Tower Lord

CHAPTER FIVE

Reva

“The entire Realm Guard?” Uncle Sentes asked.

The cavalryman nodded, the brandy glass in his hand trembling. It was his third measure but seemed to have done little to calm his nerves. “Save those regiments not quartered on the coast or borders, my lord. Forty thousand men or more.”

Reva watched her uncle slump in his chair. Apart from Lady Veliss and the cavalryman, they were alone in the Lord’s chamber.

“How is this possible?” Veliss asked the man.

“They were so many, my lady. And the knights . . .” He shook his head, trailing off and choking down more brandy before continuing. “Smashed into our flank and cut down two full regiments before we knew what was happening. By then the Volarians were coming on in full strength.”

Uncle Sentes continued to sit silently in his chair and Lady Veliss seemed unable to formulate another question, tracing a less-than-steady hand over her forehead.

“Let me see if I have this right,” Reva said as the silence stretched. “The Realm Guard was two days out from Varinshold when word came of invasion. Correct?”

The cavalryman nodded.

“The Battle Lord turns you all around, a day later you’re drawn up against the Volarians then Fief Lord Darnel appears on the horizon with his knights.”

“We thought he’d come to aid us. Though the Departed know how he could’ve gotten there so quickly.”

“You are saying,” Veliss put in, “that Fief Lord Darnel is a traitor? That he led his men against the King’s host?”

“I am, my lady. And as for the King, I met some refugees from Varinshold on the road. Word is the King’s dead.”

Silence reigned and Reva wondered at her lack of exultation. The King of the Heretic Dominion lies slain and all I feel is dread.

“There were no survivors?” Veliss pressed. “The Battle Lord?”

“Last seen charging the Volarian line, alone,” the cavalryman replied. “As for survivors, Lord Marshal Caenis had rallied the Wolfrunners and a few other regiments for a rear guard, but they were sorely pressed last I saw. My own Lord Marshal sent me and four others to bring news to you here, I was the only one to make it.”

“Thank you,” Uncle Sentes said in a faint tone. “Please leave us to consider your tidings. Quarters will be provided.”

The cavalryman nodded, rising to his feet, then hesitating. “You should know, my lord. The tales I heard on the road leave little doubt as to the nature of our enemy. These Volarians do not come just for conquest, but for slaves and blood. They cannot be treated with.”

Lady Veliss gestured at the door with a polite smile, leading the man from the chamber. “Lord Darnel seems to have found grounds for treaty,” she commented when the door closed.

“Darnel is a self-glorying fool,” the Fief Lord replied with little emotion. “Though I never thought his vain ambition would lead him to this. One wonders what they promised him.”

“I told the guard captain on the gate to send scouts north,” Reva said. “If they come, we should have warning.”

“I seriously doubt it’s a question of ‘if.’” He turned to Veliss who stood with a hand covering her mouth, eyes distant. “No counsel for me, my most trusted advisor?”

Veliss swallowed and glanced at Reva.

“My heir should hear your wise and honest guidance, don’t you think?” he told her.

“Five pounds of gold lie waiting in the basement of this manse,” Veliss said. “Swift horses in the stables and a well-attended port an hour’s ride south.”

Reva found herself on her feet, advancing towards the woman with fists clenched.

“He desires honest counsel,” Veliss protested, backing away.

“Reva!” Uncle Sentes barked as she reached for the Asraelin woman. “Leave her be!”

“Just a whore after all,” Reva said, glowering at Veliss but stepping back.

“In recognition for your good and faithful service to this fief,” Sentes told Veliss, “you may take one of those pounds of gold, and a swift horse of your choosing, and depart with no recrimination.”

A flush of anger marred Veliss’s face. “You know I won’t do that.”

“But you would have me do it?”

“I would have you live. You heard what the soldier said. If the Realm Guard can’t oppose them, what chance have we?”

Uncle Sentes rose from his chair and went to the long window at the rear of the chamber, looking out at the grounds and the rooftops jutting above the manor wall. “Did you know this city has never been taken? My grandfather held it against Janus’s father for a whole summer. Eventually, the besiegers grew more starved and diseased than the besieged and they went back to Asrael, leaving half their army behind. Janus, always wiser than his father, never even tried to take this city, he knew all he had to do was keep ravaging the fief.”

“What’s to stop the Volarians doing the same?” Veliss asked.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Uncle Sentes turned back from the window, smiling at Reva. “You, my wonderful niece, are also free to take . . .”

“What do you intend, Uncle?” she broke in before he could finish.

An unfamiliar expression came to his face as he looked at her, an odd smile of contentment on his wine-red lips. Pride, Reva realised after a second. He finds pride in me.

“When I first went to enjoy the hospitality of King Janus’s court,” the Fief Lord said after a moment, “before I developed my appreciation for wine, and other pleasures, I had a liking for games. Especially cards. They have a complex game in Asrael called Warrior’s Bluff, where victory depends largely on how you bet. Stake too much and your opponents know you have the better hand, too little and they see your bluff. I must have played a thousand games, becoming rather rich in the process I must say. Eventually it was difficult to find others willing to play against me and I found other distractions.”

“So,” Veliss said. “How much do you intend to stake now?”

“Warrior’s Bluff gets its name from one particular hand, the Lord of Blades and the five other cards in the martial suit. Even if every other player holds cards with grater value, if you hold the Warrior’s Bluff, the game is yours.” He moved to Veliss and embraced her, Reva seeing how her fists bunched in his tunic, the knuckles white. Uncle Sentes drew back and kissed her softly on the cheek. “I intend to stake it all, my lady, for I suspect the Lord of Blades sits high in our deck.”

The commander of Alltor’s City Guard stood tall and straight, breastplate gleaming, his grey whiskers neatly groomed. Behind him the six hundred men of the guard stood in ranks, all similarly polished and straight-backed. Beside them stood the four hundred some men who made up the Fief Lord’s House Guard, all at least six feet tall as tradition dictated. A thousand men to hold a city, Reva thought as her uncle stepped onto the back of a cart. It won’t be enough. As many times as she had fought, she had never seen battle so had no experience to support the gloomy conclusion, but the cavalryman’s tale had left little room for optimism.

The muster had been called less than an hour before, convened on the gravelled parade ground next to the barracks. Rumours were already flying: the cavalryman’s appearance at the gate had been well marked, so many of these men would no doubt suspect trouble was brewing, yet every face betrayed only the stoic discipline of the long-serving soldier. The wind was stiff, stirring dust and setting cloaks and banners aflutter, her uncle obliged to shout to make himself heard.

“War comes to us,” he called. “Unsought and unjust, brought to our shores by the foulest race this world has yet to birth. I do not beg your loyalty, I do not seek to persuade. I tell you simply you must stand here and fight what comes or face death if you are fortunate and slavery if you are not. Our enemy brings no other gifts. I give you all this day as your own. Go home, be with your families, look into the face of your wife and imagine her raped, look on your children and see them as corpses. Look at this city and see it as a burnt and wasted shell. Then, come the morning, decide if you will stand with me and my valiant niece, as we defend this city.”

He turned to step down from the cart, pausing in surprise as voices were raised in the ranks, a few at first but soon building until a great cheer ascended from every soldier present, fists and swords raised to punch the air. Reva scanned the chanting faces in the ranks, seeing mostly fear and sweat, but also something more. Not courage. Desperation, or is it hope? They find hope in a drunkard’s words.

The commander of the City Guard strode forward as the Fief Lord stepped down from the cart, saluting smartly.

“Lord Arentes?” her uncle asked.

“I know I speak for my men, my lord,” the man said in formal tones, his back just as straight as before. “We need no day for reflection. The defence of this city requires every hour at hand.”

“As you wish. No doubt you will have requests to make in due course.” He extended a hand to Reva. “The Lady Reva will stay at your side throughout the preparations, any requests will be made through her.”

The old guardsman gave Reva the briefest glance of examination, too quick to judge his reaction, but she heard a certain tightness to his tone when he replied to her uncle. “As my lord wishes.”

Uncle Sentes leaned close to kiss her cheek, whispering, “Keep an eye on the old buzzard for me.”

“I’d like Arken to assist me,” she said as he drew back.

“I’ll send him along.” He went to his carriage, leaving her with the Lord Commander.

“I thought I might tour the walls, my lady,” he said. “If you would care to join me.”

The walls were fashioned from great blocks of granite, each taller than she was, held in place by virtue of their sheer weight. “Stood unbroken for four hundred years, my lady,” Lord Commander Arentes said in answer to her query. “Some cracks showing in the lower stones, but I’ll still stake the city on their strength.”

Reva recalled one of the stories about Al Sorna’s exploits during the desert war. The details were vague, and Al Sorna himself had simply ignored or waved away any question she voiced about those days, but it had something to do with the Alpirans sending great engines against the city he had seized.

“Aren’t there engines?” she asked. “Devices capable of bringing down walls like these.”

Arentes gave an indulgent chuckle as they strode along the battlements where his men were busy stacking weapons. “Not like these, I assure you. A castle may fall to siege engines, given enough time, but the walls of Alltor have stood against the greatest such devices Asraelin cunning could devise. No, the battle will be won here.” He slapped a hand on one of the crenellations forming the battlements. “To take this city they’ll have to climb these walls, and when they do . . .” He sniffed, narrowing his gaze. “Well, they’ll find they’re not facing Asraelins now.”

“I’m Asraelin,” Arken said. “And I believe there are about two hundred others who make their home here.”

“Then, young man, I fervently hope they fight for it better than the Realm Guard fought for their fief.”

Arken drew breath for a retort but Reva motioned him to silence. “The Volarian army is said to be huge,” she said. “But we have barely a thousand men.”

“Yes,” Arentes admitted with a sigh. “I would ask that your Lord uncle call every man of fighting age to assist in the defence. Plus all those we can gather from the wider fief whilst time allows.”

“What of their families? Do we bring them here too?”

“Hardly. Sieges are not just won with battle, but also hunger. The fewer mouths to feed within these walls the better.”

“So we just leave them out there to face slavery and death, whilst their men fight for us?”

“This is war, Lady Reva. And Cumbraelins know well how to bear the cost of war.”

“You won’t be bearing it,” Arken pointed out. “You’ll be safe behind these unbreachable walls of yours.”

Arentes stiffened. “My lady, I doubt His Lordship permits you to keep this Asraelin commoner at your side so he can offer insults to his betters.”

This man is a pompous fool, Reva decided. She inclined her head, smiling. “My apologies, my lord. Shall we complete the tour?”

By nightfall Lady Veliss had added over three thousand men to the rolls, about half possessing longbows or sundry weaponry. Messengers were sent to all corners of the fief commanding men of fighting age to report to Alltor within three weeks. At Reva’s urging a paragraph had been added to the message offering sanctuary within the city walls for any who sought it. Veliss had protested, echoing the objections of Lord Arentes, but the Fief Lord overruled her. “If we can’t offer protection to our own people, what worth will they see in us?” he enquired, although Reva detected a certain calculation in his gaze as he spoke, making her wonder if her influence served a deeper purpose.

Every day parties of woodsmen brought freshly cut ash and willow back from the surrounding forests to be fashioned into arrows, the smiths working hard to churn out the thousands of arrowheads needed. Food was stockpiled and the warehouses in the merchants’ quarter were soon so full of grain the grounds of the manor were given over as extra storage space. A note from the Fief Lord to the Reader requesting use of the cathedral vaults for the same purpose received a terse response: “The Father’s House is not a shed.”

In fact the impending siege seemed to have had little effect on the Reader’s schedule. He and his bishops still made the daily procession through the square, though not so many were inclined to kneel, busied as they were by the myriad tasks allotted by Lady Veliss. The Reader’s services also continued uninterrupted, often to mostly empty pews, though some reported his sermons were more impassioned and compelling than usual.

“Doesn’t mention the war at all,” a House Guard told Reva as she and Arken helped him carry bushels of arrows up to the battlements. “Seems most fond of the Sixth Book these days.”

The Book of Sacrifice. “Any particular passage?” she asked.

“Oh, what was it last time?” The guard hefted a bushel onto the growing pile above the main gate. “The one about how Alltor’s children refused to leave him when the mob came for him.”

“‘The blades of the unloved shone bright beneath the moon,’” Reva quoted. “‘The blood of the martyred brighter still.’”

“That’s the one. Can’t claim to be that fussed about it all, but the wife insists we go. The last Reader though, now there was a man you could listen to all day. He really made the books sing.”

New recruits began arriving in large numbers towards the end of the first week. About a hundred a day at first, swelling to over four hundred within ten days, many with families in tow. Most of the older men carried longbows whilst the younger often bore swords or pole-axes handed down by their fathers, though many had no more than bill-hooks or any farm implement with an edged blade. A few brought no weapon at all and Uncle Sentes was obliged to empty the manse’s sword room to meet the need.

“This one I’ll keep, I think” he said, holding up his grandfather’s sword as the others were carried through the gates to be handed out. “Bag me a few Volarians with it, eh?” He made a few clumsy swings with the sword as Reva looked on.

“I’m sure I’ll bag enough for both of us, Uncle,” she said.

“Oh no.” His tone was emphatic. “You will stay by me and Lady Veliss for the duration of this siege.”

Reva gaped at him. “I will not . . .”

“You will, Reva!” It was the first time he had raised his voice to her and she found herself taking a backward step from the anger in his face. Seeing her alarm his expression softened. “I’m sorry.”

“I fight,” she said. “It’s what I do. It’s all I can do. All I can offer you and these people.”

“No. You offer more than that. You offer hope, hope that this fief will survive what comes to tear it down. And that hope cannot die. I have seen battle, Reva. It knows no favourites, it claims the strong and the weak, the skilful and the clumsy.” He extended a hand and she took it. “The old and the young. I need your word. You will stay by me and Lady Veliss.”

His grip was gentle, but insistent. “As you wish, Uncle.”

He squeezed her hand and turned back to the manor.

“The Lord of Blades,” she said. “You’re so sure he’ll come?”

“Aren’t you? You know him better than I.”

“The Reaches are many miles away, and who knows what lies between him and us. And all the people of this fief have ever offered him is fear and hatred. Why would he come?”

He put a hand around her shoulders as they walked through the gardens, rows of grain sacks ascending on both sides, the topiary animals all cut down days ago. “When the High Keep fell I found Al Sorna crouched over your father’s body, reciting one of their catechisms. For some reason he seemed genuinely upset. He also ordered the bodies of your father’s men given a proper burial under the Father’s gaze. Whatever hatred our people may level at him, I don’t think he returns it. He’ll come, I have no doubt of it. We’ll just have to ensure there’s something here for him to save when he does.”

She took to sparring with the House Guards most afternoons, two or three at a time assailing her with practice swords as she danced her dance, deflecting every blow and landing her own. None seemed to be affronted by defeat at the hands of a teenage girl, if anything they seemed heartened by her skill, a few even seeing something of the divine in it.

“The Father guides your sword, my lady,” the senior sergeant said after she had sent two more of his men stumbling into each other. His name was Laklin, a stocky veteran of battles against various outlaws and rebels, and a survivor of Greenwater Ford. He was also the first Cumbraelin she had met, besides the Reader, who came close to matching her knowledge of the ten books. “‘The Loved need not fear the tides of war or the swords of evil men, for the Father will allow them no defeat.’”

Nor suffer them to bring war to the Unloved, Reva completed the quotation, thinking it best left unsaid.

Her gaze was drawn to the edge of the parade ground where a new company of recruits were giving their names to a harassed-looking Lady Veliss. She was an oft-seen presence throughout the city, two assistants in tow burdened with numerous scrolls and ledgers as she signed permissions on behalf of the Fief Lord and kept records of men and supplies, all meticulously transcribed into a single leather-bound volume come the evening. More than once Reva had found her slumped across it in the library, snoring faintly. Reva noted the suspicion on her face as she took down the name of the man before her, an archer heading a company of some thirty men. Bren Antesh, Reva recalled. True to his word.

She bowed to the sergeant and excused herself, walking over to Veliss, finding her giving Antesh a hard stare. “No other names to give?” she asked with pointed deliberation.

Antesh seemed puzzled as he shook his head. “What other name would I have, my lady?”

“A few come to mind,” Veliss replied.

“Captain Antesh, is it not?” Reva said. “My uncle will be glad to see you kept your promise.”

The archer gave her a brief look of appraisal before offering a deep bow. “You must be Lady Reva.”

“I am. If Lady Veliss is done with you, I’ll show you to your place on the walls.”

Veliss took her arm and led her a short distance away. “Do not trust this man,” she stated in a low voice. “He is not who he claims to be.”

Reva frowned. “He comes in answer to his Fief Lord’s call, in accordance with a solemn promise. Those do not seem the actions of an untrustworthy man.”

“Just have a care around him, love.” Veliss’s voice lost much of its smoothed vowels as she reached out to clasp Reva’s hand. “You know much, but not enough. Not by half.”

The intensity in her gaze and voice provoked an unwelcome doubling of Reva’s heartbeat. “I know this man comes to fight for the people of this fief,” she said, disentangling her hand from the lady’s grip. “Him and thousands more. No sacks of gold or swift horses for them.”

“You know why I said that.”

“I know we have little time to indulge your suspicions. What place do you have for them?”

Veliss sighed and produced a letter from the bundle she carried, folded and sealed. “It seems your uncle anticipated the captain’s dutiful return. He’s to be made Lord Commander of Archers. He’ll choose his own place.”

“Lord Antesh,” the archer mused as Reva walked the walls with him. “My wife will be pleased, at least. Perhaps I’ll buy that pasture she’s been on about.”

“Your wife is not with you?” Reva asked.

“I sent her and the children to Nilsael. They’ll make their way to Frostport and, if this city should fall, on to the Northern Reaches where I have reason to believe they will be made welcome.”

“The Tower Lord owes you a debt, I know.”

“The Tower Lord will make them welcome because they are in need of shelter, for such is his nature. Any debt between us ended with the war.”

“My uncle is certain he’ll come to our aid.”

The archer gave a soft laugh. “Then I pity any Volarians left to face him.” He moved to the chest-high wall between the crenellations, eyes dark with calculation as he looked out at the causeway leading away from the main gate. “Easy to see why this place has never fallen. Only one very narrow line of march and all year round the surrounding waters remain too deep to ford.”

“Lord Commander Arentes is sure the issue will be decided at the walls.”

“You don’t sound convinced, my lady.”

“By all accounts, Varinshold fell in a single night. The greatest city in the Realm taken, the King slain and his host defeated in a few days. I know little of armies and wars, but such feats must require preparation, plans months or years in the making.”

There was some surprise in the look he gave her, but also a measure of relief. “Glad to see the Fief Lord has exercised sound judgement in choosing his heir, my lady. You reason the Volarians must have similarly-long-laid plans for us?”

“It’s not widely known, but an attempt was made on my uncle’s life the very night you came to petition him. Had the assassins succeeded, the fief would now be in turmoil and there would be no-one to organise the defence.”

“Must’ve been a clumsy bunch, these assassins, to have failed so.”

“Indeed they were.”

“If my lady is correct, then the Volarians’ plan has failed and they have little option but to lay siege.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps we’ve yet to see the whole of their design. Tell me, what do you know of the Sons of the Trueblade?”

His gaze clouded and he turned to the river. “Fanatical followers of your late father, or so I hear. They found little purchase in the southern counties, people are more pragmatic in their devotions there. You think they have a hand in this?”

“I know it.” She paused, watching him as he scanned the river from bank to bank, his archer’s eyes no doubt calculating ranges. “Why does Lady Veliss greet you with such suspicion?” she asked him.

“Not for any allegiance to the Sons, I assure you.” He glanced back at her, his eyebrows raising as he noticed the wych-elm bow she carried. “Father’s sight, my lady. Where did you find that?”

She hefted the bow and shrugged. “I bought it from a drunken shepherd.”

Antesh reached out a tentative hand. “May I?”

She handed the bow to him, frowning as his eyes roamed the stave, fingers playing over the carvings, a smile coming to his lips as he thrummed the string. “I thought them all lost.”

“You know this bow?” she asked.

“Only by reputation. I had occasion to draw one of its sisters as a child. Straightest shaft I ever loosed.” He shook his head and handed it back to her. “You really don’t know what this is?”

She could only shake her head. “The shepherd had some tall tale about an old war. I wasn’t really listening.”

“Well, there may have been some truth to the tale, for the five bows of Arren were all lost in war, the war that brought this fief into the Realm in fact. My lady, what you hold is a veritable legend of Cumbrael.”

Reva looked at the bow. She had often marvelled at the artistry of the carvings, and knew it as a weapon of considerable power, but a legend? She began to suspect she was the foil for some archer’s joke, a veteran’s prank on an impressionable recruit. “Really?” she said with a raised eyebrow.

Antesh, however betrayed no sign of humour in his reply, “Really.” A frown creased his brow and he straightened from the wall, his gaze more intense now, tracking her from head to toe. “Blood of the Mustors carrying a bow of Arren,” he said in a soft tone.

After a moment he blinked, abruptly turning away and hefting his own bow. “I should be about my lordly duties, my lady.”

“I should like to hear more,” she called after him as he strode away. “Who is this Arren?”

He just held up a hand in a polite wave and strode on.

The scouts returned the following day, two exhausted riders relating their tale to the Fief Lord and assembled captains in the Lord’s chamber. “The border lands are burning, my lord,” the older of the two said. “Everywhere people flock southwards, tales of slaughter and cruelty told by every soul we questioned. Rumours were wild and many, but it seems clear that the King is truly dead and Varinshold fallen along with most if not all Asrael.”

“Any news of Princess Lyrna?” the Fief Lord asked. “I had heard she was on some mad peace mission to the Lonak.”

The soldier shook his head. “It seems she returned the very day the Volarian fleet descended, my lord. They say the palace burned taking every Al Nieren with it.”

“Did you see any Realm Guard at all?” Lady Veliss asked.

“A few stragglers only, my lady. Wasted wild-eyed men, shorn of armour and weapons, fleeing south as fast as they could. We did find a motley company yesterday seemed to have some fight left in them, only a hundred men or so. We told them to make their way here.”

“The Volarians?” the Fief Lord asked. “You saw them?”

The man nodded. “The vanguard only, my lord. I reckon maybe ten miles south of the border as of six days ago. I estimate over three thousand horse and twice as many light infantry, moving south at a fair lick.”

“We now number some thirteen thousand, my lord,” Lord Arentes pointed out. “Giving us a temporary advantage.”

“Our trained men number no more than half that,” Antesh said. “And we’ve only a few hundred horse. We couldn’t hope to match them in open field.”

“And we shan’t,” Uncle Sentes stated firmly as Lord Arentes drew breath to speak again. “Thank you, good soldiers,” he said to the two scouts. “Get y’selves something to eat in the kitchens. Tell the cook I said to give you the red from the Malten Vale.”

“The vanguard,” Lady Veliss said after the soldiers had gone. “Perhaps a fifth of their army?”

“More like a tenth,” Antesh said. “Even if only half the tales from Asrael are true, the force needed to subdue the entire fief must be massive.”

“And they’ve no need to secure their northern flank thanks to Lord Darnel’s treachery,” Uncle Sentes said. “They’ll have to garrison the towns they’ve taken, allocate troops to mop up the countryside. But we shouldn’t delude ourselves. The force that comes will outnumber us greatly.” He turned to Antesh. “Which begs the question, do we have arrows for all of them?”

The archer gave a regretful grimace. “I estimate we need at least four times the number already stockpiled, my lord.”

“The fletchers are working to exhaustion as it is,” Lady Veliss said. “I’ve also drafted in every carpenter and woodworker in the city.”

“Draft more,” the Fief Lord said. “Every pair of idle hands not crafting arrows from now on will receive no rations until they do. Lord Arentes, send half your men to the forest and bring back every tree and sapling they can cut in the time that remains to us.”

“Not just wood, my lord,” Antesh said. “We need iron for the heads.”

“This city is awash in iron,” Uncle Sentes said. “I see it in every window, every railing and weather vane. Scour this manor and take all the pots, pans and ornaments you need, then scour the city.” He paused to draw breath, his cheeks suddenly pale.

“Uncle?” Reva said, moving to his side.

He grinned at her, patting the hands she laid on his arm. “Your uncle is old and tired, my wonderful niece.” He took her hands and climbed to his feet, Reva feeling the tremble in his grip. “And hasn’t had a drink in hours,” he added to the assembled captains, drawing strained laughter. “You have your orders, good sirs and lords. Be about them if you will.”

Reva and Lady Veliss helped him up the stairs to his rooms. “The blue bottle, if you would my lady,” he said to Veliss. She fetched it and he held it to his mouth, draining the liquid inside, smiling faintly then doubling over, face contorted in pain, the empty bottle tumbling to the carpet.

“I’ll fetch Brother Harin!” Veliss said, hurrying from the room.

Reva knelt before him, clasping his trembling hands once again. “What is this?” she asked. “What ails you?”

Air rushed from him as he reclined, gasping but smiling. “My life, Reva. My life ails me.”

Brother Harin’s face was grave as he closed the door behind him, Veliss and Reva awaiting his word in the hallway. “I’ve doubled his dose,” the healer said. “Given him a flask of redflower which should ease his pain.”

“You said the curative would buy him years yet,” Lady Veliss said.

“Restful years, my lady. Not war years. Exhaustion does not help his condition.”

“What condition?” Reva said.

Harin glanced at Veliss who gave a tense nod. “Your uncle has drunk a lot of wine in his time, my lady,” the brother told her. “More in fact than I would have thought it possible for a man to drink and still be living at his age.”

“He’s not yet sixty,” she said in a whisper.

“Liquor does unfortunate things to a man’s insides,” Harin explained. “The liver in particular.”

“What if he stopped?” Veliss asked. “Just stopped completely. No more wine. Not ever.”

“It would kill him,” Harin replied simply. “His body requires it, even though it’s killing him.”

“How long?” Reva asked.

“With rest, perhaps six months, at most.”

Six months . . . I’ve known him for barely three. “Thank you, brother,” she said, feeling a slow tear trace down her cheek. “Leave us now, if you would.”

He bowed. “I’ll call again tomorrow.”

Veliss moved beside her, fingers touching her hand. “He didn’t want you to know . . .”

Reva took her hand away, wiping the tear from her face. No more of this, she decided. No more weeping.

“The grain stocks,” she said in a voice void of emotion. “How long will they last?”

Veliss hesitated then spoke in a clear voice, her tone coloured by just the slightest quiver. “Given the expanded population, perhaps four months. And only then if carefully rationed.”

“Send the House Guard forth. Every scrap of food, every cow, pig and chicken within fifty miles of this city is to be brought here. All unharvested crops will be burned, all wells spoiled, anything that might give succour to our enemy destroyed.”

“There are people working those farms . . .”

“Then they’ll find shelter here, as the Fief Lord promised. Or they can take their chance with the Volarians.”

She moved to the door to the Fief Lord’s rooms. “I wish to talk to my uncle, alone.”

He was seated at his desk, a glass of wine at his side, his grandfather’s sword propped nearby, the quill in his hand moving over a sheet of parchment. “My will,” he said as she closed the door. “Thought it was about time.”

“Veliss can have the books,” she said.

“Actually, there’s a parcel of land to the north she always liked. Nice big house, well-kept gardens.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He sighed, tossing the quill aside and turning to her. “I was afraid you’d run,” he said. “And I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had.”

“And yet you curse me with all this anyway.”

He reached for his wineglass, taking a sip. “Did you know, according to Veliss’s figures, I am the most successful lord ever to sit in the Chair? In the history of this fief no other lord has produced so much wine, generated so much wealth or overseen such a period of peace and harmony. And will I be celebrated for it when I’m gone? Of course not, I’ll always be the drunken whore chaser with the mad brother. But you, Reva, you will be the saviour of Cumbrael. The great warrior, blessed by the World Father Himself, who threw wide the city gates and sheltered all within these walls against the vile, godless storm. I had expected it to take years, welding the people’s hearts to you. Thanks to the Volarians, it’ll barely take months.”

She shook her head in grim amusement. “I had thought Veliss the schemer. Turns out it was you.”

He gave an injured groan. “Try not to hate your old uncle. I shouldn’t wish to carry such a thought to the Fields.”

She went to him, putting her arms around his shoulders and planting a kiss on his head. “I don’t hate you, you drunken old sot.”

The first Volarians arrived three days later, a troop of cavalry appearing on the horizon about midday, lingering for no more than a few minutes before disappearing from view. Reva ordered scouts in pursuit and had riders sent out with orders to hasten any refugees to the city and call in the foraging parties. The scouts reported back within the day; the Volarian vanguard was no more than fifteen miles distant. She waited until darkness and the last trickle of beggared people had filtered through the gates before ordering them closed.

“Do we fetch the Fief Lord?” Antesh asked her as they stood atop the bastion over the main gate, looking out at the causeway and the pregnant darkness beyond.

“Let him sleep,” she said. “I suspect there’ll be plenty to do in the morning.”

They came as the sun rose over the eastern hills, cavalry first, moving at a sedate pace, their ranks tidy and well-ordered as they made their way to the plain beyond the causeway. The infantry followed soon after, tightly arrayed battalions in front, marching with an unnerving uniformity of step, the formations that followed more open, their pace less regular. The Volarian host arranged itself with the kind of precision and speed that could only arise from years of drill, cavalry on the flanks, the disciplined infantry in the centre, looser formations behind.

“Slave soldiers in the front rank,” Veliss said. “They call them Varitai. Those behind are conscripts, Free Swords. I read it in a book,” she added in response to Reva’s quizzical frown.

“They have slaves in their army?” she asked.

“Volaria is built on slaves,” her uncle said. “It’s what they came for.” He wore a heavy cloak, hand resting on Reva’s shoulder, his breath laboured, although his red-rimmed eyes still shone as bright as ever.

“No engines,” Antesh observed. “No ladders either.”

“All in good time, I’m sure,” Uncle Sentes said. “Though I suspect they’re about to try and scare us to death.”

Reva followed his gaze, seeing a lone rider emerge from the Volarian ranks to gallop along the causeway. He reined in over a hundred paces from the gate, staring up at them, his long cloak billowing in the wind. He was a tall man, wearing a black enamel breastplate, a scroll clutched in his fist. His gaze found the Fief Lord and he gave a shallow bow, a grin of contempt on his lips as he unfurled the scroll.

“Fief Lord Sentes Mustor,” he read in accented but clear Realm Tongue. “You are hereby ordered to surrender your lands, cities and possessions to the Volarian Empire. Peaceful compliance with this order will ensure just and generous treatment for yourself and your people. In return for your cooperation in overseeing the transfer of power to Volarian authority you will receive . . .”

“Lord Antesh,” Uncle Sentes said. “I see no recognisable flag of truce, do you?”

Antesh pursed his lips and shook his head. “Can’t say as I do, my lord.”

“Well then.”

“. . . swift transportation to any land of your choice,” the Volarian was saying, the scroll held in front of his eyes. “Plus one hundred pounds in gol-” He choked off as Antesh’s arrow punched through the scroll and the breastplate beyond. He tumbled from the saddle and lay still, the scroll pinned to his chest.

“Right,” the Fief Lord said, turning away. “Let me know when the rest get here.”