Ravens Shadow 02 - Tower Lord (48 page)

“The key!” Lyrna shouted.

Iltis stared at her, blood streaming down his face, he blinked as the fury abated and understanding returned. With the outlaw’s help he rolled the overseer onto his back, fumbling for the key.

“I can’t . . .” Fermin said in a faint drone of exhaustion. Lyrna turned to see him slumped, blood streaming from his nose and eyes. “I can’t stop him . . . now. You have to be quick.”

“Got it!” Iltis said, pulling the key towards his manacles, stubby fingers attempting to manoeuvre it into the lock.

Something impacted on the hull once more, the planking splintering further, more water gushing forth, the level rising about their feet. Iltis cursed as the key was jerked from his fingers, spinning in the air and landing at Lyrna’s feet. She crouched down, hands plunging into the water, searching, panic threatening to strip her reason away . . . There, smooth metal under her fingertips. She grasped it tight, holding it up to her manacles, forcing the tremble from her hands as she twisted the lock to meet it.
Slow, don’t rush . . .
The key slotted into the lock, turned and the manacles fell away.

She stood, uncaring of the ache that burned in every muscle, surveying the few faces not hidden in shadow, seeing the terror and desperation, the pleading in every gaze.
The steps are near, and this ship will sink before long . . .

She freed Iltis first, then the outlaw. “Guard the steps!”

“What about taking the ship?” the outlaw asked.

Lyrna glanced at the splintered hull and moved on to the next captive, a woman about her own age, sobbing in gratitude. “Soon there won’t be any ship to take,” she said, helping the woman to her feet.

She freed the next man in line and handed him the key. “Free the others. Hurry.”

She went to Fermin, finding him near senseless with exhaustion, although the blood had stopped flowing. “Wake up!” She slapped him across the face. “Wake up, my lord!”

Focus returned to his gaze and he groaned in protest as she hauled him upright. “What is it?” she said. “What did you do?”

“They’re always hungry,” he said in a whisper.

The ship tilted, the captives shouting in alarm as something scraped along the hull, the ever-rising water sloshing about. A guard came trotting down the stairs, probably sent to check on the overseer, drawing up in shock at the sight of Iltis and the outlaw. He turned to shout something at his comrades above but the outlaw whipped his chains around the man’s legs before he could speak, pulling him onto his face and dragging him down the remaining steps. Iltis forced him under the rising waters, keeping him submerged until his thrashing subsided.

“See if he has another key,” Lyrna said.

Iltis searched the corpse but raised his hands in a helpless gesture.

Lyrna surveyed the captives, maybe twenty were free now, and the water kept rising.

“Can you keep it at bay?” she asked Fermin in desperation. “Until everyone is freed?”

He smiled, revealing bloodstained teeth. “Given all I have to give . . .”

The deck exploded, a huge fountain of water gushing forth and in the centre a great triangular head, impossibly wide jaws opening, revealing row upon row of spear-point teeth. The jaws closed on two of the captives, cutting through both like a scythe through straw, the gushing water turned red. The head thrashed from side to side, more wood splintering, the whole ship shuddering with the force, then it was gone.

“Convinced him we were a whale,” Fermin said to Lyrna, the water nearly at his shoulders. He met her gaze. “My mother’s name is Trella. Remember your promise, my Queen.”

Iltis’s large hands grabbed her, pulling her towards the steps as the water rose to cover Fermin’s head. Iltis pushed her ahead of him, up the steps and onto the upper deck. All was confusion, a few freed captives milling about, the crew either frozen in shock or desperately trying to launch their boats, deaf to the orders shouted by a tall man in a black robe.

“We need a boat,” Lyrna said.

Iltis nodded, striding towards the nearest boat, laying about with his chains, the outlaw fighting at his side as they forced a path, the remaining captives following in a dense knot. Some crewmen fought, others fled, most just stood and stared.

Lyrna found one of the guards on his knees, twitching fingers exploring the bleeding gash Iltis had left on his forehead. She pulled the short sword from his scabbard and strode to where the tall black-robed man stood shouting his pointless orders from a hoarse throat. He had his back to her so could offer no defence as she thrust the blade into it. He shouted in shock and pain as he sank to his knees.

“I would like you to know,” she said in Volarian, placing her mouth close to his ear, “that from this day every moment of my life will be spent rending your empire to dust and flame. I’ll give your regards to your collection when I burn your estate to the ground, Master.”

She left the sword embedded in his back and ran to the boat. The crew were now solely concerned with preserving themselves and the prisoners had a free hand in heaving it over the side, a task made easier by the fact that the sea was now almost level with the rail. The outlaw vaulted into the boat, reaching back to help a captive aboard, the slender girl who had been so popular with the crew. Lyrna noticed her nails were bloody and broken.

The ship shuddered once more and the sea swamped the deck. Lyrna found herself lifted by Iltis and thrust at the boat, catching hold of a cleat, the outlaw hauling her aboard with the aid of the others. Iltis pulled himself over the side and lay panting on the deck amidst the survivors. Lyrna counted five in all, ragged, exhausted, and all looking at her.

Not much of a kingdom,
she thought, surveying the boat as they rose and fell at the ocean’s whim. She glanced over her shoulder, seeing the ship’s mainmast slipping beneath the waves amidst a swirling cluster of flotsam. “Do we have any oars?”

T
hey ambushed a Free Sword cavalry patrol on the north road, four men having the misfortune to dismount for a piss close to where they lay in the long grass. Davoka’s spear took one, Frentis’s sword two more whilst Ratter and Draker wrestled the fourth to the ground as he struggled to remount his horse, cudgel and knife rising and falling in a frenzy after which they squabbled over who got his boots. Davoka covered herself with a bloodstained jerkin taken from the man she killed and Frentis took the sword belt and scabbard from another, throwing away the long-bladed weapon favoured by Volarian cavalry and replacing it with his own Asraelin blade. He also found some bandages in the saddlebags to bind his knife wound which had begun to burn with increasing persistence, drawing sweat from his brow and adding an unwelcome cloudiness to his vision.

Daylight was coming on fast as they mounted up and rode west, Arendil riding double with Davoka. Ratter and Draker clearly demonstrated their lack of experience on horseback as they bounced along behind. Frentis had expected them to take to their heels as soon as they reached the beach on the other side of the bluffs, but for some reason they stayed, perhaps fearing his retribution, though he suspected their loyalty had more to do with the Volarians who now seemed to be everywhere. They passed two more patrols in the space of an hour, too distant to offer a threat, but then spied a full regiment of cavalry cresting a hill half a mile ahead.

“This is hopeless, brother,” Ratter said. “The road is choked with the bastards.”

He was right, the most direct route to the Order House was denied them, leaving only one option. “The Urlish,” he said, turning his horse towards the great mass of trees to the north. “Six miles in and we’ll be at the river. We can follow it to the house.”

“Don’t like the forest,” Draker grumbled. “Got bears in there.”

“Rather them than that lot,” Ratter said, kicking at his horse’s flanks. “Come on you bloody thing!”

Frentis spurred to a gallop, hearing a shrill pealing from the Volarian cavalry, similar to a noble’s hunting horn. They had been seen. The trees soon closed in, forcing them to slow to a canter, the ground becoming so rough they had to dismount. Frentis strained for signs of pursuit but heard only the song of the forest.
Probably decided we weren’t worth the effort.

He removed the saddlebags from the horse and slapped a palm against its rump, sending it trotting off into the trees. “We walk from here,” he told the others.

“Thank the Faith!” Draker groaned, climbing down from the saddle and rubbing his backside.

“The house we go to,” Davoka said. “It’s the home of the blue cloaks?”

“That’s right.”
My home.

“These new
Merim Her
seem to know much,” Davoka went on. “They will know of your House, your Order.”

“Yes.” Frentis hoisted the saddlebag over his shoulder and began to walk north.

“Then they will attack it,” she persisted, striding alongside. “Or already have.”

“Then we had best not linger.” The wound in his side flared again, making him hiss in discomfort, but he kept walking.

◆ ◆ ◆

They came to the river around midday and paused for a brief rest, Draker and Ratter collapsing on the bank with a flurry of curses. Frentis took off his shirt and began to change the bandage on his wound. Davoka came over to peer at it, nose wrinkling as she sniffed, saying something in her own language.

“What?” Frentis asked.

“Wound is . . .” She fumbled for the right word. “Sick, more sick.”

“Festering,” he said, fingers gently probing the cut, still leaking some blood but also now swollen and angry, lines of deeper red tracing through the surrounding flesh. “I know.”

“I heal it,” she said, glancing around at the undergrowth. “Need to find the right plants.”

“No time,” Frentis told her, tossing aside the used bandage and extracting another from the saddlebag.

“I do it.” Davoka took the bandage and wrapped it around his midriff, binding it tight. “Shouldn’t leave it like this. Kill you before long.”

Killed by a princess,
he thought.
A fitting end.
“We need to move on,” he said, getting to his feet.

They followed the river west, keeping back from the bank, shrouded by the trees. After a while they saw a barge, drifting with the current, ropes and blocks swaying, the sail tumbled from the rigging and covering the deck. There was no sign of any crew.

“What does it mean?” Arendil wondered.

“We’re close to the house,” Frentis said. “Barges rarely travel this far upriver except to bring us supplies.”

It was another mile before they saw it, a column of black smoke rising above the trees, Frentis breaking into an immediate run. Davoka called to him but he ran on, the wound now a burning cinder in his side and his vision starting to swim. He stumbled to a halt at the sight of the first body, a man in a blue cloak, propped against a tree, face white as marble. Frentis went to him, searching the face but seeing a stranger.
Young, probably newly confirmed.
The brother had a sword within reach of his right hand, the blade dark with dried blood. His chest was encrusted with his own, the earth beneath him damp from it.

“What is death?” Frentis whispered. “Death is but a gateway to the Beyond and union with the Departed. It is both ending and beginning. Fear it and welcome it.”

He got to his feet, swaying a little, wiping sweat from his eyes, stumbling on. He found more bodies, all Kuritai, at least a dozen littering the forest, a few still moving despite their wounds, quickly dispatched with the point of his sword. A hundred yards on he found another brother, a tall man with two arrows in his chest. Master Smentil, the tongueless gardener. You always let me get away, Frentis thought, recalling his apple-stealing missions to the orchard. And they always tasted so sweet.

His gaze was drawn to a strange sight, another dead Kuritai, but instead of lying on the forest floor he was impaled on the broken stump of a tree branch, hanging at least ten feet in the air, blood dripping into a growing puddle below.

Frentis staggered as a fresh bout of pain and fever tore through him. Tearing his eyes from the bloody spectacle of the impaled man, he stumbled on but managed only a few more steps before the pain forced him to his knees.
No!
He tried to crawl forward, seeing more blue-cloaked corpses ahead.
I need to go home.

“Brother?” The voice was soft, cautious and familiar.

Frentis rolled onto his back, chest heaving, dazzled by the sun blazing through the swaying leaves above, the light dimming as a very large shadow came into view. “Were I a suspicious man,” Master Grealin said, “I might see some significance in your returning to us on this particular day.”

The shadow disappeared and Frentis felt himself being lifted, head lolling as he was carried away.

◆ ◆ ◆

It was dark when he awoke, starting from the feel of fingers on his wound. “Lie still,” Davoka said. “You’ll work them loose.”

He relaxed, feeling a bed of soft ferns under his back, looking up at a roof of cloth. “Fat man’s cloak makes a good shelter,” Davoka said, wiping her hands and settling back on her haunches. Frentis looked down at the wound, grunting in disgust at the mass of wriggling white maggots covering it.

“Forests are full of dead things, rotting away,” Davoka said. “The white worms only eat dead flesh. Another day and they clean the wound.” She pressed a hand against his forehead, nodding in satisfaction. “Not so hot, good.”

“Where,” Frentis coughed and swallowed. “Where are we?”

“Deeper in the forest,” she said. “Trees are thick here.”

“The fat man? Is he the only one?”

She gave an expressionless nod. “I tell him you’re awake.”

The years had done little to diminish Master Grealin’s girth, though there was a hollowed-out look to his face as he settled his bulk next to Frentis, flesh hanging from prominent cheekbones below sunken eyes.

“The Aspect?” Frentis asked without preamble.

“Dead or captured, I expect. The storm broke far too quickly, brother, and with the regiment off chasing shadows in Cumbrael . . .” He spread his hands.

“Who did you see fall?”

“Master Haunlin and Master Hutril were both cut down on the walls, though they certainly made them pay for it. I saw Master Makril and his hound charge into the battalion that broke through the gate, but by then the Aspect had ordered us to flee and I was running for the vaults. There’s a passage, built centuries ago for just such an emergency, it leads from the vaults all the way into the Urlish. Myself, Master Smentil and a few brothers made it through but they caught us on the other side.”

Frentis was struck by the absence of emotion in Grealin’s tone, his voice clear but distant, almost as if he were telling one of his innumerable stories of the Order’s history. “They killed the boys too,” he said, sounding more puzzled than outraged. “All the little men, fighting like wildcats to the last.” A faint, fond smile came to his plump lips and he lapsed into silence.

“Does this mean you are now Aspect?” Frentis asked after a moment.

“You know Aspects do not ascend by virtue of seniority. And I hardly think I stand as the best example of the Order’s ethos, do you? But it does mean that, until we can join with our brothers in the north, we are all that remains of the Order in this fief.”

“You were right.” Frentis paused to cough, accepting the canteen Grealin passed to him and gulping some water.

“Right?” he enquired. “About what?”

“To be suspicious of my return. My presence here is no coincidence.”

A glimmer of the old twinkle shone in Grealin’s eye. “I have a feeling you are about to tell me a very interesting story, brother.”

◆ ◆ ◆

“The Lonak woman and the others,” Grealin said some hours later, the forest now pitch-dark save for the glow of the campfire outside the shelter. “I trust you’ve told them nothing of your enforced role in our King’s sad demise?”

“I told them it was an assassin, an assassin I killed. Master, I seek no pardon for my crime . . .”

“It was not your crime, brother. And I can see no good arising from any misguided honesty. Indulge your guilt when this war is won.”

“Yes, Master.”

“This woman with whom you journeyed. You’re certain she’s dead?”

Her red smile, the love shining in her eyes before he twisted the blade . . . Beloved . . .
“Very.”

Grealin fell to silence, lost in thought for several long minutes. When he spoke again it was a reflective murmur. “She stole a gift . . .”

“Master?”

Grealin blinked then turned to him with a smile. “Rest, brother. Sooner you’re mended the sooner we can plan our war, eh?”

“You intend to fight?”

“That is our Order’s charge, is it not?”

Frentis nodded. “I am glad we are of like mind in this.”

“Hungry for revenge, brother?”

Frentis felt a smile come to his lips. “Starving, Master.”

◆ ◆ ◆

He knew it was a dream from the slow even beat of his heart, free of hatred or guilt; the heart of a contented man. He stood on a beach, watching the surf crash on the shore. Gulls soared low over the waves and the air had a bitter chill, harsh on his skin but welcome all the same. There was a child playing near the water’s edge, a boy of perhaps seven years. Nearby a slender woman stood, close enough to catch the boy should he venture too close to the waves. Her face was turned from him, long dark hair twisted and tangled in the wind, a plain woollen shawl about her shoulders.

He walked to her, feet soft on the sand, keeping low. She kept her gaze on the boy, seemingly deaf to his approach, then spinning as he closed, catching the arm he sought to wrap around her neck, a kick sending him sprawling to the sand.

“One day,” he said, scowling up at her.

“But not today, beloved,” she replied with a laugh, helping him up.

She pressed herself against him, planting a soft kiss on his lips, then turned back to the boy as his arms enfolded her. “I did say he would be beautiful.”

“You did, and you were right.”

She shuddered against the wind, pulling his arms tighter about her. “Why did you kill me?”

Tears were falling down his face, his contented heart vanished now, replaced by something fierce and hungry. “Because of all the people we killed. Because of the madness I saw in your eyes. Because you refused this.”

She gasped as his arms tightened, ribs breaking. The boy was caught by a wave and began to jump in the water, laughing and waving at his parents. The woman laughed and coughed blood.

“Did you ever have a name?” Frentis asked her.

She convulsed in his arms and he knew she was smiling her red smile once more. “I still do, beloved . . .”

◆ ◆ ◆

He was woken by shouting, rolling from his bed of ferns and feeling every muscle groan in protest. He looked at the wound, finding it bandaged with no sign of maggots. He was light-headed and possessed of a monstrous thirst, but the fever was gone, his skin cold to the touch and free of sweat. He pulled on his dead man’s jerkin and emerged from the shelter.