments, a dozen riderless horses trotting back into the depths of the canyon, every Volarian killed or captured. Their own casualties had been light, four killed and ten wounded. But of course the real battle was yet to begin.

The Varitai came on with a typical indifference, although the slaughter meted out to the Free Sword cavalry had clearly alarmed their officers from the way they spurred their horses to the rear of the column whilst ordering the battalion onward. The Varitai spread out to form an offensive line, four companies deep, each of four close-packed ranks, the first advancing with their unnerving, faultless rhythm, broad-bladed spears held level at waist height.

When the Varitai had covered two-thirds of the canyon’s length the archers rose from their hiding places to begin their work. Although few in number their skills were all well honed by now, the arrow storm thin but deadly as it claimed a dozen Varitai with every volley, but, as ever, the slave soldiers barely seemed to notice, coming on with their unfaltering stride, only the slightest ripple of discord in their ranks.

The first bundle of flaming gorse arced down from the canyon wall to land directly in front of the first rank, white smoke billowing, quickly followed by more until it appeared as if the sky were raining great flaming hailstones. A pall of smoke soon covered the canyon floor from end to end, the Varitai concealed by the choking mist.

Frentis fixed the dampened cloth over his mouth and raised his sword, turning to address the surrounding fighters, “Fight well and may the Departed guide your hand!”

They charged forward in a dense knot, running blindly through the smoke to slam into the lead company of Varitai, the momentum of the charge enough to carry them through all four ranks, Frentis and Illian moving in a circular dance, cutting down Varitai left and right. All was soon a confusion of clashing metal and screams of pain or fury. Sometimes they would find themselves in a crush of opponents, shoving and stabbing as they stumbled over the dead, at others all opposition would disappear leaving them isolated in a world of shifting white smoke as the cacophony of battle raged unseen on all sides. Frentis caught glimpses of the freed Varitai at work, dragging their enslaved brothers down and beating them unconscious. But most sights were scenes of slaughter, the Garisai going about their task with all the skill and fury earned in the Varikum. Frentis found himself momentarily distracted by the sight of Ivelda and two other Garisai being lifted by their fellows and thrown over a line of Varitai, twisting in the air like acrobats at the Summertide fair to land and assault their enemy from the rear.

“Brother!”

Illian’s warning came a fraction too late, Frentis whirling to confront a Free Sword officer charging out of the smoke on horseback, too close to dodge. He leapt forward instead, grabbing hold of the horse’s bridle and wrapping his legs around its neck. The animal reared as its rider hacked at Frentis. The blow was poorly aimed but left a shallow cut on his forearm, forcing him to lose his grip. He landed hard on the rocky ground, the air forced from his lungs by the impact. He rolled, trying to rise, dragging smoke-laden air into his throat and choking. The Free Sword was far more skilled a rider than the commander’s son and brought his horse around in a swift display of excellent horsemanship, spurring forward with his sword drawn back for a decapitating swipe at Frentis’s neck.

Illian’s throwing knife smacked into the rider’s face just above the chin guard, forcing him to veer away, though his horse’s flank still connected painfully with Frentis as he managed to gain his feet, sending him sprawling once more. He gulped more tainted air and forced himself upright, searching frantically for the rider but finding the saddle now empty. His eyes caught a vague flurry of shadows in the smoke a dozen feet away and he ran towards it, finding Illian confronting the now-unseated rider. Despite the knife embedded in his cheek the Volarian was assailing the sister with a series of expert blows, his long cavalry sword a blur as he advanced, bloodied face snarling. Illian blocked every stroke and leapt to deliver a kick to the side of his face, driving the throwing knife deeper. The Volarian staggered back, blood flowing thick from his mouth as he sank to his knees, staring up at Illian, all fury faded as his eyes held a desperate entreaty.

Frentis paused to catch his breath, the sounds of battle fading around them along with the smoke, revealing the ruin of the Varitai’s battalion, their neatly ordered lines shattered into ever-diminishing knots of resistance. Even they couldn’t maintain a formation when blind.

He moved to Illian’s side as she stood watching the Volarian die. “Killing without need is against the Faith,” she explained in answer to Frentis’s raised eyebrow.

“Quite so, sister,” he said, briefly clasping her shoulder before moving on to seek out Lekran and ensure some survivors were allowed to flee. “Quite so.”

She feels his return with a rush of joy, untarnished by the fierce enmity with which he colours his mind. The long days of his absence have been hard. Loneliness, once a long-forgotten sensation, has been difficult to master, provoking a despairing ache as she indulges in memories of their glorious time together. Instead of his voice this time he offers a vision, from the clarity she judges he has spent a long time viewing this scene, trying to capture every detail. She deduces that his return is not accidental, whatever contrivance he has used to mask his dreams now removed; he wants her to see.

A thousand or more Varitai and Free Swords lie dead in a canyon, somewhere in the hill country east of New Kethia to judge by the landscape. People in mismatched armour wander among the dead finishing the wounded and gathering weapons. She finds herself smiling in amusement. You win a victory, beloved, she tells him. How delightful. I’ve been searching for some excuse to execute the governor of Eskethia.

The enmity deepens, the thoughts coalescing into words, her heart leaping at the sound of his voice. Come and face me. We will finish this.

She sighs, pushing a hand through her hair and letting her gaze wander over the grey ocean stretching away from the cliff. It is starting to rain, the north-western coastline is ever damp in winter, though the seas are calmer than expected. Her slaves scurry forward bearing an awning, keen to shield the Empress from the elements. She dismisses them with an irritated wave. They are expert slaves, attentive in the extreme, but for a woman accustomed to privation and danger, their devotion to her comfort is an annoyance, leaving scant regret at their imminent fate.

I’m sorry, beloved, she tells him, eyes now fixed on the horizon and her heart beating faster with the joy of anticipation. But I have business here. You’ll have to amuse yourself with my slaves for a while longer.

The enmity subsides, transforming into a reluctant curiosity. She laughs, exulting as the first masts appear on the horizon, raising her gaze to the sky and finding it rich in clouds. She beckons the captain of her escort to her side, an Arisai like the others, promoted due to his slightly more controlled viciousness. “Kill the slaves,” she tells him. “Also, we passed a village a mile back. There can be no witnesses to my presence here. See to it.”

“Empress.” He bows, his expression one of near adoration, though, like the others, cruelty is rarely absent from his eyes. He turns away, moving towards the slaves and drawing his sword.

Her limbs tremble as she turns back to the sea, deaf to the screams as she summons the gift. She is slightly regretful at the necessity, having grown fond of this shell. But another awaits her in Volar, this one a little taller though not quite so athletic.

Formalities must be observed, my love, she tells him, raising her arms and focusing on the clouds, watching them dance in response to the gift. It is time for an empress to greet a queen.

CHAPTER ELEVEN Vaelin

The next storm lasted longer than the first, two full days of labouring along behind Cara’s gift-crafted shield. The constant exertion had forced her to reduce its reach, obliging them to move in a dense clutch, Orven’s guardsmen walking shoulder to shoulder with Alturk’s Sentar. For all the jostling and unwelcome proximity there was no trouble; the ferocity of the storm raging on all sides left little room for other preoccupations. Cara began to falter on the second day, stumbling to her knees several times and only managing to maintain the shield by sharing with both Kiral and Marken at once. By the time night fell the other Gifted had all shared to the point of collapse and Cara was barely conscious, mumbling in delirium as blood flowed from her nose and eyes.

“We have to end this!” Lorkan railed at Vaelin, barely able to stand himself. “Any more and she’ll die.”

Vaelin turned to Wise Bear with a questioning glance. The old shaman frowned and pushed his way to the edge of the company, poking his staff beyond the shield wall into the howling white fury beyond. “Wind dies, but slowly,” he reported. He hesitated, glancing back at Cara then straightened with decision. “Make circle, horses on outside. Cover all flesh, keep tight together.”

It took some awkward manoeuvring to arrange the horses and ponies in a circle, by which time Cara had weakened yet further. “Stop now, Little Bird,” Wise Bear said, maintaining his habit of ignoring their own names for those he chose.

“Can’t,” she breathed, eyes closed and leaking blood. “The storm… the price.”

“Storm fades,” he said, putting a hand to her forehead. “Stop now.”

She groaned, her eyes fluttering for a moment… and the shield fell.

The cold was like a hammerblow, raising a pained groan from every throat as the travelers shrank beneath its weight, pressing together in instinctive need. Vaelin held tight to Scar’s reins as Dahrena wrapped her arms around his waist and Kiral huddled against his back, chanting softly in Lonak, the words unknown but the lilting tone familiar: death song. The horses and ponies screamed as the wind lashed them, some bucking and rearing in terror, tearing free of their tethers to flee into the storm. Scar snorted and stamped, the reins pulling taut in Vaelin’s grip as the warhorse gave a great whinny of protest, threatening to pull him free of the company. Vaelin gritted his teeth and pulled hard on the reins, dragging the horse closer and pressing himself and Dahrena against his side in the hope the faint warmth might reassure him. Scar whinnied again but calmed, probably more from the weakening effects of the cold than any instinctive loyalty.

Time seemed to elongate as they endured the storm’s assault, every second a test of endurance. The horses started to die after the first hour, slumping down in silent exhaustion, their riders huddling behind the soon-frozen corpses. Vaelin could hear other Lonak voices raised in the same lilting cadence, more death songs gifted to the wind, fading as the endless minutes dragged by.

He had begun to sag when he felt the storm weaken, a sudden removal of the blade-like chill. He released Scar’s reins, stifling a shout of pain at the sensation of life returning to part-frozen fingers. Dahrena stirred next to him, a weary smile visible through the swaddle of furs. To his amazement Scar was still alive, though slumped to his knees with snow piled on his flanks, blinking dolorous eyes at Vaelin as he scratched his ears.

Taking stock, they found half the Lonak ponies dead along with a third of the guardsmen’s horses. Four of the Sentar had also perished, all veteran warriors a decade or so older than their comrades. In what appeared to be a Lonak custom, Alturk gathered the belongings and shared them out among the other Sentar as they gathered around the bodies. No words were spoken; their only outward regard for the dead was a brief glance at the corpses before moving away.

Vaelin went to Wise Bear’s side, watching as the shaman’s gaze roamed the ice on all sides, a worried frown on his brow. “Which direction?” Vaelin asked.

Wise Bear continued his survey for another moment then lowered his gaze. “None.”

“But the price…”

“Ice breaks all around.” The shaman made a circular motion with his bone-staff. “Nowhere to walk. This time we all pay price.”

They made camp and waited, the Realm folk huddling around their fires, the Lonak occupying themselves by butchering the fallen ponies and horses. Meat should not be wasted on the ice after all. The now-familiar booming crack came soon after sunrise. The sound lasted much longer than before, the ice giving full vent to its torment as walls of white mist rose on all sides. Abruptly the ice shifted beneath their feet, the sky seeming to sway above as the entire field shattered for miles around with a thunderclap crescendo. The subsequent silence seemed vast, all members of the company fallen to their knees and staring about in expectation of some climactic calamity. But nothing came. The ice swayed gently beneath them, the surrounding ice-scape moving in a slow but constant drift to the east.

Vaelin joined Wise Bear at the edge of the fragment where they were now marooned, looking down at the cavernous gap between them and the nearest berg, so deep the ocean water below was lost to sight. “The ice is kind,” the shaman said in a surprisingly calm voice.

“Kind?” Vaelin asked.

“Islands to the east.” A faint smile played over Wise Bear’s aged face. “Home.”

The weather remained calm for the following week as they accustomed themselves to life on their new home. The berg was a good three hundred paces from end to end allowing for a sprawling camp, and, thanks to the storm, they were well supplied with horse-meat. Occasionally the berg would collide with one of its neighbours, the ice shuddering from the impact but so far failing to crack. For Vaelin the ever-shortening days were more worrying than their immobility, the Long Night was coming and he had no illusions as to their chances when it came.

“You had no choice,” Kiral told him one morning. He had gone to the edge of the berg in what had become something of a daily ritual. They were so far north now that Avenshura could be glimpsed for a brief time between dusk and sunrise, shining brighter than he had seen before. No war can be fought in the light that it brings. Just an ancient delusion, he knew. Life, death, love, war. It would all be played out on this earth until the end of time and Avenshura didn’t care. It was just a star.

“These people followed me,” he said. “To their doom it seems.”

“The song called and you answered. And our journey is not yet done.”

She spoke with a calm authority but Vaelin could not suppress his skepticism, gesturing at the slowly moving ice surrounding them. “It holds no warning about this?”

“It has sounded a warning note since we began this journey. But it also holds certainty. We are on the right course, the endless man awaits our coming. I know it.”

The first island came into view four days later, a small snow-covered rise some miles to the south, several larger cousins appearing a day later. The berg’s collisions increased as the floe became constricted by the channels through the islands. After many hours constant shuddering, and an ominous crack that shook the ice beneath their feet, it came to a grinding halt.

Wise Bear led them across the now-fractured ice-scape to the nearest island, taller than the others with bare rock jutting from its snow-covered slopes. His mood became sombre as they tracked around its southern shore, coming eventually to a collection of huts beneath a tall cliff. They were conical in shape, the walls constructed from seal hides over a framework of bone and wood, long out of use from their evident state of disrepair. Many were missing hides and others half-ruined by the constant assault of the elements.

“You know this place?” Vaelin asked the shaman.

“Bear People hunting camp,” he said, standing still and expressionless.

“We could press on,” Vaelin suggested, sensing his reluctance. “Find another island.”

“Nearest two days away.” Wise Bear started forward, moving with deliberate purpose and pointing his staff towards the north. “More storm coming. We rest here until it passes.”

They repaired the huts as best they could, using horse-hide to cover the gaps, the night coming on fast and bringing a bitter wind. By now they were all well attuned to the moods of the ice, the speed with which a storm could descend, birthing a new level of cooperation between the Sentar and Orven’s guardsmen. They worked together with wordless efficiency, seemingly unhampered by any language barrier.

“Once the ice made all men brothers,” Wise Bear said that night. They had repaired five huts, enough to shelter the whole company from the storm already howling outside, the surviving horses herded into a single hut with what scant fodder remained. The shaman sat beside the fire in the centre of the hut, the smoke rising to a small hole in the roof as he carved a new symbol into his bone-staff.

“The Long Night longer then, years not months,” he went on, eyes fixed on the knifepoint etching into the bone. “No tribes, just one people, made so by the Long Night. When gone, one people became three, brothers no more.”

He paused to blow powdered bone from the staff, revealing an irregular pattern of dots, each connected with a line. “What does it mean?” Cara asked, leaning forward. She was still alarmingly thin but had regained a great deal of strength during their time on the berg, though Vaelin doubted she could have endured long enough to shield them from the latest storm.

Wise Bear frowned, seeking the right words. “A story now told,” he said finally, his gaze roaming over the Gifted. “Story of journey and joining. When storm passes we make new story, of learning and fighting.”

Wise Bear led them on a south-easterly course three days later, the islands growing in size and number with every passing mile, some even featuring a few trees or bushes the farther south they went. However, there was little for the horses to feed on and, with the fodder now exhausted, soon only Scar was left, plodding in Vaelin’s wake with his head sagging ever lower.

When darkness fell Wise Bear would gather the Gifted, trying to impart some of his knowledge, though his agitation, their ignorance, and his still-rudimentary grasp of Realm Tongue, made it a frustrating task. “Speak!” he commanded Dahrena, raising her hand and placing the palm on his forehead.

“Speak what?” she asked in bemusement.

“Not with mouth,” he snapped, jabbing a finger to her temple. “Speak one word, here.”

Dahrena closed her eyes in concentration, pressing her hand harder against the old man’s forehead but he only grunted in consternation. “Call power,” he said. “Not all. Just small power.”

Dahrena sighed and tried again, stiffening a little, her face losing expression and taking on a familiar, pale cast.

“Tower!” Wise Bear said with a satisfied cackle, adding, “Stop now. Not use too much.”

Dahrena removed her hand from his forehead, flexing her fingers, a look of confused awe on her face. “I didn’t know… Can all Gifted do this?”

“All with power, yes. Gifts change, power not change. All one thing. Come.” He gathered the other Gifted and led them to his war-cats, all waiting placidly nearby. He pointed at the largest of the cats, like the others still fairly ragged of fur but noticeably better fed than when they had first been captured by his gift. “Speak,” he told Dahrena. “Give order.”

Dahrena approached the beast with obvious trepidation, for all the cat’s apparent calm she had seen the carnage meted out by Snowdance who usually appeared no more threatening than an overgrown kitten. She stopped a pace or two from the cat and tentatively reached out to touch her hand to its great head, closing her eyes to summon her gift once more. The cat blinked then lowered itself to the ice and rolled on its back, paws raised. Dahrena gave a delighted laugh and knelt to run her hands over the cat’s furry belly.

“All try.” Wise Bear jabbed his staff at the other Gifted and waved it at the cats. “Choose, give names. Yours now.”

Cara moved forward with obvious enthusiasm, as did Kiral, whilst Lorkan and Marken were much more cautious. “What if they bite?” Lorkan asked the shaman, taking a short step towards one of the two remaining cats.

“You die,” Wise Bear replied. “Don’t let them.”

Vaelin’s gaze abruptly shifted to Kiral as she rose from the side of the cat she had chosen, the smallest of the group with a mangled left ear. Her smile faded as she stood and stared towards the east with a sudden and fierce intensity.

“Danger?” Vaelin asked, going to her side.

“A new song.” She winced a little, shaking her head in confusion. “Very old, very strange.”

Wise Bear said something in his own language as he came to join them, his expression wary rather than fearful as he added, “Wolf People.”

He led them to another island at first light, the largest they had yet seen, with wide patches of bare rock and a small cluster of trees and bushes on its eastern flank. Vaelin set Scar to feed on what sparse leaves the bushes could offer, the warhorse snorting in appreciation as he began his first meal in days. “Should’ve named you ‘strength,’ shouldn’t I?” Vaelin asked, brushing the frost from his coat. “Sorry for all you’ve suffered, old fellow.”

Scar gave another snort and kept chewing.

He found Wise Bear waiting where the island’s shore met the ice. Nearby Iron Claw sat gnawing on a horse’s thigh-bone. “We go, others stay,” the shaman said. “Wolf People not hate like Cat People, but won’t like too many on their ice.”

“Where do we find them?”

Wise Bear’s laugh was soft as he turned and started walking, Iron Claw rising to lumber alongside with the bone still clamped between his jaws. “They find us.”

They trekked east until the sky had darkened to black and the green fire once again danced in the sky. Wise Bear rested on a stunted plinth-shaped mound of ice, regarding the sky and singing his song to his ancestors.

“What do you tell them?” Vaelin asked when he fell silent.

“Bear People still live. I still live, but not long to wait now.”

“Are you so eager to join them? To be with your wife once more?”

“She with me now, watching.” Wise Bear gave him a sidelong glance. “You think this… a story. Your word… the word for not real story.”

“A lie.”

“Yes. Lie. No word for lie in Bear People tongue.”

“A lie is still a lie, even if you don’t have a word for it. But no, I don’t think it a lie. I believe your people, and mine, crafted legends to better understand a world that often makes little sense. And a legend becomes its own truth in time.”

“Legend is what?”

“An old story, told many times and changed with the telling. A story so old none can say if it ever truly happened.”

“You had power, when we met. Song like Fox Girl, but stronger. That a legend?”

“No, all very true. But like a legend, it had an ending.”

“No.” Wise Bear lifted his staff to point at the swirling lights in the sky. “Nothing truly ends. There stories live forever.”

He looked over his shoulder as Iron Claw gave a low growl, rising to sniff the air.

“Many come.” The shaman sighed, getting to his feet. “War party. Keep hands empty.”

The spear-hawks came first, seven of the great birds descending from the clouds to circle them, occasionally swooping low enough to make Vaelin duck. He had heard enough stories from Dahrena to appreciate the birds’ deadly power but was still surprised by their size, judging each to have a wingspan of at least seven feet, their beaks as long as spear-points and, he noticed, steel barbs glittering on their talons.

“One shaman controls all these?” he asked Wise Bear.

“If strong enough. They see and he sees.” The shaman’s gaze settled on the eastern horizon, a disconcerting note of foreboding colouring his tone. “Few strong enough to bind so many.”

The black dots appeared on the horizon moments later, at first only a dozen or so but soon growing in number until Vaelin counted over fifty. The dots resolved into loping figures as they came closer, moving with effortless speed and grace over the ice. On nearing, their tight group split apart and formed a near-perfect circle with Wise Bear and Vaelin at the centre. They sat regarding them both with placid indifference, all uniformly white of fur and larger than any wolf Vaelin had seen, save one.

More dots soon appeared on the horizon, moving with less grace but almost equal speed. The sight was so unfamiliar Vaelin was initially unsure what he was seeing, teams of wolves all tethered in a line dragging something behind. As they came closer he realised the wolves were towing sleds, each carrying three men, all armed with spears and flat bows similar to those carried by the Seordah. The wolves towing the sleds were smaller in stature than those surrounding them, and markedly less placid, snarling and nipping at each other as the sleds came to a halt. Vaelin quickly counted heads as the men on the sleds dismounted; over a hundred, less than their own company, but this was their ice and they had wolves and hawks.

The sled-borne warriors spread out to form a second circle outside that fashioned by the wolves, two figures striding forward to approach Vaelin and Wise Bear. One was of similar proportions to the other ice people Vaelin had met, little over five feet tall and stocky of build. But the second figure stood at least as tall as Vaelin, broad at the shoulder but with a rangy, athletic look.

“You know them?” Vaelin asked Wise Bear.

The shaman shook his head, his expression now more tense even than when they had confronted No Eyes. “Trade with Wolf People sometimes,” he said. “Not live with them.”

The two figures halted a short distance away, reaching up to pull away the fur that covered their faces. The shorter of the two was revealed as a woman of middling years with the high cheekbones and broad features common to the ice people. She regarded Wise Bear with an expression of obvious recognition, even respect, though her bearing was no less tense. Vaelin noted she carried a bone of her own, shorter than Wise Bear’s but similarly adorned with etchings. The tall figure at her side removed his fur mask to uncover the face of a young man a few years shy of Vaelin’s age, the features holding no vestige of any ice-folk heritage. Vaelin’s unease deepened as he took note of the man’s colouring: pale skin, eyes and hair dark to the point of blackness, like many Volarians he had seen.

The woman said something in her own language, addressing Wise Bear who replied with a nod and a few words of his own. “Shaman greets shaman,” he explained. “It is… custom.”

The woman’s gaze turned to Vaelin, her eyes tracking him from head to foot before she nodded at the young man. He greeted Vaelin with a cautious smile, conveying a sense of youthful discomfort at an important gathering. “My mother asks your name,” he said in Realm Tongue, the vowels clipped and heavily accented but still easily understood.

“Your mother?” Vaelin’s gaze switched between the two of them as he raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” the young man replied. “Many Wings, shamaness to the Wolf People of the Tree Isles. I am her son, named Long Knife by consent of the people.”

“Really?” Vaelin stared at him and let the silence string out, noting how the young man held his arms loose at his sides. He wore no weapon but Vaelin was certain he had at least one knife under his furs and knew well how to use it. He also noted a sudden alertness in the surrounding wolves, their heads rising as if in answer to an unheard call.

“Your… mother is not the only shaman here,” Vaelin said. “She commands the hawks and you the wolves.”

The young man gritted his teeth and forced a smile. “Yes. And we ask your name.”

“I’ll hear yours first, Volarian. Your true name. I’ve been obliged to kill far too many of your countrymen to give trust so easily.”

The wolves rose from their haunches as one, a snarl sounding from every throat as the young man bridled, stating in implacable tones, “I am not Volarian.”

Many Wings spoke again, a terse few words but evidently enough to make the young man suppress his anger, the wolves relaxing once more as he took a calming breath. “My birth name is Astorek Anvir,” he said. “And I ask your name.”

“Vaelin Al Sorna, Tower Lord of the Northern Reaches by the Queen’s Word.”

Many Wings waved her bone at him, uttering a guttural exclamation, her face suddenly drawn in irritation. “Mother says you have another name,” Astorek Anvir related.

“I am called Avenshura by the Eorhil,” Vaelin said. “And Beral Shak Ur by the Seordah.”

“We do not know these words,” Astorek said. “Explain their meaning.”

“Avenshura is the bright star that appears in the morning sky. Beral Shak Ur is the Shadow of the Raven.”

Astorek and Many Wings exchanged a glance, faces suddenly grave. They said nothing but from the way Wise Bear straightened Vaelin divined they were communicating by other means.

“Gather your people,” Astorek said after a moment. “You will follow us.”

“To what purpose?” Vaelin asked.

“Follow and find out.” The Volarian turned and started back to his sled, the wolves rising as one to fall in on either side as their master cast a final word over his shoulder, “Or stay here and perish when the Long Night falls.”

The island stretched away on either side for several miles, liberally covered with trees, a steep-sided mountain of snow-speckled granite rising from its centre. “Wolf Home,” Wise Bear called it in rough translation of its unpronounceable true name. “I not see this for many year.”

The journey had taken four days hard trekking across the ice, which became noticeably thinner the farther south they travelled. It was unnerving to see through it when the sun rose high, light playing on the bubbles visible beneath a barrier no more than a few feet thick. “It melts in summer,” Astorek explained. “And the islands become isolated, reachable only by boat. Though we have plenty of those.”

He had been an affable guide so far, unwilling to take offence at the instinctive suspicion of the Sentar or the open hostility of the Realm folk. “Offering trust to such as him does not seem wise, my lord,” Orven advised, his dark expression a mirror of his soldiers as he regarded the Volarian. Like all the men from the Realm he had been forced to abandon a daily grooming regimen and was now of somewhat wild appearance, the unkempt beard and long hair rendering him nearly unrecognisable. “We know to our cost how well they use their spies.”

“He’s no spy,” Kiral said, the only one in their company besides Wise Bear to display no enmity towards the young shaman. “My song tells of no deceit.”

“These people trust him,” Vaelin pointed out as Orven plainly found scant reassurance in the huntress’s words. “And Wise Bear trusts them. Besides, we have little choice.”

A large gathering of Wolf People waited on a spit of land on the island’s west-facing coast, several hundred men, women and children staring in open curiosity at the newcomers. Clustered among them were several wolf packs each numbering ten or more with a single shaman at their centre, whilst a great flock of spear-hawks circled above. Many Wings raised her bone-staff to order a halt as a man came forward to greet them, a little taller than her with a broader build than most ice people. From the closeness of the embrace he shared with Many Wings and Astorek, Vaelin deduced he was witnessing a family reunion.

“My father bids you welcome,” Astorek related. “He leads here. In your tongue his name means Whale Killer.”

“I thank him for his hospitality,” Vaelin replied, noting that, in contrast to Many Wings, the shaman was required to translate his words aloud to the Wolf People chieftain.

Whale Killer favoured Vaelin with much the same scrutiny shown by his wife, though with a more friendly countenance. “He says it is strange when an old tale takes form,” Astorek translated.

Vaelin began to ask for clarification but Whale Killer had already moved on, approaching Wise Bear with arms wide. They embraced, exchanging greetings in the tongue of the ice people from which, despite all the weeks hearing it, Vaelin still failed to discern any meaning.

“We thought the Bear People wiped out,” Astorek explained. “My father is glad to see we were wrong.”

“They warred with the Volarians,” Vaelin said. “Driven across the ice to find refuge in our lands. Not so with your people, I see.”

Astorek’s face grew sombre and Vaelin noted Kiral’s sympathetic wince, making him wonder what tune she heard from her song. “We had war,” the Volarian said. “It was ugly, but short.”

The settlement lay a mile along the coast. Instead of clearing the forest the Wolf People made their home amongst the trees. They were mostly pine mixed with birch, tall and strong enough to support the walkways constructed between them, their branches liberally adorned with ropes and ladders. The larger dwellings were all at ground level, wooden conical structures, part covered in moss and seeming to flow around the trees as if they had grown in their shade like great mushrooms. They were led to the largest structure, an impressive circular building constructed around the tallest tree, its trunk sprouting from the centre of the wooden floor and ascending through the multi-beamed roof. The interior featured numerous low tables but no chairs, the Wolf People habitually sitting on piles of fur they carried from dwelling to dwelling as the need arose. Many had already begun to fill the space by the time Vaelin and the others were led in, Astorek ushering them to a set of tables arranged around the central tree.

“This is your council chamber?” Vaelin asked, sitting on one of the fur bundles with Dahrena at his side. “The place where decisions are made,” he elaborated in response to the young Volarian’s baffled look.

“Decisions.” Astorek sighed a faint laugh, glancing over to where the man he called father was taking his seat, gesturing for Wise Bear to join him. “All decisions were taken long ago. And not by us.”

Alturk slumped down opposite before Vaelin could ask anything further, muttering, “My people would have fed us by now. Or killed us.” The Sentar war chief had lost weight on the march, as had they all, but whilst the others had mostly recovered in recent days, the depredations of the ice seemed to linger in him. Lonak men did not grow beards and his face had a skull-like leanness, his once-bald head now sprouting a disordered jumble of black hair and his arms lacking the same thickness of muscle. The depth of sorrow Vaelin had seen in him back in the mountains also hadn’t lifted and he wondered if Alturk was deliberately holding to it, allowing the sadness to reduce him, perhaps even hoping the ice could do what battle could not.

“You should rejoice,” Dahrena told the Lonak. “Now you have the greatest story to tell when you go home.”

“Alturk never shares at the fire,” Kiral said. “Though my sister once told me he has a story to shame all others. For Alturk, as confirmed by the Mahlessa herself, once heard the voice of a god.”

Alturk slammed his hand on the table, grating something in his own language and glowering fiercely at Kiral. Vaelin made ready to rise in her defence but the huntress just smiled, meeting his gaze with a complete absence of fear and saying something in Lonak which she quickly translated for Vaelin and Dahrena: “A story not shared is a waste of riches.”

Food was brought in shortly after, wooden platters piled with roasted meat, also bowls of nuts and berries. “Tastes like seal,” Alturk observed, taking a large bite of meat. “Though not so tough.”

“Walrus,” Astorek explained, coming to sit down at their table. “Winter meat. We eat mostly elk in the summer.” He gave Alturk and Kiral a curious glance, his gaze switching between them and Vaelin. “You are not from the same tribe.”

“No,” Alturk confirmed in an emphatic growl, chewing and swallowing. “We are Lonakhim. They”—he jerked his head at Dahrena and Vaelin—“are Merim Her.”

“We were enemies for a long time,” Vaelin said. “Now we are allies, made so by your people.”

Astorek gave a sigh of annoyance but this time refused to display any offence. “These are my people.”

“How do you come to speak our language?” Dahrena asked.

Astorek glanced at Whale Killer, now engaged in animated conversation with Wise Bear. “A tale to be told soon enough.”

The meal lasted into the night, the copious meat supplemented by a heady brew that smelt strongly of pine. Vaelin took only a sip before setting it aside although Alturk seemed to appreciate it. “Like drinking a tree,” he said, voicing a rare laugh as he drained his bowl.

“We ferment wild berries and pine-cones,” Astorek said. “Let it sit long enough and you can use it to light fires.”

“Lights a fire in my belly, true enough.” Alturk lifted another bowl to his lips, drinking it down in a few gulps. As the evening wore on Vaelin was relieved to find the hulking Lonak a morose drunk rather than a fighting one, watching him slump forward, head rested on his hand as he continued to down the pine ale, muttering to himself in his own language, much to Kiral’s evident disgust.

“You shame the Mahlessa Sentar with this display,” she sniffed.

Alturk curled his lip and said a few short words in Lonak. From Kiral’s furious reaction Vaelin judged they were not complimentary. She snarled a curse in Lonak, getting to her feet, her knife half-drawn.

“Enough!” Vaelin told her, voice heavy with command and loud enough to herald a sudden silence in the hall. “This is not your home and you insult our hosts,” he went on in a quieter tone, his gaze shifting to Alturk. “And you, Tahlessa, should go and sleep it off.”

“Merim Her,” Alturk slurred, half rising, fumbling for his war club and promptly dropping it. “Son killer!” He braced his arms on the table and tried to lever himself up. However, the task seemed to be beyond his diminished limbs and he collapsed, his face connecting with the table with a painful thump. He remained in the same position and soon began to snore.

“Varnish,” Kiral sneered, sitting down again and glaring at Vaelin. “You should have let me kill him. My song finds little of worth in him.”

“A troubled mind deserves healing, not death,” Astorek told her, casting a sympathetic gaze over the slumbering Lonak. “And those of the same tribe should not kill each other.”

Kiral laughed, popping a berry into her mouth. “Then, since we’re no longer allowed to kill the Merim Her, the Lonak would have little else to do.”

Astorek gave a sorrowful shake of his head. “All so strange, but so familiar.”

The feast came to an end some hours later, the Sentar carrying the still-unconscious Alturk to the far end of the hall where Astorek told them they were welcome to make their beds, the settlement lacking any empty dwellings to house so many newcomers. “The tribe grows larger by the year,” he said. “We are required to build constantly.”

Whale Killer and Many Wings appeared at his side along with Wise Bear, the shamaness pointing her staff towards the hall’s broad doorway. “It is time for our tale,” Astorek said.

After the warmth of the hall the cold outside felt crushing, stealing the air from Vaelin’s lungs and provoking an instant thumping in his temples. Dahrena and Kiral accompanied him as they followed the ice folk into the forest, Astorek leading the way with a flaming torch. The path was steep and thick with snow, the way ever more difficult the higher they climbed though the Wolf People moved with the unconscious speed born of having walked this trail many times.

Finally they came to a flat expanse at the base of a rugged cliff, Astorek lifting his torch so the light played over a narrow opening in the rock face. Vaelin saw how Kiral and Dahrena stiffened at the sight of the cave, and how Wise Bear took a firmer hold on his bone-staff. “Power?” he asked him.

“Much power,” the shaman confirmed, peering into the cave with obvious unease. “Maybe too much.”

“There is no danger for you here,” Astorek said, moving into the cave and beckoning Vaelin to follow. “This place is as much yours as ours.”

The cave entrance was narrow but opened out into a broad cavern, the walls dry and the air musty with age. Numerous bowl-like indentations had been carved into the cavern floor, each stained with dried pigment of different hues, but it was the walls that captured Vaelin’s attention. The cavern curved around them in a long semicircle, two-thirds of its length richly adorned in paintings, the colours so vibrant they seemed to shimmer in the light from Astorek’s torch.

Many Wings spoke, ushering Vaelin towards the stretch of wall nearest the cave mouth. “Mother bids you welcome to the memory of the Wolf People,” Astorek said.

Vaelin peered at the images painted onto the stone and was surprised to find the paint fresh, the images clear and easily discerned, a large patch of black paint adorned with small pinpricks of yellow he took to symbolise the night sky. A little farther along he found an image of crude stick figures, all arranged into a single large group, and next to them the same group divided by three black lines.

“The end of the first Long Night,” Astorek said, “and the birth of the three tribes, dividing the islands between them. There were no shamans then, and life was hard. But still we prospered.” He moved along, the torch flickering over various scenes, the images becoming less crude as they progressed, so that soon there were no more stick figures, but clear depictions of people and beasts. Hunters speared walrus on the ice or cast harpoons at whales from the prow of boats, others raised dwellings among the trees. Vaelin paused at the next image, taking a moment to fully understand the scene; an island, Wolf Home judging by the shape of the mountain, and alongside it a vessel of some kind, but of completely unfamiliar design. It was long and low in the water with only a single mast and far more oars than any modern ship.

“They came from the west in the summer months,” Astorek said. “So many years ago the stars have changed their course since. A tall people speaking in meaningless babble but bringing gifts of great value, blades of iron stronger and sharper than any we could smelt, and wondrous devices of glass to cast sight over great distances. We called them the Great Boat People.”

He pointed to three figures depicted next to the ship, two men and a woman. The woman was of arresting beauty, dark-haired with green eyes, wearing a long white robe and a golden amulet around her neck: a half-moon adorned with a red stone. The man on her left wore a blue robe and was slight of build, his face handsome but narrow and seemed to be wearing a half smile on his lips. But it was the man on the woman’s right who captured Vaelin’s attention, an impressive figure, bearded, tall and broad across the shoulders, his brow furrowed as if lost in the depth of thought, the face near identical to one Vaelin had seen before.

“It’s him!” he said, turning to Wise Bear, his heart thumping in excitement. “The statue from the Fallen City! You see it?”

Wise Bear nodded, his expression markedly less enthusiastic. “Story known to Bear People,” he said. “Great Boat People brought death to the ice.”

“Yes.” Astorek moved on, his torch revealing a scene of devastation, a settlement like the one they had just left, but littered with corpses. “They came peacefully, seeking to trade treasures for knowledge. They had no warriors, offered no violence, but still they brought death. A great sickness that laid waste to every settlement they visited until the three tribes were but a remnant.”

The torchlight revealed the woman again, standing alone this time, her face shown in profile, lowered and drawn in great sadness. Her hands were held to her face, red with blood from finger to wrist. “It was the woman who saved us,” Astorek said. “How is not fully understood, but she gave her blood and it saved us, the sickness faded. But…” He illuminated the next image, the two men standing over the woman’s body. The handsome man’s smile had gone, his face now hard with anger, whilst the bearded man wore an expression of stoic forbearance, though whatever ancient hand had captured his face had clearly seen the grief he was trying to hide.

“The tall man took his great boat and sailed away,” Astorek said. “But the other man stayed, unwilling to stray far from the body of the woman, refusing to give it to the ice as was custom. Then…” He revealed a shadowy image in silhouette, a man pulling a sled through a snowstorm. “He took her body north when winter came and was not seen again by the eyes of the ice people. But… he did leave a gift.”

Astorek paused, regarding Vaelin with an expression that was part reluctance, part awe. “They knew many things, these Great Boat People, the working of metal and the reckoning of the stars, even the course of the future.”

The painting revealed by Astorek’s torch was the largest yet, covering the wall from floor to ceiling and executed with an artistry and clarity that would even have outshone Alornis. It was the face of a man, perhaps thirty years in age, his features angular rather than handsome, his eyes dark, a faint smile playing over his lips. It was a hard face, not unused to privation from its slightly gaunt aspect, or violence if Vaelin was any judge. He had looked into the eyes of enough killers to know…

All thought fled as the realisation dawned. He felt Dahrena move to his side, taking his hand which, he realised, had begun to shake.

“The one who will save us from a peril yet unseen,” Astorek said. “He called him the Raven’s Shadow.”