Tower Lord

CHAPTER NINE

Reva

The bodies lay thick on the causeway, a carpet of unmoving black forms reminding Reva of a field of dead sparrows near the barn, left in the wake of the villagers’ yearly hunt. Ladders lay amongst the bodies, none closer to the wall than twenty yards. She counted some four hundred dead, all fallen to Lord Antesh’s archers the day after the Volarian vanguard arrived. Since then they had held off making another direct assault, contenting themselves with raising earthworks and patrolling the surrounding country.

“They’re waiting,” her uncle had said, seated by the fire in the library, a thick blanket covering his knees, the blue bottle and the redflower within easy reach. “And why would they not? We’re not going anywhere.”

As Brother Harin had predicted he grew worse every day, cheeks more sunken, skin ever more pale, every bone and vein in his hands seemingly laid bare beneath a wrapping of bleached skin. His eyes though, Reva thought. Still so very bright.

Until now she had kept her promise, staying at his side and ignoring the desperate desire to run for the wall when the horns sounded the alarm the second day, roaming the manor like a caged wild cat until news came of an easy repulse. But today he had relented, for now the Volarians came in force and he had not the strength to view them with his own eyes.

“My lords,” she greeted Antesh and Arentes as they bowed to her and Veliss atop the gatehouse battlements.

“Do we have a count?” Veliss asked.

“I thought it best not to, my lady,” Antesh said. “Large numbers may unnerve the men when constantly bandied about.”

Reva stepped closer to the battlements, taking in the sight of the Volarian host. Their tents stretched away into the morning haze, more a city than a camp. At least two thousand infantry were marching across the plain, more descending the hill to the west in a ceaseless parade. However, what drew her gaze most was the sight of the tall wooden frames being constructed behind their earthworks.

“Are those their engines?” she asked.

“We’ve seen no sign of such devices, my lady,” Lord Arentes replied. “Those are towers. They’ll trundle them up to the walls on great wheels.”

“I’ve prepared fire arrows,” Antesh said. “And a plentiful supply of oil pots.”

“They seem to be building a lot of them,” Arken observed. He had taken to wearing a leather jerkin like Antesh, and carried his own longbow and quiver of arrows.

“Then we’ll have plenty of targets, young sir,” Antesh told him. Despite his apparent confidence Reva detected a tightness to his tone. He’s not a fool, Reva thought, suspecting the Lord of Archers had in fact been scrupulous in counting the Volarian numbers.

“When can we expect the attack?” she asked.

“I suspect as soon as the towers are ready,” Antesh replied. “I doubt they’ll want to prolong this siege. They have a whole realm to conquer and won’t want so many men tied down here for any longer than necessary.”

She returned her gaze to the frames, fancying they had actually risen in height in the few moments since she ascended the gatehouse. She removed her cloak, revealing the light mail shirt she had found in the manse’s mostly depleted armoury, and buckled her sword belt about her chest, the weapon worn across her back, the handle jutting over her right shoulder for a quick draw, as Al Sorna had taught her. She held out her hand to Arken and he passed her the wych-elm bow and quiver of iron-heads.

“Reva . . .” Veliss began.

“You should return to my uncle,” Reva told her. “My place is here now.”

Veliss looked at the Volarian host then back at her. “You promised him . . .”

“He will understand.” Watching Veliss hug herself, Reva sensed she was fighting tears. She stepped closer to clasp the lady counsellor’s hand. “Stay close to him. I’ll return when the walls are secured.”

Veliss took a deep breath and raised her head, eyes bright as she forced a smile. “Another promise?”

“This one I’ll keep.”

Veliss returned her clasp, the grip tight as she held it to her lips. A soft warm kiss and she was gone, turning and descending the steps without a backward glance.

“My lords.” Reva turned back to Antesh and Arentes. “I should like to tour the walls once more.”

They came that night, perhaps gambling the darkness would afford some cover from their arrows. If so, it proved a false hope. Antesh had prepared bales of pitch-soaked wicker, now cast from the walls and lit with fire arrows, the flames rising high and providing a clear view of the towers as they crawled along the causeway. Each tower had a long canopy extending from the rear under which men laboured to push them forward, their feet moving in time to an unheard rhythm. Antesh held the volley until the first came within fifty yards of the gate. At his order the clay pots were thrown, dozens shattering on the front of the tower, followed by a volley of fire arrows, the lamp oil catching immediately.

The tower continued on for several yards, Reva craning her neck for a clear view of the canopy at the rear of the monster where the legs continued their rhythmic plodding. She unlimbered her bow and notched an arrow, drawing with careful aim. The arrow flew into the mass of legs at the rear of the canopy and she had the satisfaction of seeing a prone figure emerge a few seconds later. He rolled clutching at his leg before several arrows pinned him to the ground. The surrounding archers were quick to follow her example and soon the tower was trailing a line of wounded men as the flames engulfed its upper half. It came to a halt a good twenty yards from the wall, close enough to hear the screams of men burning inside, then seemed to convulse like some great wounded beast, bleeding men as they tried to flee, most falling victim to the longbows before they could run more than a few yards. A cheer arose from the walls as the tower died, the flames eating away the framework and sending the upper half tumbling to the ground, wreathed in fire.

“Cheer later!” Antesh barked, pointing to the next tower as it attempted to manoeuvre around the flaming corpse of its brother. “Get some pots on that thing.”

The second tower fared no better than the first, burned and gutted before it reached the wall, the crew falling under the arrow storm. Reva saw a few men jump into the river in an attempt to evade the rain of iron-tipped shafts. The third tower got closer, only ten yards short before fire and arrows halted its progress.

“Ladders!” a shout went up from somewhere to the left. Reva looked to the causeway, seeing several hundred men running past the line of towers, ladders raised above their heads. On reaching the end of the causeway they split into two groups, scores falling to the archers as they ran parallel to the walls for a hundred paces then turned and charged forward with their ladders raised. There was a strange disregard for safety to these men, barely seeming to notice so many of their comrades dying around them or tumbling from the ladders. Varitai, Reva recalled Veliss’s words. Slave soldiers with no will of their own.

A faint groan of disturbed air gave enough warning for her to duck as an arrow flew overhead. A nearby archer wasn’t so lucky, pitching back from the wall with a shaft embedded in his cheek. Reva risked a glance over the wall, seeing a thick knot of men with strongbows clustered at the end of the causeway, loosing arrows up at the defenders with mechanical speed and precision. Like the men on the ladders they betrayed little sign of fear.

Lord Antesh gathered several dozen archers into a tight group, having them duck down with arrows notched, then rise up and loose as one, swarms of iron-heads sweeping down on the Volarian archers in successive volleys until none remained standing. The Varitai were also dispatched in short order, none climbing more than halfway up their ladders before being brought down, the ladders pushed away from the walls to lie atop the piles of bodies below.

The remaining four towers came on, blundering through the corpse-strewn ground, trying to force their way past the burning remnants of their brothers, but finding their progress blocked and grinding to a halt. “Slow and steady now, lads!” Lord Antesh called as the fire arrows flew. “Let’s not be wasteful.”

Within an hour all four towers were burning and their surviving crew running back along the causeway. The walls erupted in celebration, Reva finding herself pummelled with back slaps as men raised their bows, yelling in exultation or shouting foul-mouthed taunts at the Volarians.

“Wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Arken commented. His face was grimy with mingled smoke and sweat, his quiver empty of arrows. Reva moved to the wall and looked down at the many bodies cluttering the narrow road that circled the city, seeing a few wounded crawling about, their groans lost amidst the tumult of joy. Slaves, she thought. Spent like a few coppers on a long-odds bet. She raised her gaze to the uncountable fires of the Volarian camp, knowing somewhere amongst them whoever had commanded this hopeless spectacle would be staring back at the carnage and calculating a fresh stratagem for the following day.

She noticed that her hand tingled, just where Veliss had kissed it. In fact it had been tingling ever since, though she only realised it now. “I’ll be at the manse,” she told Arken. “Find me when they come again.”

Uncle Sentes was in a foul mood when she arrived, though she suspected it had more to do with the broken-nosed priest who stood before him in the Lord’s chamber than her broken promise. “What’s this supposed to mean?” the Fief Lord demanded in a rasp, waving a piece of parchment. Veliss placed a calming hand on his shoulder as he glowered at the priest.

“The Holy Reader’s words are perfectly clear, my lord,” the priest said, casting a wary eye at Reva as she strode to stand at her uncle’s side. “His insight, gifted by the Father himself, has allowed him to divine the cause of our current plight. Our innumerable sins have incurred His anger, the godless beasts outside our walls are His punishment.”

“‘The World Father sees all, knows all and forgives all,’” Reva quoted. “‘Denying yourself His love is His only punishment.’”

The priest didn’t look at her, addressing the Fief Lord. “Our way is clear, my lord. To secure the Father’s forgiveness we must divest ourselves of our sins.” He gave a pointed glance at Veliss. “All of our sins. This city was built in honour of the Father’s greatest prophet, but we allow the stain of godless souls within its walls . . .”

“Your Reader,” Uncle Sentes broke in, a small line of drool dangling from his lower lip, “sits in his cathedral scribbling nonsense and refusing all entreaties to aid the people of this city as they defend themselves from slavery and slaughter!” He choked off, wincing as a fresh bout of pain coursed through him. Reva smoothed a hand over his back and gently took the parchment from his shaking hand.

“‘All heretics within the city must be gathered for the Father’s judgement,’” she read, walking slowly towards the priest. “‘The Holy Reader himself will adduce their acceptance of the Father’s love. Any found to be unable or unwilling to abandon their heresy will be given over to their fellow heretics outside the walls.’”

She looked up at the priest, finding his gaze averted, his misshapen nose slightly upturned. “This is going to save us, is it?” she asked.

“The Reader’s words are for the Fief Lord . . .”

He trailed off as she ripped the parchment in half and let it drop to the floor. “Get out of here,” she said. “And if you bother my uncle with any more of your old fool’s prattle, we’ll see what the heretics outside the walls will do to two such godly souls as you.”

He bit down an unwise retort and turned to go.

“And tell him,” she said to his retreating back, “that when this is over he’d better cough up the name of that bastard who raised me. Tell him that.”

“Was it horrible?” Veliss asked. They sat in the library, her uncle asleep upstairs. The priest’s visit had sent him into a rant that left him exhausted and gulping redflower. Veliss stayed at his side until sleep came.

Reva had taken off her mail shirt, marvelling at how it could manage to smell so bad after only a few hours. She lay on a couch beside the fire, Veliss seated opposite, her gaze intent, as if searching for signs of injury. “We held them off,” Reva replied. “Cost them a lot of men. But they’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Seen plenty of blood,” Veliss said. “Spilled a bit too in my time. But I’ve never seen war.”

Reva thought of the wounded Varitai crawling about as thousands cheered their deaths. “It’s horrible.”

“You don’t have to fight, Reva. These people need you, and the risk . . .”

“I do have to. And I will.” She studied Veliss’s downcast face for a moment, finding she preferred it when she smiled. “I have said things to you,” she said. “Unkind things . . .”

“I’ve heard worse, believe me. Bitch, whore, liar . . . spy. And they’ve all been true. So don’t worry over my feelings, love.”

“Why did you stay? You could be far away by now, and rich into the bargain.”

“I couldn’t leave him, not now.”

Reva sat up, massaging the ache in her arm. Drawing the wych elm was taxing but she only felt the strain now as the excitement of battle faded. “How long have you been with him?” she asked Veliss.

“We met years ago in Varinshold, when he was a guest of the King’s court. He was a regular and generous customer so I was sad to see him called back to sit in the Chair. A couple of years later, when I had a . . . pressing reason to leave Varinshold, I thought I might find a welcome here, or at least enough coin for passage to foreign climes. He proved more welcoming than I hoped, and open to some sage advice.”

“Will you do the same for me, when the time comes?”

Veliss met her gaze, speaking softly. “I think you know I’d do just about anything you asked, love.”

Reva looked away, concentrating on working her fingers into her bicep.

“Your uncle and I,” Veliss said. “We don’t . . . We haven’t, not for a long time. The drink took its toll on more than just his liver, and my, ah, non-professional interests have always lain elsewhere, interests he allows me to pursue, with due discretion. There would be no betrayal, if that’s the issue.”

Filthy, Fatherless sinner . . . “The Book of Reason,” Reva said. “Relates how the Father made men and women to love each other as a reflection of his own love for all humanity. The Book of Laws decrees marriage as a union of man and woman. The Book of Judgement prescribes any desecration of that bond a sin against the Father’s love.”

“Just words, love,” Veliss said. “Just a lot of old words. I see you, Reva, I see where your eyes linger, though you try to hide it.”

Reva rubbed the back of her hand, trying to erase the tingle that suddenly seemed to have sprung to life once more. “He tried to beat it from me,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “But it’s too deeply buried, like a stain that won’t wash.”

“A stain?” She felt Veliss move to sit next to her, felt her hand take hers, the tingle burning now. “It’s no stain. It’s beautiful, it’s a gift.” Her breath drifted over the skin of Reva’s neck, soft and warm, her lips leaving another tingle on her flesh.

The sound of crashing doors reached her and she stood up, slipping from Veliss’s embrace and turning as Arken burst into the room. “They’re back!”

They used shields this time, large boards of nailed-together wood held aloft with poles at each corner, wide enough for ten Varitai to shelter under as they trotted towards the walls with their unnaturally uniform step. The sun was rising, revealing the full order of the Volarian battle, Reva guessing the strength of their first assault wave at over three thousand men. Antesh had the archers assail them from the sides rather than waste arrows loosing directly down onto the shields. At least a fifth of the attacking force was lost on the causeway, men tumbling to the ground or into the river as the archers found their marks with dread precision.

On reaching the walls they tried attacking in three places, hauling their ladders up, the shields constantly pummelled by the heavy rocks heaved from above. Reva kept bobbing up to loose at any attackers who strayed from cover, shifting her aim to the men on the ladders when they began to climb. She would wait until they were a good twenty feet off the ground before sending them tumbling back, hopefully onto the heads of their comrades. She stopped counting at six.

“My lord!” a man called to Antesh, running from the wall’s west-facing section. “The river!”

Reva and Arken followed Antesh as he ran to view the danger. The western defenders were staring and pointing at the spectacle of fifty or so large rafts making their way across the dark waters of the Coldiron, each laden with shield-bearing Volarians and propelled forward with long poles. From the constant movement of the rafts’ occupants Reva judged these free men rather than Varitai. Soon to be free corpses, she thought grimly.

“Spread your men out,” Antesh told the House Guard sergeant who had command of this section of wall. “Squads of ten. Each one goes for a different raft, tell them to aim at the polemen.”

He ordered them to loose as soon as the rafts came within range, arrows arcing down into the shifting mass of Free Swords, forcing them to keep their shields raised.

“Got the bastard!” Arken exclaimed as his arrow claimed a pole man on the lead raft, Reva’s shaft taking the man who stepped forward to replace him.

The pitch of the arrow storm increased as the rafts drew closer and the archers could pick out gaps in their shield roofs, the raft in the lead soon drifting out of control and twisting in the current, scattering bodies from its deck that the river carried away. Another two rafts suffered the same fate, but the remainder managed to make the bank, although they all showed sizeable gaps in their ranks.

The Free Swords scrambled ashore and ran to preassigned points to begin their assault, losing ever more men to the archers, but there were too many to kill and soon their ladders were reaching up to the battlements. The Free Swords had archers mixed into their ranks, keeping up a steady stream of arrows at the point where the ladders crested the wall. Reva saw two archers fall as they stepped up to push a ladder away.

“Get your spearmen up,” Antesh told the House Guard sergeant as the Volarians began to scale the ladders.

Reva loosed a final arrow at a climber, ducking back before she could gauge the result and moving to stand with the sergeant as he arranged his spearmen into tightly bunched groups. Arken stood at her side, hefting the axe he had chosen from the armoury. She never had enjoyed much success teaching him the sword.

Antesh kept his archers at the wall as long as he could, exacting a fearful toll on the climbers, but losing several more to the Volarian bowmen below. “All right, move back!” he shouted, walking to Reva’s side and placing his bow carefully on the top of the inner wall. “Time to dance, my lady,” he said to her, drawing his sword.

She placed the wych elm next to his longbow. “I still have questions about this,” she said, tapping a finger to the carvings.

“Ask me tomorrow,” he said with a faint grin.

The first Volarian to reach the battlements was a large fellow with swarthy, brutish features under a thick iron helmet, shouting in rage and terror as he pulled himself over the wall. Reva darted forward, ducked and rolled under the Volarian’s wild slash, drawing her sword as she came to her feet and stabbing upwards, under the man’s chin, forcing the blade through tongue and bone into the brain. She withdrew the sword, turning and slashing at the face of the next climber trying to haul himself onto the battlements. He fell screaming and blind onto the men on the ladder below, taking them with him as he plummeted to his death.

More Volarians appeared on either side of her and the spearmen charged forward with a yell, stabbing and killing in a frenzy, the battlements transformed into a confused jumble of thrashing men. One of the Volarians commanded Reva’s instant attention as he cut down the spearman who came for him then began hacking through the melee with a short sword in each hand, three men falling to him in quick succession. He was clad in different armour to the others, less bulky with his arms left bare apart from greaves on his wrists, and no helmet on his head which was shaved bald. His face betrayed scant emotion as he fought, side-stepping thrusts and delivering killing blows with cool precision, moving with a speed that bordered on the unnatural.

Arken gave a yell and charged at the man, axe raised, deaf to Reva’s warning. The skilled man brought both swords up in a crossed parry as Arken’s axe came down, then extended a kick into the boy’s midriff, sending him flat onto his back, the axe flying from his grip. Reva ran forward as the Volarian moved in with the killing stroke, flicking her sword at his eyes and forcing him back. There was no surprise on his face as he stood regarding her, blood trickling from the fresh cut below his eye, and barely any pause before he attacked, one sword slashing at her head, the other thrusting at her belly. She twisted, deflecting both blades with a vertical parry, continuing the spin but descending to one knee, bringing the blade round to cleave his leg above the ankle. He wore thick greaves on his calves so the cut wasn’t enough to cripple him, and he registered little pain or shock as he stabbed down at her, the tip of his short sword shattering on stone as she spun again, rising to thrust the sword into the base of his skull.

The twin swords clattered onto the stone as the skilled man sank to his knees, spasming as Reva pulled her sword free, falling onto his face and lying still.

She drew breath and looked for Arken, finding him standing with the other defenders clutching his chest and staring at her. The Volarians seemed to have vanished. She went to the wall to watch them flee, some huddled behind shields as they attempted to shuffle to the causeway, others just running blindly towards safety, many falling to longbows as they did so.

“We may have a little respite . . .” she began turning back, falling silent at the sight of them all kneeling with their heads lowered. She looked around, ready to berate her uncle for coming to the wall, then realised he wasn’t there. They were kneeling for her, even Antesh and Arken.

“Don’t do that,” she said in a small voice.

Reva spent the rest of the morning helping carry the wounded to the makeshift healing house Brother Harin had established in an inn near the gate. The brother and his two fellow healers from the Fifth Order, an elderly woman and a man of middle years, worked tirelessly stitching cuts and setting bones, whilst occasionally managing to save men from what Reva assumed would be fatal wounds.

“This may interest you, my lady.” Harin held up an instrument and moved to the archer she had seen take an arrow in the cheek the night before. The shaft had been removed but the head was firmly lodged in the bones of his face. The brother had given him a hefty dose of redflower but he still whimpered in pain, staring up at the instrument in Harin’s hand with fearful eyes. “This is called the Mustorian lance, in honour of your late father.”

The archer shrank back as Harin crouched down to inspect his wound, a deep gash in his cheek, recently cleaned but still leaking blood. Reva took the man’s hand and squeezed it, forcing an encouraging smile. “My father?” she asked Harin.

“Yes, his famous arrow wound was pretty much identical to this unfortunate fellow’s. The head so deeply buried that trying to cut it out would have been fatal. The healer who treated him was obliged to design a new instrument.” He held the long probe up for her inspection. “See the way the point is shaped? Narrow enough to fit into the base of an arrowhead and when it does”-he pushed his thumb along the centre of the probe and it split in two-“I extend it and grip the head, allowing swift and easy removal.”

“And painless?” she asked.

“Oh, Faith no,” he said, leaning over the wounded archer and starting to guide the probe into the wound. “It’s exquisitely agonising, so I’m told. Hold this fellow’s arms for me would you?”

She found Arken in the inn’s tap room, the elderly healer wrapping bandages about his chest. “Cracked ribs,” he told her with a rueful grin. “Only two though.”

“That was foolish,” she said. “Choose an easier kill next time.”

“None of them are easy, except for you.”

“All done,” the healer said, tying off the bandages. “I’d normally give you a vial of redflower for the pain, but we’re having to ration it.”

“There are a few extra bottles at the manse,” Reva said. “I’ll have them brought here.”

“Your uncle’s care requires redflower, my lady.”

He won’t last long enough to need it all, she thought then winced at the coldness of it. “He . . . wouldn’t wish to see his people in pain.” She turned to Arken, clasping his hand. “Get some rest.”

She sought out Lord Antesh, finding him in a room in the gatehouse arguing with Lord Arentes about how best to distribute the men. “They’ll know by now that concentrating against one or two points will avail them nothing,” he said with an air of forced patience. “Next time they’ll try to test us in several places at once. The Father knows they have the strength to do it.”

“We must make a stand,” Arentes replied with a sniff. “Keep our best men concentrated for a counterstroke should they break through.”

“Should they break through, this city is lost in any case, my lord.”

They both fell silent as she approached, Antesh betraying the same odd expression as when he and the other men had bowed to her. Arentes was more guarded, perhaps not willing to believe the wild stories circling the walls, something she found she liked him for. “Is there a problem, my lords?”

“The Lord Archer seeks to exert control over my men, my lady,” Arentes said. “Command of the House Guard and the City Guard was given to me. Already too many of my best men have been hived off to bolster the . . . amateur elements of the defence. Further weakening will reduce our ability to contain a serious assault.”

“And the assaults we’ve faced already haven’t been serious?” Antesh scoffed, his patience clearly running thin. “My lady, this city stands or falls on the strength we can place on the walls. If we are attacked at several points at once . . .”

She held up a hand. “My lords, in truth I see merit in both your arguments.” She stepped closer to the map spread out on the table between them. Why did this place have to be so big? “If I may make a suggestion.” She pointed to the barracks near the centre of the city. “Keeping so many men here seems pointless. If the Volarians do manage to seize a section of the wall, it’ll take them too long to get there and drive them back. However, if the force is split into four, one for each quarter of the city, they can rush to wherever the threat is greatest in their sector. I suggest the House Guard be quartered here, just back from the gate. The City Guard divided into three and placed according to Lord Arentes’s discretion.”

Antesh considered the map for a moment then raised his eyebrows at Arentes. The old commander stroked his pointed beard then gave a slow nod. “There . . . may be some value to such a stratagem.” He lifted his helmet from the table and gave a short bow. “I’d best be about it, my lord, my lady.”

“I think he likes you,” Antesh said when Arentes had gone. “Bit of a twinkle in his eye when you’re around.”

“Watch your tongue, my lord,” Reva told him without much conviction. “How many did we lose today?”

“Thirty-five dead, twenty more wounded. Not a bad rate of exchange considering how many bodies lie on the other side of these walls.”

“These slavers waste their men like cheap corn. How does such indifference breed loyalty?”

“Loyalty and fear are often the same thing, especially in war.” He paused, expression guarded. “May I enquire as to the health of the Fief Lord?”

Reva saw little point in concealment. “He’s dying. With the Father’s grace he may last another month.”

“I see. I’m sorry, my lady. He . . . proved a better man than most in the end.”

“The end is not yet come.” She held up her wych-elm bow. “You owe me a story.”

“Arren was the finest bowsmith known to Cumbraelin history,” Antesh said. They were on the battlements, touring the eastern section, Reva forcing polite nods at the reverent greetings, tolerating the stares and whispered awe. “Possibly the finest in the world. So great was his skill and so impressive were his bows that some have claimed there was a touch of the Dark to their fashioning. In truth, I think he was just a highly skilled man who saw great art in an ancient craft. From an early age he was crafting bows of great power but also beauty.”

Antesh held up his own bow, displaying the thick stave, smoothed by years of use. “The longbow is powerful, and there’s a pleasing aspect to its simplicity, but Arren brought an elegance to it, somehow managing to decorate the stave without diminishing its power. Naturally his bows carried a high price, though when the Lord of Cumbrael came calling he was wise enough to work for free.” His eyes moved to her own bow.

“He made this for my great-grandfather?”

“That he did, and four more like it, all decorated differently to reflect the lord’s various interests, literature, music and so on. Yours appears to be the hunting bow. The lord decreed they were his gift to future generations of the Mustor family. But, within a few short years they were all lost when Janus set about forcing us into his new Realm. Arren himself died in a raid on his village, though there’s a story Janus had wanted to take him alive and had the men responsible executed, but who can say?”

He halted, resting his back against the wall, regarding her with the same troubled expression from before, when he had named the bow. “And now here you are, lost daughter of House Mustor, making an art of battle the way Arren made an art of the bow, carrying one of your family’s greatest treasures found by pure chance. A life of war, sustained by mere luck, has given me occasion to doubt the sight of the Father. But you, my lady, do give me pause.”

She moved next to him, looking at the far bank. There was a caravan making its way towards the Volarian camp, bulky wagons drawn by oxen, men in black riding escort. After a moment they came to a halt, one of the riders dismounting and moving to the last wagon. He disappeared inside for a moment then emerged pulling a young man behind him. The man had something binding his wrists, making it seem as if he begged as the rider forced him to his knees. Something glittered in the rider’s hand and the young man fell forward, a faint plume of red trailing from his neck. The rider bent down to remove his chains then remounted his horse, the caravan continuing on at a sedate pace leaving the corpse behind on the bank.

“I too have doubted the sight of the Father,” Reva confessed. “I have seen ugliness, cruelty, lies . . . betrayal. But I’ve also seen beauty, kindness and friendship. If this city falls, I’ll never see any of it again, nor will any of us. And I have a sense the Father’s sight does fall here. I can’t explain it, but I know it.”

She watched the caravan until it came to a halt on the fringes of the Volarian camp, not fully within the picket line.

“They haven’t fortified the eastern bank,” she observed to Antesh. “We have boats don’t we?”

Antesh refused to countenance her going, to the point that he threatened to give up his Lordship and become a common archer if she didn’t agree. He sent thirty picked men in a dozen boats, launched from the north shore of the city shortly past midnight. The Volarians had left them in peace this night so all was quiet until they returned, pulling hard on the oars towards the eastern wall, the slavers’ camp burning behind them and each boat laden with freed captives. The tide was friendly at this hour and they didn’t have to fight the current, but the Volarians provided plenty of danger in the sheets of arrows they launched in pursuit. Most boats pulled free but the last fell victim to the iron rain. They had freed over forty people, about half Realm Guard the others Cumbraelin, mostly younger folk, signs of recent mistreatment obvious in the pale-faced stares of the women.

The picked men had also contrived to bring her a gift. He was a tall man in a black leather jerkin with large hands that would plainly have preferred to be holding a whip rather than confined by his own manacles.

He drew back from the sight of Reva as the picked men dragged him ashore, eyes wide in fear, his lips forming a tremulous whisper. “Elverah!”

“What do you want done, my lady?” asked the raid leader, a hard-eyed veteran Antesh knew from the desert war.

“Put him on top of the gatehouse,” she said. “Wait until midmorning to be sure they’re all awake to see it, then cut his throat.”