Tower Lord

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lyrna

Why hasn’t she killed me?

Davoka’s eyes flared in warning, her hand firm on Lyrna’s mouth, it smelt of woodsmoke. Lyrna swallowed, did her best to stem the harsh torrent of her breathing and raised a questioning eyebrow. Davoka’s eyes flicked to her right. Lyrna strained to see but could only discern the dim greyness of the tent wall, still thumping in the mountain wind. She looked back at Davoka, both eyebrows raised now. The Lonak woman’s eyes were elsewhere, gaze tracking along the tent wall, the bare muscle of her arms tensed in readiness.

It was only the smallest sound, a faint whisper of parting cloth. Lyrna’s eyes picked out a pinprick of gleaming metal in the tent wall, growing into a knife point then a blade at least ten inches long. The whisper grew into a shout of ripping canvas as the knife slashed downward, the tent wall parting to reveal the face of a man, a Lonak warrior if Lyrna was any judge, shaven-headed and tattooed across the forehead, teeth bared in a killing snarl.

Davoka lunged, her knife taking the Lonak under the chin, his head jerking up and back as she forced it deeper, finding the brain. She pulled the knife free and threw her head back, her scream vast and savage. From outside came an instant clamour of alarm, shouted orders and the cacophony of men in combat.

Davoka hefted her spear, pushing her gore-covered knife into Lyrna’s hand. “Stay here, Queen.” Then she was gone, diving through the gash in the canvas into the blackness beyond.

Lyrna lay on her back, the bloody knife sitting in her open hand, wondering if a person’s heart could truly burst with overuse.

“HIGHNESS!” A rasping shout from outside. Brother Sollis.

“Here,” she croaked through a sand-dry throat, coughed and tried again. “I’m here! What is happening?”

“We are betrayed! Stay insi-” He broke off and there came a harsh clang of colliding steel followed by a grunt of pain. More shouts, voices raised in cries of challenge or shock. She could hear many Lonak voices amongst the riot of sound.

A sharp thwack jerked her gaze to the roof of the tent where a steel-tipped arrow dangled from the canvas, caught by its fletching.

GET UP! her mind screamed.

Another thwack, another arrow, lower this time, coming straight through the fabric to thump into the fur an inch from her leg, the shaft quivering.

Get up! If you stay here, you will die!

The knife sat ungripped in her open palm, a bead of blood dripping from the hilt and onto her skin. The heat of it was enough to shock her into motion. She gripped the knife, gore seeping between her fingers, and forced herself to her feet and out into the night.

The campfire surged as Sollis threw another log on the flames, bloodied sword in his other hand, ducking as an arrow buzzed overhead. The two other brothers, Hervil and Ivern, were positioned in front and rear of her tent, strongbows ready with notched arrows. Out in the darkness beyond the fire battle raged unseen, the tumult of combat revealing no sign of victory or defeat.

“Stay down, Highness!” Sollis commanded and Brother Hervil reached up to grasp her forearm, pulling her to her knees.

“My apologies, Highness,” Hervil said with a grin. He was a veteran brother, his craggy features painted red in the fire.

“How many are there?” she asked him.

“Hard to say. We’ve killed at least ten already. That Lonak bitch has fucked us.” He grinned again. “Pardon my low-born tongue, Highness.”

“The Lonak bitch just saved my life,” she told him. “She’s not to be harmed, do you hear?”

A harsh yell drew her gaze to the south of the camp where three Lonak warriors came screaming into the light, war clubs and hatchets raised. Brother Hervil loosed two arrows, so fast his hands blurred, two Lonak falling. Sollis dispatched the third with a single sword-stroke, combining a parry with a riposte in the same fluid arc of steel. The Lonak staggered back, throat agape, and Hervil put a shaft in his chest for good measure.

“Thirteen,” he chuckled. “Haven’t had such a fruitful night for years.”

Something thrummed in the darkness off to the left and Hervil threw himself onto Lyrna, bearing her to the ground with a suffocating weight, jerking as something made a hard smacking sound. She squirmed beneath him, fighting to draw enough breath to voice a protest, then felt a warm torrent staining her shift. Hervil’s face was inches from hers, features slack, half-lidded eyes dim. She touched a hand to his craggy face, feeling the warmth drain away. Thank you, brother.

“Highness!” Sollis hauled the body off, pulling her upright, eyes widening at the blood making the shift cling to her breasts and belly. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “Where is the Lord Marshal?”

“Fighting I assume.” He turned back to the darkness, eyes searching, sword point held low. The song of battle was fading, the shouts and thuds of combat lessening until the only sound was the ceaseless northern wind.

“Have they gone?” Lyrna asked in a whisper. “Did we win?”

Something leapt out of the black void beyond the fire, something pale and quick and lithe, dodging under Sollis’s sword, side-stepping Brother Ivern’s arrow, launching itself at Lyrna, hatchet raised. Lyrna’s shock was such that time slowed as the figure descended towards her, her eyes drinking in every detail of the assailant. It was a girl, no more than sixteen years in age, chest encased in a wolf skin, finely muscled arms bringing her hatchet down, and her face . . . There was no snarl here, no screaming fury, this was a face of serene joy and doll-like beauty.

Lyrna lurched backwards, the knife in her hand coming up in a slash born of pure instinct. It jarred on something, coming loose and tumbling off into the dark. The Lonak girl reeled away, spinning to the ground. Her gaze flashed at Lyrna, a red line running from her chin to her brow. Her eyes are very blue, Lyrna noted.

Sollis charged the Lonak girl, sword arcing down with enough force to cleave her to the ribs, meeting only hard ground as she leapt clear, pivoting to face him, hatchet ready.

“Kiral!” Davoka came running out of the blackness, leaping the fire, bloodied spear levelled.

The Lonak girl’s gaze flashed at Lyrna, blue eyes bright and joyous, blood streaming from her new scar, teeth bared in a fierce smile. Then she simply wasn’t there, vanished into the night like a snuffed candle.

“Kiral!” Davoka screamed after her, halting at the edge of the firelight. “Ubeh vehla, akora!” Please, sister, come back.

Nersa was dead, pierced by half a dozen arrows a few yards from her tent. Lyrna assumed the Lonak had mistaken them in the darkness. If so, the lady may well have saved her life by drawing so many arrows. She watched a guard sergeant wrap the body in a cloak to be taken to the base of the hill where a large pyre was under construction.

“A moment please,” she said as he lifted the body. There should be no guilt, she thought, knowing it to be a lie, her hand tracing through the lady’s hair, finding something amongst the tresses, a tortoiseshell comb of scant value. I didn’t kill her.

“Thank you,” she told the sergeant, taking the comb and stepping back.

They counted over a hundred Lonak bodies, mostly boys and men but also a dozen or so women and girls. Lord Marshal Al Smolen, sporting a bandaged hand and a spectacular multi-coloured bruise on his jawline, reported the loss of twenty-three guardsmen plus six more wounded. Over half the horses had been lost, scattered or slaughtered, Sable amongst the dead. Lyrna had only a small affection for the animal but still felt the loss. The remaining mounts were all bred for war and unlikely to offer so comfortable a ride.

Davoka sat by the smouldering remains of the fire, spear resting on her shoulder. She had said nothing since the battle, offering neither argument nor contrition despite several calls for her immediate execution, all of which Lyrna had refused.

“She led us into this, Highness,” Smolen insisted. “Half my men are dead thanks to this wolf bitch.”

“My word is given, Lord Marshal,” Lyrna told him. “Do not make me give it again.”

She went to sit opposite Davoka, seeing the sadness that shrouded her face. “It’s time for truth between us,” she said in Lonak.

The Lonak woman’s head rose, a faint glimmer of amused surprise in her eyes. “So I see.”

“The Mahlessa’s rule is not complete, is it?”

“She commands peace with the Merim Her, the greatest and most vile enemy in our history. There was . . . disagreement amongst the clans. Voices were raised in dissent. We killed those who questioned her, of course, but there were always more, too many to kill. The Mahlessa named them as varnish, to be driven from their clans, and so they formed a clan of their own. The Lonakhim Sentar.”

“Sentar? I do not know this word.”

“It’s rarely spoken now, a tale from the days before your people came across the sea to steal our lands. The Sentar were a war-band composed of the greatest Lonakhim warriors, chosen for outstanding skill and courage, the Mahlessa’s own shining spear. The Sentar won our greatest victory over the Seordah, and would have led us to dominion over all this land but for the arrival of the Merim Her. They were all killed in the Great Travail, when our people fled to the mountains, holding the pass long enough to allow the remnants of the Lonakhim to secure a new home here. Now they are reborn, a twisted perversion of past glory.”

“The girl who tried to kill me, she is your sister?”

Davoka closed her eyes and nodded. “Kiral. We were born to the same mother. The gods were kind to take her before she could see what she has become.”

“And what is that?”

“Something vile, something that kills without reason and speaks poison. She is their leader, called the true Mahlessa by those varnish who follow her.” She opened her eyes, meeting Lyrna’s gaze. “It was not always this way with her, something . . . changed her.”

“What something?”

Davoka fidgeted in discomfort. “That which is known only to the Mahlessa.”

Lyrna nodded, knowing she would reveal nothing more on this subject. “Will she come for us again?”

“When she sent me to the pass the Mahlessa dispatched three war-bands to hunt down the Sentar. It was hoped this would force them to fight instead of coming for you. It seems my sister managed to evade them.” She glanced over her shoulder at the base of the hill where Smolen’s guardsmen were piling up the Lonak bodies. “The Sentar are strong in number, and they will not stop.”

“Then we shouldn’t linger.” It was Brother Sollis, speaking in Realm Tongue. Behind him a pyre was burning, Brother Hervil’s body wreathed in flame. The Order was never slow in seeing to its dead. “If we push hard, we can be back at the pass before nightfall. I’ll find you a suitable horse, Highness.” He turned to go.

“Brother Sollis,” Lyrna said, making him pause. “This expedition is under my command and I have given no instruction to end it.”

Sollis’s gaze flicked to Davoka then back to Lyrna. “You heard what she said, Highness. There can be no chance of success now. We cannot survive another attack on this scale.”

“He’s right,” Davoka said, switching back to Realm Tongue. “Too many men, too many wounded. We leave a trail my sister can follow eyes closed.”

“Is there another way?” Lyrna asked. “A path for a smaller party, harder to track?”

“Highness . . .” Sollis began.

“Brother,” Lyrna cut in. “The Order does not answer to the Crown, it is true. Therefore, you have my leave to depart without risk of disfavour and my thanks for your service.” She turned back to Davoka. “Is there another way?”

The Lonak woman gave a slow nod. “Yes. But great risk, and there can only be . . .” She grimaced, then held out a hand, fingers splayed. “This many. No more.”

Five, including me. Meaning only four swords against the Departed know how many more of these Sentar. She knew Sollis spoke wisdom, the correct course was a speedy return to the pass and on to the much-missed comforts of the palace. But Davoka’s words had added fuel to her burning need for evidence. That which is known only to the Mahlessa . . . There was evidence here, she knew it, and more to be had at the Mountain of the High Priestess.

She got to her feet and beckoned Smolen over. “Choose your three best men,” she told him. “They will accompany me north. Brother Sollis will guide you back to the pass.”

“I prefer to stay, Highness,” Sollis said. She could tell he was fighting to keep the anger from his voice. “With your permission, Brother Ivern and I will go with you.”

“And I am my best man, Highness,” Smolen informed her. “And even if I wasn’t, you must know I would never leave your side.”

“My thanks to you both.” She pulled her fur about her shoulders, glancing up at the forbidding peaks ahead, the tops shrouded in cloud, hearing a distant note of thunder. Let’s see what you can tell me.

Her new horse was named Verka, a Lonak word which meant North Star in honour of the single blaze of white on his chest. He had been Brother Hervil’s mount and was, Sollis assured her, the most placid horse in the Order’s stables. From the way Verka reared and tossed his head as she hauled herself into the saddle she suspected the dutiful brother was merely attempting to salve her trepidation. However, despite her initial misgivings, the warhorse proved an obedient mount, responding to her touch willingly enough as they followed Davoka’s swift-trotting pony.

She led them south for several hours, setting a punishing pace, the journey unbroken by any rest stops. Sollis rode in front of Lyrna with Ivern behind and Smolen bringing up the rear, their eyes constantly scanning horizon and hilltop. Lyrna had been similarly vigilant when the journey began but lost her enthusiasm as the strain took its toll. Why couldn’t I have been more interested in physical pursuits? she grumbled, feeling every step of Verka’s hooves on the rough ground. One hour away from my books wouldn’t have killed me. But this bloody horse might.

They turned north again before twilight, spending an uncomfortable and fireless night in the lee of a great boulder, the others taking turns on watch whilst Lyrna huddled in her furs, exhaustion for once ensuring sleep, albeit fitful. Her dreams were different this night, instead of the dying King, Nersa came to stand before her, back in Lyrna’s private garden at the palace. The lady smiled and laughed, as she often had, bent to smell the flowers and run a hand through the cherry blossoms, and all the time blood flowed from the arrows jutting from her chest and neck, leaving a red trail wherever she walked . . .

Despite the many aches and pains that greeted Lyrna’s waking, she was thankful when morning came.

Lyrna met the ape that afternoon. For hours they had pressed on through a succession of gully and canyon, laboured up a score of hills, always climbing, the air growing ever more chill and the trail ever more narrow.

Davoka called a welcome halt when they had climbed an especially rock-strewn path to a summit of sun-bathed boulders. Their onward course was obvious; an ever-more-narrow and winding trail atop a ridge snaking away towards two great mountains, the largest they had seen so far. The ridge seemed to disappear into a gap between the peaks. Eyeing the constricted and winding path, Lyrna could appreciate why Davoka had insisted on keeping their party small. Guiding a full company of guards along this path would have taken days if not weeks.

She slid from Verka’s back with the now-customary groan and found a large boulder behind which to evacuate the royal bladder. She was rising from the crouch when she saw it, no more than a dozen paces away. An ape. A very large ape.

It sat regarding her with black eyes above a doglike snout, a sprig of half-chewed gorse in its leathery paw. Seated, it was at least five feet tall and covered from brow to rump in thick grey fur, ruffling in the wind.

“Don’t look at its eyes, Queen.” Davoka stood atop the boulder behind her. “Pack leader. He’ll take it as a challenge.”

Lyrna duly averted her eyes from the ape’s face, keeping it in sight with furtive glances as it rose to stand on all fours, a wide yawn revealing a set of vicious fangs. It raised its head to utter a short coughing hoot and five more apes appeared out of the surrounding rocks. They were marginally smaller but no less threatening in appearance.

“No moving, Queen,” Davoka said softly. Lyrna noted she grasped her spear with a reverse grip, ready for throwing.

The pack leader gave another hoot and bounded away, leaping from one rock to another with soundless precision, the five others following with similar expertise. Within seconds they had vanished.

“Don’t like our smell,” Davoka said.

Lyrna walked back to their temporary camp on weak legs, her heart hammering, slumping down next to Smolen with an explosive sigh.

He frowned at her. “Is something wrong, Highness?”

“You are mad, woman!” Sollis barked at Davoka. “This is your safe path?”

The mountain loomed ahead of them, slopes of black ash broken by huge boulders ascending to a summit wreathed in roiling smoke, lit by the occasional burst of orange fire accompanied by a vast rumbling that made the earth tremble beneath their feet.

“No other way,” Davoka insisted. She was busy divesting her pony of tack, throwing the saddle down the slope and freeing its head of the bridle. She gave the animal an affectionate scratch on the nose then slapped a hand against its rump, sending it trotting back along the ridge-top trail they had followed for the five days it had taken to get here. “Can’t take horses,” the Lonak woman said. “Slope too steep and they don’t like fire.”

“I don’t like fire,” Lyrna told her.

“No other way, Queen.” Davoka hefted her spear, shouldered her leather satchel and began to ascend without another word or a backward glance.

“Highness,” Sollis said, “Forgive me but I must advise . . .”

“I know, brother. I know.” She waved him to silence, watching Davoka ascending the ash slope with her long-legged strides. “Does it have a name? This mountain.”

It was Brother Ivern who answered. A much younger man than Sollis or the fallen Hervil, he had nevertheless acquired an impressive knowledge of the Lonak and their lands. “They call it the Mouth of Nishak, Highness,” he said. “Nishak being their god of fire.”

Lyrna took hold of her skirt, lifting it clear of the ash and starting forward. “Well, let’s hope he’s sleeping. Loose the horses, good sirs.”

But Nishak, it seemed, wasn’t sleeping today. Several times Lyrna found herself stumbling to her knees as the mountain shook, feeling a rush of heat as the summit belched fire into the sky. The air stank of sulphur and the ash made her cough to the point of retching, but she kept on, endeavouring to keep Davoka’s striding form in sight. Finally the Lonak woman paused to rest, sheltering on the cooler side of a boulder, taking a sip from her water flask as Lyrna collapsed beside her.

“This.” Davoka slapped a hand on Lyrna’s riding gown. “Too heavy, take it off.”

“I don’t have anything else,” Lyrna gasped and gulped water from her own flask.

Davoka opened her satchel and extracted a jerkin and trews of soft leather. “I have. Long for you, but I make them fit.” She laid out the trews for tailoring and drew her knife. “You strip.”

Lyrna glanced at the three men standing nearby, all studiously looking elsewhere. “If any of you turn, I’ll see you in the Black Hold,” she warned them.

Sollis said nothing, Smolen coughed and Ivern suppressed a chuckle.

Standing naked on the slopes of a volcano whilst a Lonak woman dressed her was one of the more bizarre experiences Lyrna could recall, made somewhat more awkward by Davoka’s frank words of appraisal. “Firm thighs, hips not too narrow. Good. Strong children you’ll bear, Queen.”

Brother Ivern snickered, earning a harsh rebuke from Sollis.

It was done within the hour. Princess Lyrna Al Nieren stood in Lonak clothing, ash staining her face and her unwashed hair hanging in a long greasy mass. Davoka had offered to shear it for her but she refused, tying it back with a leather thong which at least kept it out of her eyes. “How do I look, Lord Marshal?” she asked Smolen, knowing he was the most likely to lie.

“Glorious as ever, Highness,” he assured her with impressive sincerity.

“Brother!” Ivern called to Sollis, pointing down the slope.

Sollis shielded his eyes to take in the view. “I see them. About fifty, I’d say.”

“Closer to sixty,” Ivern said. “We have perhaps five miles on them.”

Lyrna followed their gaze, seeing a line of ponies making their way along the ridge. Sentar.

“Good,” Davoka commented, resuming her climb.

“Good?” Lyrna said. “How can this be good? We were supposed to lose them by coming here.”

Davoka didn’t turn. “No, Queen. We weren’t.”

Lyrna sighed, gathered her things and started after her.

The sun was beginning to dip behind the mountains by the time they reached the summit, a caldera fully half a mile across. Smoke rose in unending billowing columns and the stench of sulphur was so thick Lyrna had to fight her rising gorge. She risked a glance over the rim of the caldera, beholding a vision of roiling lava pools spouting gobbets of molten rock into the air, before the heat forced her back. Davoka sat a few yards below the rim, gazing intently at the sun as it descended below the jagged peaks to the west. Her gaze occasionally flicked to the dim shapes of their pursuers, a rising cloud of dust betraying their progress.

“Ready your bows,” she told Sollis and Ivern. “Might need to slow them down.”

“We’re just going to sit here?” Lyrna demanded. She had tried to keep her temper in check so far but the circumstances were fast eroding her self-control. “Shouldn’t we, perhaps, be moving on with all possible haste?”

Davoka shook her head, speaking in Lonak. “Nishak will kill us if we take another step. We must await his blessing.” She shifted her gaze to the sun again, waiting until it was fully concealed by the mountains, then closed her eyes and began to chant.

“Are you . . .” Lyrna sputtered and spat ash from her mouth. “Are you praying to your god? Have I followed you here and doomed myself and these men so you can seek aid from an imaginary magic man who lives in a mountain?”

Davoka ignored her, eyes closed and chanting.

Lyrna was tempted to shake the Lonak woman but realised it would most likely earn an angry blow which in turn would force Smolen to kill her, or at least try to. She could only stand and watch, fuming like the mountain they stood on, as darkness descended.

“She’s not praying, Highness,” Ivern told her, watching the Lonak woman with an intense curiosity. “She’s counting.”

“That’s three hundred yards by my reckoning,” Sollis said, eyes fixed on the Sentar below, bow in hand. The slopes were bathed in an orange glow, the mountain’s fiery breath reflecting from the smoke clouds. He took an arrow from his quiver and notched it, drawing and loosing with only the barest hesitation to fix his aim. Lyrna watched the arrow arc towards the cluster of pursuing Sentar, falling amongst them with little sign of having caused any injury or delay.

Ivern moved off to the left and both brothers began loosing arrows in a slow, deliberate repetition of notch, aim and release. Lyrna fancied she saw a brighter plume of dust rise from the onrushing Sentar which might indicate one or more had fallen. In any case, they showed no sign of slowing.

“I’m not to be taken alive, Lord Marshal,” she told Smolen.

Davoka stopped counting and rose to her feet. “Sentar don’t want you alive,” she said, then called to Sollis and Ivern. “Save your arrows. No need now.”

“So where is he?” Lyrna said, too tired and defeated to even feel angry. “Where is the great Lonak fire go-”

The mountain shook with a violence they hadn’t felt before, tipping them off their feet, a fresh blossoming of black smoke rose from the caldera and barely fifty yards below the summit molten lava erupted from a dozen different places. It gushed forth in glowing streams, flowing down the slope and coalescing into a great river of fire, the Sentar disappearing amidst the fiery current, the roar of the mountain drowning out the screams they must have voiced.

Davoka got to her feet, arms raised to bathe in the heat, reciting in Lonak, “At the count of two hundred and twenty past the fall of the sun on the third day of the sixth month, Nishak speaks and blesses the south face of the mountain. Know this and mark it well, for Nishak is the most generous of gods.”

The descent of the north side of the Mouth of Nishak took most of the night. There was less ash on these slopes and Lyrna found the going easier, though the growing chill as they left the fiery warmth of the mountain behind made her pine for her heavy riding gown.

They made shelter on a narrow ledge snaking alongside the base of the mountain, a rocky overhang providing shelter from a fresh downpour. Davoka allowed their first fire in days, fashioned from the stunted gorse bushes that sprouted between the rocks. Lyrna kept as close to it as she could, too chilled to sleep. Davoka took the first watch as the men slept, the brothers in eerie silence, Smolen tossing fitfully. She sat on the lip of the ledge, long legs dangling over the sheer drop of more than a hundred feet, spear within easy reach.

“I regret my anger,” Lyrna told her through chattering teeth. “My words were foolish. I didn’t mean to insult your god.”

Davoka shrugged, replying in Lonak. “Your insult means nothing to Nishak. He has always been here. He will always be here. Whenever the Lonakhim have need of fire.”

“I-I’m sorry, also, for your . . .” Lyrna spasmed with cold and forced the last words out. “. . . sister. A death like that, is n-not to be wished on . . . anyone.”

Davoka turned to her, eyes narrowed in concern. She rose and knelt by Lyrna, taking hold of her hands then touching knuckles to her forehead. “Too cold, Queen.”

She shrugged off her fur vest, placing it around Lyrna’s shoulders then pulling her close, arms and legs wrapped tight around her. Lyrna was too weak to protest.

“My sister lives, Lerhnah,” Davoka whispered to her. “My sister who is not my sister. I feel it. She rages out there in the dark. She’s lost us for now, but she’ll find us soon. Whatever took her chose well, her skills are great indeed.”

“Wh-whatever took her?”

“It was not always this way with her. She was . . . never a warrior. A skilled huntress yes, Kiral means wildcat in the ancient tongue. She could track prey with such skill many thought she carried the gods’ blessing. But she never sought battle, not even against your kind.

“Then came the day she happened upon one of the great apes of the western hills. It was birthing season and they are fierce in protecting their young. Kiral was badly mauled. She lingered for days, seemingly beyond the shaman’s skills. The Mahlessa had given me leave to be at her side for the end. I sat and watched her until all breath was gone. She died Lerhnah, I saw it. It shames me but I wept for my sister, the only tears I have ever shed, for she was precious to me. Then she spoke, she was dead but she spoke, ‘Tears are not fitting for a Mahlessa’s guard.’ I looked into her eyes, her living eyes, and I did not see my sister there, nor have I since.”

“Will you . . . fight her . . . when she comes again?”

“I will have to.”

“Will you . . . kill her?” Lyrna’s head began to loll and her vision swam as exhaustion began to overtake her.

“No!” Davoka shook her, drawing a groan of complaint. “Can’t sleep now. Sleep now, won’t wake up come the light.”

Won’t wake up come the light . . . Would it really be so bad? What was she now in any case? Useless, childless, unwed sister to a foolish king, seeking proof of the impossible through this mad endeavour. Nersa died, Brother Hervil died. Why shouldn’t I?

“Lerhnah!” Davoka took hold of her face, shaking it, hard. “No sleep.”

Her head came up with a snap and she blinked, chill-born tears streaming from her eyes. “Do you love your husbands?”

Davoka’s face showed a momentary relief then she laughed. “That is your word.”

“What is the Lonak word?”

“Ulmessa.” Great and deep affection. Affection for one not of your blood.

“You feel this for them?” Lyrna asked.

“Sometimes, when they’re not doing the foolish things men do.”

“Years ago I felt it, all the time. For a man who looked at me and saw something vile.”

“Then he was a fool and you are well rid of him.”

“He was no fool, he was a hero, not that he knew it. We could have ruled the Realm together, he and I, as my father had ordained. It would all have been so very easy.”

“Your father was leader of all the Merim Her, was he not?”

“He was. Janus Al Nieren, Lord of Asrael and ruler by conquest of the Unified Realm.”

“Then why did you not honour his wishes? Take this man you wanted, be king and queen together?”

“Because I couldn’t kill my brother, as you can’t kill your sister.”

Brother Sollis stirred and rose, barely making a sound, pausing at the sight of a half-naked Davoka embracing the Princess of the Unified Realm.

“Queen is too cold,” Davoka told him. “Fetch more wood.”

She had recovered enough by morning to stumble in Davoka’s wake as they reached a valley floor and continued north. She was aware the Lonak woman had slowed her pace and found her constant scrutiny disconcerting, as if she feared her charge would drop dead at any moment. Smolen and Ivern took turns helping, lifting her clear of streams and half carrying her when it seemed she was about to collapse. They rested more often today, brief but welcome pauses during which Davoka or Sollis would force her to eat the dried beef and dates the brothers carried, though her appetite seemed to have all but disappeared.

“She needs rest and shelter,” Smolen said late in the afternoon. “We cannot make her go any further.” There was an edge of panic to his voice and his gaze had taken on a certain wild-eyed cast.

“Do not speak for me . . .” Lyrna began then choked off as a coughing fit took her.

Davoka directed a questioning glance at Sollis. The Brother Commander gave a reluctant nod.

“Two or three miles that way,” Davoka said, pointing east with her spear. “A village. We shelter there.”

“Is it safe?” Lyrna croaked.

The guarded look in Davoka’s eyes as she turned away was answer enough.

The village consisted of a few dozen stone-built dwellings contained within a solid wall. It sat atop a pear-shaped hill rising from the floor of a broad valley through which a fast-flowing river wound its way south. Davoka led them to a marker stone at the base of the hill where a rough gravel track ascended to a gate in the wall. She reversed her spear, resting it on the ground, point first, and waited.

“Which clan lives here?” Sollis asked her.

“Grey Hawks,” she responded. “Big hate for the Merim Her. Many Sentar come from Grey Hawk villages.”

“But you expect them to help us?” Lyrna asked.

“I expect them not to question the word from the Mountain.”

It was the best part of an hour before the gate swung open, thirty or more men on ponies emerging, descending the hill at the gallop. “Do not touch your weapons,” Davoka told the men as the Lonak party neared.

The rider at the head of the group reined to a stop a short distance away, holding up a hand to halt the other riders. He was a large man wearing a vest of brown bear’s fur and the most extensive tattoos Lyrna had seen yet, covering his forehead, neck and arms in a whirling confusion of unreadable symbols. He sat regarding them in silence, face impassive, then trotted forward until he loomed over Davoka. A war club and hatchet hung from his belt.

“Servant of the Mountain,” he greeted Davoka.

“Alturk,” she responded. “I require the shelter of your home.”

The big man guided his pony past Davoka and towards where Lyrna was slumped against the packs. She could sense the tension of Smolen and the brothers as they fought the impulse to reach for their swords.

“You are the Queen of the Merim Her,” the big man said to Lyrna in passable Realm Tongue. “I had heard you scarred the false Mahlessa. Now I see that to be a lie.” He leaned forward in his saddle, dark eyes glowering. “You are weak.”

Lyrna forced herself to stand and fought down a cough. “I did scar her,” she replied in Lonak. “Give me a knife and I’ll scar you too.”

Something twitched in the big man’s face and he reclined in his saddle, grunted then turned his mount back towards the village. “My door is always open to the Servants of the Mountain,” he told Davoka before spurring to a gallop.

“You spoke well, Queen,” Davoka told her with grave respect.

“Next to history,” Lyrna replied, “diplomacy is my favourite subject.” With that she vomited before falling into a dead faint.