by Anthony Ryan
Vaelin turned to Alturk as the howl faded, finding him now on his feet, the defeated slump vanished from his shoulders, his gaze fierce with certainty. “I’ll need that,” he said, gesturing to the war club.
Vaelin glanced at Kiral, expecting her to voice an objection, but her expression was one of grim, if reluctant assent. “Wise Bear has some healing skill,” he told Alturk. “He can stitch your cuts.”
Alturk merely grunted. “Had I been sober, you would be dead now.”
Vaelin sighed the smallest laugh and tossed the war club into his hands. “I know.”
CHAPTER TWO
Reva
The Volarian was dying, she could see it; his skin hanging from the bones of his face like a desiccated mask, eyes dull with defeat and recent suffering. Nevertheless, he had told his tale in an unwavering voice, the tones clear and strong, a man of centuries-long experience in oratory. “The Empress will confront you with only a third of the fleet,” he said to the assembled captains of the Queen’s Host, called to council on her flagship. “After you have defeated them she expects you to sail into the Cut of Lokar. The full fleet will move from the south to cut you off. That is all I know.”
Reva watched as the Shield examined the detailed chart on the table. They had convened on the main deck of the Queen Lyrna, no cabin being large enough to accommodate so many. The sea was calmer today, though still fractious enough to make the boat that had carried her here pitch alarmingly, shipping water with every passing minute. Reva found life at sea not much to her liking, even after she overcame the initial bout of sea-sickness the confines of ship life were trying in the extreme, as was the recurrent ache whenever her thoughts strayed to Veliss and Ellese.
“The Cut of Lokar.” Ell-Nestra’s voice brought her back to the present as he tapped an inlet on the Volarian coast. “The only direct sea-route to Volar. Once we sail in there they could bottle us up with comparatively few ships. Numbers won’t matter for much in such close confines. Plus it’ll be an easy matter for them to garrison the north and south banks against a landing.”
“This new Empress of theirs sets an elegant trap,” Count Marven said with a note of reluctant admiration. “Sadly, it seems she’s no Tokrev.”
“An overcomplicated ruse,” the queen responded, her voice uncoloured by any respect. “I doubt she’s ever played keschet.” She turned to the Shield. “Your advice, Fleet Lord Ell-Nestra?”
“Fighting a needless battle is never a good option,” he replied, his gaze still roaming the map. “Especially at sea where so much is dependent on chance. And manoeuvring a fleet so heavily laden with troops will prove arduous to say the least. I suggest we simply avoid the enemy, taking a north-eastern course to land here.” He tapped a shallow bay a hundred miles north of the Cut of Lokar. “Some of my captains have done a little smuggling on these shores and tell me the beach here is large enough to accommodate at least a fifth of the army at one landing. With the bulk of Volarian forces securing the banks of the Cut, they shouldn’t have more than a handful to oppose us. Once the army is landed the fleet will be free to deal with any threat to our supply lines.”
The queen turned to her Battle Lord. “Count Marven?”
“It will take three days at least to land the entire army, Highness. Whilst most Volarian forces will be concentrated to the south, we must still expect an attack of some kind from the local garrisons before being fully ready to march.”
“We could land farther north,” the Shield conceded with a sigh. “But the coast offers few other landing sites for at least another two hundred miles.”
“The greater the distance to Volar the lesser our chances of success,” the queen said, raising her eyes from the map to scan her captains, her gaze eventually coming to rest on Reva. “And we have one in our ranks who can be considered expert in fending off Volarian attacks.”
“In addition to your archers and guardsmen,” the queen said, “I will give you three regiments of Realm Guard, all veterans, including the Wolf Runners.”
“They will be very welcome, Highness,” Reva replied.
She had been called to the queen’s cabin for a private audience, the first time they had been truly alone. Even the hulking Lord Protector had been ordered to wait outside. Reva found herself once again struck by the queen’s beauty, even the faint white lines tracing back from her brow into the now-lustrous red-gold hair seemed to enhance rather than mar her perfection. More than that was the innate, effortless confidence, the peerless authority that ensured she commanded the attention of every set of eyes in any gathering. Despite this, or perhaps in part because of it, Reva had yet to feel the slightest flicker of attraction for her queen. She was easier to like when burnt, she decided. Now the mask is too perfect.
“Please know you are free to refuse this command,” the queen went on. “Without any disfavour.”
“We came here to finish this,” Reva said. “Besides, I think I’d rather fight on land than sea.”
“It’s certainly an acquired taste.” The queen smiled, though it wasn’t one of her dazzling wonders; a trifle wary in fact. “Before he left on his northern expedition, Lord Vaelin asked that I not allow you to expose yourself to inordinate risk. In fact, he implored me to leave you in the Realm, as regent.”
Reva suppressed a laugh. Always so keen to act the elder brother. “A task I’m hardly suited to, Highness. Although I have been meaning to ask for a clearer explanation of the intent behind Lord Vaelin’s current mission.”
“If secrets are kept, it is for a good reason. Suffice to say, the opportunities offered by his mission were too great to be ignored.” The queen paused, her smile slowly fading. “I have had occasion recently to read more detailed reports of events at Alltor. I hadn’t appreciated before how truly difficult the situation became, the extremes to which you were compelled.”
The Volarian’s face as he knelt at the block … No better than us … “Survival compels us to extremes, Highness.”
“Indeed. Words I should like you to remember when performing your task. This war is not yet won and the survival of our peoples requires victory, at any cost.” Her gaze was intent now, the flawless mask devoid of all humour. “You understand?”
At any cost. Looking into the queen’s unwavering gaze, Reva felt a sudden rush of recognition, her mind filling with another face she knew so well, one that had also often spoken in similar terms, usually in the moments before he beat her. “Perhaps if you could elaborate, Highness,” she said. “My task will be made easier with clear instruction.”
The queen’s gaze barely flickered. “The Varitai are to be captured only if opportunity arises. All Free Swords are to be killed.”
“And if they surrender?”
“Then killing them will be a simpler task.” The queen came forward, clasping her hands, her face now a picture of sisterly affection. “As you said, my lady, we came here to finish this.”
The Shield accompanied Reva back to the Marshal Smolen, one of the newly built monsters laden with her House Guard and a fifth of her archers. Ostensibly Ell-Nestra had come to oversee the landings though she sensed a sudden desire to remove himself from the queen’s company, perhaps due to the fate of the Volarian. Reva had been making ready to climb into her boat when she saw the man recoil from the queen, his sagging features suddenly white with shock. The queen stood regarding him with an expression of serene satisfaction as he launched himself at her, snarling, hands like claws as he reached for her throat. With practised swiftness the queen drew a dagger from her sleeve and drove it into the Volarian’s chest, a smooth unhesitant act performed before her guards could react.
“Throw this over the side,” she told Lord Iltis, accepting a cloth from Lady Murel and wiping the dagger clean as she turned away. However, the Volarian had somehow contrived to cling to life and continued to rage at her as the Lord Protector carried him to the rail, voicing shrill curses in his own language. The queen didn’t turn as he was cast into the ocean, stridin
g towards Reva with the warmest farewell and good wishes for her venture.
“The man deserved his end, by all accounts,” she said to the Shield as they clambered from the boat, scaling the ropes to the ship’s deck. “Owner of countless slaves and a member of the Council that sent their army to invade the Realm.”
“She killed his son,” Ell-Nestra responded, his voice dull with grim understanding. “She wanted him to know before he died.”
“Our queen is fair, but her justice can be harsh.”
“She is your queen, my lady. My allegiance will end when this war is finally done.”
He strode off to find the ship’s captain whilst she briefed Lords Antesh and Arentes on the plan. “We are to be the vanguard of the army,” the guard commander said, stroking his moustache. “A singular honour.”
“And a singular risk,” Antesh pointed out, ever keen to advise caution in dealing with their monarch. During the march to Warnsclave Vaelin had related the full story of his previous association with her Lord of Archers, leaving her well aware of his once-fierce antipathy towards the entire notion of a Unified Realm. Although his fanaticism had clearly dissipated over the years he still retained a lingering suspicion of all things Asraelin, Queen Lyrna chief among them.
“We are a thousand miles from home facing a vile enemy,” Reva pointed out. “Every soul in this army shares the risk, my lord. Please relate the plan to your captains, we land in five days.” She was about to add the queen’s instruction regarding prisoners but found the words stalled in her breast. Her people needed little such instruction and were like to slaughter any Volarian in arms, but voicing an order condoning their bloodlust still felt wrong, reminding her once again that the Father had never related a single word on the subject of vengeance.
Gulls appeared in the sky the next day and the first vague glimpses of land a day later. They sailed at a ten-mile remove from the rest of the fleet, thirty ships carrying the assembled soldiery of Cumbrael and the elite of the Realm Guard. The queen had also seen fit to provide four of Alornis’s wondrous new ballistae along with a Nilsaelin woman of slight build who seemed to have an expert knowledge of their workings.
“Lady Alornis said to give you her warm regards, m’lady,” she said to Reva with an awkward bow. “Wanted to come herself but Queen Lyrna threatened to tie her to the mainmast.”
Reva let her choose the most able hands to crew the ballistae from among the Scarred Daughters, a fierce but appropriate title given to the company formed from those Cumbraelin women keen to volunteer for service with Blessed Lady Reva. They numbered little over two hundred and, like her male conscripts, at least half were below the age of twenty, grim-faced girls for the most part with various awful tales of mistreatment and orphanhood at Volarian hands. Arentes had initially kept them apart from the men, intending that they act as porters or cooks, but a stern look from Reva told him that would not be acceptable. She had taken to training them herself, though their evident awe and unquestioning belief in her continued lie made it something of a trial.
“If I may, Blessed Lady,” one of them said the day before the landing, a lissome girl of no more than eighteen, sinking to one knee on the deck before Reva.
“I told you, Lehra,” Reva said, “stop doing that.”
“My apologies, Blessed Lady.” The girl stared up at her with a face that would have been the epitome of youthful innocence but for the scar that ran from her ruined left eye to her upper lip, punishment for a minor infraction during her enslavement. “But we were wondering.” Lehra paused to glance at the rest of the Daughters, clustered nearby with heads bowed. “What verse should we recite in the morning? To be sure the Father blesses our endeavour.”
The Father has no blessing for war. You think he looks down on this business and smiles? Reva bit down on the words. The lie had carried thousands across the ocean and could hardly be abandoned now. “You must all choose your own verse,” she said, pulling Lehra to her feet, less gently than she intended for the girl shrank back in a contrite bow. “‘No multitude can think with one mind, for the Father made us all to be different, each and every soul another facet of his love. Find the path to the Father’s love with your own eyes and let no other force you from your true course.’” The Book of Reason, she rarely quoted another these days.
“Will we be at your side, my lady?” one of the other girls asked, her eagerness reflected in the faces of the others.
Reva’s gaze was drawn to the sight of the Shield leaning on the foremast and regarding the scene with evident amusement. “I would have you nowhere else,” she told them. “Now return to your practice.”
She moved to the water barrel next to the mast, meeting Ell-Nestra’s gaze as she took a drink. “Something to say, my lord?”
“You had a god-gifted vision,” he said with a shrug. “I did too, once. Didn’t like it much. Made my head hurt.”
“Your gods are figments of dreams woven into a tapestry of legend.”
“Whilst yours lives in the sky, grants wishes and, when you die, lets you live in a field forever.”
“For a man who has travelled so far, I find your ignorance quite astonishing.”
His face darkened and he nodded at the Scarred Daughters, now going through the most recent sword scale she had taught them. “You know what awaits them when we land. How many will die believing this fiction of yours?”
Reva found she had no anger for him, the truth was inescapable and she had long accustomed herself to its sting. She watched the Daughters for a moment, finding months of practice had done much to improve their skills; they moved well, the strokes and parries performed with speed and precision. Also, they were fierce, many already fashioned into killers by the Volarians. But still, all so young. As I used to be.
“Did you have a choice?” she asked him. “When they came to take the Isles? How many of your pirates died at the Teeth or Alltor? And if this war is so hateful, and the queen so vile, why are you here?”
She had expected anger, but his response was subdued, all amusement gone from his face as he said, “I thought I had a stain to wash away. But it seems all I have done is befoul myself beyond any cleansing.”
He looked up as a shout came from the crow’s nest. “The bay is in sight,” he said, offering her a bow and striding away. “Time to marshal your forces, my lady.”
They dropped anchor a mile offshore, the sailors hauling the boats over the side as Reva waited on deck with the Scarred Daughters. Lord Arentes and the full complement of House Guards were arranged at the rail as they would be the first ashore, their numbers swelled by a contingent of archers. Antesh waited on the neighbouring ship with the bulk of his men whilst the vessels carrying the Realm Guard bobbed on the waves a half mile west. Watching the activity with growing impatience, Reva reflected on the tendency of time to slow to a crawl during events she wished would pass in a blur.
Seeking distraction, her gaze wandered the ship, finding the Shield at the bows, taking an eyeglass from the ship’s captain as he pointed to something on shore.
“The enemy?” she asked, moving to his side.
“A small number only,” he replied, training the glass on the beach. “Perhaps thirty cavalry. Nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure…” He frowned, a bemused smile coming to his lips. “One of them just fell over.”
“My lord Shield!” They both raised their gaze to the crow’s nest where a sailor could be seen waving frantically to the north. “Storm front!”
She followed the Shield to the stern, drawing up in surprise at the bank of cloud now shrouding the horizon. It was dark to the point of blackness, shimmering with lightning and casting a faint rumble across the sea as it swelled, coming closer with every heartbeat.
“Impossible,” Ell-Nestra breathed.
“What do we do?” Reva asked but he stood staring at the fast-approaching storm with blank-eyed amazement.
“My lord!” She took hold of his chain-mail shirt and shook him, hard. “What
do we do?”
He gaped at her, blinking as reason returned to his eyes. “Haul anchor!” he shouted, tearing free of her. “Raise every sail! Helm, set your course due south! Captain, signal the other ships to follow! My lady, take your people below.”
The crew scrambled to obey as Reva barked orders, sending the Cumbraelins to the lower decks. She lingered however, staying at the stern and watching the storm sweep ever closer. How can it move so fast? she wondered, a suspicion building in her mind as she recalled another unexpected storm, at Alltor when the rain fell in sheets by day and snow by night. The party on the shore … What have we sailed into?
Thanks to the crew’s frantic efforts, the great ship soon heaved into a southward course, sails filling the moment they were unfurled as the northerly wind built into a gale. The other ships had followed the Shield’s signal, though those crewed by Realm-born sailors were notably slower in responding than the Meldeneans. Reva watched the vessel carrying one of the Realm Guard regiments wallowing in the rising swell as they drew away, only half her sails raised and pitching at an alarming angle as her helmsman tried to steer a southerly course. Soon the rain grew too thick to make out more than a vague shape though Reva was certain she had heard a great moan rise from the huge vessel before it was lost from sight. In minutes the storm came to claim them too, Reva finding herself enveloped in blackness as the world became a howling fury.
The gale was strong enough to pitch her from her feet, the rigging above resounding with the sound of snapping rope and wood, sailors tumbling to the deck or snatched by the wind to be cast into the sea. Reva found herself sliding across the deck, now awash with water. She was carried past the entrance to the hold, close enough to hear the frightened cries of the Scarred Daughters rising from below as water cascaded down the steps. She managed to grab onto the rail before the pitching deck sent her over the side, both arms wrapped tight about the balustrade as wind and rain tore at her. A dark shape tumbled past, a hand scraping over her mail shirt for a brief instant, a sudden despairing wail soon swallowed by the storm.
