Tower Lord
Page 125
She raised her gaze to the Volarian warship. The awning cast a dark shadow but she could just see him, a tall figure staring back. It may have been her imagination, or a trick of the light, but she fancied she saw him offer a bow.
“My lady . . .” A faint call behind her. She turned to find a woman hurrying up the steps to the battlements, a wailing bundle in her arms. The young Asraelin mother from the other day, face pale and drawn in fear. Reva rushed to her, reaching out a steadying hand as she swayed a little, her breath laboured, the words barely audible above the child’s cries.
“They took her,” she gasped. “Lady Veliss hid us but they took her, and all the other Faithful.”
“Who did? Where?”
“A great many people, shouting about the Father’s judgement.” She paused, hugging the child to her. “They said they were taking them to the Reader.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Vaelin
“Another two hundred today,” Nortah said, putting his bow aside and collapsing onto a chair. “Mostly men this time. All raring for revenge, which is nice. Their women and daughters all got taken by another caravan. Poltar’s off looking for them now.”
“How many does that make?” Vaelin asked Brother Hollun.
“We have freed fifteen hundred and seventy-two people since crossing into Nilsael, my lord,” the brother replied without pause. “Just over half are of fighting age. Almost all have opted to join our ranks. Though I should point out our continued lack of weapons.”
“We’ve got the slavers’ swords,” Nortah pointed out. “Plus any axes and bill-hooks we can scavenge from all the corpse-strewn villages we keep finding.”
Vaelin looked out over the camp, the tents clustered around a bend in the river which changed its name from the Brinewash to the Vellen when it crossed the Nilsaelin border. The camp grew larger every day, home to over forty-five thousand men now they had Marven’s Nilsaelins to swell the ranks. Soon after Brother Harlick penned their agreement, their Fief Lord had taken himself off to his capital, pressing his seal into the wax with a customary cackle and waving at his litter bearers to get moving.
“You can have the idiot twins,” he said to Vaelin, bobbing in his chair as they bore him away. “Been lusting for a war all their lives. Don’t be too surprised if they piss their breaches at the first whiff of blood though. I’ll conscript all the men I can and send them on after. Try not to lose too many. Fields don’t plough themselves, y’know.”
Alornis had been busy sketching during the sealing ceremony, beginning a new canvas depicting the event shortly after. Unlike Master Benril she felt no need for additional drama or embellishment. Although still roughly worked, her painting conveyed her gift for uncanny realism in its rendering of a grinning old man leaning over a scroll whilst the captains of the army looked on, varying depths of unease or suspicion on every face.
“Did I really look that angry?” Vaelin asked.
“I do not flatter, lord brother,” she replied, flicking pigment at him with her brush. “I see and I paint. That is all.”
Vaelin scanned the line of scowling or frowning faces, finding one exception. Nortah stood near the back of the assembly, a faint wry smile on his lips.
“They’ll need training,” he said to his brother now, moving to the table and reaching for parchment. He dipped his quill and began to write, the letters formed with slow precision. “Nortah Al Sendahl is hereby appointed Captain of the Free Company of the Army of the North.” He signed the parchment and held it out to Nortah. “You can have Sergeant Davern as second.”
“That blowhard?” Nortah scoffed. “Can’t I have one of the North Guard?”
“He’s good with the sword and he knows how to teach it. And I can’t denude the North Guard any further. We can linger here only two more days, so train them hard.”
“As you wish, mighty Tower Lord.” Nortah went to the tent flap then paused. “We’re really marching all the way to Alltor?”
The song’s insistence had deepened the further south they marched, the tone ever more urgent. She fights, he knew. They come to tear the walls down and she fights. “Yes, brother,” he said. “We really are.”
? ? ?
Two days later they were on the march once again, Vaelin setting a punishing pace of thirty miles a day and letting it be known that he would be less than forgiving to stragglers. As in any army however, there were shirkers and deserters. The former he left to the sergeants, the latter were pursued by the North Guard and brought back to be stripped of weapons, coin and shoes before they were flogged and set loose. It was no more than a handful of men, and he hated the need for it, but this was far from a professional army and the leeway he had allowed the Wolfrunners would be a dangerous indulgence now.
They forded the Vellen on the fifth day, keeping a southward course until the jagged outline of the Greypeaks came into view and he ordered a halt for a day’s rest and reconnaissance. As expected, Sanesh Poltar brought grim tidings come the evening.
“Many horsemen,” he said to the council of captains. “South-east of here. Riding hard after Marelim Sil soldiers, on foot and only a third as many. They hurry to the mountains, seeking shelter.” His expression was grave as he shook his head. “Won’t reach them.”
“Is there enough time for our horse to get there?” Vaelin asked.
The Eorhil war chief shrugged. “We will, can’t speak for others.”
Vaelin reached for his cloak. “Captain Adal, Captain Orven, muster your men. We ride immediately. Count Marven, send the Nilsaelin horse to screen the south and west. The Army of the North is in your hands until I return.”
? ? ?
Flame reminded him somewhat of Spit in his love of the run, tossing his head and snorting in appreciation as they galloped south, the mass of horses around them raising thunder from the earth. Dahrena rode at his side, having snapped a curt rebuke at Adal when he suggested she stay with the army. They managed to keep up with the Eorhil, though the North Guard and Orven’s men were obliged to trail in their wake by a half mile or so. The onset of darkness forced a halt after they had covered some twenty miles.
No fires were lit, the horsemen simply sitting or standing with their mounts, waiting for daylight. Dahrena had immediately slipped from her saddle and wrapped a cloak tightly about her shoulders as she sat on the grass. “Shan’t be long,” she said to Vaelin with a small smile before closing her eyes.
“Is this really necessary, my lord?” Adal asked, worry etched into his face as he stared at Dahrena’s unmoving form.
“I do not command her, Captain.” The blood-song gave a soft murmur, a note of anger and resentment, but also something else, something that now appeared obvious in the intensity of the captain’s gaze. All the years at her side and he’s never told her, Vaelin wondered.
Dahrena gave a soft gasp, opening her eyes and blinking rapidly. “They’ve stopped,” she breathed, slumping forward a little. Adal stepped closer to steady her but she waved him away, climbing to her feet with a groan.
“The Volarians?” Vaelin asked.
“The Realm Guard. Stopped on a hill some sixty miles directly south of here.”
My brother makes a stand, Vaelin thought. The song was quite clear, Caenis had command of the Realm Guard’s remnants, and they were tired of running.
“Remount!” Vaelin called, striding to Flame and vaulting into the saddle. “We ride through the night!”
? ? ?
They kept to a trot until the sun rose then spurred to a full gallop, Vaelin driving Flame hard although the horse’s flesh seemed to sing with joy as he struck out ahead of the Eorhil. After an hour’s ride the ground flattened out into rolling plains, a low hill visible on the horizon and a large dust-cloud rising in the east. Sanesh Poltar managed to urge yet more speed for his mount, pulling ahead of Vaelin and raising his strongbow over his head then waving it towards the east. A third of the Eorhil host immediately peeled away from the main body, striking out in a parallel course to the approaching dust-cloud.
Vaelin could see the Realm Guard on the hill now, standing three ranks deep, a few banners waving. They were too distant to make out the sigils but he knew the one in the centre bore a wolf running above a tower.
The Volarian cavalry came into view shortly after, dark-armoured figures riding tall warhorses, charging with lances levelled. Sanesh Poltar waved his bow again and another contingent of Eorhil separated from the host to charge directly at the Volarian flank. Vaelin followed the war chief as he led the remainder into the ground between the Realm Guard and the oncoming Volarians. On either side of him Eorhil warriors all notched an arrow to their bows with smooth unconscious precision, still at full gallop. They rode to within a hundred paces of the Volarians and loosed as one, no commands had been given. The arrows descended onto the leading companies in a dense cloud, horses screaming and falling as they struck home, men tumbling from the saddles to be trampled by their onrushing comrades. The Volarian charge faltered as the Eorhil continued to loose from the saddle, skirting their ranks and sending arrow after arrow into the mass of men and horses.
“My lady . . .” A faint call behind her. She turned to find a woman hurrying up the steps to the battlements, a wailing bundle in her arms. The young Asraelin mother from the other day, face pale and drawn in fear. Reva rushed to her, reaching out a steadying hand as she swayed a little, her breath laboured, the words barely audible above the child’s cries.
“They took her,” she gasped. “Lady Veliss hid us but they took her, and all the other Faithful.”
“Who did? Where?”
“A great many people, shouting about the Father’s judgement.” She paused, hugging the child to her. “They said they were taking them to the Reader.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Vaelin
“Another two hundred today,” Nortah said, putting his bow aside and collapsing onto a chair. “Mostly men this time. All raring for revenge, which is nice. Their women and daughters all got taken by another caravan. Poltar’s off looking for them now.”
“How many does that make?” Vaelin asked Brother Hollun.
“We have freed fifteen hundred and seventy-two people since crossing into Nilsael, my lord,” the brother replied without pause. “Just over half are of fighting age. Almost all have opted to join our ranks. Though I should point out our continued lack of weapons.”
“We’ve got the slavers’ swords,” Nortah pointed out. “Plus any axes and bill-hooks we can scavenge from all the corpse-strewn villages we keep finding.”
Vaelin looked out over the camp, the tents clustered around a bend in the river which changed its name from the Brinewash to the Vellen when it crossed the Nilsaelin border. The camp grew larger every day, home to over forty-five thousand men now they had Marven’s Nilsaelins to swell the ranks. Soon after Brother Harlick penned their agreement, their Fief Lord had taken himself off to his capital, pressing his seal into the wax with a customary cackle and waving at his litter bearers to get moving.
“You can have the idiot twins,” he said to Vaelin, bobbing in his chair as they bore him away. “Been lusting for a war all their lives. Don’t be too surprised if they piss their breaches at the first whiff of blood though. I’ll conscript all the men I can and send them on after. Try not to lose too many. Fields don’t plough themselves, y’know.”
Alornis had been busy sketching during the sealing ceremony, beginning a new canvas depicting the event shortly after. Unlike Master Benril she felt no need for additional drama or embellishment. Although still roughly worked, her painting conveyed her gift for uncanny realism in its rendering of a grinning old man leaning over a scroll whilst the captains of the army looked on, varying depths of unease or suspicion on every face.
“Did I really look that angry?” Vaelin asked.
“I do not flatter, lord brother,” she replied, flicking pigment at him with her brush. “I see and I paint. That is all.”
Vaelin scanned the line of scowling or frowning faces, finding one exception. Nortah stood near the back of the assembly, a faint wry smile on his lips.
“They’ll need training,” he said to his brother now, moving to the table and reaching for parchment. He dipped his quill and began to write, the letters formed with slow precision. “Nortah Al Sendahl is hereby appointed Captain of the Free Company of the Army of the North.” He signed the parchment and held it out to Nortah. “You can have Sergeant Davern as second.”
“That blowhard?” Nortah scoffed. “Can’t I have one of the North Guard?”
“He’s good with the sword and he knows how to teach it. And I can’t denude the North Guard any further. We can linger here only two more days, so train them hard.”
“As you wish, mighty Tower Lord.” Nortah went to the tent flap then paused. “We’re really marching all the way to Alltor?”
The song’s insistence had deepened the further south they marched, the tone ever more urgent. She fights, he knew. They come to tear the walls down and she fights. “Yes, brother,” he said. “We really are.”
? ? ?
Two days later they were on the march once again, Vaelin setting a punishing pace of thirty miles a day and letting it be known that he would be less than forgiving to stragglers. As in any army however, there were shirkers and deserters. The former he left to the sergeants, the latter were pursued by the North Guard and brought back to be stripped of weapons, coin and shoes before they were flogged and set loose. It was no more than a handful of men, and he hated the need for it, but this was far from a professional army and the leeway he had allowed the Wolfrunners would be a dangerous indulgence now.
They forded the Vellen on the fifth day, keeping a southward course until the jagged outline of the Greypeaks came into view and he ordered a halt for a day’s rest and reconnaissance. As expected, Sanesh Poltar brought grim tidings come the evening.
“Many horsemen,” he said to the council of captains. “South-east of here. Riding hard after Marelim Sil soldiers, on foot and only a third as many. They hurry to the mountains, seeking shelter.” His expression was grave as he shook his head. “Won’t reach them.”
“Is there enough time for our horse to get there?” Vaelin asked.
The Eorhil war chief shrugged. “We will, can’t speak for others.”
Vaelin reached for his cloak. “Captain Adal, Captain Orven, muster your men. We ride immediately. Count Marven, send the Nilsaelin horse to screen the south and west. The Army of the North is in your hands until I return.”
? ? ?
Flame reminded him somewhat of Spit in his love of the run, tossing his head and snorting in appreciation as they galloped south, the mass of horses around them raising thunder from the earth. Dahrena rode at his side, having snapped a curt rebuke at Adal when he suggested she stay with the army. They managed to keep up with the Eorhil, though the North Guard and Orven’s men were obliged to trail in their wake by a half mile or so. The onset of darkness forced a halt after they had covered some twenty miles.
No fires were lit, the horsemen simply sitting or standing with their mounts, waiting for daylight. Dahrena had immediately slipped from her saddle and wrapped a cloak tightly about her shoulders as she sat on the grass. “Shan’t be long,” she said to Vaelin with a small smile before closing her eyes.
“Is this really necessary, my lord?” Adal asked, worry etched into his face as he stared at Dahrena’s unmoving form.
“I do not command her, Captain.” The blood-song gave a soft murmur, a note of anger and resentment, but also something else, something that now appeared obvious in the intensity of the captain’s gaze. All the years at her side and he’s never told her, Vaelin wondered.
Dahrena gave a soft gasp, opening her eyes and blinking rapidly. “They’ve stopped,” she breathed, slumping forward a little. Adal stepped closer to steady her but she waved him away, climbing to her feet with a groan.
“The Volarians?” Vaelin asked.
“The Realm Guard. Stopped on a hill some sixty miles directly south of here.”
My brother makes a stand, Vaelin thought. The song was quite clear, Caenis had command of the Realm Guard’s remnants, and they were tired of running.
“Remount!” Vaelin called, striding to Flame and vaulting into the saddle. “We ride through the night!”
? ? ?
They kept to a trot until the sun rose then spurred to a full gallop, Vaelin driving Flame hard although the horse’s flesh seemed to sing with joy as he struck out ahead of the Eorhil. After an hour’s ride the ground flattened out into rolling plains, a low hill visible on the horizon and a large dust-cloud rising in the east. Sanesh Poltar managed to urge yet more speed for his mount, pulling ahead of Vaelin and raising his strongbow over his head then waving it towards the east. A third of the Eorhil host immediately peeled away from the main body, striking out in a parallel course to the approaching dust-cloud.
Vaelin could see the Realm Guard on the hill now, standing three ranks deep, a few banners waving. They were too distant to make out the sigils but he knew the one in the centre bore a wolf running above a tower.
The Volarian cavalry came into view shortly after, dark-armoured figures riding tall warhorses, charging with lances levelled. Sanesh Poltar waved his bow again and another contingent of Eorhil separated from the host to charge directly at the Volarian flank. Vaelin followed the war chief as he led the remainder into the ground between the Realm Guard and the oncoming Volarians. On either side of him Eorhil warriors all notched an arrow to their bows with smooth unconscious precision, still at full gallop. They rode to within a hundred paces of the Volarians and loosed as one, no commands had been given. The arrows descended onto the leading companies in a dense cloud, horses screaming and falling as they struck home, men tumbling from the saddles to be trampled by their onrushing comrades. The Volarian charge faltered as the Eorhil continued to loose from the saddle, skirting their ranks and sending arrow after arrow into the mass of men and horses.
