Tower Lord

CHAPTER TWO

Vaelin

“The Volarian Imperial Army is formed of three principal contingents,” Brother Harlick said, voice rising and falling as he bounced along on the back of a pony. “The citizen conscripts known as Free Swords, the great mass of slave-soldiery known as Varitai, and the Kuritai, highly trained slave-elite of fearsome reputation. A basic structure that has been in place for nearly four hundred years.”

At Vaelin’s command he had been talking constantly for hours, relating all he knew about the Volarian Empire as they journeyed back to the tower. “Individual units are grouped into battalions, which are in turn grouped into a division comprising eight thousand men when at full strength. A typical division will include both Free Swords and Varitai with smaller specialist contingents of engineers and Kuritai. An army grouping consists of three or more divisions under the command of a general . . .”

Vaelin had insisted on setting off the night before, having recovered from the vision which laid him low on the beach. Despite its intensity, the vision had been brief, the chill lingered but without the same depth as before, although the images it left brought all the discomfort he could want, the conclusion inescapable. Something very bad has happened.

He could offer only a brief farewell to Nortah and Sella, sensing their alarm and feeling a liar for the comforting words he spoke as he left. “It’s likely nothing,” he had said. “I grow overly cautious with age.”

“Burning!” little Lohren was saying in a sing-song voice as he made for the door, jumping in excitement. “Burning houses! Burning people! Bad men burning everything! Uncle’s going to kill them!”

He roused Captain Orven, finding scant surprise at the sight of the Eorhil woman’s head poking out from his tent as he stumbled into his boots. “Battle order,” Vaelin told him. “Scouts on both flanks. Torches for every man. Send a squad to the beach, they’ll find a man in a hut. He’s coming with us. If he objects, tie him to a horse.”

“Officers of general rank are typically drawn from the small but immensely wealthy ruling class,” Harlick was saying. “The only class of Volarian society entitled to wear red. Although such privileged status affords the chance of high command, appointments are given only to those of proven leadership experience . . .”

“What do they come for?” Vaelin broke in. “What do they want?”

Harlick thought for a moment, perhaps considering a complex response, but seeing Vaelin’s expression replied simply, “Everything, I imagine.”

He began a description of the working practises of the Volarian Governing Council but Vaelin waved his hand. “That’s enough for now.”

The Lady Dahrena had ridden in silence, her expression one of controlled concern as she listened to Harlick’s knowledge. “I know this reaction may seem excessive . . .” Vaelin began but she shook her head.

“I trust my lord’s . . . judgement.”

“I regret the necessity of making my next request . . .”

“Tonight,” she said. “When we return to the tower.”

“It’s not too far?”

“It’s a fair distance, but I have managed it before, during the riots after the Aspect Massacre. Father was concerned the Realm might be undone.”

“My thanks, my lady.”

“Thank me when I bring news all is peace and harmony.”

“I fervently hope to.” Hope all you want, his doubts mocked him. You know what she’ll tell you.

Dawn was breaking as they clattered through the cobbled streets of North Tower, the courtyard gates swinging open as they approached. Vaelin climbed down from Flame’s back, fighting weariness and calling for Captain Adal.

“My lord.” The captain’s greeting was clipped, his hard gaze evidence he still smarted from Vaelin’s threat of dismissal.

“Sound the muster,” Vaelin told him, ascending the steps to the tower. “Every North Guard is to report here forthwith. Send emissaries to the Eorhil and the Seordah. The Tower Lord calls for all the warriors they can send.”

“My lord . . . ?”

“Just do it, please, Adal,” Dahrena said, moving past him and making for the stairs. “I’ll need a few hours,” she called to Vaelin before disappearing from view.

For want of another resting place, Vaelin slumped into the Lord’s Chair, wincing against the din of shouted orders as Adal went about his business. Can I do this again? he wondered. The canvas bundle rested on his knees, feeling heavier now.

“Vaelin?” Alornis stood before him, a shawl over her shoulders, feet slippered against the chill of the stone floor. Her eyes were wide with uncertainty and her gaze continually drawn to the commotion outside. He noticed her fingers were stained with dried paint.

He held out a hand and she came to him, sinking down to rest against his knees. “What’s happening?” she asked in a small voice.

“It seems, as ever, my mother is shown to be a very wise woman.” He smiled as she frowned up at him, teasing the hair back from her eyes. “There’s always another war.”

“The palace is a ruin,” Dahrena said, her features pale and eyes red with recent tears. However, her voice was clear and free of any tremble as she made her report. “Bodies lie thick in the streets. Volarian ships fill the harbour. People line the docks, hundreds of them, in chains.”

Vaelin had convened a council in his rooms on the upper floor. Captain Adal stood by the window, arms crossed. Brother Kehlan, invited at Dahrena’s insistence, sat at her side, face drawn in concern. Also present, at Vaelin’s invitation, was Brother Hollun of the Fourth Order, clutching a bundle of scrolls, eyes wide with unabashed fear as he regarded Dahrena. She had waved aside Vaelin’s suggestion she contrive to conceal her gift from those not already party to the knowledge. “After what I saw, I fear secrets are of small use now. Besides, I’ve long suspected most already know.”

Seated in the corner was Brother Harlick. Although appointed archivist to the tower he made no notes of the meeting, Vaelin knowing he would remember every word spoken here for transcription later. Alornis sat at Vaelin’s side, hands clasped tight to conceal the tremble that had begun the night before. She worries for Alucius, he thought. And Master Benril.

“The Realm Guard?” he asked Dahrena.

“I saw no sign of them, my lord. Clearly the City Guard made a stand in several places, to no avail.”

“The King? Princess Lyrna?”

“I lingered over the palace as long I could, seeing only corpses and blackened ruin.”

Vaelin nodded and she sat down, Brother Kehlan grasping her hand as her head slumped in sorrow and fatigue. “Captain,” Vaelin said. “What is our strength?”

“Over two thousand have answered the muster so far, my lord. The remainder should arrive within seven days. The North Guard on hand numbers three thousand and will be at full complement when the outlying companies report in. That may take over two weeks, given the distances involved.”

“It’s not enough,” Dahrena said. “The army I saw must number five or six times our strength, even if the Seordah and the Eorhil answer our call.”

“Expand the muster,” Vaelin told Adal. “All men of fighting age, including the miners and fishing folk.”

Adal gave a slow nod. “I shall, my lord.” He gritted his teeth in hesitation.

“Problem, Captain?” Vaelin asked him.

“There’s been some grumbling already, my lord. Amongst the men.”

“Grumbling?”

“They don’t want to go,” Brother Kehlan said when Adal hesitated further. “Half of them were born here and have never seen the Realm. The other half will be well pleased if they never see it again. They ask, not without justification, why they should fight for a land that sent no aid when we faced the Horde. It’s not their war.”

“It will be when the Volarians get here,” Dahrena said before Vaelin could give vent to his anger. “I saw their souls, they burn with greed and lust. They won’t stop at Varinshold, or Cumbrael or Nilsael. They will come here and take all we have, and any they don’t kill will be made slaves.”

Vaelin took a breath to calm his temper. “Perhaps if you spoke to the men, my lady,” he said. “I feel your word will carry great weight.”

She nodded. “Of course, my lord.”

Vaelin turned to the captain. “And any further grumbling must be stamped on, hard. I rule here by the King’s Word, not by their consent. Their war is what I say it is.”

“The question of numbers is still pertinent, my lord,” Brother Hollun said. He had scribbled some figures on a piece of parchment and placed them under Vaelin’s gaze.

“Just tell me,” Vaelin ordered the rotund brother.

“With an expanded muster, I calculate we will have perhaps twenty thousand men under arms, a figure at least doubled by the Eorhil and Seordah. We have one warship in harbour and the merchant fleet numbers a little over sixty ships, half of which are currently at sea. To transport so many men and horses to the Realm, with weapons and supplies, will take at least four round-trips.”

“Assuming we are spared storms,” Captain Adal added.

“A moot point,” Vaelin said. “We won’t sail, we’ll march.”

Dahrena’s head came up slowly. “There is only one land route to the Realm from the Reaches.”

It had happened as he surveyed the map earlier, a clear note of confirmation from the blood-song when his eye tracked over the dense mass of symbols comprising the Great Northern Forest. The note had summoned a memory, a blind woman in a clearing on a distant summer day. “I know.”

They established a camp outside the town for the growing army, the mustered men falling into their assigned companies with well-practised ease. Tower Lord Al Myrna had insisted on four musters a year to ensure their discipline didn’t slacken. The new recruits were a mixed bunch of artisans, miners and labourers, many openly resentful at the interruption to their lives, although Captain Adal had been quick to crush any signs of mutiny and Dahrena’s repeated speeches to each batch of new arrivals did much to assuage any doubts over the need to muster. “Many of you ask, ‘What would Tower Lord Al Myrna have done?’” she would say. “I tell you as his daughter his course would have been the same. We must fight!”

Adal set the North Guard to work training the recruits and picked out those he knew had distinguished themselves in the battle against the Horde, making them sergeants or captains. The lack of equipment was a worry, although every smith, tailor and cobbler in North Tower was working to exhaustion to produce the weapons, armour and boots needed by an army. Vaelin knew every day spent in building their strength was precious, but the need to begin the march was a constant nag. Varinshold fallen in a day. Where do they strike next? Dahrena had offered to revisit the Realm every day if need be, but the depth of fatigue that had gripped her after her first foray convinced him it would be best if she saved her strength. “When we get through the forest,” he said. “Then you’ll fly again.”

“You’re so sure they’ll grant us passage?” she asked as they toured the camp, Vaelin keen to be seen by as many of the men as possible. “My father was the only Realm subject allowed to walk there, and even then he was permitted no weapon or escort.”

He just nodded and moved on, his gaze drawn to the sight of two men sparring with wooden swords amidst a circle of onlookers. The taller of the two batted his opponent’s stave aside and swept his legs from under him in a smoothly executed combination of strokes. The tall man helped the defeated recruit to his feet, spreading his arms wide with a broad grin. He was a well-built fellow with long hair, tied back and reaching down to the middle of his bare back, his skin slick with sweat, toned muscle shining. “Number four! Who’s next?”

Despite his evident skill he was young, barely twenty by Vaelin’s reckoning, with the confident swagger of youth. “Cowards!” he berated the audience with a laugh when none stepped forward. “Come on! Three silvers for the man who can best me!” He laughed again then sobered as he caught sight of Vaelin in the crowd. His grin flickered for just an instant, his gaze narrowing as the blood-song told Vaelin an unwelcome truth.

“How about you, my lord?” the young man called, holding up his wooden stave in a salute. “Care to honour a simple shipwright with some gentle sparring?”

“Another time,” Vaelin said, turning away.

“Come come, my lord,” the young man called again, a slight edge to his voice. “You wouldn’t want these good men to think you afraid. Many already wonder why you wear no sword.”

One of the North Guard in the crowd stepped forward to rebuke the man but Vaelin waved him back. “What’s your name, sir?” he asked the young man, stepping into the circle and taking off his cloak.

“Davern, my lord,” the man replied with a bow.

“Shipwright eh?” Vaelin handed his cloak to Dahrena and stooped to retrieve the wooden sword from the earth. “Skills like yours don’t come from swinging an adze.”

“All men should have interests beyond their work, don’t you think?”

“Indeed.” Vaelin stood before him, meeting his eyes. Davern hid it well, but Vaelin saw it-deep, festering hatred.

Davern blinked and Vaelin’s stave came up, feinted towards his head, avoided the parry, sweeping under his guard to place a single hard jab in the centre of his chest. Davern back-pedalled, arms windmilling as he sought to retain his balance before collapsing heavily onto his rump, much to the amusement of the crowd. There was a jingle of coin amongst the laughter as men settled bets.

“Don’t look at a man’s eyes,” Vaelin told Davern, offering his hand. “The first lesson my master taught me.”

Davern ignored the hand, scrambling to his feet, all sign of joviality vanished from his face. “Let’s go again. Perhaps I’ll teach you one.”

“I don’t think so.” Vaelin tossed the stave to the North Guard. “Make this man a sergeant. Have him teach the sword to his brothers.”

“The offer is always open, my lord!” Davern called after him as he retrieved his cloak from Dahrena and walked on.

“Have a care around that one,” she cautioned. “I think he means you harm.”

“Not without cause,” Vaelin replied in a murmur.

He found Alornis outside his tent on returning from his daily tour. He had chosen to live amongst the men, setting up a tent on the fringes of the encampment. His sister’s brush was busy on the canvas propped on her easel. She had made it herself with tools borrowed from the tower’s carpenter, an ingenious contrivance of three hinged legs, easily folded into a single block less than a yard in length. She had become a common sight about the camp, bag of brushes over her shoulder and easel under her arm as she moved about, stopping to paint when something caught her eye. Her latest was a rendering of the whole camp, each tent and paddock depicted with the precision Vaelin still found unnerving. “How do you do it?” he wondered, looking over her shoulder.

“The same way you do what you do.” As he sank onto a nearby stool, she turned, dipping a cloth into some spirit and cleaning her brush. “When do we march?”

We? He raised his eyebrows at her but chose to ignore the word. They had argued enough over this already. “Another week. Maybe longer.”

“Through the forest and into the Realm. I assume you have a plan for when we get there.”

“Yes. I intend to defeat the Volarians then come home.”

“Home? That’s how you think of this place?”

“Don’t you?” He looked beyond the camp at the town and the tower rising beyond, framed by the dark northern sea. “I’ve felt it since we got here.”

“I do like this place,” Alornis replied. “I wasn’t expecting to find it so interesting, so many colours. But it’s not my home, my home is a house in Varinshold. And if Lady Dahrena has it right, it’s now most likely a burnt-out shell.” She looked away for a moment, eyes tight against fear-born tears. When she spoke again her gaze was hard, the words repeated several times over the preceding days. “I will not be left behind. Tie me up, lock me in a dungeon. I’ll find a way to follow.”

“Why?” he asked. “What do you think you’ll find there, besides danger, death and suffering? It will be war, Alornis. Your eyes may find beauty in everything you see but there’s none to be found in war, and I would spare you the sight of it.”

“Alucius,” she said. “Master Benril . . . Reva. I need to know.”

Reva . . . His thoughts had turned to her many times, his song surging at every instance, the note one he knew well, the same note from the night assassins came for Aspect Elera, the note that had impelled him through the Martishe in pursuit of Black Arrow, and through the High Keep in search of Hentes Mustor, implacable in its meaning. Find her. He had resisted the impulse to sing, seek her out, fearing becoming trapped in the vision once again, this time for good.

“As do I,” he said. “Present yourself to Brother Kehlan in the morning, I’m sure he’ll be glad of another pair of hands.”

She smiled, coming closer to press a kiss to his forehead. “Thank you, brother.”

He held a council of captains every evening, reviewing progress in training and recruitment. Seven days on and their numbers had swollen to well over twelve thousand men, though only half could be counted as soldiers.

“We’ll have to train on the march,” Vaelin said as Adal pleaded for a month’s delay. “Every day spent here costs lives in the Realm. Brother Hollun reports the full complement of weapons and clothing will be ready in just five more days. It seems an enterprising merchant kept a warehouse full of halberds and mail as a speculative investment. When every man is armed and armoured, we march.”

He dismissed them shortly afterwards, Dahrena waiting with a bundle of papers in her arms.

“Petitions?” he asked.

She gave an apologetic smile. “More every day.”

“I’ll happily defer to your judgement if you’ll set aside those requiring my signature.”

“These are those requiring your signature.”

He groaned as she placed the bundle on the map table. “Did your father really do all this himself?”

“He would read every petition personally. When his eyes started to fail him he’d have me read them aloud.” Her fingers played on the papers. “I . . . could do the same for you.”

He sighed and met her gaze. “I can’t read, my lady. As I assume you deduced at our first meeting.”

“I do not seek to criticise. Only to help.”

He reached out and took the topmost scroll, unfurling it to reveal the jumble of symbols on the page. “Mother tried to teach me, but I was always such a restless child, unable to sit in a chair for more than a few moments, even then only if there was food on offer. When she did force me to try I just couldn’t make sense of the letters. What she saw as poetry or history was a meaningless scrawl to me, the letters seeming to jump about on the page. She kept at it for a while, until eventually I could write my name, then the sickness took her, and the Order took me. Little need for letters in the Order.”

“I have read of others with similar difficulty,” Dahrena said. “I believe it can be overcome, with sufficient effort. I should be glad to help.”

He was tempted to refuse, he had little time for lessons after all, but the sincerity in her voice gave him pause. I have won her regard, he realised. What does she see? An echo of her father? Her fallen Seordah husband? But she doesn’t see it all. His gaze was drawn to the canvas bundle in the corner of the tent, still unwrapped despite all the woeful tidings. Every time his fingers touched the string he found his reluctance surging anew. She has yet to see me kill.

“Perhaps for an hour a night,” he said. “You could tutor me. A welcome diversion after the day’s march.”

She smiled and nodded, taking the scroll from him. “‘The Honourable Guild of Weavers,’” she read. “‘Begs to inform the Tower Lord of the scandalous prices being charged by crofters on the western shore to maintain the supply of wool . . .’”

An encampment at night was always the same, regardless of the army or the war. Be it desert, forest or mountainside, the sights, smells and sounds never altered. Music rose from amongst the canvas city, for every army had its quota of musicians, and voices lifted in laughter or anger as men came together to gamble. Here and there the quieter knots of close friends clustered to talk of home and missed loved ones. Vaelin felt a certain comfort in the familiarity of it all, a reassurance. They become an army, he decided, walking alone along the fringes of the camp, beyond the glow of the many fires. Will they fight as one?

He halted after a few moments, turning to regard the saw-toothed outline of the tree-line a short distance away. Skilled with a blade, but not so light on his feet, he thought as the blood-song’s note of warning began to rise. “Do you have something to discuss with me, Master Davern?” he called into the shadows.

There was a pause then a muffled curse, Davern the shipwright appearing out of the gloom a moment later. He wore his sword at his side, hand tight on the handle. Vaelin could see a faint sheen of sweat on his upper lip, however his voice was even as he spoke. “I see you continue to go about unarmed, my lord.”

Vaelin ignored the comment. “Have you rehearsed this moment?”

Davern’s composure suffered a visible jolt. “I do not understand . . .”

“You intend to tell me your father was a good man. That when I killed him I shattered your mother’s life. How is she, by the way?”

Davern’s mouth twitched as he fought down a snarl. The moment stretched, Vaelin sensing the man’s desire to abandon pretence. “She burned with hatred for you until the day she died,” the shipwright said finally. “Gave herself to the sea when I was twelve years old.”

The memory returned in a rush of unwelcome sensation. The rain, beating down in chilled sheets, the sand streaked with blood, a dying man’s whisper, “My wife . . .”

“I didn’t know that,” he told Davern. “I’m sorry . . .”

“I do not come for your apology!” The young man took a step forward, his snarl unleashed.

“Then what do you come for?” Vaelin asked. “My blood to wash away all the grief? Remake those shattered lives? Do you really imagine that’s what you’ll earn here, rather than just the noose?”

“I come for justice . . .” Davern advanced further, placing his free hand on the scabbard, ready to draw, halting as Vaelin voiced a laugh.

“Justice?” he said as the mirth faded. “I looked for justice once, from a scheming old man. He gave it to me, and all I had to give him was my soul. All that I did for you and your mother. Didn’t Erlin tell you?”

“Mother said he lied.” There was a faint note of uncertainty in Davern’s tone, but his snarl remained in place, the note of warning taking on a deeper pitch. A lifetime’s hatred can’t be dispelled with a few words.

“Erlin sought to soften her anger, with lies,” Davern went on. “To deflect me from my cause, and my cause is just.”

“Then you should kill me now and have done.” Vaelin spread his hands. “Your cause being just.”

“Where is your sword?” Davern demanded. “Fetch your sword and we’ll settle this.”

“My sword isn’t for the likes of you.”

“Curse you! Fetch your sw-”

There came a faint snapping sound from the tree-line, no louder than a breaking twig.

Vaelin charged Davern, catching him about the waist, his sword half-free of the scabbard as they tumbled to the earth. The air made a groaning sigh a foot above their heads.

Davern thrashed, kicking out as Vaelin rolled away. More snaps from the tree-line. “Roll to the right!” he barked at the shipwright, jerking himself to the left as at least ten arrows thudded into the earth about them.

“What?” Davern shouted in confusion, stumbling to his feet.

“Down!” Vaelin commanded in a fierce hiss. “We are attacked.”

Another snap and Davern threw himself flat, the arrow a black streak against the dim sky.

Not him, Vaelin realised, eyes fixed on the infinite void of the trees. The song’s warning wasn’t for him.

“Run for the camp,” Vaelin told Davern, removing his cloak. “Raise the alarm.”

“I . . .” Davern looked about wildly, still hugging the ground. “Who?”

“Longbowmen, if I’m any judge.” Vaelin tossed his cloak into the air, seeing it dance as the shafts tore through it. “Run for the camp!”

He surged to his feet and ran towards the trees, counting to three then dropping as another volley whistled overhead, rising and charging again, weaving from side to side until the first of them came in sight, a hooded figure rising from the long grass no more than ten feet away, bow half-drawn. Vaelin darted towards him, dropping and rolling, the arrow missing by inches. He surged to his feet, delivering an open-handed blow to the archer’s chin, felling him instantly. Another charged from the left, bow abandoned for a long-bladed knife. Vaelin snatched up the fallen man’s bow and brought it round in a wide arc, the stave connecting with the attacker’s head as he closed. The man stumbled back, slashing wildly. Vaelin stood, remaining still for a heartbeat then diving to the side as an arrow flew past to bury itself in the stumbling man’s chest.

Another archer rose before him as he ran to the right, bow fully drawn. Fifteen feet, Vaelin judged. Too far and too close. A shadow appeared behind the archer, a silver flash of metal cutting him down with a single stroke. Davern turned from the corpse as a hooded figure came for him, raising a crescent-bladed axe. Davern ducked the blow and slashed at the man’s side but he was clearly no amateur and blocked the stroke with the haft of his axe, catching the shipwright with a backhanded blow that sent him sprawling.

Too far, Vaelin thought again, sprinting towards the hooded figure as he raised his axe for the killing blow.

Something inhuman growled in the darkness, a great shadow flicking across Vaelin’s path and the man with the hatchet was gone. Hooves drummed the earth and a rider came from the shadows, the long staff in his hand whirling as he sent another hooded figure senseless to the earth. More growls, yells of terror and running feet . . . then screams, mercifully short, five of them, one after the other.

“Brother,” Nortah said, reining in beside him, eyes wide with concern and blond hair trailing in the wind. “Lohren had a dream.”

Davern was emerging from the healing tent when Vaelin arrived the next morning, a large bandage covering his nose and a spectacular bruise colouring the surrounding flesh.

“Broken then?” Vaelin asked.

Davern glowered at him and gave no response.

“I owe you thanks,” Vaelin went on. “Or did you save me so you could kill me later?”

“Dis changesh noddin,” Davern stated.

“Pardon?”

Davern flushed, licked his lips and tried again with slow deliberation. “Thish changes nothing.”

“Ah.” Vaelin nodded and moved past him. “Good to know. You have men to train, Sergeant.”

Inside he found his sister applying a poultice to the face of a well-built man with a shock of black hair and a bruise on his jaw that made Davern’s seem positively dull. He sat on a stool, flanked by Captain Adal and one of his North Guard, wrists and ankles constrained by shackles, the chains jangling as he twisted towards Vaelin, face full of hate, spittle coming from his mouth as he tried to voice his threats. Alornis took a backward step, wincing from the fury on display.

“His jaw’s broken,” Brother Kehlan said from the other side of the tent where he was grinding herbs in a pestle. “Who knew the teacher had such a strong arm?”

“I did.” Vaelin moved to Alornis’s side, touching her arm in reassurance. “You frighten my sister, sir,” he told the shackled man.

The man grunted something at him, spouting more spittle, a bead of it finding Vaelin’s face. “Quiet!” Adal barked, cuffing the man on the back of the head.

“Enough of that!” Kehlan said. “I’ll have no torture in this tent.”

“Torture, brother?” Adal scoffed, then leaned down to whisper in the shackled man’s ear. “I think I’ll wait for him to heal first. Wouldn’t want it over too soon.”

“Secure him to the main post and leave us,” Vaelin said. Adal gave a reluctant nod and did as he was bade, roping the man to the post and leaving with his comrade. “And you, brother,” Vaelin told Kehlan.

“I said no torture,” the old brother insisted.

“Come along, brother.” Alornis went to his side and tugged him towards the tent flap. “His Lordship is above such things.” She raised a questioning eyebrow at Vaelin. He nodded back and she gave a grim smile before leaving.

“You’re the only one to survive,” Vaelin told the shackled man, placing the stool before him and sitting down. “The fellow I hit would probably have lived also, but my brother’s war-cat is not always easily restrained.”

The man just maintained his baleful glare. Some fear, mostly hate, Vaelin surmised from the song.

“Ten Cumbraelins arrive on a ship three weeks ago,” he said. “Hunters by trade, hence their bows. Come to the Reaches in search of bear, the furs and the claws fetch a high price and they’re increasingly scarce in the Realm. It was a good story.”

Same fear, same hate, a little grim amusement.

“So,” Vaelin went on. “Gold or god?”

More fear mingling with uncertainty. The man’s brows furrowed, his emotions a jumble for a second then settling on a sense of contempt.

“God then,” Vaelin concluded. “Servants of the World Father come north for the glory of killing the Darkblade.”

The confusion deepening, fear building . . . and something more, an echo . . . no, a scent, faint but acrid, foul and familiar, buried deep in this man’s memory, so deep he doesn’t even know it’s there.

“Where is he?” Vaelin demanded, moving closer, staring into the archer’s eyes. “Where is the witch’s bastard?”

Bafflement, more contempt. He thinks me mad, but also . . . suspicion, an unwelcome memory.

“A man who is not a man,” Vaelin went on, voice soft. “Something that wears other men like masks. I can smell him on you.”

A surge of fear mixed with recognition.

“You know him. You’ve seen him. What is he now? An archer like you?”

Fear only.

“A soldier?”

Fear only.

“A priest?”

Terror, swelling like oil poured on flame . . . A priest then . . . No, no note of recognition. Not a priest. But he knows a priest, he answers to a priest.

“Your priest sent you here. You must have known he was sending you to your death. You and your brothers.”

Anger, coloured by acceptance. They knew.

Vaelin sighed, getting to his feet. “I’m not overly familiar with the Ten Books, as you might imagine. But I do have a friend who could recite them at length. Let’s see if I have it right.” He closed his eyes, trying to remember one of Reva’s many quotations. “‘Of the Dark there can be no toleration amongst the loved. A man cannot know the Father and know the Dark. In knowing the Dark he forsakes his soul.’”

He stared down at the bound man, sensing what he had hoped to sense. Shame.

“You looked into his eyes and saw a stranger,” he said. “What was he before?”

The man looked away, eyes dulling, his emotions quieter now. Shame and acceptance. He grunted, head bobbing as he forced sound through his crippled mouth, spittle flying as he repeated the same garbled word, unknowable at first but gaining meaning with repetition. “Lord.”

“Put him on a barge to the settlements on the northern coast,” Vaelin told Adal outside. “He’s to be taken far into the forest and released with his bow and a quiver of arrows.”

“What for?” Adal said in bafflement.

Vaelin moved off towards his tent. “He’s a hunter. Perhaps he’ll find a bear.”

Nortah was waiting with Snowdance and Alornis when he got to the tent, the great cat’s purr a contented rumble as she ran a hand over the thick fur on her belly. “She’s so beautiful.”

“Yes,” Nortah agreed. “Pity there are no boy cats for her to make beautiful babies with.”

“There must be, somewhere,” Alornis said. “Her kind would have been bred from a wild ancestor.”

“In which case they’ll be far beyond the ice,” Vaelin said, accepting the cup of water Nortah passed him.

“Did he tell you anything?” his brother asked.

“More than he wanted to, less than I would have liked.” He glanced at the pack Nortah had brought, noting the sword propped against it.

“Lady Dahrena’s gift,” Nortah explained. “One I asked for. A man should have a weapon if he’s to ride to war.”

“War is no longer your province, brother. I sent no recruiters to Nehrin’s Point for a reason. You belong with your family.”

“My wife believes my family will only be safe if we lend our aid to your cause.”

“We?”

“Come.” Nortah clapped him on the shoulder. “There are some people you should meet.”

He led Vaelin to where four people waited on the outskirts of the camp, one of whom Vaelin already knew. Weaver stood staring at the ground, his usually bland but affable expression replaced by one of deep discontent, his hands constantly twitching at his sides. “Why did you bring him?” Vaelin asked Nortah. “He’s not made for this.”

“I didn’t bring him. He just came, deaf to all entreaties to go home. He’d like some flax, or twine. Anything he can weave really.”

“I’ll see to it.”

“This is Cara,” Nortah introduced the slight girl at Weaver’s side. She was perhaps sixteen with wide dark eyes, stirring a memory of a little girl peering out from behind her father’s cloak at the fallen city.

“My lord,” the girl said in a small voice, eyes continually darting about the camp. Despite her timidity, the blood-song’s greeting was strong. Whatever her gift, Vaelin decided, it has power.

“And Lorkan.” Nortah’s voice held a note of reluctance as he gestured at the young man standing nearby. He was a few years older than the girl and also slim of stature, but had none of her reticence.

“A considerable honour, my lord!” He greeted Vaelin with a deep bow and a bright smile. “Never would I have thought such a lowly soul as I could count himself a comrade to the great Vaelin Al Sorna. Why, my dearest mother would weep with pride . . .”

“All right,” Nortah said, cutting him off. “Talks too much but he has his uses.”

He moved on to the final member of the group, and the most imposing, a large, bearlike man with an extensive beard and a mass of grey-black hair.

“Marken, my lord,” the big man introduced himself in a Nilsaelin accent.

“He may be able to help,” Nortah said. “With your want of intelligence.”

The bodies had been placed in a tent on the edge of camp, the few valuables they possessed handed out as payment to the soldiers who would do the grim work of burying them in accordance with Cumbraelin custom. Marken moved to the closest one, a stocky man, as archers often were, his final grimace of terror frozen and incomplete, half his face having been torn away by the war-cat’s claws. Marken seemed untroubled by the gory sight, kneeling and touching his palm to the corpse’s forehead, eyes closed for a second, then shaking his head. “All a jumble. This one was half-mad long before Snowdance got to him.”

He moved on, touching a hand to each corpse in turn, pausing at the fourth, judging by the lines on his face the eldest of the group. “Better,” he said. “All a bit red and cloudy, but sane, after a fashion.” He looked up at Vaelin. “Does my lord have a particular point of interest? It’ll make things easier.”

“A priest,” Vaelin said. “And a lord.”

Marken nodded, placing both hands on the dead man’s head, eyes closed. He remained in the same position for several moments, unmoving, breathing soft, face placid beneath the beard. After a while Vaelin wondered if he was still present in his own body or, like Dahrena, able to fly beyond himself, except he burrowed into the mind of a corpse rather than soaring above the earth.

Eventually the big man opened his eyes with a pained grunt, moving back from the corpse, a sense of accusation in the gaze he turned on Vaelin. “My lord could’ve warned me of the nature of the thing I sought.”

“My apologies,” Vaelin replied. “Does that mean you found it?”

“The hair’s a little thicker on the sides of his head,” Marken told Alornis, pointing at her sketch. “And his mouth is not so wide.”

Alornis’s charcoal stub added a few fluid strokes to the image, wetting her finger to smudge some lines. “Like this?”

“Yes.” Marken’s beard split to reveal a brace of white teeth. “My lady is the gifted one here.”

“That’s him?” Vaelin asked as Alornis handed him the sketch. It showed a broad-faced man, balding, bearded, eyes narrow. He wondered if Alornis had indulged in Master Benril’s liking for artistic licence in adding a cruel twist to the mouth.

“As close a resemblance as memory allows, my lord,” Marken said. “That’s the face of the thing’s mask all right.”

“You felt it? When you saw it in the dead man’s memory?”

“I saw it, behind the mask. We always see more than we know, but it lingers.” He tapped a stubby finger to the side of his head. “Especially when we see something we don’t really understand.”

“You have a name for this face?”

Marken’s beard ruffled in an apologetic grimace. “My gift is limited to what they see, my lord. What they hear is beyond my reach.”

Vaelin placed the sketch next to the one Alornis had already completed, showing a younger man of handsome aspect, though his sister had opined his nose and chin were a little too sharp. “And this is the priest?”

“Can’t say for sure, but he’s the one the dead man and the others deferred to. His most vivid memory, besides Snowdance bearing down on him, was of this man talking. They were on a dock somewhere, about to board ship.”

Vaelin stared at both sketches for a long time, hoping for a note from the song, hearing nothing.

“Shall I show master Marken to the meal tent?” Alornis said, breaking his concentration.

“Yes, of course.” Vaelin offered a smile of gratitude to Marken. “My thanks sir.”

“We are here to help, my lord.” The big man got to his feet with a groan, rubbing his back. “Though I wish this war had come a few years earlier.”

He found Nortah at the butts they had arrayed along the riverbank. He had brought his own bow, an Eorhil weapon similar to their old Order strongbows. It seemed his skill had actually increased since their service, the shafts flying towards the target with unerring speed and precision, the other archers pausing to watch the spectacle.

“You’ve drawn an audience,” Vaelin observed.

Nortah glanced at the onlookers and sent his last arrow into the centre of the butt. “A small one. You don’t have many archers in this little army.”

“Mostly hunters and a few veteran Realm Guard from the settlements,” Vaelin acceded. “How would you like to be their captain? Perhaps pick out some likely extra hands from the recruits.”

“As my lord commands.”

“I don’t command anything from you, brother. In fact I’m sorely tempted to send you home.”

Nortah’s expression became sombre, upending his bow and resting his hands on the tip. “It wasn’t only Lohren who had a dream, brother. She just dreamt of you fighting many men with bows. She thought it so exciting. Sella . . . Sella dreamt she watched us die. Me, Lohren and Artis, and the twins yet to be born. All of us, taken, tortured and slaughtered before her eyes, as Nehrin’s Point burned. If you had heard her screams, you would know why she sent me and why I came, though I relish no part of what we are about to do.”

“Can you . . .” Vaelin hesitated then made himself say it. “Do you think you’ll still be able to kill?”

Nortah raised an eyebrow and for an instant the bearded teacher disappeared, replaced by the caustic youth with the bitter tongue. “Do you? I have a shiny new sword. Yours seems to be wrapped up and hidden from the world.”

Maybe I’m worried unsheathing it will loose something worse than an invading army. He left the thought unsaid and changed the subject. “These companions of yours. I know Weaver’s power, and I’ve seen what Marken can do. What of the other two?”

“Cara can call the rains, though you’ll want to think long and hard before asking her to do so. The effect is . . . dramatic, but the consequences unpredictable.”

“And the boy?”

“Lorkan can’t be seen.”

Vaelin frowned. “I can see him.”

Nortah just smiled. “It’s . . . difficult to explain. No doubt, before this is over there’ll be plenty of opportunity for a demonstration.”

“No doubt.” Vaelin reached out to clasp his brother’s hand, finding the grip strong, and warm. “I’m glad you’re here, brother. Be quick about picking your men. Tomorrow we march for the Realm.”