Tower Lord

CHAPTER FIVE

Vaelin

“Another two hundred today,” Nortah said, putting his bow aside and collapsing onto a chair. “Mostly men this time. All raring for revenge, which is nice. Their women and daughters all got taken by another caravan. Poltar’s off looking for them now.”

“How many does that make?” Vaelin asked Brother Hollun.

“We have freed fifteen hundred and seventy-two people since crossing into Nilsael, my lord,” the brother replied without pause. “Just over half are of fighting age. Almost all have opted to join our ranks. Though I should point out our continued lack of weapons.”

“We’ve got the slavers’ swords,” Nortah pointed out. “Plus any axes and bill-hooks we can scavenge from all the corpse-strewn villages we keep finding.”

Vaelin looked out over the camp, the tents clustered around a bend in the river which changed its name from the Brinewash to the Vellen when it crossed the Nilsaelin border. The camp grew larger every day, home to over forty-five thousand men now they had Marven’s Nilsaelins to swell the ranks. Soon after Brother Harlick penned their agreement, their Fief Lord had taken himself off to his capital, pressing his seal into the wax with a customary cackle and waving at his litter bearers to get moving.

“You can have the idiot twins,” he said to Vaelin, bobbing in his chair as they bore him away. “Been lusting for a war all their lives. Don’t be too surprised if they piss their breaches at the first whiff of blood though. I’ll conscript all the men I can and send them on after. Try not to lose too many. Fields don’t plough themselves, y’know.”

Alornis had been busy sketching during the sealing ceremony, beginning a new canvas depicting the event shortly after. Unlike Master Benril she felt no need for additional drama or embellishment. Although still roughly worked, her painting conveyed her gift for uncanny realism in its rendering of a grinning old man leaning over a scroll whilst the captains of the army looked on, varying depths of unease or suspicion on every face.

“Did I really look that angry?” Vaelin asked.

“I do not flatter, lord brother,” she replied, flicking pigment at him with her brush. “I see and I paint. That is all.”

Vaelin scanned the line of scowling or frowning faces, finding one exception. Nortah stood near the back of the assembly, a faint wry smile on his lips.

“They’ll need training,” he said to his brother now, moving to the table and reaching for parchment. He dipped his quill and began to write, the letters formed with slow precision. “Nortah Al Sendahl is hereby appointed Captain of the Free Company of the Army of the North.” He signed the parchment and held it out to Nortah. “You can have Sergeant Davern as second.”

“That blowhard?” Nortah scoffed. “Can’t I have one of the North Guard?”

“He’s good with the sword and he knows how to teach it. And I can’t denude the North Guard any further. We can linger here only two more days, so train them hard.”

“As you wish, mighty Tower Lord.” Nortah went to the tent flap then paused. “We’re really marching all the way to Alltor?”

The song’s insistence had deepened the further south they marched, the tone ever more urgent. She fights, he knew. They come to tear the walls down and she fights. “Yes, brother,” he said. “We really are.”

Two days later they were on the march once again, Vaelin setting a punishing pace of thirty miles a day and letting it be known that he would be less than forgiving to stragglers. As in any army however, there were shirkers and deserters. The former he left to the sergeants, the latter were pursued by the North Guard and brought back to be stripped of weapons, coin and shoes before they were flogged and set loose. It was no more than a handful of men, and he hated the need for it, but this was far from a professional army and the leeway he had allowed the Wolfrunners would be a dangerous indulgence now.

They forded the Vellen on the fifth day, keeping a southward course until the jagged outline of the Greypeaks came into view and he ordered a halt for a day’s rest and reconnaissance. As expected, Sanesh Poltar brought grim tidings come the evening.

“Many horsemen,” he said to the council of captains. “South-east of here. Riding hard after Marelim Sil soldiers, on foot and only a third as many. They hurry to the mountains, seeking shelter.” His expression was grave as he shook his head. “Won’t reach them.”

“Is there enough time for our horse to get there?” Vaelin asked.

The Eorhil war chief shrugged. “We will, can’t speak for others.”

Vaelin reached for his cloak. “Captain Adal, Captain Orven, muster your men. We ride immediately. Count Marven, send the Nilsaelin horse to screen the south and west. The Army of the North is in your hands until I return.”

Flame reminded him somewhat of Spit in his love of the run, tossing his head and snorting in appreciation as they galloped south, the mass of horses around them raising thunder from the earth. Dahrena rode at his side, having snapped a curt rebuke at Adal when he suggested she stay with the army. They managed to keep up with the Eorhil, though the North Guard and Orven’s men were obliged to trail in their wake by a half mile or so. The onset of darkness forced a halt after they had covered some twenty miles.

No fires were lit, the horsemen simply sitting or standing with their mounts, waiting for daylight. Dahrena had immediately slipped from her saddle and wrapped a cloak tightly about her shoulders as she sat on the grass. “Shan’t be long,” she said to Vaelin with a small smile before closing her eyes.

“Is this really necessary, my lord?” Adal asked, worry etched into his face as he stared at Dahrena’s unmoving form.

“I do not command her, Captain.” The blood-song gave a soft murmur, a note of anger and resentment, but also something else, something that now appeared obvious in the intensity of the captain’s gaze. All the years at her side and he’s never told her, Vaelin wondered.

Dahrena gave a soft gasp, opening her eyes and blinking rapidly. “They’ve stopped,” she breathed, slumping forward a little. Adal stepped closer to steady her but she waved him away, climbing to her feet with a groan.

“The Volarians?” Vaelin asked.

“The Realm Guard. Stopped on a hill some sixty miles directly south of here.”

My brother makes a stand, Vaelin thought. The song was quite clear, Caenis had command of the Realm Guard’s remnants, and they were tired of running.

“Remount!” Vaelin called, striding to Flame and vaulting into the saddle. “We ride through the night!”

They kept to a trot until the sun rose then spurred to a full gallop, Vaelin driving Flame hard although the horse’s flesh seemed to sing with joy as he struck out ahead of the Eorhil. After an hour’s ride the ground flattened out into rolling plains, a low hill visible on the horizon and a large dust-cloud rising in the east. Sanesh Poltar managed to urge yet more speed for his mount, pulling ahead of Vaelin and raising his strongbow over his head then waving it towards the east. A third of the Eorhil host immediately peeled away from the main body, striking out in a parallel course to the approaching dust-cloud.

Vaelin could see the Realm Guard on the hill now, standing three ranks deep, a few banners waving. They were too distant to make out the sigils but he knew the one in the centre bore a wolf running above a tower.

The Volarian cavalry came into view shortly after, dark-armoured figures riding tall warhorses, charging with lances levelled. Sanesh Poltar waved his bow again and another contingent of Eorhil separated from the host to charge directly at the Volarian flank. Vaelin followed the war chief as he led the remainder into the ground between the Realm Guard and the oncoming Volarians. On either side of him Eorhil warriors all notched an arrow to their bows with smooth unconscious precision, still at full gallop. They rode to within a hundred paces of the Volarians and loosed as one, no commands had been given. The arrows descended onto the leading companies in a dense cloud, horses screaming and falling as they struck home, men tumbling from the saddles to be trampled by their onrushing comrades. The Volarian charge faltered as the Eorhil continued to loose from the saddle, skirting their ranks and sending arrow after arrow into the mass of men and horses.

Vaelin reined in and watched the unfolding spectacle. Whoever had command of the Volarian horse was evidently quick in recognising a hopeless cause; assailed on three sides by horse archers and outnumbered into the bargain. Trumpets sounded amidst the roiling companies and they drew back, striking out for the only open ground to the south. The Eorhil, however, were not done.

Sanesh Poltar kept his contingent on the Volarian right flank whilst the two other wings continued to assail their rear and left, the arrows falling in a continuous rain, claiming ever more cavalrymen and horses. Vaelin watched the mobile battle fade towards the south as the North Guard and Orven’s men galloped past to join in the deathblow.

He turned Flame and trotted towards the hill where the Realm Guard were still standing in ranks. Their discipline held until his face came into view, whereupon they broke, running towards him with a great cheer, clustering around, joy and relief on every face. He nodded to them, smiling tightly at the babble of acclaim, nudging Flame forward until they came to the hill where a lone figure stood below a tall banner. He broke free from the clustering soldiers and guided Flame up the slope.

“Sorry, brother,” he said, dismounting at Caenis’s side. “I had hoped to get here sooner . . .”

He fell silent at the look on his brother’s face, eyes glaring amidst the dirt-covered visage of a man who had known nothing but battle and torment for weeks. “This all happened,” he said, the words spoken in a coarse echo of the voice Vaelin had known since childhood, “because you left us.”

Adal’s scouts brought news of three battalions of Volarian infantry to the west. It seemed the Volarian commander had split his force in his eagerness to finish the Realm Guard. Vaelin ordered the Eorhil to cut off their line of retreat and sent word to Count Marven ordering him to crush the enemy force with all dispatch. Time they were blooded.

“Five regiments,” Caenis reported in a clipped voice, the tones used by a subordinate to a superior, lacking familiarity or affection. “Or what remains of them. The Thirty-fifth is the most numerous with a third of its men still standing.”

“Is it true?” Vaelin asked. “About Darnel?”

Caenis gave a short nod. “We were drawn up for battle, the Volarians coming on in strength. When Darnel’s knights appeared we thought it a deliverance. There was no warning, they just trotted within a few hundred paces of the left flank and charged, smashing it to pieces. As of that moment we were undone. The men stood though, every regiment stood and fought, most to the death. I don’t have the words to do them justice. Lord Verniers might, if he still lives.”

“Verniers?” Vaelin asked. “The Alpiran Emperor’s chronicler. He was there?”

“At the King’s command. Grist for his history of the Realm.” Caenis met his gaze for the first time since their meeting on the hill. “He had an interesting story to tell and many questions, especially about our time in the Order.”

“What did you tell him?”

“No more than you did, I suspect.”

“How did you get away?”

“We rallied, launched a counter at the Volarian centre. I gambled their general would be careful enough of his own person to halt the advance and gather forces to his defence. As luck had it, I was right.”

“Your men are alive thanks to you, brother.”

“Not all, we lost many on the march.”

“Gallis? Krelnik?”

“Krelnik during the countercharge. Gallis in the retreat.”

Vaelin wanted to offer some words of commiseration, share memories of the grizzled veteran and the former climbing outlaw, but Caenis had taken his gaze away, staring rigidly ahead once more. “I regret asking you to march again so soon,” Vaelin said. “But we have business at Alltor.”

His brother’s expression didn’t change. “As my lord commands.”

Is this how it will be from now on? Vaelin wondered. Brotherhood turned to hate by lost Faith?

His gaze was drawn by the sound of drumming hooves as Nortah rode into their makeshift camp at the gallop, Snowdance loping in his wake. Perhaps this will lighten his mood, Vaelin thought as Nortah leapt from the saddle, striding towards Caenis with a broad grin.

“You are dead,” Caenis greeted him with a smile, his lack of surprise confirming Vaelin’s long-held suspicion his tale of Nortah’s supposed demise had never been believed by his brothers.

Nortah just laughed and enfolded Caenis in a warm embrace. “It’s a great thing to see you, brother. Your niece and nephew have long wanted to meet you.”

Caenis drew back a little as Snowdance padded closer, sniffing curiously. “Don’t mind her,” Nortah said. “We found some more slavers today so she’s well-fed.”

“We’ve solved your weapon-supply problem,” Vaelin told him, pointing towards the dark mound of bodies to the south. The Eorhil didn’t understand the concept of prisoners, war was a matter of absolutes to them, shorn of restraint or misplaced compassion, though they had been careful to spare as many horses as possible.

“Might be an idea if they left some alive in future,” Nortah commented. “Dead men have no stories to tell.”

“I’d hazard we’ll have a few storytellers in hand tomorrow.”

Count Marven had taken no chances with the Volarian infantry, sealing the flanks with his cavalry whilst the archers weakened them with successive volleys. The full army was unleashed when he judged the enemy sufficiently decimated. The Volarian host consisted of one battalion of Free Swords and two of Varitai. Predictably, the Free Swords were the most keen to surrender whilst the Varitai had to be slaughtered to a man. Even then there were only a handful of prisoners, most of them wounded.

“No officers,” the count reported to Vaelin. “Highest rank amongst them seems to be a sergeant, or whatever they call a sergeant.”

He gave an irritated glance over at Fief Lord Darvus’s twin grandsons as one of them shouted in pain, his brother attempting to stitch a cut on his forearm.

“Didn’t piss their breaches then?” Vaelin asked quietly.

“Hardly. No holding those two, my lord. Bravery they have in abundance.” He dropped his voice. “Brains, however . . .”

“My lords,” Vaelin called to the twins. “Best take yourselves off to Brother Kehlan’s tent.”

The two lords rose and bowed with their customary uniformity, the one on the left voicing their response. Vaelin had noted he was the only one who spoke, possibly in order to prevent them speaking in unison. “More grievously injured men require the healer’s attentions, my lord. A true knight would not trouble him over a trifle.”

“Clearly, your experience with true knights is limited. Your grandfather won’t thank me if you return having lost limbs to festered stitching.” He nodded at the tent flap. “Get you gone.”

“We collected more than enough weapons for the Free Company, my lord,” Brother Hollun reported when the twins had left. “In fact, we should have enough for six such companies.”

“Our losses?” Vaelin asked.

“Thirty-five killed, sixty wounded,” the brother responded with his usual lack of hesitancy.

“Would’ve been less if the freed folk hadn’t joined in,” Count Marven said. “Hate makes people careless of their lives, I suppose.”

“Nevertheless it was well done, my lord,” Vaelin told him. “Brother Harlick has been drawing up maps of Alltor and the surrounding country. I should like you to take a look, judge our best line of approach.”

The Nilsaelin gave a hesitant bow of assent. Their time in Linesh had made the man wary of him, Vaelin knew, and in his turn he had distrusted the count’s obvious desire for martial distinction. Now though, circumstance made such concerns seem trifling. “I . . . am pleased to enjoy your trust, my lord,” Marven replied.

The prisoners were no different from any other group of defeated men Vaelin had seen over the years. Eyes full of fear, gaze downcast and wary of drawing attention as they shuffled under his scrutiny.

“They’re all fairly ignorant and barely literate,” Harlick reported. “Volarian education is notoriously poor. People are expected to teach themselves whatever they need to know. This lot know how to fight and follow orders. How to rape and murder too, no doubt. But they’re somewhat close-lipped about their prior exploits in the Realm, as you might expect.”

“Do they know the name of the man who commands their army?” Vaelin asked.

Like Brother Hollun, Harlick had no need to consult notes or pause before providing a response. “General Reklar Tokrev. A red-clad, as they usually are. Distinguished veteran of several border clashes with the Alpirans and renowned commander of numerous expeditions against the northern tribes. I have to say, I find the list of his achievements a little improbable since one of the campaigns he supposedly led took place over seventy years ago.”

“Any news of Alltor?”

“They’ve never heard of the place. Seems they were sent after the Realm Guard before the general marched on Cumbrael. I . . . doubt they have anything else to offer, my lord.”

Vaelin watched the wretched men fidget, some unable to keep the terrorised tremble from their limbs. The song rose as he saw their fear, a familiar complex note that denoted the birth of a stratagem. He turned to Orven, captain of the only company he could trust with this duty. “They’re coming with us,” he said. “Make sure they’re suitably fed and watered. And keep them well away from Captain Nortah’s people.”

Crossing into Cumbrael brought sights of an even greater level of destruction and murder than those already witnessed. The succession of ruined villages along their line of march seemed endless, littered with so many rotting corpses Vaelin was forced to order them left where they lay as they couldn’t afford the time needed to give them all to the fire. Unlike the Nilsaelin villages, these were extensively vandalised, mills and chapels burned, many bodies mutilated and showing signs of torture. Also the surrounding fields were often black from burning, the crops turned to ash and every well they found spoiled with a sheep or goat carcass.

“Doesn’t make any sense,” Adal said as they rode through a ruined cornfield. “All armies need to be fed.”

“The Volarians didn’t do this,” Vaelin replied. “I suspect the Cumbraelin Fief Lord was keen to deny them any succour from his own lands. May explain their viciousness towards the people.”

They came upon a macabre sight in the evening, ten men hanging from a large yew, eyes and tongues removed and the first two fingers of their hands severed and stuffed into their mouths. Vaelin saw his sister pale at the sight, swaying in her saddle a little.

“We’ll see to them,” he said, pressing his hand to her shoulder. “You don’t have to linger here.”

“Yes,” she replied, dismounting and extracting parchment and charcoal from her saddlebags. “I do. Leave them there a moment, please.”

She walked stiffly to a nearby tree stump and sat down, fixing her eyes on the scene and starting to draw.

“Must be archers,” Nortah commented. “Taking their fingers like that. Saw our own men do something similar in the Martishe.”

Vaelin saw that Alornis was crying as she sketched, tears streaming from her eyes as they constantly shifted from the hanging men to the image forming on the parchment. Dahrena went to her side as she finished, hunching over and weeping softly. “People will need to know,” he heard her whisper as Dahrena pulled her close. “They’ll need to remember.”

The town had been named Two Forks for the branching streams that surrounded it. Vaelin had once passed through it with the Wolfrunners during one of their fanatic-hunting expeditions prior to the Alpiran war. He recalled a bustling place of winepresses and merchants bartering for the best price on the latest casks. The people had been guarded but not so hostile towards him as most Cumbraelins, their priest a hearty fellow of broad girth and rosy cheeks who happily offered Vaelin a prayer of the Father’s forgiveness, wine cup in hand as he quoted the Ninth Book.

His church was a ruin now, the only sign of him some anonymous blackened bones in the scorched wreckage. The Seordah had found the place, the warriors standing in the streets and staring at the various horrors, more baffled than enraged. The town hadn’t been easily taken, barricades had been constructed across the roads and the surrounding waterways made for effective defensive barriers. Vaelin judged it had taken several days to fall from the bodies in the factor’s house, all lying in a row, bandages visible on the putrefying flesh. Fought it out long enough to have a care for the wounded, he thought.

“Children all in one place,” Hera Drakil said, his face like stone. “No sign of wounds, but smelling of poison.”

“Killed by their parents to spare them the torments of enraged men,” Vaelin said. It seemed the Volarians had been obliged to visit their frustrations on the few surviving adults. A pile of dis-constituted corpses lay in the centre of the town, not one left whole. The limbs were arranged in a circle about a central mass of severed heads, a thick cloud of flies buzzing amidst the miasma of decomposition. Vaelin was glad Alornis wasn’t here to feel compelled to draw the scene.

“I would be grateful if you could bury them,” Vaelin said to Hera Drakil, deciding this was worth the delay.

“We shall.”

He nodded and went to where Flame was tethered, pausing as the Seordah called after him. “We were right.”

Vaelin turned back with a questioning look.

“To heed the wolf’s call,” Hera Drakil said. “A people that would do this need to die.”

“I once had occasion,” Vaelin told the Volarian captive, “to meet the Alpiran Emperor. He presided over my trial, of course, but he came to my cell afterwards to talk to me alone. Just once.”

The captive stared at him with bright but uncomprehending eyes. Vaelin had chosen him for his youth and the greater pitch of his terror. His fellow captives were hanging from the branches of a willow tree on the riverbank south of Two Forks, the ropes creaking as they swung in the breeze.

“It’s not widely known,” Vaelin went on, “but the Emperor is a very frail man. Victim of a bone disease since childhood. He’s very small, very thin, and has to be carried about on a litter as his legs will break if he attempts to walk. But there’s a great strength to him, I could feel it burning away inside when he looked at me. It’s a very humbling thing to look into a man’s eyes and know yourself his inferior.

“They brought him to my cell after the trial, servants placing him before me and leaving us alone, even though I was unchained and he must have known I could crush the life from him in an instant. I bowed and he told me to get up. I had been taught Alpiran at his instruction, for a man should understand every word spoken at his trial according to Imperial law. He asked if I had any complaints about my treatment, I said no. He asked if I felt any guilt over the death of the Hope and again, I said no. He asked why. I told him I was a warrior in service to the Faith and the Realm. He shook his thin, bony head and called me a liar. ‘The song tells you,’ he said. ‘That you did no wrong.’

“He knew, you see. Somehow he knew, though I could hear only the slightest murmur of a gift within him. He said those chosen to sit in the Emperor’s chair share the same gift, the ability to discern potential. Not greatness, not compassion or wisdom. Just potential, and the nature of that potential would only be revealed over time, sometimes with unfortunate consequences. Shortly before the war he had begun to discern the temper of the Hope’s potential and found it worried him greatly. Also there was another within his court who offered a far brighter prospect, though choosing them would invite accusations of favouritism, a serious charge in a land where anyone may ascend to the throne with the favour of the gods, a mystical force for which the Emperor is merely a conduit. My actions had solved his dilemma, and so I would be allowed my life and suffer no torments. However, he loved his people and their suffering at the hands of our army made such mercy his own torment. ‘If I have any claim to greatness,’ he told me. ‘It will lie in the victory I won over the hatred you tried to place in my heart. An Emperor can allow no such luxury.’

“As I said, I knew myself as his inferior, even more so now. I should like you to know I have tried to follow his example, to act without hatred in prosecuting this war. Sadly, your people have contrived to defeat me in this ambition.”

Vaelin took a leather satchel containing the message he had dictated to Brother Harlick and lifted the strap over the captive’s head, making him flinch and utter a whimper, calming a little when Vaelin smiled. “For the general,” he said, recalling Harlick’s words. “Tokrev,” he repeated, patting the satchel.

The captive just stared back in unblinking terror. Vaelin took a moment to study his face, feeling the song swell as he committed it to memory.

“Put him on a horse,” Vaelin told Orven, “and let him go.”