She bowed to the sergeant and excused herself, walking over to Veliss, finding her giving Antesh a hard stare. “No other names to give?” she asked with pointed deliberation.
Antesh seemed puzzled as he shook his head. “What other name would I have, my lady?”
“A few come to mind,” Veliss replied.
“Captain Antesh, is it not?” Reva said. “My uncle will be glad to see you kept your promise.”
The archer gave her a brief look of appraisal before offering a deep bow. “You must be Lady Reva.”
“I am. If Lady Veliss is done with you, I’ll show you to your place on the walls.”
Veliss took her arm and led her a short distance away. “Do not trust this man,” she stated in a low voice. “He is not who he claims to be.”
Reva frowned. “He comes in answer to his Fief Lord’s call, in accordance with a solemn promise. Those do not seem the actions of an untrustworthy man.”
“Just have a care around him, love.” Veliss’s voice lost much of its smoothed vowels as she reached out to clasp Reva’s hand. “You know much, but not enough. Not by half.”
The intensity in her gaze and voice provoked an unwelcome doubling of Reva’s heartbeat. “I know this man comes to fight for the people of this fief,” she said, disentangling her hand from the lady’s grip. “Him and thousands more. No sacks of gold or swift horses for them.”
“You know why I said that.”
“I know we have little time to indulge your suspicions. What place do you have for them?”
Veliss sighed and produced a letter from the bundle she carried, folded and sealed. “It seems your uncle anticipated the captain’s dutiful return. He’s to be made Lord Commander of Archers. He’ll choose his own place.”
◆ ◆ ◆
“Lord Antesh,” the archer mused as Reva walked the walls with him. “My wife will be pleased, at least. Perhaps I’ll buy that pasture she’s been on about.”
“Your wife is not with you?” Reva asked.
“I sent her and the children to Nilsael. They’ll make their way to Frostport and, if this city should fall, on to the Northern Reaches where I have reason to believe they will be made welcome.”
“The Tower Lord owes you a debt, I know.”
“The Tower Lord will make them welcome because they are in need of shelter, for such is his nature. Any debt between us ended with the war.”
“My uncle is certain he’ll come to our aid.”
The archer gave a soft laugh. “Then I pity any Volarians left to face him.” He moved to the chest-high wall between the crenellations, eyes dark with calculation as he looked out at the causeway leading away from the main gate. “Easy to see why this place has never fallen. Only one very narrow line of march and all year round the surrounding waters remain too deep to ford.”
“Lord Commander Arentes is sure the issue will be decided at the walls.”
“You don’t sound convinced, my lady.”
“By all accounts, Varinshold fell in a single night. The greatest city in the Realm taken, the King slain and his host defeated in a few days. I know little of armies and wars, but such feats must require preparation, plans months or years in the making.”
There was some surprise in the look he gave her, but also a measure of relief. “Glad to see the Fief Lord has exercised sound judgement in choosing his heir, my lady. You reason the Volarians must have similarly-long-laid plans for us?”
“It’s not widely known, but an attempt was made on my uncle’s life the very night you came to petition him. Had the assassins succeeded, the fief would now be in turmoil and there would be no-one to organise the defence.”
“Must’ve been a clumsy bunch, these assassins, to have failed so.”
“Indeed they were.”
“If my lady is correct, then the Volarians’ plan has failed and they have little option but to lay siege.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps we’ve yet to see the whole of their design. Tell me, what do you know of the Sons of the Trueblade?”
His gaze clouded and he turned to the river. “Fanatical followers of your late father, or so I hear. They found little purchase in the southern counties, people are more pragmatic in their devotions there. You think they have a hand in this?”
“I know it.” She paused, watching him as he scanned the river from bank to bank, his archer’s eyes no doubt calculating ranges. “Why does Lady Veliss greet you with such suspicion?” she asked him.
“Not for any allegiance to the Sons, I assure you.” He glanced back at her, his eyebrows raising as he noticed the wych-elm bow she carried. “Father’s sight, my lady. Where did you find that?”
She hefted the bow and shrugged. “I bought it from a drunken shepherd.”
Antesh reached out a tentative hand. “May I?”
She handed the bow to him, frowning as his eyes roamed the stave, fingers playing over the carvings, a smile coming to his lips as he thrummed the string. “I thought them all lost.”
“You know this bow?” she asked.
“Only by reputation. I had occasion to draw one of its sisters as a child. Straightest shaft I ever loosed.” He shook his head and handed it back to her. “You really don’t know what this is?”
She could only shake her head. “The shepherd had some tall tale about an old war. I wasn’t really listening.”
“Well, there may have been some truth to the tale, for the five bows of Arren were all lost in war, the war that brought this fief into the Realm in fact. My lady, what you hold is a veritable legend of Cumbrael.”
Reva looked at the bow. She had often marvelled at the artistry of the carvings, and knew it as a weapon of considerable power, but a legend? She began to suspect she was the foil for some archer’s joke, a veteran’s prank on an impressionable recruit. “Really?” she said with a raised eyebrow.
Antesh, however betrayed no sign of humour in his reply, “Really.” A frown creased his brow and he straightened from the wall, his gaze more intense now, tracking her from head to toe. “Blood of the Mustors carrying a bow of Arren,” he said in a soft tone.
After a moment he blinked, abruptly turning away and hefting his own bow. “I should be about my lordly duties, my lady.”
“I should like to hear more,” she called after him as he strode away. “Who is this Arren?”
He just held up a hand in a polite wave and strode on.
◆ ◆ ◆
The scouts returned the following day, two exhausted riders relating their tale to the Fief Lord and assembled captains in the Lord’s chamber. “The border lands are burning, my lord,” the older of the two said. “Everywhere people flock southwards, tales of slaughter and cruelty told by every soul we questioned. Rumours were wild and many, but it seems clear that the King is truly dead and Varinshold fallen along with most if not all Asrael.”
“Any news of Princess Lyrna?” the Fief Lord asked. “I had heard she was on some mad peace mission to the Lonak.”
The soldier shook his head. “It seems she returned the very day the Volarian fleet descended, my lord. They say the palace burned taking every Al Nieren with it.”
“Did you see any Realm Guard at all?” Lady Veliss asked.
“A few stragglers only, my lady. Wasted wild-eyed men, shorn of armour and weapons, fleeing south as fast as they could. We did find a motley company yesterday seemed to have some fight left in them, only a hundred men or so. We told them to make their way here.”
“The Volarians?” the Fief Lord asked. “You saw them?”
The man nodded. “The vanguard only, my lord. I reckon maybe ten miles south of the border as of six days ago. I estimate over three thousand horse and twice as many light infantry, moving south at a fair lick.”
“We now number some thirteen thousand, my lord,” Lord Arentes pointed out. “Givin
g us a temporary advantage.”
“Our trained men number no more than half that,” Antesh said. “And we’ve only a few hundred horse. We couldn’t hope to match them in open field.”
“And we shan’t,” Uncle Sentes stated firmly as Lord Arentes drew breath to speak again. “Thank you, good soldiers,” he said to the two scouts. “Get y’selves something to eat in the kitchens. Tell the cook I said to give you the red from the Malten Vale.”
“The vanguard,” Lady Veliss said after the soldiers had gone. “Perhaps a fifth of their army?”
“More like a tenth,” Antesh said. “Even if only half the tales from Asrael are true, the force needed to subdue the entire fief must be massive.”
“And they’ve no need to secure their northern flank thanks to Lord Darnel’s treachery,” Uncle Sentes said. “They’ll have to garrison the towns they’ve taken, allocate troops to mop up the countryside. But we shouldn’t delude ourselves. The force that comes will outnumber us greatly.” He turned to Antesh. “Which begs the question, do we have arrows for all of them?”
The archer gave a regretful grimace. “I estimate we need at least four times the number already stockpiled, my lord.”
“The fletchers are working to exhaustion as it is,” Lady Veliss said. “I’ve also drafted in every carpenter and woodworker in the city.”
“Draft more,” the Fief Lord said. “Every pair of idle hands not crafting arrows from now on will receive no rations until they do. Lord Arentes, send half your men to the forest and bring back every tree and sapling they can cut in the time that remains to us.”
“Not just wood, my lord,” Antesh said. “We need iron for the heads.”
“This city is awash in iron,” Uncle Sentes said. “I see it in every window, every railing and weather vane. Scour this manor and take all the pots, pans and ornaments you need, then scour the city.” He paused to draw breath, his cheeks suddenly pale.
“Uncle?” Reva said, moving to his side.
He grinned at her, patting the hands she laid on his arm. “Your uncle is old and tired, my wonderful niece.” He took her hands and climbed to his feet, Reva feeling the tremble in his grip. “And hasn’t had a drink in hours,” he added to the assembled captains, drawing strained laughter. “You have your orders, good sirs and lords. Be about them if you will.”
Reva and Lady Veliss helped him up the stairs to his rooms. “The blue bottle, if you would my lady,” he said to Veliss. She fetched it and he held it to his mouth, draining the liquid inside, smiling faintly then doubling over, face contorted in pain, the empty bottle tumbling to the carpet.
“I’ll fetch Brother Harin!” Veliss said, hurrying from the room.
Reva knelt before him, clasping his trembling hands once again. “What is this?” she asked. “What ails you?”
Air rushed from him as he reclined, gasping but smiling. “My life, Reva. My life ails me.”
◆ ◆ ◆
Brother Harin’s face was grave as he closed the door behind him, Veliss and Reva awaiting his word in the hallway. “I’ve doubled his dose,” the healer said. “Given him a flask of redflower which should ease his pain.”
“You said the curative would buy him years yet,” Lady Veliss said.
“Restful years, my lady. Not war years. Exhaustion does not help his condition.”
“What condition?” Reva said.
Harin glanced at Veliss who gave a tense nod. “Your uncle has drunk a lot of wine in his time, my lady,” the brother told her. “More in fact than I would have thought it possible for a man to drink and still be living at his age.”
“He’s not yet sixty,” she said in a whisper.
“Liquor does unfortunate things to a man’s insides,” Harin explained. “The liver in particular.”
“What if he stopped?” Veliss asked. “Just stopped completely. No more wine. Not ever.”
“It would kill him,” Harin replied simply. “His body requires it, even though it’s killing him.”
“How long?” Reva asked.
“With rest, perhaps six months, at most.”
Six months . . . I’ve known him for barely three. “Thank you, brother,” she said, feeling a slow tear trace down her cheek. “Leave us now, if you would.”
He bowed. “I’ll call again tomorrow.”
Veliss moved beside her, fingers touching her hand. “He didn’t want you to know . . .”
Reva took her hand away, wiping the tear from her face. No more of this, she decided. No more weeping.
“The grain stocks,” she said in a voice void of emotion. “How long will they last?”
Veliss hesitated then spoke in a clear voice, her tone coloured by just the slightest quiver. “Given the expanded population, perhaps four months. And only then if carefully rationed.”
“Send the House Guard forth. Every scrap of food, every cow, pig and chicken within fifty miles of this city is to be brought here. All unharvested crops will be burned, all wells spoiled, anything that might give succour to our enemy destroyed.”
“There are people working those farms . . .”
“Then they’ll find shelter here, as the Fief Lord promised. Or they can take their chance with the Volarians.”
She moved to the door to the Fief Lord’s rooms. “I wish to talk to my uncle, alone.”
He was seated at his desk, a glass of wine at his side, his grandfather’s sword propped nearby, the quill in his hand moving over a sheet of parchment. “My will,” he said as she closed the door. “Thought it was about time.”
“Veliss can have the books,” she said.
“Actually, there’s a parcel of land to the north she always liked. Nice big house, well-kept gardens.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He sighed, tossing the quill aside and turning to her. “I was afraid you’d run,” he said. “And I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had.”
“And yet you curse me with all this anyway.”
He reached for his wineglass, taking a sip. “Did you know, according to Veliss’s figures, I am the most successful lord ever to sit in the Chair? In the history of this fief no other lord has produced so much wine, generated so much wealth or overseen such a period of peace and harmony. And will I be celebrated for it when I’m gone? Of course not, I’ll always be the drunken whore chaser with the mad brother. But you, Reva, you will be the saviour of Cumbrael. The great warrior, blessed by the World Father Himself, who threw wide the city gates and sheltered all within these walls against the vile, godless storm. I had expected it to take years, welding the people’s hearts to you. Thanks to the Volarians, it’ll barely take months.”
She shook her head in grim amusement. “I had thought Veliss the schemer. Turns out it was you.”
He gave an injured groan. “Try not to hate your old uncle. I shouldn’t wish to carry such a thought to the Fields.”
She went to him, putting her arms around his shoulders and planting a kiss on his head. “I don’t hate you, you drunken old sot.”
◆ ◆ ◆
The first Volarians arrived three days later, a troop of cavalry appearing on the horizon about midday, lingering for no more than a few minutes before disappearing from view. Reva ordered scouts in pursuit and had riders sent out with orders to hasten any refugees to the city and call in the foraging parties. The scouts reported back within the day; the Volarian vanguard was no more than fifteen miles distant. She waited until darkness and the last trickle of beggared people had filtered through the gates before ordering them closed.
“Do we fetch the Fief Lord?” Antesh asked her as they stood atop the bastion over the main gate, looking out at the causeway and the pregnant darkness beyond.
“Let him sleep,” she said. “I suspect there’ll be plenty to do in the morning.”
They came as the sun rose
over the eastern hills, cavalry first, moving at a sedate pace, their ranks tidy and well-ordered as they made their way to the plain beyond the causeway. The infantry followed soon after, tightly arrayed battalions in front, marching with an unnerving uniformity of step, the formations that followed more open, their pace less regular. The Volarian host arranged itself with the kind of precision and speed that could only arise from years of drill, cavalry on the flanks, the disciplined infantry in the centre, looser formations behind.
“Slave soldiers in the front rank,” Veliss said. “They call them Varitai. Those behind are conscripts, Free Swords. I read it in a book,” she added in response to Reva’s quizzical frown.
“They have slaves in their army?” she asked.
“Volaria is built on slaves,” her uncle said. “It’s what they came for.” He wore a heavy cloak, hand resting on Reva’s shoulder, his breath laboured, although his red-rimmed eyes still shone as bright as ever.
“No engines,” Antesh observed. “No ladders either.”
“All in good time, I’m sure,” Uncle Sentes said. “Though I suspect they’re about to try and scare us to death.”
Reva followed his gaze, seeing a lone rider emerge from the Volarian ranks to gallop along the causeway. He reined in over a hundred paces from the gate, staring up at them, his long cloak billowing in the wind. He was a tall man, wearing a black enamel breastplate, a scroll clutched in his fist. His gaze found the Fief Lord and he gave a shallow bow, a grin of contempt on his lips as he unfurled the scroll.
“Fief Lord Sentes Mustor,” he read in accented but clear Realm Tongue. “You are hereby ordered to surrender your lands, cities and possessions to the Volarian Empire. Peaceful compliance with this order will ensure just and generous treatment for yourself and your people. In return for your cooperation in overseeing the transfer of power to Volarian authority you will receive . . .”
“Lord Antesh,” Uncle Sentes said. “I see no recognisable flag of truce, do you?”