by Anthony Ryan
“Just don’t get too close when she uses her gift,” he advised.
The struggle to the east wore on for close to two hours. At any moment Vaelin expected one of the lookouts he had placed on the intervening rooftops to come running with word that the Redeemed had broken through. However, when a message did arrive, it was carried by one of Sho Tsai’s personal company of runners recruited from the Imperial Messenger Service.
“The mason warns of an attack from the west, my lord,” the man reported, skidding to a halt and sinking to one knee.
Vaelin was about to ask when he should expect the assault, when the hiss of multiple arrows came from beyond the walls. He reached out to grab the messenger’s arm as the man began to rise from his bow, the arrow that would have ended him flicking his hair instead.
Vaelin moved in a crouch to the battlement, risking a glance around the flank of a crenellation to see a mass of riders galloping in parallel to the wall less than fifty paces out. As they galloped they loosed arrows from their strongbows with a speed and accuracy he felt would have impressed the Eorhil. Before a volley of steel-headed shafts forced him back into cover, he was able to make out the leather armour of their assailants.
“Inform the general we’re under attack by the Tuhla,” he told the messenger. The man bowed and descended the nearest stairwell to sprint off through the streets.
“Save your bolts!” Vaelin snapped at a crossbowman who had bobbed up to loose at the riders. “Heads down.”
He cast his voice along the battlement as he moved among the assembled companies. “This is no more than a nuisance,” he told them, making sure to meet the gaze of as many men as he could. He deliberately spared no glances for the few men lying with arrows embedded in face or neck. He had long learned that command in battle required a certain indifference to such sights.
The arrow storm continued for another minute and then lessened, Vaelin risking another glance over the wall to see the Tuhla had come to a halt, forming a series of loose companies. They maintained their barrage whilst a mass of Redeemed infantry bearing scaling ladders streamed between the gaps in their ranks. Gauging their number was impossible with the Tuhla shafts still raining down, but he saw enough to know they faced an assault equal in scale to that already launched against the eastern flank.
“Crossbows up!” he shouted, the command echoed by sergeants and officers the length of the wall. “Aim your first volley at the riders, then lower sights to the infantry!”
There wasn’t sufficient time for his order to reach the ears of every crossbowman, but enough heard it to send a thick hail of bolts into the halted Tuhla. Riders and horses fell by the dozen, the companies losing cohesion and expanding to obstruct the charge of the Redeemed. The Tuhla arrow storm faded completely as a gap appeared between the infantry closing on the wall and those behind.
Vaelin watched a crossbowman reload his weapon with impressive efficiency. Far Western crossbows differed from those of the Realm, with a longer stave allowing for similar range to a longbow. The man placed his foot in a stirrup where the stock joined the stave, a fresh bolt clenched between his teeth as he used both hands to draw the string into the lock. He brought the weapon up, settling the stock atop his shoulder, nocking the bolt to the string and loosing with a single flick of the trigger before instantly starting the cycle over again. Vaelin tracked the bolt as it arced into the advancing Redeemed, seeing one of those bearing a ladder stumble to the ground. The ladder was swiftly recovered by a dozen of his comrades who clustered at the base of the wall to heave it into place.
Vaelin could hear their battle prayers now; the words were in the Stahlhast tongue, which jarred on the ear at the best of times and became uglier still when shouted from a fanatical throat. Officers ordered oil and rocks thrown as the ladders began to ascend and soon screams replaced prayers. Most of the ladders fell away as the crossbowmen lowered their aim further, some leaning out to loose straight down at the massing infantry below. Of the half-dozen ladders that remained in place, three were swiftly hacked clear by axe-wielding sergeants following Vaelin’s instruction to chop away the top two feet of timber. The Redeemed that attempted to scale the other ladders found themselves assailed from both sides by a hail of bolts. Barely a handful managed to reach the battlements, only to be instantly speared and thrown down. The remaining ladders were all cast away in short order, meaning the second wave of Redeemed had nothing to climb once they struggled clear of the milling Tuhla.
Despite the unceasing attentions of the crossbowmen, the Redeemed failed to retreat, instead gathering up the fallen ladders and attempting to renew their assault. All the while they chanted their mad battle prayer, Vaelin seeing several still mouthing the words even as they lay pierced and bleeding. The hot oil was exhausted but each company had been provided with a large stock of heavy stones cannibalised from houses in the lower tier. Vaelin ran along the battlement, barking orders for the stones to be cast over, and soon a torrent of rubble cascaded down onto the attackers, shattering ladders and crushing skulls. Even then the Redeemed displayed a marked reluctance to retreat, lingering in a large vulnerable mob a short remove from the walls, some throwing the remnants of the stones back at their tormentors whilst others screamed in irrational defiance.
“They remind me a bit of that Cumbraelin lot from the High Keep,” Nortah remarked, loosing an arrow that arced into the gaping mouth of one yelling Redeemed. “At least they had the good manners to die quietly.”
Vaelin had found his brother alongside Ellese at the point where the wall angled towards the northern bastion. From the few arrows remaining in their quivers, it seemed they had done a great deal of service this night. The pair soon exhausted all but their poison-tipped arrows, adding several more corpses to the growing pile of dead. Still the Redeemed continued to stand and rail at the hated unbelievers on the walls, although Vaelin noted the plain beyond was now bare of Tuhla. He resisted the impulse to order the crossbowmen to cease their volleys. Although these people no longer posed a danger tonight, he saw wisdom in Sho Tsai’s tactics. The outcome of this siege would ultimately be decided by numbers, and the more they killed now the less they would face tomorrow.
“Do they want to die?” Ellese wondered, shaking her head as the cluster of Redeemed shrank ever smaller.
“Perhaps,” Nortah said in a cautious murmur, his gaze turned towards the northern bastion. “Or perhaps they just want to keep our sight from something else.”
Following his gaze Vaelin saw there to be some form of commotion atop the bastion, one of the well-ordered regular companies stationed there becoming suddenly disrupted. The troops on either side appeared unaffected and he could hear none of the shouts and chants that might signify an attack. Even so he knew instinctively he was looking upon men in combat. He was about to call for one of the Skulls to go and investigate when the disordered company was engulfed in a bright sheet of flame. Screams pealed into the night and men fell and rolled amid the blaze, the soldiers on either side forced back by the heat.
“Ready your poisoned shafts,” Vaelin told Nortah, starting along the battlement at the run. “Ellese, find Eresa and bring her to the northern bastion.”
They were obliged to force their way through a suddenly unruly throng of soldiers, their ranks bunching as they backed away from the fiery spectacle, deaf to Vaelin’s orders to get back into line. He sought out the officers and sergeants, themselves staring in shock at the flames engulfing the company atop the bastion, but all proving responsive to an authoritative voice after some judicious shouting. With their help, order was swiftly restored, Vaelin hurrying through the straightened ranks to find Jihla on the bastion. The woman was on her knees, face stricken and wet with tears as she stared at the now-smoking remnants of the company a few yards away.
“I had to,” she said in a whisper. She looked up at Vaelin with eyes that begged understanding. “They just started killing each ot
her. Some began to turn on the other soldiers. I had to . . .”
Vaelin fought down his gorge at the thick stench of men roasted in their armour, surveying the carnage as Nortah muttered a name they both rarely spoke: “Caenis.”
“What?” Vaelin said.
“I saw him wreak much the same havoc on the Volarians.” Nortah’s face was dark with unwanted memories. “The day he died in that fucking temple. He bled himself dry saving us.” His brows creased as he continued to examine the scene. “He had to be close for it to work,” he added, turning back to Vaelin. “Close enough to see them.”
“Move back!” Vaelin called out to the surrounding soldiers. “No man is to show himself above the wall!”
The long lines of soldiers duly retreated as the order was relayed through the ranks. Vaelin crouched with Nortah behind one of the tall buttresses that marked the outermost point of the bastion. “Don’t, brother,” Nortah said as Vaelin began to edge forward, hoping to spy their Gifted assailant. “One glance might be enough.”
Vaelin turned at the sound of running feet, seeing Ellese arrive at the head of the Skulls with Eresa in tow. The small woman immediately went to her knees at Jihla’s side, pulling her tearful face into her shoulder.
“Wait a moment,” Vaelin told Nortah, keeping to a crouch as he moved to Eresa’s side. “I have a task for you,” he told her.
“Together we have contrived to do some very stupid things over the years,” Nortah said a few moments later. He stood with his back braced against the buttress, poison-tipped arrow nocked and bowstring half-drawn. His face was tense with a contrasting mix of determination and deep reluctance. “But perhaps none so stupid as this.”
“A power such as this could undo the whole defence,” Vaelin said. “We have to end it now.”
He glanced over his shoulder at Eresa. “Be ready,” he told her. “And don’t hesitate.”
Her reluctance was only marginally less acute than Nortah’s, face pale and eyes wide, but she nodded and pressed a hand to the rear of his hauberk. Vaelin could feel the tremble of it even through the barrier of metal and leather. He took a breath and rose to his full height, stepping out from the edge of the buttress to stand in full view of whatever waited beyond the wall. He blinked in surprise at finding the ground to the front of the bastion free of enemies, although he could see the dark mass of a poised army waiting in the gloom beyond, edged steel and armour catching the moonlight. Then he saw the boy.
He couldn’t have been more than twelve, dressed in the garb of the border folk. He stood close to where the glow of the torches on the wall faded into the shadowed plain. Seeing Vaelin he put his hands to his mouth, a shrill, delighted giggle audible in the otherwise silent air. Even from this distance Vaelin could see the manic gleam in the boy’s eyes, the joyful anticipation that comes from being presented with a new toy. Jumping with excitement, he darted forward, still giggling, bright, excited eyes fixed on Vaelin.
He felt the boy’s gift slide into him like a narrow-bladed dagger, sinking deep into his core and birthing an instant flare of rage. It started as a burning seed in his chest, causing his heart to race and temples to throb. He let out a gasp as what felt like a nest of hornets suddenly burst into life in his head, memories of every battle he had fought flicking through his mind in a blinding torrent. With each thunderous pulse of his heart he felt the pain and fury of every wound suffered and inflicted. His sword was in his hand, though he couldn’t recall drawing it. He felt his lips form a snarl as the rage doubled and then redoubled, consuming him. The world shrank, became a crimson mist of vague figures, the sight of which birthed a hate and a need . . . a need to kill.
He fought it, struggling through the fog to summon all the memories of joy and goodness he could muster. Dahrena’s smile, Dentos’s stories, Aspect Elera that day in the garden . . . His vision cleared enough to allow him the sight of Nortah. His brother stood with his bow fully drawn and aimed beyond the bastion. However, his face lacked the hard focus of an archer about to launch a killing arrow. Instead, Nortah stared at the boy below in frozen horror, lips moving in an appalled murmur. “Just a child . . .”
The rage reasserted itself then, returning the world to a hate-fuelling state, the snarl reclaiming Vaelin’s features as he lunged towards his brother, sword drawn back for the killing stroke . . .
An instant of purest white banished the world. Vaelin felt his back arch, the angle of it so acute he would wonder later why his spine hadn’t snapped. A thrum of power shot through his core and into his limbs, the sword falling from spasming fingers. The white faded and in the brief second it took him to fall into darkness, he saw Ellese, moving as if through thickened air, shoving Nortah aside, teeth bared as she drew her bow. Everything slipped away the moment she loosed, Vaelin hearing Nortah’s despairing cry as he slipped into the black.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
He awoke to the iron sting of blood in his throat and the ache of overstrained muscles. Gagging, he rolled on a hard floor, coughing out a red, globular mass. He gasped and retched for a while longer until the acrid taste faded from his mouth. Subsiding onto his back, he blinked until the tears cleared to reveal the ornate lattice of the temple ceiling.
“Here, drink.”
He blinked again, seeing Sherin kneeling at his side, a cup of water in her hands. He took it and drank, washing away the last dregs of blood from his tongue. Groaning, he sat up, wincing as every sinew in his body seemed to shout a protest.
“Eresa couldn’t quite believe that you lived,” Sherin informed him. “It seems you’re the first to survive her touch.”
Vaelin looked himself over. His hauberk and boots had been removed but his shirt and trews remained. He could see no obvious injury, and the ache was fast diminishing. “Did you . . . ?” he began but stopped when Sherin shook her head.
“Not this time. Despite some violent convulsions your pulse remained strong, so it seemed likely you would recover without my assistance. There’s a strange, hand-shaped mark on your back, which I suspect you’ll carry for the rest of your life. But otherwise . . .”
She trailed off at the sound of panicked whimpering, rising and moving to the side of a soldier lying on a nearby bed. The man’s eyes were bandaged and he flailed his arms about, groping for something as he mumbled a scarcely comprehensible demand that his wife light the lanterns.
Vaelin got to his feet as Sherin calmed the soldier, easing him back into the bed and murmuring soft reassurances until he settled. Surveying the temple, Vaelin saw every bed now held an occupant, whilst the less grievously wounded lay on blankets on the bare floor, as he had. The nuns and monks moved amongst them ceaselessly, each face showing signs of fatigue that told of a long and arduous night. He saw Chien holding a man’s leg still as one of the healers stitched a deep cut in his thigh.
“How many?” Vaelin asked Sherin.
She smoothed a hand over the blinded soldier’s brow and moved away, going to a neat stack of rolled bandages. “The general has ordered that a count of the casualties no longer be kept,” she said, a well-controlled bitterness pervading her tone. “It’s bad for morale, apparently.”
She took a basket and began filling it with bandages. “Time to make my rounds,” she said. “I had to tell the others to wait outside. Your niece was being a particular nuisance, I must say.”
“As is her way.” He reached out to take the basket. “Rounds can wait. I need something from you.”
Juhkar lay on a bunk in one of the monk’s chambers, skin beaded with sweat and eyes dim as he stared up at Vaelin. The bandage on his thigh was clean and spotted with a few drops of blood, but the covering on his shoulder was dark and Vaelin’s nostrils twitched at the familiar scent of corrupted flesh.
“So you got another,” the tracker said, pale lips forming a smile. “Seems you don’t need me after all.”
Vaelin chose not to tell him t
hat the Gifted they had claimed the night before had been a child, maddened and cruel to be sure, but still a child. “Nonsense,” he said, pressing a reassuring hand to Juhkar’s arm. “We need you more than ever.”
He moved to Sherin’s side, lowering his voice. “His shoulder?”
“Gangrene,” she confirmed. “I had an effective curative for it but used most of it healing the Stahlhast boy, the rest during the last few days. I’ve tried a few alternatives, but none work quite as well.”
Sherin angled her head as understanding dawned. “You want me to heal him.” She let out a short laugh and shook her head. “You assign that outlaw woman to render me unconscious if I try to use my gift—don’t lie, she told me that’s why she’s really here—now this. Why?”
“Because I doubt this city will have a chance without him,” Vaelin responded in simple honesty, knowing it would be the only tactic likely to win her over.
She sighed and nodded. “Very well, wait outside. It won’t take long . . .”
“There’s something else,” Vaelin cut in as she started towards the bed. “He’s Gifted.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Something always comes back. Weaver told me that once. Every time he healed someone, they gave something of themselves in return. By the time we parted he was possibly the most powerful and dangerous being alive. If you heal this man, it’s likely you won’t possess just one gift.”
She paused, crossing her arms as she looked hard at Juhkar’s feverish form. “Why tell me this?” she asked, voice faint.
“It has to be a choice you make freely,” he told her. “Knowing full well the consequences.”
