Tower Lord
Page 84
“I . . .” Davern looked about wildly, still hugging the ground. “Who?”
“Longbowmen, if I’m any judge.” Vaelin tossed his cloak into the air, seeing it dance as the shafts tore through it. “Run for the camp!”
He surged to his feet and ran towards the trees, counting to three then dropping as another volley whistled overhead, rising and charging again, weaving from side to side until the first of them came in sight, a hooded figure rising from the long grass no more than ten feet away, bow half-drawn. Vaelin darted towards him, dropping and rolling, the arrow missing by inches. He surged to his feet, delivering an open-handed blow to the archer’s chin, felling him instantly. Another charged from the left, bow abandoned for a long-bladed knife. Vaelin snatched up the fallen man’s bow and brought it round in a wide arc, the stave connecting with the attacker’s head as he closed. The man stumbled back, slashing wildly. Vaelin stood, remaining still for a heartbeat then diving to the side as an arrow flew past to bury itself in the stumbling man’s chest.
Another archer rose before him as he ran to the right, bow fully drawn. Fifteen feet, Vaelin judged. Too far and too close. A shadow appeared behind the archer, a silver flash of metal cutting him down with a single stroke. Davern turned from the corpse as a hooded figure came for him, raising a crescent-bladed axe. Davern ducked the blow and slashed at the man’s side but he was clearly no amateur and blocked the stroke with the haft of his axe, catching the shipwright with a backhanded blow that sent him sprawling.
Too far, Vaelin thought again, sprinting towards the hooded figure as he raised his axe for the killing blow.
Something inhuman growled in the darkness, a great shadow flicking across Vaelin’s path and the man with the hatchet was gone. Hooves drummed the earth and a rider came from the shadows, the long staff in his hand whirling as he sent another hooded figure senseless to the earth. More growls, yells of terror and running feet . . . then screams, mercifully short, five of them, one after the other.
“Brother,” Nortah said, reining in beside him, eyes wide with concern and blond hair trailing in the wind. “Lohren had a dream.”
? ? ?
Davern was emerging from the healing tent when Vaelin arrived the next morning, a large bandage covering his nose and a spectacular bruise colouring the surrounding flesh.
“Broken then?” Vaelin asked.
Davern glowered at him and gave no response.
“I owe you thanks,” Vaelin went on. “Or did you save me so you could kill me later?”
“Dis changesh noddin,” Davern stated.
“Pardon?”
Davern flushed, licked his lips and tried again with slow deliberation. “Thish changes nothing.”
“Ah.” Vaelin nodded and moved past him. “Good to know. You have men to train, Sergeant.”
Inside he found his sister applying a poultice to the face of a well-built man with a shock of black hair and a bruise on his jaw that made Davern’s seem positively dull. He sat on a stool, flanked by Captain Adal and one of his North Guard, wrists and ankles constrained by shackles, the chains jangling as he twisted towards Vaelin, face full of hate, spittle coming from his mouth as he tried to voice his threats. Alornis took a backward step, wincing from the fury on display.
“His jaw’s broken,” Brother Kehlan said from the other side of the tent where he was grinding herbs in a pestle. “Who knew the teacher had such a strong arm?”
“I did.” Vaelin moved to Alornis’s side, touching her arm in reassurance. “You frighten my sister, sir,” he told the shackled man.
The man grunted something at him, spouting more spittle, a bead of it finding Vaelin’s face. “Quiet!” Adal barked, cuffing the man on the back of the head.
“Enough of that!” Kehlan said. “I’ll have no torture in this tent.”
“Torture, brother?” Adal scoffed, then leaned down to whisper in the shackled man’s ear. “I think I’ll wait for him to heal first. Wouldn’t want it over too soon.”
“Secure him to the main post and leave us,” Vaelin said. Adal gave a reluctant nod and did as he was bade, roping the man to the post and leaving with his comrade. “And you, brother,” Vaelin told Kehlan.
“I said no torture,” the old brother insisted.
“Come along, brother.” Alornis went to his side and tugged him towards the tent flap. “His Lordship is above such things.” She raised a questioning eyebrow at Vaelin. He nodded back and she gave a grim smile before leaving.
“You’re the only one to survive,” Vaelin told the shackled man, placing the stool before him and sitting down. “The fellow I hit would probably have lived also, but my brother’s war-cat is not always easily restrained.”
The man just maintained his baleful glare. Some fear, mostly hate, Vaelin surmised from the song.
“Ten Cumbraelins arrive on a ship three weeks ago,” he said. “Hunters by trade, hence their bows. Come to the Reaches in search of bear, the furs and the claws fetch a high price and they’re increasingly scarce in the Realm. It was a good story.”
Same fear, same hate, a little grim amusement.
“So,” Vaelin went on. “Gold or god?”
More fear mingling with uncertainty. The man’s brows furrowed, his emotions a jumble for a second then settling on a sense of contempt.
“God then,” Vaelin concluded. “Servants of the World Father come north for the glory of killing the Darkblade.”
The confusion deepening, fear building . . . and something more, an echo . . . no, a scent, faint but acrid, foul and familiar, buried deep in this man’s memory, so deep he doesn’t even know it’s there.
“Where is he?” Vaelin demanded, moving closer, staring into the archer’s eyes. “Where is the witch’s bastard?”
Bafflement, more contempt. He thinks me mad, but also . . . suspicion, an unwelcome memory.
“A man who is not a man,” Vaelin went on, voice soft. “Something that wears other men like masks. I can smell him on you.”
A surge of fear mixed with recognition.
“You know him. You’ve seen him. What is he now? An archer like you?”
Fear only.
“A soldier?”
Fear only.
“A priest?”
Terror, swelling like oil poured on flame . . . A priest then . . . No, no note of recognition. Not a priest. But he knows a priest, he answers to a priest.
“Your priest sent you here. You must have known he was sending you to your death. You and your brothers.”
Anger, coloured by acceptance. They knew.
Vaelin sighed, getting to his feet. “I’m not overly familiar with the Ten Books, as you might imagine. But I do have a friend who could recite them at length. Let’s see if I have it right.” He closed his eyes, trying to remember one of Reva’s many quotations. “‘Of the Dark there can be no toleration amongst the loved. A man cannot know the Father and know the Dark. In knowing the Dark he forsakes his soul.’”
He stared down at the bound man, sensing what he had hoped to sense. Shame.
“You looked into his eyes and saw a stranger,” he said. “What was he before?”
The man looked away, eyes dulling, his emotions quieter now. Shame and acceptance. He grunted, head bobbing as he forced sound through his crippled mouth, spittle flying as he repeated the same garbled word, unknowable at first but gaining meaning with repetition. “Lord.”
? ? ?
“Put him on a barge to the settlements on the northern coast,” Vaelin told Adal outside. “He’s to be taken far into the forest and released with his bow and a quiver of arrows.”
“What for?” Adal said in bafflement.
Vaelin moved off towards his tent. “He’s a hunter. Perhaps he’ll find a bear.”
Nortah was waiting with Snowdance and Alornis when he got to the tent, the great cat’s purr a contented rumble as she ran a hand over the thick fur on her belly. “She’s so beautiful.”
“Yes,” Nortah agreed. “Pity there are no boy cats for her to make beautiful babies with.”
“There must be, somewhere,” Alornis said. “Her kind would have been bred from a wild ancestor.”
“In which case they’ll be far beyond the ice,” Vaelin said, accepting the cup of water Nortah passed him.
“Did he tell you anything?” his brother asked.
“More than he wanted to, less than I would have liked.” He glanced at the pack Nortah had brought, noting the sword propped against it.
“Lady Dahrena’s gift,” Nortah explained. “One I asked for. A man should have a weapon if he’s to ride to war.”
“War is no longer your province, brother. I sent no recruiters to Nehrin’s Point for a reason. You belong with your family.”
“My wife believes my family will only be safe if we lend our aid to your cause.”
“We?”
“Come.” Nortah clapped him on the shoulder. “There are some people you should meet.”
He led Vaelin to where four people waited on the outskirts of the camp, one of whom Vaelin already knew. Weaver stood staring at the ground, his usually bland but affable expression replaced by one of deep discontent, his hands constantly twitching at his sides. “Why did you bring him?” Vaelin asked Nortah. “He’s not made for this.”
“Longbowmen, if I’m any judge.” Vaelin tossed his cloak into the air, seeing it dance as the shafts tore through it. “Run for the camp!”
He surged to his feet and ran towards the trees, counting to three then dropping as another volley whistled overhead, rising and charging again, weaving from side to side until the first of them came in sight, a hooded figure rising from the long grass no more than ten feet away, bow half-drawn. Vaelin darted towards him, dropping and rolling, the arrow missing by inches. He surged to his feet, delivering an open-handed blow to the archer’s chin, felling him instantly. Another charged from the left, bow abandoned for a long-bladed knife. Vaelin snatched up the fallen man’s bow and brought it round in a wide arc, the stave connecting with the attacker’s head as he closed. The man stumbled back, slashing wildly. Vaelin stood, remaining still for a heartbeat then diving to the side as an arrow flew past to bury itself in the stumbling man’s chest.
Another archer rose before him as he ran to the right, bow fully drawn. Fifteen feet, Vaelin judged. Too far and too close. A shadow appeared behind the archer, a silver flash of metal cutting him down with a single stroke. Davern turned from the corpse as a hooded figure came for him, raising a crescent-bladed axe. Davern ducked the blow and slashed at the man’s side but he was clearly no amateur and blocked the stroke with the haft of his axe, catching the shipwright with a backhanded blow that sent him sprawling.
Too far, Vaelin thought again, sprinting towards the hooded figure as he raised his axe for the killing blow.
Something inhuman growled in the darkness, a great shadow flicking across Vaelin’s path and the man with the hatchet was gone. Hooves drummed the earth and a rider came from the shadows, the long staff in his hand whirling as he sent another hooded figure senseless to the earth. More growls, yells of terror and running feet . . . then screams, mercifully short, five of them, one after the other.
“Brother,” Nortah said, reining in beside him, eyes wide with concern and blond hair trailing in the wind. “Lohren had a dream.”
? ? ?
Davern was emerging from the healing tent when Vaelin arrived the next morning, a large bandage covering his nose and a spectacular bruise colouring the surrounding flesh.
“Broken then?” Vaelin asked.
Davern glowered at him and gave no response.
“I owe you thanks,” Vaelin went on. “Or did you save me so you could kill me later?”
“Dis changesh noddin,” Davern stated.
“Pardon?”
Davern flushed, licked his lips and tried again with slow deliberation. “Thish changes nothing.”
“Ah.” Vaelin nodded and moved past him. “Good to know. You have men to train, Sergeant.”
Inside he found his sister applying a poultice to the face of a well-built man with a shock of black hair and a bruise on his jaw that made Davern’s seem positively dull. He sat on a stool, flanked by Captain Adal and one of his North Guard, wrists and ankles constrained by shackles, the chains jangling as he twisted towards Vaelin, face full of hate, spittle coming from his mouth as he tried to voice his threats. Alornis took a backward step, wincing from the fury on display.
“His jaw’s broken,” Brother Kehlan said from the other side of the tent where he was grinding herbs in a pestle. “Who knew the teacher had such a strong arm?”
“I did.” Vaelin moved to Alornis’s side, touching her arm in reassurance. “You frighten my sister, sir,” he told the shackled man.
The man grunted something at him, spouting more spittle, a bead of it finding Vaelin’s face. “Quiet!” Adal barked, cuffing the man on the back of the head.
“Enough of that!” Kehlan said. “I’ll have no torture in this tent.”
“Torture, brother?” Adal scoffed, then leaned down to whisper in the shackled man’s ear. “I think I’ll wait for him to heal first. Wouldn’t want it over too soon.”
“Secure him to the main post and leave us,” Vaelin said. Adal gave a reluctant nod and did as he was bade, roping the man to the post and leaving with his comrade. “And you, brother,” Vaelin told Kehlan.
“I said no torture,” the old brother insisted.
“Come along, brother.” Alornis went to his side and tugged him towards the tent flap. “His Lordship is above such things.” She raised a questioning eyebrow at Vaelin. He nodded back and she gave a grim smile before leaving.
“You’re the only one to survive,” Vaelin told the shackled man, placing the stool before him and sitting down. “The fellow I hit would probably have lived also, but my brother’s war-cat is not always easily restrained.”
The man just maintained his baleful glare. Some fear, mostly hate, Vaelin surmised from the song.
“Ten Cumbraelins arrive on a ship three weeks ago,” he said. “Hunters by trade, hence their bows. Come to the Reaches in search of bear, the furs and the claws fetch a high price and they’re increasingly scarce in the Realm. It was a good story.”
Same fear, same hate, a little grim amusement.
“So,” Vaelin went on. “Gold or god?”
More fear mingling with uncertainty. The man’s brows furrowed, his emotions a jumble for a second then settling on a sense of contempt.
“God then,” Vaelin concluded. “Servants of the World Father come north for the glory of killing the Darkblade.”
The confusion deepening, fear building . . . and something more, an echo . . . no, a scent, faint but acrid, foul and familiar, buried deep in this man’s memory, so deep he doesn’t even know it’s there.
“Where is he?” Vaelin demanded, moving closer, staring into the archer’s eyes. “Where is the witch’s bastard?”
Bafflement, more contempt. He thinks me mad, but also . . . suspicion, an unwelcome memory.
“A man who is not a man,” Vaelin went on, voice soft. “Something that wears other men like masks. I can smell him on you.”
A surge of fear mixed with recognition.
“You know him. You’ve seen him. What is he now? An archer like you?”
Fear only.
“A soldier?”
Fear only.
“A priest?”
Terror, swelling like oil poured on flame . . . A priest then . . . No, no note of recognition. Not a priest. But he knows a priest, he answers to a priest.
“Your priest sent you here. You must have known he was sending you to your death. You and your brothers.”
Anger, coloured by acceptance. They knew.
Vaelin sighed, getting to his feet. “I’m not overly familiar with the Ten Books, as you might imagine. But I do have a friend who could recite them at length. Let’s see if I have it right.” He closed his eyes, trying to remember one of Reva’s many quotations. “‘Of the Dark there can be no toleration amongst the loved. A man cannot know the Father and know the Dark. In knowing the Dark he forsakes his soul.’”
He stared down at the bound man, sensing what he had hoped to sense. Shame.
“You looked into his eyes and saw a stranger,” he said. “What was he before?”
The man looked away, eyes dulling, his emotions quieter now. Shame and acceptance. He grunted, head bobbing as he forced sound through his crippled mouth, spittle flying as he repeated the same garbled word, unknowable at first but gaining meaning with repetition. “Lord.”
? ? ?
“Put him on a barge to the settlements on the northern coast,” Vaelin told Adal outside. “He’s to be taken far into the forest and released with his bow and a quiver of arrows.”
“What for?” Adal said in bafflement.
Vaelin moved off towards his tent. “He’s a hunter. Perhaps he’ll find a bear.”
Nortah was waiting with Snowdance and Alornis when he got to the tent, the great cat’s purr a contented rumble as she ran a hand over the thick fur on her belly. “She’s so beautiful.”
“Yes,” Nortah agreed. “Pity there are no boy cats for her to make beautiful babies with.”
“There must be, somewhere,” Alornis said. “Her kind would have been bred from a wild ancestor.”
“In which case they’ll be far beyond the ice,” Vaelin said, accepting the cup of water Nortah passed him.
“Did he tell you anything?” his brother asked.
“More than he wanted to, less than I would have liked.” He glanced at the pack Nortah had brought, noting the sword propped against it.
“Lady Dahrena’s gift,” Nortah explained. “One I asked for. A man should have a weapon if he’s to ride to war.”
“War is no longer your province, brother. I sent no recruiters to Nehrin’s Point for a reason. You belong with your family.”
“My wife believes my family will only be safe if we lend our aid to your cause.”
“We?”
“Come.” Nortah clapped him on the shoulder. “There are some people you should meet.”
He led Vaelin to where four people waited on the outskirts of the camp, one of whom Vaelin already knew. Weaver stood staring at the ground, his usually bland but affable expression replaced by one of deep discontent, his hands constantly twitching at his sides. “Why did you bring him?” Vaelin asked Nortah. “He’s not made for this.”
