“We must endure,” Frentis said. “Keep the flame of defiance alight in this Realm until he comes.”
“And kill as many as we can,” Janril commented. He stood outside the circle, face only half-lit by the firelight, fixing an intent gaze on Frentis. “Right, brother?”
Slasher raised his head, sensing some vestige of threat in the minstrel’s tone, a low growl beginning in his throat. Frentis calmed the dog with a scratch to his ears. “Quite right, Sergeant.”
Thirty-Four appeared out of the darkness, making Illian jump. The torturer had an uncanny ability for seeming to materialise out of nowhere. He was yet to choose a name, something that caused little trouble since so few in the camp were able, or willing, to talk to him. “The ensign was stubborn,” he reported. “But not overly so, the damage was minimal.”
“What intelligence do you have?” Frentis asked, gesturing for him to sit.
Thirty-Four chose a place between Davoka and Frentis, seemingly oblivious to the Lonak woman’s palpable discomfort at such proximity. “They know about you, this group. The Free Swords call you the Red Brother. Plans are being drawn to drive you from this forest. The general offers ten thousand squares for your head.”
“Hardly unexpected,” Frentis said. “What else?”
“Taking the city and defeating your army proved more costly than they planned. They await fresh troops from Volaria. The bulk of the army moves south. The lord of the southern province has refused to treat with them and they besiege his city.”
“Darnel sells himself whilst Mustor stands defiant,” Master Grealin commented when Frentis had translated the news. “War always turns the world upside down.”
Frentis caught Davoka’s insistent expression. “Anything about the queen?” he asked Thirty-Four.
“He believes the King and his family all slain. There are no orders to hunt for the queen.”
“That’s all?”
“He misses his wife, their first child was born in the winter.”
“How very sad.” Frentis turned to Janril. “He’s finished with the prisoner.”
The minstrel’s face betrayed a slight grin before disappearing into the darkness. Frentis ruffled the fur around Slasher’s neck, feeling the thick slabs of muscle beneath. We were made monstrous, old pup, he thought. But what am I making them?
CHAPTER NINE
Reva
The bodies lay thick on the causeway, a carpet of unmoving black forms reminding Reva of a field of dead sparrows near the barn, left in the wake of the villagers’ yearly hunt. Ladders lay amongst the bodies, none closer to the wall than twenty yards. She counted some four hundred dead, all fallen to Lord Antesh’s archers the day after the Volarian vanguard arrived. Since then they had held off making another direct assault, contenting themselves with raising earthworks and patrolling the surrounding country.
“They’re waiting,” her uncle had said, seated by the fire in the library, a thick blanket covering his knees, the blue bottle and the redflower within easy reach. “And why would they not? We’re not going anywhere.”
As Brother Harin had predicted he grew worse every day, cheeks more sunken, skin ever more pale, every bone and vein in his hands seemingly laid bare beneath a wrapping of bleached skin. His eyes though, Reva thought. Still so very bright.
Until now she had kept her promise, staying at his side and ignoring the desperate desire to run for the wall when the horns sounded the alarm the second day, roaming the manor like a caged wild cat until news came of an easy repulse. But today he had relented, for now the Volarians came in force and he had not the strength to view them with his own eyes.
“My lords,” she greeted Antesh and Arentes as they bowed to her and Veliss atop the gatehouse battlements.
“Do we have a count?” Veliss asked.
“I thought it best not to, my lady,” Antesh said. “Large numbers may unnerve the men when constantly bandied about.”
Reva stepped closer to the battlements, taking in the sight of the Volarian host. Their tents stretched away into the morning haze, more a city than a camp. At least two thousand infantry were marching across the plain, more descending the hill to the west in a ceaseless parade. However, what drew her gaze most was the sight of the tall wooden frames being constructed behind their earthworks.
“Are those their engines?” she asked.
“We’ve seen no sign of such devices, my lady,” Lord Arentes replied. “Those are towers. They’ll trundle them up to the walls on great wheels.”
“I’ve prepared fire arrows,” Antesh said. “And a plentiful supply of oil pots.”
“They seem to be building a lot of them,” Arken observed. He had taken to wearing a leather jerkin like Antesh, and carried his own longbow and quiver of arrows.
“Then we’ll have plenty of targets, young sir,” Antesh told him. Despite his apparent confidence Reva detected a tightness to his tone. He’s not a fool, Reva thought, suspecting the Lord of Archers had in fact been scrupulous in counting the Volarian numbers.
“When can we expect the attack?” she asked.
“I suspect as soon as the towers are ready,” Antesh replied. “I doubt they’ll want to prolong this siege. They have a whole realm to conquer and won’t want so many men tied down here for any longer than necessary.”
She returned her gaze to the frames, fancying they had actually risen in height in the few moments since she ascended the gatehouse. She removed her cloak, revealing the light mail shirt she had found in the manse’s mostly depleted armoury, and buckled her sword belt about her chest, the weapon worn across her back, the handle jutting over her right shoulder for a quick draw, as Al Sorna had taught her. She held out her hand to Arken and he passed her the wych-elm bow and quiver of iron-heads.
“Reva . . .” Veliss began.
“You should return to my uncle,” Reva told her. “My place is here now.”
Veliss looked at the Volarian host then back at her. “You promised him . . .”
“He will understand.” Watching Veliss hug herself, Reva sensed she was fighting tears. She stepped closer to clasp the lady counsellor’s hand. “Stay close to him. I’ll return when the walls are secured.”
Veliss took a deep breath and raised her head, eyes bright as she forced a smile. “Another promise?”
“This one I’ll keep.”
Veliss returned her clasp, the grip tight as she held it to her lips. A soft warm kiss and she was gone, turning and descending the steps without a backward glance.
“My lords.” Reva turned back to Antesh and Arentes. “I should like to tour the walls once more.”
They came that night, perhaps gambling the darkness would afford some cover from their arrows. If so, it proved a false hope. Antesh had prepared bales of pitch-soaked wicker, now cast from the walls and lit with fire arrows, the flames rising high and providing a clear view of the towers as they crawled along the causeway. Each tower had a long canopy extending from the rear under which men laboured to push them forward, their feet moving in time to an unheard rhythm. Antesh held the volley until the first came within fifty yards of the gate. At his order the clay pots were thrown, dozens shattering on the front of the tower, followed by a volley of fire arrows, the lamp oil catching immediately.
The tower continued on for several yards, Reva craning her neck for a clear view of the canopy at the rear of the monster where the legs continued their rhythmic plodding. She unlimbered her bow and notched an arrow, drawing with careful aim. The arrow flew into the mass of legs at the rear of the canopy and she had the satisfaction of seeing a prone figure emerge a few seconds later. He rolled clutching at his leg before several arrows pinned him to the ground. The surrounding archers were quick to follow her example and soon the tower was trailing a line of wounded men as the flames engulfed its upper half. It came to a halt a good twenty yards from the wall, close enough to hear the screams of men burning inside, then seemed to convulse like some great wounded beast, bleeding men as they tried to flee, most falling victim to the longbows before they could run more than a few yards. A cheer arose from the walls as the tower died, the flames eating away the framework and sending the upper half tumbling to the ground, wreathed in fire.
“Cheer later!” Antesh barked, pointing to the next tower as it attempted to manoeuvre around the flaming corpse of its brother. “Get some pots on that thing.”
The second tower fared no better than the first, burned and gutted before it reached the wall, the crew falling under the arrow storm. Reva saw a few men jump into the river in an attempt to evade the rain of iron-tipped shafts. The third tower got closer, only ten yards short before fire and arrows halted its progress.
“Ladders!” a shout went up from somewhere to the left. Reva looked to the causeway, seeing several hundred men running past the line of towers, ladders raised above their heads. On reaching the end of the causeway they split into two groups, scores falling to the archers as they ran parallel to the walls for a hundred paces then turned and charged forward with their ladders raised. There was a strange disregard for safety to these men, barely seeming to notice so many of their comrades dying around them or tumbling from the ladders. Varitai, Reva recalled Veliss’s words. Slave soldiers with no will of their own.