Tower Lord

CHAPTER NINE

Vaelin

Cara swayed a little as the clouds began to move in the sky, thin wisps of cotton coalescing into dark spidery tendrils, forming into a slowly spinning spiral a mile wide.

“Are you all right?” Vaelin asked, reaching out to steady her as she stumbled.

“Just a little light-headed, my lord,” she replied with a forced smile. “Haven’t done this for such a long time.” She took a breath and raised her gaze to the sky once more, a fresh breeze stirring the grass on the hilltop. The spiral twisted in the sky, darkening with every passing second, the tendrils thickening into roiling mountains of grey and black. Cara gritted her teeth and gave a pained grunt, the swirling mass of cloud starting to drift towards the smoke-shrouded city some six miles away, its course heralded by a rumble of thunder and lit by the occasional flash of lightning.

Cara sank to her knees, face pale and eyes dim with exhaustion. Lorkan and Marken rushed to her side, the young gifted casting a resentful glare at Vaelin which he chose to ignore. Weaver stood a little way off, his usually placid features now drawn in confusion as he paced back and forth, his ever-growing rope grasped tight in both hands. As far as Vaelin knew he hadn’t used his gift throughout the entirety of the march, though he was often seen carrying wounded from the field in the aftermath of battle. The song sounded a clear a note of frustration as Vaelin watched Weaver turn his gaze from Cara, wincing in discomfort before straightening into a determined stance. He waits for something, Vaelin realised. Or someone.

He turned to watch the mass of cloud rumble towards Alltor, pregnant with menace and hopefully enough rain to quench the fires raging within the walls. North Guard scouts had reported in the day before bringing news of the city’s dire straits and he had ordered the army’s pace quickened. He drove them hard, riding along the columns of trotting men with a grim visage and sincere threats for any who seemed likely to fall out. They continued through the night, covering fifty miles before he called a halt. In the morning Nortah had brought Cara to his tent with a suggestion.

“I have to stress, my lord,” the girl said. “I cannot predict the consequences if I do this. I can bring the rain down on the city, but what happens next . . .” She gave a helpless shrug. “When I was a girl a drought blighted our village, the crops withered and my mother said we were like to starve come the winter. I had some knowledge of my gift by then, making little whirlwinds and such, sometimes forming the clouds into pretty shapes. So I made a big cloud, called all the other clouds to join it, and it rained. For three days it rained and people rejoiced. Then the rain stopped and the duck pond froze over. It was the middle of summer. Erlin found me shortly after, telling my parents of a place in the north where I would be safe.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Vaelin cautioned her. “I know well the price our gifts exact.”

“I didn’t come all this way just to watch, my lord.”

He waited until the clouds were over Alltor, glimpsing the curtain of shifting grey that told of heavy rain. The song was strong now, singing Reva’s tune with a note of pride but also foreboding. Time was short.

“Odds of at least two to one,” Count Marven told the council of captains. “Lengthening by the hour as they draw more troops from Alltor to face us. Given the enemy’s strength, my lord, I am bound to suggest a feinting strategy.” He pointed to the centre of the map Harlick had drawn, showing the Volarian camp now no more than a few hundred paces distant, lines of Free Swords and Varitai drawn up to bar the route to Alltor, cavalry in large numbers on both flanks. “Keep our infantry where it is and send the Eorhil to the western bank to draw their gaze. At the same time the Nilsaelin horse and the North Guard go west. The enemy will be forced to reorder their ranks, allowing for an assault around here.” His finger moved to a section on the right of the Volarian line. “We hit them hard then veer off to the west to join up with the cavalry whilst the Eorhil threaten their eastern flank. It should draw off enough of their forces to buy the city some time. We can then pull back to the forest where I’m sure our Seordah friends can make great play with their infantry. We tie them up in small battles, ambushes and the like. It won’t be quick, a matter of weeks rather than days, but I think this is a battle we can win.”

“Alltor doesn’t have weeks,” Nortah said. “Or even days.”

“And we do not have the numbers, good Captain,” Marven returned, the strain of the past week telling in his voice. “We need an army twice the size to break their line.”

“So we’ve come all this way to run around the woods whilst the city perishes?” Nortah gave a disgusted snort.

“What about the river?” Adal put in. “We could build boats. There are plenty in our ranks who know how. Send reinforcements to the city that way.”

“By the time we get across there won’t be anyone to reinforce,” Nortah said. “That’s if we can make it past that monster they’ve got moored in the river.”

Vaelin glanced up at the tent roof as a thunderclap sounded overhead. Cara’s storm was gathering force and soon the ground would be too sodden for cavalry. He went to the rear of the tent where the canvas bundle lay on his bunk, the captains’ dispute continuing as he undid the knots, pulling back the wrapping to reveal the sword. The blood-song swelled in welcome as he grasped the scabbard, the heft of it so comfortable in his hand. He was aware their voices had stilled as he strapped on the sword, the scabbard resting against his back with a familiar weight.

“My lord?” Dahrena asked as he walked from the tent. He went to where Flame had been tethered, hauling the saddle onto his back and tying it in place, then leading him towards the ranks of assembled infantry.

“What are you going to do?” Dahrena stood in his path, a little breathless, eyes bright with fearful suspicion. Behind her the captains all stood, most looking on in bafflement but Nortah and Caenis wearing expressions of grim understanding. They exchanged a glance then moved off in opposite directions, Caenis calling to his sergeant, Nortah running to his company, with Snowdance padding along in his wake.

“My lord?” Dahrena said.

“You see the souls of others when you fly,” he said. “But do you ever see your own?”

She gave a wordless shake of her head.

“That is a great pity.” He reached out to cup her face, thumb tracing over her cheek. “Because I can see it, and I find it shines very bright indeed. I should be grateful if you would have a care for my sister. She will not understand this.”

He turned away and mounted up, trotting to the front rank of the army, finding the miners’ banner and reining in. “Break ranks!” he called to the surrounding regiments. “Gather round.”

There was some hesitation amongst the officers before they repeated the order and a few minutes delay before they stood around him a loose circle, the bulk of the infantry with the Seordah crowding behind.

“We have reached a point,” he told them, “where I can no longer command your obedience through duty alone. Now every man and woman in this army must choose their own course. For my own part”-he turned in the saddle, pointing to the rain-lashed city beyond the Volarian line-“I intend to ride to the centre of this city. For my friend is there, and I would very much like to see her again.”

He reached behind his shoulder and drew the sword, raising it high. The light was meagre under the darkening sky but still it caught enough sun to gleam. He cast his gaze over their faces, pale and rapt in the rain as he spoke again, “And I will kill any man who raises a hand to stop me. Those who wish to come with me are welcome.”

He turned Flame about, moving forward at a slow walk, hearing the commotion build behind him, Marven’s and Adal’s voices audible above the multitude of shouted orders. He called on the song and let the voices fade, scanning the Volarian ranks and waiting for the note of recognition. Perhaps they executed him for cowardice. But then it rose, a clear note of pure fear as his gaze fell on a battalion positioned just to the left of the Volarian centre.

Well, he thought. At least I got to know Alornis.

He kicked his heels into Flame’s flanks and the stallion reared before spurring into a gallop.

Time seemed to slow as they sped towards the Volarian line, the spectacle of it all filling his gaze. Fireballs fell in a low arc, cast by the ballista-ships in the river, the city’s fires now smouldering under the rain, the clouds above thick and black save for the occasional flicker of lightning.

Arrows came for him as he charged, easily avoided thanks to the song, its music louder than he had ever known it. He waited until it picked out the former captive, his fear a high-pitched scream in the second rank of his battalion, then began to sing, forcing every vestige of anger and bloodlust into the song he cast forth. He felt it strike home, the Free Sword’s last hold on sanity breaking like glass as he beheld the charging figure on the horse, coming straight towards him with sword levelled. The ranks of the battalion rippled as the youth began to claw his way towards the rear, lashing out at restraining hands with his short sword, screaming in terror, a few soldiers in the front rank turning to look on the commotion.

In truth it wasn’t much, just a small flaw in an otherwise impressively disciplined line, but today it was enough.

Flame struck home with the fearless charge of a born warhorse, smashing men aside and trampling the slow-footed into the earth as Vaelin’s sword began its own song. He cleaved a man’s face apart from chin to skull with an upward slash, his helmet parting with the force of it, then spurred Flame onward, the sword slashing in an unceasing, unstoppable blur. Men rolled limbless in their wake, screams adding to those of the former captive, still fighting his maddened way towards safety.

A hard-faced veteran loomed out of the throng, short sword raised in a swift thrust, but the song saw all today and blared a warning, the veteran sinking to his knees a second later, eyes and mouth agape at the jetting stump of his wrist. Another Free Sword tried to hack at Flame’s legs, earning a sweep of the sword that left him headless.

They burst through the rear of the Volarian line, Vaelin hauling Flame to a halt in a fountain of churned sod. The terrorised Free Sword was kneeling in the open ground beyond, eyes wide and unblinking, all trace of sanity having fled. Vaelin turned the horse about, finding the Volarians moving to encircle him, blades levelled as they edged closer, fear on every face.

Vaelin heard laughter somewhere and realised it was his own. He also felt the trickle of blood from his nose that told him he had sung long enough. He ignored it and charged again, riding down the nearest Free Sword and killing the men on either side of him, wheeling to the right and hacking down a man shouting orders, then another who stood frozen in fear.

But not all were so fearful, a dozen men or more leaping and slashing in an attempt to bring him down, but the song warned of every attack. He parried, ducked and killed in a whirl of song and blood until Flame gave a loud pain-filled whinny and reared, an arrow buried in his flank. The horse stayed upright for a few more seconds, rearing and lashing out with his hooves, but a spasm of pain brought him to his knees, Vaelin rolling free of the saddle, coming to his feet to parry a thrust and punch his sword point through the breastplate of the man who delivered it, the star-silver blade penetrating the armour with ease.

He wrenched the blade free and stood beside his dying horse, Free Swords on all sides, creeping closer as officers hounded them with curses. The song birthed a new note, something discordant, touched by wildness but also a fierce and boundless loyalty. He laughed again and the Free Swords paused.

“I’m sorry your general didn’t take my offer,” he told them.

Snowdance landed in their midst in a blaze of teeth and claws, pinning two men to the ground, her great jaws fixing on each head in turn and ripping them free. Her gaze fell on Vaelin for a moment, the song rising in warm regard, then she was gone, charging into the thickest knot of Volarians, blood and limbs scattering in her wake.

The Volarian line was torn apart now, a gaping rent some twenty yards wide proving an irresistible target for the North Guard and Captain Orven’s guardsmen. They came streaming through with swords flashing, the gap widening further until the entire Free Sword battalion broke apart. Captain Adal hacked down a running Volarian and pulled up as he caught sight of Vaelin standing beside Flame’s corpse. “You’re hurt, my lord.”

Vaelin touched a hand to the blood streaming from his nose and shook his head. “It’s nothing. Rally your men and wheel to the left, engage the cavalry on their flank.”

“You’re dismounted . . .” the captain protested as Vaelin walked towards the nearest Volarian battalion.

“I’ll be all right,” he replied with a wave, not turning.

The song was an unquenchable fire now, fuelling his charge through their ranks as he killed and killed again, parrying or side-stepping blows that should have brought death. He attacked the next battalion from the rear, finding them Varitai immune to any terror he might spread but lacking the instinct needed to counter his song-born skill. He hacked his way into their midst to cut down their commander who, unlike them, was entirely capable of feeling fear, whipping his horse bloody and laying about with a whip as he tried to fight free of their ranks. It didn’t help.

The battalion disintegrated around him as Foreman Ultin led his miners in a headlong charge against their front, the men of the Reaches giving full vent to their rage, born of the terrible sights witnessed on the march. The Varitai responded with automatic precision, forming densely packed defensive knots as they fought to the end.

“Re-form!” Foreman Ultin was shouting, having planted his banner to the rear of the Volarian line. “Form on me!”

“Take them left,” Vaelin told him, frowning at the man’s appalled expression.

“You . . .” Ultin gulped, eyes staring into Vaelin’s for a moment, then blinked and looked away. “Yes, my lord!”

Vaelin felt a dampness on his cheeks and touched a hand to his eyelids, the fingers coming away bloody. He paused and tried to quiet the song, but a new note of warning made it flare again. He turned to the right where Count Marven’s infantry were engaged in a furious struggle with a smaller number of lightly armoured men. Vaelin saw how they moved with a remarkable fluency as he ran towards the fight, most armed with a sword in each hand as they did their terrible dance, the Nilsaelins falling by the dozen as they pressed around them. The famed Kuritai, he realised, ducking under a slashing sword, rolling into a kneeling position and hacking back to hamstring the swordsman. The Nilsaelins roared and fell on the wounded Kuritai in a mass, swords and daggers flashing.

The song flared again and Vaelin looked up to see three Kuritai coming for him, one in the lead and two moving to his flanks. He removed all restraint from the song and suddenly the Kuritai were moving through air made of clay, their coordinated attack clumsy and sluggish, leaving so many openings. The song faded a little as the three Kuritai tumbled to the earth around him, splashing mud in the unending rain, blood gushing from near-identical wounds to the throat.

He straightened, seeing a Kuritai regarding him with his head tilted, face blank like a child seeing a puzzling trick for the first time, an expression also worn by many of the onlooking Nilsaelins. A bowstring snapped and the curious Kuritai fell with an arrow in his chest, his brothers turning to face a new threat as Hera Drakil led his Seordah into the fray. The Nilsaelins were brave but could only prevail through weight of numbers. The Seordah, it transpired, needed no such advantage.

Vaelin watched the Seordah chief slide under a slashing short sword and bring his war club round as he sprang to his feet, the back of the Kuritai’s head exploding from the impact. The other Seordah dealt with the remainder, war clubs and knives whirling, Kuritai falling in a matter of seconds.

“I see why the forest remains untouched,” Vaelin commented as the war chief crouched at his side.

“You need the healing man, Beral Shak Ur,” he said, pulling him to his feet.

Vaelin staggered a little as the song flared again, fighting down a shout of pain as fresh blood rose in his mouth. Reva! He turned to the city, eyes tracking along the causeway to find the gates lying wrecked and open. “I need a horse,” he said.

The Seordah was clearly reluctant but Count Marven pulled up beside them, dismounting and offering Vaelin the reins. “Fight better on foot in any case,” he said, blood flowing freely from a cut on his cheek.

“Form your men up,” Vaelin told him, hauling himself into the saddle. The new vantage point gave him a clearer view of the battle. He could see every section of the Volarian line now engaged, broken here and on the right where Nortah’s company gave full vent to their rage as they tore apart a Free Sword battalion twice their number to join up with Ultin’s miners. The left still seemed to be holding despite a furious assault by Caenis’s Realm Guard. Beyond them the swirling mass of horses just visible through the rain told him the Eorhil were in the process of mastering the Volarian cavalry.

“Push through their rear opposite the Realm Guard,” he told Marven, finding he had to keep hold of the pommel to stop from falling. “Hera Drakil,” he addressed the Seordah, “I should like you to meet a friend of mine in the city.”

He tugged Marven’s horse around and set off at the gallop. He saw something near the causeway that made him pause for a moment. The captive Free Sword, lying dead with his throat cut, a bloody knife in his hand, his face frozen in the same mad rictus born of the song.

He knew from Harlick’s reports that this causeway was almost exactly three hundred yards long, so it was strange to find it seemed to have grown by several miles. His breath was laboured now, he could feel the blood seeping through his shirt under the light mail as it flowed from his nose, mouth and eyes. He spat it out every few yards and forced Marven’s mount to a faster pace.

He was obliged to jump the horse over the remnants of the gate, clattering through the cobbled streets beyond, finding bodies and destruction everywhere. Blood ran in rivers along the rain-soaked gutters, streaming in red streaks from the corpses he found at every turn. Some Volarians were stumbling about but offering no threat, madness plain on their faces. The defenders had constructed walls within the city, forcing him to find the breaches made by the Volarians before proceeding further, the delay making him seethe in frustration as the song rose ever higher.

He was compelled to dismount a short distance from the cathedral, the streets so choked with bodies even Marven’s veteran warhorse shied from going further. He moved on, his vision clouding as he tripped over bodies, stumbling to his knees beside a young man with a short sword buried in his back and an axe resting under his pale hand. Little more than a boy.

He forced himself upright and staggered on, the sounds of battle reaching his ears. He emerged into an avenue of flattened buildings, finding five thousand or more Volarians assailing another wall. They had managed to batter a breach through it, bodies piling up as a furious fight raged just within the wall. Another shout from the song confirmed it, she was there, in the thick of it. Where else would she be?

“We do this,” Hera Drakil said, appearing at his side, his many many warriors running from the surrounding streets.

“I should appreciate it very much,” Vaelin replied.

The Volarian host made a curious sound as the Seordah charge struck home, a great sighing groan of absolute despair. Days of torment suffered within these walls only to earn a swift death at the hands of warriors they had no hope of matching.

He closed his eyes as the sounds of battle faded. Stop now, he told the song, but he was so weary and so very cold.

“You don’t need to kneel for me.”

She stood over him, looking down with a warm smile, a sword of Renfaelin design resting on her shoulder, the blade bloody from end to end.

“Is that it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I never found it.”

His vision dimmed, blackness descending for a moment. When it faded he found he was on his back, her face only inches away, tears falling onto his bloody face. “I always knew you would come.”

He managed to raise a hand and trace his fingers through her hair. Kept it long I see. “What sort of brother would I be if I hadn’t?” He coughed, a plume of blood erupting from his mouth, staining her face.

“DON’T!” she screamed as his vision dimmed again. “DON’T! Please don’t . . .”

Cold. Absolute, inescapable cold. Cutting through skin and bone to clutch at his heart. Yet there was no tremble to his limbs, no mist to his breath. He blinked as his vision cleared, seeing a wall. He turned and his boots raised an echo, very loud and very long. No echo was ever so long.

The room was a simple cube of roughly worked stone, a single window in the wall to his right. In the centre stood a plain table fashioned from some dark wood, the surface gleaming even though he could see no lamp or light from the window. A woman sat on the opposite side of the table, regarding him with an expression that was equal parts fury and scrutiny. An empty chair waited before him.

“I know who you are,” the woman said, her voice birthing another echo of unnatural length.

Vaelin moved towards the chair, pausing as a faint sound came to him, a soft plaintive call. Did someone call my name?

“Was it Tokrev, I wonder?” The woman angled her head, eyes narrowing. “No, I don’t think so.”

She was dark-haired, young and beautiful, her eyes bright with intelligence and a greater depth of malice than he had seen before. It reminded him of the thing that had lived in Barkus, but he saw now that had been a spiteful child compared to her.

“You know who I am,” he said. “Who are you?”

She gave a mirthless smile. “I’m a songbird in a cage. And now so are you.”

He tried to summon the blood-song, searching for some guiding note but finding nothing.

“No songs here, my lord,” the woman told him. “No gifts. Only those he brings and they are rarely welcome.”

“He?”

A spasm of fury passed over her face and her hand slammed onto the table. “Don’t play with me! Do not act the fool! You know very well where you are and who holds you here.”

“As he holds you.”

The woman reclined, relaxing with a soft laugh. “His punishments are cruel but unimaginative, for the most part. This room, the cold, no other distraction save memory, and I have many of those.” Her hand moved to her chest, massaging the flesh between her breasts, eyes growing distant. “Did you ever love anyone, my lord?”

The sound came again, louder this time and he was certain it was a voice speaking his name, distant but familiar.

He ignored her question and went to the window, looking out on a shifting landscape, the sky a rapidly swirling canvas of cloud above tall mountains. He watched as they slowly descended, the slopes become less steep, richer in grass until he looked upon a land of gently rolling hills.

“It changes by the hour,” the woman told him. “Mountains, oceans, jungles. Places he knew once I suspect.”

“Why did he put you here?” Vaelin asked. “What was your crime?”

Her hand stopped moving on her chest and she returned it to the table. “Loving and not being loved in return. That was my crime.”

“I’ve met your kind before. There’s no love in you.”

“Trust me, my lord. You have never met my kind.” She nodded at the table.

The flute hadn’t been there before but now it sat on the gleaming wooden surface. It was a simple instrument, fashioned from bone, the surface stained with age and use, but somehow he knew if he picked it up and put it to his lips the tune it birthed would be very strong.

“VAELIN!”

There was no mistaking it now, a voice beyond this room was calling his name with enough power to shake the stones.

“He’ll give it back to you,” the woman said, inclining her head at the flute. “It’s a hard thing for those like us to live without a song.”

The room shuddered, the bricks beginning to break apart as something assailed them from outside, mortar and stone fragmenting and warm white light breaking through the cracks.

“Just pick it up,” the woman said. “We’ll sing together when he sends us back. And what a song we’ll make.”

He looked at the flute, hating himself for how much he wanted it. “Do you have a name?” he asked the woman.

“A hundred or more, probably. But my favourite was the one I earned before I accepted the Ally’s kind bargain. At my father’s behest I once laid waste to a land in the south where the local savages were proving troublesome. A superstitious folk, they thought me a witch. Elverah, they called me.”

“Elverah.” He looked again at the flute as the wall behind him gave a loud crack of shattered stone. He met her gaze and gave a smile before turning his back on her and the flute. “I’ll remember.”

He heard her shouting as the wall exploded, light flooding the room and banishing the cold. “Tell your brother!” she cried. “He could kill me a thousand times and it would change nothing!”

The light came for him, embracing him with its blessed warmth, drawing him from the room. It seemed to seep into him as he was pulled away, bringing visions of a face he knew. “You shine brightly too,” Dahrena told him. “So easy to find.”

Light filled his gaze, the last vestiges of cold banishing . . . but then a final shiver as another voice reached him. Not the woman this time, something far older, the voice free of all expression save certainty. “We will make an ending, you and I.”

He woke with a shout, convulsing and shivering, as cold and weary as it was possible to be and still live. He felt a weight on his chest, finding his hands tangled in long silken tresses. Dahrena groaned and raised her head, her face pale and eyes dim with exhaustion. “So easy to find,” she said softly.

“Vaelin!” Reva was kneeling at his side, smiling and weeping. Behind her he could see Hera Drakil standing with his warriors, a deep disquiet on his hawk face.

“I thought it was Darkblade,” he replied.

She laughed and pressed a kiss to his forehead, tears flowing freely. “There is no Darkblade. It’s a story for children.”

He put an arm around her shoulders as she wept, searching inside himself and knowing what he would find. It’s gone. The song is gone.